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"Woy both fetch your selvers on the wood," commanded Oliver, and he began to poke the pig with his director's stick. The camera-woman rolled her machine, and hearing the film turn the actress threw her hands aside and kicked one leg up on the table. Oliver whacked the pig's pink pudding of a behind and skipped behind the camera to his perch, from where he took his view.

I recall my surprise, and the sweat stopping on my brow; because when the actor and actress got started on the pig, the obscenity seemed entirely natural, and not as ridiculous as I had imagined. Barely award-winning, but compelling all the same, you might even have thought that pig-sex thing was tame, so little impact it had on us. I wondered what in the name of mash was going on.

The nude actor squeezed the pig like it were a large wrap of pink sugar icing, and the actress, concentrating as she'd never done before, continued to gently pump the animal. I was interested to note that the human grunts sounded strange and hollow compared to those of the animal, and that the mood was of functionality, the clumsy emulation of bodies at work and the counter paradigm of all natural characteristics.

I closed my eyes.

The actors and crew, and even the dog proceeded thus all afternoon, until Oliver called it a day. The naked man wanted more but Oliver had got bored. He'd shot enough for his evil cinematic purposes. The actor was insistent however and asked the actress if she'd get back upon the table with him, and he had begun work on himself again with his furcula before anyone had told him the answer was NO.

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