Fiction: Porn Shoot Cleaner

By Tom Stuckey

Imagine the worst, what is it? This was Bill and GenX, they always leave the place in a gruesome way. Bobby the director is also here, directing them. I could never understand how they made such bad performances of it all. Gen squeals like a piglet all the way through, even when Big Bill was slapping his penis on her face, she has no levels, no rhythm, just a high pitch that works the brain like a drill. Maybe it is Bobby’s fault, after watching the performances for so long, day in and day out, it must of just all become like a museum to sex. Sex is exciting for a few reasons, and they all seem to be as far away from those reasons as possible. Also Bill only has one speed, his hips just work like an oil pump out in the desert, his mind was gone too, overloaded, didn’t know pain from pleasure anymore. In between takes, he would sometimes come and try to talk with me, but that part of him was out there in the desert somewhere, pumping. He'd blow over like a tumbleweed and then go off again the same, lost. His face was sad and fake, with dyed eyebrows that made his expression, overly exaggerated, like a game show hosts. Gen had become a bitter mean person; there was something about having the ass fucked for the world to see, that made her hate when the cameras were off. She hated herself; she hated the birds in the garden, but she hated men most of all. When she thought no one was watching she would sometimes smear her shit all over the changing room walls, so that I had to clean it up, like I say, getting the ass fucked on TV is a twisted thing that makes people do twisted things. But I am the cleaner, so I just clean and go home, listening to the birds, ass intact, soul intact. 

Cleaning isn’t all that bad, there are worst things, believe you me. I once had to clean up after Fi69, after she went for the record of 30 men in 30 minutes, it was a horror show, but I wiped all the cum down, put the towels in the bin, sprayed clean pine disinfectant and moped it all away, and forgot about it before the disinfectant was dry. 

Over the years it has gotten worse, a steady decline I would say. The women more like drag robots and the men more like villains in a school panto. The vending machine nature of social media has made the cheap, bargain-basement-fire-sale cheap. I worry they have simply run out of ways to shock others and sacrifice themselves. 

So I try to be kind and nice to them, where I can, sometimes I make them tea, or get them an ice pack - because behind their forced tanned smiles, the nightmare is living. 

I brought in my earplugs for GenX, I’ll go and check the walls of the changing room and leave them too it. There is a matinee of the new Romeo & Juliet on downtown, maybe I can make it there if I hurry, lets go see. 

Tom Stuckey is a poet from Devon, England.