Shooting LIGHTS! CAMERA! ORGY! Part 4: Pete Rose and Eroticus Interruptus

Obstacles overcome so far:  Killer temperature, drunken crew, stoned starlet, sexually-frustrated assistant (Ace) and heat exhaustion.

Text from SKINFLICKS:

In that circus of a video feature, which I would call Lights! Camera! Orgy! one thing was missing: genuine erotic passion‌—‌until the last loop. It proved the wisdom of putting models together who like working with each other but don’t have an off-screen relationship that makes sex between them become routine.

Mike Ranger had been yearning to work again with Gayle Monica, the teenaged blonde with breasts like scoops of vanilla ice cream. She felt the same about him.

Gayle needed no Albolene with Mike, preferring to rely on “natural.” He delivered three climaxes; she had two herself and would’ve had another had I not butted in.

During a bedroom-cooling break, I’d gone to the living room to check on the Cincinnati Reds game. Pete Rose was trying to tie the National League record of 44 straight games with at least one hit. Meanwhile, Denny was taping Gayle straddling Mike, her face pressed against his neck, her hips pounding against him in the kind of frenzy that can’t be faked. Oblivious, I walked right into the video wide-shot and announced, “OK, Mike, we can go for your second come-shot now.”

Mike looked up at me. “She was going for hers.”

I’d interrupted the very act of spontaneous eroticism I wanted the video to capture. “Uh, OK,” I stammered. “Let’s go for… let’s do that.”

Gayle shook her hair out of her face. “What’s the next position?”

I was still hoping to revive the lost magic. “Well, if you wanna go for yours, then… you know…”

She laughed. “Too late now.”

Ace passed through the background. “Hello, sports fans,” he said. “This is Pete Rose. This is my fifth straight come-shot.”

Next Post: Shooting Submission of Serena: Real-life S and M

Shooting LIGHTS! CAMERA! ORGY! Part 3: Lovely Rita Malice Maid

On looks alone, Rita should have been an adult movie sensation.  As described in SKINFLICKS, she had jet-black hair falling straight to her waist, globular breasts, and an oval face with fine features and large dark eyes.  But her naturally exotic beauty was marred by a hard, glazed look and the languid manner of a veteran hooker.

During the shooting of LIGHTS! CAMERA! ORGY!  She was also stoned on Quaaludes.

She wasn’t always this way.  Superstud Mike Ranger told me that when Rita had been his girlfriend, she was witty and fun.  But he had broken up with her after…she changed.

I don’t think Kenny the Agent was good for her.  This caricature of a sleazy pornographer hid behind mirrored shades and a beard, clutching an ever-present beer.  Though married, he cheated on his wife with Rita.

Instead of boosting her to the $1000-a-day stardom enjoyed by another raven-haired beauty, Annette Haven, Kenny had Rita  working for $50 in my loops–and in the videotape documentary I was making of the 16-millimeter loop shoot.

My client, who was paying me for the loops didn’t know I was shooting the video.  If he found out, I was afraid he and his scary underworld partner might retaliate.

The following weirdness is from SKINFLICKS.  This scene was written as a direct transcription from the videotape footage:

Before we could begin, Phil called. “Just wanted to see how
things are going,” he said. “By the way, how’s the video?”

“The video?” How did he know about that?
“Yeah. You are shooting video, aren’t you?”
I sat down on the couch. “You mean the…the experiment?”

Rita’s naked body passed in front of me, followed by
Denny’s camera. She raised a breast toward the lens. A nipple
protruded between long auburn fingernails. She parodied a sigh.
“Well?” Phil pursued. “Is the video usable or what?”

“I don’t know, Phil. I’m concentrating on the loops.”

Rita sat next to me. Ace sat on her other side. He began
kissing her and fondling her breasts. Sedated, she didn’t care who
did what with her. Denny widened out to show all three of us
while I assured Phil the loops were looking fantastic.

Ace plunged his hand between Rita’s legs. She spread them
wide, and one landed in my lap, followed by her hand. “Speaking
of fantastic, Phil, I got some of that right here. Rita, give Phil a
kiss.”

She made an exaggerated smooch into the phone, adding a
long sigh. I told Phil I’d call him later.

“OK,” I said, “let’s make a movie”–leaving Ace grumpy
about being denied his quickie. Rita flashed Denny one last split
beaver shot, prompting Patrick to sigh, “I should’ve gone into
gynecology.”
“This is the next best thing,” I said. “Let’s get to work.”
We didn’t get very far.

When John was hard, Rita began to straddle him in
“cowgirl” position, then exclaimed, “Stop! Stop right now!”

Her period had started. We turned out the lights and Rita
inserted sponges. “Let’s do missionary,” I said. “That way the
blood will mostly stay inside. How’s that sound, Rita?”

She flipped a middle finger at the monitor. “Huh? I was
looking at that picture over there.”

I asked Ace to turn the lights on. Still sulking over his
aborted quickie, he said, “No. I’m just the loader.”

I crossed the room to turn them on myself. “Fuck you, Ace.”
“Try it.”

In missionary position, John began to build momentum.
Rita’s eyelids opened and closed as if they weighed ten pounds
each. “I’m gonna give you an expression of pain,” she said. “’Cuz
it hurts.” Not listening, Kenny chirped, “Expression, Rita.”

John lost his erection. Rita went for the Albolene, with
Denny behind her. He had decided she was the story. “This guy’s
driving me crazy,” she said.
“He’s doing his job,” I growled. “Pretend he isn’t there.”
“I can just ignore him?”
“Please.”

Instead, she spread her legs to Denny’s camera with a comic
expression of glee.

John kept going soft through spoon and doggie positions,
needing Rita’s trance-like fellatio.

Bothered by Denny’s zoom lens hovering next to her, Rita tossed her long hair over her head so it blocked her face.

Trying to shoot from her other side, Denny pulled his cables taut and shorted out his audio.

Later, I’d scream curses when the screen suddenly went
silent, just before four photographers–Ace, Kenny, Denny and
me–scrambled for shooting angles as John, without warning,
pulled his flaccid penis out of Rita’s mouth and began coming.

After taking so long to get up for each position, he’d finished by
ejaculating prematurely.

Afterwards, I felt sour enough to deny Rita the multi-speed
vibrator she wanted. I told her it cost $30 (it retailed for $16.95).
Rita offered me her body, but I wasn’t interested. Kenny was; he
steered Rita into my bedroom for a quickie. Ace wasn’t invited,
adding to his petulance.

———————-

Next Post: Shooting LIGHTS! CAMERA! ORGY!  Part 4: Pete Rose and Orgasmus Interruptus 

 

 

 

Shooting LIGHTS! CAMERA! ORGY! An X-Rated Disaster Movie

Making LIGHTS! CAMERA! ORGY! was an exercise in living dangerously. Among the risks:

  • I was shooting loops for a client that my mob-connected employers wanted dead.
  • Without my client’s knowledge, I was making my own documentary video of shooting his loops.
  • I was shooting in my own apartment, with a storage locker full of films the LAPD had a warrant for.

Other than those things, what could possibly go wrong?  Try adding mismatched models, a drunken crew; and a lighting experiment on a sweltering L.A. August day that raised temperatures into the Death Valley zone.

In other words, ingredients for an interesting documentary.

So why did I do this?  For a chance to get my very own feature-length porn video at the cost of one week’s paycheck.

(The full description of my first video venture fills ten pages in SKINFLICKSBelow are highlights, with passages from the book in italics.)

On the night before the shoot, I set up that ill-fated lighting experiment.

To avoid the usual harsh, flat look of 3 or 4 1000-watt quartz lights blasting bodies to prevent shadows, I rigged canopies of 250-watt photoflood lamps, resembling oversized household bulbs, that hit each set from all angles. It gave the living room, bathroom and bedroom that sculpted, lighting-in-the-round glossiness of sound stages with full lighting grids high overhead.

I had forgotten how much heat these inefficient bulbs produced.  During the very first scene the next day, the apartment thermometer pegged its limit of 110, and in the sauna-like atmosphere those bulbs began committing suicide.

Mixing with the soft pop of bulb-death was the soft pop of beer-can tabs.  My cut-rate crew of amateur videographers had wisely prepared for the heat by lugging in cases of brew.  This was no stoic, blase porn crew.  These guys worked cheap so they could ogle pussy, especially when it’s magnified on sharp Sony monitors that reveal every dripping detail.

The first object of their leering attention was Megan, a 19-yearold southern belle with curly Carolina charms: brown ringlets, long lashes and pubic hair shaved in a heart.  This was only her second porn role.  Eager to please, she’d end up ready to kill.

Her nemesis was my old buddy Ace.  Hired to load cameras, this frustrated filmmaker loathed himself for still resorting to porn work for rent money.  Drenched in beer-sweat, he was–like most of Hollywood’s lower legions–chronically unlaid.

( Ace’s porn-acting career had ended in failure:  A director, trying to talk an actress into having anal sex with him, had said, “We made it easy for ya, honey.  We got ya the smallest cock in Hollywood.”  When Ace heard that, “the smallest cock in Hollywood” did its best to stay that way.)

Mike Ranger, a favorite of most porn women, was a problem for Megan. She was too embarrassed to tell me why until pain forced her to. With her back to the intruding video camera, she murmered, “It’s his size.” ( Ranger was known for his equine dimensions.)

“Try me! Try me!” Ace boomed. I resisted the urge to make a “smallest cock in Hollywood” crack.

(Kenny the Agent had neglected one of the first rules of porn agenting:  Pair people who are physically compatible.)

We had to take frequent breaks. To cool the set. To replace blown bulbs.  To towel off sweat.  To give Megan recovery time.  And to wait for guys to put their beer cans down–especially Ace.

When Megan made the mistake of mentioning that her boyfriend called her breasts “puppies,” Ace sang, “And they call it puppy love…”  For a still shot, I said, “Megan, look at me,” and Ace crooned, “Look at meee…I’m as helpless as a kitten in a treee…”

      “Just what is your problem anyway?” I asked Ace during a
set-cooling break.
       “Tell you what, Dave,” he said, blinking sweat from his eyes.
“Next time, I’ll work for free, but I want to get laid.”
       “Fine. I’ll give your salary to one of the ladies and film her
trying to get you up.” The heat was getting to me, too.

Mike was going for his wet shot when the flimsy stand holding what Ace called a “pussy light on a stick” toppled over. Its bulb exploded against the couch. Megan twisted out of the way with Mike’s penis still inside her. He yelped in pain. After that, he had trouble climaxing. He pounded into Megan, her face too contorted to take notice of his perspiration raining down on her. After Mike came, she went limp. “I died,” she said. “Did you catch it on video?”

————–

Megan’s sit-down strike came during her girl-girl scene with Angel, a seasoned stripper who had come to the set after a night in jail for the crime of not shaving her pubic hair.

She’d been dancing at a strip joint in Torrance and was busted when she’d taken her bottom off. A local ordinance forbade showing pubic hair. Anything else was OK.

        “Wait a minute,” I said. “Can you dance nude with no pubic hair and they won’t bust you?”
        “Right,” she said, bringing an eruption of laughter.
        “Then how come you didn’t shave?” Ace asked.
        “I thought I was OK.”
        “Let’s see!” exclaimed Patrick.
Angel pulled off her shorts and let the men examine her fine blonde razor stubble.

As the girls sweated through their scene, Angel was enough of a pro to ignore the comments of the men, who were beginning to resemble drunken Oakland Raiders fans.  But Megan had reached her limit.

“That’s it. Enough. This whole damn thing is crazy.” She told me that the heat, the crew, her body parts in big detail on the TV screen–everything–were all too much. She was quitting. She didn’t care if I didn’t pay her. 

The next post, Shooting LIGHTS!  CAMERA! ORGY!  Part 2: Breakdown, relates threats from my client, nervous collapse, agent/actress malfeasance, Pete Rose and–finally–genuine erotic passion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Getting It Up the Hard Way: Odd tricks for “getting wood”

A pornographer’s worst nightmare is the actor who can’t get erect.  The moviemaker must then  either shoot  the scene “sim (simulated)” and cut in hardcore close-ups from previous shoots or pay the flaccid actor a “kill fee (a small goodbye payment)” and hire a replacement.  At least the pornographer has options.  But the poor guy who can’t perform suffers a worse fate: no more work.  Men have suffered nervous breakdowns over penis limpus and at least one (Randy Potes—AKA Cal Jammer) has committed suicide.  To continue in a lucrative career, porn studs develop unique ways to get aroused.

(Note: Passages from SKINFLICKS are in italics)

Having a beautiful woman available may not work.  She was every surfer boy’s fantasy: blonde and petite, with breasts that stood out from her tan like scoops of ice cream fallen on smooth sand.  But Gayle Monica’s patient fellatio didn’t “fluff up” her porn-partner husband.  He wasn’t looking at her. (Too familiar?)  Instead he stared at Boobs ‘n Buns magazine. It didn’t help. Then, male star Mike Ranger strolled into the room, sat on the bed and began fondling Gayle.  Her startled husband suddenly became hard.  Lesson: The unexpected can work wonders.

On the same shoot was a guy whom Ranger derisively dubbed “Right Sider.” He had to lie on his right side and masturbate in order to function.  When ready, he’d scramble to get in a few pumps with his female co-star before he lost it, then he’d revert to his right side.

Willem Lowen, Cindy Carver, voyeur in Nixon Mask, from NIGHT MOVES

With big bucks dependent on male performance, the “reliables” hogged all the stud work. (My favorites: Jamie Gillis, Billy Dee, Willem Lowen, Joe Elliot.)  One of the best, the late John Leslie, insisted that his craft was a form of method acting—drawing upon emotions and memories to play a scene.  In one of the first loops I ever shot (in 1977), Leslie demonstrated his “method.”  Ignoring his female co-star, he’d close his eyes and stroke himself up.

A man whose performance depends upon the charms of his partner won’t have a long porn career.  The best men rely on fantasy imagery, ironically doing exactly as the fans who envy their access to porn queens: they’re masturbating.

Billy Dee and Juliet Anderson. PHYSICAL

 

Richard Pacheco learned this lesson during his porn debut, in Candy Stripers.  In an Erotic Film Guide article, he described going limp after seeing Nancy Hoffman grimace from 45 minutes of kneeling on concrete: “People were lying around sleeping, snoring, just plain waiting for me to get it up…Nancy even fell asleep on my thigh…I sat there masturbating myself and praying for the Russians to launch a surprise attack.”  Finally, Pacheco had an inspiration: “I closed my eyes and started all over…I was back on the couch of some rec room with the first girl who ever let me finger her.  I could hear the Kingston Trio on the record player.  There was life in that old memory yet.”  When Pacheco reached his climax, he “heard the cheering of millions.”

The late director Henri Pachard claimed that the best way to treat stud failure was through ridicule. “Point a finger at him and go, ‘Ha ha ha! Look at this wimp! Look at that shriveled little putz!  Guy thinks he’s a stud; he couldn’t get wood in a lumberyard.’
“You get the guy mad, get his blood pumping. Next thing you know it’s ‘wood city.’ Works every time.”

The Pachard theory reportedly worked when Matt Daniels failed during Anthony Spinelli’s The Party.  His screen partner—and real-life girlfriend, Heather Lere—cussed him out and according to witnesses, the agitated actor slapped her butt and proceeded to—in Lere’s term—“spring board.”

The most unusual hard-on aid I’ve ever witnessed was moi !  That’s right: yours truly.  I was working “boom.”  The job is physically taxing. You stand there with arms raised, holding one end of a boom, which is a long pole (“fishpole”) that has a microphone on the other end.  The mike is suspended over the scene, above the camera frame but still close enough to capture crisp dialogue. Holding the pole in position is damn tiring.  I was standing on a chair, near the ceiling, the hottest part of the room.  I was sweating, muscles straining. I had a weird feeling of being watched.  I glanced down and into the eyes of an actor (a known bi-sexual) who was furiously stroking himself. And staring hard at me!  I turned my gaze to the microphone, and froze in position, like a statue. (Literally a “statue of David,” but thankfully with pants.)  The actor was able to perform with his designated actress.

Glad I could help.