Out of the Blue

by Blue Blake

  When he returned a week later we took up where we had left off.

  Bill was living in a rented room in St. Johns Wood. It was small but he was very tidy and neat so it never looked messy. He worked as a carpenter on a construction site and every night he would come to my place covered in sawdust and we would make mad passionate love. He had a solid body from working out for years. As I got to know him better he told me he had only ever had one other boyfriend but lots of girlfriends . . . he was bi . . . YUM.

  It didn’t seem to bother him that I was escorting or that I owned my own escort agency. He would never let me spend any money on him and even insisted he pay whenever we went out. I knew he didn’t earn a lot of money so one day I got an idea.

  “Listen, I get a lot of calls asking for guys who look like you.” Bill had a ten-inch cock and the biggest arse I had ever seen . . . and he was a genuine carpenter. “Why don’t you do a booking or two every week . . . just to supplement your income.”

  “Nah . . . that’s not for me.”

  “But it’s really easy. I’ll only give you the jobs where you have to sit back and get your dick sucked. You’ll make a fortune.”

  “Honestly mate . . . I don’t want to do it.”

  Of course I couldn’t leave it alone. I whined and begged and pleaded and cajoled him until finally he agreed to try it. He made an enormous amount of money straight away. I don’t think Bill ever actually enjoyed doing the work but perhaps he did it to please me. A few weeks later we moved in together in my small flat on Penywern Road. Bill joined Earl’s Court Gym and I filled him up with steroids. We constantly fucked like rabbits and were blissfully happy in our tiny little warren.

  It was during this time that I met Harry Giesler. Harry had been born in Germany and had been one of the world’s top male models. He was one of those guys that you saw advertising cigarettes and Pierre Cardin suits on billboards all over the world. He was incredibly, ruggedly handsome, but at forty years old he had fallen on hard times. As he was a bodybuilder with a nine-inch cock, Skinhead Michael had suggested he work for my escort agency. He and Skinhead Michael had met in “Heaven.” They had become lovers until a week later when they had realized they were both bottoms. Harry came for an interview and the week I put him to work he made two thousand pounds. He was ecstatic.

  Bill and Harry weren’t crazy about each other. Bill was jealous of anybody who took up a lot of my time, and Harry and I started running around London together much to Bill’s chagrin. Bill didn’t like clubbing so every Saturday night Harry and I would go dancing at Heaven and drop acid. We fell into a pattern. Harry would come to my flat and we would head off to the Coleherne for a few pints of beer before going dancing. Bill would stay at home and build cupboards and wardrobes, and then I would come home and let him fuck the hell out of me till dawn.

  One day I gave Harry a booking that ended up changing his life. The guy was a regular of my agency though I didn’t know much about him. I never pried into my client’s personal lives, so all I knew was that his name was Matthew and that he had a lot of money because he never quibbled over price. He liked blond bodybuilders so when he called one day I figured Harry would be perfect. Harry was more than perfect. It turned out Matthew had been in love with Harry ever since he had seen him in a commercial for tobacco years ago. He couldn’t believe it when Harry showed up at his door and Harry couldn’t believe it when he saw Matthew’s luxury penthouse behind Harrods department store. Matthew fell fast and hard for Harry and eventually bought him a Bentley and an amazing two bedroom flat in South Kensington. Harry and I were the only bodybuilding fags in London who rode to Heaven in a Bentley. Matthew unfortunately died a few years later but not before I expect Harry had made him the happiest he had ever been. In turn Matthew left Harry enough money to live on for the rest of his life.

  Harry eventually sold the apartment in South Kensington along with all the furniture and art Michael had bought and purchased a beautiful two-bedroom cottage south of the river Thames. I think the South Kensington apartment held too many sad memories for Harry who was approaching fifty and had given up the “glamorous” life of hooking years before. Harry had experienced what a lot of successful escorts experience. He had met a rich client who fell in love with him and gave him everything. As much as Matthew loved Harry, Harry in his own way had grown to love Matthew. I’m sure Harry will remember him fondly forever.

  I was definitely burning the candle at both ends. It was the days of ecstasy and dance music in London. I had first tried ecstasy in New Orleans and now it had become the in drug in London. The biggest club of the month was called “Kinky Gerlinky” run by hostess supreme Gerlinda. She was the “sister” of NYC party goddess Suzannne Barsch and Kinky Gerlinky was the place to see and be seen.

  Gerlinda asked Sean and I if we would get some bodybuilders together and put on a dance act at Kinky. We soon became the kinky boys and our infamy only grew. It was a wild time to be young and wealthy and handsome in London. We ruled the school.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I HAD DEVELOPED AN UNNATURAL TASTE for beauty pageants. The summer of 1989 I went to Key West for four weeks on my own. Bill had flown home to visit his family in New Zealand, so I let a friend of mine, Richard, run the agency while I was away.

  Key West was amazing. In those days it was still a sleepy little hamlet overrun by gay people and five-toed cats, a supposed legacy of Ernest Hemmingway. Now it’s all t-shirt shops and cruise ships pulling in all the time, but in 1989 it was sublime. There were an enormous number of gay bed and breakfasts serving fresh muffins and fruit juice every morning. Later people would head to the local pier where there was a bar and everybody tanned like seals while sipping banana daquiris. At night the entire gay population of the Island would go dancing at the big gay club Copacabana.

  One night they held the annual “Mr. Key West” contest. Drunk on tequila, I slipped into a Speedo and paraded myself around the stage at the “The Copa.” Amazingly, I won and tottered down the runway, misty-eyed and clutching a bouquet of roses to my ample pecs. For the next month I was a star and I liberally imbibed all the libations sent my way in various gay bars as well as all the free tabs of ecstasy I could gobble down. Upon returning to freezing cold London, I found my friend Richard asleep on my carpet, all my plants dead and a bin full of empty Guinness bottles . . . reality was harsh.

  A few months later I was working out at the gym when I spied a flyer somebody had posted on the notice board:MR. DRUMMER 1990

  BRITISH FINAL

  WINNER MUST COMPETE IN FULL LEATHER DAY WEAR, EVENING WEAR AND ACT OUT A 3 MINUTE SEXUAL FANTASY OF ONE’S CHOOSING. ALSO GIVE A SPEECH ON THE VALUE OF THE LEATHER COMMUNITY TO SOCIETY AND HOW LIVING AS A LEATHERMAN HAS BENE-FITTED YOUR OWN LIFE.

  FIRST PRIZE: AN ALL EXPENSES PAID TRIP TO SAN FRANCISCO TO COMPETE IN THE MR DRUMMER WORLD FINAL REPRESENTING THE UNITED KINGDOM.

  “Oh my God,” I thought. “It will be just like Miss World . . . only with leather men.”

  I filled out the entry form that afternoon.

  Drummer Magazine was the leather men’s bible and each year they held the Mr. Drummer Leather Contest in San Francisco to see who would be the world’s ultimate leather man. This year there would be contestants from all over the world including one from the UK . . . me, I decided. If I could be Mr. Key West, I sure as hell could slip into a body harness and fool everybody into thinking I wore processed animal skins twenty-four hours a day.

  I trotted down to the local fetish store in Soho and persuaded the guy behind the counter to create me various body harnesses for daywear and latex wrestling suits for evening wear. The guy was known as “Black Beauty” because he looked like the horse from Anna Sewell’s famous novel, all big gums and thick black hair down to his waist. I let him suck my toes in the changing room for a free pair of army boots. Done up in leather I actually didn’t look too bad! I had a regular client who always wanted me to wear leather but I stopped seeing him because he had e
normous foreskin that he always wanted me to chew on like a bullmastiff with a rubber chew toy. He had the stretchiest foreskin I’d ever munched. It was unnatural. He told me he was married to a famous super model and she didn’t like to chew his foreskin either. Who knew foreskin had so many calories?

  The night of the contest we all made our way to the club in Shepherd’s Bush. I had all of Earl’s Court Gym there supporting me. Walking in my head-to-toe body harness was very difficult and every time I walked past somebody I would get hooked on them for the next five minutes because of all the buckles and straps I was wearing. Leather body harnesses are extremely uncomfortable, and I was wearing a jockstrap made of barbed wire and knee-length leather jackboots. Thank you Black Beauty, Anna Sewell would have been horrified.

  There were twelve contestants in the contest, every single one ashen-faced and smelling of stale amyl nitrate. None had ever seen the inside of a gym in their lives. I knocked it out of the ballpark.

  “The winner of Mr. Drummer UK 1990 is . . . ” ME. I was handed a leather sash, a check for 500 pounds and a round trip plane ticket to San Francisco for the world final.

  Things had been going badly between Bill and me. It was all my fault. I had fallen in love with Bill but we seemed to be moving in different directions. I wasn’t as attentive to him as I should have been. I was surrounded by straight bodybuilders who all wanted a bit on the side, behind their wives and girlfriend’s backs. I wanted to oblige them. It wasn’t fair to Bill who was a really good-looking sexy guy. He could have had anybody he wanted. We broke up and I later regretted the fact for years. Bill moved on really quickly with his life, but I pined for him for a long time.

  The Mr. Drummer Contest in San Francisco was huge. Leather men from all over the world attended. Half of San Francisco was gay but the gayest part of all was the Castro District. It was packed with leather daddies and their slaves for Mr. Drummer Week. At first I thought it was rather freakish, but after a couple of days I started to really enjoy the company of the leather fraternity. They were all actually rather sweet, and I learned so much about how to house and care for your slave. I was told about a book called The Leatherman’s Handbook, which I devoured in one sitting since I was about to be grilled at the pre-judging of the contest. The pre-judging consisted of a panel of about twelve older leather men asking me questions about my leather life style. Questions were thrown at me. “When you go to a bar, do you allow your slave to drink out of a glass or must he always drink from a dog bowl at your feet?”

  “When your slave has been rude to you, do you withhold from him the pleasure of drinking your piss?” I tried to take all of this as seriously as possible but true to my evil nature I would sometimes find the devil in me overtaking and I gave replies such as,

  “Not only do I withhold the taste of my nutritious piss, but I refuse to shit in his mouth for a month.”

  I knew there was no way in hell I was going to win this contest, but I was already being celebrated for being Mr. Drummer UK so things could have been much, much worse. I became really good friends with Mr. Drummer Australia, a guy my own age who lived in Sydney. He told me over Mimosas he liked being strangled until he passed out during sex.

  “Me too,” I lied.

  All week there were parties every night. One night we were all auctioned off for dinners that had been donated by various local restaurants. The event was held at the world famous leather bar, the Eagle.

  We all drew straws to see who would be auctioned off first. I had drawn the shortest straw, which meant I would be auctioned off last. One by one we were paraded onto the stage. An enormous lesbian in the audience had taken a shine to me and was determined to buy me. She was dressed in a leather policeman’s motorcycle uniform and was standing with a stunning blonde girl who was wearing a bra, chaps, leather knickers and nothing else. The bidding for me went up to $250 before the lesbian dropped out and I was “acquired” by a leather man at the front of the stage. The contestant before me had sold for $7.50, so I was happy. I think the fact that he was wearing just a leather diaper and boots had scared the potential bidders.

  As I walked off the stage I was grabbed by the enormous lezzy. “I’m Officer Betty of the Safe Sex Police and this is my girlfriend Gabriella, she’s Miss Cheeks in Chaps 1989.”

  “What a pleasure to meet you,” I said. “And thank you for driving the bidding so high.”

  “You’re hot,” said Gabriella. “Have you ever thought of doing porn?” Gabriella spoke all of her words with a heavy Hungarian accent, which brought about images of Zsa Zsa Gabor.

  “No,” I laughed. “I don’t think I’d be very good at it.”

  “You’d be divine,” said Gabriella. “I shoot for Penthouse all the time and I’m always looking for guys to do Penthouse Couples with me. Would you like me to arrange it?”

  “Well, let me have a think about it,” I said, feeling incredibly flattered. People in San Francisco were so friendly, I thought for the hundredth time that week.

  “Have you done magazines before?” asked Officer Betty.

  “Well, all the contestants have to shoot a centerfold for Drummer Magazine. I’m doing mine with Mister Germany Drummer.”

  Betty and Gabriella looked at each other.

  “Good God,” said Gabriella. “Drummer Magazine employs awful photographers. You would be far better off in Penthouse Couples with me.”

  “Or you should be a COLT model,” said Officer Betty.

  COLT model!!! Yeah, in my wildest dreams. COLT was a company owned by a photographer called Jim French. He produced magazines and calendars with bodybuilders who were the epitome of masculinity. He worked with the hottest men in the world. No way did I look like a COLT model.

  I spent the whole night drinking with Betty and Gabriella. They knew everybody and I was slowly drawn into their world of fetish and friendliness. Betty was the daddy and Gabriella was her lipstick lesbian girlfriend. Betty worked as a plumber and Gabriella owned a leather store in the Castro by day and was a stripper by night.

  “I had better be getting back to my hotel,” I said.

  “We’ll give you a ride.”

  My hotel was a dump, and when we pulled up outside in Betty’s truck, Gabriella said, “This place is a fucking rat hole.”

  “It’s where they put all the contestants,” I said.

  “I have a great idea!” squealed Gabriella. “You have to stay at our apartment. We live on the hill above the Castro, and Betty can drive you around. If you let me take pictures of you wearing leather from my store to put on posters in the window, you can keep the outfits.”

  “Are you sure?” I laughed.

  “No arguments,” said Officer Betty. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at noon, so go and pack.”

  I thanked them profusely and strode into the grubby lobby of the hotel.

  “There’s a message for you,” said the one-eyed desk clerk.

  “For me?” I asked. “Who from?”

  “Al Parker,” he whispered.

  “I don’t know anybody called Al Parker. Only the porn star.”

  “That’s who the message is from,” cackled one-eye.

  Al Parker was an enormously famous porn star. He was extremely good looking with a humongous dick. He was hairy with a big moustache and owned his own porn company in San Francisco called “Surge Studios.” I had all of his films back in London and couldn’t believe he had contacted me. I opened the note: “Saw you tonight on stage at the Eagle. Call me. Al.” There must be some mistake, I thought as I walked up to my room. What could Al Parker want with me? I dialed his number.

  “This is Al,” a really sexy voice said, a voice I recognized immediately from the movies.

  “Mr. Parker,” I stammered, “this is. . . .”

  “Glenn Marsh. I recognize your voice from the contest tonight. Mr. Drummer UK.”

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “I was thinking, perhaps we might get together tonight. I could be there in twenty minut
es.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  The phone clicked off. My head was spinning. Al Parker. He was so famous. I jumped into the bath and twenty minutes later there was a knock on my hotel door. There stood Al Parker, all 5-foot-5 of him. He looked exactly as he did in the movies, only much shorter. I was to learn that very few porn stars are larger than life when you meet them in the flesh. One thing, however, that was just as big in the flesh was his cock. He was great in bed and while we were fucking I felt him grease up his balls and stick them up my arse alongside his dick, a definite first for me but it felt perverted and great. To achieve this act takes a great deal of patience and a genius in bed. Al was definitely a sexual maestro.

  As the sun rose and he was getting dressed a thought struck me.

  “Al, you’re a COLT model, aren’t you?”

  “Yep,” he said.

  “Do you think I could be one too?”

  “Sure, why not?” he said. “Listen, do you wanna have dinner tonight?”

  “I can’t, somebody bought me in an auction and I have to have dinner with them.”

  “Poor you,” he laughed. “How about tomorrow night?”

  “I can’t, I’ve got to attend the Leather and Lace Ball. It’s part of Drummer Week.”

  “I’ll be there too, how about we go together?”

  Me and Al Parker on a date! And it couldn’t hurt my credibility in the eyes of the judges.

  “Sure, why not?” I said nonchalantly but inside I was screaming with wild glee.

  At noon Officer Betty arrived and loaded my suitcases into the back of her truck. I had a rehearsal for the Mr. Drummer contest at 2 p.m., so we rushed to her apartment. When she flung open the door I couldn’t believe my eyes. The place was jam packed floor-to-ceiling with strap-on dildos, stripper Lucite heels and leather pornography.