Now we were cast together again, one-on-one this time, the scene set in a bar in a sordid district of San Francisco where trannies loiter the streets at night, drug deals run rampant and police cars patrol every block. You were playing the role of a bartender and I was playing the role of the last patron, revving up to get twisted once again with each other in front of the camera. You were standing behind the bar. I was sitting on a stool across from you. A black frame bordered a mirror behind you. Another mirror covered the length of the wall behind me. Liquor bottles lined glass shelves. Black leather covered the stools. The floor was a checkered black and white. It seems that wherever there’s raunch, there’s black. One is synonymous with the other—dark, depraved, the depths of carnality contrasting with the uplifting white of love.
Once again, I would’ve expected more direction from the director. What I got was the director huffing and telling me, “You’re the last guy in the bar. Go from there.”
What I got from you, Jordan, was unexpected, too. You weren’t entirely there when you first walked into the bar. You didn’t look at me or say hello. You didn’t hug me. We had done one video together before this, but our history went beyond that. You used to come to my home, share my bed. You would fuck me, yes, and sometimes, the best times, we would lie together and kiss, kiss and talk, fully clothed. We didn’t just explore each other’s bodies. We explored each other’s mouths, each other’s faces. That was how I got to know the softness of your cheeks, the warmth of your neck against my lips, the way you kissed. You liked to bite my lower lip, softly, and then gently slide your tongue into my mouth and wet my own with your saliva. I liked to kiss your eyelids, feel your lashes tickle my chin, rub our noses together as a child does when discovering for the first time what it means to touch another human being. And in those kisses, you revealed yourself to me: you lost your father and your brother in a car accident when you were nine; together with your mother you loved to plant flowers that drew butterflies and hummingbirds to their color and bees to their nectar; you once rode your motorcycle naked across the Palm Springs desert to bask in the kiss of the sun, the caress of the sand.
The day of the porn shoot, you were distant, not the distance of a stranger, rather the distance of someone leaving without saying good-bye. You were cutting me off and I didn’t know why. Perhaps you had a reason. When two guys hook up over the Internet, that’s all it’s supposed to be—a hookup, one night of instant gratification, sometimes several nights of repeated gratification if the connection’s right. Nothing more. That was how it started out between us. But at times we stumble away from the groin and plummet into the messy pit of the heart. Such is the emotional dynamite when chemistry simmers.
You’re the last guy in the bar. Go from there.
You took two shot glasses from under the bar and filled them with vodka, one for me, one for you. We downed our drinks. You burped cockily into my face.
Me: Thanks for the drink. Where is there to go at a time like this? I’m fucking horny, man.
You: It depends. What are you looking for?
Me: Someone like you.
You: You might not have to go far. Take off your shirt.
Me: Now your turn.
You: Fair enough.
I leaned across the bar and kissed you, and it was as though we were on my bed once more. Maybe I wasn’t losing you after all. You closed your eyes. Our lips parted. You gently probed my mouth with your tongue. I lowered my head to your chest and buried my face in your pecs, teased your nipples with my teeth. And I sighed. I’m so much smaller than you, Jordan. When you embraced me, your entire body ate me up in one greedy swallow. I glanced sideways. At the opposite end of the bar, across the pool table where the light was dim, the director was watching, arms crossed over his chest—a shadow. He wasn’t huffing. He wasn’t peeved. I didn’t detect niceness from him, either. I saw something more, something better. I saw a man who understood the euphoria and the pain of male bonding. His eyes met mine. In his eyes I could read his thoughts: This is too sweet for porn, too caring, too loving. But it’s fucking beautiful.
You walked out from behind the bar, over to me, had me balance on all fours on a stool, yanked off my jeans and my boots—I almost toppled off the stool—and shoved your face between my buttcheeks and licked and lapped and kissed and sucked, wet me up for penetration with gobs of spit.
Then it was my turn.
You lay spread-eagled on the bar, on your stomach. Your ass was as round as sculpted marble; your thighs were half the size of my torso; your hole was twitching for my attention—the stuff of fantasies. Then again, you’re a big name in the industry. I didn’t know that until one night you told me your “other name”—your nom de porn. The day after, I Googled that other name. My computer screen popped up with page after page of your alias, video credits and pics.
Of all the pics of you growling at the camera over your shoulder while showing off your fuzzy buttocks, stroking your glistening cock, flexing your rippling muscle, my favorite is this—you in a T-shirt of Popeye flexing his biceps while clenching a pipe, your face beaming with a smile. You’re gorgeous when you’re naked. The whole world knows you’re gorgeous. But when you smile, you’re perfect.
Later, on the phone, you laughed and said, “Yeah. I’ve been around for a while.”
Now, lying before me, was the unreal deal, the other you. I parted your buttcheeks with an eager tongue, shoved it as deep as I could, relished the taste and feel and smell of your moist insides. My nose was wet from the perspiration on your asscrack. You had been riding your motorcycle all day, and I felt the heat from the cycle seat on your butt, tasted your manly muskiness. You turned your face sideways, toward mine. I could see you puckering your lips and I could hear your oohs and your ahhhs.
And then the fuck: you rolled over on your back and I stood on the bar. I lowered my asshole onto your fat eight-incher. Your Prince Albert was lubed with precum.
“Rip me up, man,” I said as I rode, slowly at first, and then building momentum so that I was slapping my asscheeks against your groin.
“You want it?” you teased.
Fuck, yeah, I want it. For always. I’m your bitch. Forever.
You shoved me from behind onto the bar, doggie-style, fucked me harder, then pushed me down so that I was flat on my stomach and the weight of your manly frame was on top of me. I was losing myself in your warmth, your muscles, your spit, your sweat, your tears, your piss, your butt skank. I fuck with other guys. You fuck with other guys. We’re dude sluts and that was what brought us together in the first place, a pair of goddamn manwhores.
That afternoon, though, nobody else mattered.
I tightened my sphincter.
“Ahhhh!” you yelled. You fucking yelled. Your cum gushed out of your pulsating cock, filling my bowels with its hotness. But you didn’t stop. You pumped some more, and kept pumping.