Porno (13 page)

This morning I had to get out of the apartment. The atmosphere with Katrin is tense. Rows I can handle, but the silences eat away at me and her barbed comments sting like a boxer’s jab. So I picked up my sports bag and headed to where I always head when I feel like this.

Now my arms are in the pulley levers and fully extended across my chest. I inhale long and deep, spreading them wide into a rigid cross. Today I’ve increased the weight and I feel the burn in my muscles, once so puny, now chunks of rock . . . red orgasm spots dance in front of my eyes . . .
and nineteen
 . . . blood surges and roars in my ears . . . my lungs explode like a tyre blow-out in the motorway fast lane . . .
and twenty
 . . .

. . . and thirty later I stop and feel the sweat from my forehead stinging my eyes and run my tongue around my lips to taste the salt. Then I repeat the performance, giving another piece of apparatus the same treatment. Then the treadmill gets thirty minutes, moving up from 10 kph to 14 kph speed.

In the changing room I pull off my old grey sweatshirt and shorts and pants and get under the shower, starting hot, then warm then bringing it down to cold, to fuckin freezing and I’m standing there, feeling my system charging up inside and I step out and almost collapse as my breath goes into a spasm, but then it’s great, I’m whole again and warm, relaxed and alert as I slowly dress.

I see a couple of other guys who come here regularly. We never converse, only nod, in a stern approval at each other’s presence. Men who are far too busy, too focused, to waste time on small talk. Men with a mission. Irreplaceable men; unique and at the centre of things.

Or so we like to think.

16

‘. . . never mind Adam Smith’s
pin factory . . .’

I
t’s been a busy day at the sauna. I gave a couple of massages which ended in handjobs but I told this creepy Arthur Scargill-look-alike guy to get fucked (politely) when he asked me to suck his cock.

Bobby pulls me up, standing before me in that Pringle jersey stretched implausibly over his large gut. — Listen, Nikki, yir popular here, wi the pun . . . clients n that. Thing is, yuv goat tae dae a wee bit mair sometimes. Ah mean, that guy ye hud that run-in wi, that wis Gordon Johnson. Eh’s a well-known man in this city, a special client if ye like, he explains as I’m transfixed by the hair spilling from his nostrils, and that incongruously camp way he holds a cigarette in his hand.

— What are you saying to me, Bobby?

— Ah’d hate tae lose ye, hen, but if ye dinnae dae the biz, yir nae good tae me.

I feel a sick flush and I take the towels and stick them in the large laundry basket.

— Ye hear me?

I look back at him. — I hear you.

— Good.

I get my coat with Jayne, and we head up town. I’m thinking about how much I need the job, and how far I’ll go to keep it. That’s the thing with sex work, it always comes down to the most basic of formulas. If you really want to see how capitalism operates, never mind Adam Smith’s pin factory, this is the place to study. Jayne wants to buy a new pair of shoes in a shop up Waverley Market but I have to go and meet the others in the pub up the South Side.

They’re all present, and I’m surprised that Lauren’s with Rab. This is a big shock. I thought that she’d welcome a night in with Dianne, would have wanted to take the opportunity to sit up drinking wine and having a midnight feast of fridge snacks with her new favourite big sister. I thought that I was relegated to the role of the kooky, embarrassing, promiscuous auntie in her life. I get the feeling that Lauren’s here as she’s taken it on herself to ‘save’ me from a life of debauchery. How boring. The guy in the pub said there was no chance of a stay-back, so Terry’s gone ahead to scout this place. Then he calls us up on the mobile and we head down in a couple of taxis. I’m startled that Lauren’s elected to join us, but she’s been assured by Rab that he kept his clothes on and that shagging wasn’t compulsory.

The new venue is an even more sleazy-looking bar in Leith. As we go in, again through a side door, a group of bad-skinned youths are leaving, and they make some comments. Lauren bristles angrily. Inside the pub, we get introduced to this sunbed-tanned man with his hair Brylcreemed back. With his dark, slanted brows and his wicked, twisting mouth, he looks a bit like a slightly crueller Steven Seagal. He takes us up the stairs to another room, which has a bar running the length of one wall and several tables and chairs. It smells dank and fusty, like it’s not been used for a while. — This angel is Nikki, Terry says, running his hands up and down my back. When I stop and look at him, he protests: — Just checkin fir they wings, doll, cannae believe thit thir no thaire . . . then he turns to Lauren and says: — . . . N this wee honey here is Lauren. My auld pal Simon, Terry says, banging the Steven Seagal guy heartily on the back. He also introduces this Simon to Rab, Gina, Mel, Ursula, Craig and Ronnie.

The Simon guy unbolts the shutters on the bar and, in turn, offers us all his hand. His grip is strong and warm and he looks so painfully sincere that it just has to be an act. I’ve never seen anything like it before. — Thanks a lot for coming down, he says. — It’s great to see you. I’m drinking malt whisky. It’s a vice of mine. I’d be delighted if you’d all join me, he says, pouring out some Glenmorangie into glasses. — Apologies for the mess of this place, he explains, — I’ve only recently taken over and this room was used to store . . . well, I’d better not go into what it was used to store, he chuckles at Terry who responds with a knowing grin, — but I’ve had a clear-out.

— Not for me, thanks, Lauren says.

— C’mon, doll, huv a wee swally, Terry urges.

— Terry, Simon says seriously, — it’s not the fucking army. Unless they’ve altered the English language the word ‘no’ generally means ‘no’. Regarding Lauren, he asks gravely, — Is there anything else I can get you? Then he slaps his hands together and pushes them into his chest, his elbows pointing outwards. His eyes are open; intent and balefully sincere.

— Nothing, thanks, Lauren says stiffly, holding her ground, but I’m sure there’s a slight smile playing round her lips.

The drinks are flowing and soon we’re all engrossed in chat. Gina’s still a bit unsure about me, although she must be getting used to my presence as the rancorous stares have abated somewhat. The rest are friendly, Melanie in particular. She’s been telling me about her young son, and a horror story about the debts left to her by this guy she was with. We start listening to a conversation Simon (or ‘Sick Boy’ as Terry often refers to him, which he reacts to like someone’s run their fingernails down a blackboard) is having with Rab. They’re getting drunk on the whisky and are talking about making a porn movie.

— If you need a producer, I’m your boy. I worked in the industry in London, this Simon chap explains. — Videos, lap-dancing clubs. There’s money to be made.

Rab’s nodding along in agreement, to Lauren’s increased distress. She’s changed her mind about the drink and she’s knocking back double vodkas and taking turns on the joints of skunk that are being passed around. — Yeah, porn always looks better on video, Rab asserts, — well, hard-core porn anyway. You lose the arty veil. It’s like video records and film films.

— Yeah, says Simon. — I’d love to make a proper porn film. An old-school one, on film, an erotic tease, but with extended hard-core fuck scenes filmed on video inserted into it. That
Human Traffic
movie, they used digital video, super 16 and 32 mil, as far as I know.

Rab is intoxicated with the whisky and the idea. — Aye, you can do anything in edit, when you grade the film. But what ye want is no just a grainy wank-boy’s cheapo vid, but a proper pornographic movie with a great script, a decent budget and really sound production values. One that’ll enter into the canon of great films of the genre.

Lauren looks harshly at Rab, her face cast in outrage. — Great films of the genre! What great films! It’s all exploitative fuckin trash, appealing to the basest instincts in . . . she looks round and faces Terry’s lascivious gaze, — . . . people.

Terry shakes his head and says something about the Spice Girls, or it could be that, cause I’m a bit pissed and this skunk is deadly. People seem to be spinning by me and it’s only through a wrenching effort of will that I can pull them into focus.

Rab’s standing his ground with Lauren, his voice booming: — There are great films in the pornographic genre.
Deep Throat
,
The Devil in Miss Jones
 . . . some of the Russ Meyer stuff, these are classic movies and they’re more innovative and feminist than arty shit like . . . like . . .
The Piano
!

That last comment was below the belt, and even through my haze I see that Lauren actually looks physically wounded by it. She almost buckles and I worry for a split second that she’s going to faint. — You can’t call . . . you can’t call that cheap, sleazy junk . . . you can’t . . . she looks at Rab, almost pleading, — . . . you just can’t . . .

— Fuck talking movies, let’s make movies, Rab sneers. Lauren is looking at this whiskied-up guy like he’s turned into a monster that’s betrayed her. — I’ve done nothing for two years but listen tae hot air, he adds. — My girlfriend’s having a kid. What have I done? I want tae dae something!

I find myself nodding through a fog, wanting to shout, ‘Yes!’, but I’m beaten to the punch by Terry, who roars: — That’s the fuckin spirit, Birrell, and thumps Rab on the back, — Yuv goat tae huv a go! Then he looks around at us all and says grandly: — The question isnae why should we dae it, but
what else
would we fuckin well dae?

As Craig nods tensely and Ursula and Ronnie grin, Simon sings in affirmation: — Too right, Terry! Pointing at his friend he contends: — This man is a fucking genius. Always has been, always will be. End of, he sings to us. Then he turns to Terry and says, in genuine reverence: — Godlike, Tel, godlike.

He’s drunk of course, we all are. But I’m not just feeling intoxicated by the alcohol and the spliff; it’s the talk, the company, the idea of the film. I love it, I want to be part of it, and I don’t care what anybody thinks. A flash of elation rises and settles as it dawns on me: this is the
real
reason I ended up in Edinburgh. This is the karma, this is the fate. — I want to be a porn star. I want to have men masturbating to images of me, all over the world, men whom I don’t know even exist! I hiss, right in poor Lauren’s face, and dissolve into a stoned, witch-like cackle.

— But you’re making yourself a commodity, an object, you can’t, Nikki, you can’t! she shrieks.

— Not true, Simon says to her. — Straight actors are bigger whores than porn stars, he insists. — Just letting somebody use your body, or the images of it you create, that’s fuck all. It’s when you let them use your emotions; that’s real hooring. You can never, ever prostitute those! he says in impressive grandiloquence.

Lauren seems as if she’s going to start screaming, as if she’s trying to catch her breath. She puts her hand to her chest as her face crinkles in discomfort. — No, no, because . . .

— Calm doon, Lauren, for fuck sakes. It’s jist a bit too much skunk and whisky here, Rab says, gripping her arm lightly. — We’re making a movie. So it’s porno, it’s no big deal. The thing is doing it, showing the world that we can.

I’m looking at her and telling her: — It’s me that’s controlling the production of the image of myself. The tart they imagine and construct in their mind, the role that I play on screen, that person will be my creation and will bear no resemblance to the real me, I tell her.

— You can’t . . . she gasps almost tearfully.

— Yes, I can.

— But . . .

— Lauren, you’re so priggish, and your views are antiquated.

Aggravated and choleric, she rises unsteadily, propelling herself to the window, clasping the edge of the sill and looking out onto the street. There’s a few raised eyebrows at her abrupt move but most of us are too into the drink and the talk to notice or bother. Rab goes to her and starts talking to her. He’s nodding to her in a placatory manner and then he comes over and says to me: — I’m going to get her home in a taxi. You want to come?

— No, I’ll hang out here for a bit, I say, looking at Terry and Simon and bartering wry grins.

— She’s upset and pretty fucked on that skunk and somebody should sit with her in case she throws a whitey, Rab says.

Terry slaps Rab’s back again, this time hard enough for us all to sense the punitive force lurking in the camaraderie. — For fuck sakes, Birrell, slip thon dozy wee hoor a length and get her thawed oot.

Rab looks at Terry with cold steel in his eyes. — Ah’ve goat tae get hame tae Charlene.

Terry shrugs as if to say, it’s your loss. — Looks like it’s doon tae me again then, he smiles. — Sex therapist Lawson. Purely as professional caseload, likes. Tell ye what, Rab, you tuck her up in bed n ah’ll be doon later, he laughs.

Rab looks at me a bit longer but I’m not going home to sit and self-justify to that closet lesbo frigid little moraliser. I want a piece of the action. All my life I’ve been looking for it, and it’s my quarter-century this year, how long have I got before my looks have gone? People go on about Madonna, but she’s the exception to the rule. It’s the Britneys, the Steps, the Billies, the Atomic Kittens and the S-Club Sevens that count and they’re all fucking babies compared to me. I want it now, need it now, because there is no tomorrow. If you’re a woman and you have looks, you are in possession of the only finite resource worth having, the only one you’ll ever have, that’s what it screams to you in magazines, on telly, on the cinema screen. EVERY FUCKING WHERE: BEAUTY EQUALS YOUTH, DO IT NOW! — Let Dianne sit up with her, I tell Rab. Then I turn to the others. — I want a fucking piece of the action, I shout.

— You are fuckin sound! Terry hugs me in a genuine, delirious joy. My head’s spinning now as Simon goes downstairs with a tense-looking Rab and a shaky Lauren to let them out.