Scott Sherman: Third You Die

“My Best Friend’s a Big Old Slut?” Naw, I didn’t think Freddy would like that.

“My Mother’s Driving Me Crazy and She’s the Star of This Very Show?” Naw, someone’s mother driving them nuts hardly qualified as news.

What else? In my time as a call boy, I’d serviced more than a few celebrities and politicians whose public personas were vastly different from their private lives. I’d also heard a lot of secrets. The sexual act can establish a sense of intimacy that’s way out of proportion to the reality of the relationship. Men who should have known better poured their hearts out to me.

Hadn’t someone told me he had a tale to tell? Something potentially explosive? That could blow the lid off an entire industry and even put people in jail?

Who was that? Oh, yeah. Brent Havens. The World’s Cutest Porn Star. (And this, mind you, from a guy who normally doesn’t go for “cute.”)

Brent had been so interested in me that I thought his tease of a “big story” might have been nothing but a way to get some attention. If it wasn’t, though, it could be just what I was looking for.

My mind raced through juicy, lurid possibilities of what Brent might know. “Secrets of the Adult Video Industry.” What could they be? Boys forced into making films against their will? Payoffs to politicians to ensure legal protections?

Penis sizes enlarged through the use of special effects?

Now that would be news.

My mind reeled.

He’d given me his number… on the inside of my wrist. I remembered scrubbing it off in a defensive move to avoid any awkward questions from Tony. Damn.

Wait. I’d made a preemptive move, too, and snapped a picture with my iPhone. I opened Evernote and there it was. I dialed Brent’s number, practicing in my head a greeting that sounded interested but professional.

No point in leading the boy on. Especially since I didn’t completely trust myself to resist his advances.

This, I explained to myself, was all business. Brent hadn’t been sure he wanted to tell his story. If he wasn’t ready, I wouldn’t push.

If he was, though, it could solve a lot of problems. Hopefully, for him, too. There was a part of him that wanted to get out of the business-if he really did have beans to spill, I was pretty sure he’d be persona non grata in the skin biz.

Which might be just what he needed.

I knew from firsthand experience how hard it was to give up the easy money and ego boosting a pretty boy could make in the sex industry. My transition was made easier by the launching of my mother’s talk show and the subsequent job offer. It just kind of fell into my lap at exactly the time Tony revealed to me he had a son, a milestone that indicated he was ready to get-somewhat-more serious about our relationship.

I had no idea what Brent planned to do when he stopped making flesh films. I didn’t know if he knew, either. Maybe we could find something here. I was pretty sure Andrew would like him.

Maybe too much, I forced myself to admit. I wasn’t sure being chased around the desk would be rewarding work for Brent.

As I pointlessly planned Brent’s life for him, I realized, for the second time that morning, I was unconsciously taking on the traits of the woman who’d raised me. Why else would I be Jewish mothering a boy I hardly knew about a situation that might never happen? I thought of them as my Mother’s Rules of Parenting: Meddle, Nag, Respect No Boundaries, and Keep ’em Feeling Guilty.

I was only on Rule One, but give me time.

Not today, though. After ten rings, Brent’s voice mail picked up. “The voice mailbox of the customer you are trying to reach is full. Please try back later.”

Couldn’t even leave a message. I switched from my desk phone to my mobile and sent him a text. “This is Kevin from Sophie’s Voice. We met after Brock’s appearance. Please call.” I typed in my number.

Waiting isn’t my strong suit. I hoped he’d call soon.

Brent seemed like a guy in hot demand. I figured he got a lot of messages and checked them frequently. I’d probably hear from him soon.

Two days later, I sat in my office and concluded Brent either wasn’t as diligent at returning calls as I’d hoped, he’d changed numbers, was indisposed, lost his phone, or just didn’t want to talk to me.

As long as the last reason wasn’t the problem, tracking him down shouldn’t be too hard.

I checked my Rolodex (otherwise known as frantically shuffling through the completely disorganized piles of papers that littered my desk) and found the business cards for Kristen LaNue and Mason Jarre of SwordFight Productions.

Kristen was the not-bad-looking, friendly, and seemingly polite director of some of the films in which Brent appeared. Mason was the grossly pushy owner of the company. It wasn’t hard to choose which of them to call first to help put me in touch with Brent.

“Of course I remember you,” Kristen purred. His sexy Latin accent reminded me that he was more than just “not bad-looking.” He was a generous slice of hottie pie. “The beautiful boy who’s wasting his life behind the camera. To what do I owe the considerable pleasure of this call? To schedule an audition, I hope?”

Okay, maybe he wasn’t that much less pushy than Mason. But he was certainly less obnoxious about it. Coming from him, it was actually charming. Complimentary rather than creepy.

Or was it just his swarthy good looks and come-fuck-me honeyed voice that let him get away with it?

I explained the problem I was having getting in touch with Brent.

“Now why would you…?” Kristen began, then paused. “Ah, yes. I suppose a better question would be ‘Why wouldn’t you want to call Brent?’ And, since he gave you his number, I assume he was interested in you, too, no? Why wouldn’t he be? You two were the loveliest things in the room that day. Your coming together-and I mean that in every sense of the word-is as it should be.”

Clearly, Kristen assumed I was calling for a hook-up, which was just as well.

“Of course, if I do help you two lovebirds connect, I must insist you let me film it. If only for my own enjoyment, no?”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“Only teasing,” Kristen reassured me. “Although… if you wanted a souvenir of your time together, I’d make myself available.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, smiling.

“And I will pass your message along to Brent when I see him next. If I see him, I should say.”

Another pause. In this one, I heard background noise. What sounded like grunts and slaps. Someone said something. “Could you make it a little tiger?”

What?

No, not “tiger.”

Tighter.

I tried not to be distracted.

Focus, Kevin, focus.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“He’s dropped off the map for a bit,” Kristen explained. “Didn’t show for the most recent two shoots he’d signed up for. Didn’t call, either, at least not as far as I know.”

“You wouldn’t know?”

“I’m the creative on the team. Mason and his people handle the business end of things. Scheduling, booking the boys, finding locations. Brent may have called him to say he couldn’t make it, but normally that would have led to Mason arranging for a replacement. Didn’t happen either time. We had to do solo scenes, as I recall.” I heard a shudder in his voice. “They bore the shit out me, to be honest. There’s only so many ways you can shoot a guy whacking off. From an artistic perspective, masturbation is not a terribly satisfying subject.”

“You take your work seriously.”

“Dead seriously,” Kristen assured me. “I know people view any movie with explicit sex as pornography, and thus of no artistic merit, but why? Why is it we believe ‘serious’ cinema can explore any genre, whether it’s romance, or comedy, or drama, but only as long as everyone keeps his pants on? What’s more real than sex or death? Films are supposed to move you. If you laugh, or cry, or find yourself rooting for the hero, the movie is considered successful. But if it turns you on? Somehow, that’s wrong. Why the double standard?”