Chapter 3
THREE
Blake
In full costume, Blake paced the dressing room, waiting for Jude to pick up the phone. When he finally answered, Jude was furious.
“Blake, what the hell? It’s almost ten o’clock!”
“How could you fire me without even talking to me?”
“The situation is pretty cut and dried. You breached your contract by walking out on that scene.”
“Jude, listen.” A late-night angry phone call was probably the absolute worst way to plead his case, but Blake was desperate. “Lately Reggie’s been leaning into really degrading stuff. I wasn’t comfortable doing what he asked for.”
“Blake, this is porn, not a date with your boyfriend. Sometimes it’s uncomfortable.
It’s not play time. There’s money on the line.
To get that twink Tanner Bliss away from Percy, I had to call in a few favors, and ended up paying him twice what I wanted to.
Then, after your little stunt, I had to bring in Connor to finish the scene.
You put me in a bind, Blake. Reggie says you’ve been difficult to work with lately. ”
“That’s because he’s a dick.”
“Yeah, well, that dick earns me six figures a year. I trust his judgment. He knows what sells.” Jude muttered a curse under his breath.
“I’m going to level with you. I have young, hot guys lining up outside my door, begging for their big break.
I don’t have the time or patience for drama like this.
If you won’t do what Reggie wants, it’ll take me five minutes to find someone who will. Someone I can pay a lot less, too.”
Blake’s shoulders wilted, and his hands were shaking so badly he nearly dropped his phone. How could this be the end? Had his loyalty to the studio meant nothing? “But I’ve been with Private Dick for years.”
“It’s not working out anymore. We’re going in different directions.” After a beat of silence, Jude let out an exasperated groan. “Look, I like you Blake, so I’m going to give you some advice. Don’t get a chip on your shoulder. No one’s indispensable in this industry.”
“Jude, I––”
“Good luck out there.”
Jude hung up before Blake could say another word.
“I guess that’s it,” Blake mumbled, his lower lip trembling.
Just like that, the studio contract he counted on – his bread and butter – was gone. Now he’d have to hustle to find gigs, or jump onto the exhausting hamster wheel of an OnlyFans account and churn out endless content.
He’d made a name for himself, so he’d be able to pick up scenes here and there. The part that stung was how easily Jude had fired him. He hadn’t even respected Blake enough to tell him to his face.
Blake tossed his phone onto his makeup station and trudged through the dressing room. The last thing he wanted to do now was pretend to be happy and horny for a group of drunk men.
He pushed aside the curtain to the backstage area, and ducked into the cramped passageway between the stage and the dressing room.
A lone blue light lit the space, the other two bulbs having burned out months ago.
The dim lighting concealed the paper scraps, stray sequins, and discarded costumes that littered the floor.
Virgil perched on his stool just inside the stage’s velvet curtain, sipping his whiskey. Although the upkeep of the club was getting to be too much for him, he still showed up every night to watch the show.
Tenny turned when Blake entered, the smile slipping from his lips. “I’m guessing the call with Jude didn’t go well.”
“No,” Blake said with a frown. The inescapable bass beat that vibrated the walls was giving him a headache. “He just threw me away, Tenny. Like I was worthless.”
Tenny kissed Blake’s cheek. “It’s because we’re sex workers. People see us as expendable. But you don’t have to see yourself that way.”
“They’re right, though. Aren’t they? It’s not like I’m a famous singer in Vegas. I’m a himbo stripping in a dive bar in the Mission.”
“Hey!” Virgil snapped. “A classy dive bar.”
“Don’t sell yourself short like that,” Tenny said. “You’re the best dancer here.”
“That’s not saying much. Most of the guys here put in the bare minimum.
” Virgil didn’t ask for much from his dancers.
They were expected to be on the stage for three to five minutes, wear at least one piece of clothing to take off during the routine, and finish in underwear or a G-string.
A lot of the younger dancers couldn’t be bothered to meet his lax guidelines.
“And it’s because they know it doesn’t really matter.
We’re interchangeable. The audience doesn’t care as long as they get to see some dick. ”
“Stop.” Tenny cupped Blake’s jaw with both hands.
“You take this more seriously than those guys, and that makes you stand out. You’re special, Blake.
I know you’re upset. What happened with your studio sucks, and it’s a lot to process.
You’ll get through this, but only if you stay true to who you are. ”
Enzo, the show’s flamboyant emcee, peeked his head around the curtain. His dark hair was slicked back, setting off the grey streak over his left temple. Pinpoints of light shimmered over his silver sequin dinner jacket.
“Two minutes, Tenny.” Enzo smiled, his unnaturally white teeth glowing in the subdued lighting.
“Thanks, Enzo.” Tenny turned back to Blake. “Hold that thought. We’re going to talk before you perform tonight, okay?
Blake nodded, his gaze trained on the floor.
“Excuse me, boys.” Dominic, the club’s cute, blond go-go boy, wiggled his way between Blake and Tenny, even though there was plenty of space to walk around them.
“My adoring fans await.” Dressed in nothing but neon shorts and his high-top Converse sneakers, Dom bounced on his heels, waiting for his cue to take the stage.
The music from the runway faded out, replaced by Enzo’s theatrical voice. “Okay, boys, let’s hear a final round of applause for Aston Martins, a luxury ride if ever there was one!”
The crowd whooped and cheered, and seconds later Aston appeared from behind the curtain, a sheen of perspiration on his face and chest.
A peppy club track started up. Dom stood on his toes and kissed Aston on the cheek. “Be right back, sexy.” He bounded onto the stage and the crowd went wild.
While he scooped up the scattered dollar bills on the runway, Dom flirted shamelessly with the guys in the audience – joking around, wiggling his ass in their faces, and hyping them up for the next performer.
A natural-born ham, he would throw in an occasional split or death drop to net a few tips of his own.
When he returned backstage, he handed Aston a fistful of bills. “Your tips, darling.”
“Thanks, love.” Aston kissed Dom on the lips before heading into the dressing room.
The pulsing intro to “Promiscuous” boomed from the speakers, and Enzo leaned into his mic. “Who’s ready to sprout some wood?”
The cheers were so loud they nearly drowned out the music.
“Prepare to get those branches pruned by everyone’s favorite lumberjack…” Enzo drew out the pause for dramatic effect. “Woody Long!”
At the sound of his stage name, Tenny winked at Blake and strutted onto the stage with his thumbs hooked into his belt loops.
Tenny was probably the best performer in the club aside from Blake. He had an old-school style, with lots of muscle flexing and pelvic thrusts. When he whipped off his flannel shirt and tore away his cutoff jean shorts, revealing his plaid jockstrap, a flurry of dollar bills rained onto the runway.
Aidan, one of the club’s laziest twinks, sidled up next to Blake, barefoot, in low-rise briefs and a midriff-baring T-shirt. “You’re on after me tonight, Dirk,” he said with a smug grin. “Hope you’re ready. I’m a hard act to follow.”
Blake rolled his eyes. Aidan was a mediocre dancer on his best day. The only reason he cleaned up on tips was because he was a dead ringer for Tom Holland.
Breathless and sweaty, Tenny jogged backstage, countless bills tucked under the elastic straps of his jock. As he plucked the bills free and sorted them, he shot Aidan a sly smile. “I warmed up the crowd for you, shrinky dink.”
Aidan snorted. “Thanks, old man.”
When Dom returned from the runway carrying the rest of Tenny’s sizable haul, Aidan’s lips twisted into a sneer. “Oh look, now you can afford your boner pills.”
“Aw, you’re cute,” Tenny said, tousling Aidan’s hair like he was a bratty little brother.
“Hey!” Aidan batted Tenny’s hand away and frantically fixed his hair while Enzo announced his name. He shot Tenny and Blake a venomous glare before taking the stage.
Tenny slung an arm around Blake’s shoulders and pulled him close. He smelled like cologne and fresh sweat. “Good crowd tonight.”
“Yeah,” Blake muttered, distracted by Aidan’s amateurish performance. He’d ditched his tank within seconds and was already on his knees, thrusting his crotch in guys’ faces.
“Aidan!” Virgil barked. “For fuck’s sake, put your dick back in your pants!”
Blake nodded toward Aidan’s tomfoolery. “I should just go out there, wag my dick at the crowd, and call it good.”
“Come here,” Tenny said, stepping behind Blake and hugging him from behind.
Blake settled into Tenny’s embrace, resting his head on his friend’s shoulder. The tickle of Tenny’s chest hair and his familiar, masculine scent were comforting.
When he and Tenny were dating, the sex had always been amazing. Sloppy, filthy, and a little rough. Then came the night when they were making out on Tenny’s couch, and Tenny stopped Blake from unzipping his fly. “I kinda just want to cuddle a little.”
To Blake’s surprise, he wanted that, too.
He nestled between Tenny’s legs and lay back against his big, burly chest. Blake had never been held by someone bigger than him.
He kissed Tenny’s pec, and looked up to find his friend watching him with his warm brown eyes.
They snuggled together and fell asleep to a movie, and that was that.
They were best friends, and never hooked up again.
Tenny spoke softly into Blake’s ear. “Look out into the audience and pick your guy for tonight.” It was their pre-show ritual.
By picking a man in the crowd and performing for him, it made the show more personal for everyone.
“He came just to see you, and you’re going to make his fantasy come true. Have you found him?”
Blake scanned the faces of the men nearest the runway, and his eyes landed on a thin guy in the front row, with glasses and a sheepish smile.
He looked like Lance Webber, Blake’s first crush.
Lance was the boy who starred in all the high school plays.
Tall and wiry, with beautiful, pale skin dotted with freckles, the teachers always called him “theatrical” – which Blake now understood was code for gay.
“I see him,” Blake said.
“You’re going to show him how special you are.”
Enzo popped backstage. “Two minutes, Blake!”
“I know you got kicked down today,” Tenny continued. “But you still have this gig. Make the most of it. You’re the headliner. You’re Dirk Slocum. Let me hear you say it.”
“I’m Dirk Slocum,” Blake repeated.
“Louder.”
“I’m Dirk Slocum.”
“That’s right. Tops want to be you. Bottoms want to be fucked by you. You’re Dirk motherfucking Slocum, and you’re a god.”
Once Aidan had left the stage and Dom had gathered the rest of his tips, the opening notes of “Battlefield” pulsed though the club, the bass line hitting like a heartbeat.
“It’s time to introduce the man of the hour, the one you’ve been gagging for,” Enzo announced, his booming voice crackling through the speakers. “Give a warm Firehouse welcome to… Dirk Slocum!”
Tenny kissed Blake’s cheek and stepped back. “Now go be the star that you are.”
Blake took a deep breath and sauntered onto the runway. The spotlight hit him full force, cloaking the club in darkness beyond the glare. His face slipped into a sexy smolder, his lips curving into the merest hint of a smirk – his signature look that always drove the crowd wild.
But he was still stuck in his head, and his body lagged behind the beat. His opening move – a sharp hip snap and a slide forward – landed too soft, and too late. The mistake threw off his rhythm, and although he tried to recover, his moves kept landing on the wrong beats.
Pull it together, Larsen. Pausing at the edge of the stage, he whipped off his patrol cap, ruffled his hair, and tossed the hat into the crowd.
He found his chosen guy in the crowd – the thin guy who looked like his first crush – and locked eyes with him, long enough to make the guy squirm.
Then, in time with the chorus, he threw open his jacket and dropped to his knees.
He beckoned the man forward, taking his hands and placing them on his bare chest.
The guy swallowed hard, awestruck, as he massaged Blake’s muscular pecs. That look of wonder in his eyes made Blake feel like the hottest guy in the club.
You’re Dirk motherfucking Slocum.
He sprang to his feet and tore away his pants with one swift motion. Every spotlight flared to life, flooding the stage with blinding white light.
Blake danced down the runway, finding his groove, his blood pumping and endorphins flooding his system. Every few steps he’d dip low so men could tuck dollar bills under the waistband of his briefs, their hands lingering, their fingers grazing his dick.
For his grand finale, Blake took three running steps and launched into a front handspring, arcing through the air and landing on the final beat of the song. He held his pose, arms out, chest heaving, his gaze searching the crowd.
Men near the runway cheered, reaching for him, bills in hand. Their shouts and catcalls cut through the applause.
“Show us your dick!”
“Get your nipples hard!”
“Take off your boots, and let’s see those size twelves!”
Blake’s arms dropped to his sides. These guys were cheering because he was a naked man in front of them. Swap him out for any other hunk, and they’d be drooling just as hard.
I’m expendable.
He listlessly collected the rest of his tips and forced a wink and smile before heading backstage, dreaming of a day when he might be bathed in a spotlight while an audience gave him a standing ovation for his talent, rather than his body.
When he was a real star – someone who was seen, rather than watched. Someone worthy of respect.
Someone who mattered.