Blue Movie (15 page)

“Now come on, Sid,” Boris assured him, “you know I wouldn’t ask you to do anything like that. Don’t forget, you’re going to get a shot at Arabella’s fabulous cooze—her whole
store,
man, right there,
open
for you! And besides that, you’re doing it for the sake of
art.”

“Art
Linkletter,
that is,” said Tony.

“Art, my ass,” said Sid, “this is a
dirty movie,
that’s what this is! Aw, what the hell—come on, let’s get it over with.”

N
ICKY HAD DESIGNED
and built the set exactly as Arabella had remembered and described it: a dark-walled Provencal room—small, with a high ceiling and one wide, white-curtained window, a big four-poster bed and quilted eiderdown, small stone fireplace, dark wide-board floor, marble-top washstand, earthenware pitcher, and a kerosene lamp with a cracked chimney.

When Boris, Sid, and Tony arrived, the eiderdown was crumpled on the floor at the foot of the bed, along with the bottom part of Yvette’s pajamas—while their cutie-pie owner, lying on the bed, wearing only the unbuttoned top, was being lit by Lazlo and focused by the operator.

Tony gave Sid a nudge. “Wow,” he whispered, “dig that! Ready to dip in, Sid?”

This shot was to begin where another, which had not yet been done, left off—that is, just at the moment of penetration; in other words, everything
prior
to penetration (unbuttoning the top, fondling the breasts, pulling off the bottoms, etc.) would be done later, with Arabella.

“Okay,” said Boris, motioning Sid to accompany him toward the bed, “you want to take them off now?” He was referring to the coveralls—since, for the sake of good cinematic imagery, Boris and Tony had decided, poetic-license style, to alter Arabella’s version somewhat, and have the uncle naked during the scene.

“Christ,” Sid exclaimed, “I don’t think I can get a
hard-on,
for Chrissake!”

“Oh,
she’ll
know how to do that, all right,” Boris assured him, “what do you think she’s getting fifteen hundred bucks for? Now come on, Sid, you’re holding up the shot.”

“And if you’re holding up the
shot,
” quipped Tony, “you’re holding up the
picture.
Right, Sid?”

“Well, wait a minute,” said Sid anxiously, “at least lemme work up a little
heft
to it!” and he stopped and reached down and began squeezing his penis beneath the coveralls.

“Okay, Sid,” shouted Tony from the edge of the set, “get that coarse animal member out front! Let’s see some action!”

“Well, just look at her, Sid,” said Boris when they reached the bed, “She looks like
Arabella,
for Chrissake! You can pretend you’re fucking
Arabella.”
And to the girl: “Baby, you look marvelous—see if you can give our friend here a nice big fifteen hundred dollar hard-on, okay?”

“Heart-on?”
asked Yvette, “what is this
‘heart-on’?”

“Hard-
on,
”
said Boris carefully, as though for a lip-reader, and pointed to where Sid’s hand was still squeezing.

“Ah yes,
hard-
on,” she said, face alight with understanding, “yes, I
know hard-
on. Come,
chéri . . .
” and she reached out her hand for Sid, “come into the bed, Yvette give you nice big
hard-
on.”

“Yeah, go, Sid,” said Boris.

Sid resignedly began taking off his coveralls. “You know,” he muttered, “I never liked getting into bed with a broad without a little
heft
—I don’t like to have a full-on
erection
when I get into bed with a broad, but I
do
like it to have a little
heft.”

While Sid got into bed, Boris arranged the coveralls on the floor, so that the crude, dirty garment was slightly entwined with the delicately flowered, girlishly innocent pajama-bottom. He called Lazlo out, and pointed to it. “We’ll hit that on the way up, okay? We’ll go for a beauty-and-beast feeling on the whole thing.”

“Terrific.”

Boris stared down at the two pieces of clothing. “Maybe hers ought to be
torn
a little,” he said half aloud, then called Tony out, and asked what he thought.

Tony shrugged. “I don’t think he
forced
her, I think he
tricked
her.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

They started back to the camera.

“But wait a minute,” said Boris, stopping. “Suppose he tears them
before
he tricks her—I mean, he can start pulling at them, and she instinctively resists, and he pulls harder, and that’s when they tear—
then
he tricks her, you know, telling her he just wants to hold it against her, and all that bullshit. Right? I mean, it’s such a great image—a girl’s torn pajama-bottoms.”

“Sure, that works.”

They went back to the bed where Yvette was simultaneously massaging and sucking Sid’s organ. Her Arabella make-up caused Boris’s mind to do a flash-replay of the previous day’s big event. “Wow,” he said, “she sure looks a lot like Arabella, doesn’t she?”

Tony considered it. “Hmm. Well, if she were doing anything other than
sucking a cock,
she would—I mean, I can’t quite see Arabella
sucking a cock.”

“You can’t huh? And you’re supposed to have all that imagination.” He leaned over and picked up the pajama-bottom. “Now, where exactly should it be torn?”

“Right at the top.”

He held it in both hands at the top, where the drawstring was, and pulled.

“Christ, they won’t tear—whatta drag.”

Tony reached out for them. “Let me try . . . hmm, you’re right.”

“Wait a minute, they’ll tear at the bottom of the opening.” Boris took them back and tore them slightly at the fly. “That’ll make a nice
shot,
too, when it happens—a close-up of it tearing, gradually revealing her young cooze.”

“Young cooze?
How you going to make it look
young?”

“Hmm. We’ll have to
trim
it.” He waved at Du Couvier’s assistant: “Hey, Makeup! Bring your
scissors!”

“Terrif.”

Boris replaced the garment, and arranged it to his satisfaction—while Tony leaned forward to peer at Sid and Yvette, or rather at Yvette’s head and Sid’s member. She raised her eyes to him without stopping, which produced the rather odd effect of a five-year-old looking up wide-eyed and inquisitive from the popsicle in her mouth, while now, hovering over her in the manner of a horror-film surgeon, the assistant makeup man adroitly and selectively thinned the beaver.

Tony reached out and touched her hair, smiling. “Listen, come around to my place when we break—I want to talk to you about your part.”

Sid broke up their little tête-à-tête with a gruff shout: “Will you get the fuck outta here, fer Chrissake! I’m just about to get a good hard-on!”

Tony winked at her as he turned away, crooning under his breath: “‘
You ought to be in pictures
. . .’”

Boris, kneeling and absorbed in the minutiae of arranging the torn pajama-bottom to best advantage, stood up, still looking down at it, hands on hips. “We’ll have to come in
very close,”
he said half aloud,
“very close
. . . or it won’t make any sense . . . we’ve got to see the
fibers,
the
thread fibers,
right where it’s torn . . .” and he turned to walk toward the camera, Tony following—but they were stopped short by a shout from behind: “Hey, you guys, get a load of this! Some whopper, huh?” and they turned to see Sid flashing—in fact, flaunting—a quite serious erection, proffering it forward to best advantage. “How about
this,
huh? Like to see
you
guys match
this
blockbuster!”

Boris, thinking of other things, cast a look merely in response to the noise. “That’s great, Sid,” he said, without much enthusiasm—then, more seriously, stopping and looking back at the sucking Yvette, he intoned in a slow shout:
“Don’t let him come! Not yet!”
and, by way of insurance, repeated it in French:
“Attention, faut pas le faire jouir! Pas encore!”
Then he and Tony continued walking back toward the camera. “I think it can be a fantastic scene, Tone,” he said, so serious it was almost morose. Behind them Sid was still yelling: “Hey, you guys, Yvette says it’s
perfect! ‘Par-fait,’
she says! You hear that, Tone?
Par-fucking-fait!
Haw!”

The shot to precede the present one would be of the pajama-bottoms coming off and falling to the floor, crumpled and torn. The camera, after holding on that poignant image, would pan up and in close to where the uncle was trying to force penetration.

“Okay, Sid,” said Boris, “put it just on the edge of the cooze, like you’re trying to push it in but it won’t go . . . that’s right. How is it, Laz?”

“It’s all
wet—
I’m picking up a lot of glisten . . . it’s still wet from her mouth.”

“Oh, Christ,” then yelling to Sid: “Okay, Sid, wipe it off.”

“Huh?”

“Your
cock
—it shouldn’t be
wet
yet, for Chrissake.” He turned to Du Couvier’s assistant, “Makeup-tissues, please.” And the young weirdo rushed out with a handful of Kleenex.

“I’ll take care of
that,
Buster,” Sid growled, snatching them out of his hand, when he proffered personal assistance.

“Now, that’s it,” said Boris after the action was underway again, “keep pressing, Sid, trying to get it in. How is it, Laz?”

“Great.”

“Okay, turn it. Keep going, Sid, we’re shooting. Yvette, keep your legs
down, down, down
. . . try to keep them
together . . .
remember you’re a nice girl, you’re a virgin, you don’t know what’s happening . . . you don’t like the idea of him being between your legs . . . okay, Sid, now slowly, see if it will go in . . . actually try to put it in . . .”

In order to prevent full pen from occurring too quickly, not only had Yvette’s vage been thoroughly dried with terrycloth, but it had received a liberal douching of a strong alum solution—known to have a severe drawing or puckering effect, and which now proved itself quite handsomely, as Sid strove with genuine ardor to get it in.

“Christ,” he called over his shoulder, “I’ve heard of
tight pussy,
but this is ridiculous!”

“Don’t give up, Sid,” Boris directed, “remember, it’s
Arabella
. . . you’ve
got to get it into her
. . . that’s it, now it’s going . . . keep on . . . forcing, forcing . . .” and aside to Lazlo, “Are you on it?”

“Yeah, yeah, great.”

“Okay, now out a little, Sid, then back in . . . all the way . . .
to the hilt, Sid, to the hilt!
That’s it, that’s it! Terrific!” Then his face fell. “Oh Christ, cut, cut, cut!” He turned to Tony. “Did you see
that?
She
threw it up to him!
She threw it up to him like a
hooker,
for Chrissake! A frightened virgin, and she throws it up there like some kind of
nympho hooker!”

Tony shrugged. “Breeding will tell.”

Boris walked out to the bed, “Yvette baby . . . you must not
push up
like that . . . remember, you’re a
virgin
. . . it’s
hurting
you . . . if anything, try to move
away
from him, okay?” Then he called Tony out.

“What about some
blood?
” he asked. “You know, for the virginity bit? Don’t forget, it’s in living color.”

Tony made a face. “Turns me off.”

“Yeah, to hell with it,” said Boris, then leaning over to peer at the org-vage-pen itself. “Hold it, Sid—take it about halfway out . . . that’s it. We gotta get some glycerin spray on there—looks all dry,” and he signaled Du Couvier’s assistant, who rushed out and made the application.

“Now hold it just like that, Sid, don’t put it in all the way till we get this shot.” He hurried back to the camera and looked through the lens, which was tight on pen—the member sparkling with what appeared to be genuine juice of cooze. “Beautiful,” he said, “turn it, Laz.”

“Turning,” said Laz.

“Okay, Sid, do your thing . . . and Yvette, you lie still, keep your knees down . . . it’s hurting, it’s hurting . . . that’s it, Sid, get in there
deep,
it’s
Arabella
. . .
you’re fucking Arabella
. . . put your hands under her ass . . . don’t let her get away, pull her close . . . okay, now try to get her legs up . . .
deep,
Sid, get in there
deep . . .
hold it, hold it . . . cut, cut. Listen, you started moving too fast, Sid, it made it look like you came . . . now, let’s take it from the top, and just move in a kind of
slow, rhythmic . . .
” His face fell again: “What, you
did
come?!? Oh, for Chrissake, Sid!”

Tony guffawed.
“Very unprofessional,
in my view.”

“Okay, makeup,” Boris continued morosely, over his shoulder, “tissues, please,” then added, “. . . yeah and bring the
splint.”

On the Possibility of

Certain Side Effects

From Smoking Catnip

T
HE RESIDENTS OF
Monte Carlo, that is to say the citizens of Monaco, are not allowed to enter the casino—source of seventy-eight percent of that country’s revenue—thus sparing the conscience of the government any guilt for whatever individual tragedies may be wrought through excessive loss at the tables. So the Prince sleeps easy, secure in the knowledge that these tragedies have befallen not his own subjects, but foreigners of questionable motivation.

In regard to the film,
The Faces of Love,
and its ultimate presentation, a similar covenant had been formed between the Prince of Liechtenstein and the Church—the latter having been fairly opposed to the project from the outset, but naturally unable to withstand the pressure of commerce, brought in the name of the government and on behalf of its citizenry. “For the common good,” said the Prince, “of this proud land, this Liechtenstein.”