Body Talk ‘98 (ROUND 1)
scent of the day: Nose Rest Day
*Let's workshop this piece about the owner and producer of a porn studio as he conducts a cameraman job interview that amounts to a sustained performance of both power and, more quietly, vulnerability.
Body Talk ’98
1
Whoa whoa—fuckin whoa, huh? Enough with the pitch shit. Take it down a few notches. Alright? Now bring it in. Listen. You gonna get a little closer or you gonna make me look like an idiot? When in Rome—get my my drift? There you go. I like to feel the warmth, a little fuckin personal connection. How bout you?
Okay. So you’re a serious guy. You got ideas. And I’m listenin and listenin to the shit. But let me tell you this. You’re ain’t gonna come in dictatin, first of all. That’s for damn sure. The tie don’t mean shit. I know my psychology too. Let’s just say they call me “Tom,” “Tom Bombadil.” Look it up.
Cameraman—that’s the job. Second, what the ad say? I’ll tell ya cuz I wrote the bitch. Cameraman—I’m askin for a cameraman, not a fuckin da Vinci. I don’t mean to burst your bubble, cuz you come in here all eager and excitable. But this fuckin groundbreaking idea—it ain’t gonna fly. This ain’t no gonzo deal. Cameraman participation—let’s just say we did it once. I tried to be open. Never the fuck again, okay? You guys from school—you’re too in the head. I mean it’s a problem.
Here. Look at it. This’s what I’m talkin about. Flop of the century. Look at the title. How you pronounce that, the first word?—“Fratmatose,” Fratmatose Freshman. Strike one. Who wants to feel dumb pickin out a movie? This a fuckin porn or a poem? Too much head and you start losin touch. That’s my point. Put yourself in someone else’s position for once. The guy goes behind the curtain, okay? He already feels embarrassed enough. And now he’s gotta feel dumb?—
Nah, nothin fuckin groundbreakin: two lacrosse studs with handhelds, makin the rounds—this floor, that floor, like their fuckin Bruce Lee. Here take the bitch. Just put it right in the briefcase. Take it home. You’ll see. You seem like a homework guy. Give me 500 words on what went wrong. Call me traditional, okay—but I’m personally pissed if all I get is an occasional night-vision shot of wobbly green pussy. Let’s just say that.—
Contradictory son of a bitch, huh? Yeah, maybe this shit can be done good. You one of those exception guys. Whatabout this whatabout that. Home-video style’s good stuff, don’t get me wrong. Webcams—all that shit. That just ain’t our thing.—
Hey, take it back a trite. What I say? Let sleepin dogs lie. That’s what they say right? You’ll get the chance to show us whatchya got down the line. If you’re good like you say, you never know the direction we’ll go. How’s that? I’m a fair guy. But let me tell you one thing. I’m not gonna bend over for everybody, though. For now, just get the shot. No shakin shit up. No interaction with the cast. Capeesh?
And I get an easy nod. Pfft. This fuckin guy. No problem, huh? Listen mahfuckah. It’s harder than you think. You give off signals. Whudda-they call it?—Yeah, who else I’m askin? No fuckin clue, huh. They call “Body language?” It’s all fuckin’ body language. Sheeit. Look-a-ya shoulders, the slope. Just by that I can tell you wanna fuck me. Yeah you, Grins. You wouldn’t even have the common courtesy to give me the old reach-around, wouldya?—No, I really wanna know. But here go, lookin around like he on candid camera. How you think that makes me feel? Like I’m a joke.—
Hey Uptight-Outta-Sight, loosen the fuck up. I’m gonna fuck witchya. Got it? Better get it. And in case you can’t get a hint, you got the job. So please, give the fuckin’ sports coat a break. That fuckin thing, all that fuckin portfolio bullshit—you have everyone uneasy, like I owe you explanation. Just think how that makes me look.—
But it’s just me and fuckin you? Corrective son of a bitch, huh? One thing, and learn it quick: pick your fuckin battles—especially with me. Now let me show you around a little bit.
First we got the epicenter. Excuse the mess. All scripts, all headshots—all of it passes through here. Look at that poster over there: The Sizzle in Little Italy. Classic. Shot the whole thing in a basement off Arthur Ave in ‘86. Made a mint on VHS. You seen that? What about Naughty in North Jersey? But yeah, this is where I stay. Sheeit. I’ll sleep in the bitch if I have to. No fuckin knocks by the way. I like to joke around. But that’s a hard line. No one knocks on the office of Vinny Valentine. You need somethin, line seven. The war gave me two things: a thirst and a nervous condition. Call. Don’t knock. Got it?
Talk about nervous condition, you lookin like the IRS got me nervouser than shit. Pfft. Every time I look over its like an audit. I know I need a drink. I’d say you do too. Or let me guess, you’re too good to take a little sip of somethin. I mean, you got the job. Isn’t this a happy goddamn day.—Nah, actually I insist. I’m not gonna feel ashamed in my own office. I’ll tell you that.—
Ease back on the goddamn questions, Frank.—
See what the fuck I mean? Right there. Corrective mahfuckah.Maybe I call everyone “Frank.” But you so quick—quick, quick.—-
No offense, but Jesus Christ. I mean, you’re overthinkin it. Being here’s like a fuckin sport, like abasketball. You can’t be in your head like that. Got it? And if you must know, it’s Fuck These Feet 3. Shootin’ starts next week. For now—. Hey! You got that attention deficit? For now Frank—. You giddy giggly fuck, huh? Put all the shit down.—Yeah, right there. You got that malfunction? Right here. Here.
Now remember you tried to make me feel dumb, like I’m in a fantasy.—What do I mean? Earth to Frank, huh? Body language.—Oh yeah, now he gets it. Come watch this with me real quick. That way you’ll really get it.
I’m gonna teach you a little somethin about body-language. First lesson, take notes. The body can talk without sayin a word—. Whoa whoa—fuckin whoa! Let me tell you this. Don’t treat me like a doughnut. Don’t try to glaze me. Busy, huh? How the fuck’s this guy so busy he can’t spare a few fuckin minutes? How’s it go? ♫Use me, abuse me, I’m not your average groupie.♫ You serious about the job or what?
What? Your girlfriend love you so much she can’t wait? What’s the matter? Car ain’t got no AC? Silent motherfucker. Reticent. All I get is grins. You gonna be a traffic cone all your life?—I’m not just your boss. I’m you mentor. I train my guys. And here he goes, checkin the fuckin beeper again. The props don’t impress me. Have some respect. That’s how I look at it.—
Well, if she’s got a fever here’s what you do. All cozy in bed tonight watching Columbo—check this. You gotta feel her forehead. Take your hand away real quick and feel yours, like it’s urgent. Run to the bathroom, like something’s the matter—gotta have that concerned look. So yeah, go in there and grab the thermometer. And what I want you to do is stick the readout screen into your ass cheeks—the readout. Then I want you to dance back into the room. Hear me out. I want you to come back into the room, swinging your cock side to side. Get wild with it. Perch your balls on dressers and door knobs—all that shit: magic 101. Dance, okay? Just never show your back. Dance, all out—free as you can. I’m talkin free. This way, the last thing from her mind is that you’re holdin somethin up there—redirection. Bitch’ll say something like “What’s going on? Why’d you run off like that? What’s all this about?” At this point stop any hummin or singin. Stop the dancin and say, “For the life of me I can’t remember.” Stare at the bitch awhile. You gotta do that. Like your trying to get the answer. Then you say—all matter of fact—“Oh yeah. I wanna check your temp, babe. It’s just I was checking mine first.—Op. There’s the beep.” That’s when you pull it out. But you gotta do it like the mouth end was up your ass. Sleight of hand, catch my drift? Quick. Bring it right up to her mouth, touchin’. Go, “Open up, babe.” You gotta act like her reaction is about you not wiping it down first. Say, “Married five fucking years—five years. Bitch can’t even share a thermometer. Oh, don’t tell me.—It ain’t you it’s me?”
2
This is what you call “the editing room,” Frank.—Hold this, will ya? I’m no gimp or anything. I use it to lift skirts. It makes me look dignified. Psst. Check this. It’s got that Rutger Hauer thing. What’s the fuckin’—? Come on. Give me a sec. Blind Fury. There it is. Anyway, don’t go yappin the lips about my secrets.—
Look-a-the monitor right over here. This one. Now what’s the scene? I’d saayyyy 22. Look-a-that: Johnny fuckin’ Mnemonic. Okay. There’s about to be a transition. Yep. Okay. Look-a-this. Soft teen lyin back on a tight stud. Pool table. (Fuckin poetry, pure poetry if you ask me Frank. That’s where the poetry’s gotta be: in the scene, not in a fuckin pun.) But this, this ain’t that makin’-love shit.—Look-a-the beast. Dark pythons locked around those pale chicken legs, pullin em back—it’s the contrast, like perfume. Look-a-that: level to her sides like the bitch is in labor. (What? Ain’t gotta kid?)
That ain’t even what I gotta show ya. Gettin’ me all distracted, grinnin’ motherfucker. Serious. You always this fuckin’ giggly? Stop creamin’ your jeans and pay attention. Op, here goes speedy, stuffing that asshole fast and plenty. Balls steady clit-clappin—Mista metronome. But let’s be fuckin serious a sec. That’s—that’s a good shot, my friend. Perfect angle. Perfect distance. Pussy right there in the middle. Fuckin sea mussel. See? Right there. Tits, pretty face in the background—not too blurry. The cameraman here was good friend—kidney failure. That’s big shoes. I get emotional about it.
Anyway—yes, here we are. Okay so he pulls out—veiny son of a bitch, huh? Pulls those legs down harder—look-a-that, Frank. Thought there was no more spread, huh?! (You’re a jumpy motherfucker, Frank. How you gonna work the camera you jumpy? I massage my guys. I goose my guys. Get used to it.) Notice how she knows what to do here: usin her hands to fight the natural pucker. First piece of advice: be quicker than the pucker.—Yeah, she’s good. She ain’t no pro yet, though. She ain’t paid her dues. She ain’t got ass lips. (This is the same actress from the frat sequence. Reall class act. You’ll work with her in Fuck These Feet.)
Aight, freeze frame. See that. Matter a fact, let me just—right there. See? Now let me ask you this, Mr. fuckin’ Devry. Look right there. Why is it when she spreads—. No, answer me this. Why when she spreads does she look so intently at the camera? See her? Where’s that lip smackin now huh? This ain’t in no textbook. I’ll give you a minute.
Why? That’s the big question. You aint have any fuckin clue, do ya? Degree and all. I’ll tell you one thing, little hint. It isn’t to make the viewer think she’s lookin at him and only him like the fuckin Mona Lisa. Look at the worry there—the unsureness. For all she knows, when jackhammer here pulled out she shit all over the place! What? You’re like a fuckin riddle—that face of yours, a fuckin riddle. What? What’s the skepticism? That’s what it felt like. Never cucumber your ass as a kid? Once or twice? Nothin? Bet you a fuckin nunchakus guy, huh?
Anyway, the point’s this. She’s lookin at the cameraman. That’s you. She’s looking for answers. She can feel your behavior. Body language. Catchin on? She’s watchin the camera man. like a fuckin gazelle. Experienced cameramen for studios like ours, however—and this the next lesson. A pro—. I want you to be a pro. A pro never lets on. Be that cameraman is what I’m tryin’a tell ya. Straight-faced—like nuttin’s up. Capeesh? She’ll find out after the shot.—
You hear this fucking guy? Didn’t she clear out in prep—.You tryin to contradict me, Frank? Are you some sort of payback? What did I do so wrong in my life that I need this? So what? You wanna do this like I’m in debate class? Okay. Maybe I took her out for a nice lobster dinner, all that butter. And maybe the next day I dropped the anal scene on her. My people spoon that tomalley, okay? Nothin’s gonna stop that shit, Jack. You ever think of that?—
Well you know what they say about those who assume, don’t ya? They make an ass out of u and me, buddy. But even if she was all prepped up Frank, my point still stands you fuckin wise guy.—
No. No need to apologize. I’m a good judge of these things and I don’t sense that you’re trying to offend me. You’re an innocent, Frank—a rarity in this business. You tell it like it is just for the sake of telling it like it is. You’ll keep me honest without me feeling the need to bust your fuckin kneecaps, or worse: Rutger Hauer, right? So good. You got the job. Now get the fuck out of here.—
No. Don’t worry. I’ll be in touch.—
Busy at the mouth now, huh? Can’t shut the bitch up. How’s a young guy like you know that’s Mr. Chamberlain? Wilt’s always watched over me and my people. He’s a human oyster, if you catch my drift. Same shot right on my nightstand.—
Drop the worried look about the cough. Got it? It’s good to cough. Gets things moving. The problem comes when you let the shit settle. Okay time vacuum. Go do like Wilt. Go show Mary Mary quite contrary down there a good time while you have it. Or should I say “Wong”? You motherfuckers with the elbow patches—you love you some Asian cuisine.—Hey! She ever wanna shit some live eels for us you bring her along. We got a deal? See, I aint so tuck in my ways. I’m open.—
Oh, oh. So check this. One more thing. And after this I’ll let you go. This is what you do. Tear out of bed, crack of dawn. Start rippin through the dresser drawers—all sorts of commotion, huffin and puffin. Storm into the other room and then storm back. Dump all the drawers out and look under the bed, sighin but to yourself—like it’s somethin private. ‘Oh my fuckin God. Oh my fuckin God.’ You gotta look around each way, anxious. Keep going, searchin, until Chinese Connection asks why you’re tearing the fuckin place apart. And that’s when you go: “I think I lost my feelings for ya.”
