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White Trash with Money (1)
My instructions came in a sealed, light grey envelope which had been attached to my front door by the simple expedient of driving several large packing-crate staples through it. I had to cut the envelope into five pieces in order to remove it; piecing the resulting jig-saw into the two typewritten sheets wasn't a problem. It had the air of another one of her complex tax-avoidance schemes. Every so often, she'd accrue several hundred thousand dollars from what she referred to as `the import-export trade' (which I suspected - but couldn't prove - had something to do with importing bags of white powder); she'd sink it all into art shows, sports events and, as in this case, making one-off porn films. With the latter, she sometimes deigned to make me the `creative consultant' (read: accessory). She'd helpfully provided a vague idea as to what she wanted out of this; I had to wonder if it was for her, or one of her import-export clients. As usual, I took the basic idea and embellished it, giving it my own spin. The sting in the tail of this one was that it had to be done by four-thirty in the afternoon, tomorrow. It could be done, but it was going to be a bit hairy. I made some calls to friends who could act as competent technical assistants and arranged to meet them at the video lab. I got there about half an hour early, made some notes, checked what we had in the way of scenery. The others arrived while I was testing the high-res video equipment; Maxine - who was a kind of shaven-headed Magda Szubanski on speed, Buttons (who knew how to work the video editor better than anyone I knew) -a six-foot tall stick-insect who dressed like a down-and-out mortician and was as gay as a tree full of parrots, and Morgan, who usually lived out in the country and therefore needed as much entertainment as he could get. "Much like the last one - single," I said, `but male, and with no apparent physical contact. I've got some ideas about how we can do that; I thought we could call an escort agency and offer the guy a large sum of money." They looked over my notes, nodding occasionally when they comprehended the more obscure parts of the mutant flow-charts I used for projects like this. "We can do the scenery, we've got the costume; the only bits we're missing are the actor, the sound-track and the pulse-device. I'll take care of the latter." Maxine got on the phone to a male escort agency that Buttons recommended: "Hi. I, uh, would like to arrange for the services of a young man for the evening... requirements?" she glanced at us; Buttons held his hands about a foot apart. "The best-hung guy you've got... yeah, that'll be perfect." While she sorted out account details, I thought about the sound-track, then called Libby. "Seeing as how you're the expert... can you tell me if the Sisters of Mercy ever did an instrumental remix of Doctor Jeep? Do you happen to have it? A German bootleg CD... cool. About how long does it go for? Perfect! Yeah, this is an emergency - would it be okay if I dropped around in about... well, yes, we could do that, too. I'll send a taxi." I hung up. "She'll bring the sound-track here," I explained to the others. I grabbed a handful of bills from the petty cash bucket and got a taxi to a Certain Shop in Spencer street that specialised in Rude Things. I found the latest model Pulsator™ on a display rack next to some brutal-looking handcuffs, a cattle-prod and some pieces of twisted silver which might just have been nipple-rings. It was about the size of a basic-model Walkman, with disk- and probe-electrodes, designed to apply a variable, pulsing current to the male dangly parts (which would, hopefully, not remain dangly). I was sure we could rig it so that the camera wouldn't see the electrodes; just in case our friend from the agency had any trouble in getting and/or maintaining an erection, I got a few bottles of amyl. I picked up Libby; on the way back to the video lab, we chatted about the video, went over the timing of the set-up shots. When we got there, the escort had arrived; Joseph, a well-muscled young man with short blonde hair, jeans and t-shirt; he had the look of someone who might have had a bit-part in one of channel Ten's failed teen soap-operas. Maxine had explained what was going on, and he heartily approved, even without the added incentive of the contents of the petty cash bucket (it seems he was pursuing a career in acting). We set up the equipment and lighting on the second floor sound-stage while he tried on the Star Wars Imperial Stormtrooper outfit. I'd decided that he'd be dressed that way, at least for the start of the video; I'm not entirely sure why. The sound-stage had been last used for some awful soap-opera; it was done up as the board-room and outer offices of a high-powered corporate firm. After we ripped out the furniture, it looked almost exactly like a corridor from the Death Star. We set up for a test shot of Joseph, in full costume, walking down the corridor and through a pair of double-doors (which Morgan and I operated). The test shot came out so well that we used it; Joseph's swaggering stride was perfectly in time with the music. After taping a brief shot of Joseph sitting down in something that resembled a dentist's chair, we had him strip off the costume and shave off his pubic hair for the third scene (Buttons offered to do this, but Joseph politely declined). We removed part of the Stormtrooper outfit, had him lie back on the chair and aimed the camera so that it had a good view of his crotch (Maxine, after consulting with Libby, drew the camera back slightly so that we'd be able to tape the come-shot without having to reposition everything). Joseph had carefully inserted one of the Pulsator's probes into his behind; with the other electrode taped between the base of his penis and his scrotum, he could run the current through his prostate, which (he assured us) would do the trick. He didn't refuse a sniff of amyl, though, and -after a suggestion from Buttons - he applied some vaseline along the underside of his impressive (even when flaccid) endowment; this carried the current further, providing more stimulus. We oriented the camera so that no wires were visible; checked the light levels once more, then started taping. Slowly, Joseph applied a trickle of current; his penis slowly rose up from between the white plastic of the costume's thigh-pieces, the foreskin drawing back from the head. I consulted my notes. the initial set-up shots took up just under thirty seconds; the song went for just over four minutes (but we could stretch that with the editing gear); allowing for about twenty seconds of come-shots and the bare minimum of credits that these productions deserved, Joseph had around two and a half to three minutes to get there. A consummate professional, he was right on time; after two minutes and forty-six seconds of watching his erection grow harder, the veins standing out in sharp relief under the lights, it started to jerk up towards his belly. On the high-resolution monitor, you could see the fluid pulsing up the underside of his penis, spurting out in perfect arcs to land on his belly, somewhere out of shot. It was about two in the morning by the time Buttons, Maxine and I finished editing; it looked very professional (we considered sending Andrew Eldritch a copy, in case he wanted to use it for a music video). I'd used one of the office macintoshes to do some titles; we decided to accredit this one to White Trash With Money (last time, I'd used the name AnarchArtists, and when she saw it, Siaoubo had threatened to cut all of my fingers off). After making copies for everyone involved (and one for a back-up, which went into the video lab safe), we called it an evening.
The next day, twenty past four in the afternoon, I was waiting in the park, the tape in my brief-case. I heard someone running up the gravel path, out of breath; it was her. "What are you staring at?" she snapped. I took off my sunglasses, rubbed my eyes. "I don't mean to be rude... but, you appear to be, uh, wearing a business suit." She gave me a mirthless grin. "Yeah, well. I'm in disguise. Hand it over." I opened the case, handed her the tape. She regarded it. "I hope I won't have to threaten your fingers over this one." I shook my head. "I think you'll be pleasantly surprised."
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