The guy - maybe twenty-five, way too tanned, and naked - was on his back, on the coffee table. His hands hard-gripped the table sides, and his legs were splayed up and out in rigid right angles. Between them his bulls eye, my target, awaited, while two men in khakis down to their ankles looked on, engaged in synchronized cock stroking like a pair of enthusiastic back-up singers.This was to be my first on-screen fuck. “Do it, man. Give it to me,” Coffee Table begged -- or so I called him, since that (and his hole) was about all I knew of him at the time.But alas, my dick was as cuddly and soft as an old fleece sock just pulled from the dryer. The director tapped his watch in my direction. This did not help. If cocks could giggle, mine would have just then.The gay porn business. As a big Hollywood star once said – about, admittedly, a different genre – it’s not as glamorous as it looks. I know. I performed in a total of four adult all-male films. Then I retired from the industry, taking with me nothing but memories, a couple of clippings, and a souvenir UPS shirt still sticky with someone else’s man love. We’ll say it all happened in the South, because it did. We won’t say much more about the specifics than that, though.
Oh, I dread being known for this work, all right. But not for the reasons that might first spring to mind. The fucking is not the issue. In my eyes a good ninety-five percent of what we all do to earn a buck is generally vapid, often soulless, and almost always completely unnecessary to the well-being of the world at large. Giving a blow job on film, then, all things considered, is something close to a calling. Like teaching, or writing opera. No, the sex isn’t my shame. It’s how awful I was at it. But I’m getting ahead of myself. (Hey, it’s an occupational hazard.) It was the mid-nineties, and I finally contacted a company that was seeking ‘models’ for their all-male movies. This decision to act - I’d thought about it for some time - was triggered by an article in The New Yorker. Yes, The New Yorker. Thousands of wholesome, degree-holding men were waiting at the doors of porn producers, it said, a veritable army of Americana eager to obtain employment in the adult film trade, and unconcerned with anything but the competition and staying hard under hot lights. It was business, pure and simple, and clearly more exciting than waiting tables until the right engineering position arrived. Moreover: these men were after straight porn work, a field in which traditional career bias is reversed and the men are the oppressed. There were a few big male names, sure. (I especially liked a co-star’s assessment of TT Boy as ‘a life support system for a cock’.) By and large, though, the guys are paid less and abused more in straight porn. OK, I thought. Better to work where no such bias could exist. It was encouraging, too, to think that liking dick might just pay off at last. If we don’t get the football scholarships, we get the bigger dressing rooms.I wrote a letter and a friendly, handwritten reply came. Would I send photographs?
And what action did I get into? Talk about a welcoming business, I thought. IBM doesn’t ask what type of guy you want to fuck. IBM probably makes everyone bottom. I borrowed a camera, did a thousand push-ups, and clicked.
A few weeks later I rang the bell of the comfortable, suburban house of the director. The summer sun was brutal on my back, but I was fine. I was feeling large. Hot lights? I laugh at hot lights, pal. Producer/director John answered the door, shirtless and pretty buff himself. I wanted to present, I remember, a firm, hard handshake. But I overshot the mark and grabbed his forearm. Nerves had led to premature ejaculation of greeting.For the record: the dwelling of a gay porn filmmaker is not appreciably different from that of any other well-off gay man. There was interesting art on the walls, nice furniture, books, and everything. A lot of which you’ve seen, in fact, if you’ve watched any gay porn at all. Those aren’t MGM sets they’re fucking on; more often than not, it’s the director’s spare room, and that in itself explains why a great deal of the cock sucking and ass eating you see on your screen takes place on white sofas, dangerously near interesting floor plant arrangements and impressionist art.His closet told a different story. Dozens of leather police jackets bullied khaki delivery-guy shirts for rod space. Jackboots were piled high on the floor, with military fatigues stacked in rows like…well, soldiers. Helmets and sunglasses filled the shelves above. And the whole space was thick with the scents of sweat and cum. If you held your nose, the view in that closet was all about trucks, bikes and platoons. If you breathed in, it was a world of truck drivers stopping to gang fuck the biker on the road by the army base.I tried on the soldier, the delivery guy, the cop. With each outfit John would ask me to either stroke my dick, move my hips like I was humping a jock boy, or both. This is the porn director’s equivalent to, Walk around the store a little bit, see how it feels. But, in the end, it was no contest.
The cop was me. The shades alone gave John a raging hard-on. I liked the look, too. Pull over, baby, I whispered to the mirror. We went outside to his backyard, where tall privacy hedges shielded us from a neighbor mowing his lawn. In a strange variation on seduction, John had me ‘auditioning’ before I was actually aware of it. Legs astride a deck chair, black boots gleaming in the sun, I laid back as instructed to. John’s director’s hands were cupped around his eyes as lenses. He stood near me, stepped back, then inched in closer again. Then one hand dropped, unzipped, and pulled out his cock. The other hand continued adjusting the camera, as it were. I took my cue and opened wide. I’m not sure I gave head like real motorcycle cops give head. But, remember: I was flying blind, and without a script or technical advisor.The heat, though. Oh, the heat. It was something else. I was as suddenly impatient to be done as a bored housewife doing her Tuesday night duty. Head bobbing, sweat streaming over my sunglasses, I thought: you don’t know how hot hot lights can get, smartass. And why don’t I hear the sound of that lawn mower any more?But John was going crazy. He nearly dropped the ‘camera’, so frantically was he fucking my mouth. He grunted loudly, I spotted a piece of privacy shrubbery move a little, and a streaming blast of cum hit my cheek. Then I saw my name in lights.Once again inside the cool of the house, all was well. I was paid from a box of money on top of the closet shelf - Wardrobe and Accounting sharing the same space, I suppose - and we went upstairs to his office, to look over pictures of possible co-stars. I’ll take that one, I said. He has a young, Robert DeNiro quality I think I can work with. And what looks to be a truly spectacular ass. Motivation is motivation, however you come by it.I left John’s house feeling quite all right. I had performed well; a sticky battle scar on a leather collar was a screen test smeared with success. All that was left was my first movie, to be filmed in a week: a fake package delivery, three hard co-stars, a coffee table, and a late arriving stud who saved my erection and my salary. They don’t call it ‘the money shot’ for nothing, people. You earn it, and you earn it the hard way.
The guy - maybe twenty-five, way too tanned, and naked - was on his back, on the coffee table. His hands hard-gripped the table sides, and his legs were splayed up and out in rigid right angles. Between them his bulls eye, my target, awaited, while two men in khakis down to their ankles looked on, engaged in synchronized cock stroking like a pair of enthusiastic back-up singers.This was to be my first on-screen fuck. “Do it, man. Give it to me,” Coffee Table begged -- or so I called him, since that (and his hole) was about all I knew of him at the time.But alas, my dick was as cuddly and soft as an old fleece sock just pulled from the dryer. The director tapped his watch in my direction. This did not help. If cocks could giggle, mine would have just then.The gay porn business. As a big Hollywood star once said – about, admittedly, a different genre – it’s not as glamorous as it looks. I know. I performed in a total of four adult all-male films. Then I retired from the industry, taking with me nothing but memories, a couple of clippings, and a souvenir UPS shirt still sticky with someone else’s man love. We’ll say it all happened in the South, because it did. We won’t say much more about the specifics than that, though.
Oh, I dread being known for this work, all right. But not for the reasons that might first spring to mind. The fucking is not the issue. In my eyes a good ninety-five percent of what we all do to earn a buck is generally vapid, often soulless, and almost always completely unnecessary to the well-being of the world at large. Giving a blow job on film, then, all things considered, is something close to a calling. Like teaching, or writing opera. No, the sex isn’t my shame. It’s how awful I was at it. But I’m getting ahead of myself. (Hey, it’s an occupational hazard.) It was the mid-nineties, and I finally contacted a company that was seeking ‘models’ for their all-male movies. This decision to act - I’d thought about it for some time - was triggered by an article in The New Yorker. Yes, The New Yorker. Thousands of wholesome, degree-holding men were waiting at the doors of porn producers, it said, a veritable army of Americana eager to obtain employment in the adult film trade, and unconcerned with anything but the competition and staying hard under hot lights. It was business, pure and simple, and clearly more exciting than waiting tables until the right engineering position arrived. Moreover: these men were after straight porn work, a field in which traditional career bias is reversed and the men are the oppressed. There were a few big male names, sure. (I especially liked a co-star’s assessment of TT Boy as ‘a life support system for a cock’.) By and large, though, the guys are paid less and abused more in straight porn. OK, I thought. Better to work where no such bias could exist. It was encouraging, too, to think that liking dick might just pay off at last. If we don’t get the football scholarships, we get the bigger dressing rooms.I wrote a letter and a friendly, handwritten reply came. Would I send photographs? 
And what action did I get into? Talk about a welcoming business, I thought. IBM doesn’t ask what type of guy you want to fuck. IBM probably makes everyone bottom. I borrowed a camera, did a thousand push-ups, and clicked. A few weeks later I rang the bell of the comfortable, suburban house of the director. The summer sun was brutal on my back, but I was fine. I was feeling large. Hot lights? I laugh at hot lights, pal. Producer/director John answered the door, shirtless and pretty buff himself. I wanted to present, I remember, a firm, hard handshake. But I overshot the mark and grabbed his forearm. Nerves had led to premature ejaculation of greeting.For the record: the dwelling of a gay porn filmmaker is not appreciably different from that of any other well-off gay man. There was interesting art on the walls, nice furniture, books, and everything. A lot of which you’ve seen, in fact, if you’ve watched any gay porn at all. Those aren’t MGM sets they’re fucking on; more often than not, it’s the director’s spare room, and that in itself explains why a great deal of the cock sucking and ass eating you see on your screen takes place on white sofas, dangerously near interesting floor plant arrangements and impressionist art.His closet told a different story. Dozens of leather police jackets bullied khaki delivery-guy shirts for rod space. Jackboots were piled high on the floor, with military fatigues stacked in rows like…well, soldiers. Helmets and sunglasses filled the shelves above. And the whole space was thick with the scents of sweat and cum. If you held your nose, the view in that closet was all about trucks, bikes and platoons. If you breathed in, it was a world of truck drivers stopping to gang fuck the biker on the road by the army base.I tried on the soldier, the delivery guy, the cop. With each outfit John would ask me to either stroke my dick, move my hips like I was humping a jock boy, or both. This is the porn director’s equivalent to, Walk around the store a little bit, see how it feels. But, in the end, it was no contest. 
The cop was me. The shades alone gave John a raging hard-on. I liked the look, too. Pull over, baby, I whispered to the mirror. We went outside to his backyard, where tall privacy hedges shielded us from a neighbor mowing his lawn. In a strange variation on seduction, John had me ‘auditioning’ before I was actually aware of it. Legs astride a deck chair, black boots gleaming in the sun, I laid back as instructed to. John’s director’s hands were cupped around his eyes as lenses. He stood near me, stepped back, then inched in closer again. Then one hand dropped, unzipped, and pulled out his cock. The other hand continued adjusting the camera, as it were. I took my cue and opened wide. I’m not sure I gave head like real motorcycle cops give head. But, remember: I was flying blind, and without a script or technical advisor.The heat, though. Oh, the heat. It was something else. I was as suddenly impatient to be done as a bored housewife doing her Tuesday night duty. Head bobbing, sweat streaming over my sunglasses, I thought: you don’t know how hot hot lights can get, smartass. And why don’t I hear the sound of that lawn mower any more?But John was going crazy. He nearly dropped the ‘camera’, so frantically was he fucking my mouth. He grunted loudly, I spotted a piece of privacy shrubbery move a little, and a streaming blast of cum hit my cheek. Then I saw my name in lights.Once again inside the cool of the house, all was well. I was paid from a box of money on top of the closet shelf - Wardrobe and Accounting sharing the same space, I suppose - and we went upstairs to his office, to look over pictures of possible co-stars. I’ll take that one, I said. He has a young, Robert DeNiro quality I think I can work with. And what looks to be a truly spectacular ass. Motivation is motivation, however you come by it.I left John’s house feeling quite all right. I had performed well; a sticky battle scar on a leather collar was a screen test smeared with success. All that was left was my first movie, to be filmed in a week: a fake package delivery, three hard co-stars, a coffee table, and a late arriving stud who saved my erection and my salary. They don’t call it ‘the money shot’ for nothing, people. You earn it, and you earn it the hard way.
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