Blame it on Muntz Electronics. That was where I stared in amazement at my image, recorded by a Panasonic consumer camera. It showed the yellow-beige flecks in my not-quite-blue eyes and the beginnings of grey in my brown hair. It captured the ruddiness of Scandinavian skin exposed to southern California sun. The quality was even better than the film transfers I’d been supervising. I realized that with cheap video gear I could shoot a hardcore feature for under a thousand dollars.
I didn’t plan to, though. I was a good soldier now, following orders. I had my refuge, my raise and my red RX-7, one of the first in Los Angeles. But when I got the chance to make my very own full- length X-rated movie for less than $250, I couldn’t resist.
The opportunity came from Phil the bookkeeper. His real job at VCX had been to watchdog a loan to S and L. That was why he’d been the only one with a private office before the VCX days, and why he’d constantly harangued Marv and Tony over money. Now that the partners were almost ready to pay off their loan, Phil’s desk was at the back of the warehouse. He was the only original employee who hadn’t received at least a token raise. “I got a feeling I ain’t long for this place,” he said.
Phil planned to start his own porn company, and he wanted me to shoot its first product, a loop series. I stalled on giving him an answer, fearing my bosses’ wrath over discovering me shooting for a potential competitor—especially one who might be leaving their company under sour circumstances. Then I thought of that day I was surprised by the quality of that consumer video camera at Muntz and I got a wild idea. If it worked, I’d have my very own video feature movie—shot with Phil’s money.
I told Tony I felt I was getting rusty as a shooter and was thinking of doing a couple of loops. We now had enough people working in dubbing and labeling to get my hours down to about 50 a week; my weekends were free for shooting. Once again, Tony said, “To be a good shooter, you’ve got to shoot, Davey”—an “OK” I could quote if I had to.
I told Phil I couldn’t appear to be shooting for him directly; I’d have to “freelance” the loops. Then he could “buy” them from me. If Marv and Tony later queried me about the loops, I could shrug and say I’d sold them for a quick buck; I had no control over who they ended up with. Phil agreed to these machinations.
He took me to meet his “financial angel, Aaron,” who’d bankrolled S and L. This shylock, powerful enough to lend money to the likes of Marv and Tony without fear of getting stiffed, was a kindly, snowy-haired Jewish grandfather who ran an auto lease agency in Beverly Hills. He owned the exotic cars that Phil drove.
Years later, an FBI report alleged that Phil told an undercover agent he’d been placed at S and L by Mickey Zaffarano to ensure that the partners made their payments. Could Aaron be one of the “independent” businessmen used as fronts for underworld investors who wanted to keep their names off contracts?
about being involved with him. Toasting Phil’s new venture were Jimmy, who was leaving VCX to head Phil’s sales office, and Joey G., a hard little thug with sharp, aggressive features. Joey, a partner in the enterprise, brought protection from “back east.” But those blessings came from a different
familia than VCX’s. My apprehension increased when Phil announced that as soon as the phones
went in, he’d have 26 major X-rated features on tape, ready to sell. I immediately knew he would be dealing in knock-offs.
As he handed me the money for shooting the loops, Joey G. said, “Wit’ me in da picture, nobody’s gotta worry about broken legs or nuttin’.”
I didn’t feel reassured.
x x x x x x
The risks: shooting in L.A., in my own apartment to save money, with a storage locker full of illegals; a client who was at odds with my employers; and secretly making my own video movie out of his production. The caper looked even riskier now that Phil had a scary underworld partner.
I tried to purge the possibility of disaster from my mind and focus on what I was pioneering. To avoid the usual harsh, flat look of 3 or 4 1000-watt quartz lights blasting a loop set to prevent shadows, I rigged a canopy of 250-watt photoflood lamps, resembling oversized household bulbs, that hit each set from all angles. It gave the living room, bathroom and bedroom that sculpted, lighting-in-the-round glossiness of sound stages with full lighting grids high overhead.
Other innovations: I myself would shoot both the 16-millimeter film and the 2-and-1/4 inch ’chromes, since I alone would know the best angles. On the two Arriflex S movie cameras, I’d use 9.5-to-57 zoom lenses that focused down to 2-and-1/2 feet, instead of the standard 12-to-120s that needed four feet of distance from a subject. (The extra telephoto length wasn’t needed in the close confines of a loop set.) As before, Ace would load cameras I wasn’t using so I could shoot without delays.
The two videographers weren’t there for the money. Like most viewers, they were curious about what goes on behind the scenes on a porn shoot, and what the women were really like. Denny, a quiet, detached man, lived on a trust fund and could afford better toys than most videophiles—such as his Sony 1610 camera and Sony 2850 Umatic (3/4-inch) VCR. He was a natural cameraman: an observer. I was surprised by his skill.
Denny’s assistant, Patrick, was a big, open-faced kid, with Black Irish humor and a fondness for beer. He worked as an apprentice engineer at Compact. I was paying him $50 for the weekend. Denny was getting $125—including his equipment.
I gave the videographers 25 hours of Sony KCA 60 cassettes and instructions to keep the tape rolling.
My lighting experiment proved disastrous. I’d forgotten how much heat incandescent lamps put out. The apartment thermometer on that August weekend soon reached its upper limit of 110 degrees. The air conditioner didn’t help.
Patrick had brought a case of beer, augmented by Ace’s own supply. The brew brought out the differences between blasé, well-paid professionals and my horny, cut-rate voyeurs.
The first object of their leering attention was Megan, a 19-year-old Southern belle with curly Carolina charms: brown ringlets, long lashes, and pubic hair shaved in a heart. This was only her second porn role. Eager to please, she’d end up ready to kill. Her nemesis was Ace. Loathing himself for still resorting to porn for rent money, he was also frustrated by his non-sexual role.
Mike Ranger, a favorite of most porn women, was a problem for Megan. She was too embarrassed to tell me why until pain forced her to. With her back to the intruding camera, she murmured, “It’s his size.”
“Try me! Try me!” Ace boomed. I resisted the urge to make a “smallest cock in Hollywood” crack. I gave Megan a break from intercourse, having Mike thrust between her breasts. She’d made the mistake of revealing that her boyfriend called them “puppies.” Ace sang, “And they call it puppy love…” Patrick gave snorts of ragged laughter. For a still shot, I said, “Megan, look at me,” and Ace crooned, “Look at meee… I’m as helpless as a kitten in a treee…”
“Just what is your problem anyway?” I asked Ace during a set-cooling break.
“Tell you what, Dave,” he said, blinking sweat from his eyes. “Next time, I’ll work for free but I want to get laid.”
“Fine. I’ll give your salary to one of the ladies and film her trying to get you up.” The heat was getting to me, too.
As the shoot lurched along, my innovations failed. Twisting like a pretzel, I’d shoot all those revealing angles of a position in 16-millimeter, then want nothing more than to rest my back while the still photographer took over. But I was the still photographer. Numbly trying to shift from one kind of camera to another, I was slowing things down, not speeding them up as I’d thought I would. And those 250-watt bulbs kept snuffing themselves out in their own heat.
The temperature and delays made Mike do what he never did: lose his erection. Megan’s jaw got sore from sucking him up. She resorted to doing it by hand and Ace called out, “Let’s have some deep throat!” Megan pointed Mike’s penis at him like a pistol. “You’re gonna get it!”
Mike was going for his wet shot when the flimsy stand holding what Ace called a “pussy light on a stick” toppled over. Its bulb exploded against the couch. Megan twisted out of the way with Mike’s penis still inside her. He yelped in pain.
After that, he had trouble climaxing. He pounded into Megan, her face too contorted to take notice of his perspiration raining down on her. After Mike came, she went limp. “I died,” she said. “Did you catch it on video?”
x x x x x x
Angel arrived on the set after a night in jail for the crime of not shaving her pubic hair. She’d been dancing at a strip joint in Torrance and was busted when she’d taken her bottom off. A local ordinance forbade showing pubic hair. Anything else was OK. “Wait a minute,” I said. “Can you dance nude with no pubic hair and they won’t bust you?”
“Right,” she said, bringing an eruption of laughter. “Then how come you didn’t shave?” Ace asked. “I thought I was OK.”
“Let’s see!” exclaimed Patrick.
Angel pulled off her shorts and let the men examine her fine blonde razor stubble.
During her girl-girl loop with Megan, Angel—a veteran of strip shows—ignored the men’s comments. But Megan was fed up with them. She was examining a Porcu-pecker to make sure its rubber quills were soft enough to enter her without causing pain, when Ace made one remark too many. Watching her face on the monitor, Patrick had said, “Food for thought…” To which Ace replied, “Food for twat?”
Megan sat, too. “That’s it. Enough. This whole damn thing is crazy.” She told me that the heat, the crew, her body parts in big detail on the TV screen—everything—were all too much. She was quitting. She didn’t care if I didn’t pay her.
As I was pleading with Megan, the phone rang. It was Phil’s partner, Joey G. “I’m leavin’ the office, kid,” he said. “I thought maybe I could come down and lend ya a hand.”
Then he’d see the video set-up. I tried to dissuade him but couldn’t. I asked to speak to Phil. “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.
After the Porcu-pecker sequence came my parody of a male come-shot. Megan reclined in an easy chair while Angel stood over her wearing a Piss-tola, a strap-on rubber penis that squirted liquid from a squeeze-bulb. As the cold stream of water hit her perspiring body, Megan jerked about, squealing.
“Feels goood!” breathed Patrick, swaying before the monitor like a snake before its charmer.
The last shot was of Megan sucking the Piss-tola, to be cut in before the “come-shot.” After I said, “Cut,” Megan bit into the rubber penis so viciously that Patrick—watching the action in one of Denny’s close-ups—went “Wuh!”
“Ohhh!” said Megan. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day!” x x x x x x
A conflict was building inside me. As loop-maker, I wanted a smooth shoot with hot, well- photographed action. As video producer, I was glad the hassles were making the documentary interesting. I was almost disappointed that Saturday’s last loop, starring a dull married couple, went so smoothly.
Sunday’s didn’t.
On the first loop, a girl-girl bubble-bath scene, the heat, steam, and cramped camera positions 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.”
“What do you like about working in sex films?” Ace asked. “The money.” She was making only $50 for the loop.
“And what don’t you like?”
Ace asked Rita what made her climax. She gave Kenny an intimate look. “Ask him. He knows.” When Kenny turned away, she looked irritated.
I wondered whether sex would happen at all. Rita was woozy with Quaaludes and her co-star, John, a rugged ex-lumberjack, was a “weak model.” I’d seen him in action—or inaction—in films at S and L.
Before we could begin, Phil called. “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? “Yeah. You are shooting video, aren’t you?”
I sat down on the couch. “You mean the… the experiment?”
Rita’s naked body passed in front of me, followed by Denny’s camera. She raised a breast toward the lens. A nipple protruded between long auburn fingernails. She parodied a sigh.
“Well?” Phil pursued. “Is the video usable or what?” “I don’t know, Phil. I’m concentrating on the loops.”
Rita sat next to me. Ace sat on her other side. He began kissing her and fondling her breasts. Sedated, she didn’t care who did what with her. Denny widened out to show all three of us while I assured Phil the loops were looking fantastic.
Ace plunged his hand between Rita’s legs. She spread them wide, and one landed in my lap, followed by her hand. “Speaking of fantastic, Phil, I got some of that right here. Rita, give Phil a kiss.” She made an exaggerated smooch into the phone, adding a long sigh. I told Phil I’d call him later.
“OK,” I said, “let’s make a movie”—leaving Ace grumpy about being denied his quickie. Rita flashed Denny one last split beaver shot, prompting Patrick to sigh, “I should’ve gone into gynecology.”
“This is the next best thing,” I said. “Let’s get to work.”
We didn’t get very far before friction between Rita and Kenny erupted. “Take a picture of me, Kenny,” she said, “NOW!”
“OK.” 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!”
When pornographers have sex with models they’re shooting, the women often feel used and become belligerent. I couldn’t let this ruin my shoot. “Rita, let’s have you give John some head.”
“When I’m ready,” she pouted. “I’m pissed off right now.”
I hated playing whoremaster. 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.
When John was hard, Rita began to straddle him in “cowgirl” position, then exclaimed, “Stop! Stop right now!”
Her period had started. We turned out the lights and Rita inserted sponges. “Let’s do missionary,” I said. “That way the blood will mostly stay inside. How’s that sound, Rita?”
She flipped a middle finger at the monitor. “Huh? I was looking at that picture over there.”
I asked Ace to turn the lights on. Still sulking over his aborted quickie, he said, “No. I’m just the loader.”
I crossed the room to turn them on myself. “Fuck you, Ace.” “Try it.”
In missionary position, John began to build momentum. Rita’s eyelids opened and closed as if they weighed ten pounds each. “I’m gonna give you an expression of pain,” she said, “’cuz it hurts.” Not listening, Kenny chirped, “Expression, Rita.”
John lost his erection. Rita went for the Albolene, with Denny behind her. He had decided she was the story. “This guy’s driving me crazy,” she said.
“He’s doing his job,” I growled. “Pretend he isn’t there.” “I can just ignore him?”
“Please.”
Instead, she spread her legs to Denny’s camera with a comic expression of glee.
John kept going soft through spoon and doggie positions, needing Rita’s trance-like fellatio. Bothered by Denny’s zoom lens hovering next to her, Rita tossed her long hair over her head so it blocked her face. Trying to shoot from her other side, Denny pulled his cables taut and shorted out his audio.
Later, I’d scream curses when the screen suddenly went silent, just before four photographers— Ace, Kenny, Denny and me—scrambled for shooting angles as John, without warning, pulled his flaccid penis out of Rita’s mouth and began coming.
After taking so long to get up for each position, he’d finished by ejaculating prematurely.
Afterwards, I felt sour enough to deny Rita the multi-speed vibrator she wanted. I told her it cost $30 (it retailed for $16.95). Rita offered me her body but I wasn’t interested. Kenny was; he steered Rita into my bedroom for a quickie. Ace wasn’t invited, adding to his petulance.
x x x x x x
In that circus of a video feature, which I would call Lights! Camera! Orgy! one thing was missing: genuine erotic passion—until the last loop. It proved the wisdom of putting models together who like working with each other but don’t have an off-screen relationship that makes sex between them become routine.
Mike Ranger had been yearning to work again with Gayle Monica, the teenaged blonde with