Lords, Lies and Videotape Part 8: Partners from Hell

From SKINFLICKS Chapter 12, The Goddess

“Sweetheart…” The purr of Honi Webber filled the phone. “It’s been a long time…”

“Too long,” I said, wondering if whatever she was calling about meant I’d lose money or make some. When she’d convinced me that the Four Star Video check was actually in the mail, I’d wound up stiffed for $4000. But I made a lot more than that when she’d hired Superior to shoot Sizzle With Samantha. Honi was slick; it was wise to regard her proposed deals with wariness–and wise to listen to them.

She wanted to make a product trade: 100 pieces of my new hit Physical II in exchange for 100 of Honi’s new exclusive release Traci Takes Tokyo.

During Honi’s sales hype about this first product of her exclusive distribution deal with Traci’s new production company, I began to feel something was wrong. “It’s got the hottest scene ever shot,” Honi said. “It’s super high tech. The process is still experimental.”

The scene she described had been shot with a snorkel camera, used as early as the mid-’70s to give a penis’s point-ofview of entering an orifice. Now, with lighting by fiber optics, that cyclops eye could peer even further. “You can actually see the come spurting down her throat!” Honi enthused. “It’s erotic as all hell!”

Globs of gloop dripping down membranes didn’t strike me as sexy, but I understood Honi’s perspective. She thought like a pornographer. She’d once concocted a title called Love Under 16″, pitching it to stores as a hot renter–fans would think it portrayed underaged girls. It didn’t. Actually, the title was Love Under 16 Inches, but the “Inches” (“) was so small as to escape notice. Always seeking gimmicks, hustlers like Honi take the bizarre for the erotic.

I pictured Traci, mouth agape, deep throating a cock, a lens, and a light tube, trying not to choke while videographers hovered over her like deranged dentists. “How did Traci take to this scene?” I asked.

“No problem there,” Honi said. “We got Traci under control. We got her locked up for seven years. We own Traci Lords. We are Traci Lords. “We” meant Honi and industry veteran Sy Adler. “We’re teaching Traci things she never dreamed of. We give her two weeks of training for every production. We’re gonna make Marilyn Chambers look like Julie Andrews.” Honi hastened to add, “Of course, we’re not gonna do anything illegal.”

There was no law specifically forbidding the scene in Traci Takes Tokyo of a Japanese woman getting a real octopus tentacle shoved into her vagina. But it didn’t seem what Traci had in mind for her own productions. It became no secret that she was unhappy with her new partners. Many predicted a clash, but none could forsee the result.

One man, however, had his suspicions about Traci.


Next: Lords, Lies and Videotape Part 9: The Split hits the Fan

Lords, Lies and Videotape Part 6: Lovestruck, Sunstruck and Buttboy-struck

From SKINFLICKS Chapter 12, The Goddess

Whap! Whap! Whap!

Traci had slammed Marc Wallice on his back and was slapping his face. “Come on, bigmouth!” she taunted. “Come on, bigmouth!”

I’d protested that even mild S and M was now legally risky, but Traci said Wallice needed this to get turned on. I hoped she’d miss those weakened nasal membranes.

Wallice’s erection showed why he was the ladies’ choice for anal sex; it was slim and curved. South’s rival, Reb Sawitz of the Pretty Girl International modeling agency, made sure women working with Wallice knew they were choosing comfort over safety. Reb would reach his beefy arm into a closet, pull out a magazine and slap it down on his desk. It was paper-clipped open to a full-page photo of Wallice taking an erection up his rear.

“I’m no butt-boy,” Wallice always protested. “I only did it that one time. I was twenty years old. I was broke and desperate.”

“What about the other ones Reb keeps in his closet?” I joked.

Wallice’s eyes went wide. He began to sputter.

(In 1998, actresses Tricia Devereaux and Brooke Ashley became HIV-positive after working with Wallice. [See Chapter20] )

Traci had been dreading getting naked. “I fucked up,” she said. “I fell asleep on the beach.” Her midriff was crimson. She seemed about to cry.

“Not to worry,” said Kerri, the make-up artist, who quickly turned the red into a nice, deep tan.

8:07. With four of porn’s best in action, the gods finally smiled. Traci slapped, Wallice rose (though his cheeks looked like they’d vacationed with her), and the two emcees played musical fornicators with the winners of the Erotic Olympics, Tom Byron and Cara Lott.

(Cara got her stage name from a producer who observed that she really does “care a lot.” The slim, blonde pixie, still looking teenaged after ten years in the sex trade, was a woman of many hustles. Impressed by the intensity she put into the action, I joked, “We got so turned on watching you that now the whole crew wants some.”

“You know,” Cara said hopefully, “I give group rates.”)

x x x x x x

8:42. The crew rolled up the blue backdrop to reveal the living room set behind it. No slowdown. No lost hard-ons. A whole new scene for a different movie. But just when I thought we were going to breeze to the finish, that damned sunburn beneath the cosmetic tan began to peel. Traci was mortified. She pulled off flaps of skin as soon as they came loose.

“Traci don’t!” Kerri exclaimed. “I can’t match the skin underneath.” But Traci continued picking at it, and Kerri’s frantic cover-ups looked like skin grafts by med school dropouts.

Joe Farmer had a suggestion. “Instead of this blotchy look, why don’t we let it look like what it really is: peeling sunburn?”

Kerri washed off the make-up. The only one unhappy with the result was Traci. “I look like shit! And I never look bad in my movies.”

She wanted to do her remaining sex lying on her stomach. I wanted “reverse cowgirl” (straddling the man, facing away from him) and “spoon”(lying on her side, her back to the man). These are the best positions for showing off a gorgeous body.

“But I look best on my stomach. This snakeskin is gross!”

“It’s fine. C’mon, let’s do it.”


“C’mon, Traci. We’re wasting time. Let’s do it.”

Traci glared at me. I had a sudden fear she was about to explode.

“C’mon, Traci…please?” A time-honored porn directing technique was begging. I didn’t want a power struggle at 9:05 PM. Traci must’ve been thinking the same thing. “OK,” she said stiffly. “It’s your movie.”

This scene was to be an erotic climax. It required energy and rapport between Tom and Traci surpassing that of previous scenes. But now, I was afraid her performance would be stilted and mechanical.

Tom Byron to the rescue. He’d been like a schoolboy waiting for a last dance with the prom queen. And he did what a porn stud is never expected to do. He didn’t just fuck Traci; he made love to her. He knew exactly how she liked to be kissed, nuzzled, touched and tongued. He knew how to angle his entry, to time his thrusts to hers, to keep brushing his fingers on her clitoris though his shoulder looked like it would pop out of its socket. He didn’t shut his eyes to enter his own fantasyland; his concentration was always on her.

Traci became oblivious to her “snakeskin.” The Love Call built up, then caught inside her, coming out in bits and bursts. Byron grabbed Traci’s hips and gave a final series of fast strokes. Traci screamed her climax, then settled back into his arms. Byron pressed his face into her neck. I let the shot hold long.

Finally, Byron opened his eyes, blinked, and asked, “Do we have anything else?”

“Yes. Your come shot.”

“Oh, yeah!” An unlikely oversight for a veteran stud.

After Byron did his professional duty, the couple embraced, their hair and arms hiding their features. I let them have their private moment, shutting out the lights and cameras.


Traci immediately sprang up. In a moment, she was on the phone to a cab dispatcher. “I need to be out of here in fifteen minutes! My plane leaves at 10:30!”

Actually, it left at 11. I thought she was just rushing the cabbie, but her next call got her an earlier flight. All that worry about time, and she’d leave a half hour early.

Traci snatched up her $1200 cash, scribbled “Kristie E Nussman” on the model release, and pulled on some jeans, all in one continuous motion.

The cabbie honked and the most competent, mature and sophisticated 22 year old I’d ever met hurried off into the night. If someone had told me she was only l6, I’d have answered, “You better stay out of Marc Wallice’s stash.”


Next: Lords, Lies and Videotape Part 7: Overexposed

Lords, Lies and Videotape Part 5: Pot vs Perfection

From SKINFLICKS Chapter 12, The Goddess

Tom Byron pursued Traci’s naked rear over a snake orgy of black power cables. “Traci, for the last time, will you marry me?”

She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Not again…”

Byron’s unabashed pining for his ex-girlfriend was an industry chuckle. But he was also one of her favorites to work with. So I hired him. With my impossible schedule, I couldn’t risk unpredictable cast chemistry.

I was sticking with my original plan to shoot the main footage of two features, even though I now had only one day to shoot in. And Traci absolutely, positively had to leave for San Francisco Airport by 10 PM.

Traci had only the script for Physical II. I hadn’t told her about Dirty Pictures ; I was afraid the total amount of sex indicated on paper would scare her off or have her demanding much more than her$1200 day rate. “I put a lot of energy into a sex scene,” Traci said in her AVN interview. “So I don’t like to do two in a day. I don’t want to be called a dead fuck.”

I wanted Traci to do two elaborate sex scenes. Only Tom Byron knew how the couplings and switchings would be chopped up to look like six full scenes in the two movies, but he wasn’t telling–three of the sexual permutations put him together with Traci.

Pleased that I’d teamed her with her two favorite men–Byron and Marc Wallice (sic)–Traci agreed to the “two” scenes. She also liked working with the second woman, Cara Lott.

I prayed that the video gods would take mercy on my cramped schedule and hold back those dreaded Murphy’s laws. But of course they didn’t.

x x x x x x

Marc Wallice sabotaged his own brain. While Traci posed for boxcover stills (shot first, while make-up is fresh), the vacuous blond actor–kind of a Dan Quayle of porn studs–snuck off to an unused room in the spacious Mill Valley house to smoke pot. By the time we were ready to roll tape, Wallice was in no shape to remember his name, much less his lines.

Sitting in front of a blue backdrop–a “bluescreen” that could be electronically replaced with bodies in action, Lords and Wallice played emcees at an event called The Erotic Olympics. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Wallice began, “and welcome to the second annual…ah…ah…”

I’d wanted to start the sex after lunch. Instead, we stayed mired in dialogue.

“Our next event is…is…”

“’Masturbation,’ Marc.”

And so on.

Juggling the usual barrage of details, I couldn’t give Wallice the attention he needed. Thank God for Traci’s diligence. Though she’d picked up her script from South’s gofer at the airport and read it for the first time on the plane, she knew her lines perfectly. And Wallice’s too.

She coached and coddled him through the dialogue with a patience she didn’t extend to herself. When she finally muffed a line–“’All our finalists will now be competing for.., ’” Traci snatched up her script, glowered at it and slammed it down. “’For the grand prize of fifty thousand dollars.’ See how easy that was?”

She had the ability to snap into character on “Action.” When her bitch-queen role required her to rebuff Wallice’s pass at her, Traci did it so viciously that, after the take, Wallice was still looking confused. She patted his arm. “What a bitch, huh?”

She always strove to be perfect. Told that the next scene involved cunnilingus, she dashed into the bathroom. Ten minutes passed. I glanced at my watch; we were running three hours late. “What’s she doing in there? Fixing the plumbing?”

Byron laughed. “Yeah. Hers. When she comes out, she’ll be
clean enough to eat off of.”

“And I have often done so,” Wallice announced, missing Byron’s sour glance.

Was it my deceiving Traci that displeased the video gods?
Was that why Murphy did his worst?

Wallice couldn’t follow directions for a “sim” (softcore)
cunnilingus shot. Traci tried to help. “You’ve got to hide my
pussy with your head.” She grabbed his hair and pulled his face
into her crotch. “Oww!” Wallice sprang back, grabbing his nose.
Blood seeped between his fingers.

“Shit.” My watch read 6:36.

Then came the problem of Traci’s dress, a red mini covered
with sequins that went everywhere. As director, responsible for
visual details, I assigned myself the task of picking them out of
her pubes, enduring taunts of “Tough job, but somebody’s gotta
do it.” Lying on the bed with her legs spread wide, Traci went
into her press-release bio: She was 22 years old. She was from
Las Vegas. Her stepfather had introduced her to the business.

The spiel seemed rehearsed, but that didn’t strike me as odd.
Everything about this young woman was prepared and polished.
Except for her work schedule.

“This business really burns you out,” Traci said. “You don’t
have any kind of life for yourself. All I’ve been doing is movie
after movie after movie. I find myself going, like, ’Oh God, do I
have to fuck again?’ And I really like sex.” She added that in the
past year she’d caught VD three times.

But then there was the bottom line. “I’ve been clearing over
twenty thousand a month. This year I’ll make over 250 grand!”
Traci wanted to know if I, personally, made that much. I said I
didn’t. She seemed satisfied.

7:18 PM. Less than three hours to shoot all that sex. No
dinner break tonight. Just cold cuts between takes.


Next: Lords, Lies and Videotape Part 6: Buttboys, Sun Damage and Rare Real Love

(I will post no photos of Lords, since she was allegedly a minor when she signed a release–with a fake “real name.”)

Lords, Lies and Videotape Part 4: A Tight Situation

On the Larry King Show, Traci Lords claimed she had only been in about 20 adult movies and that the rest of the titles she was in were re-edits of footage from those twenty pictures.

Twenty?  Maybe in one month, as the following section from SKINFLICKS indicates.

From Chapter 12, The Goddess:

“You’ve never seen anyone like her, Dave,” drawled porn’s super-agent Jim South. “She’ll know all her lines and everyone else’s too. She’ll hit her marks perfectly every time.” The lanky Kentuckian leaned back in his swivel chair, momentarily ignoring the flashing phone lines in front of him. As usual, South’s cramped suite of offices above Van Nuys Boulevard was a madhouse of harried producers, naked starlets and eager studs, all vying with the phone lines for his attention. South was in his element. “And when you’re done with the dialogue, she’ll fuck like a mink in heat.”

South went back to his phones and Rick Savage took over. “When she comes, you better have extra sound blankets,” he said into my face. (I was scrunched on a couch between Rick and the bare bottom of a lady who was seeking work despite her stretch marks.) “She’s such a screamer they’ll hear her six blocks away.”

“Sometimes it’s so intense she starts crying,” added Tony Martino, another of the studs South kept on hand in case a “field unit” malfunctioned.

In South’s kitchen, the only spot available for my casting session, Tom Byron tugged on his penis to lengthen it before I took a Polaroid of his skinny body. “If she’s still horny after a scene is finished,” he said, “she might grab a crew guy, slam him on his back and start in on him.”

“Shit!” South exclaimed. “I fucked up! I forgot I already had Traci booked on the 28th.”

I’d planned on starring Traci in two movies, shooting her footage on March 28th and 29th (1985). “How about April?” I asked. “Can I get two days in there?”

South shook his head. “She’s booked solid. And May is closing fast too.”

“May’s too late anyway. I need at least one of these titles in time for C.E.S.”

“Dave, can you shoot everything you need on the 29th alone?”

“Well, maybe if it’s a long marathon day…”

“Wait a minute,” interjected a producer I called Ferrari Mike (his prized 308GTB was always parked near World Modeling’s front door where nobody could miss it). “I got Traci on the 30th and I’m shooting down here.”

“Shit, that’s right.” South ran his long fingers through his slicked-back hair. “Dave, could you possibly move your shoot to L.A.?”

“No way!”

With pornographers shooting in Los Angeles again to save lodging and travel expenses, the LAPD was cracking down. I did all my shooting up north, where I felt safe.

While we puzzled over the schedule, Traci herself called from Hawaii, where she was taking a needed vacation. She always wanted to meet in advance those she’d be working for. But, by the time she returned to L.A., I’d be back home in Marin County. South handed me the phone; this was our meeting. I had to persuade her to fly 400 miles to have sex for a director she never heard of.

“Hi,” I began. “How’s your vacation?”

“Wonderful! All I’ve been doing is lying in the sun, and when I get back I’m gonna be so nice and tan and rested. I’m gonna look great! All my fans are gonna be so pleased…”

As Traci went on, I had the weird feeling that this star who was in such demand was actually trying to sell me on hiring her. She wasn’t. It was just her way of coming off as eager to please.

I wondered how eager she’d be when she saw the schedule we concocted. It was–as Tony Martino observed–“tighter than a gnat’s asshole.” After working a full day on March 28th, Traci would fly up to San Francisco, work a full day on my set on the 29th, then fly back down to L.A. to work a third straight full day for Ferrari Mike on the 30th. A “full day” in the sex film business was 12 hours; most days ran longer.

“It’s a good thing Traci likes to screw,” said South.


Next: Lords, Lies and Videotape Part 5: Pot vs Perfection

Shooting PHYSICAL: Letting It All Hang Out in a Best Seller

For Superior Video’s second big-budget epic, I did what any right-thinking pornographer would do: recycle past porn.  But that opened up a good news-bad news conundrum.

The good news: After 3 years of porno-making I had a lovely library of  licentiousness.

The bad news: I had to make the old footage fit into a story that disguised the fact that it had been used before. So I came up with…(drum roll)…The Erotic Olympics!

I wanted that as a title, but Superior’s co-distributor, Select-A-Tape, was itching to use Physical.

So Physical it was.

flyers and book cover 015Plot: A married couple puts an add in a skin magazine seeking  entries from amateurs for their contest, The Erotic Olympics. They offer a grand prize of $50,000. The couple plans to use the contest entries in a new porno without actually awarding the prize.

The magazine publisher (Juliet Anderson) figures out their scam and demands that they come through with the actual prize money. They don’t have the cash, so they enter the contest themselves, determined to win.

b & w pictures from authorhouse 024
Juliet Anderson, Billy Dee

(Note: Graphic descriptions of sex acts are reserved for the pages of SKINFLICKS.)

b & w pictures from authorhouse 023
Linda Shaw, Herschel Savage (between Linda’s legs), me (with camera), Juliet Anderson, soundman

I made my porn debut in Physical–pants on, no sex.  But I did take my shirt off.  (After seeing my image on video, I immediately signed up at Fitness USA.)

Maybe it was the humongous list of stars (mostly gleaned from past porns) or the hot cover photo  (in flyer above), that made Physical one of the best-selling X-rated tapes of 1982.

Superior’s general manager Joe Farmer and I had fun with the script.  He had one of the contestant entries coming from his home town in Massachusetts.  I had the scamming couple (Herschel Savage and Linda Shaw) hailing from “beautiful El Culito, California.”

To Anglo ears, that sounded like a plausible place.  But Hispanic viewers would get a chuckle: “El Culito” means “The Little Asshole.”

Next post: Superior Video Shoots Its Wad Big Time










Shooting The Perfect Gift Part 2: Are Things Finally Going Right?

After the hassles of near-electrocution, a videographer going on strike, a storm ruining audio, and a bunch of swinger-party studs who couldn’t get it up, something had to go right.

First, the house was perfect.  It was custom-made for orgies. Its owner was my new business partnerJoe Loveland (nom de porn), a pleasant little satyr with goatee and gleaming eyes, who looked younger than 53. Joe was a professional musician, a sex hobbyist, and a secret investor in porn film.

(Text from SKINFLICKS is in italics.)

Used for films (such as the acclaimed Sex World ), Rajneesh weekends, S and M “workshops” and swingers’ parties, it was on a hillside too steep for voyeurs who weren’t rock climbers. Visitors entered on the upper level and found a casual Northern California ambience of hardwood floors, a wood stove, hanging plants, and semi-antique furniture. Those admitted downstairs saw a different setting.

Stockinged feet (no shoes allowed) sank deep into a tan carpet that covered two inches of foam rubber. An alcove off the living room was an elevated stage, covered with the same rug-and-rubber cushioning. Heavy beams held spotlights with brackets for colored gels. Studding the beams were hooks and pullies for supporting chains, straps and other “restraints.”

Beneath a mirrored ceiling, an enormous playground of a bed filled most of an airy bedroom that opened to a hot tub with a raisable hammock slung over it. Fat, colorful pillows lay everywhere. Closets held “toys,” lotions, and more towels than the Oakland Raiders’ locker room.

The second good thing was Juliet Anderson.  Her professionalism set the tone for the shoot. She was one of porn’s three classy older women (along with Kay Parker and Georgina Spelvin).

After seven years of teaching English in Finland, Juliet became a porn star as Swedish Erotica’s “Aunt Peg” character. With short, swept-back blonde hair, patrician features, and a figure kept trim through compulsive exercise, Juliet was every young male’s fantasy of erotic instructress.

On Joe’s elevated stage that Sunday, she demonstrated her “famous Aunt Peg blow job.” “She doesn’t seduce men,” wrote Gary Giddins in Home Video magazine, “she inhales them.” Juliet’s blur of mouth manipulations and head movements kept Joe, in his porn debut, as hard as men half his age.

With a burnoose hiding his face (“a very carefully anonymous Arab,” wrote an Adam Film World reviewer), Joe also did well with “slave girl” Kay Buckley, a bold-featured masochist with an “A” carved over her solar plexus.

A star of S and M master Jay Magus de Tauroc’s rope bondage demonstrations, Kay performed a belly dance with clamps pulling her nipples, sending Juliet into squeals of squeamishness. Juliet had a phobia about even the thought of breasts treated roughly.

flyers and book cover 008The Perfect Gift, Bound, Lights! Camera! Orgy! and Teenage Playmates were my first videos (1979).

On the second series of videos, I was determined to overcome the technical foul-ups.

Next post: Shooting Peach Fuzz, Chained and The Awakening of Emily: Beyond the Boundaries

Shooting LIGHTS! CAMERA! ORGY! Part 2 Introducing The Actress From Hell

I didn’t blame Megan for quitting. She was sick of the 120-degree heat, the drunken crew ogling her privates on the monitor and–worse–the snide commentary by Ace, my sexually-frustrated assistant.  Denny the video cameraman probed silently with his Sony 1610.  I was glad of that:  We were making an interesting documentary.

But I was being paid to shoot 16-millimeter film loops, not video, and if Megan didn’t sign a model release, all her footage would be wasted.  As I was pleading with Megan, something even more ominous happened:  My client Phil called.  His partner Joey wanted to come to the shoot–which would add menace to chaos.

Joey was a “nutcracker,”  a muscular thug who collected debts for shylocks.  If he saw that I was making my own video of their loop shoot, I might have a kneecap retention problem.  I tried to talk Phil out of sending Joey.

(Passages from SKINFLICKS are in italics.)

         “Why can’t Joey come over?” Phil asked. “He’s never seen
one of these being shot before.”
         I had an idea. “Remember those Lasse Braun films?”
        “You don’t still have that shit, do you?”
        “Right here in my storage locker.”
        “Christ.” When Phil told his partner that the police were still
looking for those films, Joey decided to stay away.

       While I’d been on the phone, Ace had realized he’d messed
up. He’d apologized to Megan and had persuaded her to finish
the loop.

The rest of Megan and April’s girl-girl scene (described in SKINFLICKS) went about as well as expected in 120-degree heat with such “toys” as a Porcu-pecker and a Piss-tola.


On the second day of shooting, the heat made me feel faint.  I went out to get some fresh smog in the courtyard.

       While I marveled at how normal life seemed outside my apartment, Ace, whom I could count on in a pinch, was doing a video interview with a “porn model from hell.”

       On tape they made a bizarre pair: Twirling a two-foot-long, double-headed dildo, Rita sat next to her agent, Kenny, his features hidden by mirrored shades and a shaggy beard. Rita had
jet-black hair falling straight to her waist, large breasts, and an
oval face, prevented from exotic beauty by a hard, glazed look.
She spoke in the languid manner of a veteran hooker.

        “What was the kinkiest scene you ever did?” Ace asked.  Rita turned to Kenny and whispered, “Should I tell him about…you know…?”  Barely audible, lips still, Kenny whispered, “No, no.”

This pair had other secrets, too.  Kenny had been having sex with Rita–a bad practice between agents and their models.  The ladies feel used and become belligerent.

Kenny, shooting the stills, tried to direct her, and Rita–zombified with Quaaludes–went into a snit.

         Kenny raised his Hasselblad. “Expression, Rita.” She remained impassive. “Rita..expression…”
        “I gave it to you, Kenny,” she snapped.
        “I didn’t see it, Babe.”
        “I gave it to you and you missed it.”
         “Oh, come on,” Kenny pleaded. “Let’s do it.”
         “No! Wait. I’ll tell you when.”
          Kenny lowered the camera. Rita shook a long fingernail at him. “No! You keep that camera over your face!”

I wanted to move along. “Rita, let’s have you give John some head.”
“When I’m ready,” she pouted. “I’m pissed off right now.”

        I hated playing rough. Sometimes you have to. “Rita, if you want to get paid, you’ll do what I tell you, when I tell you. Do you understand me?”

        For a long moment, she glared at me. I felt the urge to
explode boiling up inside. Then Rita chose to obey, proving she
could suck and sneer at the same time.

Before we could proceed, the phone rang.  It was my client, Phil.

       “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? 

Trouble ahead.

Next post:  Pete Rose and The Truly Erotic Scene will have to wait. The next episode with Rita is so bizarre that I will lift it directly from the text of SKINFLICKS for Shooting LIGHTS! CAMERA! ORGY! Part 3: Lovely Rita Malice Maid.  Look for it on Friday, January 18, 2013.