Scott Sherman - Third You Die

No, like everyone else, Mason wanted to be appreciated for what he thought he did well. For what he was proud of. For his accomplishments.

“Well…” Mason stretched it out. I realized for the first time he didn’t know what to say. I had him off-script. Finally, he finished his sentence with an awkward “thank you.”

“I mean it,” I said, sitting forward on the bed. “You have a gift, man. There’s no other studio out there that has a roster like SwordFight. It’s no surprise you’re the first to go international. It’s all about picking the right talent and backing them up with production and distribution that’s second to none.” That last part was actually paraphrased from SwordFight’s own Web site. I figured it would resonate with him.

“Exactly!” Mason said with excitement. He sat forward, too, causing his canvas seat to buckle frighteningly low. “That’s what I try to tell people. Anyone can throw some hot studs in front of a camera and film them fucking around. Hell, there’s thousands of people doing it on the Internet for free.”

“But where’s the art?” I asked. “Where’s the creativity? That has to come from someone with a vision.”

“Yes!” Mason agreed.

“Which is why I really hope that Brent didn’t leave because he’s planning to work with another studio. Even if they pay him three times as much, they’ll never make him the star you would have. They’ll put him in cheap crap that will make him look like any other boy. Bad scripts, bad photography, bad direction. It’ll be the end of him.

“And you know what burns me the most? Your competitors know they can’t find talent like Brent. They don’t have the eye. But they can steal it from you. It must drive you crazy.”

“It does,” Mason agreed enthusiastically. “It’s happened more times than I’d care to remember. But go explain anything of what you just said to a starry-eyed twenty-two-year-old who’s being offered more money than he’s ever seen before. He doesn’t understand that’s money that won’t be going into good production or promotion. He doesn’t see that in a year, he’ll be old news, washed up and unwanted. After you appear in enough cheap pieces of crap, the audience isn’t going to spend their money on you anymore.

“Whereas, had he stuck with me, he’d be a bigger star than ever at that point, with another decade of work before him. Delayed gratification. It’s a concept these kids just don’t get.”

“So, do you think that’s what happened? To Brent? That he’s lying low until he announces that he’s working for someone else?”

“No,” Mason said with no reflection. “I don’t.”

I wondered what made him so confident. “Well, what do you think happened?”

Mason opened his mouth, but it was Pierce’s deep bass that responded. “Excuse me. I thought we were here to make an audition tape.”

“Aren’t you taping?” I asked innocently.

“Please,” he replied testily. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Mason, weren’t you about to propose some quid pro quo?”

“Yes,” Mason said, shaking his head as if waking from a daydream. I think he realized he’d given away more than he intended to. “Quite right. Kevin, I’ve answered some of your questions. Now, you need to answer some of mine. But, not as you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know the way things work, right? The deal is you’re an innocent. A first-timer. Usually, a straight boy who’s here for the money. Reluctant. The audience likes reluctant.”

“I think,” Pierce offered from wherever he lurked, “we might want to go the closeted/in-denial gay youth route with Kevin here. I mean, I’m not sure he’d be remotely believable as a straight boy.”

Fuck you, too, you creepy son of a bitch.

“Good point,” Mason said. “Have you ever done any acting?”

“A little.” Actually, my specialty as a hooker had been role-playing. With my adolescent looks and boyish demeanor, I was often asked to play the part of the first-timer or innocent. Judging by the size of the tips I received and my long list of repeat clients, I think I did a pretty good job with it.

“Okay. So, we’re going to repeat the first five minutes of our conversation. But this time, you play the part we just described.”

“That’s not what I agreed to,” I said.

“You agreed to do an audition tape,” Mason countered. “You know what those are like. Discussing the abominable work ethics of one of my models is hardly the way they begin. No, before we go any farther down that road, I’d like five minutes of usable tape. Just in case you decide you want to… go further yourself.”

I was dubious. I was here to manipulate Mason, not the other way around. On the other hand, I didn’t want to shut down the conversation. Not yet.

Seeing my hesitation, Mason made a concession. “We’ll just do up to the part where you start getting undressed, okay? Then we’ll stop. I promise.”

Sometimes you have to give a little to get a little.

“Fine,” I said. “Give me a minute.”

I did what I used to do before I saw a client. Closed my eyes and tried to put myself into the character he wanted me to be. Channeled my own insecurity, vulnerability, and virtue to become the wide-eyed virgin just itching to be taken.

I looked up at Mason with new eyes. Nervous, unsure, and more than a little scared.

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” I said, my voice quavering. “I mean, I guess I know I like guys and all, but I’ve never

…” I let my voice trail off and took a deep breath.

“Dang, this is harder than I thought. But I could use the money. I’ve seen the videos on your site, and the DVDs, so I know what I got to do, but… man.”

I ran a hand absently over my crotch. “It’s kind of weird, you know. Like I’m really nervous. But, a little excited, too. So, what do you want to know about me?”

Mason’s reply didn’t come right away. I could see he was watching the monitor intently, mouth open, eyes wide. He was impressed, I could tell. He didn’t know this was an act I’d played hundreds of times before. He must have thought I was either a split personality or the Laurence Olivier of smut. He finally found his voice.

“Let’s start with, um, how old you are.” He cleared his throat. “And what brings you here today.”

I answered those questions and a few more. The more I spoke, the more in character I felt. Even I was hot to see what would happen when this long-repressed twinkie-in-training finally burst loose.

“You’ve obviously been keeping these feelings bottled up for a long time.” Mason’s voice was sonorous and calming. “Why don’t you take off your shirt for me?”

I was so into the scene I almost did. Then, I remembered.

“Not so fast,” I said. “You got your interview. Now, it’s my turn to ask a question, right?”

Pierce grunted in the background. Mason moaned. “Fine,” he said begrudgingly. “But, Kevin, that was amazing. The camera loves you. And that performance-are you sure you’ve never professionally acted before?”

What had I said about acting before? I couldn’t remember.

Focus, Kevin, focus.

That was what I hated about lying-I was so bad at it.

Better not to answer. “Hey, I’m the one who gets a question now, not you,” I said, teasing, but not leaving it open to negotiation.

Mason leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. Body language experts tell us that’s a clear sign of a person guarding himself against giving anything away. A defensive attitude I was determined to break through.

“Ask away,” Mason said. “I’m an open book.”

His posture said the opposite.