Out of the Blue: Confessions of an Unlikely Porn Star (14 page)

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Authors: Blue Blake

BOOK: Out of the Blue: Confessions of an Unlikely Porn Star
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Drummer Magazine
was the leather men’s bible and each year they held the Mr. Drummer Leather Contest in San Francisco to see who would be the world’s ultimate leather man. This year there would be contestants from all over the world including one from the UK . . . me, I decided. If I could be Mr. Key West, I sure as hell could slip into a body harness and fool everybody into thinking I wore processed animal skins twenty-four hours a day.
I trotted down to the local fetish store in Soho and persuaded the guy behind the counter to create me various body harnesses for daywear and latex wrestling suits for evening wear. The guy was known as “Black Beauty” because he looked like the horse from Anna Sewell’s famous novel, all big gums and thick black hair down to his waist. I let him suck my toes in the changing room for a free pair of army boots. Done up in leather I actually didn’t look too bad! I had a regular client who always wanted me to wear leather but I stopped seeing him because he had enormous foreskin that he always wanted me to chew on like a bullmastiff with a rubber chew toy. He had the stretchiest foreskin I’d ever munched. It was unnatural. He told me he was married to a famous super model and she didn’t like to chew his foreskin either. Who knew foreskin had so many calories?
The night of the contest we all made our way to the club in Shepherd’s Bush. I had all of Earl’s Court Gym there supporting me. Walking in my head-to-toe body harness was very difficult and every time I walked past somebody I would get hooked on them for the next five minutes because of all the buckles and straps I was wearing. Leather body harnesses are extremely uncomfortable, and I was wearing a jockstrap made of barbed wire and knee-length leather jackboots. Thank you Black Beauty, Anna Sewell would have been horrified.
There were twelve contestants in the contest, every single one ashen-faced and smelling of stale amyl nitrate. None had ever seen the inside of a gym in their lives. I knocked it out of the ballpark.
“The winner of Mr. Drummer UK 1990 is . . . ” ME. I was handed a leather sash, a check for 500 pounds and a round trip plane ticket to San Francisco for the world final.
Things had been going badly between Bill and me. It was all my fault. I had fallen in love with Bill but we seemed to be moving in different directions. I wasn’t as attentive to him as I should have been. I was surrounded by straight bodybuilders who all wanted a bit on the side, behind their wives and girlfriend’s backs. I wanted to oblige them. It wasn’t fair to Bill who was a really good-looking sexy guy. He could have had anybody he wanted. We broke up and I later regretted the fact for years. Bill moved on really quickly with his life, but I pined for him for a long time.
The Mr. Drummer Contest in San Francisco was huge. Leather men from all over the world attended. Half of San Francisco was gay but the gayest part of all was the Castro District. It was packed with leather daddies and their slaves for Mr. Drummer Week. At first I thought it was rather freakish, but after a couple of days I started to really enjoy the company of the leather fraternity. They were all actually rather sweet, and I learned so much about how to house and care for your slave. I was told about a book called
The Leatherman’s Handbook,
which I devoured in one sitting since I was about to be grilled at the pre-judging of the contest. The pre-judging consisted of a panel of about twelve older leather men asking me questions about my leather life style. Questions were thrown at me. “When you go to a bar, do you allow your slave to drink out of a glass or must he always drink from a dog bowl at your feet?”
“When your slave has been rude to you, do you withhold from him the pleasure of drinking your piss?” I tried to take all of this as seriously as possible but true to my evil nature I would sometimes find the devil in me overtaking and I gave replies such as,
“Not only do I withhold the taste of my nutritious piss, but I refuse to shit in his mouth for a month.”
I knew there was no way in hell I was going to win this contest, but I was already being celebrated for being Mr. Drummer UK so things could have been much, much worse. I became really good friends with Mr. Drummer Australia, a guy my own age who lived in Sydney. He told me over Mimosas he liked being strangled until he passed out during sex.
“Me too,” I lied.
All week there were parties every night. One night we were all auctioned off for dinners that had been donated by various local restaurants. The event was held at the world famous leather bar, the Eagle.
We all drew straws to see who would be auctioned off first. I had drawn the shortest straw, which meant I would be auctioned off last. One by one we were paraded onto the stage. An enormous lesbian in the audience had taken a shine to me and was determined to buy me. She was dressed in a leather policeman’s motorcycle uniform and was standing with a stunning blonde girl who was wearing a bra, chaps, leather knickers and nothing else. The bidding for me went up to $250 before the lesbian dropped out and I was “acquired” by a leather man at the front of the stage. The contestant before me had sold for $7.50, so I was happy. I think the fact that he was wearing just a leather diaper and boots had scared the potential bidders.
As I walked off the stage I was grabbed by the enormous lezzy. “I’m Officer Betty of the Safe Sex Police and this is my girlfriend Gabriella, she’s Miss Cheeks in Chaps 1989.”
“What a pleasure to meet you,” I said. “And thank you for driving the bidding so high.”
“You’re hot,” said Gabriella. “Have you ever thought of doing porn?” Gabriella spoke all of her words with a heavy Hungarian accent, which brought about images of Zsa Zsa Gabor.
“No,” I laughed. “I don’t think I’d be very good at it.”
“You’d be divine,” said Gabriella. “I shoot for
Penthouse
all the time and I’m always looking for guys to do
Penthouse Couples
with me. Would you like me to arrange it?”
“Well, let me have a think about it,” I said, feeling incredibly flattered. People in San Francisco were so friendly, I thought for the hundredth time that week.
“Have you done magazines before?” asked Officer Betty.
“Well, all the contestants have to shoot a centerfold for
Drummer Magazine
. I’m doing mine with Mister Germany Drummer.”
Betty and Gabriella looked at each other.
“Good God,” said Gabriella. “
Drummer Magazine
employs awful photographers. You would be far better off in
Penthouse Couples
with me.”
“Or you should be a COLT model,” said Officer Betty.
COLT model!!! Yeah, in my wildest dreams. COLT was a company owned by a photographer called Jim French. He produced magazines and calendars with bodybuilders who were the epitome of masculinity. He worked with the hottest men in the world. No way did I look like a COLT model.
I spent the whole night drinking with Betty and Gabriella. They knew everybody and I was slowly drawn into their world of fetish and friendliness. Betty was the daddy and Gabriella was her lipstick lesbian girlfriend. Betty worked as a plumber and Gabriella owned a leather store in the Castro by day and was a stripper by night.
“I had better be getting back to my hotel,” I said.
“We’ll give you a ride.”
My hotel was a dump, and when we pulled up outside in Betty’s truck, Gabriella said, “This place is a fucking rat hole.”
“It’s where they put all the contestants,” I said.
“I have a great idea!” squealed Gabriella. “You have to stay at our apartment. We live on the hill above the Castro, and Betty can drive you around. If you let me take pictures of you wearing leather from my store to put on posters in the window, you can keep the outfits.”
“Are you sure?” I laughed.
“No arguments,” said Officer Betty. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at noon, so go and pack.”
I thanked them profusely and strode into the grubby lobby of the hotel.
“There’s a message for you,” said the one-eyed desk clerk.
“For me?” I asked. “Who from?”
“Al Parker,” he whispered.
“I don’t know anybody called Al Parker. Only the porn star.”
“That’s who the message is from,” cackled one-eye.
Al Parker was an enormously famous porn star. He was extremely good looking with a humongous dick. He was hairy with a big moustache and owned his own porn company in San Francisco called “Surge Studios.” I had all of his films back in London and couldn’t believe he had contacted me. I opened the note: “Saw you tonight on stage at the Eagle. Call me. Al.” There must be some mistake, I thought as I walked up to my room. What could Al Parker want with me? I dialed his number.
“This is Al,” a really sexy voice said, a voice I recognized immediately from the movies.
“Mr. Parker,” I stammered, “this is. . . .”
“Glenn Marsh. I recognize your voice from the contest tonight. Mr. Drummer UK.”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“I was thinking, perhaps we might get together tonight. I could be there in twenty minutes.”
“Sure,” I said.
The phone clicked off. My head was spinning. Al Parker. He was so famous. I jumped into the bath and twenty minutes later there was a knock on my hotel door. There stood Al Parker, all 5-foot-5 of him. He looked exactly as he did in the movies, only much shorter. I was to learn that very few porn stars are larger than life when you meet them in the flesh. One thing, however, that was just as big in the flesh was his cock. He was great in bed and while we were fucking I felt him grease up his balls and stick them up my arse alongside his dick, a definite first for me but it felt perverted and great. To achieve this act takes a great deal of patience and a genius in bed. Al was definitely a sexual maestro.
As the sun rose and he was getting dressed a thought struck me.
“Al, you’re a COLT model, aren’t you?”
“Yep,” he said.
“Do you think I could be one too?”
“Sure, why not?” he said. “Listen, do you wanna have dinner tonight?”
“I can’t, somebody bought me in an auction and I have to have dinner with them.”
“Poor you,” he laughed. “How about tomorrow night?”
“I can’t, I’ve got to attend the Leather and Lace Ball. It’s part of Drummer Week.”
“I’ll be there too, how about we go together?”
Me and Al Parker on a date! And it couldn’t hurt my credibility in the eyes of the judges.
“Sure, why not?” I said nonchalantly but inside I was screaming with wild glee.
At noon Officer Betty arrived and loaded my suitcases into the back of her truck. I had a rehearsal for the Mr. Drummer contest at 2 p.m., so we rushed to her apartment. When she flung open the door I couldn’t believe my eyes. The place was jam packed floor-to-ceiling with strap-on dildos, stripper Lucite heels and leather pornography.
“Gabriella’s still asleep, she was working until 4 a.m. She needs to get her rest because she’s having vaginal reduction surgery in a couple of days,” Betty offered.
I stared blankly at her in disbelief.
“She had her labia pierced a few years ago but now it’s pulled the lips out too much so she’s having them reduced.”
I turned pale.
“I think I’m going to be late for rehearsal,” I said, trying to change the topic. “And we’re finishing learning a song and dance routine to perform on the final night of the contest.” Of course, this was just as ridiculous as it might sound. Two dozen leather men doing a show tune in full leather drag. It was as tragic as you’d expect. The song was from
Les Miserables
and nobody could pick up the dance steps naturally. As we paraded around the stage, I suddenly realized that this show was going to be an all out camp fest.
Betty raced me down to the rehearsal studios. Karen, the leather dyke who was running the whole Mr. Drummer event, glared at me.
“You’re late again!” she shouted.
“Oh, fuck off,” I thought. I couldn’t stand her. She was a miserable cow. I had been late every day for rehearsal but only because I was busy wallowing in the pleasures that San Francisco had to offer.
“And where’s your leather sash?”
Oops, I had given that to Al Parker in celebration of him fucking me with giant ball sack.
“Oh, never mind, just get into rehearsal and you better remember the routine!” she barked.
The other contestants adored me. They thought I was a total lunatic. Word had spread that when the judges had asked me what the next Mr. Drummer should be, I had replied: “Young.” I didn’t give a toss. I was feckless and fearless and I was in San Francisco to have a good time, and boy was I.
By the time the night of the final contest rolled by, I was in love with The City. I had settled in for my final days there with Officer Betty and the stunning Gabriella amidst the bras and thongs and sex toys. Meanwhile Al had moved onto other conquests so I was footloose and fancy-free. I had shot my centerfold spread for
Drummer Magazine
and also a cover and article for a magazine called
Powerplay
. Me, holding a giant Rottweiler on the cover; not-so-subtly suggesting I was into bestiality, which I wasn’t.

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