Porno (25 page)

His cold look, accompanied by that word, makes my innards freeze. — I don’t do that, I tell him.

Mel’s shaking her head as well and speaks up for the first time today. — No way will ah dae that. She catches Terry looking at her, and she goes a bit bashful and kicks his foot. — No oan the camera but, Terry!

Simon’s face is screwed up. — Mmm . . . we need to talk about this. You see, I think it’s essential these days. I mean, personally, it doesn’t really do much for me, but the thing is, we live in an anal society.

Rab rolls his eyes and Terry nods in emphatic support.

— I mean, think about it, Simon waxes on, — you have rednecks in hick towns, telling us aliens have come all the way from another galaxy just to stick a probe up their sweaty arseholes . . . modern porn, the Zanes, the Blacks, it’s got all that triple-penetration circus stuff in it now. Look at Ben Dover’s videos. Fit young birds always get it up the arse these days.

— Fuckin brilliant videos, Terry adds sagely.

Simon nods in impatient compliance. — The point is that in the old days if a bird got fucked up the arse in a video, it was odds-on that she was a stretch-marked old boiler, dripping with cellulite and fit for the knacker’s yard. Now that’s all changed. For any young lassie serious about being a porn star, taking it up the shitter is almost obligatory.

— Not for me, I say quietly, and only Simon’s heard this but he chooses not to acknowledge it. So I amplify my voice and my concerns. — A lot of women don’t do anal. Some only do girl-on-girl. We’re not making a mucky men’s porn movie. I thought we were going to try and be innovative with non-sexist dialogues and themes. What happened to that? Was it all destroyed by one sniggering, smutty little boys’ weekend in Amsterdam?

— No. We are being innovative, Simon insists, — but we have to cover all bases and that includes anal. It’s not real, Nikki, it’s only acting.

No, it
is
real. It
has
to be real. Getting fucked is getting fucked, and it’s one of the few things left in our lives that is real, that is unconstructed.

— Aye, Rab says, unwittingly being Simon’s stooge, — we have to remember that it’s the performance of sex, not real sex, and it’s just freak-show stuff. I mean, who really has triple penetration in their sex life?

— Jist you n yir poofy mates fae the college, Terry says.

Rab ignores him and continues, anxious that he’s not being misconstrued. — Let’s get a real story, with real people, acting like they’re having real sex. The anal stuff’s a red herring, if the girls dinnae want tae dae it, then that’s cool.

— No, Simon shakes his head. — Ye see, Rab, it’s due to the way we feel about our arseholes. We now believe, as a species, if our soul is located anywhere in our bodies, it’s up our arses. That’s where it all goes. It makes sense. That’s why we’re obsessed with anal jokes, anal sex, anal hobbies . . . the arsehole – not the brain, not space – is the last frontier.
That’s
what makes us revolutionaries.

But I don’t want to do it, so I raise my eyebrows and look at Mel and Ursula for support. — I’m telling you again, I don’t like it. I’ve tried it once before. I find it sore, remote, cold and uncomfortable. I like to fuck, not to sit back gasping like a circus freak tensed up and waiting to see how much of a guy I can take up my arsehole.

— Mibee ye jist need broken in. Some birds that are experienced in it really go for it, Terry says.

— I don’t want a fucking arsehole like the Channel Tunnel, Terry. I’m not being a party-pooper, Terry gives me a big wink, — it’s just not my thing. I’ve nothing against it, I just don’t want to
do
it.

— Wi me, ah’m no that bothered aboot daein it, it’s jist thit ah dinnae want people kennin aboot it, Melanie says. — Ah mean, some things ye dinnae want tae show everybody. Ye need some privacy.

— I’m no-that-sortay-a-girl type ay thing, Terry laughs.

— Well, Terry, it’s awright fir you, it’s different for lassies.

— It shouldnae be, no in this age ay feminism n that. Then he turns to Rab. — Or post-feminism, ah should say. See, Birrell, ah do listen tae yir shite sometimes.

— Glad to hear it.

Simon claps his hands together. — Think Baccarra. Nobody likes a chick who sings ‘Sorry I’m a Lady’ in this business. We want to hear ‘Yes Sir I Can Boogie’.

— Fair enough, Simon, I smile, — but we need a certain song.

He pulls open his wallet. — This is the song, he tells me, exposing a wad of notes. Then he grabs a film poster. — And this. We’re at the front line of everything here. Let’s think about it. I mean, where did all this anal obsession come from?

— Oh yes, it’s perfect for the type of society we live in, self-absorbed, going right up our own arses, I remark.

— No, sweetheart, it all came from porn. These cunts are the real pioneers. Pornography sneezes and popular culture catches cold. People want sex, violence, food, pets, DIY and humiliation. Let’s give them the fuckin lot. Look at humilation television, look at the papers and the mags, look at the class system, the jealousy, the bitterness that oozes out of our culture: in Britain we want to see people get fucked, he says, looking briefly like an alien in
Close Encounters
caught, as he is, in a shaft of sunlight which slips out into a gap between the tenements opposite. — Anyway, let’s continue this discussion later.

Terry looks slyly and says: — Tell ye what though, ye’d better cast Gina. She’ll have nae qualms aboot getting rode up the rectum.

— No way, Terry, she’s okay for stag, but she’s not got proper movie-star quality. Leave the casting to me. The other day I ran into this boy I know from way back, Mikey Forrester, he runs a sauna. There’s some lassies working for him that are tidy. The casting will be nae problem. We dinnae need Gina, Simon says, seeming to shiver as he mentions her name.

Terry shrugs. — Well, that’s up tae you, mate, but she says tae tell ye thit she’s gaunnae batter yir cunt in if she cannae be in the film, he informs Simon with a gleeful smirk.

Melanie nods and confirms this. — Aye, ah widnae mess wi her, cause she’s fuckin hard as fuck. She’ll dae it n aw.

Simon, Sick Boy, slaps his own forehead in exasperation. — Magnificent. I’m being stalked by a fucking boiler and my leading ladies don’t want to do anal. Well, you can just tell the Bride of Begbie to fuck off.

— You tell her, Terry grins.

As the meeting breaks up, I hang about and say to Simon: — The recruitment thing . . . I can maybe help. Ask a few friends if they’re interested. Girls who are in the know, so to speak.

Simon nods slowly.

— I have to go, but I’ll call you later, I say as I see Rab looking on as he waits for me and I’m sure that there’s a spark of jealousy in his eye.

30

Packages

A
h blootered it a wee bit oan the gear again, some stuff ah’d goat fae Seeker. Ali said tae me if yir ever fucked up, dinnae come back here, ah’m no huvin that roond Andy. Which is fair enough likes, so ah didnae. Maist ay the week wis a series ay couches; Monny’s, ma ma’s n perr Parkie’s, which isnae really oan wi him tryin hard tae turn things roond ehsel. Poor cat disnae need me twitchin n shiverin in ehs coupon. That’s the worse thing now, jist one wee relapse n ye pey so much. Ye really feel withdrawal now, even eftir jist the odd wee bang. It’s like the auld system minds ay everything you’ve done in the past n goes, ‘Sorry, gadgie, but take this.’

So ah creep hame fir the first time in days. Andy’ll be at the school n ah’m hopin Ali’s oot. Aye, the gaff’s empty, so ah sit doon in that big, battered armchair n pit oan ma Alabama 3 tape, singin along. Ah see ma mate Zappa the cat, the one boy whae never judges ays. Ah’m lookin at some stuff ah went and goat the other day fae Leith library n ah’ve taken some notes. Ah went in, jist tae git ootay the rain, but ah ended up note-takin oan the history. Ah wis thinkin that Leith’s motto is persevere, n ah’ve goat tae dae jist that. Ah switch oan the telly, wi the sound doon, n gie they plants a bit ay a water, hopin thit Zappa’s no been diggin oot the big yucca gadgie again.

But it’s destined tae be a mad, bad day. Cause the door goes n when ah answer it ah’m jist totally gobsmacked, man. It’s the feral cat himself, standing thaire in front ay ays. Ah’m thinkin when did eh git oot, then ma hert sinks in ma chist cavity n it’s uh-aw, what the fuck has Sick Boy been sayin. Ah kin barely speak fir a bit, then eh smiles at ays n ah finds ma tongue. — Franco, eh, good tae see ye, man. When did ye git oot?

— Been oot fir two fuckin weeks, eh goes, walkin past ays right intae the flat, n ah’m checkin that they segged heels urnae scrappin the varnish oan the wooden flair. Ali wid dae her nut, cause the landlord’s one stroppy gadge. — Didnae waste any fuckin time, sorted oot wi a bird within ooirs. Shaggin fir fuckin Scotland, ya cunt, eh tells me. — What the fuck are you up tae? eh goes, then ehs face goes aw sour. — Yir no oan fuckin smack, ur ye?

Well, when ye see the eye ay that tiger starin at ye, man, it’s best no tae bullshit
too
much.

— Eh, no really, man, but it’s eh, sortay one day at a time, sweet Jesus, ken? No touched it in ages, likes.

— Better fuckin no be, cause ah’ve hud ma fill ay junkies. Wantin a line ay coke?

— Eh . . . eh . . . ah didnae ken what tae say, man. Mind you, ah nivir ken.

Begbie takes that as an aye, and pills oot a wrap. Eh spills oot a good measure, n even though ah’m no a cokeheid, ah think thit ah’ve goat tae dae it oot ay pure protocol, man. It’s jist goat tae be observed but, eh. N one wee line willnae hurt.

Franco starts choppin. — They tell ays thit ye wir in Perth fir a bit, eh says. — Fuckin shitey nick. Missed ye, ya daft cunt, eh goes, wi a wee smile, which ah sort ay take as meanin that the cat missed ays as likesay
me
, rather thin missed ays
in the nick
.

So what can ye say? — Eh, ah missed you n aw, Franco man, but yir lookin well, fit n that, it’s goat tae be said, man.

Eh pats a rocky wall ay a stomach. — Aye, ah worked hard in the nick, no like some. It’s peyin dividends now but, fuckin suren it is, eh goes doon oan a huge line. — Ah’ve goat a young burd, wir oot at Wester Hailes, but wir gittin a flat in Lorne Street. Fuck steyin oot thair. But shi’s tidy n aw, eh sais, tracin oot the shape ay an hourgless kitten wi ehs hands. — Aye, she’s goat a bairn but, likes. She wis wi some cunt whae goat wide so ah burst the cunt’s fuckin mooth right open. Cunt wis fuckin lucky that wis aw eh fuckin well goat. Ah wis steyin at muh ma’s but fuck that, aw she fuckin does is go oan aboot oor Elspeth and this cunt she’s fuckin well gaun oot wi, Franco goes, well chinged n spittin oot syllables like an AK-47 assault rifle, man.

Ah hits the gear n snorts back. Ah stands up, rubbin ma nose. — Aye . . . how’s the bairns?

— Went tae see thum the other day, eh. Thir awright, but that June cunt gits oan ma fuckin nerves, eh. What the fuck did ah ivir git in wi that fir? Wisnae even a fuckin decent poke in it, ah must’ve needed ma fuckin heid examined, eh.

— Ye goat the, eh, jail oot the system yet?

The Begbie cat’s wired oan this ching n eh looks at ays like ehs gaunnae take ma fuckin heid oaf. — What the fuck’s that meant tae mean? Eh?

— Eh, it jist took ays a long time tae git back intae the swing ay things n ah wis only in fir five minutes compared tae you, man, ah tell um. But the Beggar Boy is in fill flight and eh’s talkin aboot prison now and it’s very, very disturbing man, cause ah’m sortay thinkin aboot the Rent Boy, n the cash ah goat back, n blabbin like that tae Sick Boy, n what if eh’s gaunnae tell Beggars?

Franco’s choppin up mair cocaine n ah’m jist reelin fae the first. Eh goes oan for a bit aboot aw the twisted cunts in the jail, then eh jist stares at me wi they bad, bad lamps n goes: — Hi, Spud, see whin ah wis in the jail . . . ah goat a package.

Renton must’ve sorted him oot n aw! — Aye, man. Ah goat yin tae! It wis fae Mark . . .

Begbie bangs tae a halt and stares right intae ma soul, man. — You goat a fuckin package fae Renton, addressed tae you?

Ah’m buzzin n ah dinnae ken what tae say so ah jist blurt it oot. — Well, eh, thing is, Franco, ah dinnae ken for sure that it wis fae Rent Boy, likes. Ah mean, it jist came through the door, anonymous, likesay. But eh, ah jist thought it wid be him, likes.

Totally ragin, Franco slams a fist intae the palm ay his hand n starts pacin up n doon. The warnin bells ur pure ringin now, man. How’s eh like this if ehs been sorted oot fir cash? — That’s right, Spud! That’s what ah fuckin well thought! Only that fuckin sick thievin junky cunt wid send packages wi fuckin poofs’ porn, wi fuckin buftie boys shaggin each other, n address it tae us! Eh’s rubbin oor fuckin faces in it, Spud! CUNT! Franco roars, n slams the table, knockin ower a gless ashtray, which thankfully disnae brek.

Gay porn . . . what the fuck . . . — Aye, that would be the Rent Boy’s crack, likesay, ah say, tryin tae work this oot, gled ah didnae blab aboot the poppy.

— Every one ay they sick cunts ah did in the jail, ah used tae imagine it wis fuckin Renton, this bad feral cat spits. Then eh racks up another two lines. Snortin one back, eh goes: — Ah saw Sick Boy, in ehs fuckin new pub, the fuckin Port Sunshine! Aye, that cunt really fuckin made it big, eh. Course, ye cannae fuckin well tell him nowt, eh’s heid’s fill ay the next big fuckin scam.

— Don’t ah ken it, man, ah nod, droapin doon oantay yon line, even though ma hert’s still thrashin n ah’m still sweatin fae the first yin.

— Aye, n ah saw Second Prize up at Scrubbers Close, wi aw they homeless cunts.

— Heard the cat wis oaf the Christopher Reeve, likes, ah gasp, as the gear hits ehs like a train.

Begbie throws ehsel back in ma airmchair. — Aye, eh wis until ah fuckin well talked some sense intae the cunt. Dragged um ower tae the EH1 in the Mile. Widnae take a fuckin drink so ah slipped a couple ay voddies intae the cunt’s fuckin lemonade, eh says, in a sortay slow, mirthless cackle. — That’s him right back oan it now, eh goes. — Needs some fuckin enjoyment. Singing hymns tae fuckin jakeys aw day, readin the fuckin Bible? Fuck yon shite, so that wis me daein ma fuckin good Samaritan act n savin the cunt fae a life ay fuckin boredom. They fuckin well brainwash ye, they cunts up at that fuckin mission. Ah’ll gie they cunts fuckin Christianity . . .