Paddy came over after I’d put the phone down and gave me a knowing smile.
‘Let me guess, Stuart’s quest for truth, yeah?’
‘He’s got me phoning up models.’
Paddy smirked and shook his head. ‘Fuck me, when’s he going to give that one up? Stuart goes through this at least once a year and it’s always the same. “It’s got to be true, it has to be real.” This is such a load of old bollocks. This is porn, and porn has nothing to do with reality,’ he said as he offered me a fag and lit one up himself. ‘You know what reality is? Reality is going down the newsagents to buy pictures of naked birds because you ain’t getting it yourself. Or if you are, it’s off your fat, and utterly broken-in, old lady who you can’t bear to drill these day unless you’ve sunk half a bottle of scotch.’
‘You know what I like about you, Paddy, is that you’re refreshingly uncynical.’
‘He’s not fucking wrong though,’ Roger said somewhere off behind me.
‘Reality? Reality’s girls who still live at home with their mum and dads, or girls who are engaged to be married, or girls who take evening classes in art. Girls who collect teddy bears and girls who watch EastEnders and get upset when one of their favourite characters is written out.’ Paddy paused to blow a couple of smoke rings across the room. ‘Reality is girls who get embarrassed the same as you and I do when someone finds out what they really get off on. Reality is these girls are no different from the ones you’ve been encountering every day of your life, and how many of them have told you that they like taking two cocks up the arse? Not many I’ll bet,’ he said with a wise old wag of the finger. ‘Except your mum, of course.’
‘Yeah, but they’re porn models, they’re expected to be different.’
‘And I’m a porn editor, so presumably so am I. Still doesn’t stop me from not getting a sniff in the last three months, does it? And I’m meant to be getting it left, right and centre, that’s what all the lads down my local think and they refuse to believe me when I tell them I’m not. They think I’m just being modest or a bit circumspect but I’m not like that. I’m the first one to climb the holy tower and announce it to the whole of Mecca when I’ve had a shag but I live in the real world. I work in porn, but I live in reality. And it’s the same for the girls. The readers might want to think that they’re dirty, cock-hungry old slags who’ll do or say anything to anyone because they’ve got low moral standards – well they must have if they take their clothes off in front of cameras, mustn’t they? But they’re just people. And people don’t talk like the old rubbish we write. Not even blokes. It’s just fantasy, it’s what guys want to imagine a woman is saying while they’re bashing off because blokes find that sort of thing a turn-on. And yeah, you might get your girlfriend or some old tart you’ve just brought back from a night out to say “do my cunt” a few times when you’re poking her – if you prompt her a bit – but you’re not going to get these models to dictate these girl blurbs to you in the language and style that the reader wants to see them written in because they’re models, not writers. This is why Moonlight employs people like you. And why, every time Stuart does this, he ends up with some boring tame issue full of girls all claiming that the most important thing to them is a nice cuddle and a bit of a chat after making love. And who the fuck wants to jack off to that?’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘Stuart’s problem is that he’s confusing real sex with reality. That’s what the readers want, real sex, but they’re fucked in the head if they think they’re going to get it for £2.95.’ And with that, he wandered off to leave me to make my last phone call.
Gemma (real name) turned out to be a different sort altogether, Paddy was wrong. Gemma seemed made up by the fact that I was phoning from Bling and giggled with devilment when she observed that this was like a dirty phone call.
‘Are you looking at my pictures right now?’ she asked and I told her I was. ‘Do you like my pussy shaved? I did it especially for the shoot,’ she said.
‘Very nice,’ I told her as I made notes with my right hand and adjusted my trousers with my left.
‘I’ve never shaved it completely before, I used to just trim, but it feels so smooth and soft now that I think I’m going to keep it like this for a while.’ I wanted to ask her if she was feeling it right now but I didn’t know how to phrase it without Roger asking me who I was talking to.
‘Smashing,’ I settled for.
‘Okay, ask me anything. Anything at all and I’ll tell you,’ she said all excitedly. I adjusted my trousers still more and wished I’d made this phone call in Stuart’s office where no one could hear me.
‘What’s the dirtiest sex you’ve ever had?’ I asked, my voice low, my hand cupped over the phone.
Gemma pondered a bit then told me that she loved it up the bum, especially when she was stoned. I scribbled this down frantically and stared hard at her pictures through the loupe. There she was, in full glossy colour and talking to me on the phone. Suddenly her facial grimaces of mock sexual ecstasy didn’t seem so mocked any more.
‘And when was the last time you did that?’ I asked, a bit nasally.
‘Ooh, only last night. I was feeling really horny and I just had to have it so I lubed myself up and used my favourite dildo up there,’ she said and I felt my cock pump air a couple of times.
‘And have you ever done it with another girl?’ I asked.
‘Oh yeah, loads of times. I love eating pussy – but I only like it if there’s a guy there to fuck me from behind while I’m doing it,’ she growled down the phone to me.
‘And lastly, what’s your favourite fantasy?’ I said, sitting impossibly forward in my seat.
‘Imagining all the readers of – who is this again? Bling? – Bling wanking all over me and covering me from head to toe in spunk,’ she said, emphasising every sensual word before breaking out in laughter. ‘You’ve got the coolest job,’ she said. ‘Is this what you do all day, phone girls up in the middle of the afternoon and make them say rude things?’
‘Sometimes,’ I said, suddenly seeing an angle. ‘Or sometimes I have to go around interview them in person,’ I lied.
Gemma laughed at this and purred delightfully. ‘Well next time I’m in London you can take me out for a drink and interview me properly,’ she said, not taking the bait.
‘No problem. Where do you live,’ I said and looked at the code. ‘Manchester, yeah?’
‘Bit of a long way to come just for a five minute interview, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, shame.’
‘Never mind, you poor poppet. You just think of me next time you’re doing some young girl from behind. Alright?’ she said.
‘I will do,’ I assured her. Or the next time I was thrashing myself off... whichever comes first.
*
Several of the slides from Gemma’s set followed me home that night and wouldn’t leave me alone until I’d knocked at least three good ones out to them while fantasising about away day trips to Manchester.
I drifted in and out of sleep throughout the night, remembered our conversation each time I woke up and pictured all sorts of possibilities and scenarios through the early hours.