by Ty Jacob
Ralph smiled, and they left the bar together.
6. Cougar Studios
SASHA’S THIGH-HIGH, green, vinyl go-go boots were heavy and her legs inside them were hot and sticky. She could feel the sweat trickling down her calves and gathering in pools between her toes as she walked down La Cienega Boulevard. She had made a very big mistake. This was no day to be wearing vinyl go-go boots.
She should have worn her open-toed, platform sandals with the roman straps instead. She felt a blister coming on, so she stepped lightly with her right foot. The California sun made her scalp itch under her long blond wig, and she could feel her makeup actually starting to melt. Her appointment was at noon, and as usual, she was running late. She’d had to park over on Huntley and she’d just walked four blocks – no small task in these boots. She was afraid she’d be a wilted mess by the time she arrived, and if there was one thing she knew in this world it was that nobody, but nobody would hire a sweaty, overweight drag queen with runny mascara and a limp. She had to pull it together.
As she turned the corner she saw the old warehouse building on a side street. It didn’t look much like a glamorous movie studio, but there was the name, Cougar Studios, in large red letters above the door. She stepped into an alley and opened her enormous green vinyl handbag. She pushed aside her promotional tape – scenes from the short films she’d made, guys from Venice Beach working out and jacking off, guys she’d met around town having fabulous sex – and she found her compact. She opened it up and checked her makeup, powdered her nose, and wiped the beads of sweat off her brow with her large, mannish hands. Then she closed her eyes and said a tiny prayer. God, she was certain, was the most fabulous drag queen of all.
Sasha wanted to be a big, famous director – not of Hollywood slop, but of beautiful, sexy, gay porn. Not just directing the small-time, low-budget shorts she’d been doing, but top-quality feature films with one of the big studios: Hard Bodies or Magnum Man or Cougar.
She was painfully aware of the two main facts of her life. 1) Lip-synching to Patsy Cline and Cher would only take her so far. 2) There was really no future in working behind a counter full of someone else’s dildos.
Sasha wanted to call the shots, and there was money to be made in gay porn. Besides, she loved it. So now she held her head high and knocked on the front door of Cougar Studios, her faux diamond tennis bracelet sparking in the hot midday sun.
A young man in a blue mesh tank top opened the door. He had startlingly white teeth, bleached blond hair, and biceps like melons. “Hi,” he said. “Can I help you?”
She looked him up and down. “Doll, I’ve got a long list of ways you could help me, but unfortunately I’m late for an appointment. Twelve o’clock with Steve Logan. Be a dear and take me to him, won’t you?”
“And your name is…”
“Sasha, baby. Sasha Zahore. Don’t you know me? I do a show down at the Lucky Pony. Perhaps you’ve seen it?”
“Just a moment please.” He shut the door, leaving Sasha outside in the heat. She curled her lip and cursed him under her breath, but a moment later the door opened again and he invited her in.
“Why, thank you, doll. A girl could die out there in that scorching sun. Makes me want to take off all my clothes. Don’t you feel the same?”
He led her down a carpeted hallway, past doors that said “Studio C” and “Studio B.” A young man wearing nothing but a towel passed them in the hallway. “Oh dear,” Sasha yelled out after him, “if you’re looking for a shower I can take you back to my place after I’m done here!”
The one with the melons for biceps told her to sit in a white room with a desk and a sofa. He sat down at the desk and began typing something on a typewriter. He was probably in his late twenties, and had a chest so smooth it had to be waxed. The desktop was a mess, piled with papers, gay magazines and videotapes. A gold plaque on the door behind him said simply “Steve.” Sasha sat on the sofa facing the gold plaque and waited for her future to start.
After five minutes she became impatient. “What’s your name, doll,” she said to the young man behind the desk.
He looked up and answered quickly, “Günter,” then turned back to his typewriter.
“Günter?” She hadn’t noticed any accent. “Is that your real name, or assumed?”
He looked at her and said, “I’m from Frankfurt.” There it was, a light German inflection.
“So, tell me, Günter. Is Steve a nice guy?”
He gave a wry smile. “Steve can be real nice. If he likes you.” He looked briefly down at her body from across the room. His mouth slipped into a subtle frown, as if to imply Steve wouldn’t like her at all.
After about twenty minutes the door finally opened and out walked Steve Logan. Sasha had seen him around but never before at such close range. Her immediate thought was that he was trying very hard to remain well preserved. He had to be in his early fifties. He was still a bit buff from working out, very well tanned, kept his thinning hair in an army-style brush cut, and had a large brown mustache and sideburns that looked like they’d come straight out of a 1970s beer commercial. He wore jeans with a rip in the knee, construction boots, and a red flannel shirt unbuttoned just enough to show off a patch of thick chest hair. Sasha immediately understood. Here was a man in man-drag. He presented himself more as the idea of a man than as an actual man.
“You must be Sasha,” he said, and shook her hand with such an unnecessarily strong grip that she winced.
“Charmed, I’m sure.” She said, and gave a small curtsey.
He turned to Günter. “If Matt calls, put him through.” Then he quickly led Sasha into his office.
The walls were hung with poster-sized video covers of the latest Cougar releases. They showed tanned, muscular men – much younger than Steve – in various states of undress, posed under porn titles. The Bigger They Are. Jock Cock. Construction Worker Bang Gang.
“Oh!” Sasha squealed loudly as she sat down, “I just loved Construction Worker Gang Bang. It’s so unfair you didn’t win Best Gay Group Scene at the Adult Entertainment Awards. Really, Danny’s Dildo Party had nothing on your film, nothing at all. It was criminal.”
“Thank you. We put a lot of work into that movie.” Steve gave a sad, resigned smile.
“I’m sure you did.” Sasha reached out and touched Steve’s desk. “And we know the boys love their work.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Well, first of all, thank you so much for taking the time to meet with me.”
“You were very insistent on the phone.”
“Well, yes. I put that same determination and drive into all my work.” She took a deep breath and explained how she wanted to make top quality porn, with excellent production values, using skilled sound and lighting technicians. This, she knew, was the most important sales job of her life so far – more important than any double-headed dildo she’d ever sold over the counter.
“I want to make porn that’s so good it’ll make even your mama proud,” she said. “I don’t need to tell you about today’s gay porn consumers. I mean, really. It’s 1984, for fuck’s sake. They’re out there marching in gay pride parades and demanding equality in human rights. You know as well as I do that they don’t want sloppy, poor-quality porn that makes them feel they’re doing something wrong. That’s why I like what you do here at Cougar. It’s top-notch stuff. And that’s why I want to direct Cougar’s next big feature.”
Steve laughed. “Whoa. What makes you think you’re going to walk in off the street and start directing?”
“That’s a very good question, Steve. But Sasha Zahore is not just in off the street with no experience. I’ve been directing my own low-budget projects for years now.” She pulled out the promotional tape from the depths of her bag and set it on Steve’s desk.
The previous year, Sasha bought the very first consumer camcorder ever made, the Sony Betamovie BMC-100, which was both a video camera and a video recorder in one unit. It was lightwe
ight, could record up to three and a half hours of footage, and most importantly had a beautiful rainbow-colored carrying strap. Of course, the $1,500 price tag had completely exhausted the rainy day funds that she’d stashed under her mattress, but she didn’t mind. What was money for if not for spending? She’d been making videos at a furious pace ever since.
“I call this cute, little videocassette here my Sin Sampler,” Sasha said. “I’ve done workout, jack-off, and short hardcore. Now, these are not up to your excellent production values, I’m sure, but they do show my skills as a director. I pride myself in bringing out the best in my models. Whatever you do, watch all of it, start to finish. You don’t want to miss what I’ve got them doing in the last scene with the orange traffic cone. It’s pure genius, if I do say so myself.”
She paused and waited for Steve to respond. She wanted desperately for him to just say, Yes, to lean forward in his chair and say, Of course I’ll let you do what you’ve always wanted to do. I know how important it is to you, and because you’ve had the courage to ask for it, I’ll give it to you. Here. It’s yours.
Steve did lean forward, and for a moment she almost believed he was going to say exactly what she wanted, but then he sighed. It was a long, slow sigh, followed by a subtle, yet meaningful, headshake. “Listen, Sasha,” he said. “Let me lay it on the line. Look around you.” He gestured to the posters on the walls. “Look at these guys. Cougar sells masculinity, Sasha. These are strong, straight-acting guys. It’s what sells. Now, look at yourself. Honestly, you’re just not right for us at all.”
“I’m not asking to be in the videos, just to direct.”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t matter.” He was not being unkind. He almost seemed sad to have to break the news to her, like a stranger who was being forced into telling a child he’d just met that there was no Santa Claus. “Sasha, you see, there’s a certain philosophy here at Cougar, at all the big-name gay studios, really. They’ll all tell you the same thing. You can sum up our business in one word: masculine. That’s all. That’s all we care about. We’re dealing with an audience that’s been called sissy all their lives and they want to feel butch. Our directors have names like Mitch Braun, Phil Steele, and Adam Rockford, not Sasha… What is it?
“Zahore. Sasha Zahore.”
“Not Sasha Zahore. I’m sorry, but drag queens don’t direct porn, at least not our porn. Why don’t you just stick to what you do best? I’m sure your show is great. Just keep doing drag and leave the directing to the big boys.” He stroked his mustache and then pushed the videotape toward her side of the desk.
“Come on now, Steve.” Sasha leaned one shoulder in and touched her fingertips to her collarbone. “Don’t you think you’re being just a little bit, oh, narrow-minded?” She knew she shouldn’t have said it. She was trying to win him over, not make an enemy.
“Narrow-minded? I’m trying to let you down lightly and you call me narrow-minded? I could be a mother fucking asshole and have you thrown out of here right now. Do you understand that?”
“Oh, Jesus. There I go again.” She leaned back and smiled. “I’ve got a terrible mouth and it always gets me in trouble. Sometimes I think the only way to keep this mouth shut is to stick a dick in it.” She watched him to make sure he smiled. He did. “I’m sorry, Steve,” she continued. “Really, you’re a smart, hunky man. You obviously know what you’re doing. You wouldn’t have your own successful studio if that weren’t the case. But just let me prove myself to you. I love porn. Love it. I want to work with it in any way I can. There must be something around here that you can let me do. Anything. For the past four years I’ve been working in a sex shop mopping up cum, so it can’t get much worse than that.”
“I don’t know.”
“Steve, come on. You know the drag queens were there at Stonewall in 1969, throwing beer bottles at those crooked cops right next to all the butch gay boys. We’re in this together. And I promise you, I will work for you harder than any of the pretty little muscle boys you’ve got skipping around here. Nobody has my stamina, my commitment, and hell yes, my enthusiasm.”
He smiled again. “Yes, I can see you’re very enthusiastic. Okay, look. I might regret this, but we do need some people in Marketing and Distribution.”
Sasha pointed at Steve energetically. “There it is! I’m your gal!” Then she paused and tipped her head. “What’s that mean, exactly?”
“It’s easy. You call the video shops around the country to tell them how great our newest release is. You find out how many copies they want, and you try and get them to order more. I think you could sell.”
“Sell?! I could talk the hind leg off a donkey. When I was nine I sold so much lemonade at a stand in front of my house that the neighbors reported me to the IRS. I kid you not.”
“Can you can start Monday? Ten o’clock.”
“Yes! You won’t regret it, Steve. I swear you won’t. Thank you. Thank you.” She picked up her bag, wanting to leave before he changed his mind. She paused and touched the videotape on the desk. “Now, are you sure you don’t want to see what these strapping young men do with that traffic cone?”
“Hmm,” Steve said.
“Listen, doll. I’ll leave it with you.” She tapped it twice and winked. Then she stood up, shook his hand, and walked proudly out of the room.
7. Pinned
THE GUY HAD been fucking him for almost an hour before the trouble started. It was 1989, and Mike had been living in Cincinnati almost eight years, turning tricks for six. He thought he was experienced, thought he knew all the warning signs, but this one took him entirely by surprise.
At first the guy just started slapping his ass, and Mike didn’t mind. But then the slaps got harder, and more frequent. The guy was powerfully built and hairy, which Mike liked, and he’d paid well, up front, so Mike let the slaps go on for longer than he would have normally, but finally he said, “Hey, ease off. Hurts too much.”
It got worse then. Suddenly the guy pulled his dick out of Mike’s ass and punched him hard in the small of the back with a solid fist. Mike struggled to get air into his lungs. His small size put him at a disadvantage as the big guy pinned him down. When he finally caught his breath he yelled, “Fuck you! Get off me!” but it was too late. He knew he was in trouble.
The blows kept coming, again and again, each to the small of his back. The guy was vicious. Mike had never seen him before that night, and he felt vaguely, as each fist came down on his back, that he should have known better. It was a mistake. Maybe he’d gotten complacent after too many years. Maybe his judgment had been thrown off by too much beer, by this guy’s masculine allure. He tried to get away now but couldn’t. He turned on his side, covered his head with his arms and hoped it would be over soon. The impact of the guy’s large fist on his face nearly knocked him out.
When the guy started fucking him again, at first Mike didn’t know what was happening. Even after he saw the condom lying like a dead jellyfish at the side of his head, it took a moment before he realized the guy was fucking him without protection. Mike heaved and twisted. He screamed. He would rather be beat to within an inch of his life than be fucked this way.
Mike was always careful. He didn’t do it without condoms, never ate cum. Sometimes guys offered to pay more if he would, but he said no. He followed the rules. No glove no love. Come on me not in me. He didn’t want to get sick. He thought of Freddy, one of his old johns. He didn’t want what happened to Freddy to happen to him.
When the big guy came inside him, Mike was crying.
Afterwards, the guy got up and got dressed without a word, leaving Mike alone there, covered in blood and tears on the hotel bed, right across the road from the Spares ‘n’ Strikes, where Frieda was probably closing up at that very moment. Mike could barely move, but he forced himself to get up and go into the bathroom. He wanted to get the guy’s cum out of his ass. He knew that it was too late, that it didn’t matter. If the guy was positive Mike probably would be now, too. He praye
d the guy was healthy.
He decided that moment – bent over on the toilet, shaking, crying, and bleeding – that he would do something different. He no longer wanted to risk picking up strangers on the street and in bars. He didn’t want to be alone with these men, who were too often desperate, with secret lives, and who seemed to be filled alternatively with sadness or anger – it was never clear which one until you were alone with them.
The next day he lay in bed in his tiny apartment on St. Clair Avenue and his entire body ached. Each time he moved, pain shot up his back. He called Toby and told him what had happened, but Toby’s voice came back flat over the phone. “Hey, man, sorry to hear it. You’ll be okay. Listen, I gotta go.”
Mike hung up and wondered if he hadn’t made it clear how bad it was, or if Toby didn’t want to talk about it because he was afraid it could happen to him too. Mike started to curl into a ball in his bed but it hurt, so he lay still. The room was cold. He pulled his old green blanket up to his chin. His left eye was swollen completely shut, but he stared at the ceiling with his good eye until eventually the light outside started to fade and the sounds of the bar downstairs came up to his closed window, music and people laughing.
In the middle of the night he got up, went to his freezer, and pulled out a bag of frozen peas. There was a tear in the plastic and he put his hand inside, pulling out the money he’d been stashing away. The bills were covered with frost, and they crinkled in his hands. He laid the money out across the bottom of his bathtub, so that it would defrost and dry. Icy peas rolled into the corners of the tub. He counted four hundred and fifty dollars. This was all he had from eight years of work. He was only twenty-three, but he already felt old.
Back in bed, he held the half-empty bag of peas against his swollen eye until he fell asleep.
Two days later he was sitting behind the wheel of his 1979 Chevy Nova. It was blue and shining in the bright winter sun. The tank was full and he turned on the radio and drove southwest on I-71, toward Louisville. There was a map under his left leg. He was still sore. He had packed his clothes and cassette tapes in his grey duffel bag and put everything worth taking into the back seat and the hatchback. The money was split between his wallet and the glove box.