Ernie made a pitiful try at nonchalance. “Sounds pretty fair for a virgin. She won't be no virgin when I'm done with her. If I decide to give it to her.” The mask fell abruptly, along with his Jockeys. “Do you really think she'll like me, Doug? I'm so fuckin' horny! I'll bite her clit for her. I'll lick it. I'll sever it. I'll swallow it.”
He accompanied each hopeful verb with a base-to-tip swipe on his standing schlang. More verbs, and he'd wipe up a puddle.
“It's impolite to masturbate in mixed company, junior. Save it for Fran.” He stopped in mid-stroke.
I figured I'd better apply brakes to the others also, before they got delusions of grandeur. So I explained that we were, after all, only supporting players. We were expected to do only what Mr. Holmes directed us to do. He was the guiding expert, the genius who knew who should fuck who-and how.
Ernie boyishly boasted, “He may be a genius, but he can't tell me how to jog pussy.”
Poor Ernie was wrong there.
I sprayed out a hail of last minute orders. “Keep Debbie out of the way. Clean up the cabin. Absolutely no interim quickies. Wear fresh underwear.” And one vital warning: “Stay nearby. I'll be back with the others in an hour or so. Sun's out now, so we should start shooting as soon as we get here. Nobody leave the place.”
Ernie nodded sullenly. “Don't worry. None of us is goin' anywhere.”
There he was very, very wrong!
XVI
I had to go back to the hotel to pick up the filming crew.
It seemed that every time I started on a journey destined to end in an orgasm, I met up with Carla. She was just returning from an early lunch when I ran into her. Usually the briefest contact with Carla made me want to abandon whatever project I was working on. This time, a new angle occurred to me. Why not invite her to join us?
Hello, Carla, I would say. I'm just off to the class in amateur dramatics. Care to come with me? We welcome new members, especially pretty ones. We're playing outdoors today. The sun's hot this afternoon-maybe it'll melt some of that ice crust. Maybe it'll warm your twat. No, I'll do the warming. I happen to be carrying my adjustable sun lamp with me. It warms you and it comes with an automatic vibrator. Care for a demonstration?
The speech emerged as an innocuous “Good afternoon, ma'am.” Well, that's a beginning. A blundering beginning. Ma'am was a tactical error. I think that's what made Carla lift her uptilted eyebrows. “Have you finished cleaning those cuspidors, Trent?” she inquired.
Could I ask a girl like that to fuck for me-under Alec's direction yet!
“This is my day off, Grant-er-Miss Grant. I'm going to the movies.”
“How thrilling!”
Okay, cunt. Be sarcastic. Movies are thrilling, when you're on the right side of the camera. But you wouldn't know about that. Go park your ass on an ice cube.
My director, my co-star, and the Gorilla presently filed through the lobby and we proceeded out to the Holmes' limousine, a 1965 Impala. We burdened the back seat with equipment, including me and my equipment. Davey had grabbed the front seat along with Fran and Alec.
Fran was decked out in a slinky red travel suit with neat matching pumps and a bag big enough to hold a change of costume. I thought it was a shame to waste such a chic ensemble since it would be crinkled, creased, and removed as soon as Alec started clicking the camera. Unless he had evolved a revolutionary, new porno plot.
Alec drove smoothly, ignoring the scenery. “Tell me, Doug, these friends of yours-do you think with the proper direction they could play ignorant mountain folk?”
“Forget the direction! The terrain's flat in these parts, but don't let that fool you. Three barefoot mountaineers coming up!”
“Fine. I'm banking on this production. If I play it right, we're going to get wider distribution. Backwater Balling isn't going to be one of those porno potboilers.”
Sweating, I stammered a pertinent question. “H-how is this gonna be d-different, Alec?” I had a horrible presentiment that overnight he'd turned legit. Maybe that accounted for Fran's elegant duds and Davey's close shave. The projected title, however, sounded reassuring.
“I'm aiming for social significance, Boy,” Alec said. “Redeeming social values.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning those fucking Swedes have been getting away with mayhem I'm moving in on their monopoly. No one fucks in this epic unless he's got a damned good social reason. That way it's art and I may be able to book it on a reserved-seat basis.”
Davey didn't know about art, or anything else for that matter, but he piped up cheerfully. “I got a damned good social reason. I woke up with a fuckin' hard-on an' it hasn't gone down yet.”
“Good enough.” Alec took his eyes off the road to address the brains of the outfit. I listened avidly.
“As I planned it, subject to change once we get started, Fran plays an earnest young social worker. She visits a poor mountain family and catches them rutting like crazy. She's not accustomed to open-end fucking, being a sheltered, prim type. That reminds me-did you remember to bring those horn-rims, Fran dear?”
The prim social worker-to-be checked in her capacious handbag and nodded.
“Okay; so she sees them fucking and she disapproves or thinks she does. Then she runs to the next shack. Only in this one there's no mountain family, there's just Davey. Davey's a scholarly type, too. We indicate this by showing him writing.”
No horn-rims for Davey. Showing him writing might present a serious problem. Maybe I could teach him the rudiments while Alec parked the Impala.
“In fact, Davey plays a writer, a kind of sociologist chap on a field trip. The social worker comes in and tells him about what she saw in the first shack. He tries to explain to her that poor people do it all the time. While he's explaining, he gets hot and she gets hot and they screw, and there's our big scene. We'll work out the finale later. How do you like it?”
“Sounds great!” I'd seen the very same movie-minus the horn-rims-in a cathouse once, in South Philadelphia. But I couldn't willfully dampen Alec's enthusiasm. I had to help conserve his good spirits-at least till he spotted the inside of the cabin.
A sharp left at the by-pass. A few hundred yards down the dirt track, skirting lush shrubbery. Alec stopped short, the car wheels bogged in one of Matt's special treasures, his steaming manure pile.
We had arrived.
“Ah! the country air!” Fran breathed deeply, savoring the rustic fragrance. “Makes me want to sing-like in the shower.” She burst forth in a faulty coloratura. Till Alec extended an ungentlemanly elbow. And Davey sniffed angrily, muttering. “I smell horseshit.”
We hiked the short distance up to the cabin.
Fran seemed to be in a good mood to appreciate anything. She exclaimed, “Isn't it darling!” Davey reiterated his earlier diagnosis. Alec shuddered.
The inmates had heard our approach. They lined up at the door to greet us.
Okay, so they weren't sophisticated, city professionals. Fuck it! I was proud of the trio. Matt, every inch a stud, chock full of vitality. Beth, cuddly and cute and just as vivacious. Even Ernie, scrubbed and poured into clean jeans and T-shirt. Looking at them, you forgot their poverty, their abysmal stupidity. If you had eyes in your head, you reduced the threesome to basics. Good-working pricks and accommodating pussy. That's what made this country great. Shove your sophistication! Alec shuddered.
The shudder was directed at the surroundings, not at the welcoming committee. Alec glanced at them and found all three to be potential superstars. I could tell, the way he murmured, “Well, I might be able to use you.”