The Mammoth Book of International Erotica

Parker Coleman’s Grinning Bare Productions

I pushed open the heavy door and walked in, hoping to find Parker in the middle of shooting a scene for a film. I was disappointed. All was quiet. No naked ladies running about with semen on their thighs. I picked my way through a maze of boxes, stacked film cans and movie equipment and saw, at the end of a long hallway plastered with posters for porno films, a man and a woman sitting on a couch watching an old movie on color television.

Up close, Parker looked like a disheveled teddy bear. So this was the cocksman, I thought: he wore a full black beard, a dirty T-shirt featuring Paul Newman’s baby blues studded with rhinestones and a pair of wool pants – it was a hot day in July when I saw him – over which a belly the size of a watermelon loomed. He was a teddy bear whose stuffings were coming out, but he sat on that ratty couch like a goddamned emperor, while the blonde sitting next to him rubbed his bare feet.

He started talking – Parker talked more than any man I’ve ever known, in the same obsessive way other people chain smoke – but I wasn’t listening. I was staring at the blonde, and trying my best not to look like I was staring.

So this was ginch: clear California features you see a lot of in porno films, a tan so deep it looked built in, lush red mouth and sparkling whiter-than-white teeth genetically engineered to fit around the head of a cock, and a body that relegated Raquel Welch to the pin-ups-of-the-past department. It was all big and firm and fresh and caramel and it made me want to shake my fist at the destiny that hadn’t dropped one just like it on my doorstep. I nodded at her in the direction of the nipples I saw poking through the thin material of her halter top, and she smiled back so quickly I almost missed the glory of it, the corners of her mouth turned up like wings.

The only thing that bothered me about the blonde were her eyes. There was no one home behind her eyelids, which drooped like paper blinds over the windows of an empty furnished room.

Parker was talking, but I interrupted him. Much as I needed the small fee he was offering me, I had to find out about her.

“Can she talk?”

“I don’t encourage it, Nick. Let a woman talk, and pretty soon you’re in trouble. She sure can move her lips, though. I’m trying to teach her how to suck cock and sing ‘Yankee Doodle’ at the same time, but she’s a slow learner. College dropout. About the film, do you think you could get right on it? I gotta have something on paper, man. This film is going to be a biggie. I’ve got backers begging me to take their money.”

Parker must have noticed that he wasn’t getting my undivided attention, because all of a sudden he started talking about the blonde, with the possessive pride of a homeowner talking about a new lawnmower.

“Bliss is going to be in the film, you know, Nick. But the real star – now there’s prime ginch, nothing cut-rate. A ringer for Farrah Fawcett-Majors. Great idea, huh? Every guy in the country crazy about that dizzy ginch, and we’re going to cash in on it.”

I looked at Bliss. She was off in a world of her own, a dreamy look in her eyes that I couldn’t identify. Watching her was like having a wet dream while awake. If she was high on something, I hoped it was the smell of semen. She reminded me of a robot, one of those rubber sex dolls you buy for $19.95 from an ad in a men’s magazine and blow up like a balloon. Bliss was an appropriate name for her: she was blissed-out.

Like most American men of my age and background (32, midwest, Berkeley, divorced, blah, blah, blah), I’d paid lip-service all my life to the idea of female equality simply because I wanted to fuck, and the ladies available for fucking were feminists, at least in the living room. But I was weary of having to deal with women as if they had brains; I was ready for some unradical, unpretentious sex doll who would perform whenever and however I wanted. I was ready for ginch, in other words.

Or was I? I think the truth is that I was torn like any Catholic schoolboy between the brainlessly pornographic vision of ginch before me and a life-time’s indoctrination – by women, of course, from my mother to my unlamented ex-wife – in the notion that women have souls as well as cunts, feelings as well as nice tits.

Fortunately for me, Parker’s mother back in Kansas had not raised any such dummies. When he wanted something, he was absolutely tuned in on the price he would have to pay. Seeing that I was so hypnotized by Bliss that no business was going to get done until my attention was distracted, he put his hand on her shoulder and gave her a gentle push in my direction. It was as if he’d pushed a button located somewhere between her shoulder blades.

Bliss drifted toward me like Linda Lovelace stepping from the screen, red tongue moistening her wet lips. Her hand went straight to my crotch and lightly brushed the painful erection that beat like a trapped Gooney bird behind my zipper. I reached out a tentative hand to stroke her golden hair, looking up briefly to see Parker smiling like a man who’s just made a deal that’s not going to cost him anything.

Bliss fell gently to her knees and tugged my tool from a pair of blue French briefs I was particularly proud of, stared until she was almost cross-eyed at my humble staff, and darted out her tongue to lick the tip. Both of her hands encircled the shaft as she introduced the throbbing head into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the length as if she were eating a double-dip Baskin-Robbins cone.

“Jesus Christ!” I shuddered, bent double over the heated pleasure at my groin. I couldn’t help myself. I had not exchanged one word with Bliss, and in one or two minutes I was going to erupt like a geyser into her throat. I saw Parker smiling impatiently from the couch, as if to say, Come on, get it over with, and the next thing I knew I was coming, while Bliss’s head bobbed back and forth in a receptive rhythm as steady as a sewing machine’s.

Her mouth came off my cock with a sweet pop, and she stood up, a vague, satisfied smile on her face.

“Thank you…” I blurted, but she went back to sit on the couch next to Parker without answering me.

I was zippering my fly, feeling considerably shaken up by the blowjob, when Parker started talking again.

“Okay, Nick, now that we’ve got that out of the way, maybe we can get down to business, huh? You think you can put together something on paper I can show the money guys? I got a lot of notes.”

“How soon do you need it?”

“Yesterday, man. Everything in this business is yesterday.”

“How about by Monday?” It was Friday afternoon, fading into evening. I thought I’d give myself the weekend, and sit at the typewriter until the damned thing was finished. Considering the money he was offering, it was a lousy deal, but I knew I had to see Bliss again. If I did the script, I could invent a thousand reasons why I had to drop by the loft. So we talked money, I accepted a very small check as advance payment, and Parker explained what he wanted me to write. He was an idea man, he said; it was up to me to fill in the details. While he talked, I watched Bliss. She listened to him like she was hearing her Master’s voice.

Like most survivors of the sixties, I’m wary of sentiment, but even if I didn’t know that what was happening to me when I looked at Bliss used to be called love by movie heroes in the forties, I knew something unusual was going on in my head: I felt protective toward her. Parker obviously didn’t give a shit for her – why else would he have let her blow me? – but my motives were pure. They would allow me to take her away from Parker without a second thought.

It didn’t occur to me that she might not want to leave Parker. The Lone Ranger, savior of beautiful ginch, had made up his mind, and to hell with reality.

I went to work on the script for Parker’s Angels that evening, after borrowing the air-conditioned apartment of a friend who was off to the country for the weekend and hauling my electric typewriter to his living-room outlet. I cashed Parker’s check at the bar, paid off part of the tab, bought two six-packs of beer, and hallucinated about Bliss while I filled in the salacious details of the script outline Parker had given me.

I worked late and slept till noon the next day. Sunday in New York in the summer: when I left the borrowed air conditioning and stepped onto the sidewalk, two scenes under my arm and a desire to see Bliss so strong I only paused for coffee and a donut on my way to Parker’s loft, the city seemed as hot and dry as the Sahara.

I had to see her alone – to find out what made her tick, I told myself – when all along I knew that what I really wanted was to find the button in her back that made her Parker’s possession. I lusted after that button.

Luck was with me; I found Bliss washing her hair when I entered the loft. She was wearing blue nylon panties and her long blonde hair was full of soap. She told me that Parker had gone out with some friends to get an egg cream and the Sunday papers, seeming neither surprised nor interested that I was standing six feet away from her, my eyes glued to her amazingly firm breasts. Shampoo ran in a thin trickle of liquid gold across one erect roseate nipple.

“I brought part of the script,” I explained while she wrapped a red towel around her wet hair and cleaned out the big double sink. “I made your part a little bigger than Parker asked for.”

In order to appreciate her response, you have to consider that I had never heard her talk. As Parker said, he didn’t encourage it.

Her tones were warm and chocolaty, but the words she spoke were delivered with all the sincerity of a long distance operator placing a call.

“I just love the men Parker finds for his films. They’re so friendly. You know what I mean?”

You can see why I wondered if she was for real. Why, I threw down the manuscript I’d brought and reached for her tits, mashing my mouth down on hers while my hands moved down her body to her ass, pushing the panties down her thighs. She put her arms around me automatically, but otherwise she didn’t respond, even when I dug one finger into her small, tight cunt, even when I cupped her ass with one hand and stroked her clitoris with the other. I was like a kid set loose in a goddamned candy store, reaching for the gum and the Tootsie Rolls, the licorice, and the chocolate kisses at the same time, with extra arms and dozens of hands.

It didn’t matter what I did; she wouldn’t respond. My hands moved over her body desperately searching for the magic button that would turn her on. Apparently only Parker knew where it was.

Not that she resisted. I pushed her across the room to the couch and plunged between her legs, groaning when my cock pushed itself into her warm juices, into that wet groove that the Parker Colemans and Johnny Holmeses of the porno world took for granted. Her long legs wrapped themselves around my hips with all the intimacy of a seat belt, and she settled in for the ride. Her eyes were closed when I looked at her, but small pleading sounds were issuing from the corners of her mouth. (Or so I thought; maybe that was my imagination getting overheated.)

I held onto her ass and her tits like some crazed rapist frustratedly trying to cram all the experience of once-in-a-life-time sex with a desirable blonde into three minutes, but even then I was experiencing that guilt so special to mine and Parker’s generation, the guilt which said, You shall not treat a woman like a sexual plaything.

These thoughts didn’t prevent me from having one of the most memorable orgasms in a wasted life spent paying lip service to feminism while my cock twitched unheeded by the Gloria Steinem clones of my acquaintance. I mean, I came like a flood bursting through the Grand Coolee Dam. I even screamed a little bit at the end.

When I returned to my senses it was still a hot Sunday afternoon in New York, and Bliss was regarding me like a mannequin in a store window who’s just noticed a fly crawling on her expensive clothes.

My guilt returned, a homing pigeon with a fine regard to post-ejaculation blues.

“That was nice,” Bliss volunteered.

“Nice?”

“It was okay.”

“Don’t you feel used doing this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Parker calls you ginch. You do anything he tells you to do. Anything anybody tells you to do.”

“Didn’t you enjoy it?”

“Sure I enjoyed it. You bet your ass I enjoyed it.”

“Then…”

“But women just don’t act like you. None of them.”

“I’m happy. I like to screw. It makes me feel good.”

I lifted my weight from her and she slid to a corner of the couch, a wide-eyed look of carnal innocence on her face that I’d last seen on the screen in a Times Square porno house. I was in the throes of the usual neurotic male reaction to a woman who likes to fuck: I felt threatened. Having come in so glorious a fashion, I could afford to nitpick. I couldn’t have stopped myself if I’d wanted to: I still couldn’t figure her out.

She was so vague, so blissed-out, I wanted to shake her.

“Don’t you care who you fuck?”

“Sure. I like men who know how to take care of me.”

“Does Parker?”

“Let’s do a joint, okay? I have a hard time with questions. I think they suck.”

She shook her wet hair as if my questions were taxing her brain.

She dug into a fringed leather bag on the floor and produced a joint wrapped in red, white and blue. We smoked in silence while I tried to decide on the best ploy to use to get her away from Parker. Hoping that the grass would make her more suggestible, I let her smoke most of the joint.

“What kind of hold does Parker have on you?”

“I like the dude. He understands me.”

“Do you think I could understand you?”

“You?” She was inhaling when she answered; the rest of it was lost in a sudden coughing fit.

Being laughed at by a woman – even when she tried to cover it up, as Bliss was doing behind her coughing – is calculated to make even the best of men wonder if somehow he hasn’t failed at life’s ultimate test: getting laid with a certain pleasant regularity. Since I am painfully aware that I am more of an average guy than the best of men, I exploded.

“What the hell’s wrong with me? I’ll treat you a lot better than Parker does. You won’t be ginch to me. You cunt.”

I stopped myself before I really landed into her because it sounded just like arguments I’d had with my ex-wife, not seduction at all. “Come away with me,” was all I was really trying to say, but come away to what? To a lousy tenement apartment without electricity? Parker was a celebrity, the cocksman, the Name. I was a nobody. I had no bargaining position. I suddenly realized that ginch like Bliss was not for me, just like shooting pheasant was not up my alley. Ginch and pheasant were reserved for the aristocrats of life, the hustlers, cocksmen, and celebrities. My timing was off, and theirs was always perfect.

As if to prove the truth of my perception about timing, Parker walked into the loft at just that moment, when Bliss was looking at me with stoned, empty eyes, as if I were a frog who was never going to make it to prince status. He had a guy with him who looked like he sold ties in a fag boutique, or dressed hair in Queens. He wore a Hawaiian shirt over tight pre-shrunk jeans and a silver beard that looked like he kept it trimmed with toenail clippers.

“You got a script, man?” Parker said to me, dumping the Daily News in Bliss’s lap. (A lap, I should add, that when spread dripped my semen – my precious 100,000 sperm – onto the couch. I don’t think Parker even noticed. Bliss plunged right into the Sunday funnies.)

I pointed toward the manuscript I’d brought while Parker introduced me to his friend.

“Nick, this is Terry Chiffon. He’s gonna direct Parker’s Angels for me. The best talent in the business.”

We shook hands suspiciously. Terry parked himself on the couch next to Bliss and immediately began stroking her thigh. I watched his hand like a gunfighter watching his enemy’s hand as it moves closer to the.45 strapped to his leg, feeling that something was going to happen that I wouldn’t like at all.

“Has Bliss been taking care of you?” Parker asked, while rummaging through the pages of my script.

“I fucked her.”

“Good for you. You looked like you needed it.”

“Don’t you give a shit?”

“What about?” he asked distractedly. Maybe he was trying to figure out my typing.

“About me fucking her.”

“She’s ginch, man. Ginch is made to be fucked. Don’t you know that yet? There’s millions of hungry pussies where she came from. She knows it. It keeps her toed to the mark.”

I was about to argue with him – full of theories I’d learned from women – when I saw Terry’s hand insert itself into Bliss’s cunt.

She didn’t drop the funny papers. I watched as he stuck five fingers into the slit I’d just oiled for him. With the other hand he unzipped himself and pulled out a long thin cock. Then he looked at Parker.

“Is it cool, baby?”

Parker’s response was immediate: “You know it’s cool. You’re the director.”

While we watched, Terry spread Bliss’s legs and entered her. She looked at him over the top of the paper she was reading and then went back to it, while Terry jumped away. She was a sphinx; I realized then what I hadn’t seen before: she was every man’s woman, and no man’s. We all fed her emptiness.

“That’s some woman you’ve got there,” I said to Parker.

“The sixties brought them all out, man. Chicks suddenly discovered they had cunts. Bliss is a dime-a-dozen chick. They’re hanging from every tree. All you have to do is reach up and pick one.”

Parker looked at me like I wasn’t in possession of all my marbles. Rejection must have been written on my face like the words on a billboard. He was reassuring.

“She’s just a ginch, man. Just a ginch.”

I looked at Terry fucking Bliss and winced, remembering how her tongue had felt on my cock, thinking miserably of all the avenues of life that were closed to me.

“She’s like a fucking machine. A doll,” I said.

“Ginch,” Parker repeated.