Out of the Blue: Confessions of an Unlikely Porn Star (3 page)

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Authors: Blue Blake

BOOK: Out of the Blue: Confessions of an Unlikely Porn Star
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That year
Cowboy
was nominated for numerous Gayvn awards—the porn world’s equivalent of the Oscars. I was personally nominated for three of those awards: Best Movie, Best Director, and Best Screenplay. Caesar won Best Actor, he deserved it.... I won bloody nothing!
CHAPTER TWO
 
WHEN I FIRST BECAME A PORN STAR and did interviews for the press, I would always be asked by the interviewer, “Was it your lifelong dream to be a porn star?”
And I would always look at them in astonishment and give the same answer, “Absolutely not.”
It had never even crossed my mind. I was born in July, a Cancerian, one of the least appealing signs of the zodiac, at least to look at. I have a sister who’s a Leo and I would always read her stars in the paper, pretending they were mine. Leos always get:
“Today is your day, oh beautiful Leo. Blessed child of the shining sun, you will have a day of public worship and everybody will bask in your beauty.” A typical Cancerian quote would read: “Poor unfortunate crab . . . try to keep your chin up, trapped in your plain body.” Well, I didn’t feel like no damned crab, so for years I told people I was a Leo. I even shanghaied my sister’s birth date, August 5
th
, much to the bemusement of my mother and the chagrin of my sister. Looking back at this, it must have been the start of the reinvention of myself from Nottingham-born Glenn Marsh to London-born Blue Blake.
Nottingham in the 1960s was a strange mix of Northern charm and gorgeous-looking people. For some reason, they say that the most beautiful women in England are born in Nottingham. One of those girls was my mother, Jean. She had the look of Julie Christie but was 250 miles away from Swinging London, where perhaps she could have been discovered by David Bailey and become the next Twiggy. Instead she worked in a betting shop.
A betting shop, one of those foul British institutions where you take your hard earned wage packets and fritter them away on some losing nag at the 3:15 in Don-caster. Horse racing, dog racing . . . they’ll take bets on anything. Betting shops always smell of cheap liquor, old men and cigarettes—thousands upon thousands of cigarettes. The walls are yellowed by nicotine and the plastic furniture is screwed down in case some drunk who’s lost a week’s wages picks up a chair and hurls it at the nearest cashier. They work behind heavy plastic screens, obviously for their own safety.
It was in this romantic environment Jean met Victor, my father. Victor looked like a young Robert Wagner but was as dumb as a box of hair. He was beautiful but cruel and self-absorbed. My mother, of course, fell madly in love with him.
They were married and seven months later I was born. We were incredibly poor or perhaps just very working class. Our first house had no bathroom. The toilet was outside at the bottom of the yard and we didn’t use toilet paper but strips of newspaper torn up and hung on a hook. My father’s mother would drown kittens when her cat got pregnant in the very same toilet. This lasted until I was four when we moved into a house with indoor plumbing.
My mother was eighteen years old and my father was twenty when I was born. My parents’ marriage was stormy from the very start. On their wedding day my father chased my maternal grandmother around the garden with a carving knife for not ironing one of his shirts properly. It was the shape of things to come.
When they’d been married for two weeks, Victor, who was perturbed that his tea was cold, threw a twelve-piece tea service through the front room window. The window was closed.
This was the final straw. Jean may have been beautiful, but she certainly wasn’t stupid. She crammed as many of her belongings as she could into her mini-van and drove home to Mother. Grandma welcomed her with open arms. After all, she was still recovering from her own Olympic sprint around the rose bushes, with crazy Victor in hot pursuit brandishing sharp dinnerware.
My father was incredibly handsome and my mother was incredibly naïve. So, when he begged her to come home, she did. He promised he would never let his temper get the best of him again . . . until the next time. So began a cycle that would last the next twelve years. My father would have uncontrollable rages and smash things. Once, he smashed six dining room chairs and a dining room table.
From when I was ten to when I was sixteen years old, we lived in a large, detached house at the bottom of a
cul-de-sac
. I even remember the address, Twenty-eight Elm Tree Avenue. My parents had by this time made a little money through owning and running a fish and chip shop. The house was spacious and light and had a great staircase that ran down the center of the hall to the front door. I’d blow up an airbed and slide down the stairs at what seemed to my adolescent self like fifty miles an hour.
I wasn’t an easy child. I weighed nine pounds when born and had a shock of blond hair and blue eyes. Our next-door neighbors called me “killer” because I was always stomping around, getting into trouble. One time, my grandmother left me, foolishly, with her houseguest Lilly, while she went to pay the gas bill. She was only gone ten minutes, but when she returned the house was full of smoke and I was choking under the kitchen table. I had thrown every one of her velour cushions into the fire, along with my favorite teddy bear and all of my argyle cardigans. Strangely, I still to this day don’t own a cardigan. I don’t even like the sound of the word “cardigan.” Any chance I got, I would throw things into her hearth. My grandmother was convinced I was going to be a fireman when I grew up. Personally I think I was just reacting to the madness that surrounded me as a child.
When I was five years old, I found a can of gold spray paint in the garage. And before you could say, “let’s spray the living room gold,” I had done it, everything: Sofa, chairs, TV screen, wallpaper, even my suede shoes. My mother came home and cried. She took me to a child psychiatrist who told my mother I was just a “free spirit.” This was the Sixties; remember. Meanwhile, I had to be watched like a hawk.
Behind our house was an enormous sports field that belonged to the local Catholic boy’s school. There was a running track, tennis courts; even a long jump and high jump pit full of sand where we would spend hours building sand castles. The field was about twenty acres, surrounded by houses that backed onto it. In about ten of these houses lived children my age, and we all grew up together, one enormous gang.
There was Mandy Fob and her brother Grant. Both had some sort of blood disease, which meant they couldn’t do physical education at school and didn’t have to stand in line for school lunches. We teased them about having yellow skin. Children are cruel.
In the house next door to me lived my best friend Matt Palmer, his younger brother, Clive, and their older sister, Sharon. I remember Sharon was sexy and slutty and she’d let me finger her when we went to the local cinema. She’d pretend to be asleep. I was twelve; she was thirteen. Clive was eleven. He’d let me finger him, too.
In the house opposite lived Jan Rombie, who was an only child. His parents had him late in life, so he was really spoiled. He was given outrageous amounts of pocket money and bragged that he never had to brush his teeth. At the time, I was insanely jealous. I now realize he probably doesn’t have a tooth left in his head. His parents were chain smokers and their house always smelled like a dirty ashtray. His father bred budgerigars in sheds in the back garden; very successfully, I might add. Every wall in the house was covered in rosettes which read: “Best in Show,” “Best Beak,” “Best Feathers,” etc.
Jan’s mother was a seamstress, so the house was always full of the noise of birds and the constant whir of her Singer sewing machine. Even so, it was a friendly environment, and an escape from the tense atmosphere in my own home.
Further down the road lived Patrick Cox and his brother David. Their parents were divorced and they lived with their mother. In their den, they had the only lava lamp I had ever seen and I would beg Patrick to switch it on when I visited. I asked my mother if we could have one and she looked at me as if I’d gone insane.
Also on the road lived Wanda Fleur, my first girlfriend. She had long, beautiful, shiny brown hair and brown eyes. I was madly in love with her from the age of nine. She also had the best collection of Barbie clothes I’d ever seen. We’d spend hours dressing her dolls in mini skirts and tube tops. It must have been so obvious to her parents that I was gay.
Further down the road lived Jennie Warmsley. We all called her Jennie “Wormsley.” She never looked clean and their house smelled of Wendy, their pregnant bulldog, and the cigars her mother would smoke. My mother forbade me to play with Jennie, saying I would catch something. Jennie looked like Sissy Spacek in
Carrie
, sadly bovine. I realize, looking back on it, all my best childhood friends were cute. Even then I was drawn to the cute ones.
We were all about the same age, except my sister, Victoria, who was eight years younger. My mother would make me take her out with us, so she just automatically became part of our gang. We would pretend to make movies and I would direct and orchestrate the action. We always made action films. My best friend, Matt Palmer, played the hero because he was fearless and was constantly risking his life with the most foolhardy stunts. One day, I had him swing from a tree, holding on to a burning rope, twenty feet in the air while we pretended to film it. We had no cameras. We were just wild kids.
 
MY FOUR-YEAR OLD SISTER
would insist on playing the vamp . . . at four years old! At the time, it seemed very innocent. It now seems like kiddy porn, without the porn.
It goes without saying; we were obsessed with films. I went to the movies as often as I could. My local cinema was called The Futurist, and every Saturday morning all the children would run down to watch such classics as
Dr. Who and the Daleks
and
Herbie Rides Again
. I lived in the cinema. I was fascinated by the huge drapes which were all lit up to hide the screen in hues of blue and gold and red. I loved the coming attractions, especially if it was summer and a James Bond movie was on its way. In the movie
Diamonds Are Forever
there is a scene where Sean Connery is naked from the waist up, but it’s shot to suggest that he’s totally naked. He was so buff and furry-chested. I went home and jerked off every night for two weeks thinking about him.
The first grownup movie I saw was
Saturday Night Fever
. You had to be eighteen to get in and I was twelve. I went with a group of friends from school and when we snuck in it was like a religious experience. The following night, emboldened by my previous night’s success, I went to see Joan Collins in
The Stud
; a soft-core potboiler full of women with slipper tits. This was definitely pre breast implants. After that, I was addicted to movies with an X certificate. In England “X” meant over eighteen only. Slowly the movies we pretended to make grew darker and darker until my mother caught us dressing my sister in a polythene mini dress made from a bin liner. She forbade Victoria to play with us anymore saying she was too impressionable. The seeds in me, however, had been planted. I wanted to be a world-famous star. Whatever it would take, I was willing to do.
CHAPTER THREE
 
THE YEARS ON ELMTREE AVENUE FLEW BY. Typical teen years of studying, parties and long hot English summers. I was attending a local high school called West Bridgford Comprehensive, which had an amazing drama department and the teachers there encouraged my budding thespian talent. Before I knew it I had turned sixteen and left West Bridgford “High.” In England, to work in the theater or on television, you need an Equity card, which allows you to belong to the entertainment union. You can’t work without one, but they are incredibly difficult to get. However, once you have one the world is supposedly your oyster, and the easiest way to get one is by dancing in cheesy cabaret venues throughout the world. I was sixteen years old and ready to take the acting world by storm. The only problem was I needed that damn Equity card, but I knew just how to go about getting one.
I started attending Clarendon College where I was taking ‘A’ levels in English literature and Theater Arts. My parents were divorced and I was living with my mother and sister. It was the time of the “New Romantics,” after the punk era; and I drifted around dressed like Adam Ant, or in various costumes ranging from mad clown to pirate king. My hair was various shades of blue, green, purple and maroon.
To get my Equity card I had taken a job dancing at the local straight workingmen’s club, The Musters Hotel, which was owned by two friends of my mother’s, Sally and Rex Harvey. They had a cabaret room and every night along with the other resident acts we would perform with touring performers, bands with saccharine names like “Summer Rain,” or female singers called “Brandy Delight.” The female singers always closed their acts with Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive.” It still makes me smile when I hear that song, and I’ve heard it sung a million different ways, mostly badly.
I danced on stage for three pounds every night wearing fake leopard skin trousers and a black silk kimono. I got a perm and was convinced I was the second coming of Christ. The audience was made up of truck drivers who would watch me dumbfounded as I turned cartwheels sometimes in satin shorts wearing no underwear. Each night I slept with a different straight trucker. It was paradise.

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