As I pointed out before, working in Porn is nowhere near what the average punter assumes it is. One of the biggest misconceptions is that we all know the models intimately when in actual fact we get to see them in the flesh as often as the average punter, i.e., hardly ever. When I was working on the mags, they never perched themselves on me desk, with a pen suggestively rammed in their gobs. They never rang me up at the end of a shit day at work and asked if I fancied a pint. In fact, when I actually did run into them - usually at some work-related do - I was even more intimidated than the readers. It's hard to attempt to start a rapport with a woman when you've been Photoshopping zits off her arse all day and looking at her fanny with a magnifying glass on a lightbox.
All that was to change when the Grot Fairy tapped me on the shoulder with a wand shaped like a 12" dildo with veins and I was moved to the company's brand-new TV station (I'll tell you the full story one day; I did the worst TV programme ever). The place was absolutely overrun with Page 3 girls, strippers, and the top rank of UK porn starlets. I once tripped over Samantha Fox when I was nipping out for a fag. That's how insane it was. On my first day on the job, I was required to lie down in a TV studio and be - and there's no other word for it - dry-humped by the two biggest Page 3 stars of the day in basques and stockings. I learned later that one of them was knocking off none other than Robert de fucking Niro at the time, and she had rolled out of his bed, strolled into work, and than rolled about on me (and I'll tell you summat else, Robbo - she loved every minute of it, mate).
Was there a downside to the job? Well yes, there was; there's wasn't a time machine knocking about in the office which I could use to go back to when I was 14, take to the stage of the school hall during assembly, and do a slideshow of me knocking about with the Topless Lovelies whilst shouting "Now listen here, vermins! That lad over there in the Jam Shoes and his Grandpa's rancoat is actually going to do all the shit you miserable basin-cutted fuckwits can only dream about, so instead of bullying him after school, you should be carrying him back and forth from his Mam's to this dump in a sedan chair while everyone else cheers and throws ripped-up copies of Razzle in his path. He is the Chosen One, and should be treated as such"
Anyway, I learned very quickly that the average preconception of porn models was absolute bollocks. Out of all the Grot Goddesses I met, only one of them was truly shit-thick and ignorant. All of the others would have made perfect girlfriends, and if I wasn't extraordinarily happily attached at the time, I would have easily made big gooey cow-eyes at them from a distance. They were sharp, they were clever, they were totally aware that they had X amount of years to make as much cash as possible before calling it a day and doing what they really wanted to do, they were funny as fuck, and - naturally, due to the nature of the job - were not shy in the slightest. In fact, it was scary how quickly you forgot that they did what they did. But they always found a way to remind you.
One day, I was lined up to work with a new model, who I'd never heard of. When she walked in, fully-clothed, she instantly reduced every man in the building - who were by this time so jaded with naked flesh that they would turn the porn videos off whenever they could to watch a kids programme, or an episode of Take The High Road - to quivering blancmanges. As she walked by and said hello, we all started nudging each other like schoolgirls in the back row of the pictures when the credits for Dirty Dancing came up. Cheeky smile. Petite frame. Eyes you wanted to swim in like a baby seal. Jubblies like a dead heat in a Zeppelin race.
Half an hour later, we're in a studio doing the latest episode of The Worst Television Show Ever. I'm concentrating on reading the autocue as she drapes herself around me, and try not to look at her bits. But this time, I can't help myself. Partly because she's drop-dead gorgeous, but mainly because every now and then, her hand darts downwards and she gives herself a bit of a scratch. Oh dear.
After about 20 minutes of this, we're alone, in the dressing room, having a fag break. Me; fully dressed, focusing on work, exuding my usual provincial, salt-of-the-earth charm, trying not to notice the fact that her hands are flitting over her crotch every ten seconds. Her: bollock naked. We try and lay a bit o'sand down - who we know, what we've done before, which one of my fellow staff members she thinks is a wanker, when she gets her fingers right in there, in the manner of one of the Time Team prising a Roman helmet from a burial site. By this time, I can't help staring. And she catches me. Our eyes become locked.
And she pisses herself laughing.
"I know what you're thinking" she says. And I blush, because she does. And then she explains. "I was doing a photoshoot with [NATIONALLY RENOWNED AND DIRTY OLD SCROTE PHOTOGRAPHER] yesterday, and I had to wear these fishnet knickers. And he wanted me to - "
(And here, she mimes the act of grabbing a handful of her knickers and yanking them upwards in the manner described in the trade as 'taking in the laundry')
"I had to do it non-stop for fucking ages, and look what it's done to me"
(and here, she leans against the dressing room table, and parts her labia)
"I've got a fucking paper cut on me fucking clit! Look! Go on, look at that bastard!"
And I do. As she beckons me hither, I bend down, and look. Then I look up at her, and purse my lips and inhale and shake me head, like elderly racist women used to do when they found out that Lady Di was going out with Dodi. And look back.
And then I look up at her again, raise an eyebrow, and say; "Do you want me to kiss it better?"
(Ten years later, in my mind, while I'm lying in an otherwise empty bed)