Scott Sherman: Third You Die

“Well, hello,” he drawled, stretching out the greeting like a lizard uncoils his tongue. It wasn’t the only reptilian thing about him. High cheekbones drew your attention to his badly capped teeth. His skin was pulled unnaturally tight, and his eyes were slanted and narrowed to barely functional slits by what I’d guess were at least a handful of overambitious face-lifts.

Had it not been for all the tinkering, he might have been handsome. Underneath it all, you could see the bone structure of a movie star from the 1950s. But too much plastic surgery, too many tanning beds, and his predatory smile combined to give him the friendly appeal of a hungry crocodile.

He regarded me with the same top-to-bottom appraisal Andrew had earlier, but this one was decidedly creepier, accompanied by lip smacks and a quiet whistle of approval at the end. I’d been a professional sex worker for years, but never felt dirtier than I did under this slimy bastard’s spectacularly unsubtle review.

Had I been the ingenue of a Jane Austen novel, I would have slapped him at this point. Instead, I gave him my phoniest smile. (Actually, I’m not sure about that metaphor. I’ve never read any Jane Austen except for Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, where I’m pretty sure the guy who updated it might have taken some dramatic license.)

“Tell me,” Lizard Man asked, “why is a perfect specimen like you not working for me?”

“For one reason: I already have a job,” I answered, pointing to my ID badge. “I help coordinate the show.”

“This,” he said, cupping my chin, “is a face that belongs in front of the camera, not behind it.” He craned his neck to peer over my shoulder. “Speaking of behinds…”

I stepped back.

“I didn’t get your name,” I said.

The crocodile reached into the pocket of his expensive silk blazer. He extracted a pricey-looking pewter business card holder that he flicked open through some hidden mechanism. A single card automatically slid forward. It was like a magic trick meant to astound the easily impressed. I was reminded of an entertainer at a children’s party and wondered if my new acquaintance liked his boys on the younger side.

“Mason Jarre,” he announced, as I took his card. It was heavy and expensively embossed. He pronounced his last name “Jar-Ray,” as if from the French. His heavy Brooklyn accent spoke otherwise.

“I’m the owner of SwordFight Productions. Brock Peters is exclusive with us.”

Your mother must be so proud, I wanted to say. “Well, we really enjoyed having him on today’s show. Thanks for sharing.”

“I’m serious about the offer.” He ignored my attempt to shift the conversation. “You have the face of an angel and a body built for sin. I could make you a star.” He ran his tongue, which thankfully wasn’t forked, over his lower lip.

I kept smiling, but in my head I was thinking of running after Oliver to get some of that ethanethiol. That’d empty the room. I’d already had enough of these people. “I don’t want to be a star. But thanks.”

Mason reached out and took my hand. He curled his fingers around mine, in a gesture that forced me to more tightly cup his business card. “ Everyone wants to be a star, angel.” He looked past me. “But don’t take my word for it.”

He turned to the younger man who had come up from behind and now stood at Mason’s left. “This is one of my finest directors, Kristen LaNue.”

Kristen looked like a younger, Hispanic version of Mason. Undamaged by age, or, more accurately, by excessive efforts to fight it, Kristen was genuinely attractive. He had Mason’s long, angular features, but with pretty green eyes and smooth, unblemished skin. He had a trendy buzz cut that flattered his well-shaped head and a neatly trimmed goatee that called attention to his full, sensuous lips. I’d guess he was about twenty years younger than Mason, which would put him in the mid-thirties.

Had I opened a door to find him there in my call boy days, I’d have been thankful to find someone that attractive. Since I worked partly for tips, I’d also have appreciated his obviously expensive clothing. He wore a Ralph Lauren Black Label denim bomber over the same line’s V-neck tee. I’d been drooling over them at Bloomingdale’s a few days ago-the jacket went for an impressive $3,000. Even the T-shirt was north of a Benjamin.

I couldn’t tell what kind of jeans he wore, but they looked damn good on him. Tapered enough to highlight his strong thighs, but not obnoxiously tight, they rode low on his narrow hips. My guess was they didn’t come from the Gap. Neither did his boots, which I pegged as Maison Martin Margiela, adding at least another grand to his outfit.

Apparently, directing dirty movies was a more lucrative job than I realized. I might need to reassess my career choice.

“I can always count on you to find the prettiest boy in the room,” Kristen said to Mason. The comment was gratuitous, but Kristen pulled it off with more charm than his mentor. He extended his hand and gave me a firm shake, holding on for a second or two too long. We exchanged introductions.

His voice was sexy, too. Lightly but noticeably accented.

“I was just telling Kevin,” Mason said, “he should drop in for an interview. I’d love to see how he comes across on tape. I bet he’d light the camera on fire.”

Kristen leaned into me. “You’ll have to excuse him,” he said with a wink. “He’s always recruiting. Although”-he arched his eyebrows suggestively-“he’s not wrong. I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but you’re an extraordinarily good-looking young man. Very much the whole Abercrombie thing going on. Have you modeled?”

I shook my head. “I’m flattered, but I’m really not interested.”

Kristen shrugged. “Well, don’t dismiss it out of hand. You’d be surprised how much you can make and the doors it can open. You know, sex is a natural and healthy part of life. You’re a beautiful boy, and beauty is one of the few gifts you can share that gives back more than you give. Getting paid for making love doesn’t make you a whore.”

Having actually been a whore, I wanted to laugh. I had no problem exchanging sex for money. I just didn’t want it recorded.

You never knew when you might want to run for president.

“Thanks,” I said, starting to make my exit.

“Kevin.” Kristen hadn’t raised his voice, but it still froze me in my tracks. He had a natural authority I’d wager served him well in his job. I could see him commanding a chaotic film set. “Promise me you’ll think about it. I take my art very seriously. I think you’ll be proud to have worked with me.”

His “art.” A pornographer with pretensions. I couldn’t decide if it was sweet or obnoxious.

At least I never called my sex work “physical therapy.”

After bidding the politest possible good-byes to Mason and Kristen, I decided to get out of there. I was halfway to the door when I bumped into a strikingly pretty young man.

“Sorry,” I said.

He wasn’t my type at all, but I couldn’t help but be impressed. Blond hair in an almost eighties shag, parted down the middle. Bright blue eyes framed by girlishly long eyelashes. Creamy-looking skin that made you want to lick it.

He was of medium build, bigger than me, but still boyish. Slim and well muscled like an Australian lifeguard.

Despite his slight advantage in height, he reminded me of a younger version of myself. He could have been my kid brother.

“No problem,” he said quietly. “I’m Brent.”

“Kevin,” I said, extending my hand. “Nice to meet you.” He looked so ill at ease that I smiled to relax him.