MY FAILED PORN CAREER

HE HAS THE REQUISITE MUSCLES, POWER TOOLS AND EXHIBITIONIST STREAK. SO HOW DID MARC ANDREWS’ PORN STAR DREAMS GO PEAR-SHAPED?

There’s one profession that many gay men aspire to join, or at least idolise – porn star.

Our currency of excellence is not in mensa scores, university degrees or even fat pay packets, but rather fab abs, bulging biceps, bubble butts and mythically massive cocks. The bigger, the better – and if someone indulges in a teensy bit of chemical assistance to achieve their gains, we won’t tell, will we? Instead, we pledge to adore these chiseled, rugged and rock hard men, most notably those who inhabit the world of what is politely known as “adult entertainment”. They are the ultimate gay gods and we mortals drink in their intoxicating masculinity and sexual prowess, masturbating over them and, of course, making sure to synch our cum shots.

I’d always secretly harboured a desire to be a porn star. Perhaps I loved being the centre of attention, or perhaps I loved people telling me how hot I was when I knew the insecure, skinny, pimply teenager hidden beneath my tough, musclebound shell.

I came to porn quite late. It wasn’t until I was 37 that my body finally started to fill out and all those hard fought-for gym gains finally seemed to stay and gain again and again.

I was at a dance party in Sydney with my boyfriend, twirling (this being long before the days of twerking) shirtless when I spotted a familiar face dancing next to me.

I had to blink for a minute – maybe I should have taken half a pill instead of a whole – but, yes, it definitely was my favourite porn star (we’ll call him Rock Hard), all the way from the USA. “Are you Rock Hard?” I spluttered as I shuffled up next to him. “Hey, man!” he beamed, flashing his trademark cheeky devil grin. I had a confession to make. “I jerked off to your latest DVD before we came out tonight,” I gushed. “Well, you can catch me after the party because I’ll be in a sling and hungry for Aussie cock,” he grinned mischievously. I faltered, “I’m here with my boyfriend.” He smiled again, winningly. “That’s cool,” he drawled, oozing pure sex appeal. “I’m here until Tuesday staying at the W Hotel in room 723. Come visit me.”

It took three days of cajoling and pleading with my boyfriend before he let me “visit” Rock. I told him this would be my only ever chance to have sex with my gay porn idol and, for some reason, my boyfriend relented. At the hotel lobby, Rock’s French roommate came to collect me (I later found out this was his sugar daddy). He was in his early fifties and had a face that’d had so much work done it seemed ironed, but a good figure nonetheless. He also collected another guy at reception who eerily resembled me. Rock, it transpired, had a definite type.

We were buzzed up to the hotel room and there was Rock wearing only a pair of brief red Aussiebums which screamed “hung pornstar”. And then we got down to it. Rock was just as impressive off-screen as he was on. He obviously loved sex and that was contagious, except for my doppelganger who got stage fright and had to go and have a chat with the French sugar daddy about his, er, shortcomings.

My time with Rock was all of 30 glorious minutes and then we showered. “You should do porn,” he said smiling, looking me up and down. “Contact my studio and tell them I sent you.”

And that, readers, is exactly what happened. I sent Rock’s porn studio a selection of photos and they emailed back asking me to be in London on a certain date for filming. It just so happened the boyfriend and I were planning a European vacation. It was perfect timing, except my boyfriend was having none of it.

“I gave you your free card,” he seethed. “This is going too far. I don’t want my boyfriend making porn – it’s cheap, stupid and they all end up dead or drug addicts.” And that was the end of the conversation. Not to mention my

porn career… except not quite.

A year later the boyfriend and I parted ways. The first thing I did after moving into my new bachelor flat was to take some new photos on my camera via self-timer. I sent the salacious images to Rock’s studio saying I was now ready for my close-up. Less than 24 hours later they emailed back to say they wanted me to do a Skype audition. I was so excited that I didn’t even notice that with the time difference from their San Francisco offices it would be 6am on a Wednesday morning. I popped a Viagra before I went to bed and set my alarm for 5:30am. I managed to get up – and get it up – after viewing some of Rock’s latest video. Then, at the very unsexy time of 6am, my audition to be a porn star commenced.

I was told to strip naked and “the team” had me pose at various angles so they could take screenshots. I had to masturbate and prove I could maintain an erection and I also had to tell them some of my dirtier fantasies. After 20 minutes it was over… and I was still hard.

They posted my photos on their website, inviting their fan base to vote on whether I had what it takes to join their stable of stars. After two weeks, I amassed over 100 “yes” and only six “no” votes.

I told my new boyfriend of my long-held dream to be in porn and he told me he’d love to shoot scenes with me. He returned to London (where he was based) and wound up doing a personal audition for the studio’s UK office. “They want me to be an exclusive, but I told them my first scene had to be with you,” he casually informed me via Skype.

Two weeks later, I was in London and the studio’s premier porn director came to my boyfriend’s house to film us having sex at home. “Amateur porn is what sells these days,” he informed us as he set up his tripod in a corner of the bedroom and also got his handheld camera ready. For the next three hours my boyfriend and I had sex on the bed, in the hall, outside on the balcony (luckily it was summer) and then finished in the shower with a big wet’n’wild piss scene. These things often do.

The director seemed very pleased with what he had filmed, got us to sign model waivers and paid us each £150 for our efforts.Next stop was San Francisco where the studio had organised two scenes to film. I was slotted in for both. The first was to be a gang bang scene with me getting rogered by my boyfriend and two other tops in the same hotel where the movie classic The Maltese Falcon was also filmed, apparently.

One of the two other “models” was a tall, sinewy guy with a bunch of colourful tattoos, gym-bred muscles and a very devious look in his green eyes. The other was attractive in a hot plumber way, with a neat goatee. I recognised him from his “work” in other movies.

As the bottom of the day, I was banished to the douche room early to make sure everything remained sparkly and fresh, even under the harsh glare of movie set lights. Besides the four models on set, there was a director, an assistant with a clipboard and a “creative director” whose job it was to stop filming every two minutes to yell, “Do that again, but just move your leg out the way and get more light onto that pink butthole,” or words to that effect.

We redid things; we were contorted into strange inhuman positions and then the tops all had to deliver – to cum – on cue. Thankfully they all did and we slumped together at the end to climax the scene.

“Our bottoms aren’t expected to cum,” I had been thankfully notified earlier. Which was just as well because I was needed back on set in one hour to film a one-on-one with a black man who had a positively gargantuan penis. My boyfriend, sweet soul that he is, told me he was heading back to our hotel to rest while I performed this second scene.

I popped a Viagra before bed and set the alarm. Then, at the very unsexy time of 6am, my audition to be a porn star commenced.

My ridiculously hung on-screen partner wasn’t interested in foreplay, tenderness or any hint of romance. He just wanted to pound my white butt as hard and long as he could manage, which he proceeded to do. I was very thankful I had kept up yoga classes to help with flexibility. At one point, he had both my legs and arms on the thin hotel room wall as he got more bang for his butt. This somewhat excruciating scene lasted an hour and it was, I have to admit, the greatest acting performance of my life. It hurt when he fucked me, I was sore and bruised and exhausted, but I took that black supercock like a power bottom trooper. Finally, they got what they wanted – the money shot. I was paid $300 for each of my scenes, signed a waiver, a declaration that I was over 21… and it was finished.

As I left, I called my boyfriend to tell him I was coming back to the hotel. “I’m just next door in Bloomingdale’s – they’re having a sale,” he said excitedly. I went to see if he had already spent our hard-earned porn fortune. “Oh my god!” he gasped. “You look like you’ve been in a car accident!” I looked in a mirror and indeed I was haggard, drawn and, um, spent. This porn caper hadn’t been at all like I imagined. Instead of being fun, flirty and fabulous it was mechanical, clinical and really, really hard work.

A week later I emailed the studio to ask them what would be happening with our scenes. They replied efficiently, “We work six to 12 months ahead, so we’ll let you know when something is going to be released.” So I left it for six months. No word. Nothing. Nada. In the meantime, I noticed that one of the models from our group scene had been anointed the studio’s new “exclusive” (with his own Facebook and Twitter accounts). I messaged him on Facebook saying I was looking forward to seeing our scene. He never replied.

After the six-month mark, I contacted the studio again. This time they told me, “We’re not sure what’s happening with your scenes or when and if they might be used”. Was my porn career over before it had even begun? I felt despondent, especially when the London director contacted my boyfriend to ask if he’d like to do more “work” (he graciously replied with “thanks, but no thanks”). Around the 12-month mark I thought, Why not just give them a timely reminder? It can’t hurt. It did, as it turned out.

“Your boyfriend is exactly what we’re looking for,” I was told. “He’s exotic, well-hung and has a muscular compact frame that the camera just loves. Unfortunately, after reviewing your scenes, we came to the realisation that your look isn’t compatible with our studio.”

I had to know more. I finally got hold of the porn studio guy who’d done my initial Skype audition. “I’m sorry it turned out like this,” he began. “It’s just that on film you come across as too...” and that’s when he dropped the g-bomb, and, no, “girly” wasn’t the word. It was “gangly”.

In person, my tall stature may seem impressive. On camera, naked or in a jockstrap, I become all limbs and elongated arms. I look wrong, apparently, and don’t have “the look”.

My three scenes remain either unreleased or unreleasable (you choose!) and the studio has never asked me to work for them again. So now I’m the one who tells my boyfriend when they call to ask if he’s available, “No, you’re not doing porn!”

These days, I rarely watch porn anymore. I know too much now about how the industry works and, sadly, how it didn’t work out for me as a porn star. I think I’ll aim to be a pop star in my next life – you can be hot and gangly in that industry, just look at One Direction!