The Pornbroker's Assistant

Jimmy always had a thing about film photography. As a young lad in Manchester, he watched old movies at the Withington Scala, not for their story, action or dialogue, but for the cinematography. He drooled over John Ford's depiction of the rugged Utah-Arizona landscape filmed through a barn door in 'The Searchers', and Carol Reed's quirky steep-angle shots of post-war Vienna's rain-soaked cobbled streets in 'The Third Man'. They were film director gods, and Jimmy idolised them.

He hankered to be a director himself, but it was a job requiring a high level of man (and woman) management skill, whereas zoom factors, aperture settings, soft focus, tripod alignment and chromatic aberration were technical issues which he could chat about with consummate ease. Chat, however, not liable to procure him many girlfriends.

After graduating with a photography degree, Jimmy freelanced doing stills and video for weddings and similar functions. Ironically, his innovative talents were not always totally appreciated. Several brides had been disappointed with his unconventional style, preferring a more traditional wedding album, with people posing formally in-a-row-smiling, rather than being shot from behind looking back over their shoulder, and the like.

He also managed to get work for an advertising agency, and at one point excitedly submitted footage for a toothpaste commercial. It featured his synchronisation of the glint in a hunky would-be suitor's eye with the sparkle of a warm ray of sunlight falling upon the open mouth of the girl with the perfect teeth, who supposedly used the toilet product in question.

The shot, never aired, was consigned to the cutting-room floor. And Jimmy's proud mum had sat in vain through several episodes of Coronation Street just to catch the ad.

But America was where it was at, so Jimmy packed his bags. Well, bag... and camera case. His eventual ambition was Hollywood, but for the moment, his finances stretched only to a temporary work permit, and a flight to the Big Apple.

Jimmy soon knew he had made the right decision. After just a few days in town, at a bar in Greenwich Village, a tall black man of Rastafarian persuasion eyed him up and down through dilated pupils, approached, and addressed him.

"Youz dat limey dude wid da fancy Nikon?"

Jimmy figured obviously he had been spotted out and about Manhattan with his camera, capturing the stark contrast between the uncompromising downtown scrapers and the laid-back sprawl of the 'Village'. And his new-found friend clearly recognised his brand of equipment.

"Yes. Hi. James Woodbridge. You must have seen me photographing these wonderful streets. Can I buy you a drink?" Jimmy hoped it wouldn't amount to anything too expensive.

"Be allowin me, dude," offered Bruno, the man with the dreadlocks. He signalled to the barman, who duly delivered a concoction Jimmy didn't recognise, but swigged to be polite with a grateful Mancunian 'Cheers!'

"Be lettin me cut to da quick, Jimbo. You handle a Pee Em Dubya Tree Hunderd?" The New Yorker was hardly talking the Queen's English, but it was Jimmy's language.

"The PMW-300?" Jimmy enthused. "The new Sony XDCAM with the EX mount lens system? Sure thing. Best cam around for HD!" Jimmy had never used one -- it was way out of his price range. But he was confident he could handle one, given half a chance.

"Hmm..." Bruno deliberated. "Be lettin me see... Jimbo, if youz lookin to hit da movie scene big time, I be knowin a certain top dude... be excusin me while I make a call." Jimmy couldn't believe his luck.

Bruno was a fixer. He had a million contacts in New York, and was able to supply anybody with almost anything, including TVs, automobiles, cameras, cell phones, and Bob Marley memorabilia. And girls. And various substances. And in Jimmy's case, an expert cameraman familiar with the particular model of movie camera Bruno had recently 'acquired' for Luigi, his 'top dude' regular client.

They walked the couple of blocks to a backroom studio in a seedy apartment building owned and managed by Luigi's dubious organisation.

"Mr. Luigi, sir, this here's Jimbo the limey I wuz bein tellin you bout. He one of Yeurop's finest camera monkeys. What he done know bout video shit aint worth shit. And he can handle this here Pee Em Dubya Tree Hunderd like he wuz shellin peas."

Luigi was broad shouldered, shaven-headed, and looked like he was made of granite. And according to Bruno, as Jimmy learnt during the short journey from the bar, no one messed with Luigi. No one. Bruno didn't mention what happened to Luigi's previous lens-man who had absconded with the last camera.

Luigi eyed both Jimmy and Bruno with suspicion. "You fucken with me, Bruno? This kid looks wet behind the ears."

Jimmy's resolve was beginning to falter.

As if to clarify, Luigi added: "I ain't splashing a thousand fucken bucks a week on some mutherfucken amateur."

Jimmy's resolve perked back up. He wondered if he had heard right. Did Luigi say 'a thousand... a week'?

The big man reluctantly summoned his assistant. "Dolores!" Then, turning to Jimmy, warned: "And kid, fuck up and I'll spread your limey ass all over the fucken street." No pressure then.

The unflappable Dolores, only in her twenties, was a world-weary export of New Jersey. She responded to the summons, busily doing what she normally was -- filing her nails.

Jimmy immediately admired how photogenic she was, despite being imperfectly proportioned, mousy haired and with character lines around her eyes. And flat heels did nothing to enhance her appeal in a fashion-model sense. But Jimmy visually framed only the beauty within, and was instantly smitten.

"Dolores. Fix the limey up with a room out front. We start shooting in the morning. Angie's booked and Dirk fucken Dagwell should be here 9 am."

"Dirk Dagwell?" Dolores remarked. "Sheesh. Really?"

Jimmy tried to recall where he had heard the name before. It was very similar to that of a famously well-endowed male porn actor, but probably someone entirely different.

Dolores showed Jimmy to his accommodation. "Here's your lil room, Mr Woodbridge." Then, handing him the case of Sony equipment supplied by Bruno, she added, "You'll be needing these gizmos in the morning."

"Friends call me Woody," Jimmy ventured speculatively, but without any obvious reaction.

"This kit is the real deal, huh?" she asked, out of polite curiosity.

"Absolutely," Jimmy answered. "The PMW range is ideal if you want a camera suitable for both shoulder mounting and normal ENG functions."

"No shit?" Dolores exclaimed. "Woody, you sure talk sweet."

Jimmy and Dolores could hardly have come from more dissimilar backgrounds, but somehow Jimmy felt hugely attracted to her uniqueness, openness, and dry wit. But Dolores was more than just streetwise. She was a woman, and could already sense the way things would go.

Jimmy checked Bruno's gear, and was relieved to find a manual. He would have time to get more familiar with the controls and actually check that everything functioned. But he also needed to know a bit more about what was required of him. He managed to intercept Dolores as she headed for the door.

"Er, Dolores. Any idea what sort of filming this is tomorrow? Like, who is the director?"

Dolores looked blank. "Director? It ain't Gone With the Wind, Woody. It's a porno. And it's your show." And, in response to Jimmy's nervous expression, "Hell, you done loads of porn shoots back in Ingerland... ain't you Woody?"

"Er... yeah. Sure... 'Cos I have." Three things came to Jimmy's mind. One: how do I do a porn shoot? Two: a thousand bucks a week. Three: what am I going to tell my mum when I write home? Then, quickly following, a fourth thing: Jimmy's ass spread all over the street.

"I'll be around if you need me, hun," Dolores reassured him.

"On set?" Jimmy asked.

"Around, ok? I'm continuity, and coffee. See ya in the morning Woody." And Jimmy was left with his thoughts, not least of which was why a porn flick needed a continuity girl.

Morning arrived, as did Angie ("Busty") McClusky. She was expected to be late, like always, but she had got the time wrong. She sat busily overdoing her make-up.

Dirk Dagwell appeared soon afterwards. The two leads, having worked together previously, nodded at each other begrudgingly. Jimmy, concerned about the chemistry between his stars, eyed Dolores. She whispered, "They hate each other, but don't worry, Woody... it'll be fine."

Jimmy took a deep breath, then the plunge. "Ok if we get started, guys?"

Dirk and Angie started stripping off, as they had done on film sets countless times, totally oblivious of decorum.

"No, no, wait." Jimmy stopped them. "Miss McClusky -- you are in bed, a silky nightie is slipping off your shoulders... you're just waking from your night's sleep, rubbing your eyes... The half-light catches your facial profile and the curve of your cleavage... A shadow moves ominously across your face -- that's Dolores drawing a towel across the spot-beam... And you open your eyes wider in shock. Your mouth drops open, just a fraction -- Dolores will gloss the lower lip, I'll get a nice soft focus glimmer from it as it trembles... You see the intruder, and it has filled you with a mixture of fear and desire. You shrink away...

"Dirk -- I want you initially clothed, something dark, brooding. And a trilby hat if there's one in wardrobe... You stand upright, tall, and looking mean and menacing -- I'll lie between your feet and shoot you from the floor, elongate the perspective to broaden your shoulders and turn up the curvature of your snarling lip... oh yes, and accentuate the bulge in your pants... You've just broken in to settle an old score, and you are going to get your way, no matter what."

Angie and Dirk looked at each other disbelievingly. They were thinking the same thing. He expects us to act??? Dolores brought some coffee.

By mid-morning, Jimmy had filled several memory cards with usable foreplay footage, including Dirk's kissing of Angie's shoulderblade while Dolores held Angie's vibrator to Jimmy's lens-hood, creating on film a unique shivery effect representing Angie's sensations.

It was time for the movie's climax, so to speak.

Jimmy decided to splice many ultra-short sequences together, each teasingly cutting off at a critical moment, like just as hands were moving across a thigh, or lips were moving down a chest, each about to trespass into forbidden territory... and a slo-mo shot of Dolores' pretty forefinger sliding sensuously along the longest schlong in show business, to where a drop of watered glycerine faked some pre-cum.

Jimmy was practically joining the action himself. Shots from the top, shots from the bottom, shots between bodies about to engage, and, using Dolores' make-up mirror taped to the male lead's tummy, a shot down Dirk's dick, with a bath-soap frothed-up Angie beckoning it towards her. And, as Angie genuinely enjoyed the taste of it, even the squirty salad-dressing from the kitchen became a valuable prop, without over-stretching her acting ability either.

So many scenes. So many takes. And with Dirk's dick up and down, Jimmy got to appreciate the importance of a continuity girl, or 'fluffer', to use the industry vernacular. He was pleased with his work, and pleased he hadn't felt any arousal, which would have been very unprofessional.

He did feel guilty though. Guilty of envy. Dolores had been working her magic keeping Dirk interested. But all Jimmy got was coffee.

By midweek, Jimmy and Dolores had enough new material in the can to put several films together. They uploaded "The Intruder", "Intruder 2", and "Return of the Intruder" to the streaming company. Jimmy's work was out on the net.

Jimmy was hopeful that Luigi, due to look in for a progress meeting, would be pleased. But when the big man of granite did look in, his mood was not good.

"What in fuck's name is this crap on our pay channel? Is this what you fucken wasters have been doing on my fucken time all fucken week? I got a public, paying through the ass for cunt, not art-house shit. Guys want stuff to jerk off to, not fucken Mary Poppins.

"I'll give you to Friday. More cunt. Less fart-ass. Geddit?"

As the boss was storming out, Dolores spoke up. She was used to Luigi's bluster. "Luigi, I just got Toosday's figures off the pooter. Fourteen thousand log-ons, average connection time eighteen minutes - that's fifty-seven percent up on last week's. We're getting more guys, and they're watching for longer."

Luigi quickly converted connection times to revenue. "Ha!" he sneered. Conceding an argument was not his style. "Make fucken sure that trend stays firm," adding, with a miserable attempt at humour, "firmer than Dagwell's fucken dick, anyhow." He slammed the door behind him.

Dolores was the first to break the silence. "He likes you, Woody."

By the end of the week, the team had produced a whole series of minimalist-dialog high-impact camera work pornos, the log-ons and connection times were increasing exponentially, and experts within the industry were talking.

Jimmy sat alone in the studio with a beer, and wrote home. Hi Mum. Arrived safely. People here really friendly. Got some work, filming a silly romance serial. Pay is quite good. Met a girl. You'd like her. Hope your bunions are better. Love James.

He went to his 'lil' room, thinking about Dolores. It wasn't until after he'd cleaned his teeth, undressed and got into his pyjamas, that he discovered his bed was already occupied. The naked Dolores, laying on her side, elbow on pillow, hand supporting her head, calmly chirped "Hello Woody."

Jimmy had spent a week practically in bed with an overdeveloped and oversexed porn actress without any significant feelings. But the sight of Dolores wearing only a simple gold chain choker, which sparkled in sync with her come-to-bed eyes, over-rode any photogenic considerations he might have entertained, instilling in him only an urgent desire to allow basic instinct to take over. Up against her warm body he felt nothing but joy. What a difference love and affection makes between the sheets. And it was at that point he realised that it was the mutual interaction of stimulus and response, and not porn's one-way 'perform and be watched', which quintessentially defines the sensual pleasure of sex.

"Dolores. I think you're wonderful. I just love you to bits. Why can't I capture you on a Stratasys Polyjet 3-d printer and have you by me all the time?"

"Shit, Woody. You sure talk sweet." But this time Dolores was more forthcoming. "But, honey, sometimes you talk too much." And snuggling closer, holding his head in her soft warm hands, she kissed him full on the lips and darted an experienced curled-up New Jersey tongue inside a startled young English mouth.

Dolores' petite rounded breasts were no match for Busty McClusky's, and neither was Jimmy blessed with tackle anything like as impressive as Dirk Dagwell's. But as he caressed her, she gasped each time her nipples, like bullets, flicked under his palms. And as he stroked her mound, brushing the tiny tufts of trimmed hair with his fingers, she moaned softly, clenched her pelvic muscles, and directed his forefinger to her swollen clit..

Expertly manoeuvering the position to allow her legs to lock around his waist, Dolores then put to use her unique professional skill. The young English film-maker had never before felt quite so hard, or quite so ready to play out the final climactic scene.

I do so enjoy films with a happy ending. Don't you?.