A cute, midwestern twink type, Jim Moore was not a big name, but he did work for some A-list companies, including Falcon. He was an early porn-world casualty of AIDS..

I saw Jim Moore (whose mundane porn name was much less starry than his real name) at the Eros, where he was quite out of place compared to the other dancers. While the Show Palace specialized in porn stars and very slutty house dancers, and the Gaiety featured the most beautiful boys, and the short-lived Follies (an off-shoot of the most famous gay strip theatre in Washington, DC) fell somewhere in between those standards—hotter than Show Palace boys and sluttier than Gaiety’s cash-minded entrepreneurs—the Eros was pretty sleazy and rundown. It was on the corner at the end of a row of deco movie theatres in Hell’s Kitchen that had become porn theatres, next to a parking lot where street hustlers offered themselves up for drug money.

Most of the boys at the Eros were Latin or black, and, sadly, most were not particularly attractive. There was one spectacular Brazilian stud names Johnny, who would jump off the stage at the end of the show, naked and rock hard, allowing the audience to fondle his smooth ass and huge cock. I heard he was twenty years old and had a wife and at least one child back in Brazil. But he was the exception (and I always wondered why he wasn’t making a lot more money just a block away at the Gaiety).

So amidst the grunge and the street trash dancers, it was odd to see this fresh-faced blond stroking himself onstage.

He approached me after his show, as was the typical pattern, offering to show me a good time with a “private dance” backstage. While I generally object to paying for sex, and generally had plenty of hot encounters without a financial transaction, I was bored and horny. So, I offered him ten bucks. I never figured out if he was just that desperate for money, or really just wanted to have sex with me but felt bound to make at least a tiny profit from the situation, but he agreed.

We went backstage, which was just as I had imagined it would be, a warren of small alcoves with doors, shared by the dancers as hustling headquarters. My new friend Jim stripped (which didn’t take long as he as wearing nothing but Calvin Klein briefs) and his nice, smooth blond cock was already half hard. We traded blow jobs and I reached back and stroked his ass. He interpreted it as my intention to fuck him, and made his excuses. I really was just fondling him as I slurped on his tool. Not that I would have turned down a chance to pound that hot boyhole, but not so much in that setting.

After we finished we chatted a little. He told me he had a boyfriend who matched his earnings—which sounded more like a sugar daddy or someone who was somehow getting off on him turning tricks. His real name was much more elaborate than his porn name, and in fact sounded like a stage name, but some years later when I saw his obituary, it was apparently his true name.

A nice guy, certainly not the most famous or spectacular I have fucked, or an enduring name in porn history, nor was the brief backstage boink an indication of any advanced sexual skill. I always wondered what he would be like in a more horizontal and accommodating setting.