Aficionados of porn will understand that there needs to be a certain amount of cheesy preamble before we get to the meat, so to speak, of this piece, but bear with me: it's worth it.
Now, I don't know about you, but I don't watch television any more. I can't be bothered. I can either youtube it or get the boxset. I refuse to give Rupert Murdoch more do$h to expand his evil empire and if the BBC can't run a charity appeal because it threatens their perceived impartiality then I'd rather opt out completely. So I've got a Freeview set top box, but I never watch anything on it.
Besides, there's too much other stuff to do. For example, at the moment I'm trying to identify the person, or persons, leaving expletive strewn, insulting voicemail messages on my mobile 'phone. And they've started getting really creative with their descriptions of the violence to which they'll subject me. I initially thought it was a wrong number, y'know some chavs making a random prank call, but it's been going on a while and in the most recent calls they've started addressing me by name: "Baaa-sil, Baaaaaaaa-sil..." they coo in malevolently musical sing-song voices as they enunciate vivid descriptions of horrific brutality. I'm sifting through my mental contact list and trying to work out who could possibly be doing this. See? Much more fun than Corrie or East-flamin'-enders. Probably.
2009 was the year of The Wire finally hitting the mainstream in the UK and, prompted by constant hectoring (in print) from the brilliant Charlie Brooker, I broke my strict 'No TV' embargo and attempted to watch it 'live' on BBC2 which screened the series in its entirety. I managed the first 4 episodes before the midnight timeslot drove me to a "fuck this shit!" rant when, bleary-eyed, fragile and sleep-deprived on the Friday morning I inadvertently deleted a file at work and had to start all over again.
A few short weeks later, without explanation, my left foot swelled up to the size of a small Nissan hatchback. I bought the DVD boxset of The Wire, like I should have done in the first damned place, and watched it at my leisure over fifteen days as I languished in excruciating agony and isolation on my sofa. Big Charlie was right. TV was invented for works like this.
And for sex which looks like sex, but plainly has nothing whatsoever to do with sex.
Let me explain.
When you're ill your body clock sets itself to a timezone somewhere in Central America. You end up losing great swathes of time to pain and delirium. I'd be waking up and going downstairs at 1 in the morning to start my day. Retrieving the disc from its impressive labyrinthine packaging and turning on the TV, I'm confronted with a vastly different Freeview TV landscape. It's a bleak and desolate vista of infomercials, unsuccessful Star Trek spin-offs, Friends re-runs and what 4 Music describes as 'Party Bangers': eloquently reminding me what I'm not missing.
Some of the more interesting channels have either finished broadcasting or are scrambled. Channel 84 is CNN; Channel 85 is Russia Today; Channel 88 is Teachers TV; representing the former, whilst Channel 93 is reserved for Television X which is the latter and intermittently offers a 5 minute free trailer preview, which you have to be pretty on the ball to catch. Being a drummer of some renown, my timing is pretty fucking awesome, but for some time now I've chosen not to tune into their sensual delights. However, when I last did so there was a riotous explosion of silicone, a veritable cacophony of silk gussets and dirty blonde hair with impossibly dark roots. Of course this is British TV so, despite being unquestionably post-watershed, the programme makers are unable to suggest that anything remotely pertaining to consensual sex is taking place. Nevertheless it was a mildly diverting kaleidoscope of musical colours cascading from the screen. Until I recognised a bloke with whom I used to work in accounts fake-banging the living daylights out of one of the models. From behind, no less. And it turned out he wasn't a mere dick for hire, but had his own show: Roger Cock: Northern Exposer.
I know what you think I was thinking: "You lucky, lucky bastard." But no. My gobsmacktitude was so far off the scale I would have required a sturdy stepladder and a pair of high-powered military binoculars just to make it out as a dot on the horizon. Neil?!? A porn star?!? It couldn't possibly be true. But it was. A little less hair, a little thicker around the middle and a little less fresh-faced. There he was: offering a resigned, smug shrug to the camera as a not unattractive, pneumatically enhanced brunette reached for his crotch with what I surmised to be a very experienced and capable tongue.
Now, you have to understand the esteem in which Neil was held by his colleagues at work. In short: he wasn't. The women had decreed that he was singularly unattractive, a bit creepy and very, very weird: so you didn't want to be seen hanging around with him because;
A. Women are rarely wrong in these matters and
B. What if it was contagious?
Many a snigger was emitted behind his back during the course of the working day, usually prompted by his distinctly 'before' skinny physique, his decidedly geeky steel-rimmed spectacles and his penchant for Sean Connery impressions. In short he manfully represented the archetypal nerd who had trouble wooing the opposite sex. He'd regale me with stories of dates gone horribly wrong and I'd usually be thinking: "Poor girl." Generally speaking he wasn't quite as unpopular as Gareth out of The Office, but you get the picture.
So, there I am watching him on screen and I must confess to finding it all more than a little disorienting, terra firma visibly shifting. If Neil's a porn star then, seriously, which way is up? By that yardstick I should be Pope. It hit me hard, I don't mind confessing and I resolved to get in touch with him just to have him explain how he made the tricky transition from Financial Administrator to Porn Star.
We met up for a drink. He turned up in a huge black BMW and, over a grapefruit and lemonade, we shot the breeze about what we'd been up to and when we'd last heard from ex-colleagues before heading back to his gaff to appraise his new career path. He firstly showed me an audition he'd just shot of a brunette named Tracey dressed in vivid red lingerie. Her screen test was the textbook 5 step porn presentation, which was; 1. Getting on all fours on a black leather-look sofa. 2. Aiming her bottom at the camera. 3. Arching her back. 4. Slowly easing the lace waspie upwards to reveal an intricate tribal tattoo. 5. hooking her thumb into the material of her g-string and snapping it back with a loud percussive Thwack! between her arse cheeks. Simple as. I shifted a little uneasily in my seat when I realised that I was sitting upon the same sofa upon which she was grinding her hips.
He then put on a couple of his shows which had aired on Television X and, frankly, they embarrassed us both. I mean, I haven't seen this bloke in 5 or 6 years and all of a sudden his bucking, hairy arse is taking up the whole of the television screen and then he's waggling his todger at the camera lens. It's not like I could say: "Nice sack, Neil!". Instead we got through it as best we could: rather uneasily at first, but loosening up with each passing frame, genuinely laughing at the decidedly dodgy dialogue, Neil eventually providing an elucidating running commentary: "This scene in the chip shop is my absolute fave... I was a bit tender there, because I'd only just shaved... The girl on the bottom in that lesbian sixty-nine was a bit reluctant..."
What I want to know is how do you go from pen-pushing in Accounts to Porn Star?
It was pretty natural really. I just glided into it. I'd always been into photography and got into shooting nude models, which evolved into videoing nude models, which progressed to me fucking nude models in front of a video camera on a tripod. Looking back though I was very naive: I was doing hardcore stuff with facial cumshots, full penetration and the works, tried to sell it and, of course, they can't show that in this country. My work wasn't being commissioned and I was feeling sorry for myself when a photographer friend helped me re-cut it for the soft-porn Brit TV market and I haven't looked back since.
Regarding the pen-pushing I'm still doing that. There's no way I'd be able to sustain a living on the type of money I make from doing porn, so essentially I just do it in my spare time.
So the porn's just a part-time job? You're aware that the ordinary bloke, watching with one hand a mere blur, would imagine you to be doing this full-time.
Well, the way it works is you're asked to make a trial run of four episodes and on the basis of its success they commission a series of twelve more programmes. For the trial run of four you'll only make £200 profit, which is £50 per episode and you can imagine the time and effort: hiring models, locations, shooting, editing and whatnot. The real payback is if you get a twelve run, because I can make about £10,000 profit on one of those and that's what bought me my Beamer.
Most fellas are thinking "You jammy get!", but do the people around you - your family and so on - accept what you do?
Well, my parents don't approve and my other half would rather not know about specific details, which is why I'm whispering. It makes it easier for her to deal with if she's ignorant of exactly what I do. It's difficult really... The male neighbours around here love it. They see the procession of women snaking in and out of my house for auditions and they love it! They're always telling me how they wish they were doing what I do and how lucky I am. Managers at work, though, are a little more wary. They warn all the female members of staff to watch themselves around me.
What?!?
Yeah, apparently the managers make a point of instructing all the women to be very careful when they talk to me... In case I lead them astray, I suppose...
Riiiight... Isn't that a bit, like, weird, that you'd have to work in an environment where you know that's how people feel about you?
I dunno. I don't really care and I can't. I can't let them affect me or what I want to do. It's their problem at the end of the day. That's just how they choose to deal with it.
Ok... How do you go about choosing models for your programmes?
Oh, here look.
(He retrieves a brief case from behind the sofa and riffles through it, emerging with two ring-bound folders).
Model agencies, Basil! They're ace! I just contact them and get them to send through their client portfolio. I look through and if if I fancy one of the girls, I'll hire them. Fancy a butcher's...? (so I did, with Neil offering a Ben 10-trading card-style critique over my shoulder: "Had her... Done her... Did her from behind and accidentally went up the wrong hole... She ejaculates when she orgasms..."
Sorry to get all Derek Acorah, but I'm getting the vibe that your Non-Sex Sex isn't simulated.
All the stuff on Television X is, but mine isn't. I'd rather pay extra for the models who'll actually do it rather than just act it. I'll film the full performance and edit out anything that's too hard later on. That way people can look at us fucking on screen and just instinctively know that we're really doing it and get value from it. What I usually do is work out with the cameraman the path the camera will take during a scene and just make sure I've got a hand or a leg blocking the view of what's really going on. And for the overseas markets we'll do some shots where I move my hand out of the way.
If it isn't simulated, aren't there health considerations?
Oh yeah, definitely! All the models have to turn up on set with a recent verified negative AIDS test result or they don't work with me. I have to get tested regularly and I actually had a scare not that long ago.
You what?
Um, well. I had a positive result, but the 'B' sample was fine. It was just a glitch. It was very worrying for a while there... And then one of the models claimed she was pregnant by me. I counted the days back, watched the scene and I'd actually cum in her mouth, so it couldn't have been mine. She was just trying to trap me. It's all in the game though, right?
What about overseas markets? Any movement there?
Nah, not really. There's no way I can do anal in my programmes so my shows won't sell overseas. At one point I was talking to John T Bone (the man behind The World's Biggest Gang Bang featuring Annabel Chong taking on 251 dicks and its imaginatively title follow-up The World's Biggest Gang Bang 2 featuring Jasmine St Clair who sparred with 300 - ed), who was based over in America, about possibly shooting a movie over there, but the difference in costs made it impossible. Over in America models will do full sex for about $100 dollars a pop. Over here it costs £350 -500 at least. His proposed figures didn't stack up so I said 'forget it'. Shortly afterwards he got arrested in Thailand for trying to make adult movies. They don't allow that kind of thing there. Sex tourism's fine, but no porn. Strange.
What about locations? Where do you film this stuff?
Usually we'll hire a country house and hope the neighbours or the owners don't find out. We've had to cut short a number of shoots because of complaints. One shoot we did a woman was walking her dog, saw absolutely everything through a chink in the curtains and threatened to call the police. Luckily she didn't, but when I bumped into her the next morning she said she was more peeved that she hadn't been asked to join in
Real breasts or implants?
Oh, it's got to be real. Every time. An implanted breast just feels like a flexed bicep. It isn't sexy at all.
Your lubrication of choice?
KY Jelly.
So is there a goal here or are you just having a ball?
Hey, you've got to have a plan. This is a route to the mainstream for me. Once I make enough money I'm going to set up a production company which will allow me to make the films I want to make. I'd still have the Porno imprint, obviously, but I'd also make mainstream films. I've always wanted to make a film that was the British equivalent of Die Hard.
And that was it. It was great catching up with him. He hadn't changed at all. We didn't keep in touch after we chatted, which was a shame really. The strange thing was that when I got home and listened through the recordings of our conversation his voice was almost inaudible - a halting soto voce - because he didn't want his girlfriend to hear how much he loved having sex with other women. His house, a nice semi-d in Stretford, was groaning under the weight of discs and fotos featuring him shagging all manner of women in all manner of positions. There were thousands of pounds worth of camera and editing equipment scattered casually about the place and yet he couldn't talk about any of it in tones louder than a whisper. When I asked who he really, really wanted to work with in the future he said: "That Tracey. There was definitely a spark between us. She's gonna get it. Hard!" You can't argue with that. After all, it's not like he's trying to be Kubrick or Kurosawa. I don't know if Neil's still in the porn business and I'll never watch Televison X again to find out. Seeing him in that context was just way too odd for me. And I told him so... I also turned down his lucrative offer of my own series and, on reflection, that might have been a mistake because y'know what? Maybe he's the one leaving the messages...
No comments:
Post a Comment