I lost, okay? I was nominated for a
GayVN Award in the “Best Threesome” category and I lost. And
I’m NOT BITTER about it!
Now that that’s out of the way…
The Starbucks in West Hollywood across from the 24-Hour
Fitness appeared to be filled with porn stars. Nothing unusual there;
on any given day the clientele at this caffeine Mecca on Santa Monica
Boulevard has the distinctly buffed, coiffed, ready-to-shtup look associated
with my brethren from le monde du porn. The difference this afternoon,
however, was that many of the men there actually were porn stars.
For this was the day of the GayVN Awards, which are presented annually
to performers, directors, camera-people, writers (there are writers in
porn? you’re asking yourself) and pretty much every category one
can think of (or think up) in the adult film industry.
This year not only was I attending as a nominee, I had
also been asked by Chi Chi Larue, who was hosting the evening, to be onstage
with her for the entire ceremony and assist in presenting some of the
awards. Three other porn studs would be my cohorts in this task, and I
thought it might be fun.
My stay in Los Angeles promised to be a busy ten days.
On my calendar were two scenes to be shot (both to be directed by Chi
Chi), a couple of photo shoots and the awards show itself.
Friday evening, as I dined with a buddy of mine and told
him about the big water-sports orgy I would be shooting the next day,
my cell rang and, answering it, I received the news that Chi Chi had suffered
chest pains and was admitted to Cedars Sinai. While her condition was
definitely something to be concerned about, Chi Chi insisted that the
scene be shot as scheduled, although it wound up being a simple—yet
wildly sexy--duo between Tag Adams and me, rather than the piss-tacular
that had been planned. (Tag did manage to work in his famous beer-squirting-out-of-the-butthole
trick that’s always a hit at parties. Such a trouper, that one.)
On Monday, we received the good news that, although Chi
Chi’s main aortic artery was 99% blocked, she had undergone a successful
angioplasty and would be her old self ‘ere long. In other words,
she was fit as a fiddle. A bull fiddle, perhaps, but sassy as ever and
able to come home two days later.
Which meant—ta-dah!—she would be able to
host the awards.
The ceremony was held at 6:30 PM (to allow for the live
coast-to-coast broadcast? Uh, no. More likely so the guys attending could
still turn a trick or two later that night.) They were at a nightclub
on Santa Monica Boulevard and our contingent from Falcon Studios walked
from our hotel to the awards en masse. And considering the size
of some of these guys, there was trés masse to go around.
Jason Adonis by himself qualifies as an entourage. We made quite a sight
sauntering down the street, waving to the fans at the car wash, avoiding
an autograph seeker (I cut him off at “Buddy, can you spare…”,
but I assume he was about to say “an autograph”) and soaking
in the glamour that only West Hollywood on a Thursday night at 6:15 can
offer.
Outside the club, the red carpet stretched a luxurious
six feet onto the sidewalk. The suspense was thick: Who would win what?
What would who wear? Which of my names was on the guest list? The paparazzo
(not a typo; it’s the singular) lit up the early evening sky with
constant flashing. The air was redolent with testosterone and gin and
ego.
Once inside I saw many of the beautiful faces that we
all know from porn boxes. Look! It’s Michael Soldier! Oh, my god,
it’s Eric Evans! Golly, there’s Lane Fuller. I had to say
hello to Lane. He greeted me with the appropriate and generous condescension
a true star uses for his fans. I guess he didn’t remember that I
had fucked him on camera for about 3 hours a few months ago. Oh, silly
me, why should he remember something so inconsequential?
Columnist Billy Masters (Cholly Knickerbocker with a
Back-Bay lilt) graciously introduced me to those I didn’t know,
and made delicious comments about everyone as soon as they had passed.
Together, he and I braved the (surprisingly good) buffet and I had just
enough time to wolf down a low-carb morsel or two when Mlle. Larue summoned
me for a pre-ceremony conference.
Jason Adonis, Kent Larson, Eddie Stone and I comprised
the Golden Globe Girls and Chi Chi had a few directives for us, which
she issued from the privacy of her chic star dressing room (I guess both
sexes had to use the ladies loo that night.) “Read ‘em out
fast and loud and don’t let the winners up on stage to accept their
awards!” No one? “I’ll decide who gets to come up!”
Okey-doke, Chi Chi. We boys decided to alternate reading the awards as
they came. Fortunately, we could all count to four, because that’s
how we divvied them up. (Whether we could all read or not is another matter
that, to be kind, I won’t get into here…)
The ceremony began propitiously with Chi Chi making heart
attack jokes and dishing some of the guests. As she called the four of
us onstage to join her it struck me that I was about 20 years older than
the other three guys. I couldn’t decide whether that said more about
them, or me but I silently thanked Mom and Dad for the good genes.
There was something sweetly parochial in the way the
tables representing the different studios applauded and cheered as their
own nominees were read, although, as most of the winners were forbidden
by La Larue from taking the stage to accept their Lucite trophies (which
were strangely un-phallic in design), I never really got to see who everyone
was.
But they got to see who I was, all right. Standing there
proudly among the young beefcakes of porn, I mumbled witticisms and bon
mots under my breath at the events taking place before me. As one of the
lifetime-achievement winners droned on in what was an uncomfortably personal
and confessional speech, the crowd started to murmur and eventually began
chattering openly. I turned to one of my fellows and whispered, “Attention
must be paid!” giving it my best Mrs. Willy Loman delivery. It was
met with a witty and caustic, “Huh?” Gee, aren’t porn
stars the best?
Then the big moment arrived: the award for Best Threesome!
Chi Chi read the nominees, “Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, and
Gus Mattox, Gage Matthews and Johnny Hazzard for ‘What Men Do’.
And the winner is.. Someone else.” Suddenly, the room kicked
into ultra-slo-motion. I somnolently turned my head to face Chi Chi. She
looked at me and mouthed “sorry”. To myself, I said “Ohhhhh,
myyyyy gooooood”, and my voice sounded like a record being played
at 16 RPM. The crowd clapped their hands together as if underwater, but
no sounds emanated as their palms met; all I heard was a low droning in
my ears. This is it, I thought; the culmination of my initial foray into
porn. I’m a loser!
Then I got over it and the show continued.
We read off the remaining awards and the ceremony ended.
All the winners came up to grab their trophies, including Lane Fuller,
who had won for “Best Oral Scene". He looked directly into
my eyes and I could tell he wanted to ask me something. “Are they
up onstage? Can I just get mine?” I felt redeemed.
After a couple more ginger ales at the (now cash) bar,
and a little bit more schmoozing and networking I headed back to the hotel.
The evening had turned chilly and the cool air felt good on my skin after
the close atmosphere of the club. I walked eastward on Santa Monica and
passed the Starbucks, now denuded of its pornstar glamour. Saying goodnight
to the desk clerk, I rose in the elevator to the fourth floor of the hotel
and padded down the hall to my room.
After a quick shower, to wash the smoke and disappointment
from my hair, I climbed first into my pajama bottoms and then into my
bed. Flipping through the channels I settled on “The West Wing”
and quickly became engrossed in President Bartlett’s tribulations
as he tried to run the country. Just an hour before, I was onstage in
front of a Who’s Who of the Gay Porn industry and now here I was
comfortably sleepy and half-heartedly trying to stay awake.
As I gave up and fell into the arms of Morpheus I thought,
“Whose life is this I’m living? It’s way too interesting
to be mine…”
©2004 Gus Mattox
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