Out of the Blue

by Blue Blake

  We went on a bar crawl, knocking back the “devil’s brew.” In every bar some chick would hit on Rip. He would spend a few minutes chatting to her before declaring:

  “Too thin,”

  “Too fat,”

  “Too flat-chested,”

  “Not busty enough.”

  I was aghast. Some of these girls were really hot, but Rip just couldn’t seem to find the right one. As the end of the night drew near, Rip looked at me and said,

  “Well man, no pussy tonight . . . guess I’m gonna be fucking you.”

  We raced back to the apartment and as Rip poured himself a drink, I zipped into the bathroom to “freshen up.” When I returned Rip had left the living room and disappeared into the bedroom. Boy oh boy, was I going to get fucked tonight by that huge hunk of southern . . . BOTTOM!!! There was Rip on his hands and knees with his arse in the air.

  “Be gentle with me, Blue . . . I’ve seen that big uncut dick of yours in action.”

  He wanted me to fuck HIM?! Oh well. Not wasting a second, I buried my face in his arse. I guessed there would be other times.

  Gino approached me with yet another offer, “Would you be interested in appearing at the Second Gay Erotic Video Awards this year?”

  “Am I nominated for anything?”

  “No,”

  “Then there’s your answer!” I snapped, recalling the ghoulish memory of years before.

  “This year is going to be completely different . . . very classy. A benefit for APLA . . . Aids Project Los Angeles and produced by Harold Huttas, who’s on the board of APLA. He’s supposed to be loaded, collects art . . . single.”

  All of a sudden I was feeling incredibly altruistic. I could show myself off on stage—always a very cheap thrill—it was for a good cause, and perhaps I might be interested in meeting Harold Huttas. I had just started dating a guy who owned a company that built department stores all over America but he lived in NYC, the other side of the country and I was hungry for love.

  The next day in the gym I was working out next to Ted Matthews.

  “Are you going to the porn awards?” Ted asked.

  “I’m supposed to be performing at them,” I said. “By the way, have you ever met a guy called Harold Huttas?”

  “Met him? I used to date him,” said Ted.

  “Why did you break up?”

  Ted shrugged. “Harold was hard to pin down. He’s divorced with two kids and everybody’s trying to date him. I just couldn’t have him to myself.”

  Well, scratch Harold Huttas, I thought. The last thing I needed was some rich, middle-aged playboy shagging everything that moved behind my back. Behind my back??? I hadn’t even met Harold and I was planning his serial cheating already!

  When I got home from the gym there was a message from Gino.

  “Guess where Jeff Stryker and I went last night? Out for dinner with that guy I was telling you about. Harold Huttas. We told him all about you, and he wants you to call him, so you can talk about what he’d like you to do onstage at the awards.” I knew there was no nudity allowed at the show, so basically I was up for doing anything. “Oh, and he wants you to present the award for Best Bisexual Video, you and Veronica Brazil.”

  I liked Veronica; I’d met her on the set of Gino Colbert’s Switch-hitters 6. She had the biggest breasts I’d ever seen. Each one was as big as a bowling ball and she was always taking them out and showing off.

  Gino gave me Harold’s number but I debated whether to call him. I had no idea why, but for some reason I was completely intrigued by Harold. It was more than the money. I’d been told how philanthropic he was, but I basically knew nothing more about him. I looked down at his number in my hand, picked up the phone and made what turned out to be one of the most important calls of my life.

  “Hello, can I speak to Harold Huttas please? This is Blue Blake calling.”

  “Please hold.” A full minute passed.

  “Hello . . . this is Harold.”

  “Harold, my name’s Blue Blake. Gino Colbert told me you might have a part for me in your benefit.”

  “Yes. I had dinner with him last night. It seems he and Jeff Stryker are your biggest fans.”

  “Harold, you’re going to make my head so enormous it won’t fit onto your stage,” I laughed.

  He laughed too, a sexy baritone chuckle. It turned out Harold had one of the sexiest voices I’d ever heard; calm, almost soothing. We spoke for almost half an hour. He told me he had never seen any of my films or for that matter even heard of me but that other friends of his had and that he hoped I would agree to be in the show. He told me that he had produced tributes honoring stars such as Elizabeth Taylor, Madonna, and Hilary Clinton, all for APLA. He assured me that this year’s porn awards were going to be like nothing anybody had ever seen before. Well, that wouldn’t be difficult because the awards were always appalling and held in some rat-infested venue.

  The best thing about the awards would be running into everybody and laughing about the previous year’s adventures in the skin trade. I sometimes got nominated over the years for my scenery-chewing interpretations of various characters, from the homicidal Marine Captain in Michael Zen’s Cockfight, to the homicidal cop in Men in Blue. I never won but that particular year I wasn’t even nominated.

  Harold was shocked by how badly the awards were run and decided that if organized as an AIDS benefit, with glamour, the event could become a high profile fundraiser. Harold gathered around himself his astonishingly talented team, which included such entertainment luminaries as Bruce Vilanch, who would emcee the event. Bruce was probably one of the most prolific writers of biting humor in the stand-up comedy industry. He wrote constantly for stars such as Whoopi Goldberg, Billy Crystal, and Robin Williams and practically every year wrote the gags for the Oscars. Bruce went on to become a star in his own right as a lead in a highly successful Broadway run of the musical Hairspray. I was at a benefit a few years later honoring Sidney Poitier where Bruce, who was hosting, announced: “Both Sidney Poitier and Blue Blake have more in common than they think . . . they both starred in films called To Sir With Love . . . .” The mostly gay crowd loved it, but Sidney didn’t get the joke.

  Hairspray composer Marc Shaiman and lyricist/director Scott Wittman agreed to direct Harold’s event. Adam Shankman would do the choreography. Adam later became a director in his own right, directing such campy classics as Maid in Manhattan, The Wedding Planner and the movie version of Hairspray. Incidentally, Hairspray the movie starred John Travolta as Edna Turnblad (a role originally played by Divine, my escort client from years before). It amazes me how small the wonderful world of entertainment truly is.

  Harold told me he was flying in drag queens Raven O and Joey Arias from NYC to perform. They both went on to star in a Cirque de Soleil show in Vegas.

  The awards would take place at the Palladium on Sunset Boulevard and tables were selling for up to $3,500 each. The event was going to be maddeningly glamorous with people like Thierry Mugler, Calvin Klein and Steve Tisch buying tables. Ken Ryker, the biggest porn star in the world at that time was going to be on the poster and a good time was going to be had by all.

  Harold told me all this during our phone conversation and I just listened and soaked up the timbre of his voice.

  “Can I call you tomorrow and tell you what time rehearsal will be on Sunday?” Harold asked.

  “Sure.”

  The next day the phone rang and it was Harold asking me if I could come after lunch on Sunday for a rehearsal at the Palladium. We somehow managed to spend an hour talking together on the phone. He told me he was divorced with two children, girls in their twenties. He told me he had just turned fifty and that by trade he was a printer who had gotten his big break printing the posters for smash hits like Saturday Night Fever, Grease and Star Wars. He lived in an area of L.A. called Los Feliz in a house that was built by Cecil B. DeMille for his daughter Catherine when she married Anthony Quinn. Two doors away lived Lily Tomlin in the old W
.C. Fields house and opposite was Charlie Chaplin’s old residence. Harold lived alone apart from a hyperactive German shepherd named Lizzie whom he had named after one of his best friends, Elizabeth Montgomery. We’d still not met, but I was incredibly attracted to this voice on the phone. I said I would be at rehearsal at one o’clock sharp on Sunday.

  The next day over brunch in Santa Monica, my beeper went off. It was a message from the stage manager of the show asking if I could come to rehearsal an hour earlier than planned. I jumped into a cab, my heart beating fast at the anticipation of finally meeting Harold.

  I entered the theatre from the back and directly onto the stage, which was fully lit.

  “Are you Blue Blake?” called out a guy with a clipboard.

  “Yes . . . can you tell me where Harold Huttas is? I just received a message to come in early and rehearse.”

  “That’s him over there in the grey suit,” said Clipboard, pointing at a guy with his back to me.

  “Harold?” I asked loudly. He turned around, and I fell instantly, madly, crazily in love. He was GORGEOUS. Short gray hair and a beard with the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. Very dark brown with eyelashes so long they curled up at the corners. He looked super straight, which was a major plus.

  “So this is who I’ve been hearing so much about,” he said, smiling as he walked towards me. I felt like laughing hysterically. I was incredibly attracted to him. He had a great air of command and control about the way he carried himself—not in a leather daddy kind of way but in the way of a man who is self-made and incredibly successful. I introduced myself, but honestly I don’t remember what we talked about in those few moments because I was too busy imagining myself in bed with him.

  We had only that day to rehearse because the show was the following night.

  My segment consisted of a guy lying in his underwear on a huge four-poster bed on the stage, dreaming . . . of me!!! As the music got wilder, the back curtains pulled back and there I stood under a spotlight. I then was to climb on the bed and simulate fucking with a dozen male dancers in their underwear slithering out from under the bed and cavorting around the stage. God knows how they packed a dozen dancers under that damn bed. It was a true spectacle, though. There were to be more porn stars in the show than had ever been on a stage together at one time. Stars were presenting awards, receiving awards, or performing all night. Some of the judges that year included Clive Barker, Greg Gorman, RuPaul and John Waters. So everyone anticipated a classy show.

  Harold asked if I would like to sit at one of his tables with two of his best friends Tim Palen and Abel Villarreal. Tim Palen is a genius who went on to become co-president of marketing worldwide for Lionsgate Films. He created the campaigns for the Saw and Hostel series and bought about the terminology “gorno” which categorizes the horror genre that permeates our society. He is probably now one of the most sought after people in the entertainment industry.

  There was to be a massive party thrown by David Forest after the awards. David was the porn agent and had been for many years. He was throwing a party at the famous revolving restaurant in the Hollywood Inn.

  Harold’s table was at the foot of the stage so I had a good view of the show before I had to perform. That night the Hollywood sky was lit up by klieg lights and limousines were snaking their way past the Palladium and spilling their scantily clad passengers onto the red carpet. Some had opted to dress in tuxedos; others in much more revealing outfits. I was all skintight mesh and leather, and as I climbed out of my limo, the flashbulbs were blinding as they burnt with an intense ferocity.

  “Blue . . . I loved you in My Bitch.”

  “You should have won best actor for Ramjet.”

  “You need teeth bleaching . . . ” charming!!!

  I made my way down the red carpet talking to the porno press.

  “Are you still dating Bull Stanton?”

  “Is it true you’ve been seeing Patrick Swayze?” Where did people hear this stuff??

  “Did you star in one of the most expensive porn film-sever made?”

  “Night Walk . . . yes . . . well, I’m one of the stars.”

  “Didn’t Gino Colbert pick you out of a list of 3,000 bodybuilders to play the role of the Devil’s minion?”

  “Typecasting . . . ” I heard someone in the crowd murmur.

  “Is it true that Gage Blake isn’t really your brother but secretly that you were both brought up in an orphanage together in Liverpool, England?”

  Well, they got half of it right, but Orphanage? Liverpool?

  I posed for some pictures then beat a hasty retreat inside the Palladium. There was a silent auction of porn memorabilia and I noticed with satisfaction they were auctioning off my outfit from The Wild Ones. They even had it on a mannequin. Denim shorts covered in garage oil and matching denim shirt. It looked better on the mannequin than it had on me!

  The night was an enormous success and $100,000 was raised for APLA. Considering that only $5,000 was raised the previous year, everybody was ecstatic.

  Harold and his team had done an amazing job, and I have to admit my love of his power was a great aphrodisiac. The whole place bowed and scraped to him and for the first time in a long time I thought “hmmm . . . finally, perhaps a worthy partner.” Harold was powerful, handsome, rich and very sexy. What wasn’t there to be attracted to?

  On my way out of the Palladium I bumped into David Forest with his usual porn coterie. That reminded me about David’s after party. He had asked me to join his stable of stars, but I felt I didn’t need anybody’s advice on my career. I knew where I was going, and that was to the top, baby!! David did represent huge stars though: Ryan Idol, Ken Ryker, Joey Stefano, Jon Vincent . . . . Some of these stars have now unfortunately passed away. Joey died of a Ketamine overdose, while Jon OD’d on heroin. But this was hardly out of the ordinary. Porn stars are always committing suicide, hanging themselves, and throwing themselves off tall buildings. They say that dentists have a high suicide rate but they aren’t even in the running when it comes to porn stars. And when they go, boy, they go big time . . . suffocating themselves with plastic bags, drinking rat poison, its almost as though they want to be in the headlines just that one last time as they go out with a bang. Now me, if I were to kill myself, I’m thinking a hundred Ambien and a bottle of Tequila whilst surrounded by my best looking friends who are telling me I’m still gorgeous after all these years. Oh yeah, and I’m ninety-two years old and I’m watching my favorite episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Perhaps everybody thinks once of committing suicide, but ultimately life is way too short as it is.

  Rip Stone and I arrived at the after party. I was still encased in leather and mesh and immediately circled the revolving restaurant searching for Harold. I couldn’t find him so I sent Rip off to get me a tahitian punch. David Forest was wearing a Hawaiian shirt so I guessed the party was tropically themed. Years later, having met David millions of times I realize he ALWAYS wears a Hawaiian shirt. No wonder Rip came back clutching two beers. Damn, and there is nothing I like better than something fruity and exotic with an umbrella mixed in a pineapple husk. I grabbed a seat next to two good-looking guys, Barry Krost, and his lover John DeShane. I didn’t know them personally, but was aware Barry was a big time manager to stars like Liza Minnelli and Angela Bassett. I struck up a conversation and they told me how much they had enjoyed my stage performance.

  I asked Barry “I don’t suppose you know where Harold Huttas is, do you? I saw you onstage with him tonight presenting an award to Ken Ryker.”

  “Yes, he’s right behind you,” I turned around and sure enough, there he was dressed in a black leather suit and looking as handsome as ever.

  “Does he have a boyfriend?” I whispered.

  I didn’t stay to hear Barry answer. I zipped myself over to Harold’s side like a shark heading for chub before some other porn trollop moved in. From the corner of my eye I noticed Ted Matthews gnashing his teeth.

  “You did a great j
ob,” Harold said.

  “Thanks,” I laughed.

  We both stared at each other.

  “So I was wondering if you would like to give me a ride home,” I asked. Harold looked uncomfortable.

  “Well, I’m not here alone.”

  I had heard that Harold fancied the Falcon porn star Kevin Williams and, in fact, had invited him to sit at his table that night for the award ceremony. I looked around but Kevin was nowhere in sight. Good job, I would have wrestled him to the ground and yanked every bleached hair out of his all-American head . . . why was Harold having this strange effect on me?

  “Are you with Kevin Williams?” I asked nonchalantly.

  “No,” laughed Harold, “Although I wouldn’t mind being with him. I’m here with my boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “Well, kind of ex-boyfriend really,”

  This was all too much for me.

  “Well I better go,” I said. “Rex Chandler offered to give me a ride home in his limo, so I better split before he leaves.”

  This was true; Rex had offered to give me a ride home. Perhaps I might get the chance to gnaw on his huge cock in the backseat. I turned and left Harold behind, already pushing him out of my mind, and went to find Rex’s limo. I found it all right—with him inside, doing coke with his girlfriend!!! I was having no luck. Rex drove me home and I fell into bed alone. How the hell did I manage to go to the porn awards and end up in bed alone? As I pondered that sad mystery I fell asleep.

  I awoke at 7:30 a.m. to the sound of my phone ringing. I picked it up.

  “Hello . . . can I speak to Blue please?”

  I recognized the voice immediately.

  “Hey, Harold,” I said sleepily.

  “Listen . . . I was wondering if I could buy you dinner tonight?”

  “Sorry, I don’t go for dinner with guys who are in relationships,” I replied coolly.

  “I’m not in a relationship . . . I mean . . . well, we broke up last night.”