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Authors: Blue Blake

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BOOK: Out of the Blue: Confessions of an Unlikely Porn Star
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The one exception to this rule was a guy called Dirk Yates. He lived in San Diego near a marine base, and he would pay young, hot marines $200 to jerk off in front of the camera. They would walk in, drink a beer and jerk off watching a straight porno. Dirk made hundreds of these movies, and with the money from them opened up his own studio called “All Worlds.” His is one of the most successful studios in the world, all created by one man’s unique vision. Those DVDs are still available today and are still as popular as ever, although All Worlds is now owned by Chi Chi LaRue under his company Channel One Releasing.
Following Jeff’s advice I sent a couple of pictures of Gage and I to “COLT Studios” in Los Angeles. A few days later the phone rang.
“Blue Blake, please.”
“That’s me.”
“Are you and your brother Gage available to fly to Los Angeles to shoot for
COLT
Magazine?”
I felt light headed. COLT was calling us . . . they wanted us to be COLT models! I couldn’t believe it.
“Anytime,” I said.
“Good, I’m putting air tickets in the mail. My name’s David, I’ll pick you up at the airport.”
I was so excited I didn’t even ask him what we were to be paid for the shoot.
When Gage came home I was doing the hula round the Christmas tree.
“You’re happy,” he laughed.
“Guess where we’re going,”
“Dunno . . . do we have any tuna left?”
We lived on tuna, pasta and Gatorade.
“We are going to Los Angeles this week to be . . . COLT MODELS!!!” I squealed
“Nice . . . now take that pineapple off your head and boil us some pasta.
Cops
is about to start.” Gage loved anything violent on television. He loved watching cop shows where small town sheriffs would raid crack houses in Bumfuck Texas, and women with no teeth and bruises on their legs would run screaming across the screen. I think it reminded him of Liverpool. He wanted to wallow in his working class roots . . . I was fleeing mine.
I knew Gage wouldn’t be excited about being a COLT model. He never got excited about anything like that. This was probably good because I was overexcited about gracing the pages of the esteemed magazine so somebody had to keep my feet firmly planted on the ground.
All we knew about L.A. was that people from San Francisco sneered whenever Los Angeles was mentioned. They said it was full of stuck-up, steroid airheads who were only concerned with how they looked: spending all day working out and tanning. This was music to my ears. San Francisco was having a detrimental effect on how Gage looked. San Francisco was all about body modification, tattoos, piercing, even branding. Gage had gotten more tattoos than I could count, and he had rings in his ears and his dick. I put my foot down when I caught him trying to have his nose pierced with a bone through it.
“Are you crazy?” I ranted, “You’re going to look like some Swahili tribesman!”
It was time to get out of San Francisco. We had a lot of regular clients, but if I got one more call from a guy asking me to shit on him . . . . Perhaps we would like L.A. and L.A. would like us. L.A.
loved
us!
We arrived during a huge rainstorm. Even so, I already noticed a big difference from San Francisco. Everyone was tanned and cheerful.
“I’m glad I didn’t put that bone through my nose,” said Gage sheepishly.
Jim French’s assistant picked us up at the airport and drove us to a motel in the San Fernando Valley. This was the porn capitol of the world, which surprised me because it looked like such a normal town. I don’t know what I was expecting, huge neon signs of topless chicks twirling their boobs perhaps. Jim’s assistant told us there was a gym a few blocks away.
Gold’s Gym of North Hollywood was great. Lots of massive straight bodybuilders and soap opera stars. Even so, we caused quite a stir. We dressed like superheroes: all spandex shorts from Hot Skins and flesh-baring cropped tops from
Flash Dance
. I even wore a do-rag, which was extremely fashionable in those days.
One guy approached us with an interesting offer as we were leaving the gym. He told us that The Tom of Finland Company was going to be making its first XXX-rated film based on the erotic drawings of the famed Tom of Finland. Hugely popular, Tom of Finland was an artist who had indeed been born in Finland in 1920. Tom grew up in a time and place where men were either closeted or flaunted their homosexuality by being outrageously effeminate. Tom’s artwork portrayed a different world where super built, super masculine men flirted and had full on hardcore sex with each other. Every gay guy I knew who was into bodybuilders had at one time or another been profoundly affected by the work of Tom of Finland. By the time Tom died in 1991, he had greatly challenged gay stereotypes by showing well-built studs who were neither weak nor effeminate. One of the saddest aspects of my life was that I never got to meet this icon who, up until his death, had been living in Los Angeles.
The guy who approached us was a talent scout and said we would make the perfect stars for the film. Of course there was only one problem. Gage had never fucked a bodybuilder before in his life. He certainly had-n’t fucked me, and he certainly wasn’t ready to do it on film. Details, details, I thought, as my mind whirled around with the possibilities of appearing in the film. I was positive I could convince Gage to star in the film with me. We were about to shoot for COLT, and we had been offered starring roles in Tom of Finland’s
The Wild Ones
. Could my head get any bloody bigger? I was going to have to grease it up like a pig to get it out of the door of the gym. I told the talent scout to give us a call when he knew more details about the shoot and slipped him our business card. I loved Los Angeles already!
That night I could hardly sleep from excitement. We had been told there was full wardrobe at the COLT Studio, so we had to bring only ourselves. I couldn’t wait! Jim French was a genius, the Leonardo da Vinci of erotic photography. Well, Jim French was also . . . ENORMOUSLY FAT!!! and not incredibly pleasant either. Generally I’m extremely congenial and tend to get on with everybody but I have to admit Jim was a bloody trial. We had arrived at the studio and been led by an assistant through a warehouse full of merchandising—COLT t-shirts, videos, fridge magnets—into a large photo studio. There, under an umbrella, sat Jim French. You know how you can meet people you instinctively don’t get on with? That was Jim and I. I was shocked by how he looked, and I don’t think that he was crazy about me either. I was a little too Rubenesque for Jim’s tastes, whereas Gage was genetically ripped to the bone and covered in veins. Gage was always super vascular but big and healthy looking.
“If only he didn’t have those ugly tattoos,” was the first thing out of Jim French’s mouth as he looked Gage up and down. I grabbed Gage by the arm fearful he would jump on Jim.
I smiled, “It is such an honor and privilege to be working for you Mr. French.” I said.
He completely ignored me and shouted, “WARDROBE!”
Regardless of how Jim French looked and acted, he was a genius as a photographer. He photographed us both dressed as leather men and cowboys. His studio had a wardrobe like nothing I had ever seen before. It was packed to the rafters with all kinds of masculine costumes and outfits. Jockstraps hung everywhere and old pairs of sexy boots lined the walls. I recognized so many of the shirts and jackets from the magazines I had seen on the models from the
COLT
magazines when I was growing up. Now I was getting the opportunity to wear the same clothes that had graced the bodies of all the musclemen before me. I felt incredibly flattered.
A CONSUMMATE PROFESSIONAL,
Jim made sure that each shot he took was meticulously lit and staged. One shot could take an hour to set up and light correctly and I understood quickly why he was a legendary photographer. I learned more in those two days about looking sexy and provocative than I had learned in my entire life.
At the end of the two days, Jim had been swayed by Gage’s masculinity and he told Gage he wanted to shoot a whole calendar of him in Hawaii for fifteen days. Gage wanted more than the paltry $300 a day payment. Jim counted on Gage’s ego winning out, but Gage was all about the cash. Jim gambled with Gage and lost. As we were leaving the studio, I noticed a magazine with Chris Dickerson in it. Chris had been Mr. Olympia in 1982, at forty-three years old. He was a Nubian god, and he had been one of the bodybuilders I had worshipped in those old bodybuilder magazines such as
Flex
and
Muscle & Fitness
, and here he was stark naked in a
COLT
magazine showing off his engorged, and I do mean ENGORGED, cock.
“Hmmm . . . could I take one of these?” I asked Jim’s assistant.
Gage and I returned to San Francisco and Casa Sanchez. Back home we started doing magazine shoots like crazy. A gay TV show about San Francisco had filmed us for their opening credits, and our film
Twincest: The Blake Twins Raw and Uncut
came out. We were mini-celebrities.
After a few months, however, Gage grew restless and homesick for London. Our lease was running out, so I returned to London reluctantly with Gage. London wasn’t that bad, it was great to see all our old friends again. I knew I would never return to San Francisco again to live. Instead I had my eye on the bigger prize: Los Angeles . . . Hollywood . . . and I was pretty sure I could become a porn star. I had money in the bank and so at the end of my summer in London, I took the cash and jetted back to Los Angeles.
Gage chose to stay in London. He had fallen in love with a girl named Stephanie who he had met in a hugely popular nightclub called Trade, which was owned by Lawrence Malice, a quasi-celebrity on the London club scene. I first met Lawrence when I was twenty-one and massaging at the Camden Tiger. He was a white Rastafarian with blonde dreadlocks. I thought Lawrence was the dog’s bollocks . . . I adored him . . . not sexually, just because he was so much fun to hang around with.
Lawrence used to take me to a fetish club called La Maitresse. He would wear a latex leotard with fake breasts and 6-inch dominatrix stilettos and would suck off straight men in the club toilet. Jackie, the future singer from Bananarama worked in the cloakroom. I loved the place. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before. One night, I saw a woman dressed as a pony with a bit in her mouth pulling around a guy in a horse buggy by leather straps which were attached to her vaginal lips. La Maitresse was full of masters, slaves and dominatrices and you could wear anything. I would always take hooker girlfriends of mine there because they enjoyed getting their chance to beat willing straight men who would kneel in front of them, proffer them riding crops and beg to be lashed. One night I took a South African hooker named Carol, who weighed 200 pounds of plumpy pleasure. She was a favorite of Arab clients because of how voluptuous she was. Her boobs were a double FF cup. We made her a mini dress out of safety pins and bin liners and nobody blinked an eye . . . not even when she got drunk on snakebites and ripped it off to gyrate in just her knickers on the dance floor.
So I left Gage in London and returned to L.A. I rented a two-bedroom apartment in West Hollywood, the gay section of Los Angeles. It was a modern building with a rooftop swimming pool. I had never in my life had a swimming pool before so I was incredibly impressed. In San Francisco there had been an old tennis court on the roof of Casa Sanchez so this was immeasurable improvement. The building’s supervisor was a hot twenty-five-year-old blonde girl named Stacy who seemed to possess an endless wardrobe of micro mini skirts and high heels. She was a total alcoholic and would come scratching at my apartment door at midnight for some love and affection. Where was Gage when I really needed him?
I began escorting in Los Angeles but the work was slow. L.A. was full of escorts, so it was a buyer’s market. Although I had an advert in the local gay magazine
Frontiers
, I needed something to supplement my income. I was used to turning up to ten tricks a day and, apart from the cash, I enjoyed staying occupied. I got a job as a bouncer at a bar called “The Spike” on Santa Monica Boulevard. I worked two nights there; then gave it up. I was too full of steroids and I had a really short temper because of them, so being a doorman definitely wasn’t the right profession for me. People would get drunk and rowdy and I would get VERY moody.
While working at The Spike, I was chatted with a hooker who told me I should go check out a restaurant /bar on Sunset Boulevard called “Numbers.” Numbers was an institution in Los Angeles. Full of red velvet booths, it was packed every night with hookers and their clients eating dinner. It had a huge mirrored sweeping staircase you had to walk down as you entered. The minute I walked in the door I loved the place. The boys charged $200 an hour and you could easily turn two tricks a night—$400 a night and your days were free. I was in hog heaven. I met all kinds of interesting people and soon had my own booth where I would eat steak dinners every night before turning a couple of tricks. The food was excellent, and somebody always ended up buying me dinner. In return I was charming and hospitable and pretended not to notice they were older than dust. There was a high preponderance of older men there. On the slow nights the hookers would take each other home, but I rarely did this as I was all about business. This was 1992, and there was still very little Internet, so it was either wait by the phone or go to Numbers. I did both. Years later Numbers closed down and became the famous club now known as Hyde, which is frequented by such quasi celebrities as Nicole Ritchie and Paris Hilton. In fact, it’s the club where Britney Spears was photographed flashing her vagina to all and sundry whilst climbing out of her car. That club has definitely seen it all: my pecs
and
Britney Spears’ vagina.
BOOK: Out of the Blue: Confessions of an Unlikely Porn Star
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