At home in the States, he worked as a personal trainer. He was paid to do product endorsements. One of the major muscle magazines ran a column in each of its monthly issues, in which Eric described his current training routine, and answered readers’ questions. (The irony was that the column was written by a guy on the magazine’s payroll. The publication paid Eric just for the use of his photo and his name!)
Eric’s additional, “illegitimate” sources of income were of course tied to his homosexuality, and his huge gay male fan base.
Like a surprising number of professional bodybuilders, Eric did some discreet hustling on the side. Because Eric, far from being “gay for pay,” was definitely gay, and enjoyed sex, he was especially in demand. He commanded sums which, at the time, were huge. He charged a minimum of five hundred dollars an hour for sex, fifteen hundred dollars for an overnight tryst, and a mind-blowing five thousand dollars to spend an entire weekend with a john. (And Eric was reluctant to commit himself to a whole weekend too often, because it might interfere with his training!)
Once I got to know Eric, he was quite forthright with me, confiding in me about these matters.
What really impressed me, though, was the revelation that he could get gay men to pay him money without ever meeting them face to face, let alone having sex with them.
Apparently, Eric knew all sorts of ways to make money. Not all of them were respectable, but he managed to make them pay off.
One of the things he did to bring in extra cash was to advertise in gay magazines.
Eric’s ad was simple. There was a particularly hot photo of him, stripped to the waist. Unpublished photos of Eric Streiff, the copy underneath the photo read. It went on to offer quite an extensive assortment of products—black and white or color photos, color slides, and what were unabashedly described as “j/o films,” in color and available in regular 8mm or super 8mm. The films included both “Eric solo” and “Eric with four other models.” (He performed with them one-on-one, not with all four of them at once.) Also for sale were used jockstraps, used jockey shorts, sweaty T-shirts and tank tops, used socks, and a one-hour long audio cassette tape, on which Eric spoke a foul-mouthed, sexually explicit monologue, going into excruciating detail about some of his homosexual experiences. Customers were advised to state that they were twenty-one or older, and to send a check or money order to a post office box. That’s right—back in those long-ago, pre-Internet days, as a consumer you were actually expected to write a nice polite little business letter, specifying what you wanted to order!
And write they did. Once, when he came to visit me, Eric emptied his post office box before he caught his flight. He showed me the bag in which he’d stuffed this correspondence. It was filled to overflowing. He took this business sideline of his seriously. He filled all of the orders personally, often stuffing the envelopes and addressing them while seated in front of his television set, or listening to music on his stereo. Often, he’d enclose little handwritten notes, thanking the customers for their patronage. As a result, he got a lot of repeat business. Customers sent him fan mail, some of it nice, congratulating him on his recent physique contest wins, and urging him to add more photos and other merchandise to his inventory. Other letters were more lurid.
I want to lick the hot stinking sweat right off your hard-muscled body, one correspondent wrote. Whatever was going inside this guy’s head as he wrote, his actual handwriting was admirably neat and legible. I want to sniff and lick your smelly armpits. I want you to sit on my face and order me to stick my tongue up your dirty ass. I want to have the privilege of cleaning out your filthy shithole with my tongue. You can beat me, if you want to. You can humiliate me and make me your slave. You can piss on me, and use me as your personal toilet. I want to service you in every way possible and worship you as my god. The missive went on and on like that, for pages. Parts of it were so explicit that they made even me blush!
I was curious about the audio tape. “Oh, that’s just me talking dirty,” Eric said, dismissively. “Maybe I should hire this dude to write me some new material,” he added, referring to the admirer who wanted to lick his sweat, sniff his armpits, and worship him in general. “He sounds like he’s got quite some imagination.”
I was even more intrigued by the revelation that there was a market for used gym clothing. Eric sealed the damp, soiled items in plastic and mailed them off in small shipping boxes. What the purchasers did with them was their business, but Eric assumed that they used the articles as jack-off aids.
“Imagine some dude lying there naked on his bed, whacking off, with my dirty jockstrap draped over his face,” he said. “Sniffing it, while he plays with himself. I can’t believe some of the things guys get into, can you?”
As a matter of fact, I could imagine such a scene, and I could believe that it’d be possible to get into it—and get off on it. I was tempted to place an order with Eric for one of his used jocks, myself!
“It’s a gold mine out there, Gino,” Eric told me. “The hornier these motherfuckers are, the more willing they are to spend their money on a guy like me—or like you. Don’t be a fool, Gino,” Eric advised. “You’ve got the face and the body. Why shouldn’t you get your piece of the pie?”
He told me I could start out on a small scale. All I’d need was a post office box, and a few really sexy photos of myself in the nude. It was important that I owned the negatives and the right to reproduce them. That way, I could make as many prints as I needed, based on the demand.
He showed me a typical ad in a gay magazine, for a “photo service.” We develop and print your most explicit photos. All photo services available. Uncensored and discreet. Your privacy is guaranteed.
I certainly hoped so!
I told Eric I’d think about it.
And while I thought about it, my life went on, prosaically enough.
Renzo and I occasionally phoned each other, long distance. During these conversations, we’d catch up.
We had no secrets from each other. Renzo was adjusting to life in that small town up there on the bank of the Hudson. He was “fucking a number of the local farm boys,” as he unblushingly put it. “Hicks in the sticks with big pricks,” he joked.
He was excited when I described how I’d met Eric. I have to give Renzo credit—he was hardly the jealous or possessive type. He seemed thrilled that I was tricking with a real pro bodybuilder. Renzo had only two questions. Was there any possibility of setting up a threesome, the next time Eric was in town? And could he get an autographed photo of Eric?
He laughed when I informed him that, for a fee, he could obtain all the nude photos and explicit film footage of Eric that he wanted. (I must do justice to Eric, though. When I reported this conversation between Renzo and me to him, he put together a very nice, comprehensive package of his photos and movies, which he mailed to me so I could forward them to Renzo. And Eric refused to take any money for them.)
I also told Renzo how Eric had suggested that I go into business for myself, too, selling photos of myself, and perhaps other merchandise.
“I think you should go for it, Gino,” Renzo told me.
“So I have your blessing?” I asked him, facetiously.
“Yeah, for what that’s worth. Namely, nothing!”
There are times when life really seems to be a series of fortuitous coincidences.
A few days later, when John phoned me and invited me to come into Manhattan for a solo photo shoot in his studio, I jumped at the chance. I was bored, restless, and horny. Posing in the nude for John’s camera was exactly the kind of distraction that I needed. And, by now, I was no longer an innocent from suburbia. I knew that New York City offered many social and sexual opportunities for a young gay man. I was more than ready to take advantage of them.
“Have you ever thought of appearing in a movie?” John asked me.
His question took me by surprise. We were having coffee, as usual, during a break in the photo-taking. (By now, I was so comfortable arou
nd John that I didn’t even bother to put on a robe to cover myself during our breaks. I was seated on the sofa in his studio, bare-assed naked, with a towel under my butt to protect the upholstery. As I drank my coffee from a nice porcelain cup and saucer, I must have been quite a sight.)
“Who, me?” I responded. “Of course not.”
“I don’t know why not. You’re not just well-built. You’re incredibly good-looking.” Sipping his own coffee, he was ogling my nude body, with what might be described as a more than purely professional interest. I was more than happy to provide him with this cheap thrill.
“It’s nice of you to say so, John. But I don’t have any acting talent. Or any ambitions along that line, for that matter. I’m afraid my ‘talent’ begins and ends with taking off my shirt and dropping my pants,” I joked.
“But you might be surprised by how far that can get a young man such as yourself.”
When the photo session resumed, we discussed the issue at greater length. We always conversed during the picture taking. I enjoyed our talks. There were times when I almost forgot that I was nude, and posing for John’s camera!
I’d already discovered that my friend John suffered from a strange prejudice. He had little or no use for the motion picture industry, on the whole.
John felt that still photographs of naked men, no matter how explicit, were art. Filmed images of naked men, on the other hand, were trashy, and constituted smut. I couldn’t see the logic behind his reasoning, myself.
The irony was that John knew a lot of New York City filmmakers, both amateurs and professionals, some of whom were more respectable than others. He promised to introduce me to a couple of them; and, as usual, he was as good as his word.
You have to realize that the porn movie industry was still in its infancy in those days. It wasn’t at all like it is today, when everything is available at the touch of a button on DVDs or via the Internet. Back then, in the early Sixties, only a few major cities had theaters which screened heterosexual “adult films” for paying audiences. Theaters which showed gay porn were even rarer—except in the really large cities, where they thrived, providing an essential service for their small but loyal niche audiences.
In New York City, back in those days, Times Square was still defiantly, unashamedly raunchy. Tourists went there for the explicit purpose of being titillated; they hoped to be shocked. The area wouldn’t be cleaned up and made respectable until a couple of decades later.
If you found yourself in downtown Manhattan and you wanted to see a gay porno movie, you could go to the Tom Cat Cinema, the Gaiety Male Burlesk, the Adonis, the Jewel, or the West World … and these were only a few of the available options. You could see a blue movie, or a “live show” of male strippers—and you could even take part in the action yourself, because in these theaters the rest rooms, the balconies, and the less well-lit areas in general were all hotbeds of cruising and furtive sexual activity.
Gay men, wherever they happened to live, had another option available to them. They could mail order porn movies and play them on their projectors in the privacy of their homes. In retrospect, from today’s perspective, the technology seems primitive indeed. You had to take the reel of film out of its can, thread it into the projector, and show it on a screen. (And rewind it when you were done.) But, trust me—at the time, this was hot stuff, and many a gay guy sat there in a darkened room and masturbated himself into a frenzy while staring at the flickering images of men indulging in various sex acts. Inviting another guy over to view the porn was, of course, a surefire seduction technique.
John hooked me up with Dirk Dervaux (as he called himself, for professional purposes), a young guy who was a member of that first pioneering generation of gay porn directors and producers.
Dirk, who was in his early thirties at the time, was a chain smoker, and a ball of fire who simply radiated nervous energy. He was always “on”—revved up—even without the aid of recreational drugs. (When he was hyped up on them, his intensity level rose accordingly.) I liked him from the moment we met. We went to bed, of course. Dick tricked with most of the guys who appeared in his films, sooner or later, and in various combinations. He was an exciting lover, the kind of total sex pig who had no limitations whatsoever. He especially liked group sex. Needless to say, I had some wild times in his company.
As a filmmaker, Dirk was a contradiction. Perennially short of money, he’d do just about anything to make money. And then he’d spend it all on his film projects. He lived modestly. Artistically, he was a perfectionist. Although he was frustrated by having to work with such limited resources, he always made the best of it. He had an extraordinary knack for making the most of whatever he had at hand.
“You have got to star in one of my flicks,” Dirk insisted.
“But I want to become a professional bodybuilder,” I protested. That was indeed my ambition, at the time. “Won’t I be blacklisted, if I’m seen having sex with other guys in dirty movies?”
“For one thing, I don’t make ‘dirty movies,’ as you call them,” Dirk said, haughtily. “I make sexually explicit movies for discriminating gay audiences. There’s a big difference. And for another thing, who the hell do you think is going to see you in my films, except for a bunch of queens? Jesus! Get over yourself, big guy,” he advised. “We won’t have you perform under your real name. That goes without saying. If anybody in the fucking bodybuilding organizations tries to give you any trouble, you just tell them that’s not you in the movies. It’s some guy who looks like you. It must be your long-lost gay twin brother, from whom you were separated at birth. How are they going to prove otherwise? Fuck ‘em!”
According to Dirk, quite a few gay bodybuilders, who were more liberated than the rest—or simply less cautious—had already made their debuts in underground “male” films. He didn’t see any reason why I couldn’t be one of them. If they could get away with it, so could I.
On a subsequent occasion, I asked Dirk if he’d been serious.
“Of course I can get you a part,” he said. “The guys in this business are willing to give just about anybody a chance. The trick is in landing a second part. Anyway,” he added, only half-jokingly, “you have an advantage. You’ve already slept with the director!”
There was only one potential hitch. Before Dirk could send me out to audition for one of the more ambitious, full length gay films he was involved in making, I would have to act—or more accurately, to perform—in one or more of the quickie “loop films” which he also produced, and which played in such locales as the 42nd Street peepshows.
The first reason for this was a simple matter of supply-and-demand. Remember, this was the Sixties, when the so-called Sexual Revolution had begun. Gay men were doing more than their fair share of rebelling. As Dirk explained it to me, there were times when it seemed that every drugged-out hippie who’d ever smoked weed or hash, or dropped acid, was ready to get naked and have sex in front of a movie camera—for fun, if not for profit.
The porn movie mills went through a constant turnover of aspirants, few of whom actually made any lasting impression in the industry. Many of these films were financed by mysterious figures who stayed behind the scenes and kept their identities, and their involvement in the moviemaking, concealed. (To this day, I can’t confirm the truth of the persistent rumors to the effect that lots of Dirk’s films were financed by organized crime.) These “studio bosses” would need to see whether I was reasonably photogenic. A loop would be an ideal “calling card” with which to introduce myself.
The second reason was the need to test me to find out whether I could meet the basic professional standards of the adult film industry. The producers needed to see if I could get it up, keep it up, and—above all—could I come on cue?
A male performer was expected to ejaculate on camera at least once, and preferably twice, at each (aptly named) shoot.
“Two come shots on a film set is a lot harder than two come shots at home in the comfort of your own
bed,” Dirk admonished me. I accepted the challenge.
The whole experience of “making my loops” went smoothly, on the whole.
“Are you free this Saturday night?” Dirk asked.
“Yes. What’ve you got in mind?”
“Your debut.”
“Oh. Will you be there?”
“Of course. I’ll be in charge of this shoot.”
“Then, for you, I’ll make myself available.”
“Great! Looking forward to it, Gino. By the way, you don’t have any prejudices, do you?”
“Such as?”
“Would you be willing to fuck a black guy, or a Puerto Rican?”
I was liberal enough to be surprised by the question, and in fact offended by it, although I was careful not to show it.
“You bet I would,” I replied. “I’ll fuck anything that’s got male chromosomes, if he’s hot.”
“Good. Here’s the address. Show up there around ten o’clock. I’ll tell them to expect you. And I’ll be there, to steer you through it. It’s no big deal. You show up, you suck, you fuck, and you get paid. Everybody’s happy. Think of it as just another fun Saturday night in the big city.”
The address turned out to be an industrial loft space, converted into an apartment. It was somewhat sparsely furnished, but it looked comfortable enough.
When I arrived, there seemed to be some sort of a quiet all-male party going on. About a dozen guys were hanging about, talking, watching television, or listening to records. The refreshments included coffee, soft drinks, beer, wine, hard liquor—and pot. Hand-rolled joints passed from hand to hand, and the air was thick with the telltale sweet-smelling smoke.
I never found out whose apartment it was. And, at first, I had no way of knowing which of these guys were the performers, which were the crew members—and which were onlookers, there to provide moral, or rather immoral, support.
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