The girl is on her hands and knees with a German Shepherd hanging out the back of her. She’s Polish, so it all seems like some crude metaphor for the Occupation her ancient grandmother still strives daily to forget. She’s looking off camera, to a wall mounted clock, watching the second-hand lop moments off this experience. She’s never had intercourse with an animal before; doesn’t know how long it will last.
She considers that the dog is cleaner and better mannered than some of the men she has been made to fuck. She starts to give a little laugh at that thought, then catches it in her throat, turns it into a sex noise.
Ever the pro.
Before the take, she was given a cigarette lighter and some crushed up tablets on a tablespoon. She smoked them through an emptied out Bic biro tube. The people who provided these pharmaceuticals are known in the industry as the 'special effects crew'. Their budget is low. She’s desensitized, but more through life experience than medication. She can still feel the animal’s eager saliva dripping down onto her back. It reminds her of the greasy rain that fell in her home-town after the glue factory exploded, leaving her family insolvent; washing her all the way to this damp basement in Dalston.
Before the scene, the dog was fluffed by its once proud owner. He doesn’t look so proud anymore, loitering behind the lighting rig, wiping his hand repeatedly against his trousers. He insisted on seeing a clean bill of health for the girl before he allowed the animal’s participation. For his part, he brought Kennel Club certificates and consented to the clipping of the animal’s dew claws.
The director is still jagged from his last meth hit. There’s a scar on his inner arm where a dog bit him when he was seven-years-old and he strokes it reflexively as he struggles to keep still. Usually, he’s more vocal during filming but today he doesn’t want to distract the Shepherd. The only direction he gave the girl before the scene was the same as the owner gave the dog. Stay.
A few years ago he was making quality vampire porn, until the economic downturn drove a stake through its heart. Now all the Vaseline gets smeared around the girls’ orifices, rather than onto the lens. He’s thinking about how long it will be before someone approaches him to make a snuff film, wondering how he’ll react to that. The concept doesn’t fit well with his usual working methods. He’s known for his multiple takes.
The sound guy’s denim-clad erection mimics the angle of his boom rod. He spoke to the girl earlier and likes her. He’s carefully folded her robe and left it on top of his equipment box. He had thought that after the take he would hand it to her, like one of those silver blankets they give to marathon runners. She would then see his good heart, tucked into the gown’s sleeve, and he would ask her out.
Now he’s watching the scene unfold and having second thoughts. He doesn’t think he could handle the humiliation of being rejected by a girl who just had sex with a dog.
The Shepherd isn’t thinking about anything except fucking. It maintains the same jackhammer tempo throughout. There is no variation when it finally orgasms. Once done, it just yawns and looks around the room for approval. Stars and their egos. Finding none, it seems suddenly embarrassed and tries to back out of the girl awkwardly, like a careless parker. Everyone, including the dog, seems glad that it’s finally over.
“Cut!” says the director, struggling to find words. “That was...beautiful.”
I shut down the camera and will the image to fade away.