Out of the Blue: Confessions of an Unlikely Porn Star by Blue Blake Page B

cinema seats full of old men in raincoats with their cocks out, jerking off in anticipation. I once read someplace that the walrus has the ugliest penis on the planet . . . they got it wrong.
    I started to gyrate and the more I gyrated, the more the ghouls beat off. Now here’s the strangest thing. I actually started to get into it and before I knew it, I was doing the splits up the side of the wall, bending over backwards and catching pound notes in my teeth as they were thrown on the stage. Wilbert had come to have a letch at me, presumably to see if I had a knob after all. I could see him through the gloom madly applying Chap-Stick with one hand and jerking off with the other. My thirty-minute set came to an end and I bowed deeply to scattered, very scattered, applause.
    I exited the stage and Rock pushed past me to do his thirty minutes, wearing underwear that I noticed had a HUGE skid mark.
    “You got the job,” said Wilbert. “Four sets a day, five pounds a set and you keep your tips.” I was thrilled. I would be making fifty pounds a day I reckoned. I whistled all the way home. I found the pervy headmaster waiting for me. He had discovered his leather thong was missing. I was caught red-handed. He told me I had a week to find somewhere else to live. I didn’t care. I was going to be the next Gypsy Rose Lee and everything was coming up roses.
    After a month however, I was totally sick of stripping. The club was a dump and strippers came and went by the day. Someone was always being fired for arriving late or too drugged up to perform. In those days I didn’t even smoke pot, but I was a Bacardi and Coke fiend. I would drink it by the gallon and must have constantly smelled of rum. I had fled the headmaster’s apartment and was now living in the East End of London, with a group of guys: “Dirty” Bob, David, and the two Chrises. We all shared a huge house with an Alsatian called Zeppelin that we hardly ever walked. When you did walk him, he was so ecstatic to be outside he would giddily bite people, willy-nilly, to show his enthusiasm. Needless to say, I started prowling around with him, scaring all the East End lads. I would eye up some rough piece of trade in Doc Martins and when he started calling me a “fucking queer” Zeppelin would growl and show off his big white gnashers. Sometimes I’d eye up an East End lad and Zeppelin would end up tied outside the local public toilet for an hour.
    The house was owned by Dirty Bob and his ex-boyfriend “Camp” David, a huge queen. Bob lived in the basement with a sling, his poppers, and a tub of Crisco. He never smiled because all of his teeth had fallen out from taking speed for decades. David would go to the local leather bar, the Market Tavern, wearing chaps and a butt plug. They hadn’t had sex with each other for years. Instead, they bought an enormous house in the East End and took in lodgers. The two Chrises and I were the latest batch of innocents.
    Blond Chris had been educated at Eton. He was twenty-one and dating Geoff Posner, who produced all the Victoria Wood specials. Victoria Wood is an extremely successful British comedienne who made a fortune by commenting on the eccentric way British people live their lives. Geoff was short, fat and hairy but I wanted him because of his position of power at the BBC. I always fancied hanging out with Victoria Wood and listening to her opine on whether crimpolene was a more durable fabric than corduroy and the pleasure of draft excluders. In fact, years later I would date Paul Cianni who directed and produced the BBC show Top of the Pops and who bore more than a passing resemblance to Geoff Posner. Then of course, I got to stick it to Chris who was hanging out with Victoria Wood while I was being wined and dined by Whitney Houston and Jelly Bean Benitez.
    Brunette Chris was a stunner and ran the weekly gay night every Sunday at Legend’s on Piccadilly Circus. He had meticulous hair and knew more about hair