F A N F I C T I O N > V . M A R S
The Ace of Diamonds by Amberina
Twenty-six years old and Logan felt washed up. When he first entered -- no pun intended -- the industry, he was the 'it' boy. The men liked their boys, and they apparently liked them with tight asses and pukka shell necklaces.
Now, his teeth are yellowed from too much nicotine and his stomach has rounded out. The years and the drugs have taken their toll on his face and his body -- he's not old, not even close, but he's still too old. It would be easier if he could do straight porn. The men in straight porn could be as ugly as they wanted, provided their cocks were big and their thrusts enthusiastic.
Gay porn was different, though, especially in the twink market. Twinks were pretty boys, softly athletic and naive. Logan had played the part so well, sucking cock and blinking prettily at the camera. He was featured in the tabloids -- sensationalist headlines accompanied by grainy pictures from one of his first films with a "censored" bubble over his naughty parts. The pictures didn't even need to be grainy. They could have easily used DVD-quality caps, but no. He had to be the new Paris Hilton.
His father had been so proud.
People still bought his films. He could see it in their eyes when they passed him on the street. Most of them blushed and adverted their eyes, but some giggled and whispered to their boyfriends or fag hags or mothers. During his career, a few bold men approached him and propositioned him, but that hasn't happened in a while. It was just as well, anyway. He never had sex unless there were cameras present.
Maybe it was hereditary.
The bosses would not admit that people still bought his films. He ended up with crappier roles and smaller paychecks. They told him to work out. He told them to fuck themselves with a chainsaw. That only worsened his position in the industry.
That was how he went from Hottest Twink of 2007 to being fucked by a Ron Jeremy look-alike in someone's shitty house in Burbank. The director was a sleazy man, as most of them were, but this one didn't even try to hide it. He looked like a female lumberjack, with what was supposed to be a beard and a red flannel shirt that was not made for the hot summer weather. The entire time they were shooting, his tongue was hanging out of the corner of his mouth and he was watching them intently. He gave no direction, he just watched. The sweat that beaded on his forehead only made him seem sleazier, if that were possible. Logan should have been used to the voyeuristic type, but people for the most part managed to be professional on most other sets he'd been on. He'd never experienced this.
Finally, after probably coming in his pants, the director called cut. Logan pushed Faux Jeremy off of himself the best he could, wrapped a robe around his body and went outside for a smoke.
His brain may have exploded when he saw who was sitting on the porch. Any number of emotions flickered through him, most of which he couldn't name. Mostly he felt anger. What the fuck?
"No," Logan said and went back inside the house. Lumberjill and Faux Jeremy were exchanging saliva in the living room so he turned his ass right back around and prepared to faced his past. Fuck.
Weevil sat on the porch step and had a look on his face that Logan couldn't take. He had a plastic-coated playing card in his hand for some reason and scraping it against his pants. He was still wearing his uniform. Neptune's goddamn finest. Logan couldn't find anything to say, for the first time in his life.
"I'm sorry, man," Weevil said finally.
"No, you're not," Logan replied but it wasn't sarcastic. It wasn't even bitter. It was just there.
Weevil placed his head in his hands. It was still smooth. Logan remembered how it felt against his stomach, his thigh. It wasn't something just brought on by seeing Weevil. He thought about it daily. Sometimes it was the only way he could get up on-set.
"How much coke you doing now?" Weevil asked. His voice was weary and he didn't look at Logan as he spoke.
"I'm fucking clean," Logan lied.
Weevil didn't respond.
"What do you want?" Logan said. He did not fucking need this. No fucking way, no fucking how. No, no, no.
"This ain't you," Weevil said after a long while.
Logan knew exactly what he was talking about, but it didn't matter. Not really. "You're right. I'm a clone." He paused. "Does it bother you?" He knew it did. He loved that it did. "That anyone with a few bucks can --"
"Fuck, Logan," Weevil said. That was all he said. It said enough, though. Weevil stood and walked away, without saying another word.
The card he'd had in his hands remained, sitting there on the steps. The ace of diamonds. Logan leaned down and picked it up and went back inside the house.
He headed straight for the bathroom, past Lumberjill and Faux Jeremy and their discovery of new ways to be disgusting. He locked the door and placed the ace of diamonds and a small vial of cocaine from his pocket on the sink. He looked around the bathroom for something to snort with. Finally, in the trash he found a newspaper and he tore a section off of it.
After he finished his business, he sat on the edge of the dirty bathtub and he stared at the ace of diamonds he was clutching in his hand. He tried to will himself to leave the bathroom but he couldn't. So he sat there, frozen in place, even as someone began to bang on the door.
He wondered what his dad was doing.