Today my co-star is a tall, thin actress with beautiful long brown hair. She is
the woman I’ve been screwing around with (okay, the woman “Skipper” has been screwing around with) while in ardent pursuit of the hot lawyer chick. In today’s scene, while I am having sex with the tall brunette, the lawyer will call and invite me over. I’ll drop everything and go.
This is the young actress’ first sex scene and she’s freaked. It’s my first time faking making love on camera too, but I earned my stripes yesterday, heavy petting in the patch (witness the hairless strips on my inner thigh).
As a result of yesterday’s trial by fire, I’m cocky as hell. I even attempt to make conversation with the crew, but no one feels like chatting. Except for a sound guy with plumber’s crack who tells me he “likes my work.” I have no idea if he’s serious.
Lying on top of the nervous actress I try to make small talk before the camera rolls. “So, who’s your agent?” I ask.
I decide not to point out that she is not topless, but in fact wearing Band-Aids. Perhaps in legal terms this is “topless” and she does have a case against the producers. I’m hoping this doesn’t lessen her enthusiasm for the scene: I’m on my way to being the envy of all my friends.
Simulated sex is just like real sex, except that none of your parts actually touch. Even though I’m bumping and grinding, I’m doing it about three inches below her pelvis. Because my hips are off camera, it looks like we’re getting penetration. Three inches north, however, and I would receive a very unlusty punch in the face.
We’re also kissing “passionately” in the scene. On-screen kissing is a little harder and more noisy than real kissing. There’s a lot of smacking and sucking. I don’t know if she is normally this percussive with her husband, or if she’s doing it to upstage me. I start making my noises louder: “Ugh . . . ohh . . . ahh.”
The strangest part of pretend-romance is when the director calls cut mid-take and the lusting gets turned off like a faucet. The actress and I are left starring at each other, lips raw, jaws aching, with nothing to say that isn’t technical sounding. “Can you be careful?” she asks me. “I think you’re blocking in my key light.”
The director calls “action” again and we start getting down like two wind-up toys in the bottom of a sock. We rub and kiss and undulate, all without a hint of arousal. I have nothing close to a boner while we grope and grab. It seems impossible, I know. But imagine making a sex video with your girlfriend or boyfriend. Now add thirty strangers with bad hair and beepers, lights powerful enough to keep Yankee stadium ablaze and a camera the size of a small automobile. Also factor in that your sex movie isn’t for private use, but to be shown on a cable network that reaches an audience of millions (including your mom).
Two Months Later
I’m watching the episode. My girlfriend is happy for me only because I’m in a lot of scenes, not because I get it on with two other women. When my sex scenes come on she shakes her head a little and emits a grunt that says I’ve gotten away with murder.
But the scenes work. After some tight editing, all that sheet wrangling and dry humping and make-believe kissing looks like a real sex scene complete with a smoky musical score.
The only hint that this is my first bedroom gig is that I’m out of shape. No one on TV is flabby. I have a bulging gut and no muscle. I vow to join a gym if my shirt is ever to come off again.
And it looks like that next disrobing might come soon. My latest role is in a movie and I play a gay guy. I haven’t finished reading the script yet, but if I have to make out with another man it might require a full-time acting coach and cue cards. A little protein powder wouldn’t hurt either.