Out of the Blue: Confessions of an Unlikely Porn Star (20 page)

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Authors: Blue Blake

BOOK: Out of the Blue: Confessions of an Unlikely Porn Star
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Gage was really easy going when it came to training partners and I knew he wouldn’t mind Zak training with us. Zak and I slept together at his place that night. The sex was unremarkable, and it felt like we were both there because we liked the unreal porn persona of each other. Zak’s bedroom was full of vampire memorabilia. He told me he liked vampires; he even had fake fangs lying around and
Dracula
playing on the television.
Gage picked us up the next morning in his “pimpmo-bile” as I called it, and we went to Gold’s Gym Hollywood. Among all the models and actors I spied the model Fabio. I could never figure out if Fabio was gay or straight. I knew he was straight but there was something a little gay about him, his absolute adoration of himself, perhaps. Years later, a friend of mine, Amy, became his roommate. Apparently he was incredibly vain; no shock there. Once during a rainstorm he made her wedge sand bags under the wheels of his car to get it rolling out of the mud so he wouldn’t get his own hair wet. I never knew if this story was true because Amy like to exaggerate more than I did, but I laughed every time she told the story. Fabio nearly died during a roller coaster ride when a rogue goose smashed into his face in mid-flight. It was the talk of the gym and the main story on
Entertainment Tonight
that evening.
While we were training, Gage said, “Chris Duffy keeps calling . . . you have to phone him back.”
“Do you know Chris Duffy?” asked Zak, “He’s one of my favorite bodybuilders.”
“Blue fucked him . . . on their first date.”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly a date,” I muttered.
I was incredibly flattered that Chris kept calling I but knew he was married so what the hell did he want? I called him as soon as I got back from the gym. I didn’t want to get involved with a married man but my flesh was weak.
“Chris, it’s Blue.”
“Blue, man, I thought you were going to call me.”
I didn’t remember telling him I would call him but I shrugged it off.
“Sorry, I’ve been really busy.” I had, with Zak Spears.
“Listen, let’s get together again. I want you to meet my wife Joanie.”
“Sure, how about this Sunday?”
I was performing at the porno awards on Saturday night, but what the hell did Chris mean about his wife? Surely he wouldn’t bring her, and if he did, would I have to fuck her??!! I had fucked some beautiful girls, but I just wasn’t into it sexually, at all.
“Great,” said Chris. “I’ll be there at 3 p.m. I’m really horny.” So that confirmed we were going to have sex again. I grinned from ear to ear. Who cared if he was going to drag along the old ball and chain? I DEFINITELY loved Los Angeles.
Saturday night rolled around, the night of the Porn Awards. The Tomkatt Theatre was near enough to our apartment that Gage and I walked there. Neither Gage nor I were nominated because we were just starting out in the industry but, being bodybuilders, we knew we would be the biggest guys there, so we dressed accordingly. We wore work boots, rolled down socks, cut-off denim shorts and no shirts, just baby oil (I’m blushing as I write this). We had tans and flattops and were muscle monsters. We arrived at the Tomkatt to a mob scene. Every porn star in America seemed to be outside the Tomkatt Theatre. The place was a dump, but they had laid out the red carpet, and fans had flocked to see their favorite fuck flick stars in the flesh. And there was plenty of flesh.
I spotted my co-star, Hunter Scott, immediately, and the famous porn-star-turned-director/producer, Gino Colbert. Also in attendance were Jon Vincent, who I had fingered in San Francisco; tons of really bad drag queens; Matt Gunther, another famous porn star; Max Grand; Alec Powers; Michael Brawn; Rick Donovan. . . . The list of porn stars was endless, but no matter how famous they were, everyone ogled Gage and me. We were being handed business cards left, right and centre. I stuffed them into my shorts.
Stars were arriving thick and fast. It was like a really, really bad version of the Oscars. Sharon Kane arrived with her boyfriend. She was dressed like the Malibu Barbie I had seen in Chi Chi’s apartment, with a huge flower in her hair and tiny miniskirt. David Forest, the infamous porn agent, arrived wearing a white dinner jacket and lots of diamonds; with a whole entourage of boys he represented flocking around him. He introduced himself to me and Gage. Then Chris Dickerson walked in. I couldn’t believe it. Mr. Olympia himself. He was just as big, black and incredibly handsome as the bodybuilding magazines had portrayed him. I was drooling like a Saint Bernard.
“Close your mouth,” said Gage.
“I have to have sex with him.”
“You might not be his type,” laughed Gage.
“I have to!” I shouted, completely unhinged. Chris Dickerson turned and looked at me.
“You’re my favorite bodybuilder of all time!” I said. Hadn’t I also told Chris Duffy the exact same thing? I was turning into a total pro-bodybuilder muscle whore. I could see myself working my way through the ranks of the World Bodybuilding Federation . . . who would be next? Tom Platz?
“I saw you and your brother in a movie,” Chris said. He had a very sexy deep voice, which seemed to rumble through my brain down my spine and into my hard cock.
“
Twincest
. . . did you like it?” I replied in the huskiest voice I could summon.
“Very sexy,” said Chris. “Are you going to the after party? . . . I’ll be there.”
The after party was being held at Rage, a gay club in West Hollywood near our apartment.
“Yes, I’ll definitely be there.”
“Great . . . I’ll meet you there then.”
I was blown away. Mr. Fucking Olympia, and he seemed up for some boy love action. Perfect, because I was certainly going to provide it.
“I don’t know how you do it,” laughed Gage. “Chris Duffy, Chris Dickerson. . . .”
“YOU!!” I thought, but said nothing.
The show was GROTESQUE, unbelievably bad and totally unprofessional. Gage and I were astonished at some of the uglies that were calling themselves porn stars. Very few were larger than life, and the strange moth-eaten venue of the Tomkatt Theater didn’t help matters. Award after award was presented and I marveled at how seriously everybody took this, especially when considering how bizarre the categories were: Best Cum Shot, Best Oral, Star with the Loosest Hole. Best Movie that year was
Songs in the Key of Sex,
which I thought was a ridiculous title. Sharon Kane didn’t win for her song, but when Gage and I carried her onstage on a surfboard the audience screamed with appreciation. A drunken Jon Vincent finally approached us and hit on Gage who was more interested in all of the transvestites who seemed to gravitate to the porn industry. Gage was in heaven.
Chi Chi came wandering over. I had never seen him in drag before and was surprised at how good he looked. He sort of resembled a cross between the drag queen Divine and the singer Carnie Wilson.
Divine had been a client of mine one rainy Sunday in Earl’s Court. He had asked what it would take for me to fuck him and I said, “ . . . to be very drunk.”
“Let’s get you a bottle of gin,” he replied. He wasn’t in the least bit offended. When I massaged him he was so fat my knees didn’t touch the floor on either side of his body. I just floated on an island of blubber. I really liked Divine. I have every single one of his songs on my iPod. He also starred in one of my favorite films of all time,
Lust in the Dust
. Divine had been discovered by the director John Waters, who years later I was lucky enough to meet. John was full of hilarious anecdotes and told one of the funniest stories I have ever heard. John was trying to describe how rough the guys were in Baltimore. While driving down the road he had stopped to give a hitchhiker a ride one morning. The hiker pulled out a bag of glue began sniffing it voraciously then offered some to John. Without even batting an eyelid John said “Oh, not for me thanks . . . its only 8 a.m.”
That cracked me up.
“Is this the brother I’ve heard so much about?” whispered Chi Chi.
“I’m Gage.”
“Do you want to do a film for me? I’ve a feeling you’ll be a star.”
Chi Chi hadn’t said that to me. No surprise considering my lousy performance in
Seeds of Love
.
“I only do jerk-off.”
“No problem. I’ll call Blue for your number.”
Things were going swimmingly. Gage and I were having job offers thrown at us by everybody. We were new meat and everybody wanted a slice.
The show lasted a couple of hours and then everybody headed to the after party.
I had to drag Gage to the party because he had no interest. As soon as I walked in, I spotted Chris Dickerson. We wandered over.
“I liked your performance,” said Chris.
“Don’t lie,” I laughed. “It was cheesy.”
“No, it was not. You both looked really good on stage,” Chris said earnestly.
I bent forward and kissed him. Chris responded by taking hold of my arm and pulling me in tight for a long, hard kiss on the mouth.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Do you live close by?”
“Five minutes away.”
He casually reached over and felt his cock through his tuxedo pants. It was ENORMOUS. To this day, Chris Dickerson has one of the biggest cocks I’ve ever seen. It was like a baby’s arm holding an orange. I practically ran home with him. Gage followed. At the apartment, I ripped off his tuxedo and sure enough, his dick was massive. I didn’t see how he would be able to fuck me with that monster. Somehow he managed . . . five times all night. In between fucks he told me he had been living in Palm Springs but was moving back to Manhattan because he was bored with the desert. Although he had been a bodybuilder his whole life, he now intended to study opera and become a singer. He was en route to Manhattan, and I felt a pang of sadness. I could easily have dated Chris. Plus, it turned him on that I was doing porn. I had never had a problem with my boyfriends about being an escort or later being in porn. If they didn’t like it, I moved on. I didn’t need anybody making moral judgments about my lifestyle. I loved my life. The only person exploiting my body was me.
As I let Chris out of the apartment the next morning Gage popped his head around the bedroom door.
“Sounded like you had quite a night,” he grinned.
“Yeah, now I need to go soak my arse in Epsom salts,” I winced.
“Well, better make it quick because isn’t Chris Duffy arriving at 3 p.m.?”
Aaaaargh!!! That completely slipped my mind. How did I forget that Chris Duffy was arriving for a play date, possibly with his wife, in three hours?
Chris Duffy, Chris Dickerson, Zak Spears . . . man, I felt like I was batting a thousand.
The night before, I had spotted Crystal Crawford in drag at the porn awards. I had forgotten to pick up my check from him as I had been so busy sorting out my increasingly complicated sex life.
“Crystal, I’m coming round to get my check for the movie, when’s a good time for you?”
He looked nervous. “Well, I’m leaving town day after tomorrow, so how about when I get back in a week.”
“I’ll be at your place tomorrow at 1 p.m. sharp.” I said firmly.
After shooting that retarded movie, even more models let it be known to me that Ms. Crawford was indeed bad at paying. Crystal had obviously never seen me explode in a confined space. I wanted my money, and I wanted it yesterday.
So after Chris Dickerson left, I quickly dressed, jumped on my bike and rode over to Chez Crawford. I banged on the door. No answer. I banged again. No answer. I banged LOUDER. From the other side of the door I heard a dog’s muffled bark and a loud sibilant “Sssssshhhh.”
“Crystal, I hear you in there!” I shouted through the door.
“I’m here for my fucking money!” I yelled, my anger fueled by my daily intake of testosterone. “Crystal, you better fucking open this door!”
Just as I felt myself approach thermonuclear, a check was pushed under the door. I snatched it up. I wasn’t going to wait to deposit the check, so I went straight to one of the check-cashing stores on Santa Monica Boulevard. I had learned a valuable lesson. Never appear in cheap-arse productions, especially those shot in elevators in scrawny drag queens’ apartment buildings.
I arrived home, showered, and at 3 on the nose the buzzer rang. It was Chris and his wife Joanie. I realized I was trembling.
Joanie looked like Cleopatra, if Cleopatra had taken steroids. She had long, straight, glossy dark bangs that shone from being expensively conditioned. She was of Italian descent and was super tanned. She had placed second in the Women’s American Bodybuilding Championships, beaten only by Lenda Murray. Lenda went on to win the Miss Olympia title five times. Joanie’s body was astonishing. She had a very deep voice and, I was told, an enormous clitoris that had been enlarged to the size of a small penis by all the male hormones she had ingested.
The three of us jumped into bed immediately, on the same sheets Chris Dickerson had fucked me on hours earlier . . . I know, it’s disgusting, but they didn’t notice. They didn’t notice because they were as high as kites. It turned out that in his spare time, Chris Duffy made the party drug GHB and stored it by the gallon under his kitchen sink.

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