“Oh, fuck spanking. I want to get fucked. I think it could be really hot. Why are you laughing?”
“I’m not laughing,” I said, laughing.
“Do you think I’m like, coming on to you? I’m not. You’re cute, but you’re not my type, at all. I’m into older guys. I like a guy who I can feel comfortable calling Daddy.”
“O-kay! Don’t hold anything back, by the way.”
“I’d be very interested to fuck a whole bunch of guys,” Sandy said, frankly. “It seems so ornate, don’t you think? So excessive.”
“But a gangbang? Surely you’re kidding.”
“What? Don’t you think I’m tough enough for it? I’d love to see how many guys I could get off at the same time. Don’t you think that’d be riveting?”
“Listen,” I said. “Calm down for a second. Gangbangs are chaotic. Messy. And they’re packed with undesirables. What if they decided to rise up as one and overthrow us? It’d be disastrous.”
“They wouldn’t do that, silly. We’d find a bunch of really sweet guys who’re totally cute. Or at least,” she amended, more realistically, “not totally disgusting.”
“I’m telling you,” I said, “it might look good on paper, but in reality it’d be freaking disgusting. Imagine all those sweaty sacks in one room.”
“Hmm,” Sandy said. She twisted her mouth and wrinkled her eyebrows, thinking. A young guy sitting across the room recognized her and waved happily.
“Hi, Sandy!”
“Hi, Brian! I can’t talk right now. I’m discussing porn.”
“There’s no hurry,” I said. “I’m sure that if we both think about it for a couple of weeks, sooner or later...”
“I get really turned on when guys stalk me,” she interjected.
' Listen, Sandy, seriously, that’s super interesting, but it’d be a little difficult to capture that on film, don’t you think?”
“You don’t want to work with me,” Sandy said. She stared at me.
“What are you talking about?”
“You heard me. You don’t want me in your films. You’re intimidated by me.”
“Intimidated?” I snorted. “Come now.”
“It's true,” Sandy said. “You don’t know what to do with a girl who’s just as smart as you and has her own fully developed, unconventional sense of sexuality. Do you?”
“Please. That’s totally ridiculous.”
“Is it? I think that in your heart of hearts, you’rp really holding out for some Barbie doll who’ll bob her head all pretty-like and then suck all the cum down her throat without saying a word, right?”
“Hey,” I protested, “you got me all wrong.”
“I think I got you all right,” Sandy said, smiling. She crossed her arms. “You want to see me suck that kid’s cock for you? Hey, Brian!”
“No,” I said firmly. “Please, don’t.”
“I want to make a pomo,” Sandy announced. “A really good one. You can ask me questions, and then, when I’m getting fucked, you can play my interview back in a tiny box in the upper-left-hand corner of the screen. You know how to do that, right?”
“Sure, but...”
“And instead of a gangbang, I’ll just do a couple of guys, okay? First one, and then when he’s all done, I’ll do the other. Two guys— you can handle that, right?”
“Well, all right, but how are we going to ...”
“We’ll place an ad in the paper. The SF Weekly has a ‘Wild Side’ section, and that should be perfect for us. We’ll get tons of responses, and then we’ll hold tryouts. You can videotape everybody, and I’ll pick the winners, and we can put that in the film, too. It’ll be like reality pom.” She looked at me expectantly. “Now, what do you say?”
I shook my head in amazement. “Why me?”
“I like you,” Sandy said, simply. “I liked your film. It was honest.
Let’s do something honest.”
“Well, all right,” I said weakly. “You win.”
SIX
I placed an ad in the paper, sending out an SOS for guys in their mid-thirties who wanted to fuck a “submissive 24 year-old blonde bitch with a towering IQ.” Predictably, we got a lot of riffraff, which was sort of fascinating (I taped all the phone conversations), but I managed to filter out most of the more dangerous psychos before Sandy and I met our “candidates” in person. We played God for an afternoon, cross-examining a gaggle of hapless cranks, like Lonnie, a red-faced male nurse who didn’t mind “dressing up ... you know ... wearing a wig,” and Karl, a pubic-bearded Rollerblading enthusiast who glided up to his interview wearing spandex short shorts, Terminator wraparound shades, and a fluorescent yellow safety vest.
Then there was Black Dave, a genial Gulf War vet-gone-substance abuse counselor, who made it clear that, if chosen, he was going to “leave the boots on”; Chuck, a golden-haired elevator repairman who referred to his dick as “Elvis” (Sandy thought that
was cute; I found it repugnant); Ron, a slim, dark-skinned businessman who, it turned out, had actually seen Candy Asses; and Dohvid, a short, bespectacled Jerry Garcia enthusiast who was an articulate speaker on all matters sexual. I would have voted for Dohvid, but he foolishly admitted to having a small wiener, and Sandy tossed him. (When he held up his hands a few inches apart to describe his length, Sandy’s straight-faced, hardhearted reply was “Are you into anal?”)
She chose Black Dave and Chuck, and they both went to the free clinic on Haight Street to get HIV tested. I sensed that we were on the verge of something really special here, maybe even important. The suspicion was reconfirmed a thousand times over when Black Dave showed up to Sandy’s apartment on the day of the shoot and pulled down his pants to reveal the most monstrous dong I had ever seen. It was eleven inches and thick. The thing was like a Pringles can.
But Dave was a sweetheart. “I was thinkin’,” he confessed nervously, as we rolled pregame film on him and his snakeskin cowboy boots, “no matter what happens, just let me eat her. Please, Lord, all I’m saying—let me eat her.” Dave, curiously enough, had gotten his porno feet wet already; in February of the previous year, he’d taken a trip down to Los Angeles to participate in The Houston 500, the gangbang to end all gangbangs. Houston had fairly annihilated Jasmin St. Claire’s previous record of 300, set in The World’s Biggest Gang Bang 2. The previous “champ” was Annabel Chong, who, in January 1995, serviced 251 men in an eight-hour stretch.
I was actually surprised they let Black Dave leave—he was a natural. He was so into Sandy’s snatch that I don’t even think he remembered I was in the room, much less videotaping him. He lapped her up, and I tried to frame it just so. In a way, that was sort of artistically fulfilling. But when Dave started power-fucking Sandy on her tiny corduroy couch, I was somehow let down. It was so . . . ordinary. I watched his huge elephant penis go in and out of its mudhole. Wasn’t this supposed to be somehow different? Wasn’t there something more original they could do?
And Sandy looked sort of sad down there, getting whaled on. Sweat beaded up on her pale skin; she gripped the couch hard with her left hand, to keep from falling off. I don’t know, maybe she was having a good time. It was impossible for me to tell.
Chuck was next up, but he was late. After an hour, I called him, and we were met with bad news: Chuck had come down with a case of the porn jitters. He was bailing.
“Please, bro,” I said. “I’m depending on you.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, unconvinced.
“And Sandy really wants to meet Elvis,” I reminded him. He relented and said hell, I guess I can come on over, give it my best shot. And he did. But it was a terrible thing to watch.
So confident and full of life in tryouts, Chuck-the-elevator-guy had completely psyched himself out before we even started rolling, and no matter what we did to entice him, Elvis simply wouldn’t come out to play. I offered Chuck half a Viagra, tried to explain that penises get scared, too, but he just sat there and shook all that golden hair miserably. Sandy kissed him sweetly all over every inch of his body, but it was no use, and so we wrapped.