Call Me Gavin

Call me Gavin. That’s not my real name, of course, but who in this business uses their real name? It’s all Mack Sweetwood and Virginia LaCour around here: names with just the right combination of glamour and sleaze. So, yeah, that’s me. Gavin Steel. One more slab of beef around the pool. One more coked up, glistening loser baring it all for the wet dreams of America.
It beats the shit out of law school.
I was waiting on set with Mike Hawk. Say that out loud a couple of times. Yeah. That’s right. He was real proud of that shit. Took him a week to come up with it. We had worked together four times. He was bright and funny and great to be around, even if he was a little pretentious sometimes. Plus, he sucked cock like he invented the fucking blow job. He was a great guy. I’m standing there with Mike and this red haired girl named, I think, Misty. The two of them were, I shit you not, going over their lines. It never fails to amuse me how seriously some of these guys would take themselves. I mean, it’s the set of Bi-Bi Love 2, not Gone with the Wind. But they insisted that they were actors and they kept trying to inject drama into their projects when the only thing that needed to be injected in those movies were plenty of saran wrapped cocks.
So, we’re standing there on this beautiful day, the sun shining in a perfect blue sky like a kid’s drawing. The place is littered with beautiful naked or barely dressed people, smearing lotion and oil on each other waiting for the climactic orgy sequence to begin that will wrap up this epic. Not one single person there could have predicted the horrors that were coming: A catastrophe that, to this day, leaves me weak and cold when I think of it. I’ve been in therapy for two years now, and I still have nightmares. The smell of burning flesh and hair and tanning oil haunt me.
Jesus.
Even now, as I close my eyes, I can still see Missy or Misty or Mitzy with her hair in flames, screaming in baby oil-fueled agony, her skin crisping up like pork rinds as flames lick over her. People jumped into the pool to escape the fire, most of them drowning each other in their panic. A slick of oil on top of the water allowed the fire to spread there too. Even the pool was a death trap. Talking about it now, everything floods back and I can see that gorgeous California day transforming into a sick, Hell on earth. I can still feel the agony of the flames on my arm, and yeah, I know how lucky I am that I didn’t get it worse. I didn’t end up dead like Misty and so many others. I didn’t end up pissing through a tube for the rest of my life like Mike Hawk.
Nobody ever knew who started that fire that day. Nobody knew how it happened. Just that once it ignited, it blew through that oiled up crowd in seconds. And now, three years later, I’m just beginning to understand it all. And I don’t think it was an accident. I mean, how could it be? Even though the police asked everyone whose skin wasn’t crispy, they couldn’t even catch a damn lead. Every time an Aqua Net-laminated, blue haired old lady goes to light her Benson & Hedges 100s, I break into a cold sweat.
Therapy doesn’t help, either, since my therapist wants me. Seriously, she does. Every time I sit on that couch, she sits across from me in her leather wing chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs, slow enough to give me a beaver shot; it just seems such a natural, fluid motion that I almost don’t even realize she’s doing it.
Yeah, I do.
Anyway, her blouse is always just tight enough that her nipples lift the fabric away from her breasts enough to let me know how cold it is in her office, or how hot she thinks I am. But, I digress. Therapy. What the hell do I think is going to happen? Suddenly, one day, I’ll wake up and be okay with watching my friends crisp up like the skin on a Thanksgiving turkey? Not fucking likely. And I told my therapist that, too. She said it takes time to get over a trauma like that. I don’t know… maybe.
In the meantime you just get on with the mundane aspects of life. Mundane? Me? Who's life once consisted of waking up next to a ridiculously hot and nubile body, a protein breakfast and five hour gym workout followed by hours and hours of doing what most of the world only fantasize about?
I mean, what more could you ask for? Days on end of every fucking wet dream ever conceived, and helping to create new ones. A world where nobody got old, where nobody had to wait until everyone left the bar and make do with whatever ugly easy bitch was left draped on a barstool. Where you could visit the doctor, catch a flight, take your car to get fixed or call in the plumber, and whatever licked your brain salaciously would instantly come into being. A world of pure Id.
People talk about how porn isn't real, how that's not real life, but it was mine. When the director screamed “Cut!” I stopped being the plumber, the doctor, the pilot but I started the true joy of myself. I became Gavin Steel, porn star.
A celebrity, an adoration, a godhood. People would sit in front of their screens and get off on my body, imagine themselves there with me. Even if you're a rampant slut you might help a hundred people cum, tops. In your lifetime. I was helping thousands of people cum daily.
Did I mention I got paid? A stupid amount of money, because my sex addiction turned into my work addiction, and when I hit the clubs or the DVD signings it became my narcissism, and when I took any eager fan home it became my prowess.
It was a perfect celebrity too, I could switch it on and off as I so chose. I'd like to see Madonna do that. If I went to the right places I was Gavin Steel, bow at my feet and...Worship. My. Cock. When I just felt like being a normal anonymous whatever I'd steer off somewhere else, and I was just some random hot guy doing his grocery shopping, or drinking coffee.
That gap started closing more and more though. I lost the grip on the mundane completely, what the hell did I want it for? I wanted to be Gavin Steel forever and ever, international stud, pinnacle of masculine beauty extraordinaire. The more movies I made the more I would get paid, the more award shows I could attend, the more I could leave behind of my perfection for when I was old and grey and eventually dead. I would not be forgotten. People would still get off on me, even when I was in the grave, and that's something very few people can say.
But for the moment I was still the best goddamn sexiest thing that ever slapped his cock on the whole planet.
Now suddenly, I was a survivor of the California Pool Orgy Barbecue. Yes, the media has a sense of humour. I think the next person who quips me with a hot dog joke is going to get punched in the face. It was a perverse irony, that my face had been plastered across international news, that my DVD sales had risen, and I could not. That fire killed Gavin Steel, because every time I thought of sex my penis would shrivel up and cry, for I could not get the taste of charred human flesh and burning lube out of my mouth.
I have to admit, I wasn’t in the best of moods before the shoot. My agent Rodney had met with the film company (Balls to the Walls Productions) earlier that day for contract negotiations. This was to be the thing that propelled me from star to Super Star: I was signing an exclusive with BTW, for the next two years, they would own my ass, literally. For that honor, I was to get a nice salary bump, approval of directors, scripts, co-stars…and a few under the table perks as well.
As I was leaving my apartment, Rodney called me.
‘Gavin, I’m sorry, but the deal is off. Our negotiations broke down this afternoon. ‘
‘What the fuck, Rodney? This was supposed to be a cakewalk! You told me there would be no problems! What the Hell happened?’
‘They aren’t thrilled with the idea of you switching to straight-only films. You’re the hottest Gay-For-Pay on the market. If you insist, I’ll go to bat for you, but it will weaken your negotiation stance. You won’t be able to command your usual salary.’
‘FUCK THAT RODNEY! I am GAVIN FUCKING STEEL! I am done being jerkoff material for those faggots, they have made enough money off of me. It’s time for me to call the shots. FIX THIS!’
‘Let me see what I can do, but you have to finish the current film today, it’s a sign of good faith.’
‘SON OF A BITCH! I am not doing ANOTHER FUCKING THING until you fix this.’
‘Gavin. Do the God Damned Flick or you won’t be in a position to negotiate your way out of a paper bag. The whole industry will turn its back on you for breach of contract. You won’t even be able to get a part on the Red Shoe Diaries.’
‘Fine.’
I slammed the phone down and sped off to the shoot, running every red light, blasting my stereo with the top down. I was still 20 minutes late.
The director made a bee line to me. ‘What the fuck, Gavin? We’ve been waiting on you to shoot.’
‘Don’t give me any fucking attitude, Larry. You need me for this film. Get me a fluffer and I will ready in 5.’
It ended up taking 2 fluffers and 20 minutes to get me ready. Usually, my personal life does not interfere with my work, but today, work was interfering in my life.
‘Dammit, Julio. Not so much with the teeth!’
‘Sorry, papi. Ju know how mush I like to service you.’ Julio’s accent was all fake, like his name. In reality he was John Smith (I kid you not) from Utah. But he knew how much that turned me on.
As the filming progressed, all I could think about was how I was the one getting screwed by this company. I guess I let my displeasure show a little too much, mouthing off at everyone and telling anyone who would listen not to ever work for these people again. Larry finally called lunch. I didn’t even bother to shower. I threw on a bathrobe and sped off to the nutrition store for a power shake. I had two big 3-way scenes this afternoon, and I’ll be damned if Gavin Steel doesn’t give it his all.
I walked into the shop, barefoot, with just the white robe on. Of course, the counter help was some little faggot.
‘Oh my God. It’s Gavin Steel!!!! I have all of your movies!! You are so fucking hot. Oh My God! You aren’t wearing anything under that are you? Could I just take a peek at the flesh, in the flesh?’
I spread my robe open wide, so he could get a flash of The Real Steel.
‘Take a look, take a picture if you want. This may be the last time you see it. I am fucking done with this business.’
Aaand, here we go. Quiet on the set. Cue the music and fade the light. I mean seriously, did this little fucker actually think that his pimply ass actually had a chance? I’m Gavin Fucking Steel. Literally.
Okay, fine. He did have a chance. I like to be honest, with myself at least. Change my conversation with Larry and reschedule my 3-way for tomorrow. I’m a professional for Christ’s sake and no matter what I refused to sabotage myself. Sure I could have thrown him a bone (yeah that’s right), but I was not in the mood to coddle a star-struck fool, for fuck’s sake.
I closed my robe and turned my back on Mr. Fucking Too Excitable and headed to the back coolers to get my protein shake. There you go. My back plus excitable. What does that equal? I’d be lucky if I got 5 minutes. The little faggot.
I grabbed the shake out of the cooler and snatched an extra large bottle of water. I needed to hydrate. I never could get enough water on a shoot. Sure, the production company always provided well for us on set. But I could feel my tongue sticking to my gums.
On my way back up to the counter, I cracked opened the water and started to drink. I had honed my gulping skills at college parties with beer and funnels. I had made them into a craft over the years, being Gavin Steel. Not too hard, really. You just have to relax your jaw and get to the point that pressure on the back of your tongue and throat didn’t kick in your gag reflex.
Snagging a power bar I slapped my purchases on the counter in front of the goggle eyed fool staring at me awe struck. And I waited.
“So how much, buddy?” I snapped.
“Man, I cannot believe that Gavin Steel is in my store. I can’t FUCKING believe that I just saw Gavin Fucking Steel’s cock!” He squealed as he continued to just stare at me. Well at the area below my belt.
“Hey, sure. That’s exciting. How much?”
“Nothing man! On the house!”
And because I was who I was, I grabbed my stuff and walked out drinking my water. I guess it was a good thing the little bugger was working, now that I think about it. My wallet was tucked into the pocket in my jeans, hanging neatly on a hook in my trailer. Yeah, MY trailer. I wondered briefly if he was going to pay for my goods out of his own pocket. Made for a great story, I guess. I was in a crappy mood, but I didn’t want him to get fired. I made a mental note to go back to that store later and, I don’t know, be nice I guess.
Walking on set, I saw Mike chatting with Misty (Muffy? Miffy?) and headed towards them. That’s when I realized that they were actually running lines for the three way.
What’s to practice? “Ohhh” but with more feeling? Or how about “I’m not sure about this” with just the right mixture of tentative curiosity and slight wariness.
And then I heard a scream. I mean a real scream not a “work” scream.
All eyes shot towards the direction of the scream. From where I was standing, I saw three blondes and the token black guy in this movie standing near the hot tub -I only knew the black guy by his porn name, “Lincoln Logg”. Blonde #1 on my left was the screamer.
Like the rest of us on set, they were all naked. But another dude was standing with them -fully dressed in some raggedy ass looking threads. Dude was behind blonde #2, (Carissa? Clarista? Clytemnestra?) and from where I was, it looked like he was kissing her on the back of her head.
That was until I saw the blood.
Dude backed away from her, and as he did, I could see blood running out of the back of her head, flowing through her near-white platinum blond hair. The path of her spine was like a valley with a red river running through it. As the guy pulled away, I could see dripping arcs of gunk and goo hanging in the air between the blonde’s head and his mouth. I could see that he was chewing and I could see what looked like her brains sticking out of the fucking hole in her head.
Blonde #2 collapsed forward towards the other two blondes, who in a fucked up display, moved out of the way and ran off, letting her fall face-first towards the hot tub. Lincoln caught her and lowered her to a seated position against the hot tub wall -accidentally slapping her in the face with his 13-inch monster in the process. At the same time, he turned his bald head to face up towards dude to ask him what the fuck his problem was. Linc turned just in time to see teeth bite into his skull right above the eyes.
Fucking hell broke loose. Fake tits remained perfectly still as blondes ran in every direction trying to get away from whatever was happening. People were pushing and shoving each other to get out of either of the set’s two exits. The oil on their bodies allowed them to slip together into one tight spray tanned mass that once pushed together was hard to get apart. At the exit nearest the hot tub, a mass of people pushing together shifted to the left, knocking a fake ass looking tiki torch off its base and onto a pile of towels on the hot tub’s wooden deck.
At the other exit, more screaming started. The group of people who had plowed into the doorway and were now stuck, started yelling and the people I could see were squirming and slamming into each other. A dude in the back of the glob of people fell down backwards and got stepped on as they started trying to move backwards. As the doorway cleared, I could see that dude that had chomped on the blonde’s head had some friends. I could see them chewing too and noticed a couple of other people bleeding from the head. The story in the first doorway was the same.
The fire had spread quickly from the deck to the walls of the set and the walls of the building. At this point, we had a windowless wall on behind us on one side and a wall of fire and well, some god damned zombies on the 3 others. At the same time I saw Misty(?) slip on an oily spot and her catch her hair on fire as she landed on the hot tub deck, I noticed Linc chewing on the head of another blond. The blood from the wound on the side of her head was dripping all over her and Linc, flowing across his abs and then down and off the end of his cock onto a growing pool on the floor. While I tried to overcome the urge to throw up my lunch, I looked around and tried to figure out what the fuck to do next.
Flames were licking at my bare skin. My bronzed, flawless skin. I had to do something - but everywhere I looked, there was more chaos. Half of the cast and crew were engulfed in flames, and the ones who weren't, were being munched on by zombies. And then they, in turn, were becoming zombies. Mother-fucking zombies!! What the hell?!? How did my life suddenly become an '80s horror movie? Worse still, the kind you would've seen Rhonda Shear hosting on late-night TV. If I weren't scared out of my ever-lovin' mind, I'd have probably been doubled over in a fit of hysterical laughter.
As I snapped back to reality, I noticed the canvas tarp that had been covering the indoor pool. It was laying in the corner of the set, folded up and forgotten. So far it seemed unscathed by the fire and, even though it seemed like a long-shot, I figured that it was my best bet to survive this ordeal. Doing my best to dodge zombies and flaming porn stars, I ran over and started crawling under it - quickly unfolding as much as I needed to cover my body.
Peeking out just slightly from the canvas, I could see Tawny (Tanya? Tana?) chewing on the inner thigh of my buddy Harry Coxwell (yep, say that one out loud a few times too). As she happily feasted on the beefy stud, one of the crew-members fell on top of them, catching both Harry and Zombie-Tawny (Tina? Tyanna?) on fire.
I looked up from that scene, and realized that the original zombies - as well as many of the newly-created ones - were catching on fire, right alongside the siliconed bimbos, donkey-hung himbos and hapless crew-members.
The smell of burning human flesh and hair finally became too much for me, and I blacked out.
I have no idea how long I was unconscious, but when I came to, I realized I no longer heard any shouting or screaming. I was still under the protective cover of the canvas tarp, and as I rubbed my dry, stinging eyes, I tried to shake off the fogginess that was clouding my mind.
Cautiously, I peeked out from under the canvas again as I had earlier. Surveying the situation, I saw several police officers, firemen, paramedics and EMTs. They were tending to the scant few survivors and covering the bodies of the rest. It was a grisly scene, but I couldn't help chuckling when I saw our lispy little assistant director slumped, doggy-style, over the big, burly key grip. I have a sick sense of humor, what can I say?
As I snickered, my smoke-filled lungs caused me to rasp and cough, and I heard someone shout, "Hey, there's a survivor over there!"
Several men then rushed over and helped me out from under the tarp. Most of what happened directly after that is blur now, but as I was being examined by the paramedics, I remember the fire chief telling me that I was damn lucky to have survived pretty much physically unscathed. Apparently the canvas was flame retardant, but by all rights should not have been able to withstand the intensity of a fire of this magnitude.
I'm glad the fire chief thinks I'm lucky, but me and my traumatized dick sure don't feel that way.

“So, doc, that’s how it plays out every night. As soon as my head hits the pillow, the nightmare starts all over again. Someone said it might be Post Traumatic Stress Disorder - from the fire. But what I don’t get is why the zombies? I mean, it was horrible enough…”
My voice trailed off. Dry mostly, but I also felt like I had been yammering on for hours. I could see the glazed over expression on Dr. Collins’ puffy, cupie doll face. As hideous as the man was, I felt it was the best medicine. Dr. Ms. Jump-My-Bones simply wasn’t getting the job done with all her subtle-as-a-sledgehammer pen sucking and boy, is it hot in here’s.
“Well, I suppose I would agree with that assessment. It is likely that you are suffering from PTSD.”
Figures.
“It’s not unusual to relive these tragic events through nightmares for months – even years – afterward. But the good news is that through therapy and some anti-anxiety medication, we can help you move on from this, move toward getting your old self back.”
Great, my old self. Cupie doll must have seen some passing cloud over the poker face I had been trying to uphold throughout the session. Hell, I’ve been wearing it for years.
“I take it Gavin Steel isn’t exactly the man you want to get back to, is he?”
I simply stared for a moment. Then my eyes flicked down to my shoe where I had been, for some minutes, fiddling with a frayed edge.
“I thought as much. And that brings me to that most troubling aspect of your dream: the zombies.”
Joy. What kind of psycho-babble would spew forth from that pursed little doll’s mouth?
“I would venture that the flesh-eating zombies represent your true feelings for a business that you know, deep down, is eating you alive. It is devouring your mind, your body, and your soul. It has even taken from you your own name. Hasn’t it, Gavin?”
Supercilious bastard.
“And I would wager that there is a dash of survivor’s guilt beneath that well-cultivated demeanor of nonchalance and devil-may-care. You feign narcissism to keep these walls up, these wall that protect you from those who would hurt you physically and emotionally. However, over the years in the business, your walls have worn down and you have come to resent and hate those with whom you work so… closely. You may have even thought to yourself: I wish they would just burn in hell. And when they do… Well… Nightmares.”
The man was good, I had to admit. He could talk the Pope into tricking his ass all over Rome.
I left cupie doll’s office around four, and simply drove to the beach. I wasn’t in the mood to face my demons – real or imagined. I wondered if the horror I witnessed would cling to me like the scent of charred bodies for the rest of my life. There I was, the terrified, limp-dicked sole survivor of the Poolside Porno Pyre, as the latest media installment of the story called it. I could feel myself losing touch with Gavin Steel and asked myself – only half-jokingly – what my real name was again. It was silly and stupid in that way when you can’t find your keys and they’re right in your pocket. It kinda freaked me out. Maybe cupie doll was on to something. Maybe I would give it a try.
As the sun submerged into the Pacific, the glow of the city cast a jaundiced wash across the sky. The beach-goers had long since fled and I found myself alone with the surf and the distant hum of traffic. To my right, some yards away, a quiet quartet sat around a fire making out. I found it somehow odd that the “free love” propagated by my business had found its way into normal America and that now you could regularly find Craigslist ads for dudes that wanted to double, triple, and quadruple tag-team some wanton cyber slut. The same guys who can’t shower near one another in the gym could, due to films like his, become aroused at the thought of sharing some stranger’s hole with half a dozen of his frat buddies.
Boy, were they really going at it, too. The campfire bunch, that is. I mean, it’s called “necking” dude, not canniba-
As the man lifted his head, an icy fear washed over me. Dangling from his clenched jaws was a ragged hunk of flesh. The bloody wound glistened in the flickering firelight. I wanted to scream. I wanted to close my eyes, to shake off this absurd delusion. But I was paralyzed.
At last, an anguished and altogether pitiful squeal escaped my throat.
Gulping down the last of his morsel, the man’s head snapped suddenly in my direction, as alert as an animal. He stared at me for a long moment, smiled with bloody teeth, and then hissed. The other three shot up, suddenly alert themselves.
Frightened, I pissed my pants. I told myself: get up, get up, GET UP!! But it seemed no use. My legs simply would not function. I just sat there in a puddle of wet sand, feeling it grow colder in the night air.
As the trio raced with a peculiar lope toward me, I somehow managed to will my wobbly legs into action. I ran down the beach toward the parking lot, toward the lights, toward people…. Away from this horrid nightmare.