Porno (35 page)

Melanie’s grinding her teeth and grimacing (a required shot for the misogynistic power merchants who ‘want to see the bitch suffer’) but as she gets into it, and starts finding the space to accommodate him, goes off in that dreamy way (required shot for the lazy transgressive romantic yuppette who’s had a hard day at the office and just wants to lie back and enjoy a relaxing butt-fuck). It’s so important that the expressions cover all emotional bases. That’s what porn is essentially, a social and emotional process. Anybody can do genital interaction . . . Nikki kisses me hard on the lips and she’s going down on my cock, and I can see Rab standing by the bar and Gina still looking at him and then looking annoyed and Craig’s sucking on Wanda’s nipples and I’m thinking that none of them will control me, ever . . . then I realise that there’s something missing. — Cut! I shout, as Nikki starts to suck my cock.

— What? Terry’s still pumping away. — You’re fuckin joking!

Nikki takes my dick out of her mouth and looks up at me.

— Naw, Terry, naw, c’mon. We need tae dae this in the cowgirl position. RAC, Reverse Anal Cowgirl.

— Fuck . . . eh says, but he’s pulling oot.

Nikki looks at Terry, then at Mel. — How was that? she asks.

Mel seems happy enough. — It’s sair at first, but then ye git intae it. Terry’s really good, he always pits it straight in. Some laddies dinnae ken how tae dae it, they batter the bit ay skin, the perineum, and make it really sair n tender. Terry kens how tae pit it straight in, she says.

Terry shrugs proudly. — Experience, that’s aw.

— Saughton nights, eh, Tel, I quip, and Rab Birrell laughs at that, and so does that Gina, a lassie with ‘Corton Vale Bound’ writ large all over her. Warming to the theme, I sing to the tune of ‘Summer Nights’ from
Grease
: —
But ah-ha, those Saugh-haugh-tin nah-hahts . . . tell me more . . . tell me more . . .

The laughter rises and even Terry joins in.

Nikki now seems in a businesslike mode though, taking my lead and shedding the horn, anxious to move on. — Listen, Mel, Nikki says, — you know what I found really beautiful, what really turned me on? It was when Terry spat on your arse? And, like, worked it in? Could I do that for you?

— Aye, if ye like, Mel smiles.

Terry’s not bothered, but I’m elated. Yes, Nikki’s the star here. The lassie has quality. Alex McLeish?

I think it’s got to happen, Alex. Don’t worry, I’m moving on that one. There’s a lot going on behind the scenes.

But right now it’s back to the coaching as I remind Terry that it’s a team game and we need to keep our discipline and our shape. — Mind, Terry, don’t shoot your duff up Mel. It’s got to be a withdrawal, then a wank off and a cum over her face. Remember the narrative of pornography, our sequential journey: blow jobs, frigging, licking oot, fucking, different positions, anal, double penetration and, finally, the cum shot. Remember that old training-ground routine.

Terry looks a bit doubtful at all of this. — Ah’m no intae shaggin a burd withoot blawin ma muck in her.

— Remember, Terry, this is not sex. This is acting, this is performance. It doesnae matter whether you’re enjoying it or not . . .

— Course ah’m enjoyin it, it’s the spice ay life, he says.

— . . . cause you and me, we’re just cocks. That’s all we are. The lassies rule.

In the background I’ve got Ronnie and Ursula going through a routine and Craig’s fucking Wanda, who’s lying like a corpse. They’re just wallpaper as I’m setting up the main action to the fore.

— Ah’m ready, Terry says, finding wood, as Rab looks inscrutably on. That cunt Grant is holding things up with the light. Then we’re ready to go. He nods at Rab, and Vince announces that we’re running on sound.

— ACTION!

So we’re rolling as Nikki gobs hard on Melanie’s arsehole and works it in. Gina sucks Terry’s knob and Mel, crablike above, is ready to lower herself onto it. Then just as she descends, the door goes and big Morag comes in. — Simon . . . oh . . . she gulps, her eyes popping out her heid, — . . . it’s . . . eh . . . the man fae the
Sunday Mail
’s here. They’ve a photographer . . . she turns on her heels and heads out, slamming the door.

Sunday
fuckin
Mail
 . . . photographer . . . what the . . . at the back of my mind I’m thinking that I’ve a Leith Business Against Drugs meeting tonight, but that’s a while yet . . .

Then I hear a terrible scream behind me. I turn to see that Mel’s slipped, with her full weight falling on top of Terry.

— AAGGHHH! YA CAHHNNTTT! he wails in agony.

Melanie’s up and she’s saying: — Aw, Terry, ah’m really sorry, the door went n ah goat a fright n ah slipped . . .

It’s Terry’s cock; it looks like he’s ruptured the fucker. It’s crumpled, and it’s black and blue and red. He’s screaming, and Nikki’s phoning an ambulance on her mobby and I’m thinking: the fuckin
Sunday Mail
 . . . what the fuck are we going to do if his cock’s knackered? He’s my leading fucking man . . . — Rab, take charge here, get Terry to the hossy . . .

— But what . . .

— The fucking press are downstairs!

When I get down, there’s a young, keen tabloid sleazebag that you can imagine doing the same job in a grubby mac in twenty years’ time. — Tony Ross, he extends his hand. I’m shiteing it about the cameraman being here and looking to Mo who’s making nonplussed signs back at me. — It’s about the Leith Business Against Drugs. We’re doing a feature.

— Ah . . . how timely. I’m just on my way to the first meeting, round at the Assembly Halls. Come with me, I urge, anxious to get them out.

— We need shots of the bar, the lensman pouts.

— You can get those any time. Come down to the Assembly Rooms and you can meet the main players, I explain to the journo as I’m heading out the door, forcing him and the flustered cameraman to follow.

But Morag’s in pursuit as well, waving me back. — Simon, she hisses, — what’s aw this?

— It’s a first aid-thing, Mo. Terry’s no well. Take charge!

As I head down Constitution Street with the newsmen in tow, I realise I’m early for the meeting but I say to the guy on the door at the Assembly Rooms: — Bummer, I thought it was seven thirty. This Tony Ross guy suggests we go back to the Port Sunshine, but I herd him into Noble’s. It gives me the chance to give it the big one about the drugs project, but I’m distracted a bit, worried about Terry’s cock and how it’s going to hold us back. I excuse myself, slipping outside and belling Rab on the green mobby. It doesn’t look good.

Then I take Ross and the photographer back to the Leith Assembly Rooms for the inaugural get-together of our Leith Business Against Drugs organisation. Paul Keramalindous is the main man to network with, a yuppie adman who pushes alcohol for the corporate drug barons trying to keep their share of the market for their products.

Paul stands out here. The others on this Leith Business Against Drugs forum are your classic concerned citizens; namely clueless fuckers who never have had and never will have any drug experience, or will even know anybody who has. There’s a couple of old-school Leith shopkeepers, but most represent the incoming blue-chip businesses. There’s one guy from the local council, a red-faced alcoholic who ran out of steam twenty years ago and is ploddingly attending graveyard meetings nobody else wants to go to.

Ross asks a few questions, his buddy takes some snaps, but they get bored quickly and depart, not that I can blame them for that. There
is
a fair bit of expertise round the table, but it comes from about three heads here, the rest are beyond gormless. At least they have the sense to remain silent, which ensures that the discussion progresses intelligently. We decide to apply for a wad of cash earmarked by some government department or quango for local education purposes and we’re electing a committee to administer these monies and run the business of the group. I’ve already bonded quite a bit with my Mediterranean-origined mate Keramalindous, and second his nomination for chairman, feeling sure he’ll reciprocate with my own preferred role. Yes, I’m happy to be Gordon Brown to his Tony Blair and I set myself into a fiscally prudent, dour Scot mode. — It’s a thankless task, but I don’t mind being treasurer, I tell the herd of tight faces around the table. Fuck me, if this lot represent the cream of Leith Business, then the port should really worry about the stability of its supposed regeneration. — I mean, I strongly feel that it should be someone in a cash-handling industry. I think it’s important with public money that not only is everything above board, but that it’s
seen
to be above board.

There’s a lot of enthusiastic nods all round.

— Very sensible. I propose Simon for treasurer, Paul says.

It’s seconded and carried. After an interminably dull meeting, I take Paul over to Noble’s Bar for a drink, managing to shake off the council man, who was hanging around in the hope of being invited. The nips flow quite freely and we get a bit pissed. — That jumper, he asks, — is that a Ronald Morteson?

— It certainly is, I nod in brisk pride, — but note: Shetland lambswool, not Fair Isle.

There’s a young, attractive-looking lassie behind the bar and I give her a flashbulb smile. — Not seen your face in here before.

— Nope, I just started last week, she tells me.

We engage in some banter, Paul enthusiastically joining in, without him realising I was initiating all this for his benefit. Unlike in my teen and twenties days, I usually now only make the effort to do a serious chat-up if an obvious financial as well as sexual gain seems likely.

It’s closing time too quickly in Noble’s so, having established that Paul both likes a bevvy and is a fanny rat, I take him back to the Port Sunshine and open up upstairs for a late drink for the both of us. — That was a smashing bird in the pub back there. I reckon you could be in there, mate.

— I’ll show you something better, I tell him. Paul’s eyebrow raises involuntarily, giving him away as a total sex case. Good. I nip off into the office and switch on the pub’s video security system, making sure there’s a blank cassette in. Then I find a tape we shot earlier today and take it through, putting it into the vid below the big bar telly.

Nikki’s gorgeous arse fills the screen and we pull away to watch her sucking Terry’s knob, as he’s lying back licking Mel’s fanny, her crouched over him. The corkscrew hair seems to merge with her pubes at one point as she leans back across him. — This is incredible . . . Paul gasps, — you do this here?

— Yeah, we’re making a full-length film, I say, as the camera cuts to Nikki going down on Terry’s knob in close-up, her hungry eyes devouring the viewer’s soul, as surely as her mouth does his knob. She’s a fucking total pro, a real star. That was a good shot. — That bird is tidy, eh?

Paul sips at his nip, his eyes bulging out like he’s a papillon getting shagged by a Rottweiler. His voice goes thin and wispy. — Yeah . . . who is she? he croaks.

— Her name’s Nikki. You’ll meet her. She’s a good friend, a nice girl, educated, like. A student at the uni, the proper uni, Edinburgh Uni, not Hairy Twat or one of the basket-weaving colleges that got made up back in the eighties.

His eyes hood and a little grin creases over his face. — Does she eh . . . is she . . . I mean, does she do other things?

— I’m sure I could talk her into something, for you.

— That
would
be appreciated, he says, an eyebrow rolling heavenwards.

I start racking out the lines of posh, just to see what this cunt says. — Ching time!

Paul looks at me in that startled, uncomfortable manner like a young bird in one of those gonzo porn movies, just at the point they suddenly realise that they’re getting it up the shitter for the first time and the world is potentially watching via the digital video camera and the Internet and it wasn’t
quite
what they had in mind. — Do you think we should, eh . . . it, eh, might not be what you’d call appropriate in the circumstances . . . ?

And here’s me giving him the ‘you love it’ routine. If this cunt’s not a chinger then I’m Mister Daniel Murphy’s fashion consultant. — C’mon, Paul, I smile as I chop up, — dinnae start playin funny fucks. We’re businessmen, educated guys. It’s not like we’re schemies. We know the score, we know where to draw the line, and yes, pun intended, I smile.

— Well . . . I suppose, a discreet little one, he grins, and raises a pensive eyebrow.

— Too right, Paul. As I said, we’re not like the underclass, I see some of them in here, mate, I can tell you. We know when to ca’ canny. It’s just a wee tickle, for Christ’s sake.

I snort down a beauty, then Paul shrugs and follows suit. And they are big lines, more lamb’s torsos than poodle’s legs. I thought the onanist would see the security camera filming him, but obviously not. — Oh . . . that’s good gear . . . Paul goes, and his hands are all over the shop and he’s gabbing away like fuck, — my boss at the agency, he gets his stuff off the rock. A guy flies out from Botafogo to Madrid then over here. Straight out the guy’s arse in a wax seal. I’ve never had anything like it . . . but this is excellent . . .

It certainly is, old chum. Now, mission accomplished, I decide to draw the night to a close in almost indecent haste. — Righto then, Paul, you’ll have to excuse me, buddy, I say, showing him the door. I’ve got certain things I need to do.

— I fancy carrying on a bit . . . I’m buzzing . . .

— Have to be on your own, Paul, I’m meeting a lady friend, I smile, and Paul nods back with a grin but he can’t hide his disappointment that he’s been left a bit high and dry. I escort him outside and shake his hand, this poor bastard is wired tae fuck. He waves down a taxi and heads off. I would have let Paul stay but he played his hand too soon. My old man used to habitually use that old line from a Cagney movie, ‘never give a sucker an even break’, and it turned out to be the best bit of advice he gave me. It’s positively cruel to do so. If you let them get away with it, they won’t learn. Therefore, in the future, they’ll be even more comprehensively done, and by someone more ruthless. Cruel to be kind, as Shaky said. Or was it Nick Lowe?