“Two inch hard-ons,” Fran dismissed them grandly. “They're not normal. They'd rather suck each other's prick than suck my cunt.”
I tried to explain that long hours on the range tended to divert some westerners' interests. But Davey interposed _with a dark scowl, “Fags, that's what they are. Wouldn't take it up the ass without buckin' up and down like broncos. Spoiled one take after another.”
“I have talent for you,” I promised. “Grade A, non-professional, non-temperamental talent.”
Fatso beamed. “That's what I like to hear, boy. You play ball with me, you won't be sorry.”
While he was in a cheerful mood, I described the cabin inmates. He heard me out with moderate enthusiasm. Fran idly gazed at her nail polish. Davey didn't seem to be listening.
“We'll rest up today,” the impresario decided. “If it's sunny tomorrow, we start shooting.”
“How about tonight?”
“yeah.” Fatso had no business answering. My question was directed exclusively to the diminutive female superstar. “Yeah. A nice little indoor domestic drama. Hotel guest-bellboy-husband. Gimme a minute to work out the details.” He grinned, happy to be back in harness. Beaming at me, he said, “Bet you're excited, getting into the movies.”
Getting into the movies, balls! All I wanted to do was get into the half-pint superstar.
XIII
The day of my debut as an actor, I sweated over a flurry of hotel activity. A party of yokels arrived, long past the age of dalliance, but just at the age when they had to have chewing tobacco. I got my ass sent out on errands. And a whole dime tip for my efforts.
Meanwhile, I was trying to prepare for my new career. Just how does a porno performer prepare himself? Abstinence before appearing on camera would seem like a sensible rule. It was too late for that, however. I pulled on my whang for luck. Examined my teeth in the mirror. Smiled, and decided my left profile was more soulful. Gee, I'd have to remember that when I was boffing Miss Fran.
How would it feel to do it with a camera trained on my partner's box? I came to the conclusion that I would simply ignore the camera. It was Fran's snatch. Let her worry about it.
I dashed out for a bite of dinner before show time, wondering if there would be rehearsals. Carla was just tidying her desk as I left the hotel. I hesitated. If I'd asked her to dinner, she'd have accepted. I felt it in my bones. Let Alex Holmes fuck himself. Or let him fuck Fran, while Davey ran the camera. A hamburger shared with Carla would be worth ten careers.
Then I thought of the disjointed, bedraggled group at the cabin. Matt and Beth. Ernie, Debbie. They weren't much, but they depended on me. A guy has to look after his responsibilities, right?
There was a further consideration. Two of them, to be technical. Fran's lips. How would they look with my cock coming at them? Petulant? Dreamy? Vulnerable? Parted?
I dined alone that evening.
After dinner, I dressed carefully before going up to Alec's room While dressing, now that curtain time was approaching, I realized that a porno actor needs no preparation. My prick stood plank-stiff already.
“You horse's ass!” the producer greeted me, affectionately. “Wanna screw up my scenario? You're supposed to be a bellhop.”
Alec's rudimentary plot outline had slipped my mind in the course of the day. “Can't I just act like a bellhop and fuck her in chinos?” I demanded.
Alec, however, was a stickler for details. I had to scurry down to my cubbyhole and crawl back into my discarded uniform. When I returned, Alec flung the door open. “That's better. C'mon in.”
I had to hand it to Fatso. He really was a producer. Out of a perfectly ordinary hotel room, he had produced an intriguing stage set. Portable floodlights illuminated the bed, a strip of carpet, the dramatically outlined window. You felt that something thrilling was about to happen. Something worth recording.
The girl on the bed helped foster that illusion.
Fran was obviously in her element. On stage. Ready to do what she did best. Ready to emote. To get fucked. She sat up in bed, demure among the pillows. Bare-titted. Her boobs were like vultures. Red-beaked, pointed, hungry. Under the covers I knew she was naked down to her toenails. I wanted to forget the scenario. Just dive in and bang her. That's the bellhop's role in a nutshell.
One glance at the other occupant of the room and I even forgot Fran momentarily. What scenario had Davey the caveman wandered out of? He was dressed in-or peeled down to-a pair of skin-hugging bathing trunks. Plus the male porno star's stigmata: black socks with garters. He looked like something washed up on a beach after an orgy, covered with hair instead of seaweed. Being a true man of experience, he seemed vastly disinterested.
I turned to Alec. “I'm the bellhop. Fran's the hotel guest. I take it he's the outraged husband.”
“We changed the plot. Davey's gonna be a cat burglar.”
“In that get-up?”
“Saves time,” Davey grumbled, kindly. “You can't waste a lotta footage showin' a stud takin' his clothes off.”
“He's a cat burglar in Miami,” Alec supplied, impatiently. “Now that that's settled, let's get started, huh. Here's the story. Fran is all alone in her hotel room. She's sorta hot and she frigs herself. Then she remembers the bellboy. She calls for room service. You come up-and she gets serviced. Now you step out, — Doug. In just forty seconds I'm gonna pan to the door. In forty seconds, you come in, and take it on from there. Okay, Fran.”
I had just enough time to glimpse the dark-haired girl reach for her twat with one hand, the telephone with the other. I went out into the corridor. Forty seconds later, I made my debut on film. Looking like a bellhop, feeling like a fool, walking with a fat hard-on.
Foiled! Fran had cunningly readjusted the covers.
This was a silent epic. So it was surprising to hear the girl on the bed sing out in clear, almost realistic tones, “I thought you'd never get here. Please fetch me my bag.”
For the benefit of lipreaders among the masturbators who would one day applaud Boffed by the Bellhop at smokers throughout the nation, we had to improvise dialogue. Since I was, after all, more or less a card-carrying bellhop, that part came to me easy. “Yes, madam,” I improvised.
Then I made a mistake. The muff had ordered, “Fetch my bag.” Being a bellhop, I looked around for a travel bag. “Her handbag, stupid!” the cameraman-director-producer growled. “It's on the dresser.”
I fetched milady her fucking handbag.
Simpering prettily for the camera, Fran extracted a comb and a mirror and started to comb her long tresses. Neither the hand that holds up the mirror nor the hand that holds the comb can pay much attention to keeping sheets in place. The sheets became artfully disarranged, and Fran's knockers artlessly peeped through.
I realized that with that wealth of attraction on display, Eric's camera was trained on me. “You see bare tits, bellhop,” our director directed. “React!”
I hammed it up like a stock company Hamlet. Rolling my eyes, licking my lips, scratching my nuts. All wasted after the first ten seconds. The camera was back where it belonged. On Fran.
From the rhythmic motions of her hand under the covers, she was either combing her thatch or finger-fucking herself. Future audiences and I were left in doubt for only a quarter of a minute-although it seemed longer. This wasn't a suspense story.
I looked on in rapt admiration. The bush getting the public beauty treatment was luxuriant, forest thick, and silky. It didn't need a comb. It needed roving fingers. Mine. I reached out to stroke the shining rug.
“Smile, bellhop!”
Automatically I smiled. It's tough being an actor. You have to sublimate your emotions, curb your natural inclinations. In real life, would I smile at such a time? Horseshit. I'd dive in there and nuzzle. Maybe chomp a little. But, smile? Never.