Blue Movie (22 page)

A
NGIE’S VAGE,
“dry as a bone” though it may have been, had begun sweetening noticeably at the exact introduction of Boris’s middle finger—which he then, for want of better, proceeded to agitate gently . . . and the girl, still gazing up at him with a nightmare grimace of hilarity, had responded by contracting her sphincter muscle with increasing speed and severity.

“Say,” said Boris, somewhat nonplussed by these unexpected developments on set, “that’s uh, well, that’s uh, some
control
you’ve got there.”

Without altering her expression, which was like something frozen at the peak of manic hysteria, she said: “You know what they call that back in Texas?”

She had used a pure southwestern accent, and for the moment he assumed she was kidding. He smiled. “No,” he said, “what do they call it?”

“
Snapping-turtle
pussy.”

He nodded his understanding.

“It’s supposed to be the best kind,” she added quite ingenuously.

“I can believe that.”

Twice they had to cool it because Nicky or Fred the First came to inquire about something.

“Why don’t we go up to my dressing room?” she suggested after the second interruption.

“Hmm.” Boris’s mind clocked the contingencies like a low-hurdle runner in a very short race: (1) there was still an hour of shooting time before breaking for lunch, (2) as yet he felt neither hint nor promise of an erection. Loathe to squander shooting time under
any
conditions, the notion of doing so without getting laid—and/or, moreover, at the risk of alienating his principal actor—gave him certain pause, certain ambivalence.

“You know something,” Angie suddenly said, attempting to look mischievous, but succeeding, rather, in looking extremely weird, lifting her eyebrows and casting a theatrically eccentric glance at his trouser fly, “Ah jest bet yore tally’s stiff V hard as a dang ole hickory limb right about now!” And her vage laid a seizure on his middle finger so strong that, in combination with its full-on slick wetness, the finger was actually expelled for an instant, just as in a postcoital coughing spasm.

“Oops,” she said, her smile a caricature of a toothpaste ad,
“naughty, naughty!”

It was just about then he realized she was on
speed—
not speed alone, but in some curious combination which would account for her reverting so completely to the language of her childhood—not just its
accent
but its
substance
. . . ‘a dang old hickory limb.’ Well, well, he thought, if that’s what it takes to get a performance out of her . . .
solid.

“Let’s do another scene first,” he said softly, “we don’t want to lose what you’ve got going now—it’s too precious.”

“You’re
the doctor—I mean,
director,”
she said, beaming frantically.

“W
OW,” HE SAID
to Tony at lunch, “she’s really hot today. Two beautiful scenes.

Tony looked over to where she was sitting at a table with Nicky and Helen Vrobel, who were joined in animated conversation, while Angela observed them, as if fascinated, her gaze switching from one to the other as each spoke, like she was watching the flight of some odd physical thing between them.

“She’s
boxed,
for Chrissake,” said Tony, sounding half surprised and half annoyed, as though envious, returning to his steak and taking a huge bite. “Wonder what she’s on?”

“I don’t know,” Boris said, “but, man, she’s
smokin’.
” He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Well, B., you bring out the best in people, I’ve told you that all along.”

“Listen, see if you can find out what she’s on, and
keep
her on it. It’s some kind of speed.”

Tony looked at her again, chewing thoughtfully. “Christ, man, it’s more than just
speed
—she’s
spaced.
”

Boris emptied his wineglass, touched the napkin to his lips, and stood up from the table. “I’ll just bet you’re
right,
Tone,” and he gave him a smile and a wink before leaving for the set, calling back over his shoulder in an absurd cracker drawl: “Ah done ast you to find out what it
is,
you heah?”

Because she was working this well, spaced or no, Boris decided to shoot the so-called Around the Clock sequence that afternoon. This was the scene where she was being made love to by four men simultaneously—one in full vage-pen, and three fondling her various.

With great tenderness and patience, he explained to her how in this sequence, or at least part of it—namely, the medium, or master-shot, which was to show the whole group—it would be necessary for
some
of the men to have erections, but was quick to reassure that it would
not
include the one between her legs, and that none of them—the erections—would actually touch her.

“Just
ignore
them,” he advised, “just
don’t look—
then it won’t bug you. Okay?”

She nodded, and closed her eyes.
“I love you,”
she said with hushed urgency.

In addition to the already established Feral, the four Senegalese who were to be her partners included a giant man named Hadj—six-feet-seven, weighing two-eighty-five, and with a Mr. Universe build.

The action, as it was now conceived, called for Feral to be at full-pen as the scene opened, with Hadj
on deck,
so to speak—or, more precisely, at left breast, ready to take over full-pen on the shift.

“So, you dig,” Tony explained, “camera holds on Hadj,
before
he’s fucking her, while he’s
waiting
to fuck her—that way we get a taste of what’s in
store
for her, what’s
coming up . . .
this
incredible stud,
with his
monstro, black, throbbing, animal cock! Full of fantastic pent-up black lust for the beautiful blonde, and a gallon of black jissem!”

“Tone, you’re getting carried away,” said Boris.

“I know,” he had to admit, “it’s just too
fan-fucking-tastic!”

“That almost gave
me
a hard-on.”

“Yeah, me too. You know how I’d like to fuck her now? I just realized—if I could get into a
spade bag
. . . like if I could pretend to be a spade . . . yeah, that’s it,
spade-tape bag.
You think she’d lie still for some
burnt cork,
B.?”

“I’ll sound her for you, Tone. How about
you
finding out about that
dope
she’s on, like I done tole you to do.”

A
CURIOUS AND UNFORSEEN
complication arose in connection with filming the sequence. While Feral was again required to have his unruly member plunged into ice water and sprayed with novocaine, neither Hadj nor one of the other quasi-lovers (the “mouth man”) could achieve erection.

“I don’t fucking
believe
it,” said Tony.

Boris shrugged. “I guess they just can’t make that kind of
vicariousness.
I sort of dig them for that.”

Tony was growing very apprehensive. “But what about the
scene? I
mean, we’ve
got
to have her being fucked by one guy, and surrounded by
three big hard cocks!
Sticking up like . . .
flowers!
I mean, dig the image—
she’s being fucked in a garden of cock!”

“I’m with
you,
Tone—how do we get it up for them?”

“Why don’t you ask Angie to touch it . . . just
touch
it.”

“Uh-uh, she’s liable to wig out any minute as it is.”

“Okay, what about those
funeral-car chicks
—you know, those two hookers who met me at the airstrip?”

“Terrific,”
said Boris. He called the Freddie over, sent him to locate Mort or Lips Malone and apprise them of the situation.

“It doesn’t have to be the
same
two girls,” he called after him, “but we need them right away. And if you see Mr. Krassman, tell him production has ground to a halt.”

“Say,” Tony mused, “I wonder if
Helen Vrobel
would do a little stroking—she’s a good company-girl.”

Boris guffawed. “Christ, she couldn’t get it up for the
Boston Strangler!”

“I don’t know,” said Tony, sounding serious, “I have an idea that these guys would
prefer
fucking her to Angie.”

“Are you out of your skull?
Why
in God’s name would they prefer fucking
her
to
Angie?”

Tony did a little two-step, rolled his eyes back, and went into his minstrel delivery: “’Cause she done been white . . .
long-ah!
Yak-yak-yak!”

Before Boris could hit him with his rolled-up script, they were joined by the smiling Feral, who kept nodding, Japanese style, to express apology at the intrusion.

“Excuse, excuse. I may speak, yes?”

“Of course, Feral,” said Boris, “you may speak.”

“You have trouble, yes? You have trouble with Hadj and with Achmed. Here, yes?” He pointed down at his loincloth.

“That’s right,” said Boris, speaking carefully, “and now we are going to bring in
two pretty girls,
and see if that will help. Understand?”

“Understand, yes. Pretty girl very good for
Achmed,”
then he shook his head, beaming ecstatically, “but for
Hadj
—
no.
Girl
no good
for Hadj.”

Boris groaned, putting his hand to his head, “Oh, my God . . .”

“I don’t fucking
believe
it,” said Tony,
“a fruit! A
monstro black
fruit!”

Feral resumed his joyous nodding. “Hadj
no like
girl, yes?”

“Yes,” said Boris wearily, “Hadj like
men,
right?”

“Yes, Hadj like men.”

“Well, well,” Boris could not recall a similar quandary in his film-making experience, “this presents quite a problem. Tell me, Feral, just, uh, what
kind
of man does he like? I mean, how about some of the other Senegalese on the picture—does he like any of them?”

“No, no, Hadj no like. Hadj like
white
man.”

“Strong
white man, yes?”

“No, no,
weak
white man . . . like
woman,
but
man,
yes?”

“Hmm.” Boris was genuinely disturbed. “Christ, Tony, I think we’re in a lot of trouble. I mean, where the hell—”

But Tony snapped his fingers, face suddenly alight. “I’ve
got
it! Ho-ho, B., baby, just call me Mr. fucking matchmaker! Are you ready for
this?
”

“Lay it on me, Tone,” said Boris patiently.

“Then, dig . . .
Nicky Sanchez!”

W
HEN PRODUCER
S
ID
K
RASSMAN
arrived at the stage that afternoon, he was taken aback by a succession of untoward events. The first occurred when, in looking for Boris, he stopped at the trailer sometimes used as an office, opened the door, only to find Tony Sanders lying on the couch, his member being kissed and fondled by an unfamiliar girl in black panties and bra. Sid quickly shut the door, and moved on toward the set, looking back at the trailer several times, before he practically
stumbled
over another such coupling—now featuring a black-panty-and-bra girl, rendering avid fellatio to giant Achmed. As he stepped around them, muttering something incoherent, his glance happened to cross the set, where, in the shadow of the camera itself, he could clearly see his art director, on hands and knees, voraciously sucking the organ of yet another huge black, the great Hadj.

“What in the name of Christ is going on here!?!” he roared at Fred the First.

Had these incidents occurred on the set—that is to say, on camera, it would have been understandable, but for them to be occurring off the set—and at three in the afternoon—was incomprehensible. An orgy! A bacchanal! And to Sid it could signal only one thing—total collapse of the organizational discipline so absolutely vital to efficient production.

“Where the hell is your director?!?” he demanded. “Christ, I’ve never seen so much cocksucking going on in my life!”

Fred the First explained the problem, and how it was being dealt with.

“Oh yeah?” Sid was dubious. “What about Tony Sanders? I know he don’t have trouble getting it up! Besides that, he ain’t even in the picture!”

“Yeah,” said Fred, “well, I think he and Mr. Adrian just figured that seeing she was already here and paid for, there was no sense to waste it.”

“Waste, my ass! That’s not going to be charged against the picture! Now where the hell is Boris—off somewhere getting blowed too?”

“No sir, he went to the John.”

“How many shots you get since lunch?”

“Well, uh, we’re still working on the first one, because of that unexpected development . . .”

“You mean to tell me you haven’t got one shot since lunch?” He frowned down furiously at his wristwatch. “Holy Christ, man, we’re supposed to be making a picture! And you’re supposed to keep things moving around here!”

“Yessir, well, we were all set up, and then that unexpected development—”

“‘Unexpected development’! You call casting a fag in the role of a . . . a whatever the hell he is . . . you call that an ‘unexpected development’?!?” He glanced over to where Nicky and Hadj were still locked in fervent embrace, then turned back, with an expression of acute distaste. “Christ, that’s disgusting! Nicky Sanchez! Three Academy Awards! You know, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t of believed it.”

Fred the First shrugged. “Well, I guess somebody had to do it.”

“Had to do it! Christ, he loves it! Just look at him, for Chrissake!”

“Yeah, well, what I mean is maybe we’re lucky that he does—because we were in real trouble before.”