The End of Billy Knight

by Ty Jacob

  Part Five: Acts of Love

  39. Two Hooligans

  IT HAPPENED IN Texas, on a mild evening in late May 1997. Dale was pumping gas into the car he’d rented for the day when he noticed two young men inside the gas station. They were staring at him. He wasn’t in drag so there was no reason to stare. They weren’t cruising him. He knew what cruising looked like. This was something else.

  The gas station was on an isolated stretch of road, and there were no other customers. Bright florescent lights lit the area around the pumps. Beyond that was an empty, falling darkness. The station attendant was inside behind the counter, but from where Dale stood, a rack of cigarettes blocked his view of the man. The two young hooligans continued to look out the large front window, wearing hooded sweatshirts and jeans, sunglasses on one despite the fading light.

  Dale had flown into Houston for work two days prior – a talent hunt night at the Male Room on Pacific Avenue, Sasha’s first in a year and a half. The Male Room, unfortunately, was not on the A List talent hunt circuit. It was run down and not very popular, but lately Sasha took what she could get. The owners had asked her to judge a wet underwear competition. The winner was supposed to get a part in a movie, assuming he passed the screen test Sasha conducted in a back room afterward. The winner turned out to be gorgeous but horribly nervous, and he suffered from total equipment failure. Sasha had no choice but to dismiss him, albeit gently, and call in the runner-up. That one came beautifully and got the job, or at least the promise of one.

  Now Dale fumbled with the gas nozzle in his hand. He’d rented the car in order to check out a location almost a half day’s drive outside the city. A friend of a friend owned an old ranch and was going to let Sasha film there. It was a fantastic opportunity, because locations didn’t come so easily anymore. Still, Dale wanted to be certain it would work. He wanted to see the ranch himself.

  Inside the gas station, the two hooligans had begun lurking near the magazines, pretending to read but looking out toward him, turning to each other and saying things, laughing. Dale tried to butch it up, tried to look like just an average forty-nine year old man perfectly comfortable pumping gas, someone who would draw no attention and inspire no rage.

  Glancing down through the car window he saw the last two promotional copies of Sasha’s most recent video, Mama’s Boys, in the back seat. It showed Sasha in a large red dress with black lace, surrounded by shirtless porn stars. Dale thought he should cover those videos with something. It wouldn’t be good to be seen with gay porn in the back seat. Not here.

  He stared at the videos as he continued pumping his gas, hating that box cover. It was a reminder of a mistake.

  The fact was that in the past two years not a single one of Sasha’s movies had done well. There were so many troubles on set – strung-out models, unreliable crew – and Sasha simply hadn’t been able to capture the sexual energy her early professional films were known for. To break the bad run she’d done a few ‘chicks with dicks’ movies, but they were niche market. Despite her hopes of making them appeal to a wider audience, they sold barely enough for the studio to recoup their money. After that, she went back to pure gay porn with beefy boys, and she cast herself in a non-sexual role, as the owner of a gay brothel in Mama’s Boys. She tried to get Billy Knight to sign on as her star, but he was busy. Lately Billy was always busy.

  The fag rags gave Mama’s Boys horrible reviews. One reviewer actually said, “Sasha Zahore is the most dick-deflating presence you could ever find in gay porn. She should stay behind the camera, and definitely off the box cover.” What she’d hoped would be hot sex interspersed with episodes of camp fun had turned out to be a dud. Some people around LA were actually saying that she’d lost her knack, that after just a short time at the height of gay porn director stardom, she’d fallen out of touch. Sasha hadn’t directed a truly successful film since the string of money makers she did with Billy Knight back in 1994: Romeo and Julius co-staring Luke Champion, the straight crossover hit Bi Bi Billy, the much-lauded Banging Billy 2 (sequel to the cult classic), and of course the two-time Silver Dick winner Tender is the Knight. But that was three years ago, and in gay porn time, one year was as good as a decade.

  Dale had always assumed that once Sasha made it to the top she would stay there. She would be Queen of the Whole Wide World, forever. But a porn director’s reputation was only as good as the sales of her last film, and it seemed Sasha’s age and experience and willingness to try new things were all being played against her. Her first real failure was Appalachian Ass. But that was all Earl’s fault. Anyway, the past was past. Her new Texas western full of outdoor sex and macho cowboys would make for a fabulous comeback. It would sell like hotcakes. It had to.

  Earlier that afternoon, the owner of the ranch had greeted Dale with a frail handshake. The man was a lonely, retired farmer in his late 60’s, and his only reason for wanting Sasha to film on his ranch, besides the location fee, was that he wanted to watch. He gave Dale a tour of the property. It was perfect – several large fields that were private enough to fuck in, a rustic stable and a corral, even a hayloft. The possibilities were endless. After showing Dale around, the old farmer made coffee and they sat on the porch and chatted. He’d seen some of Sasha’s movies, said he loved the idea of a bunch of gay porn stars having sex on his land. Eventually Dale thanked him, gave him a copy of Mama’s Boys, promised to be in touch, and got back on the road. He’d been driving for an hour when he stopped here for gas.

  Now he looked toward the station again, smelling the acrid scent of gasoline fumes in the air. The hooligans were still there. The one with sunglasses was talking. The other was nodding.

  The pump stopped. The tank was full. Dale returned the nozzle, screwed the gas cap on, and began walking up to the station to pay. He made a point of not making any eye contact, but he felt the two hooligans watching him the entire way. They mumbled something as he walked by, then snickered.

  The gas station attendant looked even rougher than they did. His eyes were bloodshot and there was a tattoo of a spider on the back of his hand. If something happened, if the hooligans decided a little fag bashing would be fun, this man behind the counter would be no help.

  Dale handed over his cash, thinking forward to his return flight to Los Angeles. It was scheduled for tomorrow, after one more night in Houston.

  The spider came back toward him; the attendant handed him his change. Dale thanked the man and turned around. He had to walk past the hooligans just once more. Then he would be free. He looked down, ignoring them completely, mindful not to do anything to set them off, and moved toward the door.

  They were no longer trying to hide the fact that they were staring. Their gaze seared his face as he approached. They stood in his way, didn’t move aside. He stepped around them and kept moving and finally made it outside.

  The night air was cool, and he moved quickly toward his car. He was almost there when one of them called out, “Hey there.” He pretended not to hear and continued walking.

  “Hey, wait a minute!”

  He opened the car door and began to climb inside, planning to hit the lock right away, but his plan failed. As he was pulling the door shut behind him, it stopped. One of them was standing there, holding the door with a firm grip.

  “Hang on,” a voice said.

  “Leave me alone.” Dale was trying to pull the door shut, not looking up. He hadn’t covered the videos in the back seat.

  The young man leaned down and looked into the car at Dale. It was the one with sunglasses. “Hey. Why the hurry?”

  “I’m just going now,” Dale said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Let go.” Dale pulled at the door again, then snapped at him. “Get your hands off my fucking door!”

  “Whoa. Easy. Are you somebody? What’s your name?”

  Dale paused. He didn’t know why he answered. It seemed like a bargain. His name for his freedom. “Dale,” he said. “Now let me go.”

&
nbsp; “But are you anybody else?”

  The young man reached forward and turned his sunglasses up, resting them on top of his head, as though to get a better look.

  It was only then that Dale was able see his face clearly. What he saw in those suddenly unshielded eyes was not antagonism or hatred, but curiosity.

  “Some people call me Sasha,” Dale said.

  The guy turned and shouted to his friend. “I knew it! I told you!” He turned back to Dale. “I thought it was you. He said no, but I knew it. We loved your movies. You were a great director. Can I have your autograph?”

  All at once Dale was hit with a wall of conflicting emotion. Relief that he was not about to be bashed. Delight to be recognized in such an unlikely spot. Joy at the compliment. But there was also something else – a sharp stab coming up from underneath. The young man had spoken as if Sasha’s career was something already over. You were a great director. How could it all become history so quickly?

  Three years ago, it wasn’t unusual for fans in gay bars to come up to Sasha and tell her that they loved her films. But Dale, without the dress, had always been invisible. Certainly recognition had never happened like this – never out of drag, in a gas station in the middle of nowhere. Never in a place so hopelessly and desperately straight. In some ways this moment, here, next to the gas pumps, was even more meaningful than winning a Silver Dick. It was a revelation. There were young, man-loving hooligans in Texas who actually knew who he was. It could have been perfect, but for the past tense.

  Still, Dale was so thankful he wasn’t about to be bashed that he reached into the back seat and grabbed the two copies of Mama’s Boys. He got out of the car and gave one to each young hooligan, who both looked suddenly more sexy than dangerous. Dale was happy to let those last extra copies go, to put that movie truly behind him. “It’s not my best work, I’m afraid,” he added.

  “Cool,” the one without sunglasses said. “I didn’t know you were still making movies.”

  There was that stab again.

  “Yes,” Dale answered. “Yes, I am.”

  They laughed strangely. “Billy Knight’s not in this movie?” They were both studying the box cover.

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Aw, man,” one said.

  “That’s a bummer,” said the other.

  For a moment Dale actually feared they were going to give the movies back. “I do more than Billy Knight movies, of course,” he said.

  “But that guy’s so hot.”

  Dale nodded. “Yes. He certainly is.”

  “Well, thanks anyway, man.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  The two young men said goodbye and walked off side by side, punching each other in the arm as they headed over toward a rusty pickup truck and drove away.

  Later that night, finally back in Houston in the safety of his hotel near the gay bars, Dale called Mike’s cell phone. He wanted to tell Mike about the day, about the ranch, about being recognized at the gas station, but there was no answer. He left a brief message. “Hi, baby. I’ll be home tomorrow evening. I can’t wait to see you.”

  As he hung up the phone he tried not to think about how distant Mike had been the day before leaving for Texas. It seemed like something was terribly wrong, but Mike had refused to talk. Dale told himself now that it was just a bad mood, that it was fine. He climbed into bed and began taking notes on the ranch, possible scenes and a loose storyline. Somewhere in this Western there would have to be at least one sexy hooligan, perhaps a horse thief, someone who would have to be punished by the ranch hands – forced to do unspeakable, lovely things. Images flashed through Dale’s mind. He set aside his notes and touched his dick. As usual, the one in the middle of his fantasy was Mike.

  40. Unprotected

  MIKE PULLED OUT his good clothes first – his three suits, his one tuxedo, and all his dress shirts. He took them from the closet and laid them carefully in his suitcase one at a time. It was a small suitcase. Usually he liked to travel light.

  Clients had taken him to Acapulco, Belize and Madrid. Last year one of his regulars took him to Paris for a week. Mike had been amazed by the silver swan-shaped faucets in their bathroom at the Ritz, by the restaurant roof that had opened as they ate, leaving them suddenly sitting under stars. Mike had spent enough time in fine restaurants that he’d actually begun to feel comfortable in them. All during that week in Paris he thought of Kerry, and he wondered if his old lover was still living there as a kept man in an apartment somewhere. He half expected to see Kerry come walking down some historic street toward him, but he never did.

  Now Mike folded another dress shirt. This time he wasn’t packing for a client. This was for himself. When the suitcase was full he zipped it shut, but there was still more to pack. He got up and went into the kitchen, passing the black and white pictures of himself along the hallway wall. He would leave those. Those were Dale’s.

  He grabbed a handful of garbage bags from the kitchen cupboard, took them back to his bedroom, and started filling them up with the rest of his clothes – all his jeans and T-shirts, his leather chaps, his harness, the tiny cut-off shorts he’d worn in Tender is the Knight, his work out gear, underwear, his collection of baseball caps, all of his shoes (combat boots, Italian loafers, running shoes), his sweaters and jackets, even the old red sweatshirt with the tear in the neck from when Sasha had pushed him when he was sick, which he’d never worn again but had never thrown away.

  By the time his drawers and closet were empty, there was a pile of distended garbage bags next to him that looked like shiny black clouds. He began taking the posters down. It wasn’t until he saw the emptiness he was leaving behind – the thumbtack holes in the walls, the bare expanse of white – that he fully realized how horrible it would be for Dale. He couldn’t do it. Not like this. Although he’d planned this day now for some time, he suddenly saw how much pain it would cause. He wanted to protect Dale from that hurt, if he could. After all of their time together Dale deserved to be told face to face, not just come home and find him gone.

  Mike reached into his back pocket for his wallet and pulled out the receipt for the U-Haul truck that was already parked outside on the street. The truck was large and orange and white and seemed sturdy enough to carry his life. He walked out to the front room, dialed the phone, and booked the truck for one more day. Then he called Nick and told him not to bother coming over. The move would have to wait until tomorrow. Dale was getting back from Texas later that evening, and Mike wanted to tell him to his face. Nick seemed to understand, and he said he could help out tomorrow instead.

  “But you’re not having second thoughts, are you?” Nick asked. “I mean, you’re definitely still moving in, right?”

  Mike said, “Yeah. I’m still moving in.”

  Back in his bedroom, he put the posters back up on the wall again – the Australian surf team in their Speedos, the muscleman standing next to a 1970 Mustang, the hand-signed poster of Luke Champion. (“To my favorite bottom,” Luke had written.) Next Mike opened up a garbage bag and took out a change of clothes, enough to stay one more day. Then he shoved all the bags into his closet, along with the suitcase, and shut the doors tightly. He looked around. There was no sign that he’d been packing up all his things.

  Two weeks earlier Mike had gone with Nick to Utopia. They were sweating shirtless on the dance floor together when out of nowhere Nick asked Mike if he wanted to move in.

  Nick Demachio was known in the industry for his puppy dog eyes, his pouty Italian lips, and his slightly asymmetrical yet entirely masculine smile. He and Mike met on a shoot about a year ago. Mike liked Nick a lot. He was easy to be with. They talked about the industry and directors and difficult johns. They fucked from time to time.

  Mike had always thought it would be nice if he could spend more time with Nick, not just because Nick was a great fuck, but because he really liked being with him. The problem was that Nick never stopped chasing new meat long enough to express an int
erest in anything serious, so Mike had always held back. He never dared to say that he would have really liked something more. So he was surprised and thrilled when Nick asked him to move in.

  “Really?” Mike said, smiling. “Move in with you?”

  Nick looked back and offered one of his lop-sided grins. “Sure. It would be good.”

  It seemed so simple that Mike didn’t know what to say. He loved the idea, and in a flash he saw himself living with Nick happily – waking up side by side in the mornings, watching TV on the couch with their arms around each other, peeing with the bathroom door open and not caring at all if the other one saw.

  “My roommate moved out,” Nick explained. “I need help with the rent. You’d be as good a roommate as anybody.”

  Mike winced. “So uh, so you mean… move in just as roommates?”

  “Well, yeah. Of course. You didn’t think I meant—“ Nick’s eyes grew wide and he pointed a finger back and forth between them, indicating some kind of stronger, unthinkable, connection.

  “No. Of course not.” Mike shook his head vehemently and took a long drink of his beer. To want anything more, to even say it, was clearly a breach of some kind of unspoken agreement between them. What they had was friendship peppered with occasional and unconditional sex. They were fuck buddies. It was easy and it was free and that was all it would ever be.

  Now Mike leaned his back against the closet doors, as though afraid the clothing-stuffed bags inside would come to life and push their way back out. He turned and sat down on the edge of his bed, looking back at the closet, at the indented brass doorknobs that reflected him back in miniature and upside down.

  He hadn’t really ‘dated’ anybody since he’d dumped Rafael three years ago. It was just a night here, a fuck there. For Mike, desire had begun to feel like a complicated ache, a discomfort, and while sex made the discomfort go away, it always came back. Yet even worse than that discomfort was the thing underneath it, a stronger pain that felt like something resonating, a deep desire that went beyond sex. Mike was lonely.