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The whole relationship is something of a balancing act as well, with both parties having to separate the mechanical motions of a movie set from the genuine intimacy craved by real human beings.
"You kind of have to always make sure that the other person knows that they're No. 1," Chambers says.
It also helps to forget who you are when shooting a scene.
"You click on a character," Chambers says. "I've gotta turn into this character who is just nothing but a sex addict and then, you've gotta make sure that your partner knows, 'Okay, well, this is the way I become on set. And maybe I'm not being this way with you, because, in a different way, it's more loving and caring and nurturing, as opposed to a set, where it's just fucking.' "
Just fucking means you have to fill out an IRS Form W-9 afterward. Intimacy does not require paperwork.
It's grown hotter on the bare-bones set of MPITSC 2, and Byron removes his jacket and wipes his sweaty brow with a forearm.
Marx is too sore to continue. She apologizes, saying she shot an anal scene the day before, and two days in a row was just too much.
She was a trouper for the first two positions, pushing on even though she had to take several breaks to use a baby wipe, apply more lube and ease the burning pain. As she lay still on the bed, Styles hopped off and stroked himself to stay hard.
Marx can't handle the third position, upsetting the choreography, which called for Styles to deliver a pop shot upon exit. Styles, Byron and Ivan have a caucus to discuss alternatives, with Styles stroking himself the entire time.
Ivan suggests a facial. Byron mulls it over as if he were choosing between a tall and a grande at Starbucks.
"Facials are cool, but we do that all the time," he finally decides.
But after a long, intense, chin-scratching brainstorming session, they ultimately opt for the facial. Marx slides off the bed onto her knees. Styles drops a dollop of lube on his palm and strokes himself.
"I have some spit if you need some," Marx offers.
Styles says he's all right, and then no one speaks. Byron and Ivan are standing statue-still, their cameras trained on the two performers.
For what seems like a fortnight, Styles is the only person who moves. The room is silent except for Styles's tugging of his moist organ, a sound like galoshes swiftly squishing through slush.
This is the moment where a male performer must prove himself. Twenty minutes of stop-start sex with a partner wincing in pain has left him less than aroused. Styles alone must conjure the pop shot.
Styles's eyes are fixed on Marx, who feigns extreme delight. Like everyone else in the room, she just wants to wrap things up and grab lunch.
This is what Margold is talking about when he says the male is a hit man, hired from the waist down. Bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, full count, and you can't foul up a ball.
Styles always loved baseball but was just too little to be of much use. But here, in this stuffy room, he's Babe Ruth, pointing to the lights and reeling off a pop shot to save the day.
Twenty minutes later, he's back in his truck, heading out of the valley. He's smiling, because he's done a good job, and because the rest of the day belongs to him.