The Job Pirate Read online

  When the drinks are free, it’s difficult to pull me away. It’s not really a matter of alcoholism in so much as it’s about getting something for free, and getting my fair share of that free something. My dad always said I had died penniless in a previous life. But, in my defense, the daiquiris were quite small, not a sip over 8 ounces. That’s how I justified having six of them in those first 30 minutes.

  I was readying myself to go back to my room when a flash of platinum blonde hair appeared beside me, then two large T-shirted breasts leaned over the bar. I recognized those fake tits, then the Puerto Rican-via-New York accent attached to them when she asked the bartender where rooms 400 to 600 were. As he drew out the location on the back of a napkin, she glanced over and recognized me, too. It was international porn star—and the host of the show that brought us all to Jamaica—Carmina Violatta; already a veteran porn actress at the tender age of 25, with more than fifty DVD titles to her credit.

  “Oh, hey. You’re the writer, right?” she asked.

  “I’m your writer,” I replied, still getting a proud chill every time someone referred to me by that moniker. Although I had traveled with her and been on set with her a dozen times over the past two months, this was the first time we had ever really spoken to one another. “You’re Carmina. I’ve wanted to say ‘Hi,’ it’s just been so crazy on the sets.”

  “I know … all those people. Just crazy. You ready for tomorrow? Big day. Our first scenes with the finalists. Did you come up with any cool skits for them to do? I liked the sexy spy idea that the cameraman came up with.”

  By “first scenes” she meant that 8 of the 16 finalists arriving the following day would be filming their first actual porn scenes as directed by a professional adult-film director and crew. That was the concept of the show basically. Our film crew had traveled to New York, Los Angeles, Miami, Tampa, and Las Vegas and collected the 16 best aspiring film actors and actresses after a grueling series of auditions from hundreds of the ugliest people in the nation. And when referring to “auditions” for our new “Search for the Next Best Porn Star” reality TV competition, you don’t have to imagine too hard what that tryout process entailed. But out of those hundreds, the eight men and eight women who were able to masturbate with panache in front of the camera crew, the producers, the lighting crew, and the writer, had all won themselves a spot in the show. They would all be coming to this private Jamaican resort for the next nine days to perform various on-camera sex scenes with one another until the best two rose to the top like cream, and were given $250,000 each and a two-movie deal with the porn company producing the show.

  As for the “spy idea that the cameraman came up with,” I had no idea what Carmina was talking about. But I’d had enough daiquiris in me to smile and agree that it was one hell of a clever idea and deserved some fleshing out. I noticed her suitcases sitting beside her bare tanned legs.

  “We got in like two hours ago … you still haven’t found your room yet?”

  “We all just got out of the meeting,” she answered. “For tomorrow. Weren’t you there? I thought … Everyone was there. You’re the writer … shouldn’t you have been there?”

  I didn’t know anything about a meeting, but yes, as the only writer on the show, I probably should have been there. And that would explain the skit for the spy idea she was talking about. I explained the situation to her and asked her to paraphrase what was talked about, then I sprinted off to my hotel room and fired up the laptop. An hour and forty minutes later, I was surprised to find how easily I had come up with four short scripts for the next day. I printed up four copies of each three-page script and collated them onto the bedspread before me, showcasing their title pages for the mirror on the ceiling: The not too cleverly named The Spy Who Butt-Fucked Me; the psychedelic ‘60s-themed Austin Cock-Powers; the oppressive thinking piece A Raisin Cock in the Sun; and finally, the Jaws-inspired “That’s not a scar” boat scene script with women playing the Captain Quint and Hooper characters, which I titled Great White Tits.

  I stacked the scripts on the little dining table and turned on the TV to put the night to bed. I had totally forgotten about the two stalks in my pocket and pulled them out and studied them under the bedside lamp light. They were so fresh that they were still damp from their last watering. I really wanted to smoke but I didn’t put any forethought into a smoking device. No rolling papers, no aluminum can, no tinfoil anywhere in sight. The gift store was closed and I didn’t have the energy to hunt down a cola machine. I searched my bag and then searched the room for anything to use; it became a mission after a few minutes. I considered using toilet paper to roll a joint before considering a page from the hotel tablet by the phone. But necessity breeds invention, especially with drugs, and I managed to channel my inner MacGyver and make a pipe from a hotel pen and the little screen from inside the bathroom sink faucet. Although I inhaled more melting plastic than pot, I was again good and stoned and fell asleep to an episode of Law & Order.

  I woke up to find that my bathroom’s shower had one full wall that was nothing but transparent glass, and it faced the already-full pool right below. I showered knowing that I was being watched by a few dozen middle-aged people drinking daiquiris at 8:00 a.m., and the only thing I did differently from home was spend less time washing my ass and more time washing my groin section—I wanted to at least give the people outside a decent show.

  I took the handful of scripts and hustled to the main lobby to join Carmina, the two producers, and most of the production staff in welcoming the 16 contestants set to arrive any minute on the same bus we did the night before. As I gulped down my third coffee of the morning, Sam, the big producer with plenty of actual, non-porn TV shows to his credit, asked why I hadn’t been at the all-hands meeting the night before. Instead of explaining that I either didn’t hear about it or was just completely too stoned to comprehend it, I showed him the stack of scripts I had written and said, “I had a bunch of ideas I needed to get down on paper.” He examined the titles of each, smirked, then nodded.

  The large bus then pulled into the lobby, sparing me any more of Sam’s inquisition. Its door hissed open and a vibrant and tanned string of 20-somethings poured out into the reception area. First off was the Pink Couple, whom we called the Pink Couple because the handsome pair both had bright pink hair. We would find out several hours later that they both had bright pink pubic hair, too. The colorful pair had been together for several years before deciding they wanted more action in their sex lives, so they auditioned at our Las Vegas tryouts and made it to the finals.

  Next off were the twin brothers, whom we picked up in Miami. Looking like a couple of farm boys on a field trip to the big city, the near-identical siblings had auditioned together while drunk, just looking to get laid. But after one of the producers realized how valuable an asset two male twins in the porn world would be, he patted them on the back and gave them two free tickets to Jamaica.

  The first of three buxom blondes then vacated the bus, followed by the second, then by the last. Each had hair more platinum than the one prior, and each set of fake tits grew bigger as they progressed. The only black guy then stepped off, followed by a smarmy, long-haired guy in a Fedora and open shirt, who looked like Brad Pitt had he been a heroin dealer in 1974. From our New York audition was the big, barrel-chested marine and his tiny fiancée Brittany or Brianna or something, who were both ecstatic about fucking as many people as possible before they got married in the summer—although he seemed a lot more excited about it than she did. The audition in Miami gave us our token little Filipina fox, who had the typical tight body and adorability factor that most pedophiles drooled over. An attractive brunette woman then stepped off the bus followed by a guy in his mid-30s, both of whom I couldn’t place to save my life. When you’ve watched 500 men and women wank off in front of you, their faces just began to melt into anonymity.

  Sam shook everyone’s hand as the two assistants checked names off clipboards and handed out room keys.
But there were two keys left, so the producer scanned the clipboard for the two names left unchecked. He grabbed Corey and frantically shook his shoulder.

  “Where’s Donkey Dick?” Sam shouted.

  “Donkey Dick?” Corey asked. He took the clipboard from the assistant and reviewed the contestant list. “Oh, the couple from the mail-in audition? The VHS tape guy?”

  “Yeah, the guy with the huge dick! Where is he?”

  Corey got onto his walkie-talkie to find out what happened while I recalled Donkey Dick’s very impressive 12-incher from his home-recorded audition. We had all sat around the office speechless as we watched the tape of this mild-mannered guy in his early 40s, who looked like someone who would do your taxes and do them well, drop his pants and diddle his petite wife with what looked like a child’s arm and clenched fist.

  “They missed the flight,” Corey shook his head and informed Sam. “They’re catching the next plane in tomorrow morning. They think.”

  “Damn it!” the producer shouted. “They know we’ve got a tight schedule here! We start filming in a few hours.”

  “And I think it’s just him coming,” Corey said under his breath.

  “Excuse me?”

  “From what it sounds like,” Corey clarified, “she got cold feet and backed out.”

  “But Donkey Dick is still coming, right? We didn’t lose the dick, did we? Fuck her … we got plenty of alternates with nice tits here. But that dick of his … we need that, Corey! You make sure you get the bus to pick him up tomorrow … you be on the bus, too. We need that dick here. That thing is gold!”

  I could tell Corey didn’t want to sit on that bus and drive three hours through barren wasteland to pick up the dick then turn right around and drive another three hours back to the resort, especially because he would be missing out on seeing all these big-breasted women getting screwed and losing any chance he had of sneaking in a sloppy-seconds attempt after the day wrapped up. But this was his first production assistant gig and he took his orders like a man who would make it far in the business.

  We all ate a hearty breakfast of jerk chicken Eggs Benedict and jerk chicken omelets after the cast members found their rooms and unpacked. It seemed that every meal at Whispers’ all-inclusive buffet featured some variation of jerk chicken. There was something oddly unappealing about it and I couldn’t quite put my finger on why until my ganja-providing bartender let me know that it wasn’t really chicken at all, but goat. Seems Jamaica had quite an abundance of goats but not very many chickens roaming the coast, and because everything tasted like chicken anyways it only made sense to use goat as a cheaper substitute. Needless to say, I started picking the jerk chicken out of each of my meals.

  When one watches a porno on their TV or computer, it seems to have that fly-on-the-wall feeling where you, the viewer, are not really there, and you’re not interrupting the sexual act in any way. It’s as if you were a masked voyeur glaring through the window at two beautiful people having sex in plain sight, and neither of them knew or cared that you were watching. And the couple seemed very generous in their sexual positioning so that you could always get a great view of the pecker pounding away at that shaved, glistening, pinkish-sore vagina. When it was time for some oral, the male was considerate enough to press her knees against her ribs so you, the viewer, could get a great side view of the tongue action. And when it was the woman’s turn to perform oral on the man, he was always selfless enough to hold her hair back so the camera could get a detailed view of his balls slapping against her chin.

  This always felt so organic on-screen, but my outlook of porn abruptly changed once seeing it filmed live in a hotel room with a camera crew of six men, a light crew of three men, two grips, one production assistant, two aged producers, and a 40-something female director shouting, “Lift your fucking leg! Lift your fucking leg! We can’t see your cock, genius!” It was horribly unsexual. The same scene was shot repeatedly, moans and screams were faked until hoarse, lights were being readjusted during the titty-fuck scene, pussy farts were pooting out during position changes, excrement was wiped off the sheets after a sweaty anal-sex incident, and an unlucky cameraman got a forehead full of a twin’s jism when he went in for a poorly timed close-up.

  The grizzly sights were just the steak on this macabre dinner plate; I still had a couple more side dishes of my other senses to contend with. The air was thick and unbreathable and smelled of warm, filthy ass; the moistness would glaze across your face and mix with your own sweat, which dripped down onto your lips and tongue. You began to taste her sore asshole, his body odor, and the unmistakable caramel of sloppy sex. Then after close to two hours in that humid hotel room, our first scene would finally end. The twin and the Filipina girl wobbled out of the door and collapsed onto chaise lounges beside the pool. It was the next couple’s turn now—same warm room, same wet bed, same soiled sheets waiting for them inside. I gave the producer and director each a script for the upcoming scene then found the next couple—1974 Brad Pitt and one of the platinum blondes—making out at a nearby Jacuzzi, and I gave them their scripts to study. They were already three daiquiris deep apiece, and his Viagra had kicked in about an hour prior, giving him a perfectly horizontal and unyielding erection as he jumped out of the water and happily followed his scene partner to the hotel room. I only stayed for the first 30 minutes of their oral scene before I snuck back outside to the pool area for a cigarette. But from what I saw, that Pitt kid was good. Whether it was raw, natural talent or just the moustache and ‘70s sunglasses, he appeared to have all the right cinematic moves as he lapped at the blonde’s crotch like a hungry handless man with a bowl of warm soup.

  From outside, I heard the director shout at 1974 Brad Pitt to jump to his feet and “spray her in the face” just seconds before a loud cheer from the crew erupted. A minute after that, Brad Pitt came out smiling with the producer patting him on his bare, wet shoulder. Then the platinum blond came out of the hotel room using a damp rag to wipe her face clean, and she jumped into the pool and stayed underwater for a couple of seconds.

  The sole black contender in our show, whose stage name was Matrix because of his “underlying complexities as a stage thespian,” he explained, was next in front of the camera. He would be teamed up with the second platinum blonde—Brittany or Bethany or something—and I gave them both their Austin Cock-Powers scripts and ran through the dialogue with them poolside. I had requested the set location be a silver-walled underground lair on page one, but we were going to make do with the sweaty hotel room for the third time. Matrix was cocky and sure of himself, and he proceeded to playfully slap the blonde’s silicone breasts and tell her to get ready for his “chocolate fuck attack.” She was nervous, I could see it all over her—partly from knowing she would have to have sex on-camera with a dozen people watching, but I think it was mostly because she would have to fuck Matrix. I remember her audition back in Las Vegas, slowly and proudly masturbating for the camera as if she were lovingly churning butter in slow motion, even with the entire crew and the 100 other audition hopefuls in line watching her. She wasn’t nervous at all that day, but here she was now smiling frantically and lighting a cigarette from the butt of another. She was a handful of years older than the other contenders, probably not much younger than me, but she seemed born for this job—born to entertain with her body. She was sweet and kind of maternal, and it was just a shame Matrix was her partner; she deserved one of the twins at the very least.

  But the complex thespian Matrix brought with him our first casualty of production: No matter how hard he tried, and no matter how many Viagras he took, the Black Stallion could not get an erection nor anything even near it. The director must have shot for three hours in hopes of penetration, two hours of which were the blonde giving him a blowjob. Then finally the director shouted, “Oh, fuck this!” and the light crew turned off their bright overheads. Bree or Brenda came out of the room with both hands caressing her jaw, and Matrix stormed out moments later loudly blam
ing her for his lack of a boner. On and on, he blathered; how she was too old, how she gave the worst blowjob ever, how her tits were too fake, and how she had probably deprived him of his chances of becoming America’s next big porn star.

  But our first day of scene filming had officially ended. A full nine hours had passed in that little hotel room, with four of the couples having completed their first on-camera vignettes. The other four would be filming the following day—in that same room, but hopefully with cleaned sheets.

  The last actual bit of filming for our first day would be Carmina’s wrap-up interview, where she and a couple of “celebrity judges,” who were actually two retired porn stars and a radio DJ from Miami, interviewed each of the eight tired actors and asked them how they thought they did, what they could have done differently, and who they wanted to fuck in their next scenes. The camera crew had set up the scene beside the pool with a gorgeous view of the beach and sunset in the background, and tiki torches were put out for the total package shot. There was an awful lot of honesty shared in their interviews, especially when two of the women compared their first scene with getting molested by their fathers when they were children—but that could be edited out in postproduction. Then Matrix ended the Dr. Phil moment when he whined about how crummy his scene partner was again, now immortalized on digital video, and that her blowjob felt as if he had rested his “huge cock” in a bowl of tepid water.