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| by Virginia Beaver |
On Location: Pink
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| The familiar dark-blue Reed and Malloy uniforms are what first draw my eye as I pick my way along a trail of cables and wires onto the set of Metro’s newest shot-on-film extravaganza, Pink. Director James Avalon sits in a director’s chair with his back to me. He’s pondering today’s set, a runway lounge that shines and glitters like a new quarter, through which a quartet of long, lean porn divas traipse in mile-high boots and PVC corsets.
Pink is the latest in along line of high-end Avalon-Metro productions, and while the Red Vibe Diaries series is probably the best-known of these, a series of other blast-furnace titles have made it something of a truism around the porn world that when Avalon hits the set for Metro, hyper-hot porn is on the way.
Pink stars Coral Sands, Metro’s latest contract girl, and who has made a resounding name for herself as a performer of edgy erotic intensity, jaw-dropping physical charms and a penchant for down and dirty decadence where it’s required.
Coral has been among the small group of female performers who will only work with other girls, but as part of her deal with Metro she will do her first and only boy-girls scene in Pink. Just now she’s slinking around the set topless, all wet-dream jiggle and tanned, taut flesh.
Also cruising the set all but nude are Syren, a breathtaking Asian, Gwen Summers, who has only recently hit the blue-movie big time, but who has done so to no shortage of critical acclaim, and Carolyn Pierce, whom I’ve never seen before, but whose full, round booty sets her apart nicely from her lithesome costars.
I need to chat with director Avalon about the shoot, and with his production assistant about what all’s on the schedule for today, but those L.A.P.D. uniforms on the far side of the set have got all of my attention for the moment. A misspent youth leaves its mark.
Then it hits me — they must be actors dressed up to look like L.A.P.D. That’s it. I relax. But then I look a little closer and note each of them doing that distinctive cop fidget — fiddling with the volume control on their radios, lifting their bat belts when they hang too low, pawing the butts of their Barrettas. And both of them have that patented L.A.P.D. Doberman glare. They’re real-deal coppers after all, I decide.
I turn to the guy who owns this particular studio and say, “Hey, those are real cops, right?” He nods. “What are they doing here?” He shrugs. “Do you wanna tell ‘em to leave? There were firemen here yesterday.”
Frank Towers breezes past followed by the production assistant. Neither of them looks too happy. Towers, an A-list wood-slinger, is a blond mountain of muscle, a bearer of Northern European DNA coding most at home at the bow of a Viking long boat bearing down on some luckless stretch of Irish coastline. As he speaks now, though, he’s apologetic and obviously more than a little embarrassed. It seems his latest DNA HIV test — the one without which he can’t work today — is still at the clinic, and that the clinic is inexplicably closed at 1:00 on a Wednesday afternoon.
Finally, Towers gets somebody at the clinic on the phone and arranges to pick up his test results. He races out to retrieve them, but for now the show has to go on without him. This means hours of shooting non-sex footage and plain ol’ downtime.
Typically, plain ol’ downtime on a porn set equals hours of boredom. Today, however, the U.S. has decided to get a few things straight with Saddam Hussein and has begun massive air strikes against Iraq.
I settle in front of the sound man’s monitor, which doubles as a TV, and we watch the war. Herschel Savage, who has returned to The Biz as a performer in the last year or so after a long retirement, pulls up an apple box and sits down. “’Bout fuckin’ time,” he grumbles.
Syren, wobbles over on platform shoes and draped in a bath robe and asks timidly, “Can I see?”
“Of course,” we answer in unison, and she wiggles in amongst us. On screen, anti-aircraft fire is streaking into the air and bombs are pummeling one of history’s great cities, but all I can think is, “Damn she smells good.”
Syren is one of the great underrated adult film stars of our times.
Her dark, almond eyes simmer with soft hunger. Her lips part wetly to reveal perfect white teeth. Her skin is warm, fragrant silk. And then there’s that bod. Unlike so many of the other Asian sex queens who have made their way across the adult screen, Syren boasts a body which is shapely and oh-so-feminine even by the most exacting western standards. Especially impressive are her breasts, naturally full and heavy, rising and falling now beneath her robe. She absentmindedly runs three fingers over her hard, dark nipples as she watches the Baghdad night explode.
Finally Towers returns and it’s time to shoot sex. The scene on tap has Gwen, Carolyn and Syren taking on Herschel and Frank. It’s a fantasy sequence requiring not a lot of set up. Herschel’s mind starts to wander as he watches the models on the catwalk, and we’re suddenly off to the races.
Suddenly Hersch and Carolyn are running their tongues along the reflective black surface of Gwen’s thigh-high boots, and Frank’s hands are sliding along Syren’s subtle curves.
In a flash, a layer of pink PVC and black latex is striped from Gwen’s writhing form and Herschel’s face is buried in her delta, her hand cupped around the back of his head, pulling him in.
She bucks against his face and curls one leg around his neck. Meanwhile, Frank has Syren flat on the stage, her legs wide and her head tossed back in ecstasy. Her jaws work in silent praise of his tongue as it beats out a brisk rhythm against her swelling vulva.
Gwen then squats over Caroyln’s face and immediately starts panting breathily. The performers are now making this shoot up as the move through it, doing what their throbbing libidos command. Gwen lets loose with a throaty litany of ear blistering sex-banter, telling Carolyn just what to do with that pierced tongue of hers. As she works, Carolyn starts to paw at her own clit distractedly, and as she does so, feeds more hungrily on Gwen’s dripping honey pot.
After Gwen lets lose a resounding climax, everybody takes a break. When they resume, the girls turn the tables on the guys, and begin slurping ravenously at their lower-anatomy calling cards. The sexual tension has been building all day, and now it explodes. The set is soon resounding from end to end with the primal growl of young women approaching their second or third orgasm, the slap of flesh against flesh and amazed, barely audible gasps as a sound-stage full of porn-vet grips, lighting guys and camera men marvel at the proceedings.
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