by Ty Jacob
Dale turned around and said, “Did you sleep well?”
Mike saw Dale stare at his crotch. He didn’t mind. His body was what he had, what he offered. Although he would never allow Dale to touch him, it was okay to look. He needed Dale to be into him.
“Slept like a log,” he answered, reaching up and stretching the sleep out of his arms, pretending not to notice that Dale’s eyes were on him the entire time. He looked away and absentmindedly rubbed his crotch.
Behind Dale, the coffee maker was starting to steam and drip. “Well,” Dale said. “How about those pancakes I promised you?”
“Thanks for letting me sleep here last night.”
“You worked hard for it, boy.” Dale winked. “Orange juice?”
“Yes, please.”
Dale poured the juice in a tall glass with pink flamingos on the side. Mike pushed himself up onto the countertop and set the glass next to his leg.
“You can stay longer if you’d like,” Dale said. He was getting out flour and eggs and a large silver bowl.
Mike looked out at the black couch. “That would be great.”
Dale started mixing the batter, pouring it into the pan on the stove. Mike found the conversation easy. They talked about where they were from, about Brewerton and Lincoln, Ohio and Nebraska, and Dale seemed to understand exactly what Mike meant when he said, “I had to leave.” That was all the explanation Dale needed. Mike was happy that Dale didn’t ask the annoying questions some people asked – not johns but other people, normal people – questions like “Do you miss home?” or “Do you miss your family?” They were leading questions. You were supposed to say yes. If you said no, people’s heads turned a little to the side, and they looked at you strangely, as though you had just admitted to smothering a small kitten. Brewerton, Mike felt, was where he was from, but it wasn’t home, hadn’t been home since his mother died. As of right now, home was here in Dale’s kitchen.
When the pancakes were ready he sat across from Dale at a small white table in the corner, next to the refrigerator. The coffee was good and strong. Dale drank tea.
“There’s syrup for you,” Dale said. “Or jelly if you’d rather, and here’s some honey. That can be nice too. Can I get you anything else?”
“No, this is great. Thanks.”
“Oh, how about some strawberries? I have some in the fridge.” Dale was already standing up and pulling them out, rinsing them and cutting them at the sink. “More orange juice?”
“I’m good for now. These pancakes are fantastic.”
“Well, I made a lot so eat up. Nobody likes a skinny rent boy.” Dale laughed. “What am I saying? No doubt there are those who go for that.”
“Tell me about the porn you do for Cougar.” Mike said.
Dale stood at the counter cutting strawberries, but he didn’t answer. Eventually he set a bowl of sliced strawberries on the table and sat back down, looking at the floor. When he looked back up he gave Mike the warmest, most caring smile that Mike had received in a long time. It seemed there was nothing sexual behind it at all – no leer, no suggestive grin – just a gentle kindness. For a moment Mike forgot all about the albino worms hiding underneath the table.
“Okay,” Dale said. “I have a confession to make. I can’t lie to you, my charming Midwestern boy. You’ll find out sooner or later anyway. I don’t actually make movies for Cougar.”
Mike’s heart sank. He should have known better than to believe this guy. He felt like an idiot. He’d jacked off for him. At least he’d made fifty bucks. He set down his fork and leaned back in the white wooden chair. “You said you did.”
“Well, technically speaking, I didn’t say that. But I admit I led you to believe it. The truth is I work at Cougar in Marketing and Distribution. I call up the video shops and push the new releases, and lately I’ve been trying to get the gay porn mags to run shots of Cougar stars on their covers. I don’t direct for Cougar, not yet, but I hope to. Some day. The hardcore films I do are on my own time, and I’m afraid they’re very low-budget productions. I’ve never had a proper film crew. Just me.”
Mike felt a little bit relieved. This could be a start. He picked up his fork and took another bite.
“Here. Take some more.” Dale picked up three pancakes from a platter and dropped them on Mike’s plate.
Mike spooned some strawberries on top. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had homemade pancakes.
“But you see,” Dale continued, “I think you’ve got talent. There’s something about you. Last night, when you got in front of that camera, you looked like you were born to be there.”
Mike looked up. “Yeah? Was I good?”
“Billy boy, you were great. We can watch it later.”
“Good. I want to,” Mike said. “I really want to be a big porn star.”
“Well, I want to be a big porn director, doing top notch stuff. The problem for me has always been money. But with someone like you on my side, I might be able to get somebody to loan me some money, as an investment. As soon as they lay eyes on you, they’ll know we would make a hot movie together. Sasha can charm them, do a bit of a sales pitch, give them some of my films and your jack-off video as a sampler. Listen, how about you and I make a full-length movie, top quality? Of course you would be the star. You would be in almost every scene. It would be all about you.”
“You’d put me with hot guys?” Mike asked.
“I’d have hunky tops fuck you silly.”
Mike smiled. “Count me in.” He shoved another forkful of pancake into his mouth and said, “Totally safe sex, right?” He knew all the major studios used condoms now. He just wanted to make sure about Dale.
“Of course. I’ll keep you safe.”
Mike tried not to think about April 21st, when he had to get his HIV test. It wasn’t simply his own safety he was concerned about.
Dale took a sip of his tea and said, “We’ll have to think of a porn name for you. You wouldn’t want to use your real name, of course. That can get complicated. Stalkers, relatives, you know. It’s a shame though. Billy suits you.”
“I have a confession too,” Mike said. “Don’t be angry.”
“Angry? How could I be angry at a hot young man sitting at my kitchen table, eating breakfast in his underwear?”
“My name’s not Bill. It’s Mike.”
“Mike? Huh. Well, that’s easy then. Billy can be your porn name. Perfect. Any other confessions? What about being twenty-three? Don’t tell me you’re really jail bait.”
“No. I’m really twenty-three. I’ll be twenty-four at the end of April. Honest. I was born in 1965.”
“Oy! The year you were born was the year I first wore a dress in public. On Halloween. I wore it to school. I was sixteen years old, and I looked fabulous.”
Mike wasn’t really listening. He was wondering what would happen between now and the end of April. He was going to have to get tested a week before his birthday.
“And Ohio?” Dale asked.
“Huh?”
“Are you really from Ohio?”
“Oh, yeah. Everything I said was true. Just my name. It’s Mike Dudley.”
“Dudley? Oh, sorry but what a dreary name. Almost as bad as mine. Dale Smith. Sorry, but Dudley’s going to have to go.”
“It’s not so bad. Rhymes with studly.”
Dale smiled. “Well, yes. There is that. But that won’t do either. Don’t worry. I’ll think of something. A nice last name to go with Billy. In the meantime, Mike, I’m very, very pleased to meet you.” Dale put out his hand like a lady, palm down and fingers dangling.
Mike looked at it.
“Go on,” Dale said, and jiggled his arm.
Mike reached out in a playfully gentleman-like manner, leaning forward and placing one light kiss on the soft skin that covered the back of Dale’s hand.
12. Working Boy Needs Job
SASHA KICKED INTO overdrive. She needed money fast. Her rainy day fund had never really recovered
since she’d started buying video equipment. However, she knew a drug dealer named Fabio who had connections, customers with money, and very soon she had several meetings lined up. There was one particularly successful dinner meeting where she displayed her darling Billy at her side. The elderly gentleman they dined with that night agreed to be a silent partner, and he offered her a thousand dollars on the spot. All he wanted in return was another dinner with Billy.
The only problem was that a thousand dollars wasn’t enough for the kind of quality production she wanted to do. Nevertheless, not being one to pass up good deal, Sasha said yes immediately.
By then Billy was sleeping on her couch and going out with her almost every night. She loved walking into bars with him, loved seeing heads turn in their direction – the big, glamorous queen and the hot, young guy at her side – but she was worried. Soon word would get out that there was a hot new bottom in town, looking for work in porn, and the vultures would descend. She knew that if it took too long to get the money for the kind of production she wanted, Billy would be tempted to go. She told him not to talk to anybody about their plans, to keep his desire to do porn to himself, because it would be better for him to simply come out with a movie and surprise them all.
She took him to Pinky’s Boy Bar. The interior had become a bit shabby, she realized, but it was still the busiest bar for working boys in LA. Billy insisted on wearing his jeans and a white T-shirt, and she’d put on a white dress so they would match. They stood at the long, wooden bar waiting for drinks. The walls everywhere were pink stucco, and there were year-round Christmas lights strung up over a pool table nearby, imbuing the room with a pastel glow. When she introduced Billy to Dave, the bartender, Billy seemed withdrawn.
“How are you doing there, kiddo?” Dave said. He was in his fifties, balding, and with an open collar that displayed two silver chains against tanned skin.
Billy didn’t respond. He simply turned away.
“Billy, don’t be so rude,” Sasha said. “So sorry, Dave. The boy’s a bit nervous, I suppose.”
“No problem, Sasha.”
Dave gave them their drinks and Sasha led Billy to a table in the corner, where they had a good view of the door.
“Billy,” Sasha said. “You have turned tricks before, right?”
“Yeah, sure.”
She looked at him closely “I don’t know why you’re so nervous then.”
Billy shrugged.
“Are you okay?” She reached out and patted his hand.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
Sasha turned and took in the room. For the untrained eye, it would it would be difficult to tell who was buying and who was selling, but Sasha knew. There was a wide range of working boys present – from the cute twinks fresh as daisies to the rugged veterans, covered in muscle. The buyers were mostly middle-aged men with a bit of padding around the middle, but not always. Some were handsome enough that at first glance it looked like they could be selling, but the look in their eyes gave them away.
She glanced back over at Billy. He looked almost sullen, like a working boy who didn’t want to work at all.
“My darling Billy,” she said. “The movie we’re going to make is something we’re doing together. It’s going to be good for both of us. But I need your help. We need to get the money to make it. I’ve been able to line up our one investor, and just this afternoon I finished the script, but we want this production to be top quality, don’t we? That takes a lot of cash.”
Billy said, “Why can’t we just do it with the money we already got?”
“Trust me, doll. If you want to be a big star, you’ve got a lot to learn. You know the cards are already stacked against a sweet little bottom boy like you. This too we shall overcome. However, one thing’s for sure. Big stars don’t do low budget. We need professional cameramen, sound and lighting crew, an editor, the works. Top notch. You want to enter the porn world looking like a professional. To do that, we need money.”
“I don’t know, Sasha.”
“You were certainly eager to turn a trick that first night I met you.”
“I was desperate.”
“Oh, you were desperate then but now that you have Sasha’s sofa and Sasha’s food and Sasha’s booze at the Lucky Pony, you’re fine?”
“I was hoping I could just get work in porn, stop turning tricks.” He paused. “I had some trouble before I came to LA.”
“What was it?”
“Doesn’t matter. Look, I’m just tired of street and bar hustling. Back in Cincinnati, I decided I didn’t want to do it anymore.”
“Well, isn’t that nice? And perhaps you’ve also decided that soon the Angel Gabriel will pop out from behind a pumpkin patch and give you a box full of gold doubloons? Listen, don’t make me chain you to the bed with your ass in the air. ‘Cause I will and I’ll be the one taking money at the door.”
“Sasha, it’s not that I don’t want to work. I just want it to be safer. Don’t be such a bitch.”
He’d never called her that before, and it felt like a physical slap. “Excuse me,” she said, then stood abruptly and walked to the women’s bathroom, which was always empty at Pinky’s. She pulled up her dress, pulled down her nylons just enough to get her dick out, and peed standing up in the stall. Afterward she looked in the mirror and checked her makeup. The last thing she wanted was to put Billy in harm’s way. She knew bar and street hustling were the lowest rung of the ladder, the most dangerous and poorly paid work.
When she got back to the table, she didn’t even sit down. “We’ll figure something out,” she said.
Billy stared up at her. Sitting there alone he seemed like a little boy who was too shy and afraid to make friends with the other kids at the playground.
Sasha nodded toward the door. “Let’s go.”
Within twenty-four hours she had a solution. She knew someone who knew one of the bouncers at Exposé – a high-end West Hollywood strip club owned by Pascal of Montreal. The clientele were better off than the ones who just wandered into Pinky’s off the street. At Exposé, Pascal and his burly bouncers knew all the clients, and they turned away anybody who gave the strippers trouble. Pascal, it was said, also paid off the cops to keep them out of his hair. All in all, it was a more controlled environment. Billy could ply his trade without the danger that existed in typical bar and street hustling. Most importantly, she was certain the money would be better than at Pinky’s. Her one concern was throwing Billy in with all those sexy strippers. What if he fell for one of them? She pushed the thought away.
“You’ll have to dance,” she explained to him when she first came up with the idea. “But of course I’ll help you with costumes and choreography. You’ll be fabulous.”
Billy said that he’d give it a try, and she immediately made some phone calls and got him an audition. She helped him put together a routine and even drove him there on the big day. He looked wonderful in his sailor hat. Of course they hired him. Who could say no to Billy?
When he finally started bringing home cash, she was thrilled. She took fistfuls of it from him, saying “For the movie, doll,” but she always left him a few bills for spending. He didn’t seem to mind, or if he did he didn’t say so. When he came home one night strung out on crystal meth, she said, “Honey, you get hooked on that and you’ll burn right through our money. Do you want your porn career to be over before it starts? Back off the crystal or my home is no longer yours.” She never saw a sign of it again.
In her small apartment, she and Billy developed simple habits that soothed her and pushed away the loneliness. She would leave every morning at 10:00 to go to work, and if Billy hadn’t been out late with a trick the night before, she would whisper softly, “Rise and shine, sleepyhead.” She’d place a cup of coffee on the table by the sofa and lean over to stroke his hair. “Don’t waste your day,” she’d say, before slipping out the door.
At work she interspersed her legitimate business for Cougar with calls attending to her own
affairs, lining up the film crew, getting someone ready to help her edit the final cut, looking for a guy who could take care of the sound. She never told Steve what she was up to.
Sasha and Steve had developed an amicable relationship, full of a playfulness that sometimes bordered on cruelty. “Looking a little wider around the edges there, Sasha,” Steve would say with a smile. “Oh, Steve,” she’d snap back. “Just look at that shine on your head. It glows so nicely against the subtle orange hue of your simulated tan.” She saw how he promised porn stardom to so many young guys, but never delivered. He strung them along with false hope in return for good sex. She knew it took work to make a gay porn superstar, time and investment, getting their image out into as many magazines as possible, planning their movies right so fans didn’t forget them or lose interest due to overexposure. She had to keep Billy away from men like Steve.
When she came home each evening, Billy was usually trying to make dinner. He wasn’t a very good cook, but she was teaching him. He could already make a half-decent stir fry, and of course there was always spaghetti. The first time she cut into one of his chicken breasts, she found the center almost raw. “Doll, you have to cook chicken all the way through,” she said. “Otherwise it will make you sick.” When she taught him to steam asparagus, it was like a revelation for him, and they ate bright green stalks almost every night for two weeks. She would laugh and say, “Oh! Steamed asparagus again, honey? You shouldn’t have!”
They would sit down at the small kitchen table to eat, and sometimes they’d open a bottle of wine. She’d ask if he worked out that day. She bought him a set of weights and Billy took to it well, doing curls and squats in the middle of the living room, bench presses lying lengthwise across the wooden coffee table. She said that if their careers took off he could get a gym membership, and she teased him about bodybuilders in the showers.