Chapter 1
ONE
Blake
Blake burst into the dressing room of The Firehouse, his garment bag slung over his shoulder, dodging half-naked men as he made a beeline for his makeup station. He’d lost track of time while sewing his costume, and now he had less than an hour until showtime.
As usual, the dressing room was pure chaos, a crush of young men more focused on goofing off than getting ready for a show. The background buzz of their noisy conversation was occasionally punctuated by a taunt or bray of laughter.
“Heads up, Larsen!” Romeo yelled. Using his jockstrap as a slingshot, he took aim at Blake’s face and launched a balled-up sock through the air.
Blake dodged at the last second, and the projectile bounced off Christoph’s head instead.
“What the fuck?” Christoph yelled. One of the few dancers over thirty, he had little patience for the childish antics of the other guys. “No one wants your stinky-ass sock.” He lobbed the sock back at Romeo, then returned to snorting coke with Diesel, the self-styled “bad boy twink.”
“Hey, Blake, want a bump?” Diesel called after him.
“No thanks,” Blake said, taking a detour around two guys who were vigorously miming anal sex, to the hoots and hollers of the men around them.
Blake finally made it to the far wall, where makeshift dressing stations had been set up in front of a row of ancient, battleship-grey lockers.
A long time ago, The Firehouse club had been an operational fire station, and this had been the locker room.
A few of the dented metal doors still had tiny identification tags bearing the names of long-gone firefighters.
Blake often wondered what those firefighters would think of their locker room being taken over by gay strippers.
His best friend Tenny was at his station trimming his beard, wearing only the red and black Buffalo plaid jockstrap Blake had made for him.
A burly muscle bear, Tenny had been getting ready in the spot beside Blake for years.
His full name was Tennessee Fields – a name bestowed upon him by parents who’d clearly hoped their son would grow up to be a country singer.
Instead, he became an exotic dancer with a kind heart and a mean body roll.
He and Blake had dated for a while when he’d started dancing at The Firehouse, if getting drunk and hooking up after every show could be considered dating.
“Cutting it a little close, big guy,” Tenny said.
“Yeah, I was finishing up my costume.” Blake removed his soldier costume from its garment bag and hung it on the hook next to his station. After kicking off his sneakers, he stripped down to his briefs and perched on his chair.
The sharp scent of male sweat kicked him in the nose. Although the dressing room always smelled like feet and balls, this funk seemed closer to home. He sniffed his armpit, confirming his suspicion. “Shit! I didn’t have time to hop in the shower, and I stink.”
“I got you covered,” Tenny said. He slid a box over to Blake that was packed with baby wipes, body spray, and deodorant. “My handy-dandy Stripper Detailing Kit.”
“Thanks, man.” Blake pulled out a couple baby wipes and scrubbed his pits.
Tenny went back to trimming his beard. “So, you’re the talk of the town lately. What the hell happened on set this week?”
Blake chucked the used wipes onto his station. “I can’t believe that’s getting around already.”
“Well, apparently you made quite the scene.”
“I didn’t make a scene.”
“Yeah, that didn’t sound like you. But you know Reggie. He’s a good director, but a total drama queen.”
Blake turned in his chair to face his friend.
“I was working with a new model who was clearly having trouble relaxing, and instead of taking a break so he could stretch his hole more, Reggie was yelling at me to fuck him as hard as I could and spit in his face. I said I wouldn’t do that.
He’s been leaning into the degrading stuff lately, and it’s not my scene. ”
He stripped off his briefs and grabbed a few more wipes. While he washed his balls, he said, “Anyway, Reggie said it was his way or the highway. I took the highway.”
“He conveniently left that part out.” Tenny slipped on his sleeveless plaid flannel shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. His sexy lumberjack persona was a crowd-pleaser.
“Of course he did.” Blake stood and gave his asscrack a good scrub. “It’ll blow over. He’s a hothead. We’ve had disagreements on set before.”
After fanning his crotch dry, Blake pulled on camouflage briefs. “Mind if I listen to my messages while I get ready?”
Tenny shook his head. While dabbing a green stick on his ruddy cheeks, he leaned forward, staring at his reflection. “God damn it.” He picked at the corner of his pocket, which had come unstitched, folding over like a dog’s ear.
Blake tapped in the code for his voicemail, then held out his hand. “Here, I can fix your shirt.”
You have two new messages, his phone announced.
Blake dug a sewing kit out of his makeup case and set to work re-attaching Tenny’s pocket with a neat backstitch. The first message was a scam call. Blake ignored it and let it play to the end as he stitched. He was knotting off his thread when the next message began.
“Hi Blake.” It was Oliver, one of the directors at Private Dick, the studio that had made Blake a legend in the porn industry.
They’d been friends ever since Blake signed his first exclusive contract.
“I’m sorry for how this all went down. I just wanted to call and tell you I went to bat for you. Um… yeah. Give me a call when you can.”
End of messages, the robot voice intoned.
Blake stared at his phone, his eyebrows scrunched together.
“What was that about?” Tenny asked.
“No idea.” He absentmindedly handed Tenny’s shirt back, trying to make sense of Oliver’s message. I went to bat for you. He had to be talking about the situation with Reggie, but since Blake hadn’t heard from anyone at the studio all week, he’d assumed the dust had settled after the drama on set.
Blake dialed Oliver’s number, and spritzed his chest with body spray while he waited for his friend to pick up.
As soon as Oliver answered, he apologized again. “Blake. Sorry, man. I tried to talk to Jude, but he’d already made up his mind.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Didn’t you read the email?”
“What email?” Blake navigated to his inbox and scanned the unread messages.
“The one Jude sent this afternoon?”
Jude Malone was the producer at Private Dick. Blake had met with him a handful of times, but rarely received emails from him. Especially not on a Saturday.
Blake found the email, and a wave of dizziness crashed over him when he read the subject line: Termination of contract.
“Termination?” Blake asked, his voice rising an octave. “I’m fired?”
Oliver groaned. “Reggie is claiming breach of contract because you left the set.”
“Because he demanded I spit in Tanner’s face!”
“He has you on film saying you consented to everything that would come up in the scene.”
“I consented to spit on him, but I thought Reggie meant I’d spit on his asshole or his dick, like a normal person. Not his face.”
“I wish there was something I could do. You deserve better than this. Listen, I can ask around, let producers know you’re looking for gigs…”
Blake mumbled his way through the rest of the call, his thoughts slowing to a stop as if he were powering down. When he hung up, he stared at his phone, unable to move, his stomach queasy. He jumped when Tenny lightly gripped his shoulder.
“I can’t believe they dropped you. How many scenes did you have left?”
“Six,” Blake said. He knew how much money that represented because he kept careful track of how much remained on his contract. “That’s eighteen thousand dollars.” His chest tightened, and he gulped for air, his breaths too shallow. “What am I going to do?”
“Hey, come here.” Tenny hugged him and rubbed his back. “Breathe. You still have your job here. Ask Virgil if you can pick up some more hours.”
“Hey, Dirk, I overheard the message. Sorry, man.”
Blake peeked over Tenny’s shoulder. Steel had wandered over from his station. Like a lot of the guys, he always addressed Blake by his stage name, Dirk Slocum.
“Thanks,” Blake said, snuggling into the warm flannel covering Tenny’s meaty shoulder.
Steel leaned against the edge of Tenny’s station.
He was a beautiful young man, smooth and lean, but he was lazy with his costumes.
Tonight he’d selected a cheap mesh tank and a black jockstrap.
He took a bite from a sandwich wrapped in deli paper, and chewed while he talked, waving the sandwich through the air to punctuate his sentences.
“I have a friend who does OnlyFans. He’s always looking for scene partners. It’s good money, if you’re interested.”
Tenny made a gagging sound. “Dude, what the fuck are you eating?”
“A Limburger sandwich. Cheese and red onion on rye.”
Steel was well-known for his love of greasy spoon diners and hole-in-the-wall delis. He especially loved sandwiches that smelled like a sautéed sneaker. “Want a bite?” he asked, offering the sandwich to Tenny.
Tenny waved him away. “Get that thing away from me. You’re going to make yourself sick one of these days.”
Chuckling, Steel walked around them and pointed to Blake’s costume. “Did you make this yourself?”
Blake sat up and searched through his makeup kit for concealer which he dotted on under his eyes. “No, it’s army surplus. But I altered it.”
“What song are you doing?”
“‘Battlefield,’ by Jordin Sparks.”
Steel inspected the field jacket, and the snap strips sewn into the outseams of the tear-away pants. “Forget OnlyFans. You should open your own club. You’re way too talented for this place.”
Aston Martins glided by on the way to his station, his leather bag slung over his shoulder.
“I see Steel is gracing us with one of his culinary masterpieces.” Aston always breezed in minutes before the show, and always looked flawless by showtime.
Tall and wiry, his jet-black hair and icy blue eyes made him an audience favorite.
His sophisticated British accent only added to his charm. “Oh my, that sandwich is proper ripe.”
“I’ll show you ripe,” Steel said, cupping his bulge. Guys fell over themselves to sleep with Steel, so he’d never actually perfected the art of flirting. “Hey Aston, when are you going to let me introduce my Big Ben to your Chunnel?”
“More of your delightful puns. Your attempt last week, with Nelson’s Column and the London Eye, was more inspired. But I’m from Surrey, love. Not London.”
Steel turned to Blake. “What’s in Surrey?”
Blake shrugged.
“Oh!” Steel slunk toward Aston, running his hand down his chest. “I’m as hard as Stonehenge for you, baby.”
Aston sighed and shook his head, as he worked a waxy pomade into his hair.
With a determined set of his jaw, Steel wandered off again. “Hey Christoph,” he yelled over the din in the dressing room. “You’re old, so you know things. What are some landmarks in Surrey?”
Blake waved his hand through the air, trying to clear the vile scent trail left behind by Steel’s sandwich.
“Steel’s right, you know,” Tenny said. “You’re talented enough to have your own club.”
Blake scoffed. “C’mon. I’m not smart enough to run a business.
The only reason I can tend bar is because everyone pays with debit cards, and even then I mess up at least one order a night.
I get away with it by joking that I’m just a dumb porn star.
When they realize I’m Dirk Slocum, I get a cash tip with their Grindr handle written on it.
If I wasn’t a good dancer, Virgil would’ve fired me years ago. ”
With a chuckle, Tenny said, “I love the guy, but Virgil’s not exactly the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, and he runs this place.” He patted Blake’s thigh and nodded toward the door to the dressing room. “Speak of the devil.”
Virgil sauntered into the room dressed in one of his loud floral shirts, faded jeans, and the beat-up white sneakers he always wore without socks, regardless of the weather.
A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.
Several dancers had told him smoking wasn’t allowed inside clubs anymore, to which Virgil would always grumble, “I was grandfathered in.”
“Okay, Show Ponies, gather ’round.” Virgil taped a piece of paper on the wall next to the hallway that led to the stage. “Tonight’s lineup.”
Christoph squinted at the list and huffed. “Why does Larsen always get to go last? Those are the best tips of the night.”
“Become a famous porn star that puts asses in the seats and I’ll give you the pimp spot.” Virgil scanned the group, doing a quick head count. “Where’s Diesel?”
“Over here, boss.” Diesel was leaning against the wall in the back corner, playing with his nipples while getting a blow job from the guy kneeling in front of him – most likely a club-goer he’d lured to the back with the promise of drugs. “Am I up first?”
Virgil ran his hand through his thinning grey hair. “I’m getting too old for this shit.” After a long drag off his cigarette, he exhaled a plume of smoke. “It’s a full house tonight, so bring your A-game. We could use the money.”