Brock's Finest Moment

This morning I passed a porn star on the street. Not just any porn star, mind you. No. I passed a porn star I came dangerously close to stalking when I was in my early 20s.

Back then, I gravitated towards a specific porn director that made a splash on the world of porn by carefully choosing and grooming his models meticulously (man-scaping and tanning were a must. Not one hint of body hair – hey I was in my 20s and didn’t know the whole bear scene, ok?) to his design and desire. His name was Kristian Bjorn and his impact on gay pornography has not been surpassed.

Not that I follow gay pornography much these days. That’s another post entirely (that would probably freak out my straight readership, but hey).

I’m getting side tracked. Back then I had a thing for big, beefy blond dudes. One model Bjorn would use was a massive chap by the name of “Paul” who had a striking resemblance to Brock Samson of The Venture Brothers cartoon (I think that’s why it grabbed my attention in the first place). He had shoulder length blond locks that even then, at that time, was a bit ridiculous. But he had a look of stupid hockey jock so the hair was forgivable. In my head we enjoyed long walks on the beach, working out together and fine wine during a azure sunset while dining on a tiki encrusted patio located somewhere tropical. Then I would finish up and put the magazine away.

Jump with me in time to 1997 when I got a job at The Black Eagle, working as a bar back, delivering beer to the various stations in the bar. My first weekend there I came into work to discover that the very same pornstar “Paul” had been hired as bartender. Impossible! I thought he was some Brazilian or some angry lout from Los Angeles, but then again, that’s what I had constructed in my head as one does, when using someone for intimate, personal pleasures. At first I was shy and would not talk to him much but after a while we passed a few comments. However, we worked together for almost a year and I never once asked about those photos or his past career as a porn star or his background at all. I guess I didn’t want to spoil the fantasy.

Or I never asked because he was as dumb as a cedar plank. Typical “Paul” conversation (not an actual one as that I can’t recall the horrid details from 13 years ago, but you get the gist):

Me: Oh hey! You’re playing The Pet Shop Boys! I like how they write their lyrics to be ambiguous commentary across straight and gay relationship boundaries.
Paul: Hu?
Me: I like how they don’t actually come out in their songs. But their lyrics can mean they’re gay or straight.
Paul: Gru?
Me: Pet Shop Boys funny!
Paul: … (Stares. Goes back to trying to pick up some sugar daddy at his bar)

Not a mental giant. Our time together as co-workers was spent in a curious state of stand-offish-ness. I didn’t want to learn anything about him lest I spoil years of built up fantasy and he wasn’t interested in me at all since I didn’t have a condo in Palm Springs that he could visit and sunbathe during the long Canadian winters. He was fired from the bar for some suspicious reason – Stealing? Stupidity? I don’t recall. One day he was working, the next he was across the street at the old queen’s bar chatting up the older guys with the expensive shirts.

This morning he passed me on the street as I wandered into work. His face was scraggly. His hair was buzzed down, the long golden locks forever gone into history. The body he once used for money was now soft. Pudgy. The glory and strength was bled from him, gone from him, and I wondered what he was doing these days. I imagined he was like a soccer coach set out to teach kids his skill, but winding up just boring them with stories of glory days.