Teen Sex Movies Free

Yes, this site is free of teen sex movies. In fact, it’s free of any movies. I’ve been thinking of posting a couple of clips that dramatize the Life of Christ, His teachings and precepts, such as are available on YouTube, but I haven’t done it yet. As for teens acting in sex movies, I’m against it. They should be in school, or playing video games, or out gathering up litter along the shores of our polluted lakes and rivers, to be thrown away so that garbage barges can haul it out and dump it in the ocean.

As a screenwriter in Hollywood, I’ve been asked how teen sex movies differ from regular sex movies. The most important points to note:

– With teen sex movies, I usually get paid more than the actors.

– Less makeup is required to cover tracks on arms, legs, and buttocks.

– Filming in HD is less likely to cause viewers to go Eeeuuuew at the sight of warts, moles, gaping pores, wild hairs, scars, lesions, carbuncles, and scabs. (I never mention pus because I think it’s gross.)

– Some of the tats are fake.

– Fewer of the bosums are fake.

– The teen actors are rebelling against the oppression, real or imagined, of their parents (but not their grandparents), their teachers, their pastors and priests, recruiters for the Armed Forces, their peers, unfair video-game rules, their pimples, their hormones, and the unfamiliar urgings of common sense occasioned by approaching adulthood and bubbling up from their unconscious like existential gatorade. The older actors are tired of waiting tables in Hollywood while being rejected at casting calls.

Vivien Leigh

My dad was driving from San Francisco to Barstow one day back in the 40s, when he was flagged down in the Mojave by a women standing next to a broken-down car. This was on State Road 466, which is now California 58, out in the middle of nowhere, no traffic in either direction, north or south. My dad, who was a career Marine, was heading down to the Marine Corps Logistics Base, which the Navy turned over to the Corps in ’42. My dad specialized in equipment maintenance and storage. He’d get the duty, as he put it, and leave us for a couple of days to go down there from time to time.

So he pulled over in front of the disabled car and got out and asked the woman if he could help. The next thing he knew, he was retrieving three large pieces of luggage from the trunk of the woman’s car, which was a Rolls Royce, and putting them in his, and then helping her into the passenger seat. She was smoking a cigarette and coughing uncontrollably, but otherwise looked fresh as a daisy in spite of the fact that the day was hot as hell, according to my dad. He got into the car and plucked the cigarette from between her fingers and flicked it out the window. Of course his old Ford had nothing like air conditioning back then and his uniform was soaked through.

“I like a big man in uniform,” the woman said in an English accent. “Especially a forceful one.”

“You’ve got no business smoking, with a cough like that,” he said. He was an officer by then and it made him disagreeably bossy sometimes, though he never tried that with my mother.

“I’ve got T.B.,” she said. “I just found out. If I didn’t, I’d box your ears for doing what you just did, uniform or no uniform.”

She was feisty as a terrier, according to my dad.

“Are you allowed to smoke?” he said.

The woman snorted.

“I’ve been smoking four packs a day for years,” she said. “I’m allowed to do whatever I allow myself to do… What are you staring at?”

“I’m sorry,” my dad said. “You just look familiar.”

“Ever see Gone with the Wind?”

“My God,” my dad said. He was from the backwoods down south and in no way sophisticated. He’d go to the movies with mom and us, but he wasn’t knowledgeable about Hollywood in any way. Later when I started working in the industry, I’d have to explain everything to him all over again every time I told him something. But everyone knew Gone with the Wind back then.

“You’re Vivien Leigh,” he said.


“What are you doing out here?”

“There’s a man in the desert with a sunshine cure. I read about him in London and decided to come out and try it.”

“By yourself?”

“It was a sudden impulse. My husband is directing a play at the moment.”

She lit another cigarette, took one drag, and started coughing again.

“I’m also crazy,” she said. “Manic depressive, they tell me.”

I don’t know when the term “bipolar” was coined, but I’m sure that my dad didn’t know what it meant, or what “manic depressive” meant, either.

“What’s that?” he said.

“Sometimes I stay in bed all day. By myself, I mean. That’s when I’m depressed. Other times I stay in bed all day with a man. That’s why they call it manic.”

Being a Marine, my dad must have known a thing or two about the ways of the world, but he always impressed me as a church-going, straight-laced innocent.

“What about your husband?” he said.

“I loved Larry desperately in the 30s. Now I love him like a brother.”

“Does he still love you?”

“Absolutely. But I suppose that one day he’ll wake up and divorce me. I would.”

There followed a silence as they motored down the road through the desert, alone.

“You and Clark Gable made a hell of a couple,” my dad finally said.

“Frankly, I don’t give a damn about Clark Gable. Never did. Shall we have dinner together when we come to a town?”

She scooted over a bit. My dad said that she was a little thing. I looked it up. 5′ 3″ and 32A-23-33. She put her hand down on the seat between them. She was born five months after my mom, so she was three years younger than my dad.

About then, just before they got to Hinkley, they came to a service station that had a tow truck out back, and my dad pulled in.

“Are you sure you want to leave me here?” Vivien asked him.

He told me that he wanted to say no and take her up on supper, or do anything else but put her out, but he knew that he had to report to the base soon and to my mom later, so he just said goodbye and wished her well. As he pulled back onto the highway, he looked back and saw her heading over to the attendant at the pumps, who was wearing a uniform of his own.

I get a writing project

I’ve said some mean things about executive producers before, but I was having a drink or three with Aaron Goldstein (not his real name) at the Frolic Room on Hollywood Boulevard and there was no friction whatsoever between us, especially after we had slurped down a couple of After Eights (sweet tooth!) and did a line in the men’s room.

The next thing I know we’re zooming down the 10 toward Santa Monica in his Pagani Zonda, at a speed only possible when you’re too far gone to value your life or, more importantly in the case of the Zonda, the life of your car.

“Let’s drop in on Susan (not her real name) and Tim (not his real name),” Aaron says.

“My God, not them,” I say. “They’ll never let me in. She hates me.”

“I won’t tell her you’re with me,” Aaron says.

“They’re in that new ritzy development. It’s gated. And they’re not too crazy about you, either.”

“I’ve got a project,” Aaron says. “They’ll kill for it.”

At the gate, the guard makes the call, listens, and shakes his head at us.

“What!” Aaron says, revving his engine to ear-splitting levels. “Did you tell them I’ve got a project for them?”

“They said, well, they said no, in so many words,” the guard says. “I’m sorry, Mr. Goldstein (did I mention, not his real name?).”

“Try em again.”

“Should you even be driving, Mr. Goldstein?”

“I can drive as far as their place. That’s it.”

“I can’t let you in, Sir, I’m sorry. Why don’t you step into the security center here and let me call you a cab? I’ll have one of the yard boys drive your car home.”

The security center featured a pleasant living room-like area and a big kitchen/dining room setup. We took seats at the table and a maid or cook or suchlike brought us beer, chips, and a bottle of #4 Bombay Sapphire gin to fortify the brew. As we sat there drinking and waiting for the cab, Angelina Jolie (not her real name) came through a door from the back of the building. Her hair was mussed and her lipstick smeared. Wasted as we were, we could tell she’d been busy, presumably with one of the security detail. She froze when she saw us.

“What are you bozos doing here?” she said.

“Where’s Brad (not his real name)?” Aaron (NHRN) asked with a grin.

“On location in France. Look, guys…”

“Baby,” Aaron said, “have I got a project for you.”

She sat down. The minion brought her a brew and a glass. She poured, then added some gin. “I’m listening. Just so long as we’re understanding each other here.”

“Boogie Nights meets 127 Hours,” Aaron says. “You’re the one has to use the knife.”

“I like it,” she says.

“I’ll do the screenplay,” I say, quick as can be.

“Forget about it,” she says. “Creep.”

“I’m sitting here, aren’t I,” I say, going dark on her. “I’ve got eyes in my head.”

She sighs.

“All right,” she says, “but Aaron, this idiot screws up just once, with my underwear or anything else, and it’s off, no matter what you clowns think you’ve seen.”

Aaron just grins. Angelina stands up.

“For this,” she says, “I deserve an encore.”

And she goes back through the door she came out of.


I was coaching a popular Hollywood star with his dialog the other day and afterwards we went out for a drink. We got sloshed and at one point he told me that he was a robot. I thought he was kidding but when I mentioned this to a stunt driver on the lot, he told me that the guy was serious. He said that everybody knows the guy is completely delusional.

When a critic writes that this guy acts like a robot, the guy clips out the review and tapes it to the wall in his trailer. A woman who casts extras told me that she spent the night with him once and at one point he attempted to adjust a kink in his apparatus with a crescent wrench.

He’s read for every cyborg role in Hollywood in the past five years. They say he won’t leave Summer Glau alone.

Come to think of it, when we were drinking, he did a helluva Bender imitation.

I spotted the guy later on location and just for fun shouted “Gort! Klaatu barada nikto!” Stupid. It didn’t make the papers because there were only four of us there, but he pooped in his hat.

Greenlit! Success with your disaster movie.

I’ve just got off the phone with three Hollywood moguls and they’re all in agreement that the following guidelines will be in effect for disaster movies for at least a fortnight. Use them to pitch the studios.

1. Disaster vs disaster

Competing disasters are hot now. Examples:

– Volcano threatens coastal city. Throw in some soap. Start the eruption. But then, a tsunami happens. Which of the two wipes out more people? Can the big wave put out the volcano? Movie’s characters are caught between the lava and the water. How do they survive?

– Volcano threatens midwest city. Throw in some soap. Start the eruption. But then, a meteor happens. Does it wipe out even more people than the volcano? Does it plug the volcano by landing right in that middle part where the virgins get thrown if you go South American and where the lava comes out?

– Volcano threatens L.A., like in that other volcano movie. Soap. Eruption. But then, an earthquake happens, like in that other L.A. earthquake movie. They try to figure out which is causing the greater total devastation. The volcano menaces the dad and son, the earthquake menaces the mom and daughter and the dog. The dad and son have a dog too. Does the earthquake open a big crack and the volcano falls in? Does the earthquake just shake all the lava out of the volcano through that top hole?

2. Return of the disaster

Popular disasters of yesteryear, which come back today, could work.

– That volcano in L.A., with Tommy Lee Jones? Well, now it’s later and they’ve used bulldozers to tear it down and cart it away as landfill for the new suburbs out around Needles. The whole area where it erupted, at the La Brea tar pits, is back to normal with fake tar pits now but otherwise just L.A. sprawl. But now the volcano comes back. Just use the same plot as before, only Tommy Lee is more philosophical this time. Although he was pretty darned philosophical the last time, too.

– That earthquake in L.A., with Charlton Heston and Eva Gardner? Well, now it’s later and they’ve used bulldozers to fill in the cracks and rebuild everything just like before. The San Fernando Valley? Just begging to be flattened again. Now the earthquake comes back. Use the same plot as before, only Heston is dead now, so get Tommy Lee Jones to do it.

– Those meteor movies, with Bruce Willis and, and that guy in the other one who always plays the President? Well, now the meteor comes back but this time to L.A. It’s so big we can show Reagan’s library in Simi Valley getting blown up, and Disneyland, and, and Mulholland Drive, and all the darned Valley, and pretty much anything else you want to get rid of. The dad’s been playing around, so you can kill him off or not, your call, but the mom and son and daughter and the dogs all get saved by Tommy Lee Jones.

3. Go small, not big

Have you noticed how in the movies the twisters and ice storms and solar flares and so forth just keep getting bigger? Nick Cage signs up for Knowing and spoiler the whole world gets destroyed by something relating to solar energy. That movie 2012? I don’t even remember what caused that. Some voodoo American Indian tribe? Whatever. The point is, you want to sell now, go small. For example:

– Guy is fooling around on his wife. He goes out in the backyard, a small volcano erupts, maybe just enough to teach him a lesson.

– Woman is fooling around on her husband, played by Tommy Lee Jones. She goes out in the backyard and a little meteor kills her.

– Guy and his wife are both fooling around. Now they’re in the backyard with their family having a BBQ. The guy’s girlfriend is there, it’s his secretary, and the neighbor guy is there who works at home and that’s how he can fool around with the wife while the kids are in school. I don’t know how the dogs handle this; figure it out. A small earthquake hits. You can’t blame the dad for fooling around; his wife doesn’t understand him. So, say, his girlfriend gets swallowed up and he’s sadder but wiser. The woman, it’s not right what she’s been up to, right under the noses of her pets, so she and the neighbor and the neighbor’s house all have to get swallowed up. Tommy Lee Jones plays the dad, in a philosophical mood. His wife can be Lindsay Lohan if she’s out of jail, or Paris Hilton. Somebody like that.

Final Thoughts

I almost forgot. Try to work quicksand into any of those plots above.