Out of the Blue

by Blue Blake

  “Twincest . . . did you like it?” I replied in the huskiest voice I could summon.

  “Very sexy,” said Chris. “Are you going to the after party? . . . I’ll be there.”

  The after party was being held at Rage, a gay club in West Hollywood near our apartment.

  “Yes, I’ll definitely be there.”

  “Great . . . I’ll meet you there then.”

  I was blown away. Mr. Fucking Olympia, and he seemed up for some boy love action. Perfect, because I was certainly going to provide it.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” laughed Gage. “Chris Duffy, Chris Dickerson. . . .”

  “YOU!!” I thought, but said nothing.

  The show was GROTESQUE, unbelievably bad and totally unprofessional. Gage and I were astonished at some of the uglies that were calling themselves porn stars. Very few were larger than life, and the strange moth-eaten venue of the Tomkatt Theater didn’t help matters. Award after award was presented and I marveled at how seriously everybody took this, especially when considering how bizarre the categories were: Best Cum Shot, Best Oral, Star with the Loosest Hole. Best Movie that year was Songs in the Key of Sex, which I thought was a ridiculous title. Sharon Kane didn’t win for her song, but when Gage and I carried her onstage on a surfboard the audience screamed with appreciation. A drunken Jon Vincent finally approached us and hit on Gage who was more interested in all of the transvestites who seemed to gravitate to the porn industry. Gage was in heaven.

  Chi Chi came wandering over. I had never seen him in drag before and was surprised at how good he looked. He sort of resembled a cross between the drag queen Divine and the singer Carnie Wilson.

  Divine had been a client of mine one rainy Sunday in Earl’s Court. He had asked what it would take for me to fuck him and I said, “ . . . to be very drunk.”

  “Let’s get you a bottle of gin,” he replied. He wasn’t in the least bit offended. When I massaged him he was so fat my knees didn’t touch the floor on either side of his body. I just floated on an island of blubber. I really liked Divine. I have every single one of his songs on my iPod. He also starred in one of my favorite films of all time, Lust in the Dust. Divine had been discovered by the director John Waters, who years later I was lucky enough to meet. John was full of hilarious anecdotes and told one of the funniest stories I have ever heard. John was trying to describe how rough the guys were in Baltimore. While driving down the road he had stopped to give a hitchhiker a ride one morning. The hiker pulled out a bag of glue began sniffing it voraciously then offered some to John. Without even batting an eyelid John said “Oh, not for me thanks . . . its only 8 a.m.”

  That cracked me up.

  “Is this the brother I’ve heard so much about?” whispered Chi Chi.

  “I’m Gage.”

  “Do you want to do a film for me? I’ve a feeling you’ll be a star.”

  Chi Chi hadn’t said that to me. No surprise considering my lousy performance in Seeds of Love.

  “I only do jerk-off.”

  “No problem. I’ll call Blue for your number.”

  Things were going swimmingly. Gage and I were having job offers thrown at us by everybody. We were new meat and everybody wanted a slice.

  The show lasted a couple of hours and then everybody headed to the after party.

  I had to drag Gage to the party because he had no interest. As soon as I walked in, I spotted Chris Dickerson. We wandered over.

  “I liked your performance,” said Chris.

  “Don’t lie,” I laughed. “It was cheesy.”

  “No, it was not. You both looked really good on stage,” Chris said earnestly.

  I bent forward and kissed him. Chris responded by taking hold of my arm and pulling me in tight for a long, hard kiss on the mouth.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Do you live close by?”

  “Five minutes away.”

  He casually reached over and felt his cock through his tuxedo pants. It was ENORMOUS. To this day, Chris Dickerson has one of the biggest cocks I’ve ever seen. It was like a baby’s arm holding an orange. I practically ran home with him. Gage followed. At the apartment, I ripped off his tuxedo and sure enough, his dick was massive. I didn’t see how he would be able to fuck me with that monster. Somehow he managed . . . five times all night. In between fucks he told me he had been living in Palm Springs but was moving back to Manhattan because he was bored with the desert. Although he had been a bodybuilder his whole life, he now intended to study opera and become a singer. He was en route to Manhattan, and I felt a pang of sadness. I could easily have dated Chris. Plus, it turned him on that I was doing porn. I had never had a problem with my boyfriends about being an escort or later being in porn. If they didn’t like it, I moved on. I didn’t need anybody making moral judgments about my lifestyle. I loved my life. The only person exploiting my body was me.

  As I let Chris out of the apartment the next morning Gage popped his head around the bedroom door.

  “Sounded like you had quite a night,” he grinned.

  “Yeah, now I need to go soak my arse in Epsom salts,” I winced.

  “Well, better make it quick because isn’t Chris Duffy arriving at 3 p.m.?”

  Aaaaargh!!! That completely slipped my mind. How did I forget that Chris Duffy was arriving for a play date, possibly with his wife, in three hours?

  Chris Duffy, Chris Dickerson, Zak Spears . . . man, I felt like I was batting a thousand.

  The night before, I had spotted Crystal Crawford in drag at the porn awards. I had forgotten to pick up my check from him as I had been so busy sorting out my increasingly complicated sex life.

  “Crystal, I’m coming round to get my check for the movie, when’s a good time for you?”

  He looked nervous. “Well, I’m leaving town day after tomorrow, so how about when I get back in a week.”

  “I’ll be at your place tomorrow at 1 p.m. sharp.” I said firmly.

  After shooting that retarded movie, even more models let it be known to me that Ms. Crawford was indeed bad at paying. Crystal had obviously never seen me explode in a confined space. I wanted my money, and I wanted it yesterday.

  So after Chris Dickerson left, I quickly dressed, jumped on my bike and rode over to Chez Crawford. I banged on the door. No answer. I banged again. No answer. I banged LOUDER. From the other side of the door I heard a dog’s muffled bark and a loud sibilant “Sssssshhhh.”

  “Crystal, I hear you in there!” I shouted through the door.

  “I’m here for my fucking money!” I yelled, my anger fueled by my daily intake of testosterone. “Crystal, you better fucking open this door!”

  Just as I felt myself approach thermonuclear, a check was pushed under the door. I snatched it up. I wasn’t going to wait to deposit the check, so I went straight to one of the check-cashing stores on Santa Monica Boulevard. I had learned a valuable lesson. Never appear in cheap-arse productions, especially those shot in elevators in scrawny drag queens’ apartment buildings.

  I arrived home, showered, and at 3 on the nose the buzzer rang. It was Chris and his wife Joanie. I realized I was trembling.

  Joanie looked like Cleopatra, if Cleopatra had taken steroids. She had long, straight, glossy dark bangs that shone from being expensively conditioned. She was of Italian descent and was super tanned. She had placed second in the Women’s American Bodybuilding Championships, beaten only by Lenda Murray. Lenda went on to win the Miss Olympia title five times. Joanie’s body was astonishing. She had a very deep voice and, I was told, an enormous clitoris that had been enlarged to the size of a small penis by all the male hormones she had ingested.

  The three of us jumped into bed immediately, on the same sheets Chris Dickerson had fucked me on hours earlier . . . I know, it’s disgusting, but they didn’t notice. They didn’t notice because they were as high as kites. It turned out that in his spare time, Chris Duffy made the party drug GHB and stored it by the gallon under his kitchen sink.

&
nbsp; Joanie stripped off, lay back and played with her enormous clitoris. “I want to watch you boys,” she growled, and I do mean growled. Joanie had the voice of a dockworker who smoked two packs a day. Again, all because of the steroids she had taken.

  Whether it was the sound of Joanie’s growly voice, the fact that I was with Mr. America, or just the whole perversity of the situation, I got kind of turned on, and with Joanie encouraging me, I fucked Chris’s ass. Joanie, high on GHB told Chris to suck her cock as she manipulated her giant clitoris. Chris greedily began sucking on her clit while I fucked him from behind. We fucked for hours until we all came.

  Afterwards, with Joanie in the shower, Chris said, “I want to date you.”

  “What about Joanie?” I asked incredulously.

  “I want her to be my wife, but I want you to be my boyfriend.”

  “Does Joanie know about this?”

  “I told her how much I like you, and I’ve never had a boyfriend before . . . ” he trailed off.

  I would have been crazy to turn him down. I had fancied this guy for years, and here he was asking to date me. So what if he had a drug-crazed wife and I was dating Zak Spears, both suddenly seemed sadly disposable.

  Zak called me that night.

  “Zak, I have something to tell you,”

  “Listen,” he interrupted, “Chi Chi is singing at Christina Applegate’s birthday party, do you want to go? We’re taking a couple of guys from Posing Strap as well, a guy called Lance Bronson, who is a bodybuilder from Washington, and some kid . . . I can’t remember his name.”

  Christina Applegate was starring in the hilarious TV show Married with Children, and I thought her birthday party would be fun and very Hollywood. I had never been to a Hollywood party. I was excited. I could tell Zak I was breaking up with him another time. I didn’t want to ruin his evening.

  Chi Chi and Zak picked me up at 8 p.m. I was exhausted. I’d been banging Chris Duffy all day and getting banged by Chris Dickerson all night. I was wiped out. Posing Strap was starting production that week, and I had two scenes. One was a three-way with Zak Spears and Jimmy Toro, a guy I’d never heard of. The second scene was a flip-flop scene with David Logan, a British porn actor whom I knew casually from London. A flip-flop scene is where you fuck and get fucked. That would be the first scene I would shoot for the movie. I wasn’t looking forward to it as David was blonde and slight and so the antithesis of what I normally fancied.

  We stopped off at Lance Bronson’s hotel to pick up him with the other model. When Lance climbed into the back of the car, I nearly died of shock. He was fucking gorgeous; a corn-fed Midwestern bodybuilder. I was in lust. He was doing an oral scene with Zak Spears, having Zak just blow him as he was straight. God, I wanted to be the one blowing Lance.

  Lance and I got on like a house on fire and chatted all night. He told me he was going to move to L.A. to become an action movie star, the next Arnold Schwarzenegger. I listened, enthralled by his gorgeousness. Christina Applegate’s party was boring, but we all got drunk, and Chi Chi invited Lance back home for a nightcap. Chi Chi obviously had great taste. I decided to sleep over with Zak. I was still debating whether or not to tell him I wanted to end our very brief fling. Zak and I climbed into bed, and I could hear Chi Chi and Lance in the living room making out. Derek Cruise was sleeping at his girlfriend’s for the night.

  Suddenly Zak turned to me and said “Blue, I don’t think this relationship is working. I’ve got too many things in my life going on to commit to a relationship. I just think we would make better friends than lovers.”

  Zak had beaten me to the punch! I wasn’t bitter. It had been a quick fling for both of us and I had made a good friend who I enjoy to this very day.

  My first day of shooting on Posing Strap rolled around. The plot of the film was that Zak Spears—wearing makeup to make him look like an old man—was in an art gallery, looking back to the days when he was a famous erotic art photographer in the Fifties. (Flashback to Zak, photographing the models wearing posing straps. They become hot for each other and start fucking.) Other than this there was no plot whatsoever I don’t think. At least none I was involved in.

  I didn’t fancy my co-star David Logan, and he didn’t fancy me, so the scene was agony. It took hours and hours to film. He had to fuck me, and I had to fuck him, and neither of us could stay hard.

  The cameraman was incredibly patient, and we somehow got through the scene, and came. I apologized to the cameraman, and he laughed and said not to worry, the scene looked great. When the film came out, astonishingly, it did! This was the first scene where I was filmed fucking somebody, and, much worse I decided, them fucking me. I immediately realized I would rather be the one doing the fucking on film. Getting fucked hurt, you were tense, your arse was tight and it was incredibly un-erotic. You were balanced on crates with a crew underneath you, inches away from your arsehole. If your dick went soft, you had to lift it up and away from the camera so as not to ruin the shot. You shoot the “insertion shot” again and again until you get the perfect shot, and then you need a minimum of twelve good strokes of somebody’s dick going in and out of your arse. I used to count them. I hated getting fucked on camera. Even by a straight guy, I hated it.

  After I showered and returned to the set, they had set up for the next scene with Zak and my “crush” Lance Bronson. Lance was to lie back and let Zak eat his arse and suck his dick. I was rock hard in my pants. Great, I can’t get hard all day, and now I’m pre-cumming in my pants at the sight of Lance Bronson’s pink virgin arsehole.

  Chi Chi shooed us away. Lance was having real problems getting hard. He wasn’t just soft—his dick was concave. When straight boys want to get hard on gay porn sets a monitor is set up off-camera so straight porn can be played to get the boys aroused. Or they look at straight magazines. In very rare cases, a girl is brought on the set. I’ve only heard of this twice. Once, was when the porn star Billy Brandt was making a movie for the genius director Michael Zen. Billy’s girlfriend Sheera lay next to the bed spreading her vagina open. Billy fucked his girlfriend then pulled his dick out of his girlfriend’s pussy and stuck it in his co-star’s mouth. This carried on until his co-star vomited because he said his mouth tasted of vagina.

  Anything would be done on the porn sets to get the actors hard. I carried a little paperback book in my gym bag called Handjobs that was full of dirty stories. I would read them until I got hard, then run back to the set and fuck my co-star. Of course, the films were all safe sex, so you not only had to run back to the set, you had to first put on a condom, and the crew had to jump back into position. By the time all of this was done, I would be soft again.

  To get Lance Bronson hard, Chi Chi, in desperation, called Sharon Kane to come and fluff him on the set. People were always asking me how they could get a job as a fluffer. A fluffer is somebody who sucks the model’s dick to get him hard for the filming. The actual job position doesn’t exist. It’s an urban legend. Although years later I was hanging about on a set of a Gino Colbert straight movie starring superstar Ken Ryker and an actress called Devon Shire. Devon was in a bad mood because she was having her period that day and she kept saying to poor Ken Ryker, “Get over here, faggot, and fuck my pussy before I start bleeding again.”

  Ken was traumatized and couldn’t stay hard, so Gino asked if I would fluff him in the bathroom to help him relax. Ken Ryker had an eleven-inch dick, so I jumped right in. We smoked a little pot, and I started sucking Ken’s dick. Unfortunately, we got a little carried away and he shot his load in my mouth. We ran onto the set, and Ken tried to squeeze Mr. Softie into Devon’s pussy. The scene was a disaster, but Gino forgave me . . . and after creative editing, the film came out looking great. (Always employ the best editor money can buy; if the raw footage of the movie is a little rough, he will save the film for you.)

  So that was my one and only experience as a fluffer, although I would have fluffed Lance Bronson in a second.

  With the help of Sharon Kan
e, Zak and Lance’s oral scene was shot successfully. The next day was my big scene, a three-way with Zak and Jimmy Toro.

  The day started off extremely badly and only got progressively worse. To economize, somebody had rented extremely cheap lights that exploded the moment they were plugged in. This delayed filming for hours during which I realized that Zak wasn’t really talking to me, as I think he was embarrassed that we had broken up and now we were shooting a scene together. I felt as uncomfortable having sex with Zak as he did with me. Who wants to have sex with somebody they have just broken up with? Especially on film.

  The third guy in the scene turned out to be a skinny little Mexican kid that neither Zak nor I fancied. So I knew this scene was going to be hell . . . and it was.

  “Are you Mexican?” I asked the kid.

  “No, I’m Cuban,” he corrected. I looked at him doubtfully.

  “Yes, yes, I’m Mexican,” he wailed, “But I thought you would want a Cuban more.”

  I don’t know why he thought that. I didn’t care if the kid was Mexican or Cuban or from Nicaragua, I just wanted to be able to stay hard on camera.

  As it turned out none of us could stay hard. I was walking around in a cowboy hat and a dirty, flesh colored posing strap that I had worn for two days. We broke for lunch, which consisted of buckets of delicious Kentucky Fried Chicken, something I enjoyed but tried to avoid. We sat around gorging ourselves on the greasy fast food until it was time to get back to work. Our scene that would eventually run twenty-five minutes in the finished film took twelve hours to shoot. By the end of the day, I was sweaty, filthy, and my dick was sore. I was furious. Chi Chi tried to placate me.

  “It isn’t nearly as bad as this normally.”

  “I will never, NEVER make another porn movie as long as I live,” I raged.

  “Oh, they all say that,” Chi Chi laughed. He was right of course.

  I ended up making only one more film with Chi Chi directing. An oral film entitled Blow Me Down. Making oral films is a great way for the studios to cut costs. They are made with the excuse that some people only want to see guys give each other blowjobs. The models are paid half their normal rate, which subsequently cuts the budget in half. The best thing about Blow Me Down was that I worked with a sexy, humpy, short skinhead model called Max Stone. Catalina, the company I had made Seeds of Love for, produced the film. Catalina must have liked my performance because I ended up making ten more films for them.