I can see he’s hurting the girl. It’s a sex scene, and she’s been paid well to star in it, but this doesn’t stop him from enjoying himself- John’s being too rough with her, that’s what it is. I don’t say anything, I don‘t have the energy. I‘m only a cameraman, after all, on this shoot.
Stood there I’m watching her face, watching it contort with pain, almost surprise, as he pounds into her. Bill and John had picked her up off the street, charming her with their good looks and bulging muscles. How things like this can happen, in this day and age, just down the road, is beyond me. Not that I really care. It’s a job, and we’re all getting paid, I‘ve been living this life for more years than I‘d like to say. The girl has average looks, dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, curvy body from what I can see, with her clothes roughly hewn and strewn about, under the glare of this cheap hotel room.
John isn’t impressed with her squirming, I guess.
The girl starts wheezing when he pounds harder.
Earlier, after prowling the town like some kind of ghouls, we found it was almost impossible to find any woman who would willingly do what ‘we’ wanted. So, Bill and John decided it was best to pay a hooker- after all, time was money.
I suggest to John that he should ease up a bit. He grunts, eases off a bit, pivoting her around, holding her legs open, and continues. It’s all just a rampant monotonous thing. I can’t say that I’m particularly impressed with the way John fucks.
Bill, a big black body builder, is next door with another girl they paid for. He’s using the hand held camera. The whole thing feels like a day out, like they’re in it for the fun. There isn’t really anything professional about it, it’s just very domestic.
John stops. A greased up cockney cocksucker, he’s a long way from home in the Midlands, it must be like another world for him. He slows down just to stab her cervix even harder, deliberately flexing his chest and biceps, thrusting in powerful strokes as far as it will go inside her. I’m really bored.
I keep filming, as he slows to a halt, he looks over at me.
“That’s all, man.”
It’s exhausting even though it’s the easiest work I’ve had for months. Switching off the equipment I sit down.
Jesus, its hot here, and stinking of sweat and juice. I wouldn’t be surprised if they couldn’t smell it outside.
John leaves the room, a towel wrapped around his muscular middle. No doubt he’s heading next door to join Bill.
I’m left alone with the whore who so far I’ve only heard moan and groan, sprouting worlds like ’fuck yeah, yeah, yes, harder, just like that, you’re dick’s so big, it’s so good, my God.’ She doesn’t correct her clothes, or move at all from the position John left her in. She simply lies there, on the bed, a dormant piece of meat, waiting. I’m pretty sure it’s because I’m here, she must think it‘s my turn now.
The whole situations so absurd I kick back in a chair, reach for my Marlboros, and light up. The sounds of springs going in the next room all ’we’ can hear.
After my cigarette’s lit the change in the girl in miraculous, she gets up, slowly, rising like a Vampire- she’s mesmerized the second that my lighter sparks up, looking over to me as I’m sitting there, smoking- I’m transfixed into the same moment this girl feels, that magical moment only seen in films, when the hanging light illuminates sleaze, and the two characters are sworn into a noir bled scene. Either that or the girl is a Marlboro junky, and is seething at the jaws for that illicit ‘red label’.
I have to let that initial wisp of smoke come out of my mouth, masking me for a moment.
She looks at me with those great big green eyes of hers. They’re pretty, her eyes. But she’s a whore, that’s all I can say and see.
“Do you want one?”
She pulls a face of weirdness, fright and mistrust? She doesn’t answer me, so I sit in silence, smoking. I don’t say anything else, simply sit there.
Unable to cope I leave the room, not at all glad or happy with the turn of events. I’m in a really bad mood because of the way things are. Here I am filming some idiots fuck, and I wish I was somewhere else, doing something else, having sex myself with some unknown woman, booze and cigarettes so thick on my lips that it‘s all just a wild and bizarre thing. I stand in the door way, looking back in the room at the whore for a second or two.
John’s coming back from next door. He’s got Bill’s camera in his hands.
It seems that my services are no longer needed when he saunters towards the bed, flexing again. He looks up for a second and sees I’m smoking. Neither Bill nor John are smokers. I smile at John. The smile is knocked straight off my face when he closes the door, the deafening fall of the lock can be heard within the great long corridor. And I’m alone now.
I realize that this whole trip, more than being the production of a porno, is actually a holiday for these two bastards, and I‘m just the spectator for their sordid game. They don’t care if they make any money or not, to them it’s no different than going to the pub or getting into a club. The way they are is almost Roman in its desire. They’re here living an age old dream, filming it just frames the sordid ventures as some x-rated archive. I’m thinking about the girl with John, the fact he locked the door playing on my mind, but fuck it. After all, she’s just a nameless whore who shouldn’t have taken the car ride with three potentially dangerous men.