Dreams of Stardom (Hollywood SI)

AN: You might want to check out Chapter 62 before reading this if you don't remember the history of Carla Armitage, because I have expanded upon a scene from there.

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I sat in the car, playing with my model airplane. Just then, a similar airplane soared across the sky.

"Woah!" I exclaimed happily. "Did you see that, Mum?" I asked my mother, who was driving.

"Yes, I did," she replied curtly.

She was just having a bad day—probably a bad month. Ever since Dad was gone, she cried a lot. I did too, but I never showed it to her. Dad had asked me to be the man of the house, and a man never cries in front of anyone.

Suddenly, the car stopped in the middle of a bridge.

"Wait here, okay?" Mum said.

I nodded dutifully.

She took a long, lingering look at my face before whispering, "I love you, Troy."

"I love you too, Mummy!" I said brightly.

And then she was gone.

I waited. And waited. And waited. But she didn't come back. It was only about an hour later that someone found me locked in the car and called the police.

The lady officer who escorted me to the child protection services office was kind. Apparently, suicide cases had seen a sharp increase in recent years.

I didn't understand what suicide meant at the time. I did soon enough.

(Break)

"Troy, this will be your new Mummy and Daddy," said the kind old woman who had been assigned as my social worker, smiling down at me.

The couple who were supposed to be my new parents looked rich—or at least their clothes suggested so.

The first few months of my new life were wonderful. I missed my real Mum and Dad, but eventually, I got used to the change.

I shouldn't have.

My new parents, Richard and Patricia Summers, were pretentious assholes. They grew to care for me in their own strange way, and I for them, but the truth is, I would choose my birth parents over them any day.

They weren't truly wealthy, but they liked to present themselves as if they were. They wore flawless replicas of high-end designer clothes, drove second-hand luxury cars, and rented a high-class home. I'm still not sure how they managed to afford even that.

Richard's parents had once been rich, but they lost everything through poor business decisions. Both Richard and Patricia had degrees in finance from the London School of Economics. They could've easily landed jobs as stockbrokers or even investment bankers. Patricia even claimed she was planning to. But Richard had higher aspirations.

He wanted to be a fund manager for London's elite. To do that, they needed access to the kind of people rich enough to invest their wealth with him.

That's where I came in. Adopting me was another move in their attempt to present themselves as philanthropic and generous. But even then, they had standards. The only reason they picked me was because, in Patricia's own words, I was "the cutest and most well-spoken child" of the lot for my age.

I was trained by the two from the very beginning to play nice and make friends with the kids of people they hoped to convince to invest in their fund. I was enrolled in one of the top private schools in London, where I was encouraged to visit my classmates' homes as often as possible.

"You won't believe it!" I said excitedly. "Mum and Dad took me to Dubai! We met a sheikh there, who took us on a camel ride. Then we took a private jet to the Vatican, where we met the Pope. He was so cool! And then we went to India, where we rode an elephant…"

My two little friends, Miles and Tina, listened with rapt attention as I told tall tales about all the amazing things we supposedly did over the holidays. Of course, none of it was true. But that was the script I'd been given, so that's what I performed.

"Wow! Your life is so cool, Troy."

I grinned. "Well, it's all because of the fund that Daddy manages. He makes a lot of money from it."

All the while, Miles and Tina's father was covertly listening in from the background. Just as I had taught.

It goes without saying that, when the playdate was coming to an end and Richard came to pick me up, Miles and Tina's father wanted to talk to him about the fund.

They spoke away from us kids, but by the time we were heading home, Richard had the biggest grin on his face.

From there, things started looking up for our family. It was the time of the financial boom, and tech stocks were skyrocketing. Richard had invested heavily in a stock called Yahoo, among others, and as their portfolio grew, so did investor confidence.

Now, we weren't just pretending to be rich—Richard and Patricia would buy me whatever I wanted. We even went on real holidays I could boast about to my friends. When my best friend, Mark, said his parents were pressuring him to join The Royal Ballet School, I asked mine to enrol me too.

They did.

The next few years were a lot of fun. Life settled into a kind of normal.

But, as they say, it was the calm before the storm.

The dot-com bubble burst at the start of the 21st century, and Richard wasn't smart enough to cash out while he still had the chance.

"Where the fuck is my money?!" an angry man shouted, yanking Richard's collar.

"Calm down, Rahul. We have things under control. And remember, we have a child present," Richard said, gesturing toward me.

The man did calm a little when he saw me on the verge of tears, another act I'd been told to put on for the investors.

"You'll get all your money back," Richard assured him. "I can make it happen in a week, but I'd suggest you wait. The markets are at an all-time low right now. We'll bounce back stronger than ever. I'm sure of it."

Richard was many things, but the trait that stood out most was his charisma. He had a magical ability to convince anyone to do whatever he wanted. And that's exactly what happened this time, too.

The investors calmed down. And instead of pulling out, they doubled down.

For two more years.

I still remember the day clearly. It was a week after my fourteenth birthday when the police barged into our home with arrest warrants for both Richard and Patricia, who, coincidentally, were absent. A few days earlier, they had told me they were going on a business trip and had left our maid behind to look after me.

They never came back to Britain again.

"Breaking News: The biggest Ponzi scheme in British history has been uncovered. Richard and Patricia Summers, two well-known fund managers in London, have absconded with £87 million of investors' money. They have left behind their 14-year-old adopted son, who was allegedly complicit in the crime, even going so far as to convince parents of his classmates to invest in their family fund."

That's when my life came crashing down. Hard.

All my old friends began shunning me, convinced by the police's conclusion that I had known about the Ponzi scheme all along. I didn't. I truly believed my adoptive parents were legitimate fund managers. But no one believed me.

They labeled me both an offender and a victim, claiming I'd been groomed from a young age to participate in the crime. To an extent, it was true—but they conveniently ignored the fact that I hadn't known it was a crime.

As punishment, they took everything. My parents' home, their cars, all their assets—and all of mine. Even personal items like my computer and toys, because apparently, they had been purchased with stolen money.

Since I showed "no remorse" (meaning I refused to admit guilt), I was sent to a Residential Children's Home. It was a kind of orphanage, but specifically for kids deemed unfit for foster care. I had strict curfews, three years of community service, and a Youth Rehabilitation Program to complete before my eighteenth birthday.

The public defender assigned to me said the only reason I was convicted was that Richard and Patricia had run away. If they had been caught and imprisoned, the courts might have believed I was innocent. But they needed a scapegoat, and I was the perfect one.

The only thing that kept me sane through all that madness was my love for dancing. Thankfully, my teachers at RBS remained professional. They didn't care about my adoptive parents' crimes and treated me impartially.

I had previously been a part-time student at RBS, but since I was forced to change schools—because most of my classmates hated me—I decided to become a full-time student there. While my classmates at RBS hadn't been defrauded by my parents, they were still distant. Everyone knew what had happened, thanks to the extensive media coverage.

For the next few years, I kept my head down and worked on myself. I even tried to learn more about my biological parents, Frank and Carla Armitage. Frank had been a university professor before dying of cancer. Carla, devastated by his death, took her own life.

I changed my name back from Troy Summers to Troy Armitage, wanting to distance myself from Richard and Patricia as much as possible.

At nineteen, I completed my schooling at RBS, having finished my rehabilitation the year before.

When I gave my final performance at the Royal Opera House, our group received a standing ovation. Since I was the lead dancer, I got special attention.

The most renowned ballet company, The Royal Ballet, even offered me a spot in their troupe, which I gladly accepted. I thought I was on top of the world—that my past was finally behind me.

But it wasn't meant to be. Someone from my class snitched about my "criminal record" to the company, and the offer was rescinded overnight. The strangest part was that no ballet company in England seemed interested in hiring me.

I changed my name again, this time to Travis Armor, and tried my luck in the West End. After a long struggle, I finally landed a position as a dancer in a musical. The job sounded glamorous, but in reality, it barely paid the bills.

So, like many performers in the West End, I decided to try my hand at acting. I enrolled in classes with a renowned acting coach and started auditioning for any role I could find in London, which turned out to be plenty. I even managed to work as an extra in a few productions, but nothing more came of it immediately, as I was hoping.

A friend I'd made in the West End, Ernie, always seemed well-off. He never complained about the work or the low pay. The most frustrating part was that he wasn't even trying to be an actor.

"Not everybody has rich parents, Ern," I grumbled one night after a performance. We were both drunk as skunks. "I have to make a living for myself."

Ernie looked at me, genuinely confused. "I don't have rich parents. Who told you that, Trav?"

When I explained my assumptions, he just laughed and set the record straight.

"I dance in a club at night after we're done here. That's why I don't stress about money."

I frowned, thinking it over. "What kind of club?"

He grinned. "The exotic kind."

Suddenly, it all made sense—he was a stripper.

"I could help you get in," he offered. "You've got the looks, the height, the physique—and you're not a bad dancer. Honestly, I don't know why none of the ballet companies picked you up."

"Nah, it's not for me."

I suspected it was a gay club and didn't want to make things awkward by asking Ernie if he danced for men.

For a year, I gave him the same answer every time he brought it up, while still chasing any role I could get. Then one night, after our West End show, Ernie offered to take me to the club, just to see how it worked. I was curious, so I agreed.

To my surprise, the club didn't have any men except the performers. Even the manager and bartenders were women. The only reason I was let in was because Ernie vouched for me.

I watched the show from an alcove. Seeing women throw money at the dancers and touch them freely didn't seem so bad.

So, the next time Ernie asked, I said yes—but made it clear it was only temporary.

My debut was explosive. I made five thousand quid in my first week as an exotic dancer.

The women loved me, and I loved the whole thing even more. It was addictive—that feeling of being wanted more than anything in the world while having the power to say no. It also did wonders for my sex life. Within a few months, I'd lost count of how many women I'd slept with.

And I made a stupid amount of money, far more than any ballet dancer could, unless they were world-famous. The best part? I was only twenty.

Still, I knew I couldn't do this job forever. It paid well, sure, but it offered no security. I wouldn't be as good-looking or fit at forty as I was at twenty.

So, I quit my job at the West End and gave the stripping gig one more year. In the meantime, I auditioned for every age-appropriate role I could find. Had I not landed anything at all, I might have given up sooner or later. But thanks to my looks, I always managed to get cast in roles where I just had to look good, even if the acting wasn't much to write home about. Those small roles kept me going, feeding the hope that someday, I'd make it big.

Since my main job was mostly at night, I spent my days watching movies and TV shows for research whenever I didn't have auditions. I also tried my hand at music once, hoping to catch a break there, but that turned out to be even harder than acting. Since I was making good money at night, I used that cash to get myself some good music classes, and even tried composition in my free time. 

I made it to the preliminary round of selection on X-Factor before getting eliminated, and then I gave up. In hindsight, I could have done something good with the music, but I gave up too early.

One year became two, then five—and before I knew it, a whole decade had passed. I couldn't seem to break out of the vicious cycle of a struggling actor moonlighting as a stripper.

The only offers I got for lead roles were in the adult film industry. Many people who saw me dance at the club or visit my Instagram would promise to make me a star. I turned them all down. Dancing in front of a crowd in a closed club was one thing—porn was something else entirely. And once you crossed that line, there was no going back. Even a single explicit video would kill any shot at becoming a serious actor.

I'd thought I'd save a ton of money by the time I hit thirty—but that didn't happen. Thanks to Richard and Patricia, I'd never learned how to save. As soon as I got some money, I spent it. Be it on parties, exotic vacations, fancy clothes, or flashy cars. I always lived in the moment.

And then 2020 hit, and the entire live entertainment industry shut down thanks to the pandemic.

I had no savings, no backup skills beyond dancing and acting, and I hated myself. Even my landlord asked me to move out.

That's when Christine stepped in—a good friend, fellow stripper, and a hugely popular adult content creator online. She let me crash at her place until the pandemic passed. I accepted without hesitation.

She also offered to help me start an account on Only True Fans, the site where she promoted her videos.

"Trav," she said, looking me dead in the eye. "You have a huge dick. Once you debut, you'll be famous overnight. Believe me."

In the end, desperation won out, and I accepted for one simple reason—I had realized that I was never going to make it as a serious actor. With no better option, I bit the bullet and opened an Only True Fans account.

We set up cameras in Christine's bedroom and had a night of passionate sex. I tried to make it as natural and romantic as possible, acting as if it was the scene of a critical darling of a movie rather than porn. If Christine was surprised by my passion, she didn't tell me, but she did say later that I was the best fuck of her life, which I took great pride in.

The next day, she taught me how to edit the video properly.

I hesitated for a long time before hitting the post button. But once it was live, I shared promotional clips on Twitter and Instagram, where I already had a huge following thanks to my shirtless and workout photos and videos.

The video blew up overnight.

So, of course, Christine and I made a lot more of those since we were isolating together.

Before I'd even processed what was happening, I was making a ridiculous amount of money from desperate, horny people stuck at home—more than I'd ever made from stripping.

When the lockdown lifted, the offers started pouring in. World's hottest porn stars wanted to collaborate, while private studios were throwing exclusive contracts at me, offering absurd sums of money.

I was hesitant at first about joining a studio, but eventually, I let all my inhibitions go. Why worry about consequences now, when I was already halfway in?

I accepted the offer from the studio that paid the most. They flew me to the U.S., where I simply had fun—sleeping with whoever I wanted. Women were dying to fuck me, and I was all for it. I don't like to boast, but at the peak of my career, I was the biggest male porn star in the world. All because I treated my women like goddesses. My videos were the most romantic, yet the most passionate sex scenes anyone had ever seen—and I was proud of that.

I didn't even use a fake name. Technically, I did, since Travis wasn't my birth name, but I didn't care. I didn't want to hide anymore. And there wasn't anyone in my life from whom I felt the need to hide my work.

I got smarter with money. For the first time, I began seriously planning my exit from the industry. I figured I had maybe a decade left before my sex appeal began to fade.

But before I could make that graceful exit, I was in a horrific car crash.

I thought I'd die. In fact, I did die. But I didn't go to heaven or hell.

I opened my eyes… in my infant body again.

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AN: Visit my Pat reon to read ahead, or check out my second Hollywood story set in the 80s.

Link: www(dot)pat reon(dot)com/fableweaver