I turned the corner and saw the motel. There it was, as he'd said it would be, and my life was about to change irrevocably. I could never go back after I entered room sixteen. I paused and stood on the curb, swallowing hard, my emotions a crazed mixture of fear, anger, strange excitement, and I was fighting tears. Finally I steeled myself to move forward. I'd expected it to be seedy, to have drug addicts and prostitutes hanging around it. Instead it was nice, painted a bright pink with white trim, a long row of rooms in an L-shape around a beautiful pool, a typical modest beach motel. There were children playing in the pool, their parents lazing in lounge chairs, enjoying the sun and laughing as they all relaxed enjoying what was probably a much needed vacation. I could see and hear the waves of the beach through a fenced gate at the end of the motel and I longed to be out there with my surfboard, the board I'd sold two months ago.
But I couldn't. I was starving, I'd been evicted from the efficiency I'd been renting, and I'd been fired from my job because I couldn't make the required quota of telephone sales daily. Everything I owned other than the clothes on my back was stashed in a locker at the bus station. This was my last hope, an 'opportunity' offered by a slick guy who had seen my desperation when I applied for a job in a bar. The bartender there couldn't offer me a job but Mr. Slick had offered to make me a star, a porn star. All I'd have to do is masturbate on camera. I'd nearly smashed my fist in his mouth and he knew it but he'd still offered me a chance, told me to be at room sixteen at two thirty on Thursday if I decided I'd like to make fifteen hundred dollars, maybe a lot more if I turned out to be good.
I wasn't sure about what constituted good for porn but somehow I guessed it had something to do with how I looked naked. I hadn't even shown this guy my dick. In fact, he'd made his offer based on what he did see, a blond surfer dude in a red tee shirt and blue jeans, wearing running shoes and carrying the tennis racket I was trying to sell. It was the last thing of any real value I owned. He'd just smiled at me and said 'maybe I'll see you later kid'. I'd watched him walk away, balding, a little overweight, wearing an expensive dark blue suit. I wanted to cry right there in the bar. So it had come to this.
I was the bright star of my high school, the quarterback of the football team, a first rate pitcher on the baseball team, local tennis ace, star of all the school musicals and plays, the golden boy. Everyone at home had been certain I'd make it in Hollywood. I'd come to this town to become a star and I was too proud to go home with my tail between my legs, not without taking every possible opportunity I could get.
In the bar I'd had no luck with getting a job but after Mr. Slick left, the bartender had offered to buy the racket. I walked with him into his back office to collect the money and he'd offered me twenty dollars for the racket, fifty if I'd let him suck my dick. I sold him the racket but now, standing on the curb, I wished I'd let him suck my dick. The extra money might have held me over long enough to avoid this humiliation.
So I walked to room sixteen and knocked on the door. The door opened and a man peered at me through the narrow opening allowed by the chain lock. It was a different guy, he seemed younger and he had all of his hair, a wavy long dark brown mass that made him look a little wild, like maybe he was a hippie from the sixties that had never adjusted to the passage of time.
"Can I help you?"
"I was told to be here at two thirty today."
"Really? Who told you that?"
"A balding guy wearing a navy blue suit three days ago at Sal's Bar."
"What's he look like, Frank?"
It was the voice of the man I'd met in the bar, muffled and suspicious.
"Oh, he's a real stud, Homer, blond, six feet, and tan with muscles everywhere, looks like he's eighteen with blue eyes that say fuck me."
"That's him, let him in."
The door closed and I heard the chain slide, then the door opened and I saw the bed and the cameras on tripods.
"Well, come on in," Frank hissed. "We don't need unnecessary attention."
He grabbed my arm and pulled me into the room, quickly closing the door and replacing the chain lock.
Homer was wearing a white polo shirt and the ugliest pair of plaid shorts I'd ever seen in my life. He was barefoot and adjusting a camera and instantly I knew these two guys were not novices. There were two cameras on tripods and four big lights on stands, along with several light reflection and diffuser panels. Other cameras and photographic equipment were on the floor. I'd auditioned for enough parts to know these two had some expensive equipment and had it set up to make a first rate porn flick.
Frank was wearing a loud blue flowered Hawaiian shirt and a loose pair of skimpy nylon shorts that left nothing to the imagination. Homer was a bit chunky but Frank looked to be in good shape, fairly attractive if you could get beyond the hair that looked like he'd put his finger in a light socket. Homer seemed to know what he was doing but it was soon clear that Frank was the expert and he was the director here, not Homer. Still Homer was the more aggressive of the two and acted like he was the one in charge. I wondered why Frank let him act like such a horse's ass when Homer clearly wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. Frank was running this show and probably anything else that involved the two of them.
"So you ready for this, uh, uh, what's your name, kid?" Homer asked.
I started to speak and Frank interrupted me quickly.
"We pay cash, kid, and we're not really Frank and Homer. Just pick a name, we prefer it that way. It can save you a lot of grief later if the cops get involved. You don't know us, we don't know you."
I nearly shit in my pants. What the hell were they going to be doing in here, making a snuff film? I turned to leave and Frank grabbed my arm. He grinned.
"Come on, kid. Don't be scared. We've made hundreds of these porn flicks and never got busted yet but you can never tell when some granny by the pool is going to get nosey and call the cops. You're safe with us, trust me."
I looked into his eyes and he seemed honest, sincere. I mean, as honest and sincere as two guys making fuck films in a beachside motel could possibly be. I chuckled at how ridiculous this whole thing was beginning to appear.
"See, it's not so bad now, is it? So what was that name again? You look like a Brad."
"Aren't you the clever one?" I laughed. "Brad it is."
We all laughed. My name is David but the guy had given me some good advice. If my ass was going to be filmed for the world to see, Brad was a better name. If somehow the porno showed up in Hazlehurst then maybe the name Brad would shield me. Shit. I was kidding myself. Everyone there had known me since birth and I'd made the local sports page dozens of times; I'd been on half the pages of my senior yearbook. The only saving grace I could think of was that there were no porn theaters in Hazlehurst, hell, you couldn't by a fucking Penthouse in that town. The local churches ran the place like it was the sanctified modern Garden of Eden and they were going to slaughter any snakes that showed up.
"Okay, Brad, we gotta get you ready. Here."
Homer handed me two enema bottles.
"Go in the bathroom and use both those enema bottles and then take a shower. There's a gym suit for you to put on when you're ready to come out."
I took the enema bottles and just looked at them, horrified.
Homer grinned.
"You don't drink those, kid. You squirt one up your ass; wait ten minutes, and shit. Then squirt the second one up your ass and shit again. When you do it twice your ass is as clean as your mouth. Then take a shower to get clean."
"All this just to jack off in front of a camera? What are you going to do, put the camera up my ass?"
