Blue Movie (26 page)

“What is it?” asked Boris, scrutinizing the capsule.

“Well it’s
something else,
whatever it is. ‘Blue’ it’s called, ‘Little Girl Blue.’”

“How many does she have?”

“Uh, seven . . . no, six . . . well,
five,
if you don’t count that one.”

“Well, put it back,” he said firmly, returning it, “and don’t
you
take any more.
She needs them.
”

The strength of the scene in question appeared to lie more in its
intensity,
if fully realized, than in anything novel or erotic about the action per se—which was fairly straightforward, portraying, as it did, Maude and a single lover, engaged in the conventional, or classic, “sixty-nine,” with cunnilingus and fellatio being simultaneously rendered.

“I think the beauty of this,” Boris continued, his voice soft and serious, his hands moving in tentative gestures, “will arise out of its total . . .
purity.”

“
You’re
the one who’s beautiful,” breathed Angie, “. . . and
pure.
You’re
everything
that’s
beautiful
and
pure.
”

“Hmm.” He regarded her with certain concern. She looked so whacked out he was beginning to doubt she could do the scene. On another level, however, he was wondering, somewhat wistfully, if perhaps now, under the spell of this rather obviously spellbinding sense-deranger, she might not just possibly be persuaded at last to do a full-pen without double. No, he immediately thought, it was madness—Angela Sterling would never stand still (so to speak) for being “fucked on camera” . . . she had said as much herself.

“Okay, Laz,” he said wearily, turning away from Angie, “I guess what we’ll do here, we’ll shoot toward the cut-away . . . setting it up for the old, pardon the expression,
‘insert,’
eh? Ha-ha,” his laugh like a death rattle.

“Listen,” he went on after a pause, head down, eyes closed, rubbing his temples with thumb and forefinger—much in the manner of the late, great Lester H., “I think we’re in trouble on this one . . .
‘sixty-nine’
. . . wow, well, I mean that’s full-on
clichéville,
right? To do a
serious
. . .
noncontrived . . . relevant .
. .” and he opened his eyes and looked at Laz—who was waiting with a soft, benevolent expression that seemed to say:
“You lay it down, B., and we’ll pick it up!”—
and then he resumed: “I think we’d better go for
anal-tongue
on this one, Laz. Otherwise we’re in trouble,” he put his head down again, hand to brow, thoroughly wasted physically, and at the same time getting some sort of curious debilitating contact-high through Ange and Tone, “. . . otherwise,” he repeated, in a disturbed and oddly plaintive way, “this scene is just going to curl up and
die
—D.H. Lawrence style. I mean, we’ve got to get some
generation-gap stoppage
going for us in here, you dig?”

“N
OW THEN,
F
ERAL,”
Boris was explaining with great care and deliberation, “in this scene you will be kissing Miss Sterling’s . . . how do you say,
‘pom-pom’?’”

“Pom-pom,”
Feral nodded, grinning wildly, “yes,
pom-pom!
But not
real
kiss, yes? Only make-believe kiss, yes?”

“Uh, yes, well, that’s what I want to talk to you about. Now, she’s wearing that
thing,
right? That piece of cloth . . . over her
pom-pom,
yes?”

“Yes, yes, cloth-piece over
pom-pom!”

“Right. Well, what I’d like you to try to do, Feral, is get your
tongue
—” he stopped long enough to stick out his tongue—
”tongue,
yes? To get your tongue
under
the cloth . . . and
into her pom-pom.
You understand?” Speaking with his tongue thrust out, and twisting it down and around to demonstrate the maneuver, caused his speech to be fairly garbled, so he had to repeat it a couple of times—but, even so, Feral was quick to grasp.

“Yes, yes, Feral-tongue in
pom-pom!
She
know?
Missy Sterling
know?”

“Yes, well, that’s the thing, you see. We’ve got to do it very . . .
carefully . . .
just a little at a time . . . very
slowly . . .
” he wasn’t sure of what words to use, so he did a brief pantomime with his hands, “like the
lion
and the . . .
antelope,
yes?” and his hands moved in a meticulous simulation of the stealth of the hunt. Feral nodded vigorously to show understanding.

“She
like?”
he wanted to know, “Missy Sterling
like
Feral-tongue in
pom-pom?”

“Hmm. Well, I think she just might at that. Anyway, nothing ventured, nothing gained,” he patted him on the back. “Right, Feral? Ha. But remember,
easy does it.
”

“Yes, yes,” Feral’s head bobbed in hearty agreement, “yes, yes. We hunt like the lion! We hunt the
pom-pom!”

T
HE “
C.D.
AT THE
mortuary” incident had so unnerved Morty that, after fleeing the scene—down the alley, in opposite direction of the Merk—he had stopped at the first bar he reached and went inside for a few quick belts to steady himself. But he must have required more than he’d anticipated, because by the time he’d finished lushing it up and got back to the hospital, his “patient” had flown the coop, leaving coiled through the corridors behind him, like the discarding of an extraordinary white snakeskin, a seemingly endless trail of the gauze in which he had been so carefully swaddled. To judge from appearances, he must have been moving through the corridors with terrific speed and determination at the time.

P
HILLIP
F
RASER, A YOUNG
London film-editor, who had worked with Boris before, was brought over shortly after they started shooting—and, under Boris’s supervision, worked continuously on a rough assembly of all that had been shot to date. He had completed the Arabella-Pamela Dickensen sequence—
“Premiere Amour”
—which, in terms of the “aesthetic eroticism” Boris had been trying for, exceeded all expectations.

Sid, whose Hollywood conditioning had given him a rather Pavlovian reflex to screenings—that is to say, blind, boundless enthusiasm—and especially when he himself was holding a piece of the action, let this be no exception. The nature of the material, however, did require a certain change in the
substance
of his praise so that, instead of the usual weeping or guffawing to express appreciation when the lights went up, he was shouting: “I swear to Christ, B., I never got such a terrific bone-on in my life! Like a fucking
rock,
I swear to Christ,” over and over, litany style, before catching himself, genuinely embarrassed, “. . . Jeez, I didn’t mean to say it like
that—
I got carried away, I guess.” But he was quick to see the positive side of it—“Just goes to show what a
powerful picture
it is! I mean, listen, you guys, I think we got a fucking
hit
on our hands, for Chrissake!”

The Angela footage was also being edited and assembled as it was shot, including the flashback intercuts, and, since they were shooting pretty much in sequence, it was possible to keep the continuity of the assemblage almost up to date. So far, however, only Boris, Tony, and the editor had seen it.

“I can’t fucking believe it,” said Tony softly, “it’s just too much.”

“Hmm,” Boris thought about it, “you know, it reminds me of something . . . a fairy-tale . . .”

“Beauty and the Beast?”
Tony suggested with a coarse chuckle.

“No, no, something with a more strange, dreamlike quality . . .
Midsummer Night’s Dream.
I mean, the whole thing could be a
dream,
couldn’t it—a sort of never-land sexual fantasy the girl is having . . .”

“Wow, I don’t know—it looks pretty
real
to me. You know, if you guys hadn’t been here, I think I’d have
stroked
on that one. Like I had my handkerchief all ready and everything.”

“What’d you think of it, Phil?” Boris asked the editor.

“Well . . .” Philip began, head tilting back, eyes closing for a second, voice in the nasal upper register that always successfully betrayed his Etonian-Oxford background, “I mean, it really is quite extraordinary, isn’t it? I mean, I don’t know that there
exists
anything one might judge it
against . . .
well, of course there simply
doesn’t,
does there? I mean, it
is
quite unique, isn’t it?”

“Did you find it
exciting?
” Boris asked, “. . . you know, sexually exciting?”

“Oh yes, indeed—extremely so. In actual fact, I found myself wondering just how one would go about
restraining
the audience in such a case. Well, I mean to say, aren’t they likely to become
so
sexually excited that some sort of . . . of
orgy
will develop and disrupt the entire showing?” He found the image amusing. “Perhaps if the seats were
enclosed,”
he went on, “each member of the audience in his own little glass box . . . in that way, one might reasonably hope to avoid sexual pandemonium. Eh? Ha-ha.”

Boris considered it. “Hmm. You know, I’m not sure that
women
are much affected by things like that . . .
visual
things. However, that’s something we shall find out—right, Tone?”

“Right, B.!” exclaimed Tone with exaggerated enthusiasm, then turned to an imaginary audience, Billy Graham style, “and to you out there tonight, I put forward the solemn pledge that, God willing, we shall cause the cherished, the sacred, the immaculately white panties of the incredibly cute and lovely ‘Miss Average Movie-Goer’ to become absolutely
sopping
. . . yea, be they white, pink, yellow, blue, black, beige, red, flesh, or sepia . . . be they frothy lace-edged or sweet scalloped-edged . . . latex or spandex . . . bikini, brief, or full-fashioned . . . nylon tricot, Danskin, or acetate . . . size four, five, or six . . . yea, I say unto you, even so shall they be sopping . . . and, in truth, the darling girl shall literally
drown
in her own precious love-juice as it surges up about her—by the end of the fan-fucking-tastic . . .
show-stopping . . . SECOND REEL!
” He paused for breath, and added in soft, swift urgency:
“As God is my witness!”

L
YING ON THEIR SIDES,
head to foot, on the big pink satin bed beneath the rose-mirrored canopy, Feral’s head was snugly encased between Angie’s thighs, while his hands firmly cup ed her buttocks, and his tongue moved cautiously for
pom-pom
—unbeknownst to the
pom-pom
girl herself, who was similarly situated, cheek pressing against the cloth of his organ restrainer, while the “long-ago-and-far-away” glitter in her eyes reflected the double dose of liquid O-meth she had dropped for the occasion.

The first shot was from behind, with the camera on Angie’s bare back. Feral’s hands, gripping her bottom, covered the adhesive strips which secured her chastity rig, while his head moved rhythmically up and down in a tenderly voracious tongue-over-clit simulation—not yet going for full-tongue pen, nor for clit nibble-and-suck. Angie, in turn, writhed about in a quite adequate representation of increasing excitement.

For the reverse of this shot, that is to say, with the camera on Feral’s back, Boris planned to come in very tight on Angela—an extreme close-up of just her eyes and mouth. For the purpose of this shot he had persuaded her to caress an artificial penis, made of dark firm rubber. The action called for her to hold it in one hand, just at the base, while licking, kissing, and finally sucking it with growing ardor. The shot would be cropped so as not to go below her hand; in this way, it would be indiscernible that the member was, in fact, not attached to Feral’s body.

Boris was not entirely satisfied. “Christ,” he said, staring through the camera, “I can’t tell whether it looks like a
real
cock or not.”

“Perhaps,” Nicky Sanchez coolly observed, “that’s merely because
you
happen to
know
it isn’t real.”

“Hmm. You might be right. Looks okay to you, does it?”

“Oh heavens yes,” Nicky murmured, peering through the lens himself, “simply
delectable.
”

So that the two organs—Feral’s and the artificial one—would match as closely as possible, Boris had insisted that the artificial one be made from an actual mold of Feral’s penis.

Nicky, of course, had personally supervised the entire process, first taking a plaster-of-Paris impression of Feral’s organ at full rigidity, then casting it in molten Latex with a flexible metal rod at its center. It was remarkably detailed, the surface seeming to pulsate with veins and taut sinews.

“I’ll tell you where it doesn’t work,” said Boris after considering it further, “at the
foreskin
. . . now watch what happens when she comes all the way up on it . . . Angie, dear, just bring your mouth all the way up, okay . . . that’s it . . . now back down, slowly . . .” He turned to Nicky again, “You see, since he’s not circumcised it should pull the foreskin
up
just a little when her mouth reaches the end, then it should push it
down
a little when she takes it back in. But the trouble is, the foreskin doesn’t
move
on a mold. You get the
contour,
the
definition
of the foreskin, but you don’t get any
movement.
I mean, I had an idea for a beautiful image—where she puts her tongue
under
the foreskin and slowly moves it around the head. Get the picture?”