Chapter 2
Click—.
Right before the official performance, Ryuzaki's rehearsals were already perfect. It took only one-fifth of time of others and he achieved more than double an effect. In this sense, choosing him is a success, and it may be the most successful decision I have made as a third-rate director in the past ten years. Ryu Ryuzaki sublimated the plain script.
The story is designed to appeal to female audiences, and it has a literary name different from other pornographic films, Canvas. The poster is beautiful. The artist sits by the window and looks at the setting sun in the distance. The beautiful scenery fixed on the canvas, by his paints.
If there is no artistic pursuit, erotic films will never succeed. I firmly believe in this. In order not to fall into the same situation as other mediocre people, I would rather be a substandard unsung director than one shooting mediocre pornography.
The theme of the story is love. To be precise, love that can't be returned.
The painter and the dandy collector met on the beach reflecting the setting sun, the latter was handsome, wealthy and talkative. After the two fell in love, the collector were willing to buy every piece of the painter's work, and the payment brought was enough to cover the rent, daily expenses, and even the occasional honeymoon trip. It was also the first love of the restrained and sensitive painter. So put 100% enthusiasm and devote all your time to artistic creation, hoping to dedicate better works to your lover.
Success in both career and love, on the surface it seems.
But the problem arises here.
First, painter finds his lover kissing a strange woman under the canopy of the greenhouse, and then more strangers, boys and girls. His phone keeps ringing. Superficial sweet talk, sea alliance vows. Every meeting accompanied by intense sexual intercourse. Painter gradually began to suspect that the rumors about the young master's "flirting with flowers and grass" and "double-deckering" were all true.
Depressed and melancholy, Ryuzaki played it well. Hypochondria aggravated his depressive episodes. For a long time, the painter faced a blank canvas and was unable to paint. The face was pale, thin, with bags under the eyes, worn out by a habit of drinking and smoking. But painter never promiscuously, not good at expressing feelings. Dandy collector was his first love.
One day, after he had finished painting the gray sky and heavy clouds, his lover came and pressed him on the easel and kissed him forcefully. "You are so beautiful." Pulling down the apron and paint-stained trousers, revealing the snow-white skin and the lower body without a trace of hair. The way his lover kisses him, licking the earlobe, neck, and collarbone, is the same as flirting with that woman. His tongue paused delicately as it brushed over his Adam's apple, as if touching something that shouldn't be there. He turned off the light and fucked him hard until the painter collapsed, unable to even move his legs.
A plaything. Alternative. Cash cow. Prostitute. Painter's heart is desperate, because allowing the other party to buy all his paintings means handing over a kind of power, a power that can dispose of him at will and vent his desire wantonly. Both his painting and his body are exchange items, of course.
"Your work is not as good as it used to be," said Lover. "The picture is too gloomy and has no features. It can't be sold like this. You should add the sun here, like the beautiful sunset when we first met."
"'It can't be sold'… didn't you buy my paintings for personal collection?"
"If it increases in value, I have to give it up. You know, under my name there are some empty slots to fill in in the aution. After it's sold for high price, you can also get a cut of it. Isn't this the best news for you?"
Lover lit a cigarette, but felt that it was not strong enough. He took out some powder from a transparent pouch, not only smoked it himself, but also handed it to painter. The latter—wanted to refuse, but because he didn't have such power, he shivered and took a deep breath under his nose.
Soon, cold sweat broke out all over Ryuzaki's body, his muscles convulsed, he opened his mouth, choked his throat due to difficulty in breathing, and let out an uncontrollable emptiness laugh. "You and I both want to spend the rest of our lives without worrying about money." The lover said.
"No, what I want is not money, I…"
"Lately I've been thinking about the secret of becoming famous." The lover continued as if he hadn't heard it. "The tragic past, the misery of life, the crumbling spirit, and—death. How an artist dies is important. Very important. Art itself is worthless, but stories, ideals, and sufferings can become its added value. The most touching thing about an artist , their solitude, their madness and its destructive end, suicide."
The painter let out a weeping laugh. Take it as a joke and laugh more lightly.
The public does not buy his paintings, but they strongly pursue the past that collector have fabricated for him. If the past wasn't miserable enough, it wouldn't even be worthy of the title "artist". Perhaps, as the collectors say, the more unfortunate he behaved, the more people loved him. Buying art is also a kind of experiential consumption, and people pay for the painful superiority that they have never tasted. Artists who commit suicide are obviously superior in terms of pain.
That self-destructiveness fasinates him.
Painter is thinking of the setting sun, that golden, flaming star hot enough to burn everything. He was staring blankly at the blank canvas again. The oil-stained painting apron is naked, which is also required by collectors, so that he can enter him anytime and anywhere. His pen stops in the air, unable to draw. Illness from that day on.
The sound of notifications on Lover's mobile phone is deafening, and when he gets closer, he can often smell the mixed smell of various perfumes. The woman's lip gloss is printed on the chest, and Lover never deliberately hides it. So there's no need to ask, is there?
Painter is thinking about the setting sun. When they met that day, the sky was bright red, just like his unique and coquettish red eyes. The lover is drawn to the untended face with its sunken eyes and the shadow of death. Because of this, he approached and asked about his occupation. The purpose of condoning his drinking, inviting him to drugs, and clouding his restless spirit was evident from the start.
Painter just doesn't want to believe it. So one day his lover pulled him to the balcony window of his luxury apartment, and raped him in front of passers-by. It was also a doggy style with no face visible. His broken hair and face kept hitting the glass, and his protruding ilium was held by his lover. In the hand, it seems to be holding the handle of some kind of handy container, while the body is responsible for loading the hot semen. The man has an orgasm. he said sullenly.
"You don't love me. Just love my work and my body, right?"
"…"
"You cheated on me. There are men and women. Just as the rumor said, you would approach every artist you see as 'commercially valuable'."
"Ah…" The man gave an expression of surprise, followed by confusion. "Don't you misundertand our relationship. I've already bought all your works, and you are still complaining? You," he opened his mouth wide in the epiphany, startled and confused, "Don't you… .."
"That's the only thing I want. Work and money – mean nothing to me. That's one thing that I want."
The man laughed ridiculously.
"You are the most unreasonable person I have ever seen. I can give you the others, but this one is too precious, because your current value is not enough to exchange, so I can't give it. There is nothing wrong, I like it Your body. Lustful and," he squeezed his round buttocks, "frankly. I used to love your work, but it's not the same now, I can't find the talent I used to see in them, they lack an highlight – a selling point. Making up your misery past no longer works any more.
"I would give anything," said Painter. "No one is willing to approach me, no one is willing to hug me. Even pretending."
Then, a bright, pleasant to somewhat evil smile appeared on the man's face.
"Then do it. Use your last misfortunes to exchange for what you want. The world will remember you and love you like never before. It is better to die splendidly and leave behind genius than to procrastinate and mediocrely live. In the name of true artist, burn like a flame. "
"Of course, I will love you too. I have always loved you, haven't you felt it? Otherwise, why should I be close to you, who is so bad and dirty?"
The final love scene was unplanned. There is no mention in the script or script. What should have been intense consensual sex turned into one-sided rape. This is the climax of the story, the peak of the pain in the character's heart, the transformation of pain into reality, the undisguised release of violence, and the outbreak of pure evil. The man kept raping him like a beast, but Ryuzaki—pressed on the precious glass of the rich man's house, with his hands clamped behind his back, his legs resting on the hot sex penis, trembling—was moved by the surging love in his heart– erecting.
His posterior hole, which was damaged just yesterday, might be bleeding again.
Hate to admit it, but yes. Anyone who saw that hateful indifferent face would plan this atrocity. This idea has been in my imagination since the audition. It fits well with the artistic conception and theme of Canvas. I urge the actor who played the Lover to show no mercy.
This is what the plot needs. The artist loves that character so much that he can do everything for it. Ryuzaki will perform "volunteering" when he is raped.
It was a perfect performance, his pupils dilated due to pain and fear, tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, his legs trembled, he was dragged to the ground by his arms around his waist, his limbs were imprisoned in the small space between the man and the carpet. The swing of his limbs started from the waist, catering to him. Catering despite the pain and broken heart. The strange stubbornness on his face was balanced by an intoxicating vulnerability. He was raped voluntarily. He hugged his lover's body as the thick black cock came in and out of him - if he kisses you you kiss back, if he hugs you you hug back - good. Even at this time, he kept my instructions in mind.
The camera paned down to capture the sticky intercourse. A few drops of blood added to the fun, especially to the cruelty of a lover. Ryuzaki wanted to scream, but he covered it up with the sound of breathing. Then he let out a breathless gasp of joy. The enjoyment that deviated from the real emotion and pretended to be enjoyed was like indulging in false pleasure like torture. His whole body trembles with pain, and he still had to get close, pulling the other person's back towards him, just to be penetrated deeper.
The ground was a mixture of semen, blood, and saliva. The painter coughed violently, and the aftertaste of the sex faded away, leaving his eyes empty and numb. His spirit has been destroyed and his mind clouded. The painter, a tragic figure, went from believing in love, to doubting and hating love, and finally, he had to prove the existence of love. He dedicated his life to it.
The next day, collectors found the painter's body in the modestly decorated studio. He fell in a pool of blood, which flowed like an ocean. There was a sunset outside the window, just as bright red as when they first met. The collector's mouth opens in shock, then his expression is distorted by ecstasy: the work on the easel is complete.
The sun rises from the once gloomy sky, a bright, bright and perfect red sun, a kind of brilliance that made the eyes cry and was extremely pure. He frantically ran to the painting, stroked the lines of the canvas, and looked for the artist's signature. This is a posthumous work of inestimable value, condensed by all the misfortunes of the painter. This is the end of the story he is looking for, crazy weird and twisted. This painting, regardless of its intrinsic value, can capture the heart. He picks up the painting and is about to leave immediately, only to remember the painter's body, and called the police on his mobile phone, which was jammed by missed calls.
The painter's reputation spread, and gradually the funeral was attended by an endless stream of mourners. His works were auctioned for high prices. The posthumous works are sealed in exquisite photo frames and placed in the most eye-catching front of the art gallery. People passed by and talked about it: some said that the sun was hope, some said it was madness, some said it was the rotten world, some said it was the beginning of all things, some said it was broken love, a condensed matter of fire, blood and suffering, or some people shook their heads, saying that it was the chaotic and disordered mind of genius, or genius himself.
No one is close to the glass, even if they are close, they can't smell the paint of the painting sealed under it, and there is a strong smell of blood …
Click—.
Ryuzaki got up from the pool of blood. I watched him stagger, satisfied.
With it came guilt and fear. He gave me a stare—it was supposed to be a glare. If you have those red eyes, an ordinary gaze can look menacing too.
"How does it feel?" It was a strange question, but I couldn't think of a better way to ask it. Soon he'll be gone, and maybe sue me. However, once such an informal shooting team gets into trouble, it is difficult for him to get out. Ryuzaki glanced at me again.
"I thought, my performance was perfect."
He said firmly in a hoarse voice. I was taken aback.
"Ah, yeah, you're doing a lot better than most rookies." That's definitely underestimating him, he's the best talent I've ever met. His talent is unmatchable. "Thanks to you, this film will be an unprecedented success. I don't mind increasing the payment."
I said with difficulty.
Ryuzaki's eyes rolled slowly. From the bottom to the top, he seemed to look me over.
A chill runs down my spine.
"I said no need." He said coldly, not touching his blood-stained face, and took off the wig on his head and threw it away. He kept that unusual posture, and changed into the white shirt and jeans he was wearing when he came in.
Blood from the fake blood pack was seeping through his clothes.
"Wait–"
"I don't like this story," Ryuzaki said very bluntly. "I understand your theme. But I would have killed the collector without hesitation, broken his limbs, and painted with his blood. The body was cemented into the wall."
He sounded… serious.
It looked like he was really pissed off, especially by the unexpected erotic scene at the end. Although there was not a single bit of sullenness on that face.
"Also, that last play, that was very sudden to me.
"Next time, you have to let me know in advance."
"Okay, okay."
I decided not to mention the blood-soaked clothes. He didn't care, he probably planned to go straight home and take a shower. Anyway, he didn't blame me, so there was nothing to worry about.
"I want to see the original film right away."
"That will have to wait at least a week. Ryuzaki-san, do you want to try other roles during this time?" I asked boldly.
"No ideas yet. Whatever. I'm up for any type of role as long as it's porn."
"I have a movie about cops and gangsters now." I said, "There are more elements of violence, which require certain acting skills." I looked at his thin body. "Not strictly porn, but what's bound to happen between a cop and a criminal."
"Have you had forced sex?"
"No. I promise. "
"Give me the script. I'll think about it."
"But, your image doesn't match those two roles. It's me who needs to think about it," I said pretending to have a headache, "I don't want you to force yourself to act, especially the one who is far away from your daily life. The role of an unreachable profession…"
"I can adapt to all roles." Ryuzaki tilted his head. "Why don't you trust me?"
The way the head tilted was not so cute as it was creepy. Combined with bloody cheeks and scarlet eyes, it's especially scary.
I can't describe the abnormal feeling he brings to people.
"No such thing. I'm very fond of you, Ryuzaki." I said, adding to suppress my uneasiness. "How about going for a drink together after filming? It's a celebratory reception that all the members will attend."
"No, I'm not interested in wine or anything like that."
Sure enough, he rejected. So he's not old enough to drink alcohol either. What a misstep.
"I'll see you next week, then. Hunting Crimes audition will also start at that time."
"Okay." Flat. "Goodbye."
"Wait!"
Ryuzaki turned around.
"Your ID, it can't be real, right?" I wanted to ask other questions, but my head got hot, and I actually talked about something completely unrelated. "What I mean is that people who want to work in this industry would rather forge fake documents than hide their real names. Rue Ryuzaki…you are the same, right?"
"Since you know it's a tabooed topic, I advise you not to ask me too much, Director."
The young man touched his lower lip with his bloody index finger. It doesn't look like a habitual action, but a deliberate performance—is this guy usually acting? I can hardly tell the difference between acting and reality.
"I don't have a name," he said with downcast eyes. "I don't have a social identity worth mentioning. But that kind of thing doesn't matter. As a wanderer, I live a happier life than anyone else, and I don't expect anyone to understand. Director, tell me that these films will be definitely released to the Internet."
"A month at the soonest."
"Um."
He showed that thoughtful expression again. It's really hard to understand what he was thinking.
Ryuzaki hunched over and walked with a limp, and I realized that he had been raped twice in the past two days. But that hateful indifferent expression never changed. Once out of the play, he acted like nothing happened. At times, it's like a social psychological experiment, with Ryuzaki as the director observing us outsiders. He… could it be that he came here to experience life?
I looked back at the messy shooting scene, and the painting stood there quietly. The blood-colored sun jumped over half of the canvas, which was extremely eye-catching. The background was a gray sky, overcast clouds and a churning ocean. All the paintings in this play were done by Ryuzaki himself.
Originally there were paintings from real artists prepared by prop team, but I didn't expect Ryuzaki's impromptu paintings to have both effects and expressiveness. I didn't expect that he could really paint, and he had extraordinary artistic talent.
Extraordinary.
He's a phenomenal actor.
Also a freak beyond the ordinary. Because of such a talent, he might become a real painter.
I looked at the painting and couldn't come back to my senses for a long time.
