the owner of the company told me the only way he’d talk to me is if I’d film one of his ‘auditions.’ ”
SwordFight put out a highly successful series of these “audition” collections, in which guys were interviewed on film about why they wanted to be in adult movies and then were talked through their first “performance”-which usually consisted of a clumsy disrobing and an even more awkward masturbation. Sometimes, the sessions went disastrously wrong, with the applicant too stoned, nervous, or heterosexual to get it up.
During the whole depressing episode, Mason or one of his associates gave instructions, feedback, and encouragement to the desperate, cash-starved performer.
“I love those videos,” Freddy said, dreamy-eyed. “They always have these guys who are so… sincere.”
Cody blushed. Whether because he was embarrassed by Freddy’s love for porn or his own remembered first- time discomfort I wasn’t sure.
“Explain,” I prompted Freddy with real curiosity, “what is hot about watching someone being awkward? Do you get a woody watching America’s Funniest Home Videos, too?”
Freddy picked up a French toast stick from his plate and pointed it at me like a dagger. “Because it’s real, ” he instructed. “Most porn is so slick and overproduced. Too choreographed. But those auditions are authentic. When the guys get turned on despite themselves, it’s really hot.”
“Yeah, but how painful is it when they don’t? It’s like when you go home with a guy and they’re so not into you they don’t even get hard.”
Freddy looked at me like I was speaking Martian. “That happens to people?”
I rolled my eyes. “It happens to everyone.”
“It’s happened to me,” Cody offered.
“Huh,” Freddy said. “Maybe I’m the weird one. Not only have I never had a guy who couldn’t bone at my apartment, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have them precoming on the way there.
“Maybe,” he pondered, “the sample size is too small because I haven’t slept with enough guys.”
Cody and I smacked him at the same time.
“What?” he asked. “Is it my fault I’m human Viagra?”
“Closer to human ipecac syrup,” Cody, who was a nurse, mumbled. To me: “It’s a medicine that induces vomiting.”
I snorted tea through my nose.
“No, that would be the human version of ipecac,” Freddy said, referring to my Julia Roberts moment. “So gross.”
“Speaking of gross,” I said, bringing the conversation back around, “I am not thinking of doing an ‘audition’ video with that troll Mason Jarre for the money. I’m thinking of… putting myself through that humiliation because it’s the only way he said he’d be willing to talk to me about Brent Havens and where he might have gone.”
“Like that’s the most humiliating thing you’ve ever had to do,” Freddy observed. “Weren’t you the guy who let someone dress him up like a clown while he pelted you with apple pies?”
There are some stories I wish I’d never shared with that vicious bitch I call my best friend. Which is to say, most stories.
Yes, I worked as a male prostitute and couldn’t claim the high ground here. But my objections to being filmed weren’t based on some sliding scale of morality. They were practical.
As a hustler, whatever happened between my clients and me was private. There was security in that. I didn’t have to worry about my friends, family, or strangers knowing things about me I didn’t want them to. Since my clients had even more to lose than I did, my personal choices were kept just that-personal.
Putting yourself on film seemed infinitely more risky to me. Movies lasted forever, especially in digital form. Your image was out there for the rest of your life and beyond, viewable by anyone at any time.
Some guys justified their porn anonymity by the sheer volume of it. With the millions of hours of video available, what were the chances theirs would be found?
But already, facial recognition technology has become ubiquitous and easy to use in everything from iPhoto to Facebook. How long before you could search the entire Internet for someone’s image-every picture, every video, every Web page? We were entering whatever comes after the Age of Privacy, and if you were counting on keeping any secrets, you’d better keep them in your head and off the Web.
The work I’d done was different. If I was with a client, and something he said made me uncomfortable or regretful, all I had to do was leave. Had that encounter been filmed, though, I’d have to live with the threat of those images coming out at any time. Where would my presidential bid be then?
Cody almost dropped his coffee. “Someone paid to throw pies at you? Really?”
Okay, maybe my private life wasn’t 100 percent safe. Not with a big-mouthed friend like Freddy. Luckily, it was matched by his big heart. He’d tell my secrets only to tease me, not destroy me. He’d never use them to hurt me. He knew I’d already told Cody about my former profession, otherwise he wouldn’t have said a word.
What if Brent wasn’t so lucky? Could it have been his working in the sex industry that led to his disappearance? Was he being blackmailed? Held prisoner? I had to know.
“I’m going to do it,” I announced.
“More clown sex?” Freddy asked, with faux innocence. “Perfect timing since we’re at a diner. Shall we order a Boston cream pie to bring home with you?”
“The audition, dummy.”
Cody leaned forward. “You sure?”
“It’s the only way. Mason Jarre knows something. I have to get him talking.”
“You’ve seen those videos, Kevin,” Freddy said. “The ‘talking’ is mostly along the lines of ‘Now, take those shorts off for me,’ and ‘Yeah, baby, that’s hot.’ It’s not the most rewarding conversation.”
“In my experience,” I said, a bit haughtily, picking a sausage off his plate and holding it suggestively, “when I get a guy alone, the more clothing I take off, the more I can get him to say.”
“Yeah,” Freddy said, smirking, “like ‘Yuck! Get me the hell out of here!’ ”
“You’re horrible,” I scowled.
“ ‘Please, lord, strike me blind!’ ” Freddy continued. “ ‘Where’s the rest of it? I ordered a male prostitute!’ ”
I threw the sausage at him.
Freddy put an arm around Cody. “See, honey? He really gets into that whole food-throwing thing.”
Cody gave him a half smile and then considered me with concern.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asked me.
“I think I can handle it,” I assured him.
“No,” Freddy said, pushing away his plate so he could take my hands. “This is serious. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. You’d better go in ready for the worst. I’m getting you a weapon.”
It was sweet that Freddy cared. I could hardly see myself with a gun, though.
“Waiter,” Freddy called. “We’ll take an apple walnut cake to go.”
I pulled my hands away from him.
“What?” he asked. “We know you can toss a baked good with the best of them. I figure the nuts will make it even deadlier. Like edible shrapnel.”
“Would you stop teasing him?” Cody said.
“Don’t worry about it, Codes. I’m used to it.”
“Yeah,” Freddy said. “It’s part of our charming dynamic. Besides, the cake is for me. I’ll eat it while I wait.”
“Wait for what?” Cody asked.
“For Jerkoff Boy over there,” Freddy said, pointing his thumb at me. “What, you think I’d let him go there alone?”
He turned to me. “You call me when you get an appointment. I’ll wait outside.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“You asshole,” Freddy said, helping himself to the croissant I had in front of me. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
Cody stroked Freddy’s back. I could read in his eyes what he was thinking: I hope that someday this big, hot man will be there for me like that.
I was genuinely touched and had to swallow back a lump in my throat. “Thank you,” I said, an unexpected
