Out of the Blue: Confessions of an Unlikely Porn Star by Blue Blake Page A
Authors: Blue Blake
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to the local tube station, Highbury & Islington, and caught a train to Piccadilly Circus.
In the mid-eighties, Soho was full of sex shops and seedy bars. All the shop windows contained blow-up dolls with yellow nylon hair and gaping, painted plastic mouths. Trotting through Soho I ignored the whistles of the East End Barrow Boys selling tangerines and suddenly I stumbled upon the rat hole that was to showcase my stripping talents . . . Boys-a-Go-Go. What a bleeding dump. Surely this couldn’t be the right place. A grotty shop front with dusty string beads hanging in the window.
“Are you going to be a stripper?” I turned to face a skinny kid with shoulder-length greasy hair and a lazy eye standing in the doorway.
“Hmmm . . . I was thinking about it,” I muttered, wondering if it wasn’t too late to back out.
“Oooh, you’d be fab. I’ve been doing it for six months now . . . well, not counting the month I had to take off to get rid of my anal warts.” He grabbed me by my arm. “My name’s Gavin, but I changed it to Rock. Ya’ know, like Rock Hudson. People tell me I look like him.” I thought Gavin looked as much like Rock Hudson as the undertakers’ dog, but I kept quiet and smiled.
“Oooh, you’ve got a gorgeous smile. Wilbert’s gonna love you,” he said.
“Who’s Wilbert?” I asked, suddenly realizing that “Rock’s” fingers on my arm were sticky.
“Oh, he runs the place. Come on, I’ll introduce you, you’ll get the job if you let him eat your arse in the basement.”
Well . . . I thought perhaps Wilbert would look like one of the Barrow Boys selling tangerines, in which case I wouldn’t mind a good rimming in the basement to relax me.
Rock dragged me through heavy, dusty curtains that must have given the old age pensioners asthma. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I heard a voice say, “Well, well, well, what have we got here?” I stifled the scream in my throat. Who would have thought an Orc from Lord of the Rings would be running a strip joint in Soho?
“He’s here to be a stripper,” said Rock.
“Yeah?” asked Wilbert the Ork. “Lucky for him Gustav phoned in sick. Syphilis again. You’re on in five minutes. Do you have a g-string or do you wanna wear one of Gustav’s old ones? It’s not clean, but you could run it under the tap in the back.”
“I brought my own,” I stammered, holding up my borrowed leather thong.
“Oooh, fancy! The queens love a bit of leather,” said Wilbert, licking his cracked lips.
“Don’t you want to know if I can dance?” I asked. Rock and Wilbert looked at each other and broke into laughter.
“Who fucking cares? You’ve got a knob, haven’t you? Now get on that fucking stage, we’ve got a full house. Show him where to go, Rock.”
Rock grabbed me with his sticky fingers and led me through more dusty curtains to a tiny room decorated with pictures of girls ripped out of various porno magazines.
“The other strippers use these to get hard,” he said. “’Course if you’re having a problem getting hard, I could blow you.”
The thought of greasy-head getting his halitosis all over my pristine cock made Mr. Winky go from nine inches to three in a microsecond.
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
“Well please yourself,” hissed Rock. “You’re not that special. Get your leather on and when the music starts up, go through these drapes and you’re on.”
I quickly undressed and got into costume. I use the term costume very loosely.
“Gentlemen, do we have a treat for you this afternoon! For the first time Boys-a-Go-Go proudly presents . . . Hunter!”
Hunter? Who the hell was Hunter?
Rock poked his head through the asthma drape and hissed.
“That’s you, cuntface! You’re on!” All of a sudden, I heard the strains of Tom Jones singing, “What’s New Pussycat.” I opened the lurex backdrop and walked onto a stage that was four foot square and covered in lumpy shag pile. The audience consisted of six rows of
In the mid-eighties, Soho was full of sex shops and seedy bars. All the shop windows contained blow-up dolls with yellow nylon hair and gaping, painted plastic mouths. Trotting through Soho I ignored the whistles of the East End Barrow Boys selling tangerines and suddenly I stumbled upon the rat hole that was to showcase my stripping talents . . . Boys-a-Go-Go. What a bleeding dump. Surely this couldn’t be the right place. A grotty shop front with dusty string beads hanging in the window.
“Are you going to be a stripper?” I turned to face a skinny kid with shoulder-length greasy hair and a lazy eye standing in the doorway.
“Hmmm . . . I was thinking about it,” I muttered, wondering if it wasn’t too late to back out.
“Oooh, you’d be fab. I’ve been doing it for six months now . . . well, not counting the month I had to take off to get rid of my anal warts.” He grabbed me by my arm. “My name’s Gavin, but I changed it to Rock. Ya’ know, like Rock Hudson. People tell me I look like him.” I thought Gavin looked as much like Rock Hudson as the undertakers’ dog, but I kept quiet and smiled.
“Oooh, you’ve got a gorgeous smile. Wilbert’s gonna love you,” he said.
“Who’s Wilbert?” I asked, suddenly realizing that “Rock’s” fingers on my arm were sticky.
“Oh, he runs the place. Come on, I’ll introduce you, you’ll get the job if you let him eat your arse in the basement.”
Well . . . I thought perhaps Wilbert would look like one of the Barrow Boys selling tangerines, in which case I wouldn’t mind a good rimming in the basement to relax me.
Rock dragged me through heavy, dusty curtains that must have given the old age pensioners asthma. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I heard a voice say, “Well, well, well, what have we got here?” I stifled the scream in my throat. Who would have thought an Orc from Lord of the Rings would be running a strip joint in Soho?
“He’s here to be a stripper,” said Rock.
“Yeah?” asked Wilbert the Ork. “Lucky for him Gustav phoned in sick. Syphilis again. You’re on in five minutes. Do you have a g-string or do you wanna wear one of Gustav’s old ones? It’s not clean, but you could run it under the tap in the back.”
“I brought my own,” I stammered, holding up my borrowed leather thong.
“Oooh, fancy! The queens love a bit of leather,” said Wilbert, licking his cracked lips.
“Don’t you want to know if I can dance?” I asked. Rock and Wilbert looked at each other and broke into laughter.
“Who fucking cares? You’ve got a knob, haven’t you? Now get on that fucking stage, we’ve got a full house. Show him where to go, Rock.”
Rock grabbed me with his sticky fingers and led me through more dusty curtains to a tiny room decorated with pictures of girls ripped out of various porno magazines.
“The other strippers use these to get hard,” he said. “’Course if you’re having a problem getting hard, I could blow you.”
The thought of greasy-head getting his halitosis all over my pristine cock made Mr. Winky go from nine inches to three in a microsecond.
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
“Well please yourself,” hissed Rock. “You’re not that special. Get your leather on and when the music starts up, go through these drapes and you’re on.”
I quickly undressed and got into costume. I use the term costume very loosely.
“Gentlemen, do we have a treat for you this afternoon! For the first time Boys-a-Go-Go proudly presents . . . Hunter!”
Hunter? Who the hell was Hunter?
Rock poked his head through the asthma drape and hissed.
“That’s you, cuntface! You’re on!” All of a sudden, I heard the strains of Tom Jones singing, “What’s New Pussycat.” I opened the lurex backdrop and walked onto a stage that was four foot square and covered in lumpy shag pile. The audience consisted of six rows of
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