Porno

by Unknown

  — Ah cannae git intae it wi everybody watching, she complains. — It’s no like back in the pub whin wir aw gaun fir it.

  — Well, you’ll have to. That’s the porn business, darling, I tell her. I watch Nikki looking at them, wanton and animalistic, her sharp wee tongue flicking horn-salt from those slightly cruel lips, and I feel a bit of inspiration. I can read a bitch like a book, and she is hot for action. — Look, a new rule on the set. Either you take off your clathes or you fuck off downstairs, I say, unbuckling my belt.

  Rab looks mortified, standing there behind the tripod. He glances at Nikki, then at Gina, who’s already peeling off her top. Nikki starts to take hers off as well and I pause for a second to admire the motion of it being pulled over her head. Fuck me, that lassie’s well fit. In quite a wholesome, sporty, PE-girl manner, Nikki says to the crew: — C’mon, boys, as she removes her bra and exposes those tanned tits, which look as firm as rocks, sending a strong radar signal to my groin. She unbuttons the skirt and then pulls down her pants and steps out of them to expose a freshly shaved minge.

  — Ni-kay . . . I say, involuntarily sounding like Ben Dover in his videos, that appreciative punctuation absolutely essential.

  — Ready for action, she pouts and purrs.

  Fuck me, this was the lassie I was supposed to meet years ago. We would have ruled the world. Still will.

  Concentrate, Simon. I take refuge behind the lens trying to snap into technical mode.

  Now Gina’s big tits are bouncing around everywhere and Terry’s eyes are popping out of his head. Sometimes he distresses me, this sordid appreciation for quantity versus quality.

  Poor Rab is still shiteing it, but you can tell that he wants to stay. — I’m just on the creative side . . . my fiancée’s having a kid . . . I don’t want to do this . . . I want to be a film-maker, not a fuckin porn star!

  — Well, the crew can do what they want, but I’m getting into the spirit of it, I announce, taking off my T-shirt and glancing at the wall mirror. The gut doesn’t look too bad, the gym and the diet kicking in. I put it on easily, but I lose it easily. Just a fine-tuning of the regime; no fried food, spirits rather than beer, the gym three times a week rather than just once, walking rather than piling into motors, cocaine in and weed out, and yes, back on the cigarettes. The result: the pounds fairly fly off.

  Wanda looks up and announces in a smacked-out drawl that the sexiest-looking guys are the ones with their clothes on, which disconcerts me, and the rest of the talent. — See? Yir big wi junky hoors, Rab, Terry says, and Wanda flips him a casual V-sign.

  My tactic has worked, though, because soon Terry and Melanie are really going for it and I’m getting horny. Then Nikki comes over to me and says: — I think I’d like to sit on your knee?

  I’m almost ready to respond with ‘go away, I’m directing’ but it comes out as: — Okay, in a low gasp as those delightful buttocks are gracefully lowered onto my thigh. I feel my cock stiffen and bend up into the hollow of her spine as we watch Terry and Mel in action. I must remain focused, remember that I’m in the director’s chair. — Lie back, Terry; sit on it, Mel . . .

  Discipline.

  Mel’s sucking on Terry’s dick, flicking the end, slurping the shaft and after a bit Terry guides her across the back of the big padded chair . . . Nikki twists a little, easing further back against me . . .

  Discipline will ease my hunger . . .

  Mel’s elbows are on the chair and Terry’s slipped one in from behind. Nikki’s hair flows down her back, its peachy scent dancing in my nostrils . . . threatening to drench my senses . . .

  Discipline will quench my thirst . . .

  Now Terry’s withdrawing and I cough out some words of encouragement as my hand rests idly on Nikki’s thigh, that smooth, unblemished silk-like skin . . .

  Discipline will make me stronger . . .

  Terry’s in again and he and Mel are fucking piston-hard now, Mel setting the pace, thudding back into that dick of his like she’s trying to devour it. Terry’s got that complacent, dreamy look men have when they’re enjoying sex, like it’s no big deal. That kind of zoning-off when you’re with a tidy bird to stop you from blowing your muck, or when you’re with a hound, only then it’s in order to keep it up. Basically, though, it’s the same fucking thing.

  . . . if it doesn’t kill me first . . .

  I decide to stop the action there. — Cut! Stop, Terry! STOP!

  — What the fuck . . . Terry groans.

  — Right, Mel, Terry, I want you to try the Reverse Cowgirl, the classic shot we need for a porn movie.

  Terry looks over at me and moans: — Ye cannae git a good fuck that wey.

  — This isnae aboot you having a good fuck, Terry, it’s aboot you looking as if you’re having a good fuck. Think hireys! Think art!

  I briefly glance round to see that the others are sleazing each other up, except Rab and the crew. Gina’s looking at me with a predatory smirk on her face. She asks: — When dae we go in?

  — I’ll tell you, I nod, fully intending, even at this point, that most of her scenes won’t survive the edit.

  Melanie’s got a good frame for the Pope John Paul (as we in the trade call the Reverse Cowgirl, or RC), light and lithe, but with a bit of power to her. Terry’s just lying there, that fine piece of wood he packs enclosed by Melanie who’s going up and down on it. His hands grip her waist as he alters the pace and digs a bit more and she starts scowling. — That’s the game, Terry, earn your corn. Fuck her! Mel, try to keep your eyes on the camera. Keep looking at the camera. Fuck Terry, but love the lens. Terry’s just the fucking prop, just an appendage to your pleasure. You’re the star, baby, you’re the star . . . Nikki’s reached behind and wrapped a hand round my shaft, — . . . and you’re beautiful, this is your show . . .

  I push Nikki away gently, then, standing up and taking her by the hand, I shout: — Cut! Then I explain to Nikki: — I want you in there, down on Terry’s cock. Terry, you’re doing great. Now you lick out Mel while Nikki sucks you off.

  — Bit ah want tae fuckin come! he moans as Ursula approaches him with towels and he pulls a face before heading to the toilets for a clean-up.

  — C’mon, Tel, I shout at him, — don’t be so fucking ungrateful. I said you’re licking out Mel while Nikki’s sucking you off. Aye, it’s a hard life right enough.

  We get that shot sorted out. Nikki down on Terry’s knob makes me feel strangely weird, especially as she seems to be loving it. I’m relieved when it’s over and we knock off for lunch, or at least the rest do. Rab and I go over what we’ve filmed on the monitor. I have to mobby the others because they’re just sitting in the fucking pub. Nikki seems to have been drinking, probably needs it for Dutch courage. It’s strange but I’m starting to feel that uncomfortable, proprietorial way about her. I’m not happy at the thought of her being done by Lawson on camera. And there’s a lot worse to come.

  Gina’s still whingeing at me. — Me n Ursula n Ronnie n Craig huvnae done nowt yet.

  — We introduce each person one at a time, building up to the climax, I tell again. — Patience! I get Terry and Mel back pumping away. — Try it in her arse now, Terry, I say, — c’mon, Lawson, let’s see some anal action . . .

  My motivating powers aren’t really needed here: it’s like encouraging Dracula to go for the jugular. Terry pulls Mel from him, lays her out and bends her legs right back over his shoulders. He spits ferociously, working the gob into her arsehole and then edges in slowly. I nod to Nikki and we each take one of Mel’s buttocks and we’re pulling them apart as Terry pushes in. I’ve instructed Rab to attend to the position of the cameras so we’ve one close up on the arse action and one on Mel’s face so we can cut between them in the edit.

  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?

  The predators will be circling unless we get her tied down soon, Simon. Think of Agathe, Latapy . . .

  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 prud
ent, 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.