“That was, uh, practicing. You don’t audition for porn without practicing your swallowing.”
SwordFight Productions had their own building in New York’s trendy Tribeca neighborhood. When I arrived, I was given consent forms to sign and shown to the room where the shooting occurred.
A floor of the building had been converted into one large studio, where industrial video lights hung from the ceiling and various props littered the corners.
The area where I was told to wait was made up to look like a tacky motel room. I was perched on the end of a cheap twin bed. A plywood nightstand next to it supported a plastic table lamp with a dented cardboard shade and a large pump bottle of SwordFight-branded lube. Above the bed hung a painting of a lighthouse so bad it might have been meant as parody. And why a lighthouse? Was it chosen for its phallic symbolism, for the viewer too impatient to wait for the actual phallus that would be making its appearance soon enough?
I was nervous. I was babbling, if only in my own head.
Focus, Kevin, focus.
I was also hot, but not in the good way. I was literally overheating. The studio lights roasted me like a tanning bed in a Final Destination movie. Maybe it was intentional—one of Mason’s techniques to get first-time models naked as quickly as possible. No pressure. Strip or melt. You decide.
The lights also served to blind me to whatever Mason was doing out there. I heard him puttering around, but he hadn’t answered me. I found it unnerving.
“Mason?” I asked.
Long pause. “Yeah?”
“I said, ‘I hadn’t expected to get in here so quickly.’ ”
“Huhn,” he grunted.
He’d been chatty at the party and on the phone. Here, not so much.
He stepped from behind the lights into my faux hotel room.
I’d been wrong.
“I’m not Mason,” Pierce Deepley, former porn star and Mason’s current assistant, announced. “He stepped out five minutes ago. He had to take a call. I was just finishing setting up for him.”
I didn’t like not knowing who was in the room. Maybe there were others there, in the shadows. Unseen viewers hidden by the darkness.
But wasn’t that a metaphor for the whole experience of being in porn? You never knew who was watching. That was a level of control you had to sacrifice.
Maybe that was part of the appeal. For a model into exhibitionism, it could be the perfect trifecta: getting paid for getting off by showing off.
For me, not so much.
“Oh, okay,” I said to Pierce. “I was thinking it was strange Mason didn’t answer me. Now I get it.”
“I don’t know he would have answered you even if he were here,” Pierce said. He always sounded annoyed to be speaking to me, as if I were somehow beneath his attention. “Seeing as how you didn’t actually ask anything,” he added.
“Sorry, I forgot to phrase my response in the form of a question,” I clarified, feeling as if I were being chided by Alex Trebek.
Pierce exhaled noisily through his mouth. “Don’t take it personally. It’s not as if you’re that special.” I think Pierce would have preferred not responding at all, but he couldn’t miss this chance to put me in my place.
“When a potential model calls to schedule an audition, we always try to get him in as soon as we can. That day, if possible. All we require are some pictures before we make an appointment. No point in wasting everyone’s time if he’s a pig.
“If he has the right looks, though, we move fast. The decision to appear on film is generally made on impulse. Often it’s out of desperation—money is tight and there are no other options. I can’t tell you what a boon the bad economy has been for us. A nine percent unemployment rate is the best recruitment tool we have.
“Still, given a day or two to consider it, an applicant may chicken out. Maybe he’ll decide that job at the fast food place isn’t so bad after all. Or, he’ll swallow his pride and ask Mommy and Daddy for a loan, even though he’d sworn not to. That’s why it’s imperative we get him on video before he has a chance to identify other options.”
“So, basically,” I said, unable to stop myself from getting in a dig, “your business model is to take advantage of people at their weakest.”
I couldn’t make out the features of Pierce’s face, but I could hear the smug smile in his voice. “Yes, we’re just awful, aren’t we? Like those restaurants that feed you when you want to eat. How dare they profit from your hunger?
“Or the credit card companies that are only too happy to extend funds to young people at interest rates so punishing they were previously restricted to the practices of loan sharks and Shakespearean villains.
“How horrid of us,” he continued, on a roll, justifying his actions in a controlled but impassioned rant he’d probably given dozens of times before, “to provide these young men with work that pays more than they’d make anywhere else, while protecting their health and safety. No, better they should work for eight dollars an hour in a coal mine getting emphysema than make a hundred times that for suffering the indignity of a well-delivered blow job.”
Jeez. I had to admit he made a good case. Not that I’d admit it to him.
“It’s not like you’re doing it out of charity,” I pointed out. “You guys are doing pretty well yourselves.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have the time or the inclination to educate you on the basic tenets of capitalism,” he said, dialing his condescension meter to eleven. “Does SwordFight make money from the efforts of its employees? Absolutely. So does every company in the world. I’m simply explaining that, in my opinion, we pay and treat the men who work for us more than fairly. Often, a good deal more.”
“So, you don’t feel badly about taking advantage of guys at their most desperate?”
“I wouldn’t say the majority of our models come to us when they’re at their ‘most desperate,’ as you so charmingly put it. But, even if they did, why would I feel badly about providing employment that I truly believe is in their best interest? Extremely generous compensation for work that is not only safe, but, for those without Puritanical hang-ups, quite fun? The best sex many of them will ever have, in fact.
“And for those who truly are in immediate need of cash? What would be preferable in your world—to offer them nothing? Or to give them a choice?
“We’re not holding a gun to their heads, Mr. Connor. Just a camera and a paycheck. Does that really make us bad guys?”
I kind of hated myself for not having a snappy comeback to that. Having been a sex worker myself, I didn’t harbor the Puritanical streak Deepley deplored. Nor did I think it was inherently immoral to make or appear in porn. People had a right to use their bodies in any way they wanted. If they could make a living by giving pleasure to others, more power to them.
So, if it wasn’t their business I objected to, why was I picking this fight with Pierce?
It was, I realized, because I didn’t like him. Or Mason. It wasn’t their work that made them “bad guys.” It was their characters.
From the moment I met them, they struck me as manipulative, uncaring, exploitative assholes. Their callous lack of concern for Brent only reinforced that initial impression.
Maybe I was being naïve, but it seemed to me there was a way they could run their business while remaining human beings.
“Sorry,” Mason’s voice boomed as he walked back into the studio. “That was the owner of EuroBoys Films. We’re forming a partnership with them. Actually, it’s more of an acquisition.”
By now, Mason had walked over to where Pierce stood. He put his arm around his assistant in a celebratory gesture. Go team.
“It would never have happened without Pierce. He’s the one who first approached them. The lawyers hammered out the details, but Pierce got the ball rolling.”
He was so excited he was mixing his metaphors.
“We’re going to be the first international M/M video company. Can you imagine what that means to me? I
started this company from nothing. Nothing. Just a five-hundred-dollar video camera that shot on VHS tape.
“Now, we’re weeks away from having a worldwide presence. It’s—literally—unbelievable.”
The jubilation in Mason’s voice was almost manic. His grin was so wide I wouldn’t have been surprised to see his jaw completely unhinge, like a snake’s.
He squeezed Pierce tighter. There was nothing sexual in the gesture—it was pure pride. All business.
“I’m telling you,” he continued, “I’d be lost if anything ever happened to this guy. I’d track him to the ends of the earth if that’s what it took.”
I didn’t doubt it.
As long as Pierce continued to produce, as long as he brought in the money, Mason wasn’t about to let him go.
So, why was he so unconcerned about losing Brent?
Something didn’t add up.
“But enough about that.” Mason released Pierce from his clutches and stood by my side.
“We’re here for you today, Kevin. You ready to start making some movie magic for me?”
No, I thought.
“Yes,” I said.
“Excellent.” Mason clapped his hands together. “Let’s get the cameras rolling and see what you’ve got. Pierce, you ready to start shooting?”
“Oh, I was ready to shoot him before you even arrived,” Pierce assured.
If Mason got Pierce’s double meaning, he didn’t acknowledge it. “I don’t blame you,” he said, with seeming sincerity. “He’s absolutely adorable. I can’t wait to see if what’s under all that clothing is as delicious as I expect it to be. I’ll be surprised if isn’t.” He winked at me.
Oh, you’ll be surprised, I thought.
At least, that was my plan.
Although now, under the blinding, hot lights, the running cameras, and the unexpected presence of Pierce in the room, I was wondering if Freddy was right and I hadn’t gotten myself in trouble after all.
Plans and I didn’t get along very well.
20
Star Maker
“So,” Mason began. He picked up and unfolded a wood-and-canvas contraption that had been leaning against one of the cameras, and I noted with amusement that it was an old-fashioned director’s chair. Like something Alfred Hitchcock might have used on set. I wondered if Mason had his last name stenciled on the back. “Even though you’ve already signed a release, I need to confirm that you’re aware that this interaction is being videotaped for possible public viewing at the discretion of SwordFight Productions. This distribution may occur online, on DVD, or through other technological means yet to be developed. By appearing in this video, you give full and informed consent. Do you agree to these conditions?”
Mason appeared to have the spiel memorized. I thought of police reading suspects their Miranda rights. They knew those by heart, too.
It didn’t usually bode well for the arrested.
Dry-mouthed, I nodded.
“I need you to give your verbal consent, please.”
“Yes,” I croaked.
“And you are of legal age?”
“Yes.”
“You provided a driver’s license with your written consent form and contract. Is that accurate?”
“Yes.”
“And would you state for the record your date and year of birth.”
Considering I’d come here to ask questions, I was giving a lot of answers. I confirmed my birthday.
“Excellent,” Mason said. “Tell me what brings you here today.”
This was the part where I was supposed to say I was broke and trying to make money to buy my girlfriend an engagement ring. Or, I’d lost my job and the rent was due. Or that my mother had end-stage renal failure and it was up to me to buy her a liver on the black market. Anything to endear myself to the audience, establish my bona fides as a first-timer, and, if at all possible, convince them I was straight and, maybe, just maybe, bi-curious.
Was that what I was supposed to do now? Did getting my questions answered require me to play the role? I looked at Mason for direction.
After all, he had the chair for it.
Mason looked back, a slight smile lying across his face like a dead slug.
Fine. If he wasn’t going to do his job, I might as well do what I’d come to accomplish. “I’m here about Brent,” I said. “I want to find him.”
“All right,” he said. “How do you think I can help?”
“Do you have any idea how to contact him?”
“I don’t.”
“Did you check his application?”
“Pierce?” Mason asked.
His assistant stepped forward and handed Mason a sheet of paper. “Just give it to him,” Mason said.
It was Brent’s application. He’d used his stage name, not his real one.
There were two emergency contacts. One listed his parents; the other was Charlie.
“The one for his parents was a ruse,” Mason said, anticipating my next question. “We tried it. The area code is real; it’s for a town in Wisconsin. The number isn’t registered, though.”
I remembered Brent telling me he came from Queens, New York. I also recalled Charlie saying that Brent was cut off by his parents.
“You think Brent was from Wisconsin?” I asked.
“I think he wrote down the first ten digits that occurred to him,” Mason said. “You’ve met and talked to Brent. Was there anything about him that screamed ‘Wisconsin’ to you?”
Maybe he liked cheese.
“We have tried to contact Brent,” Mason said. “When he didn’t show up, we left a message with Charlie.”
“Two messages,” Pierce corrected from somewhere in the darkness. I’d almost forgotten he was there running the cameras.
“Thank you. Two messages. Charlie didn’t return either. But, then again, I imagine you know how he felt about Brent’s work.”
I nodded, scanning the rest of the application for anything useful. Nothing appeared revealing. He left blank the sections for references, experience, and education, but what would you put down for a job in porn?
“That’s a copy,” Mason said. “You’re free to keep it.”
I folded it and put it in my pocket.
“So, now that I’ve given you something, don’t you think you should give back?”
“What do you mean?”
Mason looked to his left and I saw he had a monitor there, probably feeding him whatever video Pierce was taping at the time.
“You look as good on screen as I thought you would. It’s a rare quality.
“Some people, even pretty ones, come across dead on camera. Flat. The features are pleasing, but you don’t feel anything when you see them. You might as well be watching animations.
“Think of all the models who’ve failed to succeed as actors. They’re perfectly lovely in still shots, but on film, they’re wooden. It’s not that they’re bad actors, although most of them are. It’s that they don’t come alive on screen.
“On the other hand, you have actors with undeniable screen presence. Look at someone like Sean Penn. Or Glenn Close. They don’t have the most classically beautiful features, but you can’t take your eyes off them. It’s what makes them stars. That indefinable quality of being amplified by the camera rather than reduced by it.
“Billy Wilder called it ‘flesh impact.’ He said the first time he saw it was in screen tests with Marilyn Monroe. He described her as radiating sex in every scene, even the comic ones. He said she had ‘flesh which photographs like flesh. You feel you can reach out and touch it.’ ”
I remembered thinking exactly that when I’d watched Brent’s movies at Freddy’s the other night. That Brent somehow seemed more alive, more present, than anyone else on the screen.
“Wilder said he’d only worked with a handful of stars who had that quality. Monroe, like I said. Jean Harlow and . . . Rita Hayworth, I think. The man filmed almost every major actress of his time, but he could only name
three who had that magical quality.
“So, imagine how rare it is. Look, all of my models are great-looking guys. They wouldn’t be in my movies if they weren’t. But they’ll never have that ineffable something that sets them apart. That special quality that makes them the star of any scene they’re in, even if the other guy is technically more handsome, or better built, or bigger hung.
“After twenty years in the business, I like to believe I’ve gotten to the point where I can see as the camera does. That’s why I approached you after the taping of that television show. I thought I saw in you the same quality Brent had. Brock Peters has it, too. Flesh impact. Skin the camera reads as real.
“Of course, to be sure, I’ll have to see more of it.” The leer in his voice was subtle but couldn’t be missed.
The film history lesson was interesting and flattering. It might even have been enjoyable if I didn’t think it was just another ploy to get my pants off.
Something else disturbed me. Mason said “flesh impact” was something Brock “has,” but Brent “had.” Why was Brent being referred to in the past tense? An innocent slip of the tongue into which I was reading too much? Or maybe Mason just assumed that since Brent had stopped showing up for work, he was done making movies?
Or was there a more sinister reason for Mason’s wording? A subconscious slip that indicated he knew more than he was saying?
“I agree,” I said. “Brent did have that ‘special something.’ I didn’t know what it was that made him stand out, but you’ve nailed it. ‘Flesh impact.’ Wow. You really know your stuff.”
A little fawning never hurt.
Mason sat up straighter in his ridiculous director’s chair. “My eye for talent is one of the keys to my success.”
“Well, yeah, but it’s more than that. Anyone can pick out a pretty face,” I said. “But you . . . you see deeper, don’t you?” I tried to sound sincere with a little awestruck thrown in.
I was sure ambitious and sexy lads hit on Mason all the time. It wasn’t that he didn’t get his share of flattery. In fact, I bet stroking Mason’s ego was in Pierce’s job description.
But I’ve been around boys on the make long enough to know they usually get it wrong. They tell men like Mason how hot he is, that they like the “daddy” type, or they call him a sexy bear, when the truth is he’s just overweight. He probably appreciates their efforts, and he may take them up on their offers to exchange sex for a shot in a movie, but he’s shrewd enough to know how empty their compliments are.
Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery) Page 15
