I was just told by my advisors that I should personally reach out to fans and give them a friendly status update. I was told I should do this to bring everyone up to speed on the status of our films, maybe announce a target date for our next release, and, if it wasn’t too much to ask, answer some of the most common questions we’ve been getting. I immediately requested a list of these questions and I was told there were only a few so I’m going to make this as long as possible, ok?

 

First, I should tell you that I love interacting with our fans, be it on Twitter, Tumblr, in email enquiries or even by text message in the middle of the night (regarding Smoking Boyz). Either way, this intellectual intercourse with viewers who either like, love or hate my films has been a sound choice.

 

Frankly, it was at the advice of Paul Morris that I even began corresponding with our audience. I had been avoiding direct contact with them, silent out of disappointment and, eventually, from loss of interest. Disappointment in the industry, that is. Never with you, Reader. Never you. To be honest, I expected a stronger reaction than the one I’d sparked. More ruffled blogger feathers, more literary panties in wads. You know, with the pipes and the guns and the on- and off-camera beatings and everything like that. I’d hoped for loud controversy from the presses. Take-down pieces in Frontier. (You guys still print that, right?) Articles in the gay blogs that waxed with such cold, unmasked hatred they’d make HateCrimePorno look like Bambi on a hard day. I envisioned an industry indignant and uncharmed by this original content. What I got from them was silent judgement. The one time the gays with microphones decided to keep their pie-holes shut… What I got was ultra-panned, or, as the gays call it, “the hand”, which is such a bittersweet reckoning for a homophobe in gay pornos. So, like a sexy Gargamel up on his hill overlooking Juzcar, I read fan mail purely out of interest in reactions to my films and steered clear of responses. I felt lucky for the fact that adult-filmmaking came with a layer of insulation that escorting never offered.

 

So I sat down to play with the fans, but I played my hand close to my vest, careful with my responses. I may play a boastful homophobe on TV, but I happen to know that in real life, there is a list of things you can do to really piss-off the gays. Across the table insults are at the top of that list. Everyone knows these bitches will cut you for less than that, which is more than I can say for the gay porn media, who chose to take the high road and ignore me, thwarting my sincere attempt to stir up shit in an industry that thrived on mediocrity. Until now. Reader, let me tell you, their silence was enough to deter me from saying anything at all to anyone ever, outside of the films we’d produce. Until the advice came in from the Master himself, I let my admin handle viewer support. He still does, but on the hard days when I’m in the office alone, or in the studio parsing a film down to 3 second multi-angle clips, or in my sound room with nothing but a vaporizer loaded with hydro and a stack of messages, I like to read the emails and respond personally.

 

I enjoy this for two reasons: Primus, reading the fan mail does wonders for my ego because there isn’t a rotten apple in the barrel. And secundus, the relentless praise and gratitude from fans makes the hard slap in the face with a dick that I got from the gay porn media the day I walked into the industry with balls bigger than anyone seem like a mere bad dream.

 

The fans love my films. They love me and they love James Lowes, the Stone Brothers and every politically incorrect verbal browbeating we give them. The fans send me ideas and compliments and they all wanna be in Smoking Boyz which both concerns and flatters me because they want to do it for free. I’m sure this is nothing new. I’m sure that Previtus isn’t the first gay porn studio to have boys throwing themselves in front of the cameras, hell-bent on being a part of the show, however, I’m just as sure that we are the first studio to put smoking boys in pictures…you know, where they oughta be?? So, of course, I’m flattered. And concerned. But only to a point…

 

Life doesn’t imitate Art. It is absurd to imply that it does. Oscar Wilde’s anti-mimetic philosophy is exactly the kind of half-baked, transcendentalist, Kantian bullshit that gets real men in trouble.  Wilde aims to displace Man to the servitude of Art, and in doing so, renders Art inconsequential. Art imitates life – and to think anything else is just plain insulting, moreso to a pornographer who pioneered the production of such so-called detestable imagery. In other words, I didn’t invent this shit. I just tried it once at a party and lost my fucking head, okay? You try living in fabulous Las Vegas for a year and a half and see if you can manage to crawl through the wreckage unscathed. You try it and see if you don’t suffer some sort of expansion. (Don’t get crazy, nothing touched my ass.) You try living a year in Las Vegas and see if what happens there really stays there when you’ve been there that long. I mean, I didn’t come up with PNP. I’m just telling you what I fucking saw! Wait?? Are we still talking about Art? I was just told I was supposed to be writing answers to questions. And that’s exactly what I’m doing. Art imitates life and that’s all there is to it.

 

Earlier this year, I attended the AFFLV (Adult Film Festival Las Vegas). Previtus Media submitted Tell Me You Love Me for consideration and the film took the award for Best Gay Feature. I showed up to accept the award with my COO and with Austin, my co-producer. They booked a room at the SLS Las Vegas, the same place I had an illustrious photo shoot a few years back with famed adult photographer, Bruno Talledo, a spread that elicited a fair amount of controversy for the fact I was holding a gun in every fucking shot and in one – I was even shirtless. Once we were checked in, the guys thought it would be funny to act like they had never heard of, let alone seen, the photo shoot. Reader, suffice to say, not knowing would have been nearly impossible and if you’ve ever seen the rooms at the SLS, you’ll know why. The suite has an open, yellow bathroom, so shocking it upstaged my handgun; a preposterous, lighted white bed, replete with dimming switch and a mirror above it; a lighted couch to match – and all of this rolled out in one, small room. Memorable decor, to say the least, in photos memorable enough to get them banned from almost every escort site on the web that year, save Adam4Adam, who kindly cropped the gun (a Glock, of course) out of each shot and re-posted them. Memorable enough to glean two nominations at the Rentboy sponsored 2015 Hookie Awards – one for Best Social Media and another (ahem) for Best Daddy. Sorry, Reader. Now, where was I?

 

Oh yes. Previtus Media won the 2018 AFFLV Award for Best Gay Feature Film. It was an honor. Really. Heterosexual accolades for a porn series that sensationalizes homophobic cops. And for our very first episode. I don’t mind telling you, I found it all quite titillating. Then, we won the 2018 Raven’s Eden Award for Best Fetish Film for Smoking Boyz – Let There Be Light, which I like to think had something to do with my expertise with a chicken bone and a camera, but who’s counting hits? The truth is, the fans voted their favorites and you can’t argue with that. I was a hit with the gays. It was confirmed; it was clear. When we started getting emails from fans wanting to blow me and James Lowes, the sting of the media’s rejection started to fade. When we started earning nominations and winning awards in our first year of production, it was utterly forgotten.  

 

At the Adult Film Festival Las Vegas, I got what I fucking deserved. I sat in the theatre for 45 minutes of the screening of the 54-minute episode of my film before I realized that as soon as it was over and we were mingling again, everyone attending would know what my dick looked like. This extemporaneous exposure actually got me laid by two pornstars turned cougar who took time out from signing autographs with fans to thank me personally for my artistic endeavors which they described as, “so fucking hot, Miles.” There, in the lobby of The Erotic Heritage Museum, my posse and I mingled with a careful selection of interested hetero-porn idols that drowned me in cocaine and accolades that felt better than all the b-grade, queer, methamphetamine and head you could find on all the other gay porn studio sets combined. In a nutshell, it was the warm welcome and everything I had hoped to hear from the gay media that, to date, still won’t accept my money for advertising space.

 

After the festival was over, after the after-party and the party after that, I spent an evening at one of my favorite hotels in Vegas, The Cosmopolitan, with my third and final web developer, Chris from AltGirlMedia, who got me so plastered on top-shelf margaritas that I didn’t even bother calling a cab. For three hours, he and my COO held me down and warned me that it doesn’t take 7 months to edit a porno. They were right. It’s taking much longer than that. But I’m so close. And I promise, when they see it – so worth it. So worth it..

 

I used the valet to park that night and when I finally found it, I crashed in the infamous yellow suite of the SLS. I awoke the morning after the night before with a healthy hangover that I nursed with hairs from the dog that bit me. Alone in that tweaker-chic budoir where I posed for photos that would define what would eventually become a hit adult series called HateCrimePorno, I stood wobbly at the window (which faced the back of another building) and imagined the city of Las Vegas that lay in front of it. I took a long drink from a ten dollar bottle of seltzer water that I splurged on from out of the hotel honor bar and I mouthed the words, “checkmate, faggots.”

 

Miles Previtire

Providence, 2018

The anticipation was the real aphrodisiac. It had been a year. A year where it felt the whole of the nations across the globe were suffering through an audit; a real shedding of fake value, like fur off a rabbit who makes it to spring. My thoughts were turbulent and my nerves shot, the twenty-four hours prior to hearing my iPhone emit the Basinski loop I’d made into an alarm years ago and have used ever since. Finally, serenity. Garnished with sweet anticipation. I needed to pick up Lowes.

In the year a bunch of footage became a website, a lot went topsy-turvy. No sooner than Miles and I had emerged as shell-shocked masters of our roles as porno-documentarians were we  shanghai’d into the antipodal worlds of digital editing, e-commerce and webmastery. This detour, as it turned out, was the only way not to get fucked over on a minute-to-minute basis by the twin malevolent forces of incompetence and fraud, otherwise known as our contracted crew.  To say this forced expansion of our skillset watered down our prime endeavors would be a downplay of the truth. We just wanted to be pornographers. The day Miles fired our second editor, (the first of whom came with a degree in Filmmaking and resigned the day of our first official shoot) was the day our headaches started and didn’t once recede until we launched the site. That’s a lie. They still haven’t receded.. At least not by much. Times you could find us walking around in an adobe creative cloud of our own, sans the constant crashing, of course.

Suffice to say, the hiccups and speed bumps went beyond the pale that year and were likely better left unmentioned, at least to Lowes who, I was certain, would arrive fully-equipped with his own volume of tales to tell, born from a year spent holding down the fort on his own budding and morphing career in Las Vegas, the highlights from which had to be more interesting to him than a replay of our obstacle course to becoming part of “the business”. This would fill the void left for small talk on the ride home. Besides, show me one good model whose favorite pastime isn’t talking about themselves. I veered my car onto the airport off-ramp and my thoughts to the task at hand. James Lowes. After a year on his own. How would he look? Would I recognize him right away? Oh God, nothing is worse than being caught cruising at the airport. Did Miles remember to mention I drive a different car now? Would I have to pay to park? But all of these trifles melted away as I pulled into the passenger pick-up lane.  

I did my share of chauffeuring Lowes around out in Vegas – for all intents and purposes. At least until the details of those intents and purposes came into focus, like models in a PNP porn who method-act in their off time “to get a real feel for the part.”  Like the things we saw and recorded through lenses that we burned onto DV tapes and emblazoned into our memories through connected wires until time came along and distorted true events with dropped frames and icy silences. Putting it plainly, if we weren’t shooting Lowes, he was probably getting shot at. If he wasn’t getting shot at…er…nevermind. But it is noteworthy for any fan of the good Officer, something they may even appreciate, that James Lowes didn’t just play a bad boy on TV – he played one in real-life, as well. And goddamn us all if he’d ever once let go an opportunity to prove it. Like the time I picked him up at Palace Station…

He called me, frantic. Some strung-out bitch. Just had to have him in the room where OJ finally got popped. Him and six klonopin. And a healthy helping from a freezer bag of blow. “Fish scales that would make a spawning trout jealous!” Both had their way with her – and for far too long. Long enough to banish any trace of cognitive thought from her head. It would only be a matter of time before the she swallowed her tongue. And check-out was a half an hour ago. Naturally, I told him I would be right there.

I arrived, as it turned out, just as Lowes was departing prematurely. And to a premature departure, no less. I knew that face. When bad boy turns sad boy. I turned him around by the shoulders, “two dead bodies weren’t better than one so pull it fucking together” and ushered him back to the room. Had him turn the shower on while I got her ready. Not too cold, I told him.

Two minutes later, the heaving of her chest; the opening of her eyes. In the background I heard Lowes start to breathe again, too. Then, a knock at the door. Housekeeping. Ready and there to prep the room for the next near-burnout. The next close call. The next starfucker in distress. Ours was just waking; not quite ready for checkout. Could we have until one? “No comprendo”– but twenty bucks on a cleaning cart in a town driven by hospitality can decide the difference between a Weekend At Bernie’s ending and Rush. They gave us another hour – we used half. We got her out alive, makeup intact, not one blond hair out of place. And Lowes was barely there. As we stepped outside and into the valet line, sleeping beauty finally muttered her very first words: “I feel like it’s tomorrow already.” I assured her it already was. I wouldn’t have wanted her to get freaked out.

When he appeared at the arrival curb, the relief was palpable. It was like no time had passed at all. Like getting off. Or getting off just to get it off the table. Like twenty dollar seats at Jagged Little Pill. The musical. The deal was done and it looked like a million bucks. All smiles. Mission accomplished. Battleship sunk.

Lowes had never been to Louisville. We talked food, bourbon, his girls, my boys. Work talk creeped in, but when your business is sexy, water cooler talk gets hot. Anyone who works on a porn set can attest. I listened, processed and filed away any juicy details for a future shoot. Then, in the looming shadow of the Galt House, smack-dab in the middle of Bourbon Country, two-thousand miles from Paradise, Nevada, he asks me, “still smokin’ the same stogs?” I handed him my pack.  

Some things never change.

 

Austin Silver

Louisville, KY 2018

New Year’s in Vegas is a special time. The natives are all tucked awake in bed. Most tourists are still bleary-eyed from “Cowboy Christmas” festivities. Hell, Ronnie Spector couldn’t even make it to her own goddamn holiday spectacular. The gambling and the drinking take on spiritual, almost sacred, purposes. Yes, there’s a sense of a real obligation to the finer arts of getting properly and constantly fucked up. PNP and cloud emojis become ubiquitous on the popular hook-up apps and overwhelm the synapses. It was 2016 and there we were, amidst the lazy lollipop mobocracy, testing our odds and negotiating the societal grain. When in Rome, do as the Romans. When in Vegas – well, I go Vegan. No meat? Sure. I’ll raise you no solid foods at all. Taste some meat? Absolutely. But I’m only ingesting milk and clouds.

So it was with lifted spirits and a spring in my step that I found myself setting up and blocking a shot for what would eventually become the debut feature for Previtus Media, only feeling slightly silly.

The shot, like the concept, seemed simple: Dominant straight man uses a cock-obsessed sub. I figured a shot of a dicksucker kneeling in front of an alpha would be a piece of cake. Miles agreed and we blocked the shot. Or tried to, anyway. Even before he called “action” he was unhappy with our then embryonic fake meth, so! back to the drawing board I went to “tweak” the recipe and compare Previtus PNP clouds to the genuine article in front of the camera and on film.

You can imagine the trial and errors; the relentless questioning. How do they look in this light? How do they look at this shutter speed? Are we sure we couldn’t get it more real? Look, the real shit isn’t smoke – it’s a vapor! I know Miles, this is a vapor, too. But it shouldn’t LOOK like a vape pen. Does it? Lemme try comparing clouds under an incandescent light. Okay, now try this lens… Imagine a PNP version of Sigourney Weaver’s audition for Alien.

I’m not sure we ever blocked anything that night, except maybe our vape pen coils, but we hadn’t  begun production yet so, there was time. All we knew is that we wanted to master the art of PNP Porn. I mean if you’re going to coin a genre and claim it…

PNP’s screentest ended before long, cameras and lights abandoned in the on position, and we found ourselves on our cellulars and laptops, sifting through porn in search of the cream of the crop. Some kind of big finish or finale flick to wrap our blocking fail. I perved over countless vids of amateur military guys on leave some of which are still in my bookmarks. Miles, on the other hand, seemed to be jumping through pornographic hoops without a safety net. I kept one eye on his laptop monitor out of mere curiosity, all the while keeping the other on my iPhone, and before long, The Light came on.

“You’re making it.” I told him.

“Huh?”

“What you’re looking for. You’re making it. It’s not out there. That’s why you’re making it.”

I watched him mull this over. I have to admit, I understood his fascination with the concept of PNP porn. PNP porn or the shortage thereof, rather. And, so did he. Among the homosexual community, PNP was quickly becoming as traditional as apple pie. Vegas, more than any place in the world, understood and celebrated this. Hell, the city was practically built on a fast foundation. We felt strangely at home there.

Miles spent another hour sifting through search engine results from tube sites, Bing, Google and the lot – coming up high and dry, so to speak. Then he said to me, ever the optimist, “you know, I just thought of something.”

I don’t mind telling you, I was scared.

“If I’m the one making it – PNP porn – you realize that means I’m never going to be able to enjoy it myself, don’t you?”

At Previtus nobody can hear you scream.

 

Austin Silver

Louisville, KY 2018

 

Losing a Hookie award in the year of Rentboy’s untimely death can make one feel like the member of a suicide cult who made it to the end of the jumper’s line – and then couldn’t jump. All reasons aside, the result is the same. You’re left behind and empty-handed. Is a trophy really all it would’ve taken to fix you, anyway? Imagine having jumped only to land in front of Heaven’s so-called gate, just to find it triple-locked, replete with signs reading, TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSTITUTED? (Or, at least that’s how it read in the New York City street-light outside The Out Hotel where you stood after the wing-ding had passed and you’d lost – twice.) 

What do you do? Do you pace around the proverbial precipice, shaking your fist at the sky, indignant, wondering where did I go wrong? Do you question your chosen field of specialty? Nobody ever says I wanna be a homophobe in gay porn when I grow up. Do you convince yourself that some people wouldn’t recognize your talent if you walked up and slapped them in the face with your dick and called them derogatory names regarding their sexual preference – all stemming from an internalized homophobia that you’d spent years cultivating just for this moment?

Sure. All of these things, you do. You do them and you relish every second of the thirty you spend on them. Following that, you say “fuck it,” grab the nearest (okay, only) colleague who doesn’t mind being seen with you despite the homo-social implications of tramping around town with the gay porn industry’s one-and-only boastful homophobe (in my case it was Rusty McMann) and together you treat yourselves to a late-night, post-award show Chinese dinner in the Big Apple that exceeds the daily caloric limit for anyone in porn by about ten miles of pan-fried noodles. This oral-consumption of the underdog’s unresolved feelings is almost acceptable, provided you’re both fresh Hookie-losers who openly despise working-out in an industry chock-full of sex-worker gym rats who stay high on steroids, among other things they’d rather not talk about. Almost acceptable, but not quite. So you eat-your-feelings while their heads are turned; everyone knows pleasures are only guilty when they’re taken in private. 

Yes. An MSG overdose at a Chinese hole-in-the-wall, somewhere on West 42nd, between 10th and 11th Avenue is the least you can treat yourself to after a two-thousand mile drive you took into a night that passed like a twelve year old’s abortion in a back alley clinic, only to arrive at a wintertime bacchanalian, stuffed to the gills with security guards, doormen, hangmen, foot-soldiers and footmen, drag-queen award-game show hosts and other Hookie nominees that you’d probably never compete with again. I like to call them, Fishies.

That’s two-thousand miles and some change with the top down (it sounded like a really good idea at the time…) that led you smack-dab into a head-cold that didn’t help you not look like Rudolph on the Red Carpet in snapshots from that night. The snapshots that were published, that is.

My stumble on the red carpet was mysteriously lost on its way to Rentboy’s YouTube channel, unlike everyone else’s graceful meanderings under the LCD spotlight, which, I might add, are still live and online for your viewing pleasure today. I assume my taped appearances from Hookie night ended up in the same place as the footage from Hustlaball Las Vegas, another notorious 2015 Rentboy event I had attended just months prior that should have taught me to show-up suicide-ready to any and all future engagements of its like – including this one, an e-vite to play Hookie, extended with all the sincerity of Carrie’s prom invitation, which at least arrived, unlike the honorable mention by Jack Manly who congratulated every Fishie but yours truly on Twitter the day the nominations were announced.

Until then I had played Rentboy’s dark horse without complaint. As it turned out, two-thousand miles changed nothing and gained me even less, save a couple of winks from Rentboy Director Sean Van Sant that never led to a single kiss before the Department of Homeland Security took down the entire staff at Rentboy Headquarters in a bizarre case of mistaken identity while investigating what they believed to be an ISIS think tank in the same building – or at least that’s what I heard.

Inaccurate or not, Rentboy’s fate would have been the same: The DHS would cart Rentboy’s employees, the contents of their desks, filing drawers and everything else not nailed down, into Federal custody pending investigation, taking any chance I had of winning one of the agency’s famous, coveted awards with them – not to mention the kibosh it put on the vanity fair interview I’d all but paid for not long before their tragic demise.

My vanity fair interview…

A few weeks prior to the bust, I called up my good associate at Rentboy. I called him up to talk business. I was in Vegas, working as a rentman who specialized in adult services you couldn’t get anywhere else. Every successful rentboy on Rentboy had their niche. To quote The Daily News, “The escort profiles list “primary interests” including fetishes like “spanking,” “S&M,” and “role playing” as a policeman, priest, football coach or cheerleader, according to the complaint.” I can only hope they were talking about me. I don’t mind telling you that I searched Rentboy over to find an ad similar to mine and naturally, nothing compared. Anyway, copper fantasies have been rampant among gays since Dorothy took fabulous flight o’er the rainbow. I just took the whole policeman jumping from a cake number to the next level, making him dominant, verbal and boastfully homophobic, thus marking myself the object of every self-hating homosexual’s lust, complete with CB radio, handcuffs, and a shield badge. Because it was only a five hour drive to Los Angeles (four that pass for three when you drive there in a Z4M Roadster with a custom sound system, a bag of good hydro, a lead-heavy foot and a what-the-hell-glow surrounding you) I pulled engagement-limited gigs in my hometown on a very irregular basis, the footprint for which Rentboy valued at about $600.00* per month for advertising space – the sum of which went directly into their bank account, and, eventually, into Federal evidence. I thought I deserved at least thirty seconds in the sun for the price.

*Values are based on research analysis re: how much time the average porn fan spends reading an article written about an adult-entertainer, despite popular belief among adult entertainers themselves – the citing blog (hopefully) notwithstanding.

From the gate, my relationship with Rentboy, was friendly but distant and, on occasion, seemingly tenuous. I’d been an advertiser for four years, over which time I had limited contact with the Rentboy staff and no contact at all with Rentboy himself.  (Legend has it, no one has ever seen Rentboy and Conner Habib in the same place at the same time – but that’s neither here nor there.) The bottom line was they let me advertise Rape as a service in my escort ad and this earned them an A in my book. Plus, I’d just been banned by those cocksuckers at Men4RentNow from advertising on their site without any cause or warning. Well, there may have been cause, but I’ll never know what it was because they wouldn’t even speak to me. I suspect it was because I tried listing Rape as a service in my escort ad. I still remember their last remarks to me: “You are never welcome to advertise on our site. Ev-er! We have refunded your payment for our Gold Membership.” Ok, so there probably wasn’t a hyphen in “ever” but it was signed without regard and dismissed with obvious prejudice, “Love, Men4RentNow.” (Reader, you just know M4RN was whacking off under his desk the whole time, thinking, “Rape? Oh yeah! Fuck me up, Miles. Rape my fuckin ass. That’s right! Fuckin’ use me, Miles. Do it to me, Officer Previtire,” right before sending me one final email from his bedroom office in WeHo”. Or maybe it it was right after. No one’s ever actually seen him either, but I guarantee you he mispronounced Previtire.)

Anyway, it was only after the Rentboy Talk fiasco – which we’re getting to, Reader, I promise – that I called him up, my good associate at Rentboy, to talk business. This was just weeks after The Hookies. Everything had sunk in. I’d had time to mull over being back-burnered. (Back-burned??) We breezed through the niceties before it came time to start asking him the real shit. Boy, was I nervous! To make things worse, I was irritated. Irritated for having to bring it up. Irritated by their inattention. Irritated that I was irritated. These gripes had been on my mind for some time now, but I’d just refrained from mentioning them out of fear. I mean, how do I know that Rentboy and M4RN don’t have lunch together? That they don’t exchange notes? And they way they both avoid me in public? As if had the stench of failure and neither of them wanted to catch it?? I shuddered to think what they said about me in private.

So, that day on the phone, I asked him the real shit, like: “Is Rentboy aware of the potential lost revenue that results from putting all of his eggs in one basket, in other words, limiting all major coverage to only a handful of advertisers, namely those in close proximity to Rentboy’s home in New York, Rentboy Headquarters? I ask this as a four-year long advertiser. Rentboy has rentboys in every major city, the world over, yet he is seemingly fixated on only a handful of us. I just wonder, does Rentboy realize how frequently Boomer Banks is crowned Rentboy of the Day, and if so, does Rentboy have a strategy behind making Boomer Banks one of rentboy.com’s core products? I mean, off the record, man, just between us, does Boomer really have to be Rentboy of the Day – every day? Surely, he can’t be Rentboy of the Day every single day! I get it –  the whole “Sartor slash Escort Extraordinaire” bit. I even read the HuffPost article and everything like that. But when you have boys in every major city..! Doesn’t Boomer need days for other things? Like, sewing or alterations or escorting, even? I mean, when does Boomer get to be Boomer? Not the Boomer you and I see on rentboy.com every single day, but… well, the real Boomer? Oh! and about this new segment on the site, Love What You Do, which, by the way, sounds like a show on Lifetime… I really hope you didn’t title that segment and if you did… well, it seems like Rentboy has featured every one of his advertisers in Love What You Do except for me. Or, at least, I’m telling you, that’s what it seems like.”

“I don’t think we’ve featured every-”

“But, here’s what I know. I clock into work every day-”

“You sign-in online…”

“- and every day once I’ve clocked-in, I get to read a piece about an escort who loves what they do and it isn’t me. Ever. How am I different? Can you tell me that? What keeps me from these opportunities? Really, now? I’m starting to get a complex, here.”

“Well, Miles, you’re not exactly quotable,” he laughed.

My gratitude for his candor felt like gratitude for an knee to the nut sack. I wanted to say, “Rentboy runs an advertising site for escort services. They host ads for guys that sell sex to men for money. Nobody buys the whole bit about all monies exchanged are for ‘time only.’ You’re telling me Rentboy thinks I’m un-quotable? Fucking put Rentboy on the phone! Now!”

Instead I said:

“But the questions in Love What You Do are always the same. You could ask them and I could answer. Piece of cake.”

“Listen, Miles. Love What You Do is a segment that focuses on gay escorts who love their work. You despise having to work with other men and you’re verbal about it and that’s great. I get it. You know I get it and I think you’re great, Miles. But, you don’t exactly fit the image we’re spotlighting here. Not in Love What You Do, anyway. You gotta know that.”

It was then I realized they didn’t get me at all. It didn’t matter that they let me advertise Rape in my ad. There was no way they were ever going to count me in their reindeer games. Not a hetero with a degree in Philosophy who chose a career in sex-work with men out of desperation.

“Look, why don’t you let me talk to Sean? I’ll ask him if we can do a feature just on you by yourself.”

Looking back, I should have been offended. Instead, I simply asked in wonder, “Just on me?”

“Yeah, Miles. Just on you.”

“You mean, solely and intellectually, a piece just on me?”

“Well, yeah, Miles. I- I guess that’s what I mean. A piece just on you.”

And just like that, I was home. I believed again. In Rentboy. In the man behind the mask. I couldn’t wait for my world to change.  

I was right in the middle of scheduling the photo shoot that would accompany the “just on me” piece when I got news of the Rentboy take-down. Seemed excessive, even at the time. I mean, sure, Van Sant may have been a tyrant by general opinion. No doubt he was guilty of blurring his distaste for my shtick with distaste for my dick. But even more egregious than that, if you will, was the Department of Homeland Security confusing holy terrors with holy terrorists that day. 

I mean, Rentboy was crooked, we all know that now, but what most of us don’t know is that Rentboy’s shtick wasn’t just crooked – it was curved. Curved in a way completely unrelated to matters involving Homeland Security, as well as ISIS. Before I go on, Reader, I should tell you I have the following information on good authority, and no, I won’t name names – not because he was a suit at Rentboy, but because he was one of the few men I’ve met who has achieved full maturity in this industry called Adult. In actuality, Rentboy’s crimes betrayed none other than the Fishies themselves and here’s how:

I was told that in the event a Hookie nominee or, Fishie (Fishy??) began to dominate the top categories, including the category of Dominant Top, Hookie himself was known to step-in and captain the awards, bending the votes to avoid sending one big Fishie home with a bunch of hooks in him.

I should tell you that my reaction to this revelation was double-sided. On side one, I had to wonder who thought it would be a better idea to manipulate voting results to ensure everyone who played hookie a passing grade instead of simply maintaining fair and strategic coverage of all rentboys throughout the year leading up to the ceremony, thus leveling the playing-field for a more balanced outcome on the “big night?”

On side two, had I been nominated in and dominated every major category of the event, I’d expect to win every godforsaken award in each of those categories, whether or not I was Rocco Steele. It didn’t equate, robbing the rightful winner to give to the whores to spare them the shame of leaving the show without tricks, all the while denying the Big Fish the enjoyment of sweeping the deck Rentboy worked all year long to help him stack. The strategy was, well… gay! It was a gay strategy. Reader, before you object, consider these well-known facts regarding the minority group in question:

Fact: Gays in general all seem to possess an eerie flair for interior decorating. Somewhere Martha Stewart is shaking her head and whispering to herself, “I’ll never be top-drawer.”

Fact: Gays have impeccable gift-wrapping skills. The girls at Macy’s counter all seem like party poopers by comparison.

Fact: Gays enter the world with a killer sense of rhythm and a knack for club-dancing that even Madonna envies.

And yet, holding an award ceremony that maintains a modicum of respectability seems to fall outside The Gay’s grasp. (Not you, Tony. Never you.) If you don’t believe me, just Google “2017 gay porn awards held by industry tyrant for his favorite studios, hosted by famous comedienne” and you’ll be blinded by a glaring example of the like. Not that I care at all. 

But something dismaying happened that week in New York, the last year of The Hookies. No, Reader, it wasn’t losing in both categories. Besides, I actually met Chris Roberts and Leo Sweetwood that night. Both were very easy guys to lose to. There were a few other famed woodsmen who I would have liked to have met as well, but everyone was busy and there just wasn’t time. In all fairness, the place was full of mirrors.

What really shed a glowing neon light on Rentboy’s direct dislike of me wasn’t part of the award ceremony, itself. It started beforehand and commenced afterward. A week prior to the big night, the not-quite-yet-convicted big-wigs over at Rentboy sent all of us an e-vite that read:

“To any advertisers attending The 2015 Hookie Award Ceremony,

  You are cordially invited to Headquarters for a brief interview with a member of our crew to be included in our Rentboy Talk segment on YouTube! Those interested should contact Sean Van Sant to let him know what time works for you. We’ll probably be conducting interviews on Thursday or Friday. We look forward to seeing all of you!”

Signed,

Rentboy

Rentboy Talk was a recurring segment spotlighting individual rentboys with a mindless Q and A that spanned five mesmerizing minutes of unadulterated escort genius. I imagine the interviews are somewhere out there on the internet and if you can’t find them, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ek839Hoql8I is a link to my personal favorite. Come to think of it, you should probably stop reading this blog and watch it. I mean, you think you know all there is to know about terrorism and then…a rentboy talks. And no! That isn’t an intentional oxymoron – they just got lucky. 

Reader, I can’t lie. I longed for a spot on Rentboy Talk more than flies long for fresh shit, however, I didn’t want to seem anxious or anything like that, so I waited about an hour before I called Van Sant directly and said, “Sean, I’d like to introduce myself. It’s Miles Previtire. I’m driving in from Vegas and would be honored to be interviewed for Rentboy Talk. What time Thursday works best for you?” His response, “Wow, Miles.”

I played hookie all week in New York, waiting for a follow-up from someone. I had prepared answers to any question they could throw at me. I had my facial expressions and reactions down for every possible emotion they could evoke. I couldn’t wait – could not wait – for my turn and I wasn’t leaving until I was absolutely certain it was never going to happen. I may have emailed Sean. I may have called again. Okay both.

“Hey, it’s Miles Previtire here. Just checking to see if you missed my first email. I got the invite and I would really love to do a Rentboy interview and… I’m here in town for the awards just… Well, you said you’d be conducting the interviews on Thursday and… Oh, what a beautiful ceremony that was, huh? I’m so glad Leo Sweetwood won for Best Social Media. It’s awesome. Really. I tell you, it was an honor just to be nominated. (Oh fuck.) Hope to hear from you. Soon. It’s Thursday night. Thanks!”

I know, I know. Reader, what can I say other than we’ve all been babes in the woods at some point or another in our lives? I can tell you, if a tree happens to fall in those woods, a smart babe will haul ass back to Sin City without stopping for a diaper change. Especially a babe like me who had the added disadvantage of being plagued that week with a bright-red nose and a nasally drawl that would have yielded an interview Rentboy could have used to embarrass me for years to come – had I heard from them.

Back in Vegas, I asked my good associate about it.

“It was a great time. Great seeing all of you.”

“You too, Miles.”

“Yeah, I regret the Rentboy interview not happening. I know you guys were super-busy with the ceremony and everything like that. Maybe next time, though, huh?”

“What do you mean, Miles?”

“Rentboy Talk. I emailed Sean about it. Even when I was in New York. I just assumed…”

“Miles, we held the interviews on Thursday afternoon. Didn’t anyone call you?”  

I think I was upset for about six months after hanging up the phone. During that time, I’m sure I muttered something like, “Sean Van Cunt” at least once or twice and what do you know, it just stuck.

I spent the next few months in Las Vegas as an escort – not a very popular one. I had big plans starting out. My minuscule celebrity in the Midwest was overwhelming. I thought for sure this city would catapult me into the mainstream.  As time went on, I became the escort everyone talked about but nobody hired. Van Cunt and his minions spent the next year in Federal Court staving off real policemen. I spent mine playing one in a porno funded by a millionaire.

See? Vegas wasn’t a fetish city. It’s wasn’t San Francisco or LA where average or decent looking guys like myself were the go-to for the whoa-two. Vegas is plastic fantastic. All the female sex-workers have been to Jiffy Boob and have perfect teeth. All the male sex-workers are on coke or meth and have blue eyes no matter what color their hair is. I didn’t fit in. I did not fit in. It didn’t take long for me to get the idea.

I had one foot on a plane headed home when the call came in from McCain, who eventually became my investor for Previtus Media. I still remember the conversation. He called me up and told me he’d just won the lottery and would I ever guess who’s name was first on his Bucket List? No, really.

He went on to describe a scenario that would have prompted me to hang up on him had I blue eyes, muscle implants and steroidal rage running through me. Lucky for him. Luckier for me. One man gets his wet dream, served dry. The other gets a fully-staffed porn studio that specializes in entertainment you can’t get anywhere else, of course. Every man gets his wish. Every girl gets a flower crown. Even you, Sire.

Sorry, Hawk. You didn’t deserve that.

Miles Previtire

Providence, 2017

 

miles previtire

Looking back, I remember thinking about sex as early as age eight. Nothing specific, really. Just some vague thoughts involving pussies and dicks. At nine, I knew I liked sexy things and by the age of eleven or twelve, I was fucking a blow-up doll my twin brother and I stumbled over in a bedroom in the west wing of one of the many houses we were raised in – this one, a time-share my father kept in West Virginia – the first time I’d been out of Los Angeles in my entire life. Read more