are – good old American home movies full of fucking, sucking, golden showers, S/M, and come facials for the apple-cheeked girls Parker recruited from his stock of ginch.
The first time I talked with him on the telephone, he was getting ready to shoot his first feature film, a rip-off of
“Yeah?”
“Nick, this is Parker Coleman. Grinning Bare Productions, you know.”
He sounded like Ralph Williams selling used cars on television. I moved the receiver a few inches from my ear and picked dirt from between my toenails while I listened. I used to meet him a lot at parties, but we’d never spent more than five minutes together. What he wanted was for me to write a script for him. He’d seen stuff I’d done in the underground papers and I guess he figured I was good enough to do the job for him, and poor enough to accept the postage stamps he wanted to pay me with.
He was right, of course. I was two months behind on the rent, and Con Edison had already turned off my electric typewriter, freeing me to spend more time in the air-conditioned comfort of my favorite saloon, a small establishment on Sheridan Square where I was running up a tab as long as my arm.
“I’m not talking peanuts, Nick. This is big time.
“I’ve heard of you,” I allowed. Grudgingly, because tiny golfers were using my brain for a driving range.
“Isn’t that title great?
I put the phone closer to my ear, perking up at the thought of Marilyn Chambers doing her number while I looked on, script in one hand, my rod in the other. I’d never written a porno film before, but even through a hangover, the perquisites were tantalizing. I get horny when I’m hung over, and all I could see was a vision of Marilyn rehearsing song and dance numbers on my stiff prick. I agreed to visit Parker in his loft that afternoon.
Three hours later I was panting up the steep wooden stairs to Parker’s loft. On his metal door in gold lettering were the words:
Parker Coleman’s Grinning Bare Productions
I pushed open the heavy door and walked in, hoping to find Parker in the middle of shooting a scene for a film. I was disappointed. All was quiet. No naked ladies running about with semen on their thighs. I picked my way through a maze of boxes, stacked film cans and movie equipment and saw, at the end of a long hallway plastered with posters for porno films, a man and a woman sitting on a couch watching an old movie on color television.
Up close, Parker looked like a disheveled teddy bear. So this was the cocksman, I thought: he wore a full black beard, a dirty T-shirt featuring Paul Newman’s baby blues studded with rhinestones and a pair of wool pants – it was a hot day in July when I saw him – over which a belly the size of a watermelon loomed. He was a teddy bear whose stuffings were coming out, but he sat on that ratty couch like a goddamned emperor, while the blonde sitting next to him rubbed his bare feet.
He started talking – Parker talked more than any man I’ve ever known, in the same obsessive way other people chain smoke – but I wasn’t listening. I was staring at the blonde, and trying my best not to look like I was staring.
So this was ginch: clear California features you see a lot of in porno films, a tan so deep it looked built in, lush red mouth and sparkling whiter-than-white teeth genetically engineered to fit around the head of a cock, and a body that relegated Raquel Welch to the pin-ups-of-the-past department. It was all big and firm and fresh and caramel and it made me want to shake my fist at the destiny that hadn’t dropped one just like it on my doorstep. I nodded at her in the direction of the nipples I saw poking through the thin material of her halter top, and she smiled back so quickly I almost missed the glory of it, the corners of her mouth turned up like wings.
The only thing that bothered me about the blonde were her eyes. There was no one home behind her eyelids, which drooped like paper blinds over the windows of an empty furnished room.
Parker was talking, but I interrupted him. Much as I needed the small fee he was offering me, I had to find out about her.
“Can she talk?”
“I don’t encourage it, Nick. Let a woman talk, and pretty soon you’re in trouble. She sure can move her lips, though. I’m trying to teach her how to suck cock and sing ‘Yankee Doodle’ at the same time, but she’s a slow learner. College dropout. About the film, do you think you could get right on it? I gotta have something on paper, man. This film is going to be a biggie. I’ve got backers begging me to take their money.”
Parker must have noticed that he wasn’t getting my undivided attention, because all of a sudden he started talking about the blonde, with the possessive pride of a homeowner talking about a new lawnmower.
“Bliss is going to be in the film, you know, Nick. But the real star – now there’s prime ginch, nothing cut-rate. A ringer for Farrah Fawcett-Majors. Great idea, huh? Every guy in the country crazy about that dizzy ginch, and we’re going to cash in on it.”
I looked at Bliss. She was off in a world of her own, a dreamy look in her eyes that I couldn’t identify. Watching her was like having a wet dream while awake. If she was high on something, I hoped it was the smell of semen. She reminded me of a robot, one of those rubber sex dolls you buy for $19.95 from an ad in a men’s magazine and blow up like a balloon. Bliss was an appropriate name for her: she was blissed-out.
Like most American men of my age and background (32, midwest, Berkeley, divorced, blah, blah, blah), I’d paid lip-service all my life to the idea of female equality simply because I wanted to fuck, and the ladies available for fucking were feminists, at least in the living room. But I was weary of having to deal with women as if they had brains; I was ready for some unradical, unpretentious sex doll who would perform whenever and however I wanted. I was ready for ginch, in other words.
Or was I? I think the truth is that I was torn like any Catholic schoolboy between the brainlessly pornographic vision of ginch before me and a life-time’s indoctrination – by women, of course, from my mother to my unlamented ex-wife – in the notion that women have souls as well as cunts, feelings as well as nice tits.
Fortunately for me, Parker’s mother back in Kansas had not raised any such dummies. When he wanted something, he was absolutely tuned in on the price he would have to pay. Seeing that I was so hypnotized by Bliss that no business was going to get done until my attention was distracted, he put his hand on her shoulder and gave her a gentle push in my direction. It was as if he’d pushed a button located somewhere between her shoulder blades.
Bliss drifted toward me like Linda Lovelace stepping from the screen, red tongue moistening her wet lips. Her hand went straight to my crotch and lightly brushed the painful erection that beat like a trapped Gooney bird behind my zipper. I reached out a tentative hand to stroke her golden hair, looking up briefly to see Parker smiling like a man who’s just made a deal that’s not going to cost him anything.
Bliss fell gently to her knees and tugged my tool from a pair of blue French briefs I was particularly proud of, stared until she was almost cross-eyed at my humble staff, and darted out her tongue to lick the tip. Both of her hands encircled the shaft as she introduced the throbbing head into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the length as if she were eating a double-dip Baskin-Robbins cone.
“Jesus Christ!” I shuddered, bent double over the heated pleasure at my groin. I couldn’t help myself. I had not exchanged one word with Bliss, and in one or two minutes I was going to erupt like a geyser into her throat. I saw Parker smiling impatiently from the couch, as if to say,
Her mouth came off my cock with a sweet
