by Blue Blake
“Well,” said Gino, “I do have a movie slated called Just Men. Does he look like he could have been in prison?”
“Definitely . . . in fact he told me that he had just come out of prison!” I lied wildly.
“PRISON . . . for what?”
There’s a difference between employing somebody who looks like they could star on Oz and employing somebody who had just definitely suffocated their grandmother for the twenty quid in her knickers drawer.
“Hmmm . . . unpaid parking tickets, I think.” Did people go to prison in America for unpaid parking tickets? “Gino, believe me when I tell you, this guy is going to make you a fortune, and I feel its my genetic prerogative to share myself getting fucked by him with the rest of the world.” I would have said anything at this point to get shagged by Bo Garrett.
Gino agreed to meet Bo and instantly wanted him for a scene with me in Just Men. In no time Bo and I began hanging out with each other . . . well, not really hanging out but fucking.
Bo lived in a filthy apartment in the saddest part of Hollywood where he nurtured various vermin he called “critters,” from what I could make out, the term “critters” seemed to apply to a collection of wild spiders and lizards that hid under the furniture and appliances, waiting for food to be dropped on the floor. Once a morsel was dropped, a giant lizard or spider or creature of unidentifiable nature would dash out from under the sofa and consume the cheese scone, piece of candy or whatever else had fallen on the carpet. The scariest one was called “Stove Critter” and lived under the stove eating bacon bits and old McDonald’s french fries, I presume enlarging its reptilian stomach so it would one day be large enough to consume one of my toes as I foolishly wandered by clutching nourishment for it. Stove lizard would drag me under the stove to feed me to its undoubtedly enormous spawn. There were probably ten stove critters living under there, I mean who lives under a stove on their own?
But I could put up with all the creepy critters because I found Bo wildly, sexily eccentric . . . with a HUGE cock. He was indeed straight, so it wasn’t just those bitches at Gold’s Gym who had been tempting me with false rumors. It was also true that he had been in the marines and afterwards had moved to Hollywood to seek fame and fortune. He told me that when he was a kid growing up on a farm in the Midwest he would “corn hole” his best friend. I never worked out if that meant that he fucked his best friend or stuck a corn cob up his best friend’s arse—I found out soon enough when I let him corn hole me and believe me it didn’t involve farm produce.
Bo had a big dick and really knew how to use it. I could tell he was going to be a big star. That is until the day we got on the set to shoot Just Men and he froze up. Why is it always like that? You meet a super hot guy, you think he will make a great porn star, you might even fuck him, then you get him on the set and he freezes in front of the cameras.
I had shot so many films by this time that fucking before the cameras had become second nature to me. I loved arriving on the studio to see what sets had been built. There were normally other porn stars hanging around, and we would trade anecdotes and gossip about which films were being made and who was being cast in them. It was all very convivial . . . like a bake sale only with everybody naked and clutching tubes of KY jelly instead of pineapple upside down cake.
The trouble with Bo began in the makeup room. He didn’t want to take off his cap to get his hair styled. The make up artist persuaded and cajoled, but there was no way that cap was coming off his damn head. Finally Gino was summoned, and we discovered that for some reason one of Bo’s crazy girlfriends had given him a perm or something very similar the night before. He looked fine, he always looked fine to me, but he was mortified and refused to show his head.
“Take clippers and shave the whole fucking mess off!” I hissed at Gino.
“Blue,” Gino sternly reprimanded me, “Remember, this is his first time on set.” Gino was such a fucking saint.
After an hour of convincing Bo he didn’t look like Harpo Marx, we got him onto the set; which was the interior of a prison cell. By this time I was nervous. What if Bo couldn’t perform and the scene became one of those hellish twelve-hour days? I needn’t have worried. It all went swimmingly. However, I could tell that performing on camera wasn’t going to be a forte of Bo Garrett’s. In fact, he made only a few other films that I’m aware of: Biker Pigs from Hell, Slick, Saddle Tramps 2, Mavericks and Playing with Fire 2.
We stopped sleeping together, and over the years it seemed each time I saw Bo he became more and more tattooed. Eventually he began dabbling in drugs and then vanished completely for a while. He called me a few years later and told me he had been in intensive rehab for seventeen months for his addictions. We agreed to meet for lunch. Somehow the lunch got cancelled and I ended up never seeing the incredibly sexy Bo Garrett ever again, which was an enormous shame as he was definitely one of the sexiest men I had ever met and one of the sweetest.
CHAPTER TWELVE
GINO CALLED AND ASKED IF I would like to do a “glamour shoot” in leather for a new photographer he was auditioning. I loved glamour shoots. It was my favorite job in porn, along with modeling for the box covers. I think I enjoyed the pampering and the opportunity to meet all the photographers. My favorite was Dean Keefer. He not only shot a lot of layouts for Playgirl, but in the day photographed teen queens like Hilary Duff. He would airbrush the pictures like crazy and could make my corpulent waist look almost sylphlike. I would practically choose to do a film if I knew Dean was doing the photography for the box.
During the photo shoot Gino asked me if I had ever heard of Leisure Time Films. I knew Gino shot a lot of scenes for the company, which was owned by straight entrepreneur Mark Carrier.
Leisure Time produced those films you see on the shelves that say “4 HOURS . . . COCK, COCK AND MORE COCK.” They made films just consisting of compilation scenes spliced together. Because Gino was directing, the quality was high and the money was good so I agreed to appear in a few. What I didn’t realize was that those few scenes would end up in literally hundreds of different films. I ended up appearing in Big Men Eat Ass Too, Dirty Boys, Hard Workers, Kinky Gays, Lockdown, Muscle Up—the list is endless. I was naïve, but I had signed the model releases so I couldn’t bellyache about it afterwards. That seemed ungracious.
My first scene for Leisure Time was shot on the set of an old alley for a film titled Dudes. I was with a model whom I didn’t really fancy, but hey, I was getting paid a thousand dollars, and that would go towards getting me a new apartment. My welcome at Greg’s was wearing thin due to his moody roommate and I needed my own place. Greg had agreed to move out and get a place with me.
During a break from the fucking, I noticed one of the crew making cow eyes at me. I sauntered over and introduced myself to him.
“Hello . . . I’m Blue Blake.” I smiled.
The guy, who was fat and pink with a thick head of hair, grinned. He looked like a giant infant.
“I’m Ronnie Larsen,” he said.
Ronnie Larsen . . . I had heard that name somewhere before.
“I wrote the play Making Porn that’s currently playing on Melrose Avenue.”
Of course, I had seen the posters all over the city for the show, a comedy about the gay porn industry. Gino had even been to see it and had told me how good it was.
“You must be an actor because your screaming sounded so realistic when you were getting fucked.”
That wasn’t acting, that was because I had a nine-inch dick crammed up my arse!
“Would you like to come and see the show? I’ll give you and Gino free tickets.”
What a nice guy, I thought.
“In fact, I want to write a whole play just for you.”
Ronnie was nice but he was also obviously a lunatic. Oh well, I needed a shot of theatre to my “porned out” veins and this would serve nicely.
Gino and I saw the play the next night. There was a crowd milling around when we arrived, no doubt drawn by
the erotic posturing of the bodybuilder on the play’s billboard. He was a young actor named Eric Jirak and he stood naked on the poster with a clapperboard covering his dick. He was a gorgeous twenty-something and his beauty enticed in the hundreds of gay men who passed the theatre daily.
Inside the box office sat a short chubby woman wearing a man’s fedora and an oversized shirt that was unbuttoned practically to her waist . . . was that a hot dog lodged between her breasts? She had beady eyes, which were shielded by small glasses and enough food in her teeth to cure global famine.
“Hi, I’m Blue Blake.”
“I’m Caryn,” she rasped, “I’m the producer of the show.” The producer was selling tickets? I was literally speechless. Gino nudged me in the ribs.
“Hmmmm . . . Ronnie invited us to the show.” I said.
“I know . . . he’s always giving away free tickets, I hate that.” Then, in a dramatic turn, she asked bluntly: “How big’s your dick?”
“Uhh . . . about eight inches.”
“Cut or . . . uncut?”
“Uncut,” I replied cooperatively.
Being in the porn industry I was used to total strangers asking me totally inappropriate questions, or worse, telling me totally inappropriate things about themselves.
“Perfect,” she smiled. “Anyway, here are your seats . . . sit anywhere except on the first row . . . . We charge more for that.”
I dragged Gino into the theatre.
“Who the hell was that?” I laughed.
“She’s Ronnie Larsen’s business partner.”
“Well she’s certainly a character.”
We took two seats at the back of the tiny theatre, and Gino proceeded to point out various porn stars in the audience.
The set consisted of a huge door in the middle of the stage, a bed made out of four wooden crates and two tables on opposite ends of the stage full of dildos of all different shapes and sizes. I realized they were trying to create what looked like a sleazy porn set. It wasn’t far off from some of the movies I had starred in, so ten out of ten for realism. The plot revolves around a straight, out-of-work actor called Jack whose wife is forcing him to get a normal job to pay the bills. Rather than give up acting, Jack begins to do gay porn behind his wife’s back. When she finds out about his new career she becomes his agent and forces him to do more films. Hilarity ensues.
As it turned out, I LOVED the show. Ronnie, who starred as the jaded porn producer, was a hoot, and all the actors were exceptionally funny as they ran on and off the stage in various states of undress. It was like a Dario Fo farce on crack. I laughed until I cried.
Afterwards Ronnie came up to me.
“You were brilliant,” I cried.
“Oh, you liked the show”? Ronnie asked, “Good, because I want you to star in it.”
My mouth fell open.
The next day I was in the gym and my mind was still swimming with the idea of appearing in the show Making Porn. There was a lot of nudity involved but I didn’t care about that. What worried me was that the last time I had acted on stage I was playing a mental in Marat/Sade years ago.
I pushed that to the back of my mind. I had more immediate concerns. I was going apartment hunting with Greg Greene that evening.
We found a two-bedroom furnished apartment to share in the middle of West Hollywood, which was perfect as I could walk everywhere. Living at Greg Greene’s old apartment, the only place I could walk to was McDon-alds. Being able to purchase fresh fruit improved my diet immensely.
A few days after moving in, Gino invited me to lunch with Jeff Stryker. Now who in the world hasn’t heard of Jeff Stryker? Porn superstar, probably the best looking guy ever to appear in porn, or certainly among the top three. Discovered by director Matt Sterling, Jeff ushered in a new era of porn in the early nineties: smooth, stunning muscle boys with massive cocks. Years later, when I would produce films, my videographer was Andre Adair, who shot a lot for Matt. As it happened Matt had ended up in a wheelchair but was still directing. It was all very What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? Andre hated him. Matt would make the crew carry his wheelchair up and down the stairs on the set—including poor Andre who only weighed 120 pounds.
So when I got the opportunity to have lunch with Jeff Stryker I jumped at the chance. He and Gino were great friends. I was told Jeff would pick me up in his limo, and the three of us would go for lunch. I nervously got ready that morning. I couldn’t quite believe Jeff Stryker was picking me up in his private limo. As I applied apricot facial scrub I sang to myself the Julie Andrews song, “For somewhere in my worthless childhood, I must have done something goooooooooood . . . .” The next-door neighbor’s Weimaraner howled in delighted approval.
The doorbell rang and I raced to open it. There stood Jeff Stryker. He was strikingly handsome, even more so than in his films.
“Blue . . . it’s nice to meet you.”
He talked exactly like he talked in the films, with kind of a super low baritone and all the words coming from the back of his throat.
“It’s good to meet you, Mr. Stryker,” I gushed.
He threw his head back and laughed, and I could see right down his throat.
“Call me Jeff.”
I passed out on the pavement, smashed my head open and had to have twenty stitches. Actually that’s not true but I definitely felt like I could have passed out while staring into Jeff’s dreamy eyes.
I climbed into the limo next to Gino expecting Jeff to join us. Instead, he climbed into the driver’s seat.
“I don’t like limo drivers, my last one nearly killed me by driving off a mountain in Laurel Canyon.”
As I pondered this unusual remark, Greg came running out.
“Blue you forgot your pager!” Then he stopped outside the car. “My God, your limo driver could be Jeff Stryker’s twin!”
“It is Jeff Stryker!” I said, realizing that this sounded ridiculous.
We drove off leaving Greg looking goggle-eyed.
What Gino had neglected to mention was that Jeff was a total speed demon. We pulled away from my apartment with enough acceleration to shoot us to the moon. My face was practically pressed to the leather seat by the centrifugal force.
“I like to drive fast . . . hey, you ok?” yelled Jeff over his shoulder. We arrived in a squeal of brakes and burning rubber, and everybody turned to see who was pulling up in the jet propelled Limo. Mouths fell open when they recognized Jeff Stryker. He opened the door and I fell out on to the pavement.
Lunch was a blast. Jeff was very self-deprecating and funny and I liked him immensely. He asked me if I would like to be in his next film Underground, which was being directed by Gino. The role was some guy wandering around a sex club having indiscriminate sex with everybody. I didn’t care. It was a Jeff Stryker film, and I was very flattered as the film was packed full of stars. In addition to Jeff Stryker and myself there was Derek Cameron, a sexy blond bottom of the day, Logan Reed who would in later years get mixed up in drugs and do too much meth, Paul Morgan, a straight skater boy who was in every film made for a while, Drew Andrews, who had starred with me in Forgive Us Our Trespasses (I thought his face was horsey), Brent Cross, who I would work with in Men in Blue, Edouardo, a sexy Brazillian and many more. It was a huge cast.
I was learning in the industry that unless you were very vocal about whom you wanted to be paired with; they would stick you with all kinds of unsuitable characters. Of course, I loved the men like Bo Garrret and Paul Carrigan and I would always ask to work with them. I didn’t care if they had to use copies of Hustler to get hard. That turned me on even more. Sometimes they would be fucking me doggie style and I would have a straight porn magazine taped open on my back to keep them hard. Perverted, yet strangely stimulating.
We finished lunch, I gave Jeff my phone number and Gino drove me home.
”Ronnie Larsen wants to make a documentary about the gay porn industry called Shooting Porn,” Gino turned to me and said, “And he wants to interview yo
u and I for it. Follow us around from set to set . . . there’s no money involved but it will be good exposure for you.”
Well, I was all about the exposure. In the porn industry you do whatever it takes to keep your name front and center.
“Yeah . . . tell him I’ll do it. It sounds like fun.”
“He wants to film me directing you in a scene. I’m shooting Perfect Ten for Leisure Time . . . who would you like to work with?”
“How about Blade Thompson?” I grinned.
Blade was an extremely sexy straight German bodybuilder with a big dick. I had met him through Crystal, who shared a place with him. Blade unfortunately went to prison years later for beating and stalking his girlfriend after she ran off with Ryan Idol. Blade served five years then was deported back to Germany. He had a fetish for wearing women’s underwear, which came as a complete surprise to me . . . it was like finding out that Arnold Schwarzenegger liked lounging around in teddies from Victoria’s Secret.
“Blade would be perfect . . . I’ll call him.”
When I got home there was a message from Rip Stone on my answering machine. I had met Rip on the set of Night Walk. He played a gargoyle that fucked Chad Conners.
“Hey Blue . . . wanna go drinking tonight and pick up chicks to bang? It’s Rip . . . call me.”
Hmmmm . . . well, I didn’t know about banging any chicks but I wasn’t averse to a drop of the devil’s brew . . . tequila . . . so I called and left Rip a message to pick me up at eight o’clock. I definitely wanted to get my paws on Rip and I had to jerk off before I went out; otherwise I would be lusting after poor Rip all night.
I heard the squeal of brakes at eight o’clock sharp and through the window saw Rip jump out of his brand new Corvette. God knows what my neighbors thought because it was one porn star after another rocking up at my humble abode.
Rip looked spectacular, a tanned Adonis with a head full of curls. Years later he would hit rock bottom and star in bareback films . . . . those dubious, no-condom films where everybody looks hollow-eyed and drugged out. But back then he was still an immaculate god.
