Friday, 11 July 2008

'Mr Sex': Another Day at the Wank Factory


The one thing about working in pornography is that, every now and then, you get to say the unsayable, think the unthinkable, and do the undoable. Here’s one moment that springs to mind.

I had been a couple of months into my first Grot job, and was busy toiling away at the Porn Lathe, when I got a phone call. It was a mate. Well, when I say ‘mate’, it was someone I used to live with who only got in touch when he wanted summat.

Thankfully, he got straight to the point. “I’m a bit skint at the moment”.

Oh, shitting hell. He’s tapping me up for a loan. I bit deeply into my sausage and cheese cob, freshly purloined from the van outside, and wondered what would be the nicest way to tell him to fuck off.

“No, don’t worry, I’m not tapping you up for a loan. The thing is, me and my girlfriend have been talking…”

I rolled my eyes at the thought of his new girlfriend, and remembered how the first time I’d met her she’d ruined our regular SNES night by demanding that we watch Soldier fucking Soldier instead, and spent the entire night on the settee like Jabba the Hutt, ordering him to get the kettle on every half an hour. At the end of the night when she said “I’m going to bed now”, he actually got up and spent 20 minutes trying to carry her to the bedroom. And they were living in a fucking bungalow.

“And we’ve decided that she really wants to be in Penthouse. So can you sort it, and how much money will we get?”

After I’d removed the fragments of vegetarian sausage which had become lodged in my nostrils, I took a deep breath and attempted to explain to him that it wasn’t that simple. I pointed out to him that I didn’t spend my time at work in a Jacuzzi with a white fur coat on, pointing a be-ringed finger at one of the many dolly birds that were draped around the room and shouting “Oi! Janice! After you’ve filled this goblet with my name picked out in diamonds on it with Tizer, get your kit off - you’re Pet of the Month!” I explained to him the machinations of putting a wank mag together; how, every month, editors would sift through a stack of folders the size of the Empire State Building sent in by freelance photographers, pick out the best, and send back the rest. I spelled out that we had only slightly more contact with the models as the readers did – i.e., virtually fuck all. Summing it up, although I worked in stroke mags, I had very little stroke.

He digested all this information, paused, and said; “So can you get her in Penthouse, then?”

“Well…the thing is, mate…”

I really didn’t know how to say it.

“…and I really don’t know how to say this…

Told you so.

“…she’s not really Penthouse material

Pause.

“So can you get her in another mag, then?”

Hm. Well, he happened to be in luck there, because I was working for Richard Desmond, who had a stable of over 30 magazines and an dictum that was almost Feminist in its all-encompassing inclusiveness: every woman, regardless of age, creed, nationality, status, or dress size, has the birthright to be put into a Grot mag, have words put into her mouth by a stressed-out sub-editor, and wanked over in a shed.

But here came the awkward bit. Being the decent chap that I am, I’ve never been down with judging people by their personal appearance. You won't see me spending hours on Am I A Show-Off Twat Or Not, oh no. Firstly, because it’s shallow as fuck. Secondly, because I’d hate people to do likewise to me. But when you work in porn, it’s part of the job. You clock any new photos that come in and automatically know which magazine they should go into, from Penthouse and Mayfair (i.e., “The absolute top rank”) down to Real Wives (i.e., “Well, they’ve got a fanny, at least”).

“Oh yeah, I could probably sort that. We have a magazine called Real Wives

“How much do they pay? We’d be looking for a grand”

“Well, it’s actually £20 a photo. After that, if they like her, she can do other stuff. So you never know”

After another pause (presumably to work out how many photos he’d have to take of his girlfriend bent over a stove with her knickers round her ankles to score the Big G), he said “Well, we’ll have a talk about it. I’ll call you back when we’ve decided.”

After a long period of reflection, his girlfriend eventually decided to shag one of his mates over the counter of the shop he was working at after closing time and dump him instead.

6 comments:

Rob The Geek said...

I do not look good nekkid, what magazine for the ladies would I be in!? :D

I'd take £20 :D Thats a couple of beers and a kebab! :D

badgerdaddy said...

Marvellous story. You just made the list for my answer next time I'm asked: "You're having a dinner party, and can invite anyone from history..."

I got asked that once at a job interview, and replied with every sick bastard from history I could think of. Proved they didn't check my answers out, and didn't actually give a toss about the answer in fact. If they did, there's no way I'd have got the job.

butterflywings said...

"an dictum that was almost Feminist in its all-encompassing inclusiveness: every woman, regardless of age, creed, nationality, status, or dress size, has the birthright to be put into a Grot mag, have words put into her mouth by a stressed-out sub-editor, and wanked over in a shed."

You REALLY don't know much about feminism, do you?

Nottingham's 'Mr Sex' said...

Maybe not, but I know a shitload about irony.

Helen said...

"And we’ve decided that she really wants to be in Penthouse."

Ahh, bless his little cotton socks.

But I do like that "we". ~shakes head~

blueskies2day said...

"every woman, regardless of age, creed, nationality, status, or dress size, has the birthright to be put into a Grot mag, have words put into her mouth by a stressed-out sub-editor, and wanked over in a shed"


BEST definition of feminism I have ever heard.