Scott Sherman: Third You Die

He may, and I thanked him as well. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen the power of celebrity open a closed door.

A minute later Mason picked up. “Kevin,” he said. “Pierce tells me you’re thinking of having us on the show again. That’s marvelous news. I have a few models I think would make wonderful spokesmen for our company. Are you familiar with Seymour Cox? Or Tag Emnow?”

“Actually,” I said, “we were hoping to feature Brent Havens. He and I were talking after Brock’s appearance and-”

“Oh,” Mason cut me off, “Brent’s absolutely adorable, but he’s not the brightest bulb on the tree. No, I believe you’d be better served by one of our more… articulate performers.”

He took a moment before announcing, “Now that I think about it, Hugh Jestman would be an excellent guest. He’s actually a classically trained actor who’s performed on Broadway. Would you like me to arrange a meeting?”

“No,” I answered. I regretted fibbing to Pierce about wanting to schedule another show, but it was the only way I could think of to get through to Mason. Unfortunately, I’m not the greatest liar. I tend to lose track of the details and get easily confused by my own deceits. “That isn’t necessary. I’m sure the other guys are great, but we’re really interested in Brent.”

“That’s what I thought,” Mason said, his tone no longer quite as accommodating. “There is no show, is there, Kevin?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Cut the shit, sunshine. I saw the way you and Brent looked at each other. The heat between you was enough to set off the fire extinguishers. I’m surprised it’s taken this long for you to call. What happened, did you lose his number?”

Okay. I was still going to lie, but this one was easier to manage. “You got me,” I said. “But I didn’t lose his number. He’s just not answering. I hear he hasn’t been showing up for his work with you guys, either.”

“Yes,” Mason answered, “the little brat left us high and dry on two shoots. Unacceptable. Sorry, but you’re not the only one he’s stiffing. Or, not stiffing, as the case may be.” He chuckled at his play on words.

“Are you worried?” I asked.

“Worried? Why would I be worried? Yes, we lose money if we have to cancel a shoot, but in both cases, the director was able to use the sets and crew to shoot solos. Although, that doesn’t excuse Brent’s unprofessionalism.”

Wow. A young man goes missing and the only thing this guy cares about is how it affects his bank account.

“No,” I said. “I meant, are you worried about Brent? ”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well.” I was almost at a loss for words. Did I really have to explain this to him? “My understanding is that Brent was always very responsible. All of a sudden, he drops out of sight and stops answering his phone. Maybe something happened to him.”

Mason laughed. “Oh, that’s sweet. I’m sure something did happen to him, sweetcheeks. He hooked up with a sugar daddy. Or he found religion. Or he met a nice boy-or a nice girl-and he plans to settle down. White picket fence and all. Of course, there’s always the more likely possibility he’s on a meth binge holed up in a crack house somewhere.

“My point is: Something is always happening with these boys. They’re not exactly the most stable employees. They come and go. They’re young, self-centered, and distracted by whatever shiny thing comes along next. One learns not to worry, Kevin. Well, not about them.” That also got a little laugh from him. “My business, though, that I worry about. I don’t think Samuel Goldwyn had to put up with this kind of nonsense when he built MGM.”

Parts of what Mason said sounded almost exactly like Kristen LaRue’s responses. Did they rehearse these lines? Or was it more likely the case that the “whatever happened to…” question had come up in regard to so many men before Brent that the answer became rote?

I knew from my time as an escort that boys dropped in and out of the biz frequently, sometimes for the reasons Mason described. I could see where it would get tiresome for him and Kristen to constantly face questions from fans and press wondering why their favorite performers weren’t making new videos.

At least from Kristen, though, I got the sense he thought of Brent as a human being worthy of consideration. Mason’s cold assessment made it clear he regarded Brent solely as a product-one that concerned him only to the degree it was no longer profitable.

“Well,” I said, “I’d feel better if I knew Brent was okay. All I have is his mobile number. Do you have any others? Or an address? Did he give you contact information in case of an emergency?”

“Come in and we’ll talk about it.”

“I’d love to,” I lied, “but it’ll probably take me a few days to get over there. Could I get the info now and call you later in the week for an appointment?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Listen, kid, I’m running a business here, not a dating service. Whatever Brent is up to, he isn’t making me any money. I need a fresh face to replace him. A studio like SwordFight runs on archetypes. We have the muscle daddy on deck with Brock Peters. We have a popular group of Chelsea gym types like Tag and Atlas. We’ve got bears, circuit boys, a couple of trannies on call. We’ve got S amp;M stars like Pierce Deepley and The Dominator. We…”

Pierce Deepley? Where had I heard that name before? “The guy who answered your phone? I thought he was the receptionist.”

“ ‘Pierce Deepley’ doesn’t sound like a porn name to you?” Mason asked somewhat incredulously. “Five years ago, he was one of the biggest names in the business. But the market for staged S amp;M has kind of bottomed out, excuse the expression. He makes an occasional film, but he mainly works as my assistant now.”

Nothing like an S amp;M master to run an efficient office, I imagined.

“What we’re missing,” Mason continued, “is our Boy Next Door. A fair-haired darling who looks like he should be delivering your morning paper until he winds up spread like butter across your kitchen table.

“It’s a place in our lineup you could fill, Kevin. You and Brent are practically twins. If what you’re hiding under your clothes is anywhere near as good as it looks like it’ll be, you could be pulling a couple of hundred thou a year, working ten hours a week, mostly lying on your back. You seem like a smart boy. Is that something you should walk away from without giving it serious thought?”

Actually, I’d already walked away from similar employment, although there was no way Mason could have known that.

I tried to sound reflective. “Let me think about it,” I offered. “Really. In the meantime, if you could just give me-”

“You come in, talk face-to-face, and I’ll give you whatever you want. Including five hundred bucks for the audition.” I heard another phone ringing.

Pierce called out, “It’s Cha-Cha on line three.”

“One second,” Mason said. He must have held the phone away from his face as his volume decreased even as he shouted. “Tell her to hold on,” he instructed his assistant.

His attention returned to me. “I have to take this call. You know Cha-Cha Rivera? She’s one crazy dame, but a great director.”

“Can’t you…?”

“Like I said, if you want to talk, come in. Call Pierce and set up a screen test. You show me what I want to see, and I’ll tell you what you want to know. See you soon, babycakes.” He hung up the phone.

I listened to the dial tone for a few seconds before pressing the “end” button. Despite having grown up in New York, working as a prostitute, stumbling across more than one murder in my time, and my study of psychology, people still shocked me with how awful they could be. In Mason’s case, it was his selfishness and attempted manipulation I found stunning.