Tony Peregrin

The night I realized a former boyfriend of mine was a professional porn star, I was surrounded by a room full of horned-up, tipsy gay boys watching a movie called "Jockstrapped."

Everyone was hooting and squawking their enthusiasm at the TV, as slick, tight-bodied guys transformed a high school locker room into a gay "Caligula." Suddenly, a new "player" entered the scene, and as his jersey and jock were being ripped off, a sly grin began to creep across his boyish face -- a grin that looked achingly familiar. I rushed up to the TV screen to get a closer look, ignoring my friends who were yelling at me to get my perverted ass out of the way. And there, bathed in the blue glow of the screen, I became reacquainted with every nook and cranny of my ex-boyfriend.

As I sat there watching him giving and receiving what appeared to be mind-shattering blowjobs, doubts about my own performance abilities in the sack began to blossom like fresh bruises all over my ego. We had always had a decent sex life, fueled by his unwavering attraction to me, which was based mostly, I suspect, on my aloofness -- a quality he charmingly misread as intellect. He was a simple, corn-fed farm boy from Dayton, who favored spearmint gum over cigarettes and wore fake prescription glasses to impress me -- and impress me he did. The question is, did I impress him? And if I did, did I do it with the same passionate intensity flashing vividly before me on the screen?

Dan Savage, the revered sex columnist who always seems to have the answer to everything, once described man-on-man oral sex in the following manner: "Cock sucking is what my boyfriend is good at; blowjobs are what my sister gives; and fellatio is what my mom does."

OK, but what is it called when you give head to a boyfriend-porn-star-in-training?

"Lucky," responded Eric, a close friend of mine, who with a bored sigh, urged me to forget my insecurities.

But I, of course, couldn't let go of the idea that I might suck (or, ahem, not suck enough) in bed. Sure, I knew better than to compare myself to the manufactured world of a porn film, but for all intents and purposes, I had been there in that locker room with him, countless times. The question was: did I belong there?

Fast-forward six months. I am back in Cincinnati for the holidays, standing at the urinal in the bathroom of the Dock, when I hear a familiar laugh ricocheting off the tiled walls. I feel someone clap me on the back on the way to the sink and as I turn my head towards the opposite wall, I see both of our faces, side-by-side, reflected in the mirror slightly above him.

"Hey," he says to the mirror me, his trademark grin spreading across his face. "Oh my God! What's going on," I respond, hoping I don't sound as drunk as I feel.

He smiles again, pops a fresh stick of spearmint gum in his mouth, and nods toward the bathroom door.

In person, he looks like the same guy who used to wear glasses to impress me, but more tan. Over Rolling Rocks that we were each careful to pay for ourselves, I ask about Los Angeles, which is a polite way of me asking about life as a porn star, and he knows it. He rattles off titles of movies he's been in ("Blow Me Down," "Big As They Come II," and "Working Stiff," to name a few) and fellow "models" he's "worked with" (Sky Thompson, Cole Youngblood, Mark Montana). But he manages to convey all of this without sounding contrived. In fact, his aww-shucks demeanor has set off the Geiger counter in my crotch and I begin to think of how unfair life is. Life should be more like a porno tape: with a push of a button you should be able to rewind the good stuff -- or at least set it on pause.

Back at a friend's place, we're laying on the spare bed fully clothed, pretending to be drunker than we really are. It's quiet (except for his gum chewing) and dark and I wonder if he can hear my heart beating as I lean over and kiss him. It's a slow, sensuous kiss, a kiss that says "hey how are you, I've missed you."

"This is it," I think as shirts are pulled off and shoes are kicked off, falling to the hardwood floor with a satisfied thud. Images of the locker room scene from the movie start unraveling in my mind's eye. They are still images: a penis frozen in erection here, a look of ecstasy on his face frozen over there. "Here we go," I think to myself, "I am about to create my own version of a sex scene with a bona fide porn star."

"How was it," asks Eric, once I'd returned to Chicago.

"It was fun," I say, wondering if I will bother telling him the truth. The truth is: I still didn't know if I belonged in that locker room or not. Everything seemed to go fine, of course, but was I able to hold my own with the likes of Sky Thompson or Cole Youngblood -- at least in his eyes?

"I can tell you right now, you didn't have sex with a porn star," says Eric after seeing through my vague response.

"Yeah, he makes porno, some pretty hot porno, but you know him. You have dated him. Having sex with a porn star only works when he is a stranger and he's no stranger to you."

No, what was strange here, was the veracity of Eric's comment.

What I realized at that moment was that pornography and porn stars are really only hot when they are edited, spliced and looped through the imagination's projector. Take away the blessed curtain of anonymity and what you have are little more than glorified home movies of people that you know having sex.

"I did learn something," I say matter-of-factly. Eric's eyes narrow to cat-eye slits.

"What," he asks, his voice oozing sarcasm.

I pause, unsure of how to proceed.

"Don't ever chew gum while giving head," I blurt out. "Gum and pubic hair: not a winning combo," I say, scratching my crotch.

(2001-02-15)

Also by Tony Peregrin

COLD COMFORT
The Blues and the Pinks cast snide, sidelong glances at me, one of the few yellow cardholders who dared to be punctual. None of the yellow-bellies make it into the studio. We stand there looking like dateless adolescents at a high school dance, until the audience coordinator offers to let us view the taping through a monitor.
(2001-01-18)

BROTHER'S KEEPER
Trotting out a dysfunctional childhood and crazy siblings for contemporary readers to ooh and aah over, like an adult version of show-and-tell, is anything but new. However, Bottoms' narrative manages to explore new terrain by offering an adolescent male point of view, one complicated by the thorny, competitive relationship that exist between brothers.
(2000-12-14)

GOLDEN NUGGET
No matter where the stories in Thisbe Nissen's "Out of the Girls' Room and Into the Night" take the reader -- from Grateful Dead shows to sick rooms to bright Manhattan vestibules -- the air is always moist with hidden, steamy desire, as if desire itself were an unnamed character lurking in each of the collection's scenes.
(2000-12-07)

BLOODLETTING
Rice's cult of fans will pierce their fangs into this novel and be fed with a dark, haunting tale; coursing with gorgeous metaphors, well-researched details and a plot line full of juicy surprises.
(2000-10-19)

GAY CHICAGO
(2000-09-21)

MANIFEST "DENSITY"
(2000-09-21)

TRUTH ACHE
(2000-08-24)

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