The weightlifting contest
By Diana the Valkyrie
Linda fluffs her way to a victory


"Come on, Linda, this film crew is costing two hundred per". Yeah yeah 
yeah. I know. Cameras, lights and no action. Another butterstick to coax 
into a semblance of life, but this poor guy had been up a dozen times 
today already, and I almost felt sorry for him. Almost, but not quite, 
because it was me that was looking bad, I'm supposed to be able to get a 
butterstick to do anything I want. Come on, butterstick, up for Linda, 
up we go little butterstick, come on my lovely. 

After I told him several lies about what I'd do to him afterwards, made 
big eyes at him, and told him a few times about how attracted to him I 
was, he was at least stiff enough for the camera if you didn't focus it 
quite right. "That's the last one?" I said to Ernie, he's the producer. 
Ernie nodded. "Have a hard day, Linda?" he grinned. They all crack that 
one. Yeah yeah yeah. "Yeah, hard as butter, Ernie." Ernie laughed and 
they got on with filming the last take. It didn't actually matter now 
that the butterstick had lasted about ten seconds before deflating, 
they'd got it on camera, and no-one could tell that he didn't have it 
in. My guess was that he wouldn't be able to for a few days at least. I 
know about these things. Experience. 

I'm probably the most experienced fluffer in the trade. There's girls 
who are younger, and girls who are prettier, and girls whose figures are 
only made possible by large amounts of salt water in plastic bags. But 
when the leading man is down, and he ought to be up, it's Linda they 
call for. I may not be chocolate-box material, and there's no plastic 
bags in me. But I know my job, and I'm the best there is. 

You see, making a porn vid isn't as easy as it looks. You might think; 
one male, one woman, one fuck, roll the cameras and your fortune is 
made. Oh no. Have you ever seen a movie being made? You have to get the 
lighting right, then the cameras need to be dollied into the right 
angle, the sound needs to be wired up, the talent needs to be reminded 
of its lines, and by the time you've done all that, he lost it an hour 
ago and doesn't even remember where he left it, and it's butterstick 
droop all the way. Droopy and small, soft and useless; they shrink to 
half size when they're not being used, so you can't even see them on the 
camera, let alone show them firm and hard and glorious like they're 
supposed to be. And all the female talent can think of doing is say 
"Come on Fred, we haven't got all day" which obviously makes Fred worse. 

Well, it's obvious to me. But then, as a professional fluffer, it's my 
job to know these things. I read books; I bet I'm the only one on the 
set who does. Yes, the talent has the looks, but there's no action 
without the fluffer. 

You thought it's easy? You think all you have to do is look at a bloke 
and he gets it up? Well, lucky you. So what are you going to do three 
hours later when you're still shooting and he's as limp as lettuce leaf? 
Call Linda, that's what. Linda and her magic bag full of useful items; 
the sheepskin glove, the little whip, the perfume spray. And more. 

Viagra? Don't make me laugh. They're already Viagra'd up to the eyebrows 
and they still can't make it. All that does is get them excited, and 
that's no good because when they get too excited, it's pop goes the 
weasel and back to square one. Square zero. Square minus one, even. 

Here's the thing. The natural inclination of a man is to get it hard, 
get it in, and get it over, quam celerime. But you can't make much of a 
porno out of ten seconds, even in slow motion. I mean, can you imagine? 
You buy a video called "Ten seconds", you get it home, you shove it in 
the VCR, and ten seconds later, it's all over. You'd be complaining in 
the middle of Trafalgar Square, you would. Well, I would. Enter the 
fluffer. 

Most people think I have just the one task, to get it up. And then up 
again and again and again. Wrong. I'm more like the continuity girl, 
it's my job to not only get it up, but to make sure it stays up. That 
could mean a whole day of filming without him ever getting off, and 
believe me that's not natural. They want to, they have to, they're going 
to ... and then Linda's ice-bucket puts a stop to it. When the director 
yells "Cut", the camera stops rolling; I have to make sure that the 
talent stops rocking. Ice cubes is one of my more gentle methods. I love 
the scream when it hits their back. I also have long fingernails. 

The worst day? I think that was back in '91, we were making some in-and-
out vid, "Harem girls from El Qattara" I think it was, the lack of "u" 
adding the necessary touch of class, and the producer had done some 
special deal over the studio. That meant we had to shoot it all in one 
day, and that day was 20 hours if it was a minute. And every moment I 
had to eagle-eye the talent, to make sure that nothing got wasted. As 
usual, his idea was to get it over with, she was as much help as a rice 
pudding, and guess who had to make sure he was looking respectable each 
time we started shooting again, because until I've got the butterstick 
working, you can't begin to shoot. By the time the yogurt-pump was 
brought into action for the last time (yogurt's cheap, and washes off 
easy) everyone was knackered, me included. The talent, I'm told, was in 
bed for the next week solid and he never made another vid. 

Or was it? "Slave girls from Sidi Barani" was pretty dire, as I recall. 
Seven girls, one man. You normally shoot six hours for every hour in the 
final cut, and whoever scripted that one hadn't given the slightest 
thought to human capabilities. I mean, twelve times seven is 84, dammit. 
After the first couple of hours, I informed the producer that it was my 
professional opinion that the male talent was suffering from semi-
permanent impotence brought on by excessive stress. Or to put it simply 
"His dick is broken". The producer's answer was to use stand-ins. 
Unfortunately, no-one had thought to arrange stand-ins, so we had to use 
the camera man, the sound recordist, sparks and even the chippy. By the 
time I'd finished fluffing that lot, you can imagine. I mean, I'm not 
the sort of person who gets into demarcation disputes, but expecting me 
to operate the camera because all the others were out action? 

Anyway, after a hard day like that, I just want to get home and relax. 
Which is why Jeremy hanging about my front door like a limp carrot was 
about as welcome as a condom at a confirmation. I made the obvious 
suggestion to him, but I guess he's heard that lots of times before, and 
it rolled off him like yogurt off a man's belly. 

"Linda, have I got a deal for you." I invited him in. I have this very 
expensive habit I have to pour money into, called living. This means I 
have to work, which wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to deal with 
buttersticks like Jeremy. But it's limpwits like Jeremy that get the 
business, so I suppose I'd better humour him. I gave him a glass of very 
fine, dry sherry. He made a face. "Euuueww." I sighed, and gave him the 
bowl of sugar. It hurts just to think about it. 

"Linda, I've got the break of a lifetime for you" "They're never hard 
enough to break" I said. "Linda, this will make you so famous ..." I 
know, I know, this is such a good opportunity, I should do it for 
nothing, right? "Linda, they're even willing to *pay* you for this." I 
perked up. Pay? As in, stuff you use for the rent? This is a very hand-
to-mouth business, you know. You never know where your next pot of 
yogurt is coming from. Thinking of which, made me peckish, so I dived 
into my bag and came out with a whole pint of it. Well, there's no point 
in letting it go to waste, is there. I mean, it hadn't even been opened. 
They always overestimate how much they're going to need; one teaspoonful 
is realistic, half a cupful is about as much as the public is going to 
believe, and more than that and people will just laugh. I offered some 
to Jeremy. "Where'd you get that then?" "Usual place, Jeremy", I said 
round a mouthful. "Yuck" he said. I don't know why people are like that, 
yogurt is yogurt, the reason why they bought it doesn't affect the 
flavour, which was banana in this case. 

"So what's the deal, Jeremy?" I said. "Not so fast" he said, smirking at 
me. I sighed. I knew what he wanted. "Jeremy, you're an idiot." He 
smirked even more. "Jeremy, last time I did you, Sharon found out and 
you couldn't walk straight for a week." Sharon makes kick-boxing videos, 
creaming half a dozen men in a half hour of action, no fluffing needed, 
lucky Sharon. And boxing, weightlifting, and she made a really weird one 
once when she smashed a grand piano into small pieces with her bare 
hands. I don't think anyone actually bought that one, but I have a bunch 
of copies that I give out to people I think might need a helping hand to 
stay honest. 

I thought of doing that sort of thing myself, it sounds more fun than 
fluffing. Trouble is, she's built like a gorilla and I'm not. She's got 
this trick, whenever she comes through a door, she sort of hovers in the 
frame, so you can see that she fills it pretty much exactly, width and 
height. What she sees in a wimp like Jeremy I can't imagine, maybe she 
likes the convenience of a mobile punchbag. "She won't find out this 
time." Oh, such confidence. He'll stagger home looking shattered, she'll 
ask him where he's been, he'll lie, badly, she'll twist his arm till he 
tells the truth, and then she'll twist everything else about twice as 
far as it's supposed to twist. "Jeremy, you're an idiot" I repeated. "I 
told her if she beats me up that bad again, I'm leaving her." "And what 
did she say?" "I don't know, I was rolling on the floor trying to puke 
up my lunch after she gutted me again." Yes, that's Sharon. Let your 
fists do the talking. Jeremy seemed to like to get hurt, she liked to 
hurt him, they were an ideal couple, I suppose. "So do you want this 
deal or don't you, Linda?" 

I sighed. Jeremy was a sort of agent. This meant that he was unemployed, 
sponging off Sharon, and lounging about where he got to hear about new 
vids coming up. And if they needed a fluffer, he'd say "I know the best 
one there is" and he'd get me the job. I paid him commission, sort of. 
Not money. I don't think Sharon allows him to have money anyway, he'd 
probably spend it on something daft, like paying some woman to beat him 
up. Which is daft, because Sharon beats him up most nights anyway. Why 
pay for bananas when you have a gorilla at home? Well, you know what I 
mean. 

Jeremy was a complete dick-head, but he was honest with me. He knew he'd 
better be, or I wouldn't play with him. You only get to screw Linda 
Daventry once; I don't need a second lesson. Nor does the guy who screws 
me; not after Sharon has a little chat with him and explains how the 
world is. It's good to have friends like Sharon. You don't want to meet 
Sharon more than once, not if she's annoyed with you. And you don't ever 
want to suffer through one of Sharon's explanations. Her explanations 
are, like, detailed. Repetitive. She gets her point across very 
forcefully. 

I pulled on my sheepskin mitten and let Jeremy's butterstick see the 
light of day. Poor guy, this is the most fun he ever gets. Sharon just 
brutalises him, the other girls call him a wimp for letting her (letting 
her? like he has a say in the matter?) and the blokes think he must be 
gay for sleeping with a three hundred pound gorilla. I exaggerate, she 
isn't a gorilla, gorillas don't eat meat. 

I teased him a bit, not quite touching him, and when it rose up to meet 
me, raising my hand so I was always just out of reach, which got his 
butterstick so excited it tried to stretch towards me until it was at 
the point that is technically known as half-cocked. He moaned and tried 
to lift his hips out of the chair, but I pushed him down with my other 
hand, and said "Naughty naughty". I let a few hairs of the mitten touch 
the very tip of the top, and he groaned again "Sharon, Sharon". One of 
the sad facts of life, no-one loves a fluffer. I wondered what would 
happen if Sharon walked in the door right now, and I smiled at him, like 
a cat smiles at a mouse. 

I took the goose feather out of my bag, and Jeremy's eyes went big. 
"Noooo, nonono" he said, meaning yes. You have to interpret what they 
say, it's a bit contrary sometimes. Now his eye was weeping slightly, 
and I could hear him panting; about three quarters there, I reckoned. So 
I gently coaxed him up the hill until I had him right at the edge of the 
cliff, then I dropped the feather and took a good grip, down by the 
base, so I could get control over things. 

By this time, Jeremy was over the cliff, but I had him firmly nailed 
down. I've got a good hard grip, that's essential in a fluffer. Even 
Sharon is surprised at how hard I can grip things. Jeremy was making 
"Nng nng mmf" noises, but I had him clamped, and there was no way I was 
going to let the mouse out of the house. 

Cliffhanging is part of the fluffer's standard repertoire, of course, 
but I was especially good at it. We did a vid once - "School for 
Scandal" it was, and it must have been the lowest budget vid of all 
time; they just pointed a camcorder at this butterstick and I made him 
cliffhang for two hours solid. When I finally dropped him off the edge, 
they didn't need the yogurt pump. Although a cylinder of oxygen would 
have come in handy. 

Generally, though, even an hour is too long. If he's got a weak heart, 
you can find yourself with a boatload of paperwork to do. The problem 
is, cliffhanging increases the blood pressure and the longer you keep 
him hanging, the more the pressure goes up. If he's got an artery that's 
going to pop, it'll do so when the blood pressure gets way up high. So, 
although I'm willing to do a one-hour cliffhang, I'd rather it was after 
a proper medical exam, and the only medical exams Jeremy gets are the 
ones where they bandage him up after Sharon got a bit too overexcited. 

So I popped Jeremy after about 20 minutes. From his point of view, that 
was an eternity in heaven, of course. I took the rather soggy cotton 
wool off him, gave him a few minutes to get his breath back, and then I 
asked him. "OK, Jeremy, so what have you got for me?" 
 
"A weightlifing contest." 

"A what?" Jeremy means well, but sometimes his head isn't straight, I 
think Sharon punches him too much. "Jeremy, sweetkin, it's Sharon does 
those. I'm a fluffer, remember?" I watched Sharon in a weightlifting 
contest once (they were making a vid of it). I was there because the 
needed me for the final scene, where Sharon lifts some huge mass of iron 
to win the contest, and the guys that come second, third and fourth show 
their admiration in the usual way. Except the problem was, they weren't 
admiring her at all, and that's why they called in the fluffer. And 
that's my only experience of weightlifting. 

"No, not that sort of weightlifting" and Jeremy put on his "I'm talking 
about sex" smirk. Oh. One of those. "I thought they didn't allow 
fluffers in those?" "They changed the rules, Linda, it'll be more 
exciting that way." Exciting. You bet. At a do like that, accidents 
happen all the time, you have to watch in front of you, behind you and 
both sides, otherwise you can get in the way of an unintentional 
distance record attempt. 

"So who's my butterstick?" "Horse." "Horse Pangborne?" "The same". 
"You're kidding. he wouldn't have a hope in hell." "Linda, you don't 
know the rules yet." Sigh. I suppose if they've changed the sport to 
allow fluffers, they've probably screwed the rules up totally. 

The governing body of the sport is the IFGW, the International 
Federation of Genital Weightlifting. They're trying to get it recognised 
as an Olympic sport; there's talk of this happening in time for the 2008 
games. Don't laugh, you think synchronised swimming is a sport? The fact 
is, it's an excuse for a bunch of testosterone-enhanced sides of beef to 
display their proudest possession to the general public, and for the 
general public it's an opportunity to say "Yuechh". 

Testosterone? Oh yes. You thought there isn't extensive drug use in GW? 
You thought they just have great genetics enhanced by daily exercise? Oh 
no they don't. To lift the really heavy weights, you need thickness, and 
since the score is weight times distance lifted, you need length. And 
because you're at the wrong end of the leverage, you need even more 
thickness, and you simply don't grow anything the size of my arm by 
eating your cereal. 

Oh, sure they test for drugs, Sometimes. And the tests aren't very good. 
I mean, so you find there's enough 'rone to sink the Titanic, what does 
that prove? Men have 'rone naturally, and different men have different 
amounts. And they lay off the juice for a couple of weeks before a 
contest, so how can you tell? Sure they have deep voices and heavy 
beards, but so do lots of men. 

So they get away with it. But I can tell. I'm a fluffer, and I know my 
way around these things. I've seen more buttersticks than you've had hot 
dinners, and I know a 'rone job when I see one. And Horse Pangborne was 
the most obvious case of 'rone abuse I've ever seen. Why? Well, I'll 
explain. 

If you take 'rone by the bucketful, as Horse was wont to do, you have to 
balance it out, otherwise your body just rejects most of it, metabolises 
it through the kidneys and you're pissing blue most days. Not to mention 
balls so swollen you can't walk, which is an inconvenience, to say the 
least. So they take Estrogen, which does occur naturally in males, but 
only in small amounts, of course. To counter the 'rone, they take 
Estrogen injections, and there's some complicated scheme they use, don't 
ask me, I don't know. I doubt if most of them could get it right even if 
it did work, most of them can barely count. 

And Horse is a good example of what happens when you get it totally 
wrong. He's been called Horse as long as I've known him, on account he's 
got a face like a horse. His real name is Horace. Well, if your name was 
Horace, wouldn't you prefer to be called Horse? And Horse had nothing 
upstairs, I mean if you shouted in his ear you could hear the echo. 
People like that don't ever think about tomorrow, so when Oily Ollie 
became his manager, he didn't have the sense to find out for himself 
what the 'rone would do to him. 

The first time I met Horse, he was supposed to be playing a Eunuch in 
"Harem Houris from Harwich". I kid you not, Horse Pangborne as a Eunuch. 
It was supposed to be a comedy touch in the vid, when the male talent 
twits the poor eunuch about his loss, and Horse pulls out half a yard of 
pork. Trouble is, he yanked the zipper too hard, it got stuck, and then 
when he finally managed to get it free, he got it caught in a bad way, 
and we had to shoot the whole scene over again, without Horse, who was 
looking like he'd need stitches. I offered to bandage it up for him, but 
he skedaddled sharpish and we made the vid without him. But it was 
definitely half a yard, and that was unfluffed. 

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