On her knees the superstar was superforming an act of superfellatio. When a girl has a ball in her mouth as well as the rod, that's super.
“Please lemme see your cunt,” Ernie begged. Some guys don't know when they're well off. Fran moved back to comply with the immature request, thereby coming perilously near to breaking the connection. Her hand was on the waistband of her panties when footsteps sounded behind me.
It was Alec. Young love and tasty perversions left him cold when he wasn't directing the action. Advancing toward the impromptu performers, he thundered hot curses.
Either Ernie wasn't used to being called “you fucking son of a whoremaster's asshole,” or he was fazed at having his fucking interrupted. With an incoherent cry, he fell backward, dragging his dong with him. The long movement, from Fran's larynx to the wide-open spaces, brought the boy's boffer to a boil. As we watched, aghast, gism poured out in torrents. Rivers of gism aimed at we innocent onlookers. All wasted, while Fran squirmed in frustration.
Our long-suffering producer groaned as the semen stopped flowing. I sympathized with poor Alec. It would have taken months to train the kid to perform that trick on camera.
XVII
Before you rent out a Polaroid and call yourself a producer, consider the schlemozzle that screwed up Alec that afternoon at the cabin.
After Ernie lost his load, he voluntarily retired from acting, though not from the action. When we trooped back to the blanket, we found Matt scanning the horizon, looking for-and not unlike-a raincloud. Davey and the blonde were otherwise occupied. He was showing her what boys have, only he had more of.
“Call that a prick?” Matt scoffed, having abandoned the horizon to kibitz.
“Fuck you!” Davey grunted.
“Fuck me!” Beth pleaded.
“Fuck youse all!” Alec exploded, his orderly porno world shattered. “Places everybody!” he commanded, and seemed to find comfort in the familiar phrase now rendered meaningless. “Places everybody!”
Cheated out of a certain salty effusion, Fran stood on the sidelines. Sullen, red-lipped, and just a little bit contrite. “What places, lover?” she asked Alec. “What's the set-up?”
“I'll tell you what's the set-up!” Alec paused for a moment to think of a good one. He failed ignominiously. “The set-up is balls over a barrel. My balls. We'll reverse the order of shooting. Start with the social worker and sociologist. If you and Davey don't mind getting your asses in focus.”
Superstar glumly regarded superstar. Like seasoned troupers they followed their director wherever he led them. Ten paces past the blanket. Under the nearest elm, I set up a table and chair. The sociologist's writing desk. Davey plunked himself down and began covering a blank sheet of paper with doodles.
Camera in hand, Alec was once more masterful.
“Okay, Davey's busy writing up cases. He looks through the trees and spots the social worker chick running toward him. Fran, you've just had a traumatic experience. You're dishevelled and breathless. You fall into his arms and-take it on from there.”
Sunlight, camera, action.
Fran made running an erotic sensation. Tits bouncing, skirt hiked up toward her navel. The interrupted session with Ernie had left her as dishevelled as the average social worker can get in a lifetime. Shooting may have started badly, but this was cinematic perfection.
Davey looked up from his doodling, peered through the trees, and stepped into the path of the runner. The two bodies met. Fran emoted, babbling her story with hammy gestures. Davey emoted, stroking her boobs with hamlike paws. Fran pantomimed fucking by gyrating her hips. Davey stood motionless.
“Go ahead, Davey, show her your sociology. Take it out,” Alec ordered. “Fuck her.”
“Yeah,” cried a voice from the bleachers. “Let's see ya fuck 'er with that shrimp stick.”
Matt and Davey were not destined to be buddies.
“I'm not playin' with that prick around!” Davey snarled, forgetting in whose cornfield he was standing.
“Clear the set! Everybody out! Except you, Doug.”
Matt stomped off, muttering, followed by Beth and Ernie.
“Okay, as we were. Take it out, Davey.”
In his shame, confusion, and embarrassment, the caveman sounded uncannily like Ernie. “I c-can't. Id-don't have a h-h-hard-on.”
Problems. Alec cursed in three mitte-European dialects. “Fa Chrissake! Somebody suck it for him!”
I tried to look busy untying a knot in my shoelace, which was superb acting since I was wearing loafers without laces. Fran stepped into the breach and into sucking position. She opened her brother's fly and began licking his flaccid labe. Davey pushed her away gently. 'Thanks, kid, but it's no use.”
Manfully, he turned to the director. “Put away the camera, Alec. I have a date.” Without another word, he strode off in the direction where Beth had been heading.
The only sound now was the whack of Alec's palm against his forehead.
“Don't fret, darling,” Fran consoled him. “We'll shoot tomorrow.” From behind a clump of hedges, Ernie was signalling frantically. Fran made more soothing noises. Still reassuring Alec, she walked, then ran toward the hedges.
After one more “Fa Chrissake!” the dejected director was speechless.
“Come on, sir,” I said, in my best bellhop manner. “You need a drink. I imagine Matt can rustle up some home-made corn likker.”
“Maybe he's got some fresh cyanide.”
I guided the poor guy back to the cabin. An hour later we were still sampling Matt's sour-mash stingers. Now Alec seemed buoyed up, but my buddy became downcast and bitter.
Staring at the worm-eaten walls of the cabin, he muttered, “I'm too fuckin' good-natured. Take strangers inta your home an' what does it get ya? I don't mind if they fuck aroun'-at least if they leave a little for me. That prick Davey! Not only grabs my girl friend! Talks like I was dirt! Hospitality!”
In his anti-Davey crusade, Matt found himself an ally. “You're absolutely right, Matt boy,” Alec declared, helping himself to another three fingers of bourbon. “That Davey should get his fuckin' ass whipped.”
Matt sat erect.
“Now you're talkin'. That's what I'd like to do to the queer. String 'im up an' slice up his butt with a belt buckle. Rip out his kishkes. Chop his balls off. Then fuck 'im.”
Recitation of this unlikely program restored Matt to his usual state of panting virility. His breath came in raspy patches. You could hear his blood thunder. His eyes glittered in the bourbon haze of the kitchen.
Knowing Matt, I was hardly surprised. Fatso's reaction, however, astonished me. Raspy breath, thundering blood, eyes all a-glitter. He swiped at the air to clear away the bourbon miasma.
Was my fat pal another hetero-homo-sado grab-bag?
No. He was a producer.
Alec's wife in Montclair could rest easy. Her husband didn't share my buddy's hobbies. He spoke to me in my capacity as unofficial assistant producer. “Why didn't you tell me your friend is a whipworm?”
“Did you once ask?” I countered, with dignity.
“Did I ask! Fa Chrissake, everyone knows flag fandangos are big sellers this season. Queer, straight, all kinds.” He turned to Matt. “Like to wave a flag, boy?”
“I'm as patriotic as the next guy,” Matt mumbled, defensively.
“Flag-flagellation,” I explained, till I remembered who I was explaining it to. “The gist of it is: Mr. Holmes would like to take your picture, beating the shit out of Davey.”
“Not so fast, Doug. He puts up a passable appearance,” Alec shuddered, involuntarily. “But if he does the flag bit, then opens his pants to pull out a peanut-they'll laugh me outta the business.”
Alec's key word had penetrated. “Did he say peanut?” Matt addressed me in my capacity as official procurer. “Tell the son of a bitch what I got! G'wan, tell 'em!”