At Your Beck & Call, Page 4

  As I stared up at the boarded-up windows, I wished I was a smoker. Anything that would calm me the fuck down.

  From the outside, the building seemed silent and unlike last time, no one saw me loitering with intent.

  Besides, it was nothing I hadn’t done before. That’s what I told myself: the reality was that I was planning on screwing a stranger, in front of an audience, for money. If that isn’t enough to give the average guy performance anxiety, I don’t know what the hell is.

  Trying not to over-think it, I pushed the door open and walked up the dingy stairs. Today they smelled of boiled cabbage. Lovely.

  But this time the warehouse really did look like a movie studio, and there were dozens of men and women rushing around, with cables snaking across the bare floors and racks of lights on scaffolds.

  A set had been erected to make it look like a barn, with straw on the floor, and there were three whips hanging up next to a set of riding crops—which made me nervous.

  Titania saw me and waved me over.

  “You came back. Good for you, kid. We won’t need you for a while but take your clothes off and put on one of those robes. The camera hates clothes marks.”

  There was nowhere to change, so I found space in a corner where I was out of the way, dragged off my t-shirt and dropped my pants. I felt dumb sitting around in a thin cotton robe. I needed something to do with my hands while I waited. I pulled my sketchbook out of my backpack just to have something to occupy my mind, which had been in a thought-free zone since I’d entered the building.

  Titania was standing talking to someone who I guessed might be the director. He certainly seemed stressed enough, and was doing most of the swearing and a lot of yelling.

  A tired-looking blonde girl strolled over.

  “Whatcha doing?”

  I angled the sketchbook toward her and she peered down.

  “Hey, that’s pretty good! Will you draw me?”

  “Sure.”

  She sat down on the floor in front of me and posed. But as I sketched, her fake pout faded and her gaze became distant.

  She told me she usually worked out of Chatsworth. I didn’t know it at the time, but that’s where most of LA’s adult entertainment movies are made. When you say it like that, ‘adult entertainment’, it sounds so innocuous. It’s not.

  Anyway, I guess things hadn’t worked out for her because she thought she’d try her luck with a start-up company—like this one, apparently. I couldn’t help thinking it looked more dead-end than start-up, but what did I know? Her name was Lola, although I suspected that wasn’t her real name. Nothing here was real.

  When I finished the sketch, I tore it out and handed it to her.

  She looked shocked, and her eyes locked on mine.

  “Is this how you see me?”

  I shrugged and nodded, not sure why she looked so upset.

  “But … but I look so sad.”

  Her words faded and she looked like she was having difficulty speaking.

  “Um, sorry,” I offered, lamely.

  She shook her head.

  “No … it’s fine. It was just … you draw real good.”

  “Thanks.”

  She took a deep breath and cast a nervous glance toward Titania.

  “Look, kid, you should leave before you get started.”

  Her voice was low and urgent, and she bit her lip as she stared at me.

  “But…”

  “I mean it. A nice boy like you don’t want none of this. Half the performers are high, and STDs are a big problem.” She gave a hollow laugh. “We share everything.”

  I drew in a sharp breath. I was so out of my depth. I hadn’t thought of … well, anything much other than the money I could earn.

  “I can take care of myself…” I began.

  She shook her head urgently, throwing terrified glances at Titania’s hired muscle.

  “You can’t,” she said. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I don’t have a choice—not anymore. But you still do.”

  She could see that I still wasn’t particularly bothered by what she was saying. I was so damn sure of myself.

  “I can’t think of a single person who hasn’t got herpes,” she said, in a rush. “You won’t be allowed to use a condom. Or if you ask for one, you won’t get paid as much. Crabs aren’t so much of a problem since all the girls started getting Brazilians…”

  That was enough to make my balls shrivel. I looked around cautiously, wondering if I should get the hell out.

  “How’d you get started in this?” I asked, quietly.

  She shrugged.

  “The usual way. Step-father kicked me out so I didn’t finish high school. I needed money and this seemed a better option than hooking. It still is, but I’ll be 25 soon and they want fresh skin.”

  She blinked and I thought she might be crying, but she took a deep breath. I wondered if she was going to say something else, but she saw that Titania was now watching us both.

  Lola looked frightened and scuttled away as Titania marched over. I thought she was going to say something but she glanced at my original sketch that showed her talking to the director, and a smile stretched her hard face.

  “Hey, pretty good.”

  Then she looked down at me.

  “You look kinda freaked, kid. You need something to help you chill?”

  A small blue pill was lying in the palm of her hand.

  I had no idea what it was and didn’t want to find out.

  “Um, no thanks. I’m good.”

  “Try it. It’s nothing much. Just takes the edge off.”

  I hesitated for a moment and she thrust it into my hand.

  “Try it,” she insisted. It wasn’t a request, and the enforcer took a step closer.

  I could hold my own in a normal fight—ice hockey wasn’t for pussies—but this guy was 300 pounds of sheer muscle and his buddy was watching from the other side of the room. Neither of them looked like they’d have a problem breaking my face.

  I put the pill in my mouth, said a quick prayer and swallowed.

  She nodded and a hard smile crossed her face before she turned away, but I could tell she was still watching me out of the corner of her eye.

  As soon as she was distracted, I picked up my clothes and tried to get the hell out of there. I was stopped before I’d gone ten steps by a guy who looked like he’d fallen asleep in a tattoo parlor for a couple of months.

  “Where ya goin’, kid? You’re up next.”

  I was going to make some smart aleck reply, when a wave of nausea hit me and I started to sweat. My brain felt warped around the edges and my skin was itching. My vision blurred in and out, and my fingers felt numb. What the hell had she given me?

  My clothes and backpack dropped from my hands and tattoo guy dragged me over to the set. Titania snapped her fingers at one of the girls.

  “Get him hard.”

  That was all she said.

  I blinked, trying to clear that haze that had settled over my eyes, but my whole brain was fuzzy and disconnected.

  “Just relax,” someone breathed in my ear.

  I felt hands on me, stroking, pulling. I tried to sit up but I was pushed down.

  I’m glad I don’t remember too clearly what happened next. But I remember enough.

  Another couple were going at it on the bed next to me, and I have vague, indistinct flashbacks of a woman with brown hair riding me. She was heavily made up, her lips too red, her teeth too white, her tits huge and fake. Her pussy was completely bare and she made all these ridiculous fake moans, staring into the camera.

  “Cut!”

  She slid off me, an irritated expression on her face.

  “Get under him, Suki,” came a disembodied voice.

  “Are you kidding? He’s freakin’ wasted! Look at him.”

  There was a muttered discussion and then the woman slid down onto the bed and
I was told to get on top of her. I was fading in and out but I remember pain. Something was shoved up my ass and one of the girls used a riding crop on me. And then the familiar rush as my balls tightened and my spine snapped.

  I came hard, the cum soaked up by the straw on the fake floor.

  Like I said, I don’t remember too much. Maybe that’s a blessing.

  A couple of hours later I was on the street, two hundred and fifty bucks richer. I heaved my guts up in an alleyway.

  Back at our dorm room, I locked myself in the bathroom and turned up the water as hot as I could stand it. My back stung and when I saw myself in the mirror, I threw up again.

  I stayed away for two weeks after that but, crazy as it may sound, I went back. I was still broke and the money was good.

  I’d been having sex since I was 15, so I wasn’t too worried about that. The filming aspect freaked me out, along with some of the grimmer aspects that Lola had tried to warn me about. But I still needed the money, and I was young and arrogant. I didn’t yet believe that actions had consequences.

  I was wound up enough so that I scored some weed on campus and turned up to the warehouse stoned out of my skull. No one cared and it made it easier for me. Plus, at least this way I knew what shit I was taking. That’s how I rationalized it to myself.

  I fucked two girls that weekend in group scenes and was told that I’d get some facial work the following week. I don’t remember much about it. Or the subsequent weeks.

  I can tell you it was freakin’ hard work. There’s nothing easy or even anything sexy about it. For the other actors it was work; for me—I have no idea how to begin to explain it.

  I mean, for a start, I was one of the youngest there—probably the youngest. Certainly the youngest guy, although some of the girls looked kind of young. It was hard to tell with all the makeup they had caked on. So, I’d be there having sex with two or maybe three girls, and all the time you’re being watched by a bunch of older guys behind the cameras or doing the sound or whatever. It was just a job to them and I don’t think any of them were turned on by what they were filming. Although, it could have been that I was just too out of it to notice. I don’t think so though. They probably all went home to their wives and girlfriends and did normal stuff.

  Then sometimes I’d be doing it, and the director would yell ‘cut’ and I’d have to stop, and try to keep hard while they repositioned the shot or maybe to get a close up of my dick, or the ‘cum shot’ which was the money shot.

  I’d be sweating like a damn pig because of the bank of industrial lights, and the makeup woman would throw me a towel to wear while she made my face less shiny.

  It could be as much as 20 or 30 minutes between takes, and I’m telling you, there’s no way to stay hard all that time. Sometimes I’d manage to get myself hard again, but sometimes one of the girls would have to start blowing me.

  It wasn’t glamorous and it wasn’t even fun because I was tired or trashed while I was doing it. I’d leave the studio exhausted, feeling like I’d just had the mother of all workouts.

  I don’t even know how many movies I was in, or whether the footage shot of me was even used, but it was kind of addicting. The money sure was…

  Until the day I noticed a weird, gunky discharge coming out of my dick.

  I went straight to the college health center and got tested for everything the nurse could think of. I admitted that I’d been having unprotected sex, and it scared the hell out of me when she made me get an HIV test.

  Turned out I’d gotten Chlamydia, although it was easily treated and cured with a dose of antibiotics. The nurse reamed me out when I told her I couldn’t name all of my sexual partners, and made me feel like a real low life. She went on and on about how Chlamydia could make women sterile if it wasn’t treated and that I was risking the health of these girls. I remembered what Lola had said about herpes, too, and my dick just about hid behind my balls as the nurse continued to yell at me.

  I almost ran out of there, feeling like all kinds of creep.

  That was another ‘first time’.

  When I finally got back to my dorm room, revulsion made my stomach churn. I was shocked that I’d gotten an STD, and felt all sorts of stupid and disgusted with myself.

  I stood in the shower until the water was cold. When my teeth were chattering and I couldn’t stand it anymore, I punched the wall, cracking one of the tiles and splitting open my knuckles. I watched, numb, as the blood dripped into the drain.

  I lay on my bed and drank from a bottle of cheap bourbon until I passed out.

  I wasn’t much better the rest of the week, and I must have looked like shit because Carl kept asking me what was wrong and why I didn’t want to party anymore. I just told him I was stressed about being broke, and eventually he stopped asking me.

  A few weeks later, the other tests came back clean, but I had to wait six months to get the all clear on the HIV test. Apparently most people have detectable antibodies by three months after HIV infection; the doc suggested a six-month window and to repeat the test at the end of that—just to be sure. I swear I didn’t so much as touch a woman during all that time. And I swore I’d never go bareback again. Not for anyone. Ever.

  Which ended my illustrious adult movie career.

  Carl’s next idea for making money was to sell our sperm to a sperm bank. Yep, he thought women of America would be banging down doors to get our juice or, as he put it, “It’s quality jizz, man!”

  Yeah, well I’d had enough of his great ideas. Besides, I had a six month ban.

  But for those six months when I didn’t date or drink or even go out that much, I ended up with a very different sort of reputation. Carl got it into his head that I was ‘shy’ which couldn’t have been further from the truth. He started believing the lie that I was an ‘introverted, artistic’ type. But I noticed that women seemed more comfortable with a guy who didn’t act like a player, and I spent a lot of those six months learning how to just talk to a woman, ask open ended questions, find out what they liked and what made them tick—which I had to admit was new for me. I learned to listen, to be their friend with no expectation of anything else. Several told me that they felt ‘safe’ with me. It turned out to be a useful lesson.

  I also studied a lot, cutting back on the partying.

  Shortly after I was out of the HIV sin bin, my visa was finally approved so I could get a job. I worked at a local gym, offering help to people when they were working with weights or trying to learn how to use the machines. I was one of several assistants who monitored the floor, fielding general fitness questions and giving advice on working out, that kind of thing. Then there was the UCLA hockey team—the Bruins. I got lucky and received a starting position; saw a lot of playing time. There was no rink at college, so we practiced at Panorama City, a 16-mile drive from campus. What with that, the weights and fitness training that went with being on the team, my job, and trying to keep up my grades so I didn’t mess up my scholarship, I didn’t have much time for a relationship. I dated casually with some of the puck bunnies—just some screwing when I had an itch, but there was no big college romance.

  Looking back, I think of those porn movies as the first time I sold my body. But that’s only with hindsight. It started by accident, and then it wasn’t. But it was easy. Then it stopped being easy.

  I’m sorry. I know I’m not making much sense. I’ll try and tell it in the order that it happened.

  My coach senior year said that I was probably not a good enough hockey player to go pro—maybe if I really put my heart into it. But I just didn’t have that burn for the sport anymore. I’d done the jock thing all through high school and college but I knew that wasn’t where my life was headed. I liked being fit and keeping in shape, but getting the shit kicked out of me every weekend had called time on my hockey career. I’d decided I was going to really try to make it as an artist. My college professors had been encouraging, suggesting I take my work around some of the smaller galleries,
honing my craft, developing as a person so I could develop as an artist. I knew it was a dream, but that’s what LA is, right? A city of illusions and dreams?

  I graduated in the early summer along with the rest of my class. I went drinking with some of the guys from the hockey team and Carl joined us until he passed out and I had to carry his sorry ass back to the shitty apartment we now shared.

  Two days later, when he’d sobered up, he moved out. He’d got a job as a manager trainee at a chain of hotels and was starting in Santa Monica but needed to be closer to his work because of the ungodly hours he’d be doing. The money wasn’t bad either and it sounded like a pretty sweet deal. I decided to keep the ratty apartment and look for a new roommate. In the meantime, I needed another job to pay the bills. I didn’t turn 21 until August, so I did some day labor on one of the many hot, dusty building sites that littered the city; always cash-in-hand, always off the books. I worked to eat and pay the rent but not much more.

  As soon as I was legal, I landed another part-time job, tending bar at the Harvest Moon on Melrose Avenue. I was the youngest guy working there by several decades, and the place seemed to attract older clients. I didn’t mind.

  Mum had wanted me to go back to live with her, playing up the lonely widow card which was a huge fucking joke that didn’t make me laugh. Plus, if I wanted to try and work as an artist and sell some of my paintings, I figured I’d be better off staying in LA, even if it was cripplingly expensive.

  I’d been working at the bar for about three weeks, taking all the shifts I could get—which wasn’t that many.

  I’d originally thought that shift work would give me more time to paint, but the bills kept piling up and I was getting seriously short on money. I felt like I was digging myself into a deeper hole every day, but no way was I going to ask mum for help. She hadn’t even made it out for my graduation ceremony.

  The Harvest Moon was a quiet place at the best of times, and most of the customers preferred the comfortably upholstered armchairs and Chesterfields, although a couple of the guys liked to sit on a barstool and shoot the shit. It was an undemanding job, and the tips were good.

  The early evening light was mellow, making the mahogany bar gleam. Conversation among my few customers was muted, and I was lost in thought, a rag in my hand, making mindless patterns on the wooden surface.