by Ivy Oliver
I make a quick calculation in my head: it's going to take months to film a ten-hour script, moving at this pace. What the hell is everyone here thinking?
Finally, after several hours, they managed to get the entire scene: Matt—I refuse to call him Prince Grabthar—talking his way into Sandy's good graces, enough that she'll lower her weapon.
Hours, for that.
Nick stands up. “Alright cut it, scene, we have it. Lunch break. The light is changing so we need to set up for the next scene on the schedule. Crew, report back in half an hour. I need the cast back in sixty. Go on.”
Matt storms past me with a grunt. I turn and follow him back to his trailer where he stops to brush all the fake dust off himself and stumble inside to sit on a chair.
I hesitate at the door, but enter.
“Are we going to talk?” he says.
“Have you had time to calm down?”
“Have I had time to calm down?” he says. “I'm the one that needs to calm down? Who was facefucking who, big man?”
I clench my teeth.
“Oh, don't act like that. I think me shoving your dick down my throat qualifies as an invitation. I'm not pissed that you did it. I'm pissed that you stopped before we got to the good part.”
I relax slightly, but only slightly.
“I can't have a relationship with you, sexual or otherwise.”
“Who said relationship?” he says, leaning languidly back in his chair, his gloriously perfect muscles flexing invitingly. “I just want you to finish what you started.” He begins rubbing his cock through his dusty leather pants. “You think I can't handle you?”
Before I can think about what to say, my cock does all the thinking for me.
“Kid, I think I'd split you right down the middle. Your little twink ass isn't ready for me.”
He grins. “Don't fucking call me kid.”
I take a step forward and palm his cheek, pushing my thumb into his lips.
“When I'm in your ass you'll be begging me to call you whatever I fucking well please. If you can still talk.”
He rubs himself furiously through the leather.
“Stop,” he says.
I pull my hand back.
“If I jizz in these things it'll be the most disgusting thing ever.” He shudders and pulls his hand back.
“Look, we're both adults. This isn't going to work. I'm paid to provide a service. This is a professional relationship.”
“I've got money, too. I could hire you on. Be your sugar…baby? That doesn't make sense, the sugar baby gets paid…sugar man?”
I glare at him, clenching my teeth.
“I kid, I kid,” he says, raising his hands. “I would never dare impugn your honor. Unless it pisses you off enough to throw me across that bed and blast my ass.”
“No,” I say firmly.
“Let's make a bet,” he says. “I bet you by the time we're done here I'll make you forget whatever dumb bullshit is stopping you from just fucking me senseless.”
“No bet,” I say. “You're back to work in forty-five.”
He pouts. “Oh, daddy, but I need it—”
“Do not call me that,” I growl, even as it sends shocks through my body and stirs my erection.
Matt stares openly at the outline of my hard cock in my pants.
“You have a permit for that?”
Grumbling, I storm outside and wait for him there.
He comes out, fifteen minutes later, and languidly walks back to the set, taking another ten to arrive. Nick is fuming by the time we get there. He speaks privately to Matt in a low, weary tone.
“Look. This is a joke, and we both know it's a joke, but it's going to be a long and complicated joke, and if you hurry your ass up and get here on time we might get out of this sweltering desert before someone dies of heat exhaustion. Are you feeling me?”
Matt nods. “Whatever. What are we doing now?”
“Setups,” Nick sighs. “When the light gets right we're doing one of the romance scenes.”
5
Matt
I read the script over five times before it sinks in what this scene calls for. I turn to Nick and Maury, seated by the camera, as the crew works. Lucas hovers around me whenever I'm not in front of the camera, massive arms folded over his chest. I can feel his presence, sense him like a magnet. It's distracting.
“Guys, look,” I say to Nick and Maury. “How many scenes like this are there in the script?”
“As many as are artistically necessary to convey the emotional arc of Grabthar and Globella,” Maury says haughtily.
I hold up the script.
“Can you explain to me where a scene where Globella spends 'several minutes' performing mock oral sex on me conveys an emotional arc?”
Nick plunges his face into his hands. Maury squares up defensively.
“It's avant garde, yes, but this film sets out to elevate science fiction to a real genre. This film will do what Kubrick and Spielberg could not.”
I blink a few times.
“Are you on fucking cocaine?”
Maury's face scrunches in annoyance. “Actors. Never able to understand a director's vision! Pah.”
He storms off, and I look to Nick.
“Come on, man. I've known Sandy as long as I can remember. This lady used to bring me cookies. She rode my first roller coaster with me. You want me to whip my dick out in front of her?”
Nick looks over at Maury who is by the food table pouring himself a martini.
“I think he does. For some reason,” Nick says. “We'll put a modesty patch on you.”
I implore him in silence.
He leans forward.
“Look, your mom already talked to me. I rock the boat too much and I get fired, you feel me? I need this job. I'm going through a divorce. I seriously need the money.”
Sandy steps up, holding her script open to the same page. Before she can protest, I cut her off.
“I know, I know,” I say. “We're doing it.”
“Does it really need to be this long?” she says, pointing to the script. “A ten-hour movie does not need a five-minute blowjob scene. Why don't we imply it and just cut when I'm on my knees or something?”
She sounds pained, almost tearful.
Nick closes his eyes.
“Look, Maury will shit a chicken if I try to change this. I promise, this footage will never see the light of day.”
“I know you said no one will see it—” I start.
“I mean, I have a lot more freedom in the editing room,” Maury says. He leans in to whisper, “Once the film is cut, I'll destroy all the excess footage. You have my word.”
I look over at Sandy.
“You okay with this?”
She bites her lip.
Anger swells in my chest. Part of me knows that Sandy must realize that this isn't going anywhere and it won't start her a legitimate film career. I don't know if it's a favor to my mom, or she needs the money, or what. I'll talk to her later.
I put my hand on her shoulder. “It'll be okay.”
Nick nods and stands up.
“Clear the set!” he shouts, “Essential personnel only.”
That makes Sandy relax a bit. Weird how she's so tense about this. It must be because it's me.
Lucas looks at us, and at Nick.
“You can stay,” he says. “If I send you packing during this shoot, Margot will bite off my entire ass. Down to the bone.”
Lucas pats Sandy's shoulder. “I'll turn around. I won't watch.”
She nods gratefully.
“Alright,” Nick says, “Set up.”
It takes half an hour to get everyone in position. The makeup artists work on us both, touching up Sandy while they add some scuff marks and fake cuts to my skin. The sun is getting low now, so I guess this will look dramatic.
I recline on a rock—thankfully, it's foam rubber. Then it hits me how stupid it is to haul foam rubber rocks out to the desert. Who is payin
g for all this? Does my father know what's going on out here?
Sandy dips in front of me and undoes my pants. She hovers back a few inches and sort of looks through me, not meeting my eye.
Alright. Fine. Time to admit. I'm not a robot. I fantasized about this a few times. She's an aunt in name only, and she's hot.
Lucas has turned his back to us. I glance over at him, not looking at Sandy, trying to focus on anything else so, as her fingers brush my skin and she opens my leather pants, I don't strain the modesty patch.
When I close my eyes, all I can think about is Lucas. I kind of forget Sandy is there. In other circumstances, that would be for the best, but I can't help but imagine it's Lucas' huge rough hands opening my clothes, not Sandy's small, soft ones. The more I think about it—
“Jesus Christ,” Sandy mutters. “Really?”
“I'm sorry,” I say. “I can't help it.”
“Keep going until I call cut,” Nick says wearily.
At least I don't have to remember lines. Just lay back and…do nothing but be vaguely aware of Sandy bobbing her head in the air and her hands resting on my legs.
This is ridiculous.
“And cue Monstrothis,” Nick shouts.
Now in his full-on rubber suit, Jim the method actor stomps across the scene and grabs a faux-screaming Sandy by the waist, hauls her over his shoulder, and storms off with her.
I hastily zip my pants and follow, brandishing my laser pistol. Rubber-suited Jim turns and…wiggles his rubber lobster claw at me.
I fall to my knees, clutching my throat as if I'm being choked. Sandy screams and beats her fists and feet against him.
“Down,” Nick says, “Falling down to the ground, you're choking.”
I fall onto my side and roll in the dirt, clawing at an imaginary force around my throat.
“Alright, cut.”
“Put me down, asshole!” Sandy shrieks.
“Monstrothis does not—”
“Monstrothis is getting kicked in the balls unless he puts Sandy the fuck down,” she snarls.
He lowers her to her feet, his rubber costume jiggling madly. She offers me a hand. Lucas takes the other and they pull me to my feet. Nick comes over.
“He choked me with his mind,” I say. “Isn't that a little derivative?”
“Yes, because the screenwriter who named his villain ‘Monstrothis’ is so fucking creative,” Nick mumbles. “We good? Anybody hurt?”
“Yeah,” I clap my hand to Sandy's shoulder. “That wasn't such a chore, now was it?”
“We're good,” I say.
“Alright, dinner break. Then some night scenes. Yeah, yeah, I know. The faster we get this done the faster we can strike these sets, get to LA, and do the sound stage work, where it isn't as hot as the surface of the fucking sun.”
He turns and storms off, rubbing at his temples.
Sandy shrugs. “I need more clothes. See you at dinner.”
I walk off with Lucas, shuddering.
“That must have been awkward. You two are close?”
“Very,” I say. I walk in silence for a while. “I think I know what it is.”
“What what is?” Lucas asks.
“Why she was so freaked out. I was just thinking about the look on her face when she realized I knew what she does for a living. I was fourteen or so, I think.”
Lucas lets out a low, soft grunt.
“Is it weird I wish she was my mom sometimes?”
“Considering that she just gave you a pretend blowie, yes, yes it is.”
I glare at him, and he shrugs. “I call it as I see it.”
“If you'll recall, I protested.”
“You did,” he says, studying me. “You really had her back, there. You were damn near kind.”
“I want to say thanks, but you sound too surprised.”
He cracks a small smile.
“Your mother made you out to be…”
“An asshole?” I finish. “Yeah, no surprise there.”
“Difficult,” he says.
I thrust my hands in my pockets…except I have no pockets. My stomach is rumbling, and I still have the modesty patch glued over my dick.
There's pizza at the caterer's tent. I carry mine away on a paper plate. When I go to carry a chair with me, Lucas grabs it and throws it up on his shoulder.
“Are you still planning to leave?”
He frowns.
“If I stay on, it's in a professional capacity. Is that understood?”
I glance at him.
“I don't want you to go. I feel like I need you here. It's making this stupidity surprisingly tolerable.”
“How can I deny Prince Grabthar?” he says, smirking.
Someone, I guess Lucas, had already brought one chair back. Sandy, with a robe over her “costume,” is sitting on her lounger with her big hat on, eating pizza.
We pull up chairs and sit on either side of her and eat in silence.
When she's done and scrubbing her hands with a napkin, she sighs.
“Have you been reading the script? I think we need to talk to your mom.”
Lucas grunts. “Didn't you all read the script before?”
“I skimmed over the stage direction,” I admit.
“Your mom's screenwriter wrote like five sex scenes. One is supposed to be in zero gravity and we have to wear wires on the soundstage.”
“Soundstage?” Lucas says.
“Yeah, we have to go back to LA for half the filming,” Sandy sighs. “Interiors, spaceship sets, some stuff we can't do out here.”
Lucas sets his jaw and looks into the distance. I stare at him for a while, luxuriating in his chiseled good looks, like a statue come to life. I feel like I could swipe my finger along his chin and show marble underneath.
That's not the only part of him that's hard as a rock. I squirm in my seat.
“Sandy, about earlier,” I say. “I… that was—”
“Yeah, I shouldn't have snapped at you. We're professionals!”
“Are we?” Lucas says.
“Well, you are,” I say. “We're not. This…I can't believe my dad signed off on this. He must not know.”
“Didn't he buy a vacation house last year that cost more than this movie does?”
I shrug. “I've never seen it. He buys and sells real estate all the time.”
Lucas sits up. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess he likes to flip estates. It's like a hobby.”
Lucas seems keenly interested in that, until Sandy changes the subject.
“I hope to God that we're not doing another love scene. I just can't.”
I pat her back. “Nick is cool. If we were doing another he'd have warned us, and I'd have refused.”
Sandy draws her legs up and rests her arms on her knees.
“Once I'm paid, I'm out of the industry. I put an offer down on a house in Santa Fe. I'm really retiring. No comeback special this time.”
“I'm glad to hear that. Can I come visit?”
“Sure, sugar,” she says, nodding. “We better get back.”
After we toss our trash and head back to the set, we find some of the visual effects guys pouring green powder into a drum and churning it.
“Oh my God,” Sandy says. “Please tell me that isn't the royal jelly.”
“Fifty-five gallons of it,” Nick sighs. “I've got the guys dressing the nest set right now.”
“Nest?” Lucas says.
Sandy glances at him. “Apparently I lay eggs.”
“Then why would you want to—” I start.
“My character. Why would my character want to,” she says quickly.
Nick looks at Lucas.
“You may speak freely.”
Lucas shrugs.
Nick hooks a thumb at him. “Does this guy speak anything but grunt?”
“French, Italian, a little Farsi, some Arabic, a little German, a little Russian. You pick things up.”
Nick squares up and looks
at him.
“You know what you could do? You look like an action hero to me. You could do the whole machete in one hand, machine gun in another, fighting aliens jag and be damn good for it.”
“I can't act to save my life,” Lucas says, more than a little uncomfortable.
Nick shrugs. “Like anyone here can.”
Sandy clears her throat.
“Well, like anyone here but her can. No offense, kid.”
“Like I give a shit,” I say.
“After that debacle earlier, let's make a pact,” he says. “I've got your backs if you've got mine. Let's just survive this and get on with our lives and various financial difficulties that have prompted us to take this gig.”
“Should we do the thing where we all put our hands on each other's?” Sandy says.
I laugh and thrust my hand out.
Lucas puts his hand on top of mine and shrugs. The others join in.
Maury comes sauntering up to Sandy.
“I want to talk to you about your motivation,” he says.
“I'm not talking to you again unless you can keep your eyes off my tits for at least five minutes. Starting now.”
A few seconds later, she says, “restart the clock.”
“Maury, we can consult later,” Nick says. “Sandy has to climb into a kiddie pool full of sex jelly and food coloring. Let's cut her some slack, eh?”
Maury, turning a little red, stalks off.
“The things I do for love,” Sandy says, heading for the set.
I grab a copy of the script and go over my lines. Lucas looks around.
“Something is setting off my instincts,” he says very quietly.
“Are you hitting on me?”
“Not right now. The bad instincts, not the fun instincts.”
“Your spider sense is tingling?”
“You might say that.”
I lean back a little from the table where I've propped open the script. “Okay, what?”
“Nothing specific,” he says, looking around. “There's just something off about this. I've worked with extravagant rich types before. Never seen anything this shady.”
“How's it shady?”
“Lot of money apparently going nowhere.”
“Huh,” I say. “I honestly don't pay attention. Have I told you about the time my mom decided to be an artist?”
He shakes his head.
“She bought a Ferrari, dipped it in plastic, and mounted it vertically in the Tenderloin down in San Francisco. She called the art installation, ‘The Value of Impermanence.’”