Post by Jack "The Crack" Schlongson on Aug 14, 2016 14:00:56 GMT -6
"So...Is Jack Schlongson your real name?"
"Afraid not, hun," Outer Jack answers. Inner Jack berates. The question deserves swatting, but above all things, the host of the two voices is a machine of presentation. No give. No shake. Jack wears his part in this exchange like a fashionable sweater; a polite smile, a warm demeanor; its effective enough of a spell to get what he needs. Outer Jack continues to prattle on as inner Jack calculates, "Something outrageous to put on the credits. Don't want fans looking us up in the phone book."
"May I have your real name then? For paperwork sake."
"Peter Fitts...," bitter is the taste of oblivious parents.
-
From this sentiment I make my living; I make a life.
Even now, I watch as a set is erected for the upcoming Suicide Squad parody; Orgy Squad (the names are getting better all the time, right?). Styrofoam pillars, particle board walls, and sparse lighting form some broken idea of a set. At a momentary glance one can see the back lights piercing through the point where any two walls meet. So artless. Upon entering, I rolled my eyes at the half-assed a project. A cheap joke. Not that it mattered, this shoddy production will be a critically revered marvel compared to the dreck David Ayer is pumping through the veins of American Cinema. We'll be the standard future DC movies will have to beat, or so I remark to the amusement of my fellow stars. The jab is cheaper than the set-design, but never underestimate the power of a topical joke to gain a few knowing smirks. Get in good with the people you work with and you can step on them later on; an old industry secret, dear reader.
Wandering along in a fit of anxious boredom, I pass by a mirror. I pause for a moment, looking myself over. All I can do is chuckle. Donning my "Harvey Sinn" wardrobe, I take in the absurdity of my cut-off jean shorts and heavy make-up. I feel ridiculous, but in that ridiculousness is a humor, that of a worldly nature;
No one will buy this to be an official product of the DC license.
No one will mistake our parody characters with the (equally silly) originals.
Far from the point, sweet reader. For the momentary high sparked by intense arousal due to close equivalence, and a strange cultural obsession with seeing established characters get 'the bone', they will believe. Believe like a child believes in Santa Claus, or like a hipster believes in the healing power of irony. For a moment, they will take leave of their senses for the want of something (the great personal grift, the grande illusion, the unstoppable instant gratification, the evolutionary scorn fighting every defense of intellect for primal urge), and just as momentary will be their reward, followed by prolonged shame.
"What movie are we making fun of again?" Bran asks. His cheap, mostly-cardboard Deadshot costume (parody name; Moneyshot, if you were wondering) hangs off of him half finished, waiting for the rest of it to be stapled/glued together by the twelve cent design team.
"Does it matter?" I plop down into a nearby seat, resting my head on my hand, basking in the glow of florescent lights. Absent director, scattered cast, idle minds. What a dreadful affair, "the song remains the same, regardless; you read your lines as written, or not; do your best to play the part you're given, or not; fucking occurs, as always; and then we collect our checks and head home." Bran shrugs.
"Anyone see Golden Johnson?" Richard (aka "dick") walks in sporting a purple speed-o. Looking around, he turns away from me and I read along the back 'The Poker'. It takes every last bit of me to not walk off set.
-_-_-
Lets start at the beginning. The long-ago time. Before the ring, the checks, the DVDs, the shoots, the auditions, or even before the camera first turned its voyeuristic gaze on me. Predating life's many experiences, we dip our fingers into the past, and draw a frame of a Peter without the Jack, a personality absent of its synthetic-persona, and a life that had yet begin to bud. As with most things, I started out with good intentions. Unchipped by life, I looked on with innocence and wonder, but naivety doesn't beget further naivety. Instead, it breaks and gives way to a face-first dive into a wall of reality.
More than anything else, I wanted to be an artist. No specific area of expertise in mind, not even a priority list, the title itself was all I wanted. Gazing upon the many stars of the world (both on stage and on screen) I was transfixed on the concept of performance. To create, be admired, loved, thought of as brilliant. To be misunderstood with gusto and flair while millions desperately analysed the curves in my strokes, the words I put to paper, or the effortless nature to which my actions came. I projected looking back out into a sea of heads and speechless gazes, and every fiber of my being wanted to be there, close but out-of-reach. REACH TO THE SKY, YOUNG PETER, AND MAY THE STARS BURST AT YOUR TOUCH. Something told me I could, and in the most unfortunate sense, I believed it as essential.
As it started, so did the landslide continue. Seamless transitions between mediums were made (a failure in painting to a failure in singing to a failure in dancing etc. etc. etc.) and I pushed through it all with the idea that a notch in the world would open up just for me and I would fit perfectly inside. Even when faced with failure, I would redouble my efforts and begin my search anew, peering else where for inspiration.
That 'else where'? Writing. Acting. So Greek in essence that it seems hilarious now. What better things to romanticize? Two ideas that wish to be understood by those from afar; The one who pulls from Heaven's eye, placing it upon the page, and the one to rip from the page, bringing the words to life. When immersed in either, I was inebriated beyond hope of realization.
Daring my participation in whatever was accessible to me, my passions lead to my taking-part-in, what else: Drama club (Franklin High School in bumfuck, Arizon. Home of the Fighting Faggotbashers ['hoorah, hoorah, get that queer, get that queer and bring'em here, bring'em here!' -unofficial chant of the varsity football team]), an innocuous start if there ever was one. We, in our thespian infancy and artistic idiocy, attempted to die beyond our means by playing the classics; Death of a Salesman, A Streetcar Named Desire, Merchant of Venice, not realizing how simplistically we portrayed such deep and full characters. Though with that said, I felt like the eye in the storm of culture. Shakespearean in its own brilliant (yet childish) way; we were hormone filled insecure specks all roaming through the same dull building, jockeying for position in the impressionable minds of others. And few stood taller than I; maybe not a king, but as a friend I was good stock, the talented type that they knew. I performed, many cheered, and they vicariously drew in the attention, no matter how minuscule.
Beyond the statistical analyzation of the social ladder sat Brian Farren. There was no scheming or cynical positioning; simply existing with him, in his company and arms simultaneously without worry or wear. He was a treat among waves of adolescent banality.
We met in homeroom. In a moment of idle senses, announcements slipping in one ear and out the other, I overheard The Smiths playing through his headphones, and, on a whim, struck up a conversation. From there we got to know each other outside of school; uncovering vital parts of our identities which eventually entangled our lives beyond the cosmetic links of musical taste. It was a refreshing breath with a freedom that was quite uncommon in the deserted firelands of Arizona.
Unaware, to this day, whether my parents know the truth about my tastes (I'm sure some part of them has willed a mental vision of me through many Sundays spent dutifully attending church), the nights with Brian were a spectacular retreat from their puritan gaze, a fantastical secret which pulsed like electricity through our beings each morning when lies were told.
In all honesty, my time with Brian was less about Brian, and more a whimsical affair with a youthful spirit, a sweeping wind of experience that filled me with the pleasure of discovery. Brian was what the time called for. In a small town where the statistical probability of finding a similar person was rendered nil, Brian was the unfortunate recipient of being the statue; a representation. Ideally idle idol worship. Despite how we might have acted towards each other, I feel there was no real deception, being that Brian most likely felt the same way about me.
A half-assed romantic novel would have made note of the cliche 'sweet nothings' whispered, or what gentle touches and romantic outings there were, but would have lacked the nuance to mention the dubious nature which our relationship existed under. It was excitement we took, honesty we left at the door, both momentary trades (for one can be honest later, and equally as bored).
I have no problem admitting this now. It all ended amicably and, though demoted to a distant friendship, the company of the other was never begrudged in the context of public outings or platonic meetings. I would go as far as to say I hold ninety-nine percent certainty that the exercise was mutual. nine toes in the air. My only hesitance is in that I never asked, or got the chance to.
Brian committed suicide mere months before graduation. Rumors spread, as they do, saying he lacked the proper credits, but I knew that wasn't the case. Which only leaves me more perplexed, unable to sum up even the faintest of ideas why it happened. Just as briefly as existence had held him, so did it let him go; forever gone into a realm of memory only, without so much as a proper parting word.
Graduation came and went, and that was all one could say of it. Nothing felt different. No click happened to mark a turning point or new chapter. The mile-stone was a passing attraction, and it disappeared from view in mere moments, leaving us to look down the road, one that never seemed to change aside from minor alterations taking place gradually over time.
Though, not all remained unchanged. Life had made it a point to teach me a stark lesson early on. Once beyond the land of hormonal hijinks, I found a rather large wall before me; despite decent grades, and being the star among a sea of bit-players in my hometown, all my attempts to enter the largest acting schools in the country were in vain. Forcing me into several short stints in entry-level hell serving the drooling public.
-_-_-
"The diddler?" the words more drip from my mouth than anything else, as I find it almost impossible that I am speaking them aloud. Its Golden Johnson's part in the film, much to my surprise (shows you how closely I read the script) an important one, "but, The Riddler isn't even in the goddamn Suicide Squad!"
"Its a familiar character," the director answers, focusing on a million other things instead of me and my frustration, "sure, there are other characters we could parody, but Riddler is more recognizable, and not to mention easier to make a costume for than, say, that crocodile guy."
Don't die anytime soon, director, or someone just might shit on your lonely grave. Storming off, I kick a hat rack, toppling it over in a moment of petty vengeance (the closest thing to a cathartic release I've experienced since writing my last poem almost a month ago). Rubbing my forehead in a rather senseless huff, Bran hesitantly approaches me.
"Um...something up?"
"WHAT MAKE...What makes you say that?" If you never really want to answer anything in life, just answer questions with questions, people love it.
"Well after 'Easy Dick Rider', I doubt 'The Diddler' is the hill you wanna die on."
Strikingly on point. I pause, remaining silent for a moment, forcing him to wait.
"...Oh, how can I put it, dearest Bran," I spout, over dramatics in full awareness, placing my arm over my forehead just so, "I've been insulted. Despite a lifetime of work and a dedication that borders on obsession, I've been shown that I am to be regarded as no more than a fleeting joke on the radar of-"
"Given a bum match?"
"Its like they don't even care!" I stomp the heel of my shoe on the concrete floor for emphasis, "I mean, Fang?! Really?" The heaviest of sighs escapes my chest.
"The fuck is fang?"
"Besides the tooth?"
"...Yes, Crack, aside from the tooth..." he regards me with an annoyed glare.
"I apologize for my curtness, dearest Bran. I merely wish to make a point. The name echoes his problem; he is the images which he wishes to present. 'Named Fang? Of course you are! What else would you choose to name yourself, you fierce monster you?!' How else would I know he was a tough as nails bad ass ready to take on any challenger? I mean, I wouldn't be able to take him seriously otherwise!"
"...are you being-"
"Yes, sweetums, I'm being sarcastic. The man is a walking caricature; the equivalent of a modern testosterone filled film noir protagonist. I feel like if I wasn't in the match, the poor dear would just fight himself to prove how tough he is."
"And the proble-"
"The problem is that only jokes get paired up against jokes. That way no serious competitors have to waste their time."
"Sorry to say, Crack, but you're a gay porn star."
"What?! How will I ever break it to my mother?"
"If you don't stop back talking..."
"Sorry, Bran. Afraid I'm in the bitterest of moods."
"When aren't you?" Barbed words from my close friend puts my sass on the back-burner out of necessity to keep his alliance in this discussion, "The point is, of course you're a joke to them. You take it in the ass for a living."
"I resent that comment."
"Hide it behind whatever flowery language you want, truth is truth. They see you, they see all of this, and guess what, we don't exactly look like Charles Bronson and Henry Fonda in Once Upon A Time In The West."
I look back at the mirror, scanning over my costume, the truth blaring into my ears at top volume. Harvey Fucking Sinn I advert my gaze and place it upon the ceiling, through the steel beams which keep the whole building from caving in. Some days, upon realizing exactly where I've taken myself in life, I play with the idea that maybe the beams aren't strong enough. Could I die here? I imagine the bend of the metal as the weight becomes too much. How a game of final destination roulette starts. Never have to use the name Schlongson again. This time I only shut my eyes and feel the AC blast upon my face. What would Jeff think? Finding my corpse on a porn set.
"And I move on from this, how?" I ask, grasping for options.
"Kick his ass? How the hell do you think you do it, Crack? Guy bears his teeth, you kick'em hard. When the guy is mashing his gums together to talk, then they might start thinking 'oh hey, maybe that little fella ain't so silly'."
"Ever the wordsmith, hun."
"Sometimes things are best when put plainly, Crack."
The phone in my pocket vibrates and I pull it out to check my messages.
"Still harassing that Andre guy?"
"The best part of my day."
"But you aren't actually interested in him?"
"Of course not, but I have a plan, and if my little Holmes-away-from-home continues to act how I know he will, its only a matter of time before I can capitalize on it, but first, Fang, aka Mr. Snaggle-tooth, needs to be dealt with."
"Got any ideas?"
"We still have a few favors owed to us for introducing whats-his-face to the-find-a-life-time miss too-good-to-work-year-round Mia Khalifa bitch, right?"
"Yeah, talent scouting like that doesn't get paid back so quickly."
"Well, I have an idea, but its going to take numbers. Dearest Bran, mind making some calls for me?"
-_-_-
What of Peter after High School, when college dangled out of reach and the grind of monotonous work wore him to stubs?
I heard a faint call. The one of strange origins. The call of my would-be persona.
Like a nether self, creeping from the depths to give an answer that was always there to a question that had just made itself known.
Staring at my computer, my curiosity began to stretch to old ideas, but with a new seriousness. Would they watch? For a moment, its fleeting, but the longer I stare, the stronger it returns, would they pay to watch? How long before I was actually considering it? How long until I realized I wasn't just playing with the idea, but internally discussing the logistics of it?
The computer powers on, and nothing was ever the same again.
Funny fact about the cam site business: Its a business. Much like anything else people are willing to pay for, there are other people aware of the former's willingness, and will take advantage of it. The best part? The suspension of disbelief is so easy to obtain, that most people don't realize what they are witnessing is all one big elaborate act, even years afterwards.
Do you think girls really love jumping on cam in front of a bunch of desperate dudes and getting naked for the latter's enjoyment? Do you believe that it turns them on to have anywhere from two hundred to one thousand people watching them while they get off? Do YOU ACTUALLY BEEEELIEEVE that they ARE INDEED getting off? its so much more fun to pretend, isn't it?
Sure, those girls are out there. The ugly ones, maybe, but those pretty ones, with the tight bodies, sensual curves, and the moves that hit you just right? Probably running themselves out of a complex they share with dozens of the same. All pretending to be sitting in their quaint little house, up in their rooms, waiting to enjoy themselves with the hopes that you watch. Then you spend your hard earned cash to indulge in the fantasy. 1 token. 10 tokens. 100 tokens. 1000 tokens. Mmm yeah, thank you! I luv u guis! Remember to keep giving tokens to keep the show going.
The downside? Guys don't quite share that kind of market. There are no complexes to join when your appendage swings low. Mostly because most guys want to show; the dumb ones anyways. These hairy bastards with no showmanship jump on camera and wack it to an audience of ten (maybe), and disappear. Nope. If you wanna do it right, gotta play it up, or so I learned.
Username: Jack Witts (Oh, those proto-days, the origin stories we can look to with amused expressions).
Gender: Male
Age: 20 (at the time, though not long ago, my pretties. Not pass the big three-oh yet.)
Interested in: Either (This isn't a dating site, no reason to limit the audience. Its not up to me to choose who watches.)
You have to play to the eyes. As with anything, its all about performance. To simply place the camera at dick level won't cut it. If you have it, display the abs, the tone and muscle. Treat them with your delightful and inviting voice. Play nice, but be firm on the rules no spamming, bois. no demands without tokens, hun. play nice or my mods will ban you!. If facing towards the camera, let your hands caress along your chest, down to your legs just so. Work with the lines of your body, use it to direct their eyes. If facing away, arch the back and let them see how the curve defines your hips in your colored boxer briefs (if you wear boxers, you are hiding something, hun, and tighty whiteys are a super no go. Use something that works with your legs.)
A lovely little cheat is to invent, play with what they can't know. Oh, a recent favorite is this new #OhMyBod feature oh hey hun, this will vibrate to the sound of tokens being given, so make sure to tip big *wink*. Simple as sticking something that flashes where 'the sun don't shine', soon as they see lights, its Ooooh, technology, it must do what he says it does. Listen to him, how could he possible be faking it!? Must! Tip!
Downside? The money was completely at the whim of the audience, leaving it possible to walk away having gained nothing but a headache. After a while, I had to stop, it wasn't enough for the kind of meatheads I was forced to deal with. It was back to work at the old SuperMart again. Hello, how may I help you? Did you know I just quit showing my dick on camera so I could work here?
Life came to a crawl as the monotony became a droning hum sinking into my subconscious, forcing my body to work on muscle memory alone. Idling. Unconscious. Waiting.
Waiting...
Waiting...
Waiting...
Waiting...
SUDDENLY! Aye, any writer will tell you never to use such an ugly and purposeless word, but dear reader, I would be remiss if I didn't illustrate with what swiftness the follow events occurred. The day came where all previous attempts seemed to reach a single point. An agent, one who apparently scours the various corners of the internet to find what potential talent he can, by a strange happenstance where my uniform shirt rode up on me, recognized my abs (and small cherub tattoo on my lower abdomen) and, seeing opportunity, decided to make his move.
At first I figured he was some old creep (which he was) trying to hit on a poor tired cashier after a long day, but much to my surprise, his eyes were on business. With a disconcertingly open smile, he offered me a future, and, oh dear reader, how was I to refuse?
You've got it. Whats 'it'? Its what you've got. Star power. I can make money with you. You just have to be open-minded, but trust me, after one week of working with me, you'll never have to depend on the pay of strangers to make rent ever again. You like to perform, right? Well, this will be the performance of a life time.
Again Peeeeeeteerrrrr the call came. Morphed a bit in its mutated state, having changed for the sake of survival. Jaaaaaaaack The call brought a sense of calm with a new name, a separate name, an act, a persona. Born in a Supermart store Jaaaaaaack, gripped in the handshake between a sleazy producer and a naive cashier, was Jack Schlongson; Gay wunderkind.
The work came without hesitation. The routine was hard to adapt to, but I found myself taking to it with surprising resiliency. The work, of course, was different from camming by one's self on a computer in front of a live audience, and the idea of working with strangers was a bit jarring given the nature of the work, but when one is desperate to leave groceries and obscurity behind, there is little he won't do.
It occurred to me just what kind of upward mobility was staring me in the face. It was once said from one porn star to a fan (and later, fellow porn star), that, in order to work in this industry, one must be so without shame, that they would be willing to fuck in front of their friends. Well, to flip it on its head, I found friends I could fuck in front of; ever vigilant in the search for leverage, I made my connections quickly and when the time came, I broke from the scummy producer and put my career in my own hands. Sorry, bae. One too many gold rings says a lot about your sense of taste, and I'm too worried about my future to let your tacky demeanor drive me down with you. kthnxbai...
As the cliche often goes; A Star is Born.
In that spot I remained for a long while, taking various jobs of all sorts, drifting cautiously into whatever fetish I could tamely perform. I built up quite the catalogue, and earned the respect of my peers, but despite all this, nothing ever felt in-concrete. It was as if I was stuck in this transition state, thinking I would break from it as soon as my chance came. The fact that I was an established name in the gay porn scene never really sunk in, at least not at that point. Just as soon as I find something else, I'm outta of this game, just you wait. After this award ceremony...after this movie...after this convention...after this contract...after THIS movie...
Its funny how certain people may never know their importance in your life, mostly due to the fact that they don't even know who you are. John Gable would be such a person.
A disgraced actor playing upon the influx of athletes using their star power to enter the realm of actor, he used wrestling as a stepping stone to win his way back into the spotlight and get his career back on the silver screen. Fighting viciously, and displaying his prowess through a series of ploys and acts, not only did he become a feared and respected name in the industry, but he did exactly what he set out to do. Nevermind that his return film was a flop. Nevermind that he ended up losing the Oscar. Nevermind he had a public meltdown which was displayed by every tabloid free to print the story. The point is it worked, and if a used up hack with no hope of redemption can defy every blacklist he was on, why not an unknown looking for his big break?
And thus, such a scheme was hatched. Gather the best men I could, dominate this industry, find a platform big enough to showcase us to the world, and leap frog from that sinking ship to the world of film, never being forced to 'work the eight inches' for the camera again.
Why Bran, Richard, Golden, and Natsuko? No real reason, anyone would do if they were fit enough, but these few came first and thus Rekt Em was born. For quite a while we worked our way through the indies, crushing what little competition was put before us and walking away with the spoils, my plan was rolling accordingly.
That was, of course, until our first 'major stint' on national television. The company, for the protection of myself and others, will go unnamed, but they know what they did. Barring us from competing and forcing us to run our own campaign for support, we fought an uphill battle every week to be booked. We pleaded, begged, and made cases for ourselves, but our requests were denied and outright ignored as we looked on into an industry that we realized still held a rather ugly complexion of intolerance.
But what is done is done. The garbage fire is in my past, but it did teach me a valuable lesson; it was time that I began to drop the extra baggage and go on my own. Don't worry, I wouldn't abandon my team so willy-nilly, but the process would occur, even if over a course of months. See, since having joined UCI, I have paid various officials to hold the pending contracts of my fellow team mates in a state of question while I worked my way through the ranks uninterrupted, and while they remained in wrestling purgatory, we would continue to work together in the industry which we all originated from.
See, we had become a sort of Rat Pack in our neck of the woods, a Five Dead Venoms of gay porn. Us teaming together on the set showed far bigger returns than working alone, thus we made a pact to continue to do so until we all (or mainly I) break out into the big time. A great way to funnel money in if the well dried up in our pursuit of glory in wrestling.
A perfect plan, is it not? I fail to see a way I don't benefit.
I would work with them on-set, lamenting about how long the company was taking with their contracts, and then head over to fight whatever scheduled match I have, but now that I am finally going to receive my first on air bout, it seems like all my work is about to pay off.
-_-_-
Hello, Camera. My old friend. We've seen some times, haven't we? We have shared secrets, and have witness what tastes the world has to offer. Now I must ask you to do something for me. I need you to capture my most ambitious project yet, and help me solidify my name among the stars. Can you do that, old pal? If you are the window into the soul of the audience, I need you in order to impress upon them the gravitas which my career needs in order to properly move forward. So, dear one, illuminate with a red glow, use your 24 frames to imprint the image of my legacy for every fan to see if they have the heart to look. Grant them the ability to see the world through a new filter; one in which I rule.
Peer with your unblinking eye, upon the hundreds of nude writhing bodies as they cover the ground, making a floor of flesh surrounding a towering throne of glimmer gold and purple. Scan across the landscape, witnessing the endless entanglement of human limbs as a sea of moans rises up through the silence. Roam over the bodies until you reach the obelisk and then rise among its steps until you come upon its mounted chair, which holds the bejeweled master sitting upon it; Myself, Jack Schlongson, king motherfucker in the world of timid beings.
Project my lack of shame onto the on watching glare. Present the almost god-like air which I regard the potential viewer, so that they may grasp my absence of embarrassment, to see I fear no peering force, for I sit above the common prudish mind. I look over my accomplishment with a playful smirk, comparable to a pharaoh surveying the land which he has conquered with an iron fist. Then, with a slow turn of my head, I look back at you, old friend, with a casual demeanor, ready to address the waiting public.
No longer the time to be Peter Fitts. I must don the secondary skin for which the world knows me by. The icon for which I have made my career; Jack must come to life, to be what I need in a time of deception and performance.
"Hey hey, babes," I wink, "So nice of you to join me, especially you, Mr. Snaggletooth, hehe. Hope you like the presentation, I did it all for you, Bae. I wanted to prove to you a something about little ole' me; I'm the kind to get what I want." I giggle and blow a kiss.
"See, Sweet-tooth, above anything else, I want you," pointing at the camera, I bite my lower lip for emphasis, "nothing would make me happier than to have you under me. Oh, there I go again, giving the wrong idea, hehe. I don't mean it that way, silly. Oh no, I want to take your masculinity in a whole different way; by stealing a victory right out from under you. Mmmm, that would make me go just...WILD!
"Because, honey, I know there is nothing you treasure more than your overt manliness, and if I manage to swipe that from you, then what is left? Your, apparently, latent intellect? You talk a big game, mister, but(t) frankly, Captain Fierceness of the S.S. Rawr, this week, instead of taking a point, I would like to make one.
"What does it mean to be a...man? Oh, so many answers, but it seems most of them share the same common flaw; that being a man means you have to act like a man. Machismo abroad, I watch every day while silly little boys wave their arms around trying to prove themselves to the world; picking fights, flexing their muscles, revving their engines, and it is Such. A. Turnoff. When so many drive along, bumping the newest Hip-hop album while racing across suburban streets, do they think panties are really getting any wetter? Afraid not, dearies. See, this need to prove how strong you are only goes to project the opposite.
"You are SoOoOoO insecure that you need to assure everyone else of just how big that monster between your legs might be, but let me let you in on a little secret; real men know their real, got it? You can laugh at the way I act, but are you familiar with the phrase 'thou doth protest too much?', when you go around with your chest out, people gonna start asking questions, babe.
"Think about it, in a world without insecurity, where people are comfortable with who they are, what wars would be fought? What fights would break out? What would we need to hide? Look at those below me; no shame, no fear, no embarrassment, and I couldn't imagine a happier group of people. Now you may not look down on my 'choices', and boy, they never do, but that doesn't mean you don't look down on me. I mean, look at me, we couldn't be bigger opposites if we tried. What I want you do to, though, is ask yourself one teeny-weeny-itsy-bitsy question; why? Why bother working so hard to prove how tough you are, honey? For my sake? You wanna try and intimidate little ole' me? Hun, have you ever looked a meaty cock right in its eye and thought 'thats going in my face?'?...Then you don't know intimidation.
"But, Porter, my little bae, I'm not here to just insult or criticize you. Instead, I want to help you. Now that I've got you asking 'why?', its important that you start opening your mind. I'm not asking you to bat from the other side of the plate, hun, because its not for everyone, but maybe try looking at the world from my view. Maybe, if you can be honest with yourself, you could be a little happier.
"Think about it. No more exhausting efforts proving your machismo to the world! No more anxiousness wondering what others think of you! You could let go. Join us. Be free from the prudes who only want you to fit into their mold. Fang-y, I just want you to be you...and if taking a loss from me is what will let you see it, then just let it happen, babe."
The camera begins to pull out as I look back out into the sea of people, a living carpet if you will, watching as freedom is their fetish, care-free is their sexuality, unending is their happiness. I smile knowingly as the camera faces to black, perched on top of my throne, knowing it to be a job will done.
-_-_-
"How do you think it went, Crack?"
"Oh so well, dearest Bran, but frankly, sometimes I get sick of having to pretend to be my naive alter-ego."
"Afraid not, hun," Outer Jack answers. Inner Jack berates. The question deserves swatting, but above all things, the host of the two voices is a machine of presentation. No give. No shake. Jack wears his part in this exchange like a fashionable sweater; a polite smile, a warm demeanor; its effective enough of a spell to get what he needs. Outer Jack continues to prattle on as inner Jack calculates, "Something outrageous to put on the credits. Don't want fans looking us up in the phone book."
"May I have your real name then? For paperwork sake."
"Peter Fitts...," bitter is the taste of oblivious parents.
--'I Am Loved' and Other Awful Stories We Tell Ourselves--
By Peter Fitts
(submitted to the Whitman-Keats Press on July 22nd, response still pending.)
Put your head to rest,
inhale codeine dreams
and exhale your electric worry
for passing nets to collect.
Turn docile, those frantic eyes,
and smile knowing one thing;
its all true, every last bit of it.
Your world is without illusion,
no lie is too overwhelming to not succumb
to the spiritual alchemy which turns them to truths;
your girlfriend didn't fake that orgasm,
that stripper does fancy your company,
and Selena Gomez can't "keep her hands to herself"
...and wants to bang you.
Smile,
because none of your friends resent you-
you king of social banter
whose every word offers a spring-like freshness-
and they would have made it to your concert
had it not been for that thing at work.
Open your mouth
and let the television set pour into your soul.
Engulf the healing medicine
of a thirty second ad meant make you feel special,
and if you believe every last bit of it,
you just might be.
Though, you don't really buy it, do you?
With one toe on the ground and nine tasting the air,
you would never go as far as to say
you've been robbed of your senses
and duped into believing something unreal
with utmost certainty, would you?
Behind every nod is a biting cynicism
tearing up your stomach.
As you accept another story your given,
you ponder what the truth might be.
Sometimes its faint, but its there,
and the only reason you continue to tolerate it
is because its so much more fun to pretend, isn't it?
Why self-destruct when you can self-deceive?
By Peter Fitts
(submitted to the Whitman-Keats Press on July 22nd, response still pending.)
Put your head to rest,
inhale codeine dreams
and exhale your electric worry
for passing nets to collect.
Turn docile, those frantic eyes,
and smile knowing one thing;
its all true, every last bit of it.
Your world is without illusion,
no lie is too overwhelming to not succumb
to the spiritual alchemy which turns them to truths;
your girlfriend didn't fake that orgasm,
that stripper does fancy your company,
and Selena Gomez can't "keep her hands to herself"
...and wants to bang you.
Smile,
because none of your friends resent you-
you king of social banter
whose every word offers a spring-like freshness-
and they would have made it to your concert
had it not been for that thing at work.
Open your mouth
and let the television set pour into your soul.
Engulf the healing medicine
of a thirty second ad meant make you feel special,
and if you believe every last bit of it,
you just might be.
Though, you don't really buy it, do you?
With one toe on the ground and nine tasting the air,
you would never go as far as to say
you've been robbed of your senses
and duped into believing something unreal
with utmost certainty, would you?
Behind every nod is a biting cynicism
tearing up your stomach.
As you accept another story your given,
you ponder what the truth might be.
Sometimes its faint, but its there,
and the only reason you continue to tolerate it
is because its so much more fun to pretend, isn't it?
Why self-destruct when you can self-deceive?
-
From this sentiment I make my living; I make a life.
Even now, I watch as a set is erected for the upcoming Suicide Squad parody; Orgy Squad (the names are getting better all the time, right?). Styrofoam pillars, particle board walls, and sparse lighting form some broken idea of a set. At a momentary glance one can see the back lights piercing through the point where any two walls meet. So artless. Upon entering, I rolled my eyes at the half-assed a project. A cheap joke. Not that it mattered, this shoddy production will be a critically revered marvel compared to the dreck David Ayer is pumping through the veins of American Cinema. We'll be the standard future DC movies will have to beat, or so I remark to the amusement of my fellow stars. The jab is cheaper than the set-design, but never underestimate the power of a topical joke to gain a few knowing smirks. Get in good with the people you work with and you can step on them later on; an old industry secret, dear reader.
Wandering along in a fit of anxious boredom, I pass by a mirror. I pause for a moment, looking myself over. All I can do is chuckle. Donning my "Harvey Sinn" wardrobe, I take in the absurdity of my cut-off jean shorts and heavy make-up. I feel ridiculous, but in that ridiculousness is a humor, that of a worldly nature;
No one will buy this to be an official product of the DC license.
No one will mistake our parody characters with the (equally silly) originals.
Far from the point, sweet reader. For the momentary high sparked by intense arousal due to close equivalence, and a strange cultural obsession with seeing established characters get 'the bone', they will believe. Believe like a child believes in Santa Claus, or like a hipster believes in the healing power of irony. For a moment, they will take leave of their senses for the want of something (the great personal grift, the grande illusion, the unstoppable instant gratification, the evolutionary scorn fighting every defense of intellect for primal urge), and just as momentary will be their reward, followed by prolonged shame.
"What movie are we making fun of again?" Bran asks. His cheap, mostly-cardboard Deadshot costume (parody name; Moneyshot, if you were wondering) hangs off of him half finished, waiting for the rest of it to be stapled/glued together by the twelve cent design team.
"Does it matter?" I plop down into a nearby seat, resting my head on my hand, basking in the glow of florescent lights. Absent director, scattered cast, idle minds. What a dreadful affair, "the song remains the same, regardless; you read your lines as written, or not; do your best to play the part you're given, or not; fucking occurs, as always; and then we collect our checks and head home." Bran shrugs.
"Anyone see Golden Johnson?" Richard (aka "dick") walks in sporting a purple speed-o. Looking around, he turns away from me and I read along the back 'The Poker'. It takes every last bit of me to not walk off set.
-_-_-
Lets start at the beginning. The long-ago time. Before the ring, the checks, the DVDs, the shoots, the auditions, or even before the camera first turned its voyeuristic gaze on me. Predating life's many experiences, we dip our fingers into the past, and draw a frame of a Peter without the Jack, a personality absent of its synthetic-persona, and a life that had yet begin to bud. As with most things, I started out with good intentions. Unchipped by life, I looked on with innocence and wonder, but naivety doesn't beget further naivety. Instead, it breaks and gives way to a face-first dive into a wall of reality.
More than anything else, I wanted to be an artist. No specific area of expertise in mind, not even a priority list, the title itself was all I wanted. Gazing upon the many stars of the world (both on stage and on screen) I was transfixed on the concept of performance. To create, be admired, loved, thought of as brilliant. To be misunderstood with gusto and flair while millions desperately analysed the curves in my strokes, the words I put to paper, or the effortless nature to which my actions came. I projected looking back out into a sea of heads and speechless gazes, and every fiber of my being wanted to be there, close but out-of-reach. REACH TO THE SKY, YOUNG PETER, AND MAY THE STARS BURST AT YOUR TOUCH. Something told me I could, and in the most unfortunate sense, I believed it as essential.
As it started, so did the landslide continue. Seamless transitions between mediums were made (a failure in painting to a failure in singing to a failure in dancing etc. etc. etc.) and I pushed through it all with the idea that a notch in the world would open up just for me and I would fit perfectly inside. Even when faced with failure, I would redouble my efforts and begin my search anew, peering else where for inspiration.
That 'else where'? Writing. Acting. So Greek in essence that it seems hilarious now. What better things to romanticize? Two ideas that wish to be understood by those from afar; The one who pulls from Heaven's eye, placing it upon the page, and the one to rip from the page, bringing the words to life. When immersed in either, I was inebriated beyond hope of realization.
Daring my participation in whatever was accessible to me, my passions lead to my taking-part-in, what else: Drama club (Franklin High School in bumfuck, Arizon. Home of the Fighting Faggotbashers ['hoorah, hoorah, get that queer, get that queer and bring'em here, bring'em here!' -unofficial chant of the varsity football team]), an innocuous start if there ever was one. We, in our thespian infancy and artistic idiocy, attempted to die beyond our means by playing the classics; Death of a Salesman, A Streetcar Named Desire, Merchant of Venice, not realizing how simplistically we portrayed such deep and full characters. Though with that said, I felt like the eye in the storm of culture. Shakespearean in its own brilliant (yet childish) way; we were hormone filled insecure specks all roaming through the same dull building, jockeying for position in the impressionable minds of others. And few stood taller than I; maybe not a king, but as a friend I was good stock, the talented type that they knew. I performed, many cheered, and they vicariously drew in the attention, no matter how minuscule.
However...
Beyond the statistical analyzation of the social ladder sat Brian Farren. There was no scheming or cynical positioning; simply existing with him, in his company and arms simultaneously without worry or wear. He was a treat among waves of adolescent banality.
We met in homeroom. In a moment of idle senses, announcements slipping in one ear and out the other, I overheard The Smiths playing through his headphones, and, on a whim, struck up a conversation. From there we got to know each other outside of school; uncovering vital parts of our identities which eventually entangled our lives beyond the cosmetic links of musical taste. It was a refreshing breath with a freedom that was quite uncommon in the deserted firelands of Arizona.
Unaware, to this day, whether my parents know the truth about my tastes (I'm sure some part of them has willed a mental vision of me through many Sundays spent dutifully attending church), the nights with Brian were a spectacular retreat from their puritan gaze, a fantastical secret which pulsed like electricity through our beings each morning when lies were told.
In all honesty, my time with Brian was less about Brian, and more a whimsical affair with a youthful spirit, a sweeping wind of experience that filled me with the pleasure of discovery. Brian was what the time called for. In a small town where the statistical probability of finding a similar person was rendered nil, Brian was the unfortunate recipient of being the statue; a representation. Ideally idle idol worship. Despite how we might have acted towards each other, I feel there was no real deception, being that Brian most likely felt the same way about me.
A half-assed romantic novel would have made note of the cliche 'sweet nothings' whispered, or what gentle touches and romantic outings there were, but would have lacked the nuance to mention the dubious nature which our relationship existed under. It was excitement we took, honesty we left at the door, both momentary trades (for one can be honest later, and equally as bored).
I have no problem admitting this now. It all ended amicably and, though demoted to a distant friendship, the company of the other was never begrudged in the context of public outings or platonic meetings. I would go as far as to say I hold ninety-nine percent certainty that the exercise was mutual. nine toes in the air. My only hesitance is in that I never asked, or got the chance to.
Brian committed suicide mere months before graduation. Rumors spread, as they do, saying he lacked the proper credits, but I knew that wasn't the case. Which only leaves me more perplexed, unable to sum up even the faintest of ideas why it happened. Just as briefly as existence had held him, so did it let him go; forever gone into a realm of memory only, without so much as a proper parting word.
Graduation came and went, and that was all one could say of it. Nothing felt different. No click happened to mark a turning point or new chapter. The mile-stone was a passing attraction, and it disappeared from view in mere moments, leaving us to look down the road, one that never seemed to change aside from minor alterations taking place gradually over time.
Though, not all remained unchanged. Life had made it a point to teach me a stark lesson early on. Once beyond the land of hormonal hijinks, I found a rather large wall before me; despite decent grades, and being the star among a sea of bit-players in my hometown, all my attempts to enter the largest acting schools in the country were in vain. Forcing me into several short stints in entry-level hell serving the drooling public.
-_-_-
"The diddler?" the words more drip from my mouth than anything else, as I find it almost impossible that I am speaking them aloud. Its Golden Johnson's part in the film, much to my surprise (shows you how closely I read the script) an important one, "but, The Riddler isn't even in the goddamn Suicide Squad!"
"Its a familiar character," the director answers, focusing on a million other things instead of me and my frustration, "sure, there are other characters we could parody, but Riddler is more recognizable, and not to mention easier to make a costume for than, say, that crocodile guy."
Don't die anytime soon, director, or someone just might shit on your lonely grave. Storming off, I kick a hat rack, toppling it over in a moment of petty vengeance (the closest thing to a cathartic release I've experienced since writing my last poem almost a month ago). Rubbing my forehead in a rather senseless huff, Bran hesitantly approaches me.
"Um...something up?"
"WHAT MAKE...What makes you say that?" If you never really want to answer anything in life, just answer questions with questions, people love it.
"Well after 'Easy Dick Rider', I doubt 'The Diddler' is the hill you wanna die on."
Strikingly on point. I pause, remaining silent for a moment, forcing him to wait.
"...Oh, how can I put it, dearest Bran," I spout, over dramatics in full awareness, placing my arm over my forehead just so, "I've been insulted. Despite a lifetime of work and a dedication that borders on obsession, I've been shown that I am to be regarded as no more than a fleeting joke on the radar of-"
"Given a bum match?"
"Its like they don't even care!" I stomp the heel of my shoe on the concrete floor for emphasis, "I mean, Fang?! Really?" The heaviest of sighs escapes my chest.
"The fuck is fang?"
"Besides the tooth?"
"...Yes, Crack, aside from the tooth..." he regards me with an annoyed glare.
"I apologize for my curtness, dearest Bran. I merely wish to make a point. The name echoes his problem; he is the images which he wishes to present. 'Named Fang? Of course you are! What else would you choose to name yourself, you fierce monster you?!' How else would I know he was a tough as nails bad ass ready to take on any challenger? I mean, I wouldn't be able to take him seriously otherwise!"
"...are you being-"
"Yes, sweetums, I'm being sarcastic. The man is a walking caricature; the equivalent of a modern testosterone filled film noir protagonist. I feel like if I wasn't in the match, the poor dear would just fight himself to prove how tough he is."
"And the proble-"
"The problem is that only jokes get paired up against jokes. That way no serious competitors have to waste their time."
"Sorry to say, Crack, but you're a gay porn star."
"What?! How will I ever break it to my mother?"
"If you don't stop back talking..."
"Sorry, Bran. Afraid I'm in the bitterest of moods."
"When aren't you?" Barbed words from my close friend puts my sass on the back-burner out of necessity to keep his alliance in this discussion, "The point is, of course you're a joke to them. You take it in the ass for a living."
"I resent that comment."
"Hide it behind whatever flowery language you want, truth is truth. They see you, they see all of this, and guess what, we don't exactly look like Charles Bronson and Henry Fonda in Once Upon A Time In The West."
I look back at the mirror, scanning over my costume, the truth blaring into my ears at top volume. Harvey Fucking Sinn I advert my gaze and place it upon the ceiling, through the steel beams which keep the whole building from caving in. Some days, upon realizing exactly where I've taken myself in life, I play with the idea that maybe the beams aren't strong enough. Could I die here? I imagine the bend of the metal as the weight becomes too much. How a game of final destination roulette starts. Never have to use the name Schlongson again. This time I only shut my eyes and feel the AC blast upon my face. What would Jeff think? Finding my corpse on a porn set.
"And I move on from this, how?" I ask, grasping for options.
"Kick his ass? How the hell do you think you do it, Crack? Guy bears his teeth, you kick'em hard. When the guy is mashing his gums together to talk, then they might start thinking 'oh hey, maybe that little fella ain't so silly'."
"Ever the wordsmith, hun."
"Sometimes things are best when put plainly, Crack."
The phone in my pocket vibrates and I pull it out to check my messages.
"Still harassing that Andre guy?"
"The best part of my day."
"But you aren't actually interested in him?"
"Of course not, but I have a plan, and if my little Holmes-away-from-home continues to act how I know he will, its only a matter of time before I can capitalize on it, but first, Fang, aka Mr. Snaggle-tooth, needs to be dealt with."
"Got any ideas?"
"We still have a few favors owed to us for introducing whats-his-face to the-find-a-life-time miss too-good-to-work-year-round Mia Khalifa bitch, right?"
"Yeah, talent scouting like that doesn't get paid back so quickly."
"Well, I have an idea, but its going to take numbers. Dearest Bran, mind making some calls for me?"
-_-_-
What of Peter after High School, when college dangled out of reach and the grind of monotonous work wore him to stubs?
I heard a faint call. The one of strange origins. The call of my would-be persona.
Peeeeeteeerrrr
Like a nether self, creeping from the depths to give an answer that was always there to a question that had just made itself known.
Peeeeeeeteeerrrrrr
Staring at my computer, my curiosity began to stretch to old ideas, but with a new seriousness. Would they watch? For a moment, its fleeting, but the longer I stare, the stronger it returns, would they pay to watch? How long before I was actually considering it? How long until I realized I wasn't just playing with the idea, but internally discussing the logistics of it?
PEEEEEEEETEEEEERRRRRR!
The computer powers on, and nothing was ever the same again.
Though...
Funny fact about the cam site business: Its a business. Much like anything else people are willing to pay for, there are other people aware of the former's willingness, and will take advantage of it. The best part? The suspension of disbelief is so easy to obtain, that most people don't realize what they are witnessing is all one big elaborate act, even years afterwards.
Do you think girls really love jumping on cam in front of a bunch of desperate dudes and getting naked for the latter's enjoyment? Do you believe that it turns them on to have anywhere from two hundred to one thousand people watching them while they get off? Do YOU ACTUALLY BEEEELIEEVE that they ARE INDEED getting off? its so much more fun to pretend, isn't it?
Sure, those girls are out there. The ugly ones, maybe, but those pretty ones, with the tight bodies, sensual curves, and the moves that hit you just right? Probably running themselves out of a complex they share with dozens of the same. All pretending to be sitting in their quaint little house, up in their rooms, waiting to enjoy themselves with the hopes that you watch. Then you spend your hard earned cash to indulge in the fantasy. 1 token. 10 tokens. 100 tokens. 1000 tokens. Mmm yeah, thank you! I luv u guis! Remember to keep giving tokens to keep the show going.
The downside? Guys don't quite share that kind of market. There are no complexes to join when your appendage swings low. Mostly because most guys want to show; the dumb ones anyways. These hairy bastards with no showmanship jump on camera and wack it to an audience of ten (maybe), and disappear. Nope. If you wanna do it right, gotta play it up, or so I learned.
Username: Jack Witts (Oh, those proto-days, the origin stories we can look to with amused expressions).
Gender: Male
Age: 20 (at the time, though not long ago, my pretties. Not pass the big three-oh yet.)
Interested in: Either (This isn't a dating site, no reason to limit the audience. Its not up to me to choose who watches.)
You have to play to the eyes. As with anything, its all about performance. To simply place the camera at dick level won't cut it. If you have it, display the abs, the tone and muscle. Treat them with your delightful and inviting voice. Play nice, but be firm on the rules no spamming, bois. no demands without tokens, hun. play nice or my mods will ban you!. If facing towards the camera, let your hands caress along your chest, down to your legs just so. Work with the lines of your body, use it to direct their eyes. If facing away, arch the back and let them see how the curve defines your hips in your colored boxer briefs (if you wear boxers, you are hiding something, hun, and tighty whiteys are a super no go. Use something that works with your legs.)
A lovely little cheat is to invent, play with what they can't know. Oh, a recent favorite is this new #OhMyBod feature oh hey hun, this will vibrate to the sound of tokens being given, so make sure to tip big *wink*. Simple as sticking something that flashes where 'the sun don't shine', soon as they see lights, its Ooooh, technology, it must do what he says it does. Listen to him, how could he possible be faking it!? Must! Tip!
Downside? The money was completely at the whim of the audience, leaving it possible to walk away having gained nothing but a headache. After a while, I had to stop, it wasn't enough for the kind of meatheads I was forced to deal with. It was back to work at the old SuperMart again. Hello, how may I help you? Did you know I just quit showing my dick on camera so I could work here?
Life came to a crawl as the monotony became a droning hum sinking into my subconscious, forcing my body to work on muscle memory alone. Idling. Unconscious. Waiting.
Waiting...
Waiting...
Waiting...
Waiting...
SUDDENLY! Aye, any writer will tell you never to use such an ugly and purposeless word, but dear reader, I would be remiss if I didn't illustrate with what swiftness the follow events occurred. The day came where all previous attempts seemed to reach a single point. An agent, one who apparently scours the various corners of the internet to find what potential talent he can, by a strange happenstance where my uniform shirt rode up on me, recognized my abs (and small cherub tattoo on my lower abdomen) and, seeing opportunity, decided to make his move.
At first I figured he was some old creep (which he was) trying to hit on a poor tired cashier after a long day, but much to my surprise, his eyes were on business. With a disconcertingly open smile, he offered me a future, and, oh dear reader, how was I to refuse?
You've got it. Whats 'it'? Its what you've got. Star power. I can make money with you. You just have to be open-minded, but trust me, after one week of working with me, you'll never have to depend on the pay of strangers to make rent ever again. You like to perform, right? Well, this will be the performance of a life time.
Again Peeeeeeteerrrrr the call came. Morphed a bit in its mutated state, having changed for the sake of survival. Jaaaaaaaack The call brought a sense of calm with a new name, a separate name, an act, a persona. Born in a Supermart store Jaaaaaaack, gripped in the handshake between a sleazy producer and a naive cashier, was Jack Schlongson; Gay wunderkind.
The work came without hesitation. The routine was hard to adapt to, but I found myself taking to it with surprising resiliency. The work, of course, was different from camming by one's self on a computer in front of a live audience, and the idea of working with strangers was a bit jarring given the nature of the work, but when one is desperate to leave groceries and obscurity behind, there is little he won't do.
While time pressed on...
It occurred to me just what kind of upward mobility was staring me in the face. It was once said from one porn star to a fan (and later, fellow porn star), that, in order to work in this industry, one must be so without shame, that they would be willing to fuck in front of their friends. Well, to flip it on its head, I found friends I could fuck in front of; ever vigilant in the search for leverage, I made my connections quickly and when the time came, I broke from the scummy producer and put my career in my own hands. Sorry, bae. One too many gold rings says a lot about your sense of taste, and I'm too worried about my future to let your tacky demeanor drive me down with you. kthnxbai...
As the cliche often goes; A Star is Born.
International Porn Database: Jack Schlongson.
Known for...
Private Dick; and Other Erotic Noirs (4.2/5),
Nothing But Butt (3.6/5),
Dr. Strangedong (4.6/5),
The Haunted Anus (2/5),
Captain Candy Dick and Sucker Island (3.8/5),
Cock Vampire (4.7/5),
Balls Over Broadway (4.1/5).
Known for...
Private Dick; and Other Erotic Noirs (4.2/5),
Nothing But Butt (3.6/5),
Dr. Strangedong (4.6/5),
The Haunted Anus (2/5),
Captain Candy Dick and Sucker Island (3.8/5),
Cock Vampire (4.7/5),
Balls Over Broadway (4.1/5).
In that spot I remained for a long while, taking various jobs of all sorts, drifting cautiously into whatever fetish I could tamely perform. I built up quite the catalogue, and earned the respect of my peers, but despite all this, nothing ever felt in-concrete. It was as if I was stuck in this transition state, thinking I would break from it as soon as my chance came. The fact that I was an established name in the gay porn scene never really sunk in, at least not at that point. Just as soon as I find something else, I'm outta of this game, just you wait. After this award ceremony...after this movie...after this convention...after this contract...after THIS movie...
But then...
Its funny how certain people may never know their importance in your life, mostly due to the fact that they don't even know who you are. John Gable would be such a person.
A disgraced actor playing upon the influx of athletes using their star power to enter the realm of actor, he used wrestling as a stepping stone to win his way back into the spotlight and get his career back on the silver screen. Fighting viciously, and displaying his prowess through a series of ploys and acts, not only did he become a feared and respected name in the industry, but he did exactly what he set out to do. Nevermind that his return film was a flop. Nevermind that he ended up losing the Oscar. Nevermind he had a public meltdown which was displayed by every tabloid free to print the story. The point is it worked, and if a used up hack with no hope of redemption can defy every blacklist he was on, why not an unknown looking for his big break?
And thus, such a scheme was hatched. Gather the best men I could, dominate this industry, find a platform big enough to showcase us to the world, and leap frog from that sinking ship to the world of film, never being forced to 'work the eight inches' for the camera again.
Why Bran, Richard, Golden, and Natsuko? No real reason, anyone would do if they were fit enough, but these few came first and thus Rekt Em was born. For quite a while we worked our way through the indies, crushing what little competition was put before us and walking away with the spoils, my plan was rolling accordingly.
That was, of course, until our first 'major stint' on national television. The company, for the protection of myself and others, will go unnamed, but they know what they did. Barring us from competing and forcing us to run our own campaign for support, we fought an uphill battle every week to be booked. We pleaded, begged, and made cases for ourselves, but our requests were denied and outright ignored as we looked on into an industry that we realized still held a rather ugly complexion of intolerance.
But what is done is done. The garbage fire is in my past, but it did teach me a valuable lesson; it was time that I began to drop the extra baggage and go on my own. Don't worry, I wouldn't abandon my team so willy-nilly, but the process would occur, even if over a course of months. See, since having joined UCI, I have paid various officials to hold the pending contracts of my fellow team mates in a state of question while I worked my way through the ranks uninterrupted, and while they remained in wrestling purgatory, we would continue to work together in the industry which we all originated from.
See, we had become a sort of Rat Pack in our neck of the woods, a Five Dead Venoms of gay porn. Us teaming together on the set showed far bigger returns than working alone, thus we made a pact to continue to do so until we all (or mainly I) break out into the big time. A great way to funnel money in if the well dried up in our pursuit of glory in wrestling.
A perfect plan, is it not? I fail to see a way I don't benefit.
I would work with them on-set, lamenting about how long the company was taking with their contracts, and then head over to fight whatever scheduled match I have, but now that I am finally going to receive my first on air bout, it seems like all my work is about to pay off.
-_-_-
Hello, Camera. My old friend. We've seen some times, haven't we? We have shared secrets, and have witness what tastes the world has to offer. Now I must ask you to do something for me. I need you to capture my most ambitious project yet, and help me solidify my name among the stars. Can you do that, old pal? If you are the window into the soul of the audience, I need you in order to impress upon them the gravitas which my career needs in order to properly move forward. So, dear one, illuminate with a red glow, use your 24 frames to imprint the image of my legacy for every fan to see if they have the heart to look. Grant them the ability to see the world through a new filter; one in which I rule.
Peer with your unblinking eye, upon the hundreds of nude writhing bodies as they cover the ground, making a floor of flesh surrounding a towering throne of glimmer gold and purple. Scan across the landscape, witnessing the endless entanglement of human limbs as a sea of moans rises up through the silence. Roam over the bodies until you reach the obelisk and then rise among its steps until you come upon its mounted chair, which holds the bejeweled master sitting upon it; Myself, Jack Schlongson, king motherfucker in the world of timid beings.
Project my lack of shame onto the on watching glare. Present the almost god-like air which I regard the potential viewer, so that they may grasp my absence of embarrassment, to see I fear no peering force, for I sit above the common prudish mind. I look over my accomplishment with a playful smirk, comparable to a pharaoh surveying the land which he has conquered with an iron fist. Then, with a slow turn of my head, I look back at you, old friend, with a casual demeanor, ready to address the waiting public.
No longer the time to be Peter Fitts. I must don the secondary skin for which the world knows me by. The icon for which I have made my career; Jack must come to life, to be what I need in a time of deception and performance.
"Hey hey, babes," I wink, "So nice of you to join me, especially you, Mr. Snaggletooth, hehe. Hope you like the presentation, I did it all for you, Bae. I wanted to prove to you a something about little ole' me; I'm the kind to get what I want." I giggle and blow a kiss.
"See, Sweet-tooth, above anything else, I want you," pointing at the camera, I bite my lower lip for emphasis, "nothing would make me happier than to have you under me. Oh, there I go again, giving the wrong idea, hehe. I don't mean it that way, silly. Oh no, I want to take your masculinity in a whole different way; by stealing a victory right out from under you. Mmmm, that would make me go just...WILD!
"Because, honey, I know there is nothing you treasure more than your overt manliness, and if I manage to swipe that from you, then what is left? Your, apparently, latent intellect? You talk a big game, mister, but(t) frankly, Captain Fierceness of the S.S. Rawr, this week, instead of taking a point, I would like to make one.
"What does it mean to be a...man? Oh, so many answers, but it seems most of them share the same common flaw; that being a man means you have to act like a man. Machismo abroad, I watch every day while silly little boys wave their arms around trying to prove themselves to the world; picking fights, flexing their muscles, revving their engines, and it is Such. A. Turnoff. When so many drive along, bumping the newest Hip-hop album while racing across suburban streets, do they think panties are really getting any wetter? Afraid not, dearies. See, this need to prove how strong you are only goes to project the opposite.
"You are SoOoOoO insecure that you need to assure everyone else of just how big that monster between your legs might be, but let me let you in on a little secret; real men know their real, got it? You can laugh at the way I act, but are you familiar with the phrase 'thou doth protest too much?', when you go around with your chest out, people gonna start asking questions, babe.
"Think about it, in a world without insecurity, where people are comfortable with who they are, what wars would be fought? What fights would break out? What would we need to hide? Look at those below me; no shame, no fear, no embarrassment, and I couldn't imagine a happier group of people. Now you may not look down on my 'choices', and boy, they never do, but that doesn't mean you don't look down on me. I mean, look at me, we couldn't be bigger opposites if we tried. What I want you do to, though, is ask yourself one teeny-weeny-itsy-bitsy question; why? Why bother working so hard to prove how tough you are, honey? For my sake? You wanna try and intimidate little ole' me? Hun, have you ever looked a meaty cock right in its eye and thought 'thats going in my face?'?...Then you don't know intimidation.
"But, Porter, my little bae, I'm not here to just insult or criticize you. Instead, I want to help you. Now that I've got you asking 'why?', its important that you start opening your mind. I'm not asking you to bat from the other side of the plate, hun, because its not for everyone, but maybe try looking at the world from my view. Maybe, if you can be honest with yourself, you could be a little happier.
"Think about it. No more exhausting efforts proving your machismo to the world! No more anxiousness wondering what others think of you! You could let go. Join us. Be free from the prudes who only want you to fit into their mold. Fang-y, I just want you to be you...and if taking a loss from me is what will let you see it, then just let it happen, babe."
The camera begins to pull out as I look back out into the sea of people, a living carpet if you will, watching as freedom is their fetish, care-free is their sexuality, unending is their happiness. I smile knowingly as the camera faces to black, perched on top of my throne, knowing it to be a job will done.
-_-_-
"How do you think it went, Crack?"
"Oh so well, dearest Bran, but frankly, sometimes I get sick of having to pretend to be my naive alter-ego."
