Money’s on the Dresser: Escorting, Porn and Promiscuity in Las Vegas (17 page)

Eventually the underwear came off, and they all revealed their hard-ons. Full frontal nudity? I certainly wasn’t opposed. I hadn’t seen this since the last time I had gone clubbing in Puerto Rico. Eventually, a lot of the guys in the club began lining up to suck their cocks, and the dancers looked like they loved it. Sometimes, the guys sucking their dick would give them a dollar; other times, they wouldn’t and the dancers didn’t seem to care either way. The dancers all had erections and were groping each other and fondling themselves as guys continued to line up to suck their dicks. I wasn’t disturbed by the fact that these guys were getting sucked off in a sleazy club by dozens of guys; I was more concerned about the guys sucking the dicks. Weren’t these men concerned about waking up with a herpes, gonorrhea, or syphilis? A cute lesbian standing nearby leaned over and said to me, “I’m not upset about the cock-sucking going on. I’m more concerned about these men sucking dirty dick. Aren’t they worried they’re going to catch something like herpes, gonorrhea, or syphilis?”

“OH, MY GOD!” I yelled. “I was thinking the exact same thing!”

We bonded over the show going on in front of us and talked about how sad it was these boys weren’t even making decent money to get their dicks sucked by a room of seedy-looking guys. As we were watching the oral sex show, one guy put one of the dancer’s dicks in his mouth and went to town on it. There must have been a spilled drink on the floor because after about thirty seconds, he lost his balance and fell on the floor. The cocksuckers lined up behind him hurried to help him up and hoisted him onto a barstool, consoled him, and asked if he was okay. The man who fell put his hand on his forehead, fanning himself, with sheer panic in his eyes. I had just witnessed my first near death cock-sucking experience.

My new lesbian friend looked at me and said, “Oh, my God... did you just see that?” We both burst out laughing.

It was getting late and I wanted to head to one more leather bar before I called it a night, so I said bye to my new lesbian friend and got a cab to take me to one of my favorite bars in New York City, the Eagle.

I entered the building, which was packed on all levels. I got a shot of Jack and a beer at the downstairs bar and walked around. I always loved going to the Eagle when I visited New York and would usually make a few stops there during my stay. Guys were shirtless, in jocks, leather harnesses, making out, their dicks hanging out. It was seedy, and I loved it because it always reminded me of the “dangerous” gay leather bars homophobic televangelists and pastors would tell me as a child I would end up in if I turned out being gay. The Eagle was pure entertainment; it never disappointed me and tonight was no exception. I wandered around and played the part of a voyeur all night and met some very interesting people. Nobody had inhibitions there, especially about talking to others. I liked how guys would just approach me and start talking. Some would walk right up to me and say, “Can I suck your dick?” I would usually always politely decline, but I would thank them for the offer and say, “Good luck tonight,” and smile.

After three shots of whiskey and three pints of Stella, I had to go to the bathroom, which at that point had turned into one of the most crowded places in the bar. I saw a man lying in the giant urinal getting pissed on by four or five guys and loving every minute of it. Again, I was astonished to be witnessing something so crazy, yet ultimately not surprised at all because it was New York City after 2 a.m. on a Saturday at the Eagle. After the bathroom show, I washed my hands and got my jacket from the coat check. I headed back to the hotel and got a sandwich at a deli close to where I was staying—a perfect end to an amazing night.

Part Three

On my final day in New York, I woke up to a text from a friend named Brian, a local bartender from Vegas, saying Phil Wells was shot and killed at 5:30 a.m. earlier that day. Phil Wells? I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and reread the text. I knew the name but couldn’t put a face to it. I replied with, “Who’s Phil Wells?” and hit send.

I figured we were probably Facebook friends so I logged on and entered his name. His picture came up, and I automatically realized who he was. We weren’t close, but he was a bartender at a place called the Garage, and I always saw him when he was working or out with friends at the bars. He was a super nice guy, with the biggest smile on his face at all times. He—along with the other bartenders—was the reason everyone went to the Garage; they were incredibly sweet and polite to everyone. As soon as I saw his picture, I began to read my newsfeed and saw dozens of updates from my Vegas friends about the shooting. Everyone was in shock, crying, panicking, and exchanging information.

I didn’t know what was going on, but I tried my best to follow the story all day and read the posts updated every few minutes. It didn’t take long for the Las Vegas Metro Police Department to catch the guy who shot him. It was a jilted ex-boyfriend turned stalker who flew to Vegas, checked into a Motel 6, went to the Garage around 5:30 a.m., and fired thirty shots in Phil’s back, neck, and head. They caught him before he was boarding a plane back home to Tennessee. I was in disbelief as I read all the posts and watched the local news online. How was this happening? This was something I had only heard about or seen on TV and here it was, unfolding in front of everyone. What dumbfounded me—and upset many others too—was that Phil Wells was a guy who was so incredibly sweet to everyone. Why would someone fly across the country and fire thirty shots into him? It made no sense to me, and my heart ached for Phil’s family and for everyone who had lost a friend.

I spent my last day in New York wandering the streets and drinking coffee, still a stunned by the news. The weather was gray, which suited my mood, and my brain felt numb trying to make sense of what had happened.

As I was trying to process everything and make sense of it all, I walked by a psychic shop that I had passed numerous times since I checked in to my hotel. I was curious about it but had been hesitant about going in. I generally only liked to go to psychics and get my cards read when it was someone recommended to me. But I saw that it was only forty dollars for a thirty-minute reading, so I decided to give it a try. I walked in and entered into what appeared to be someone’s living room with two men and an older, larger woman. The men were watching TV and the woman was talking very loudly on the phone. They all stopped to stare at me, and I immediately felt awkward, as if I had walked into someone’s private home. I wanted to turn around and walk out, but I decided to at least ask about the services they offered.

The younger man led me into the small entryway and told me to have a seat. The room was incredibly tiny and could barely hold a small end table and two chairs. He told me about the services they offered, and I said I would like my cards read. He instructed me to shuffle the deck and cut the cards. After I did so, he began to lay them out in front of me. He took a few minutes to study the cards and he finally looked at me and said, “I’m getting some really strong stuff from you, and I don’t think I can read your cards. I’m going to get my mother. She knows all.”

This whole situation was a little strange, but I said, “Okay.”

Within a few minutes the large woman came out into the sitting room. She introduced herself, and I told her my name and immediately she started coughing. She sounded like she smoked at least a pack of cigarettes a day. After she got over her coughing fit, she sat down. She was missing several teeth, had more facial hair than I had ever seen on a woman, and rather than breathe, she wheezed the entire time I was there. Her appearance was a little startling, but I felt if you wanted to have an interesting experience with a psychic, she was probably the best woman for the job.

As she shuffled the cards, she asked me some basic questions, like where I was from, my age, my zodiac sign, and where I was born. She then instructed me to cut the cards and began to lay them out in front of me. She asked me what my name was again.

“Christopher,” I answered.

“Christopher, you were supposed to have some spiritual work done... what happened?” she asked.

I thought about it and realized she was right. “I had met with a psychic three times, but after she forgot about our meeting on two separate occasions, I finally gave up and stopped seeing her.”

“I see...” she said. “I see you are in holistic medicine. I see that you have a very long life ahead of you, and you are in great health. I see that you are supposed to be involved in physical fitness somehow, and you are supposed to be a writer... I see you giving seminars. What do you do for work now?”

I hesitated but said, “I do porn. Escort... and dance.”

“And do you love this?”

“I love aspects of it, but I’m not sure how long I want to be doing this.”

“Do you want to be an actor?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I don’t see any of this in your cards. Acting is not for you. I see you as a writer because you have a gift and you need to pursue that. Unfortunately, though, you have a lot of enemies. People are jealous of you and do not like you. They may seem nice to your face, but behind your back, they are jealous and speak ill of you.”

My eyes widened.
Really? People don’t like me?
I always tried to be likeable, but I guess everyone has enemies. She told me she definitely sees writing in my future as well as a big move. She told me my aura is that of a sixty-year-old man and I have a lot of negative forces keeping me down. She also told me the love of my life was a dark, handsome, and very jealous man. She sensed a strong P name and asked if I knew anyone with a name that began with P. When I told her I didn’t, she kept saying, “P...P... all I see is a P.” It was weird because I honestly couldn’t think of anyone in my day-to-day life with a P name, so maybe I have yet to find him.

She asked what birth order I was in my family, and I told her I was the youngest. She said I had been an unwanted pregnancy, and at first my father didn’t want me. This surprised me, and I was a little shocked. I didn’t see that one coming. She said I was looked at as one more mouth to feed. I’m not sure how I felt about that because I never sensed it from my parents growing up. She said it was something I sensed early on in the womb.

Although I was a little bit confused and surprised, I took it all with a grain of salt. The encounter was informative, and I was sure to record the whole session so I could see if her predictions would come to pass in the future. She wanted me to stay and pay an additional two hundred dollars to get some more cleansing done, but I had to politely decline and get on a shuttle bus to LaGuardia. I got up, thanked her, and left to catch my ride to the airport. The information she shared with me wasn’t life-changing, but it gave me a lot to think about on the flight home to Vegas.

I didn’t realize my week in New York was so eventful until I sat down to write about it. I’m not sure if I’ll ever live in New York City, but whenever I go, it never disappoints me and I can’t wait to go back.

Chapter Ten

Five Porn Shoots, Three Clients, Painted, and Food Poisoning.

Three weeks after I got back from New York City, I made my way to the West Coast for ten days of shooting porn and a dancing gig at the famous Nob Hill Theatre in San Francisco. I started off my trip in LA for three days, where I shot a scene for men.com with the porn star Phenix Saint.

I had worked for men.com one other time before that, and it was a good experience. The director I worked with was a woman named Laura, and I had had a good time working with her and the rest of her crew. I thought Phenix was decent-looking, but it didn’t take me long to realize he was not gay and he was probably just doing porn for the money and/or “fame.” The shoot went reasonably well, but I generally found it annoying shooting a scene with a straight man because they had many limitations on what they would and wouldn’t do and they always had to have straight porn playing in the background. I understand we all have our things that get us off, but it never helped me reach an orgasm on set or maintain an erections when I had to hear a woman screaming as she’s getting fucked in the background. Phenix seemed to really get off on watching girls deep throat large dicks and massive dildos. In one of the scenes he was getting off to, I watched in horror as this pretty, innocent-looking girl gagged on an eleven-inch dildo and giggled after she took it out of her mouth. He seemed to love this and it eventually did the trick and helped him shoot his load all over me.

After the shoot and a few days in LA, I flew to San Francisco for seven days, where I had four shoots lined up and to dance at the Nob Hill Theatre. I had planned the trip to SF months before when Michael Brandon from Nob Hill asked me to come out and be one of their featured performers on a Friday and Saturday night. Around that time I was booked to dance, the casting director and friend Race Cooper also asked me to do a live webcam show for Raging Stallion Studios with two of my favorite directors, Bruno Bond and Steve Cruz. Initially I thought the trip would only be a few days of work and a few days of shooting, but once the porn studios Titan and Hot House heard I was in town, they asked me to be a part of their shoots as well.

All of a sudden my relaxing vacation in San Francisco turned into four porn shoots (three of them back to back) and four shows dancing at Nob Hill. When I tried to spread the shoots out over the seven days I would be in town, I knew it wouldn’t be possible to change the dates. My worst fear in shooting all the scenes was that I would be exhausted, worn out, completely drained of cum, and looking horrible on camera. Masturbating four days in a row is one thing, but shooting a quality scene with some of the biggest studios in the industry required rest and being mentally and physically prepared. I hated shooting more than two days in a row because I never felt like my performance was any good and the audience would be able to tell. Sure, we were only filming porn and this wasn’t a Broadway production, but I still thought of it as a “performance” and didn’t want my name attached to it if it wasn’t any good. Everyone in the industry knew that certain bloggers who reviewed gay porn could be complete bitches when reviewing the latest scenes, and the commentators and readers of these blogs were oftentimes worse than the person writing the reviews. When I first started shooting porn this always caused me a little stress when a scene came out, but now I was used to it and rarely read the reviews or comments.