There Must Be Brighter Lights

Bites

 

 

I've just gotten off the phone with my very disappointed, very accusatory sister after missing my nephew's birthday (which just so happens to constitute one half of my biannual home visit schedule) when I get the feedback from my pics.

It's not at all what I expected. I sort of nervously sat around all weekend checking to make sure my buck-naked ass didn't randomly pop up all over the web, but the email is short and professional: a list of documents, including this month's STI results, ID I need to bring, and an appointment with one Robert Greems, Director, and a brief message thanking me again for my pictures.

I expel a long breath, tapping the black business card against my lips thoughtfully.

Ok, fuck it. 9.30 am tomorrow.

Better to burn up then fade away right Carter?

-:-:-:-

I spend the night before doing emergency sit-ups, flicking through my magazine collection, and trying not to imagine Robert Greems as some grossly obese guy stroking off with a camcorder in one hand.

At 8.00 am the morning of I crack open the new, purpose-bought Gilette and shave so close it's a wonder I don't take the skin right off. The redness will just have to go down before the appointment. As an afterthought I shave the sporadic hair around my nipples since that has always annoyed me in porn.

"Forget it Ham," I say to the cat rubbing himself lustily against the bathroom doorframe, "I'm not shaving down there."

I end up choosing not to wear my boxers. It's seems more like something a porn star would do. Also, it's an inside-out day and I can appreciate that that might be a little too bohemian for adult entertainment. Pair of jeans, my best belt, and a jacket borrowed from Jake with a shearling collar that's 'so porn' according to him.

I feel really suspect on the train over to the Meatpacking District, like every neatly dressed businessman is staring at me and wondering if I'm doing porn, which is equal parts delighting and godthisisfuckingridiculous.

It's a brisk morning and the long walk up 9th Avenue leaves me flustered and sniffing furiously, my fingers stiff where they're tucked in the flimsy leather of my jacket pockets. I finally hit the building, a squat, typical, brown-brick warehouse with no lobby and a mess of steel fire escape down the façade. My eyes pick out the black logo of Hard Pop Entertainment amidst the crowded buzzer board and I jam my numb finger on the button.

There's no voice over but the door makes a mechanical unhinging sound and I notice a security camera tucked in the corner. I wave stupidly, then check that there's no one on the street watching me -just a few straggling office types with their eyes on their pagers- and duck inside.

Like my apartment building there's no elevator, it's too narrow, but unlike my apartment building everything looks clean and modern. No flickering blue fluorescent, no bum huddled under the phone bank. Even the carpet on the staircase is new.

Hard Pop Entertainment is on the fourth floor, sharing a bland and cramped, but more importantly clean, foyer-area with another studio listed on the brass plaque outside the landing as 'Cream'. There's an Ikea love-seat, a row of chairs against one wall like you'd see in a medical waiting room, an overflowing vase of slightly old flowers, and an unattended reception. Just as I'm lowering myself to nervously perch on the love-seat, a girl bustles out from behind a door, still smiling from her conversation and I snap back up.

"Hi there! Cream or Hard Pop?" she asks, flopping down into her swivel-chair. I approach the desk warily.

"I have an appointment with Mr Greems?"

She looks unsurprised. "Oh you're one of Robert's boys huh. Hard Pop's just through there." She points with her biro at the left-most door. A wicked smirk spreads across her face. "Go on through, you won't walk in on anything this early."

Behind the door is a small office with two men chatting over a bigger, butcher reception with Hard Pop Entertainment engraved in massive letters on the glossy, dark surface. There's a small leather couch but instead of a row of chairs there are four doors with brass plaques, and a flat-screen TV on the wall showing a montage of unidentifiable flesh to muted music. Both men look up as I inch into the room, trying my hardest not to look nervous which somehow translates to walking like John Wayne.

"Carter Press?" says the man closest to me. He's one of those chubby queers, just a little bit overweight, blond hair pulled back in a greasy-looking tail. He has a Welsh accent.

"Are you…Robert?"

He laughs. "No, no. I'm Daz, the receptionist. We spoke on the phone confirming your appointment?" Oh. He gestures to the man behind the desk. "This is your marvellous director."

I take in Robert Greems. He's stocky, straight-ish looking, with an attractive smear of dark stubble and thick hair swept away from his widow's peak. He's wearing a dull black jacket and turtle neck and looks sort of like an Ivy League professor from a 90s movie. He fixes me with an unnerving stare over his thin-rim spectacles, checking me out neutrally while I force a smile.

After a beat he smiles back, dropping whatever paperwork he was working on with a murmured comment to Daz who nods and disappears around the desk to take over while Robert strides out to shake my hand.

"I'm so glad you came, Carter, please come through. Daz will take your coat." I shrug out of my jacket and hand it to Daz then follow Robert through one of the doors. The others, I notice, are labelled Room Two, Director, and Makeup. "We'll be having your interview in Room One today," he says, twisting opening the door before me.

Room One immediately sets my heart to racing. Not because it's painted red or full of sex swings and naked guys, but because it's the neutrally decorated, single sofa room of every solo film I've ever watched. Beige wall, beige sofa…and facing the sofa, a simple steel-legged chair, a tripod with a mounted camera, and a big, black and white softbox -the type used to diffuse light.

"Scary right?" Robert says with a little smile, whipping out a clipboard and gesturing that I should make myself comfortable on the sofa.

I clear my throat. The clipboard makes me think, unwillingly, of my landlord Milo. "Uh, should I…"

"No, no. You can leave your clothes on for now. I take it you brought your ID and test results."

I nod, slipping the papers out of my back pocket and only just now realising how unprofessional it looks to have to unfold my CV.

Robert scans through all my paperwork, spending a long time checking the dates and results on my clinic report and nodding his head appreciatively. "No STI's so far. Good, good, that's what we like at Pop."

I give a weak laugh. "Cleaner is it?"

"What? Oh yes. You can if you want, choose to wear a condom if you're selected to be a part of one of our productions. Unlike the less reputable studios we like to provide those for you boys, so don't worry."

Some small knot of anxiety I didn't know I carried loosens in the back of my neck.

"So I see here you haven't been involved in porn before?"

"No. Nothing."

"I have to ask. Have you been involved in any other sex work not listed here?"

"Sex work like…?"

"Exotic dancing, escort services…"

"Oh," I shake my head, "No, I'm a waiter."

"Good, good. Ok! So…we loved your pictures," he says. His tone isn't particularly warm but it's not brusque and impersonal either. I find myself relaxing even when he pulls out some embarrassing A4 blow ups of me looking grainy and yellowish in my apartment lamp-light.

"Cool." God but I need a drink of water though.

As if he can mind read Daz pokes his head through the door after a short rap with a tray of drinks.

"Scotch or water?"

"Water," I blurt and Daz laughs.

"Good boy. I always worry about the ones that want Scotch before noon."

Daz leans over the pictures as he passes Robert a tumbler, eyes zeroing in on the one of me sucking my finger. He snickers. "Oh my, you are a funny one aren't you. Robert, Tanner faxed through those result you wanted, I put them on the book."

"Thank you, Daz, I'll be out in a minute."

Robert shuffles the pictures back into a folder and draws out a comprehensive-looking wad of forms. "Now this is the important part." He fingers the first forms out for me to see, "We can update this part here at any time, and Daz is always changing it around to suit the trends anyway so don't worry if you think you'll change your mind later.

"Now I'm sure you already know, at Hard Pop we pride ourselves on being a more softcore-oriented studio, so you can mark boxes 12 through 20 if you like but if you're looking for that kind of work you'd be better off going some place like Blue or Lucas."

He shuffles the paper around to face me, drawing his thick index finger down the page.

"Now this part here is our contract. We comply with industry standards, and once you sign we keep this on file for you here and it validates your consent to be filmed, understand?"

I nod. My mom is going to kill me.

"It's all in the contract as you'll see in a moment when I leave you alone to read, but I have to make sure you understand that we portray acts between consenting adults, and that because we hold a softcore license we can't portray any scenes of violence." He points at a paragraph on the third page. "It's important you read this. According to the current law, restraining your partner even just by say, pinning his wrists to the bed, falls into the hardcore category, you understand."

"Yes."

"Good. Ok, this section here is waiving your rights to discrimination. Now we only have that in there so that you can tick a box under the orientation part of the contract…" He pauses, licking his fingers to flip through the wad of paper and find the section in question. There are four boxes: Straight, Gay, Bisexual. There's no Undecided, and Lesbian has been blocked out by some pragmatic person's Sharpie censorship.

Robert pushes on. "Here is the information you'll want about payment. Now we don't pay as much as say, Scorpion, but we do pay more than the boy-girl studios and we pay you a lot more than the mass-producers like Vivid." He says Vivid like you'd say 'anal leakage'. "Because we pay more we expect you to be on-call, on-time, and keep yourself clean. Do you have any-" his eyes shoot to my lip, "-other piercings?"

"No."

"Good. You can keep that if you like but we find our viewers prefer an…undecorated face."

I tongue my piercing once he's busy looking down. Right, that's coming out then.

"Well I think I covered everything. I'll leave you to it." He gets up. "Can I get you anything else? Coffee? Tea?"

"No, that's fine thanks," I say, emphasising my point with a sip of water.

The second the door clicks shut I get up to check the camera's not rolling. I saw a porno like that once where the guy didn't know he was being filmed. Then again, it was kinda bad form beating off in a dentist’s chair.

The most interesting part of the paper is the 'Etiquette' section. There's a whole lot of lovingly typed up, graphic descriptions of anal prep and care as well as thoughtful suggestions for maintaining personal grooming and hygiene.

I make a note to book a wax even though the thought of it makes my balls tingle with displeasure.

I skim the fine print, sign and date about five times. When I come to the checklist Jake warned me about I find that I don't understand some of the terms. Boxes 1 to 12 are tame, overlapping sort of stuff. Open to receptive sex, open to having sex without barrier protection, open to performing oral sex, open to ejaculating on camera. I leave boxes 12 through 20 but get stumped on the last box: Bukkake. I know I've heard it somewhere, I just can't pinpoint it. Maybe Jake is right. My tastes do, it seems, run vanilla. I leave it empty just in case.

The last sheet is a simple Q&A. About how many sexual partners have you had? Do you have regular sex with an HIV positive partner? Are you lactose-intolerant? Are you allergic to latex? Do you have trouble maintaining an erection? The page looks so miserably bare that I end up writing 'allergic to "Elastoplast"' under Other. It's been so long since school that my neatest attempt at handwriting looks squat and shaky.

By the time Robert reenters the room I've gotten quite comfortable with the oddly bold questions. All that shrinks up and dies once I see what he's carrying. A shiny plastic box with a shiny plastic handle. And he looks vaguely pissed off too.

I wait for him to whip the dildo out but instead he sets the box down next to his chair and grabs up the paperwork.

"All good?" he asks with just a hint of exasperation.

"Yep. What's uh, 'bukkake'? Sex with a Japanese guy?"

I'm ready to laugh it off but Robert doesn't even flinch. "You consent to have a group of men ejaculate on your face."

"Oh." I think I feel a blush coming on. Japanese men?

"So then," he says, clapping his hands on his knees, "do you think you'd be up for a solo today? We can film immediately, but if you'd prefer we can wait until lunch, that's when Holly from Makeup gets in and she'll be happy to clean you up if you like," he explains.

"Um, I think I'd rather just, you know, get it over with," I sputter.

Robert gives me a kind grin, apparently pleased. "That's what we like to hear. So if you're ready…" He gets up, pushing the chair out of the way and moving behind the enormous camera, twisting at the levers of the tripod, messing with the sci-fi-huge lens. I feel my heart pounding in my throat as the red light flicks on.

Robert coughs and takes a sip of his drink then disappears, hunched behind the camera. "Ok so you can look at the camera but don't 'acknowledge' it. This isn't a gonzo, it's a solo. You can take as long as you like so don't worry if it takes a while to get hard, I'll just edit it out later if it drags alright?"

I'm really wishing I'd gone the Scotch about now.

"Should I…take my clothes off?"

"It's up to you. Of course, if you don't get any viewers then you might not get callback…" He's clear enough in his own way I guess. I nod, take a deep breath and pull my shirt up with one hand, using the other to drag over my six-pack the way I've seen Patrick Bone do maybe a hundred times.

"Wait, stop."

My stomach sinks. Well that was a short career.

"Relax. You don't have to 'show'. We want this to be about natural, fluid pleasure. None of the superficial stuff you see the pay-per-view boys doing." He heaves a sigh. Well this is going swimmingly. He catches the devastated look that must have slipped through my guard and shakes his head. "No, it's my fault. I'm sorry, that was unprofessional of me. A director should never bring his mood on set. Here, would you like some music?"

I nod, tugging at the hem of my shirt. He walks over to fiddle with a panel on the wall and generic, soft bass track fills the room. It's not bad.

"Ok let's start again. If you need lube it's in the Pink Box." He nudges said box with the side of his shoe.

Ok, round two. I leave my shirt and go for my fly like I would if I was at home, in my apartment, with Ham shut in the bathroom so he doesn't accidentally see. I feel myself grinning at that.

"Good," Robert breathes.

I scrape my fingers down through my nest -shivering at the not-quite-pleasure- and pull my dick out, open my eyes and watch my hand pump lazily down over the shaft, circling the head with a thumb before it gets too sensitive.

It takes a little while longer than usual to get hard but when I do the feeling's somehow more intense, my hips twitching up, twitching my thighs apart so that my jeans pull uncomfortably against my ass. I can feel myself starting to flush, my spine starting to get liquid.

I tug my dick against my stomach, play my fingers down the underside, over the vein -something which pushes my boundaries. I'm never sure if it's too much or too little but it makes me squirm, starts the chain reaction of dark, throbbing pleasure behind my balls.

There's a moment of fear where I remember Robert and the camera, just a meter away, staring at me as I pull on my cock; become aware that at some point my mouth has fallen open and I've started grinding around on the sofa cushions…but I don't feel like I'm going to lose my hard-on so I let my eyes fall shut and just forget again, concentrate on my palm getting slicker, rub just under the head, minute, repetitive movements that usually quicken up to a perfunctory orgasm. But for now I keep it slow and torturous, drive myself crazy so I don't have to pretend, even though I sort of never wanted to share exactly 'what I do' with anyone.

Eventually I need more. I'm starting to sweat and I want two hands in there so I push my shirt up into my mouth, keeping my eyes firmly closed, and start the building, sliding rhythm of hand-over-hand, red-hot currents sparking up from the base of my spine, along the back of my legs. The sticky noise it makes as I corkscrew each fist down over the head -pressure just barely there- always drives me wild but knowing someone else can hear it makes it hotter again.

"Take your shirt off now," I hear Robert whisper. Luckily I'm hot enough that it doesn't shock me into stopping, even though it's just as creepy as I thought it would be. I pant at the camera for a moment, realising I don't know how long I'm supposed to play this out at all. Robert said it was ok to take my time, but I'll be fucked if I don't feel close to spurting already.

My shirt gets jerked off by the collar and thrown on the floor in an unceremonious lump. Without thinking I swing one leg up onto the sofa so that I'm side-on to the camera and then, realising how awkward that is I draw it up to bend at the knee and let my other leg fall open so my dick's back on show.

Leaning back on one elbow I spit in my left hand, sort of wishing I hadn't got myself into such an uncomfortable position. It's hard to balance on one forearm while I stroke myself, but the angle must be good because Robert doesn't stop me, just adjusts the camera.

It's not long before I start jacking for real, the vivid slapping noise making my face feel too hot, my back bowing up on the more intense strokes. I might be at it for five minutes, or one, I have no idea but I'm shocked into a grunt when I start to come, stomach tensing so hard it stings, my bent leg jerking up involuntarily, raising my lower back so that I come hot on my chest.

I find myself rolled over on my side, eyes squeezed shut as I come down with both hands in the fly of my jeans soothing against the final thrills.

Robert mutters some soft encouragement, doing something with his camera to get a better angle of my tousled head hanging partway over the sofa.

I flop onto my back with an explosive sigh.

"Don't move," the director says. I stay very still, breathing, as he rifles through the Pink Box and comes out with a pump-bottle of something ominously labelled Honey.

"What the-"

"You're just a little lite," he says reassuringly, pumping the gel into his hand and then flicking it alongside the come on my chest. I dab at some.

"Wow, this is spunk?"

He snorts. "Fake spunk. It's alright. Just, next time, don't masturbate the night before you do a solo and you should be able to drop a heavier load."

"Ok, sure." I grin. Next time?

Robert moves over me, taking pictures of my spent cock, the sporadic dribble of drying come from pubes to chest. Finally he asks me to put one arm behind my head and smile and touch my dick. These are my 'model shots' he tells me.

Finally I can wipe off with some tissues which go straight into a bin bag, and then I'm cramming my shirt back over my head and determinedly annoying the funky smell of my orgasm and something else alkaline and unappealing that I think is the 'honey'.

Sitting up I can't help but look to see if Robert's got wood, but no, nothing. Somehow that cheers me up.

"Ok," says Robert, taking a seat once more as I button up my fly. "You did really well, Carter. Better than. I'll be doing some editing with our tech guy Briar, later this afternoon, and the video should be up within 24 hours. If we get enough bites we'll get you back in here to make a movie. How's that sound?"

"Awesome." I grin.

"Give these to Daz on the way out, he'll see that you get paid. Pleasure to work with you Carter, I'm sure we'll be speaking again soon."

I shake his hand and stumble awkwardly back out into the reception area where Daz -idly chatting with someone on the phone- instantly hangs up and greets me with a big smile. He slaps my borrowed jacket over the counter between us.

"How'd it go? Bust a nut?"

I laugh. "Oh god this is crazy."

"Boy, this is porno," Dav says with a smile. "And you just popped your adult entertainment cherry. How do you feel?"

"Hysterical, dirty…still a bit turned on? My Mom's not going to see this is she?"

"Ha, maybe."

I groan.

"Want me to give you a porn name? I mean, we'd never put your surname up on the site but if you're afraid of her googling 'Carter + gay solo' then we can give you something naughty to call yourself."

"Like Patrick Bone?"

Daz wrinkles his nose. "That dinosaur? Sweets, do you even watch porn?"

"Do I look like I need to?"

His eyebrows shoot up and then his eyes track down my body, eyes twinkling. "No…no you most certainly do not."

I laugh again and hand over my paperwork, waiting, and watching the flow of images on the TV screen while Daz types stuff up.

"Ok so that's your consent done, and your contract and your profile. Allergic to Elastoplast? Ok babe, I'll remember that if we're playing nurses."

"Yeah, uh, well I just thought, you know, full disclosure." God I'm an idiot.

"Uh huh. Ok, so this is your member code so you can set up an account at home and watch all the Hard Pop videos free of charge, keep track of when you need to supply a new health certificate -there's loads of handy stuff like that." He shoves one of the black cards into my hand with a number scrawled in white ink on the back. "Your solos should register within four to five hours before they go live for streaming, so if there's a serious problem you can call me and Robert will pull it, he's a delight like that.

"And this is your check! So that's $400 today for the solo. Well done."

Four- I feel a surge of irrepressible glee bunching up in my chest. I feel like I could crow. Four hundred dollars?

"Wow. Thanks. This is…"

"What you're worth babe. Don't forget this isn't charity. You worked hard for that money. Now go home, take that silly thing out your lip and wait for the call."

I mutter another thanks, staring at the check in my sweaty hands as I push through the door and into the foyer where the girl who first greeted me is busily tapping away at her computer and speaking rapid Spanish into her headpiece.

Two school girls are sitting on the Ikea love-seat painting each other's nails and they look up as I walk past, headed for the stairwell.

-:-:-:-

"We're not going to let this go to our heads ok Ham?" I say, shoving a croque-monsieur in the oven. "You're already pretty conceited." I scruff his head so hard it cramps my knuckles and he laps it up, motor-purr going.

My check from Hard Pop is on the fridge under a Lobster Shack magnet. I can't decide whether I want to use it to buy Egyptian Cotton sheets for my bed or pay my backlog of rent. I count out this week's tips with a satisfied smile. I took Jake's advice and blew my savings on a perfectly-tailored black Armani button-down, a haircut and a new pair of jeans. I'd never been so flooded with tips. It's a cycle, I've realised. You're hot, you get money out of it, spend it on being more hot, and the world throws money at you. For the first time in forever I can afford to get groceries, go out for Sunday night drinks with Ziggy and Jess, and pay my utilities.

Fuck. Yes. Porn.

Well, not exactly fuck yes, I think, sliding my dinner onto a plate and making a start on a salad (I figure now that I'm going to be rich I might as well start eating vegetables again). Every time I think about Robert Greems seeing my sweaty come-face I cringe, and my mind shies away from analysing it any further like it's considerately blocking out a past trauma.

Plus, I keep compulsively checking my account to see if my video is getting a response, but I can't bring myself to actually look a the footage, simply titled: Carter's First Solo -and Hard Pop doesn't use a view count system so I can't watch the numbers tick over which just drives me mad. I end up spending every hour outside of my shifts at Beau trawling through porn with my most critical eye, trying to find something popular which looks like whatever the fuck I did -awkwardly- on that sofa.

Ham gives a deafening meow and I startle out of my thoughts.

"Yeah, I know, 'Feed me you whiskerless jerk'. Salmon or Spam?" I hold up the tins for his approval. "How about both?"

No I don't know how he got so fat.

I'm slopping Ham's food into his bowl and craning my neck to read next week's roster on the fridge when my cell starts buzzing across the counter. The tin of cat food goes rolling along the floor as I scramble to wash my hands. I slap the phone to my ear, water dripping down my elbow.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Carter?"

It's Daz.

I let go of a shaky breath. "Yes, yep, that's me, Carter."

Low rumble of laughter. "Ok, want me to put you out of your misery?"

"Very much." Ham bumps up against me, angling for another tin of Spam.

"When are you free next?"