Come to think of it, he was pretty sure his mom had texted him earlier. She was off with husband number three, but she liked to check on him. Had he ever responded to that text? Life’s little mysteries.
Just as he had every day for the past few months, he opened a new tab and typed in a search phrase: gay porn LA.
The first ten or so results were all links to videos. He knew better than to click on those, or else he’d get . . . distracted. He scrolled down until he found what he’d been looking for: postings from various local entertainment companies that were looking for “adult performers.”
“Why can’t they come out and say it?” Josh mumbled to himself. “They’re looking for porn stars.”
There was one company he’d had his eye on for a while now. Murmur Inc., located not twenty minutes from where Josh worked. The name had caught his attention from the get-go—it was light-years subtler than the other porn producers’—along with their expensive-looking website and the fact that they were one of the only companies that wasn’t holding an open call. The others seemed like anyone could walk through the door and get work, but Murmur Inc.’s auditions had been closed for weeks now. It had become Josh’s habit after work to check their website and see if anything had changed.
Today was no different. He clicked on the home page and spent a moment admiring its sleek design before he headed to the New Arrivals section. There, all the latest stars had head shots, biographies, and teaser videos displayed for the world to ogle. In order to see the full-length vids, he’d have to pay the subscription fee. Too rich for his blood. Instead, he contented himself with scanning the fresh faces and imagining his own head shot among them.
Not that he would, uh, ever be in porn. It was just a thought. An inkling. A fantasy, even. It must be a hell of a life, though. Getting paid to fuck hot guys, do sexy photoshoots, and have thousands of people view your face every single day . . .
Josh had twelve followers on Twitter, and he was related to one of them. His Instagram wasn’t any better. What would it be like to have people notice he existed when they weren’t waiting for him to finish brewing their coffee?
He dragged himself away from that train of thought before it could plow through him. He finished checking out the new arrivals—it was sparse, which made sense considering how long auditions had been closed for—and clicked on the tab for open calls. He needlessly scanned the block of text that outlined the requirements for auditioning; he’d memorized it weeks ago. His eyes moseyed down the page to where bold black letters would declare that they weren’t accepting new performers, just as it had every day for the past few months.
Once, twice, three times Josh read the final sentence before it finally sank into his brain.
Murmur Inc. is now holding auditions for new talent of all ages, body types, and genders.
Josh stared at the letters until they’d burned themselves into his retinas. Auditions were finally open. This . . . this was, like, a sign. Right?
He tossed his laptop onto the bed and stood up, pacing the length of his bedroom. It was all of three steps and too cramped for him to move like he wanted to. He tripped over his laundry pile and sent his keys skittering under his dresser, but he paid them no mind.
Was the universe trying to tell him something? Or, with him checking Murmur Inc.’s website every day for months, was this bound to happen? If he were being realistic, he’d have to say it was the latter.
Then again, maybe the real sign was the fact that he’d never stopped checking. He could have lost interest weeks ago, but something kept drawing him back. To porn and to Murmur Inc. in particular. Why that company?
They were local, for one thing. Established. And they had a hell of a reputation, from what he’d seen on google. All their shit was high-quality. Like, Hollywood levels of production value. He’d read actual, academic reviews of their porn. Some might call it artistic. Not Josh, but someone. If he got the chance to star in one of their films . . . Man, he could make a name for himself. He could have fans. And money. Oh, how he wanted to have money.
He collapsed onto his bed again. He was getting way ahead of himself. It was one thing to be curious; it was another to go through with it. Besides, if Murmur Inc. was as quality focused as their reputation suggested, they’d want people who could act. People with movie-star good looks too. By conventional standards, Josh was a handsome young man, but he didn’t have the chiseled six-pack and nine-inch cock that featured in every porn he’d seen.
Then again, maybe he was jumping to conclusions. Murmur Inc. had proven to have different standards from regular porn. Plus, Pete—the ex-coworker who’d quit to go be a big gay porn star—was above-average looking on a good day with the right Instagram filter.
Craning his neck, Josh caught sight of his reflection in the half-length mirror he’d tucked in the corner next to his lamp. Green eyes set in an angular face and ringed with light eyelashes looked back at him.
Yeah, he was confident he had the face. And his body wasn’t bad. He might not be shredded, but he was tall and lean. Maybe he could scare up some abs if he started doing crunches. He was more of the cardio sort, but beauty was pain.
That just left the acting bit. A trip to the gym wouldn’t be enough to help him in that department. He’d watched every teaser Murmur Inc. had on their website—or the gay ones, at least—but it was difficult to tell how much acting was required. The performers never seemed like they were acting, to him. Was that how good they were? Maybe he should break down and subscribe to their site.
For the low, low price of $19.99 a month.
His last bank account statement flashed through his mind. Fuck. Much as his impulsive nature was screaming at him to blow the money, he literally couldn’t. Not until he got paid on Friday, and by then, the auditions could be closed again.
Opening yet another tab, he did a quick search for pirated Murmur Inc. films. Google came up with zilch. Their shit was under cyber lock and key. Jesus. If a man couldn’t rely on internet pirates, who could he rely on?
So much for that. The last thing he wanted to do was sign up for an audition only to embarrass himself. Then again, his parents had always told him he was an Oscar-worthy drama queen. Maybe that was enough.
Why not give it a shot? The worst they can do is say no.
Before he could totally overthink it, he opened a blank document and drafted a résumé according to the instructions. First and foremost, they wanted to know all his “stats”: age, height, weight, etc. Easy enough. Twenty-one, six foot, and . . . He scrunched his nose, trying to think of the last time he’d weighed himself. He was one-sixty? One-seventy? Would they make him get on a scale? That seemed doubtful. He plugged the numbers in.
Next, he had to list his acting experience. That was easy: none. He wrote eager to learn and accumulate knowledge instead. After that came any other relevant skills. He grinned. How about twenty-one years of being gay? He’d had experiences in LA’s club scene alone that were hotter than any penny dreadful. He wrote a paragraph on that and moved on.
The final section prompted him to add any additional details. Hm. He had work and school history. Those couldn’t hurt, right? He listed his degree and three years of gainful employment at the Globe, with some filler shit he always saw on résumés: effective time management, good at multitasking, takes direction well.
The familiar platitudes took on vastly different meanings in the context of a porn audition. He thought about adding works well in groups but decided against it.
The final instruction was to include two photos of himself: one of his face and one of his body. Nudity was preferred but not required.
His mouth puckered into a thoughtful moue. He didn’t have any nudes at the moment. He’d used Snapchat to send a few to his last boyfriend, but that had been . . . God, a long, depressing time ago. He could take one right now with his phone, but he doubted a company with a rep for quality would be impressed by a selfie taken in a dark, messy room.
&
nbsp; If nudity wasn’t required, maybe he could skate by without it. He pulled up Facebook and hunted through his photos. Most of them were taken at the various gay clubs he frequented with his friends. He didn’t think sending in a photo of him sweaty and drunk with smeared eyeliner would be a good idea.
After some scrolling, he came upon the photos his cousin Lacie had taken at Christmas. Jackpot. She fancied herself an amateur photographer and always had a giant camera hanging from her neck. The photos she’d tagged him in were high-res and as close to professional quality as he could get. He selected a group shot where he was flashing a cute smile and cropped it so only his face was visible from the chest up. Then he filtered through the rest of the album, looking for a suitable body shot.
Luck was on his side. They’d had Christmas at his great aunt’s ranch in Oregon. She kept horses, and Lacie had snapped a photo of Josh petting one. He wasn’t looking at the camera, focused as he was on the beautiful animal before him. He had a sort of dreamy expression on his face. It was the softest Josh had ever seen himself look, especially considering he was the sort to smirk or stick his tongue out for photos. Plus, he was dressed for a family dinner: a polo shirt, a nice jacket, and fitted jeans.
Yup. That was the winner. He saved both photos and the résumé onto his desktop and then composed a new email. He filled out the subject line as instructed and then wrote a brief introduction in the body detailing why he felt he’d be a great fit for Murmur Inc. Much as he wanted to enumerate his physical virtues again, he had the good sense to talk about Murmur Inc.’s impressive reputation instead.
A voice in the back of his head warned him that he should go back and write his résumé in the same serious tone that he’d used for the email, but he brushed it aside. This was a porn company, after all. They spent their days taking dick pics that people actually wanted to see. Even if they were high-end, how serious could they be?
When everything was attached and ready, he sent the email. Now all he had to do was wait for a response. He had a feeling he’d be hella distracted at work tomorrow, but that was a concern for Future Josh. Right now, he wanted to get some shut-eye.
He replaced his laptop on his dresser, wiggled out of his work clothes until he was lying in only boxers, and fell asleep right as his face touched a pillow.
He woke up the next morning to his phone blaring the opening song from The Lion King. After shutting it off, the first thing he did was grab his laptop and check his email. It was silly, he knew. There was no chance they’d get back to him that fast, and his eyes were so bleary he couldn’t read, but he’d dared to dream once already . . .
He nearly pissed himself when he spotted an email in his inbox. When he saw it was from Murmur Inc., he almost made himself go to the bathroom before a tragedy occurred.
Was it one of those automated responses to say they’d received his submission? He clicked on it with trembling fingers and scanned it, eyes jumping all over the place in an effort to get the most crucial information first.
A handful of seconds later, he let out a whoop.
We are delighted to invite you to a private audition.
They wanted to meet him. He made himself read the email again in sequential order, no matter how much he wanted to toss his laptop aside and dance around his room.
They wanted him to audition later that day. If that went well, they’d book him for his first film, and they’d pay him—
Holy shit. Josh gaped at the screen. He’d known porn paid well, but Jesus Christ, that was more money than he made in a week.
Thoughts flitted through his mind like birds startled out of a tree. He’d expected to debate with himself about this. Hell, despite his cocky attitude, a part of him hadn’t thought he’d hear back. But now that the opportunity was here, right in front of him, he wasn’t as conflicted as he’d thought he would be.
Not that he didn’t have doubts. There was no denying this was a porn audition, no matter how many times the email referred to it as a “performance.” If he showed up, it would mean he was agreeing to have sex for money in front of a camera. For the whole world to see. And he knew from experience that the internet never forgot anything. He still had some junior prom photos from the year he’d gotten a bowl cut that his friends liked to haunt him with.
That was another con right there. What if his friends saw his videos? Or his parents? Oh God, he’d die. And there were other risks too. Rejection. STIs. Physical harm. At least he couldn’t get pregnant.
A hundred valid counterarguments filled his head, but from looking at the dollar amount attached to a single video alone, all those concerns sailed right on by. One hour on his back could net him that elusive dream known as financial security. Hell, he could work twice a week for Murmur Inc. and make enough money to pay his bills, and move out of this shithole, and eat food that didn’t say Just add water! on the box.
There was one other tiny, miniscule problem, though. He was working the evening shift at the Globe, and his audition was scheduled for the middle of his shift. Maybe he could email back and ask them to reschedule.
And they’d probably tell him to get lost. They clearly had no shortage of people who were clamoring to work for them, or they wouldn’t need to close their auditions.
He imagined hundreds of dollar bills with little white wings soaring around his head only to fly off into the sunset, never to be seen again.
His phone was in his hand before he could process the movement. He found Sana’s name in his contacts and typed a quick text.
Sana, I can’t come in to work today.
He was about to set his phone down when it buzzed in his hand. It was Sana. Gulp.
Is everything okay? Are you sick?
The prospect of lying flashed through his mind for a microsecond before he discarded it. He owed Sana more than that. No, there’s something I need to do. He didn’t elaborate, largely because he had no idea how to explain.
Her response was instantaneous. Joshua, you’re on thin ice. If you miss work today without a good reason, don’t bother coming back.
Josh’s fingers hesitated over the screen for only a moment. Then I quit. I’m sorry.
The polite thing to do would be to give two weeks’ notice, or at least call her and deliver the news himself, but there was no time for that. There was so much he needed to do to get ready for his close-up.
He was going to be a star.
Mike Harwood started his day as he did any other: balls-deep in another man.
A sweaty, gorgeous man who was currently moaning like Mike was trying to kill him with his dick.
“Oh God,” the man groaned. He threw his dark head back in an exaggerated way. “Yes, Sean, right there. Fuck me just like that.”
Mike wanted to grimace at the cheesy dialogue, but he kept his face frozen in the expression of bliss he’d had for the past twenty minutes. A camera flash went off to his left, and he had to blink away spots. Fucking photographers. It was hard enough to concentrate on what he was doing—or who, in this case—without them buzzing around. Especially when his costar brought so much ham to the scene, he wouldn’t need to eat for a week.
What was the guy’s name again? Dante? Damian? Something like that. Not that it mattered. The names around here were as fake as Hollywood itself. All that ecstatic mewling was starting to throw Mike off, along with the way the guy kept bucking his hips up on the offbeat.
Good thing Mike—or Sean Hardwood, as he was known to the porn world—was a seasoned vet. He’d starred in dozens of films, and the one he was making right now wouldn’t be so much as a blip on the radar. Thank God. He had a reputation to think of.
But hey, money was money. Sex was sex. Though he had to admit, having men moan his fake name instead of his real one didn’t have quite the same charm.
“Cut!” called a woman’s voice to the left.
Mike paused mid-thrust and stilled. He yearned to pull out, and the guy beneath him was squirming with discomfort, but they’d need to pi
ck back up in the same spot when filming resumed. “What’s up, Colette?”
The blonde woman in jeans and a pink crop top eyed him from behind the main camera. “Any particular reason why you started sucking all of a sudden?”
Balancing his weight on one arm, Mike wiped his sweaty brow. “Sorry. I lost focus.” He didn’t bother making excuses. He’d been working with Colette long enough to know she wouldn’t buy what he was selling. Normally, all he had to do was smile pretty and flex to get what he wanted, but Colette was too sharp for that. People didn’t build successful empires like Murmur Inc. by being naïve, and she could smell bullshit from here to Santa Monica.
“I can’t say I blame you for getting kicked out of the moment.” She shifted her keen gaze to the other man. “Your costar was doing a decent impression of an overeager actor with one line. Diego, what do you have to say for yourself?”
Diego. That was it.
Diego grinned lazily and wriggled beneath Mike, making the mattress squeak. “Would you believe I was having that good of a time?”
Mike rolled his eyes and glanced at Colette in time to see her do the same. “Not with that acting, I wouldn’t. Tone it down, please? We have quality standards to maintain. We’re not just producing porn here.” She gestured to the half-dozen crew members that were all crammed in the bedroom with them: sound and light techs, a camera operator, and of course, the photographers. “We’re selling a fantasy. And for fantasies to work, they need to be believable. Good sex can be subtle too, okay?”
“Whatever you say, mami.”
Colette looked like she wanted to lecture him some more, but she refrained. They were on a schedule, and time was money. Mike hadn’t met the owners of the house they were filming in, but since it was in Bel Air, it couldn’t have been cheap for Colette to book it. No doubt she wanted to get everyone in and out.
Nice choice of phrasing, Harwood.
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