So, I wound up specializing in guys who had more . . . elaborate fantasies. I acted out all kinds of doctor/patient, naughty schoolboy and look-but-don’t-touch scenes. I had sessions with a john who wanted me to pelt him with pies while dressed like a clown and got paid $500 from another who just wanted to smell my wet hair. It wasn’t a bad gig.
I also enjoyed it beyond the financial rewards. I felt like I was doing these guys a real service. What got them off didn’t hurt anyone but them. And not physically, either—I’m talking about the emotional pain that accompanies sexual drives that don’t fit the “norm.” When one of my clients got into a relationship, there was always a tension for him—does he dare tell his partner the truth about what he wants? Or is it wiser to play it safe and not risk the rejection that might accompany telling your lover that you want him to dress up like Captain America and throw his shield at your balls?
It’s a terrible thing to be ashamed of your own sexuality.
What my mother was about to expose her audience to was tame in comparison to some of the things I’d done.
“First, we’ll hear from a woman who gets paid hundreds of dollars from men who want her to spank them!” my mother continued. The audience’s cheers went even wilder when my mother mock-whispered, “although, those of us who are married probably would be more than happy to do it for free when our husbands forget to take out the garbage for the fifth time in a row, right, ladies?
“Then, we meet a gay man who didn’t have the courage to come out until he found out he could get paid for it—and now he’s one of the adult film industry’s biggest stars. And let me tell you, ladies, I got a look at this guy backstage as he was getting dressed for the show, and I can see why he’s so ‘big,’ in the business, if you know what I mean.” Her wink made the comment more adorable than lewd.
“Last, but not least, we’ll be introducing you to the world of plushophiles, people who get their jollies from dressing like stuffed animals. At least, I hope we’ll be introducing you to that world. Because, if you’re already into that kind of thing, what are you doing here? There’s a Build-A-Bear Workshop not two blocks away!”
More laughter. I’d suggested that line and was happy to hear it go over so well.
“Then, we’ll bring ’em all together and see how they get along. Is there harmony among those who walk on the saucy side of the street, or is business the dirtiest game of all? Stay tuned, and we’ll be back with our wildest show yet!”
The APPLAUSE sign lit up, but it wasn’t needed. As always, my mom had the crowd in the palm of her hand.
I just hoped she could keep it there.
“Well, my boy,” Andrew Miller said in a mock-authoritative tone, “once again, you done me proud.”
We were standing in the back of the studio as the crowd rose to cheer the departing panel of perverts who’d entertained them for the past forty minutes. The show had gone great. My mother kept the conversation just racy enough to be entertaining without it becoming threatening. She found the humor in every kink, but was never demeaning. The guests seemed to genuinely enjoy talking with her. The last segment, where they all came out together, was raunchy, raucous, and, in the end, good-natured. The highlight was when Mistress Vesper spanked the gay porn star Brock Peters to demonstrate her craft.
“Now I know why I like guys,” he proclaimed, and the audience screamed with delighted shock. My mother suggested the mistress might have more success with the plushie, but he couldn’t feel anything through his thick purple dinosaur suit.
Andrew threw his arm around my shoulders. “That’s going to be one for the archives. Honestly, Kevin,” he said, pulling me closer, “I can’t think of anyone else who could have put together such a great panel. Or gotten more out of them.” He punctuated his praise with an extra little squeeze.
I was too aware of the heat coming off his body. His ridged oblique muscles pressed against me—I could feel their definition through my shirt and his. He must be ridiculously shredded. I felt myself tingling in places I shouldn’t be tingling.
I loved Tony, but I was only human.
“Thanks,” I said, twisting my body away and turning as if I wanted to face him. Actually, I just wanted to put some distance between us. “I’m relieved. They were a pretty . . . colorful bunch in the pre-interview. Things got a little heated.”
Andrew’s eyes swept me from head to toe. “What’s wrong with getting a little hot?”
When we reunited six months ago, Andrew came on like a house on fire, and I had to hose him down. He’d behaved himself since then, but there was still an undercurrent of flirtatiousness. One which I kind of enjoyed. As long as it didn’t sweep me out to sea, that is.
Speaking of which, we were about to be swamped by the flood of audience members leaving the theater. They gathered their things, noisily discussing how much fun they’d had.
“Let’s go backstage,” I suggested, “and bid our guests a fond good-bye. Shall we?”
“You got it,” Andrew agreed. “But I’m not getting too close to the plushie. Did you notice the stains on his fur?”
I gave a little shudder. “Maybe you can handle Mistress Vesper.”
“I’d rather handle that Brock Peters. He looks even better in real life than on my TV.”
“You watch his movies?”
“Watch them? I own the boxed set.”
I smacked him on the shoulder. “You are the biggest horn dog.”
“Guilty.” Andrew shrugged. “Plus, Peters came with a few other guys from his studio. Half the cast of Star Whores—The Phantom Penis are here.”
“And me without my autograph book,” I told him with a grin. I batted my eyes coquettishly. “Whatever will I do?”
“Come on,” Andrew said, swatting my butt. “I’m sure we’ll find something they can sign.”
On the way backstage with Andrew, a production assistant stopped me with a question about the next day’s show.
“Go on,” I told Andrew. “I’ll catch up with you later.” I answered the PA’s queries and headed to say my good-byes.
My parting exchanges with both Mistress Vesper and the plushie went quickly. I didn’t see Andrew in either room. Maybe he’d finished quickly.
Mistress Vesper gave me a firm handshake. She extended an invitation for me to feel free to give her a call if I was a “bad boy” who needed some punishment. I promised to keep her in mind.
Plushie tried to hug me good-bye, but I avoided it with a playful high five. I’m not a germaphobe, but I imagined the places that fake fur had been and doubted it was easy to clean. I could practically see the salmonella and Ebola crawling all over it. I beat a hasty retreat and wiped the palm of my hand on my pants.
My last stop was to the small room we’d set up for Brock Peters, but it was empty. I must have missed him. No great loss. I was walking out when I heard voices and laughter coming from down the hall. It sounded like a party. The only thing in that direction was a large space we sometimes used for full staff meetings.
Just then, another PA came out of it with an armful of empty pizza boxes. I gave her a quizzical look.
“It’s the gay porn guys,” she said, anticipating my question. “There’s a whole gaggle of them. Bigger than the entourage that arrived with Beyoncé. When Andrew saw they were overflowing the space we’d given them, he invited them to use the conference room.”
She looked at the cardboard boxes she was schlepping to the trash. “He sprang for ‘catering,’ too. You should check it out. It’s a good time.”
On my way to the conference room, I noticed a gross smell. I sniffed and followed it to Oliver Armstrong, our maintenance worker. As I got closer, the odor got worse, almost overpowering.
Oliver was a good worker, but a bit of a weirdo, with an Asperger’s-like discomfort around people. I was one of the few guys here he could look in the eyes. He also seemed a little slow. I was glad we were able to employ him, but I sometimes worried about him.
Had
he not been showering lately? The stench emanating from him was gag-inducing. Rotten eggs mixed with body odor covered in sour milk. It barely smelled human. My eyes watered.
I dreaded having this conversation with him. It was hard enough for him to feel comfortable around people, and now one of the few he trusted had to confront him. But someone had to let him know this kind of hygiene wasn’t acceptable in the workplace.
“Oliver,” I began, “I hate to tell you this, but . . .”
Oliver held up a silver canister he’d been carrying by his side. “It’s not me,” he said. He moved the container closer to me, and sure enough the smell strengthened.
“My lord,” I said, waving at him to hold the canister away. “What is that crap?”
“Some kind of chemical.” He pointed to the label. “Ethanethiol.”
“What is it?” I asked. “Some kind of insecticide?” I hoped not. It might get rid of the roaches, but it’d likely send the staff scurrying, too.
Oliver shuffled nervously. He hadn’t been doing anything wrong, but just this level of human interaction was hard for him. “Naw, it’s the gas company. They installed it in the main system in the basement. It’s part of the alarm system. If there’s a gas leak, some of this stuff gets out, too.”
“So we die of the stench before the gas kills us?” I asked.
Oliver smiled. It was nice to see he could get a joke. “Actually, it’s to save us. Gas is odorless. If it leaks, we wouldn’t know till it was too late. But they said if we do have a breakdown, this stuff will be released into the line. Gets everyone out of the building real quick-like.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “That makes sense. There’d be no missing that smell.”
“And that’s what it smells like inside the bottle,” Oliver said. “I was there when they poured some into the alarm system. I thought I’d hurl.”
“You throwing that away?” I asked.
“No, the gas people said we have to save it. I’m bringing it into the storeroom. I’m gonna put it into a trash bag, then another, and throw them both into a sealed storage box I have in there. That should be enough to keep the smell from leaking out.”
“I hope so,” I said. “But you have to work there every day. If that’s not enough, let me know. We’ll find somewhere else to store it.”
Oliver looked genuinely touched that I cared enough to offer my help. “You got it, man,” he said, smiling despite the stench.
Two smiles from Oliver in one conversation. I felt like I’d won the jackpot.
I reached the conference room. The PA with the pizza boxes wasn’t exaggerating. The room was filled with about fifty people, all talking excitedly. About ten were staffers with the show; the others must have arrived with Brock. If so, they’d have to catch up with him later. I wasn’t surprised to see his attention monopolized by Andrew. The two stood closerthanthis in a far corner of the room, their body language engaged and flirtatious.
Everyone else appeared to be either friends of Brock’s or co-workers. A mix of pretty boys, handsome men, and the less physically favored who bankrolled the operation. It was one of the latter who approached me first.
“Well, hello,” he drawled, stretching out the greeting like a lizard uncoils his tongue. It wasn’t the only reptilian thing about him. High cheekbones drew your attention to his badly capped teeth. His skin was pulled unnaturally tight, and his eyes were slanted and narrowed to barely functional slits by what I’d guess were at least a handful of overambitious face-lifts.
Had it not been for all the tinkering, he might have been handsome. Underneath it all, you could see the bone structure of a movie star from the 1950s. But too much plastic surgery, too many tanning beds, and his predatory smile combined to give him the friendly appeal of a hungry crocodile.
He regarded me with the same top-to-bottom appraisal Andrew had earlier, but this one was decidedly creepier, accompanied by lip smacks and a quiet whistle of approval at the end. I’d been a professional sex worker for years, but never felt dirtier than I did under this slimy bastard’s spectacularly unsubtle review.
Had I been the ingénue of a Jane Austen novel, I would have slapped him at this point. Instead, I gave him my phoniest smile. (Actually, I’m not sure about that metaphor. I’ve never read any Jane Austen except for Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, where I’m pretty sure the guy who updated it might have taken some dramatic license.)
“Tell me,” Lizard Man asked, “why is a perfect specimen like you not working for me?”
“For one reason: I already have a job,” I answered, pointing to my ID badge. “I help coordinate the show.”
“This,” he said, cupping my chin, “is a face that belongs in front of the camera, not behind it.” He craned his neck to peer over my shoulder. “Speaking of behinds . . .”
I stepped back.
“I didn’t get your name,” I said.
The crocodile reached into the pocket of his expensive silk blazer. He extracted a pricey-looking pewter business card holder that he flicked open through some hidden mechanism. A single card automatically slid forward. It was like a magic trick meant to astound the easily impressed. I was reminded of an entertainer at a children’s party and wondered if my new acquaintance liked his boys on the younger side.
“Mason Jarre,” he announced, as I took his card. It was heavy and expensively embossed. He pronounced his last name “Jar-Ray,” as if from the French. His heavy Brooklyn accent spoke otherwise.
“I’m the owner of SwordFight Productions. Brock Peters is exclusive with us.”
Your mother must be so proud, I wanted to say. “Well, we really enjoyed having him on today’s show. Thanks for sharing.”
“I’m serious about the offer.” He ignored my attempt to shift the conversation. “You have the face of an angel and a body built for sin. I could make you a star.” He ran his tongue, which thankfully wasn’t forked, over his lower lip.
I kept smiling, but in my head I was thinking of running after Oliver to get some of that ethanethiol. That’d empty the room. I’d already had enough of these people. “I don’t want to be a star. But thanks.”
Mason reached out and took my hand. He curled his fingers around mine, in a gesture that forced me to more tightly cup his business card. “Everyone wants to be a star, angel.” He looked past me. “But don’t take my word for it.”
He turned to the younger man who had come up from behind and now stood at Mason’s left. “This is one of my finest directors, Kristen LaNue.”
Kristen looked like a younger, Hispanic version of Mason. Undamaged by age, or, more accurately, by excessive efforts to fight it, Kristen was genuinely attractive. He had Mason’s long, angular features, but with pretty green eyes and smooth, unblemished skin. He had a trendy buzz cut that flattered his well-shaped head and a neatly trimmed goatee that called attention to his full, sensuous lips. I’d guess he was about twenty years younger than Mason, which would put him in the mid-thirties.
Had I opened a door to find him there in my call boy days, I’d have been thankful to find someone that attractive. Since I worked partly for tips, I’d also have appreciated his obviously expensive clothing. He wore a Ralph Lauren Black Label denim bomber over the same line’s V-neck tee. I’d been drooling over them at Bloomingdale’s a few days ago—the jacket went for an impressive $3,000. Even the T-shirt was north of a Benjamin.
I couldn’t tell what kind of jeans he wore, but they looked damn good on him. Tapered enough to highlight his strong thighs, but not obnoxiously tight, they rode low on his narrow hips. My guess was they didn’t come from the Gap. Neither did his boots, which I pegged as Maison Martin Margiela, adding at least another grand to his outfit.
Apparently, directing dirty movies was a more lucrative job than I realized. I might need to reassess my career choice.
“I can always count on you to find the prettiest boy in the room,” Kristen said to Mason. The comment was gratuitous, but Kristen pulled it off with more charm
than his mentor. He extended his hand and gave me a firm shake, holding on for a second or two too long. We exchanged introductions.
His voice was sexy, too. Lightly but noticeably accented.
“I was just telling Kevin,” Mason said, “he should drop in for an interview. I’d love to see how he comes across on tape. I bet he’d light the camera on fire.”
Kristen leaned into me. “You’ll have to excuse him,” he said with a wink. “He’s always recruiting. Although”—he arched his eyebrows suggestively—“he’s not wrong. I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but you’re an extraordinarily good-looking young man. Very much the whole Abercrombie thing going on. Have you modeled?”
I shook my head. “I’m flattered, but I’m really not interested.”
Kristen shrugged. “Well, don’t dismiss it out of hand. You’d be surprised how much you can make and the doors it can open. You know, sex is a natural and healthy part of life. You’re a beautiful boy, and beauty is one of the few gifts you can share that gives back more than you give. Getting paid for making love doesn’t make you a whore.”
Having actually been a whore, I wanted to laugh. I had no problem exchanging sex for money. I just didn’t want it recorded.
You never knew when you might want to run for president.
“Thanks,” I said, starting to make my exit.
“Kevin.” Kristen hadn’t raised his voice, but it still froze me in my tracks. He had a natural authority I’d wager served him well in his job. I could see him commanding a chaotic film set. “Promise me you’ll think about it. I take my art very seriously. I think you’ll be proud to have worked with me.”
His “art.” A pornographer with pretensions. I couldn’t decide if it was sweet or obnoxious.
At least I never called my sex work “physical therapy.”
Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery) Page 2
