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Wow.
This divination alone justifies the course fee. What a privilege
to be here.
I
am in a chic film school lecture hall, the lone gal in a glut
of aspiring auteurs here for the class, "How To Shoot Your
Own Live Adult Video — For Fun Or Profit!" ('Live' as
opposed to…?) My boyfriend, Aap, has squired me to this sanctum
of learning, half due to his courtly Afrikaans manners, half due
to a macabre curiosity about Teacher Dave that I stoked in case
the manners thing didn't work. This bio did the trick:
"Dave
Cummings, the 63-year old Adult Performer who has been in over
500 sex scenes (and still counting!) and is a retired U.S. Army
Lieutenant Colonel holder of the Bronze Star from service in Vietnam
during the Tet Offensive, is also an acclaimed Producer and Director.
Dave is an avid supporter of the First Amendment, and his contention
that sex between consenting adults is a natural, normal, and healthy
gift from God to mankind."
"Ugh,
how sordid," Aap recoiled. "After killing children,
shooting up, and screwing chickens in 'Nam, I guess porno's the
only high left."
Aap
can be very proper, foiling his Goth Pirate attire.
"I
see Robert Duvall in the role," I said. "A sequel: Apocalypse
Now, The Golden Years."
We
were late to class. Luckily, Dave ran on "porno time,"
which, as we learned, is indistinct. The student body was already
in situ. Arrayed before us was a Rainbow Coalition of sleazeballs,
all colors and creeds subsumed to the cause. They were 'studying'
the handout packet; scant information stapled to glossy porn pages
promoting Dave's oeuvre and his new series, Kneepad Nymphos.
One
pupil was darting around — a lumpy white guy who kept chirping
(parrot voice:) "I'm gay! I'm gonna do gay porno!"
Aap's
face turned a mottled grey. His skin changes with moods, like
an octopus. This grey tone is always accompanied by Clint Eastwood's
eyes when he says, "Go ahead. Make my day."
"Afgryslike
mense," (Horrible people) he growled. He took a seat, way
off to the side, and willed himself, instantly, to sleep.
I
examined my packet to Aap's gentle snores. There must have been
a hundred pictures of Dave dorking mostly what I would call Two
Baggers (so ugly you need one for her head, one for yours.) Those
with implants had wall-eyed cheap ones of the stale muffins-on-a-plate
variety. This reaction must have been due to that ol' party-pooper,
estrogen. The Rainbow Coalition seemed to like them just fine.
Dave,
for the most part, beamed into the camera just, gosh, thrilled
to be there with the mild smile of the grandpa he is. I would
venture to guess that he had a slow, tender hand with the Vietnam
fowl.
"Today's
my birthday!" Dave began. "I'm sixty-four!" The
class eked out faint applause; the kind that clergy get when they
torture the homeless with sermons before they dish out food. Dave's
ding-dong was unfettered under his thin, drawstring pants, flapping
like a bell clapper. He looks more like Ohio's mattress superstore
king than anything else.
"Do
you know the term 'fluffers'?" he asked. Fluffers are B-quality
girls who suck the guys before scenes for wood. But with this
economy — they're just too costly."
Take
heart, Dave, hang tough. I hear the economy is on the upswing!
Oh. Right. That's without jobs.
"Viagra
screws everything up," Dave tsks. "Those guys are on
the clock, you know? They get these red faces, their hearts are
thumping and they're no good for the cum shot. There's a drug
you can inject into the penis, but its like, 'Damn! We need make-up!
Blemish on the dick!'"
"Excuse
me sir, but how long does it take to come with Viagra?" screeched
I'm Gay officiously.
"Depends,"
Dave clacked back, peeved. He had been on a roll. Continuing:
"So
this one shoot, this young guy had blue pill wood. His scene comes
up and DING, he loses it. Outta time. Gone. That's it." Dave
draws a finger across his neck. "Another pill would take,
like, half an hour. So guess what?" he grins, "The sixty-three
year old stunt cock stepped in."
Dave's
sexagenarian priapics were the de facto core of the class. Yessir,
the old Brass Hat is a circus quality freak of nature. His precision
Big Bertha can flip off gravity wherever/whenever, stay aloft
and pop on cue. He can direct and shoot scenes he 'acts' in while
getting a blowjob - mirrors positioned around him for thrifty,
all-angle coverage. After each morning run he has to pull the
pickle.
You
are an American treasure, Lt. Colonel! We salute you! Carry on!
The
students save me (and Aap, in the Land of Nod) were mesmerized.
They gazed at Dave as if at the Great Oz. I was squirming in my
seat… and it wasn't vibrating.
We
learned a few things not easily found on the web, like that a
Pina Colada can double as joint juice if a gent is spent and you
realize that you need to film a "facial" spray. But
for me, more questions were raised than answered. Such as:
What's
with the "cum "shots? Women hate them. There's something
way gay about "straight" men's demand for them 'as proof.'
Effing proof? Aren't they supposed to be watching the girls? The
girls fake it; why don't they rail about that? Actually, the answer
to that one lies in this joke: Q. How can a man tell if a woman
has an orgasm? A. Who cares?
I
must say, though, that I left this class with some inspirational
words. Dave gave us porn biz advice that serves beautifully as
a holistic life motto. "Don't lose your shirt," he said.
"Have fun. Maybe get laid."
Add
forty acres and a mule and I'm down with that.
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