The Professionals


  Today is a day for professionalism. It’s not a word you hear thrown around too much in my line of work, not by outsiders anyway, but I’m making it my God-damn goal to make it the companies adage. Twenty-first century Skin will be known for it or my name isn’t Buster Ballsdeep. Okay, well technically my name isn’t Buster Ballsdeep, It’s Joseph Tavish, but I did a couple of movies before I became an exec and – look, it’s not important, what is though, is professionalism.

  My stars are over on set, robed up, talking about the freaking economy. I’d like to tell you it didn’t blow my mind but it did, but in a good way. They’re sitting on the bed next to each other, the same bed they’ll be defiling each other on in ten minutes time, and he’s cracking wise and she’s laughing an understated laugh and I can’t help but smile. They actually had a meet and greet last week. Got together over lunch to cut any tension that might have arisen today. Some runner is telling me something that I’ll admit, I’m not particularly paying attention to, because I’m thinking about all this shit and I realize, I’m probably the most unprofessional person on set right now. That really makes me happy.

  I walk past the buffet and grab myself a little cup of chicken salad. It’s good. It’s all good. No sticky fingers on set. It’s a rule. It was kind of hard to enforce when I was making Sticky Fingers back in ‘06, but we got by. My camera crew aren’t your usual amateur in-your-face frat boy, we’ve rented them out from an agency for the day. I ask for the same guys every time – Miguel, Eric and Bruce. They do good work and they’re over the whole porn thing. They certainly don’t do any of that “look into the camera, sweetie,” bullshit either – not that my girls need direction once I’m done prepping them for the scene, they know exactly where to look. But no, we don’t demean our girls. We fuck, gag, ream, double-team, spit-roast, defile, disgrace and desecrate our girls, but we don’t ever demean them.

  Our cameramen don’t even pop wood anymore. I ask them to shoot it as if it were an art piece and they manage to detach themselves. Professionals.

  I’m about ready to begin and start clearing people away from the cross-section of a bedroom. I approach someone I don’t know, don’t remember hiring – I remember everyone I hire – he’s talking to the stars, shaking Bash Wisely’s hand, and I say “excuse me buddy but I’m going to have to ask you to vacate the stage, we’re about to begin shooting.” 
  Melanie Holes looks up at me and says “Buster, this is Jonathon. My boyfriend.” 
  Uh-oh. The alarm bells are already going off. I’ve had my fair share of boyfriends on set, and the visits are never, never pretty.
  “Hey, Buster, love your work,” Jonathon says, shooting me a grin. He holds his hand to me now.
  I’m a little late to take the it I’m that stunned, but I eventually shake it and say “Jonathon, a pleasure.”
  “I’ll get out of your way,” he says, glancing back to Bash and Melanie. “Nice meeting you, Bash.” I can’t believe it. Even the beau is a pro. Getting along with the guy who’s about to bone his girlfriend.
  “And you, Jonny,” Bash says, standing up and undoing the sash of his robe.
  “Hey man,” Jonathon says, turning to me as we walk away, “You mind if I take a back seat and watch my girl work? Cheer her on, as it were.”
  “You one of those cuckolds, kid?” I say, suddenly wary. Believe it or not, lechery and perversion have no place on a porn-set. “You get off to other guys-”
  “No, nothing like that,” he says, cutting me off before I get to the nitty-gritty, “no offence to you or your trade, man, but as far as I’m concerned it’s not sex. It’s a job. You guys are professionals.” 
  “Then sure buddy,” I say, a little choked up, “You can stay. That’s no problem at all.”
  My little company’s growing up so fast. I’m so proud.


~ by Joseph Blame on May 16, 2011.

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