Typography Note: Sentences in [brackets] represent the narrator's unspoken thoughts.
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Coming of Age in Texas: Chapter 7: Al-OH-OH-OH-ha!
At the Honolulu Marriott, Johnny and I shared a room with two queen-size beds. The morning after we arrived, we dressed in our swimsuits to hit the beach, and Mike had asked us to stop by his suite to meet the photographer who was coming to get acquainted and talk about what to expect in the shoot. When the knock came, Mike was in the bathroom, so Johnny answered the door. "Oh, yes, definitely," said the photographer with an Italian accent, sizing him up. "You shall be exquisite modella for la campagna."
"Oh, I'm not Mr. Murphy," Johnny corrected him. "He's inside."
And when the photographer entered the suite, he approached me with his hand outstretched, "Such pleasure to meet you, Mr. Murphy. I am so looking forward to working with you."
"Yes, that is Mr. Murphy," said Mike exiting the bathroom, "but he's not the Mr. Murphy you'll be working with. I am."
"Perdonami," said Armando—he went by only the one name—"but such an abundance of male bellezza. Such a pity to have only one of you to work with." Johnny and I had to giggle.
Mike shook hands with Armando and motioned for him to sit on the sofa, where Armando also placed the large suitcase he had carried in with him. Johnny and I told him how happy we were to meet him and said we were headed for the beach.
"Arresto!" Armando practically yelled at us. "Stop! Stop! Stop! You cannot go to the beach dressed in such stracci...how you say `rags,'" he insisted. "Come, come."
We walked back over to the sofa where he virtually ordered us to remove our swimsuits. Johnny and I looked to Mike, who just shrugged as if to say, "Don't look at me; it's your junk."
Johnny dropped his baggy suit, but I kept mine on for the moment. "Magnifico!" proclaimed Armando. "Turn."
"Huh?" Johnny asked. "Show me your culo, your ass. I cannot select the right costume for you without assessing your entire body." Mike turned 180 degrees as instructed. "Perfetto! You have exquisite ass," he pronounced, launching into a rapid-fire soliloquy in Italian, from which we were only able to catch one word: `Michelangelo.' Johnny didn't know whether to blush, burst out laughing, or run like hell.
With Johnny standing before us naked as a jay bird, Armando opened his suitcase and rifled through the mass of swimsuits he had brought, occasionally selecting one, holding it up to Johnny's crotch and ass, and throwing it on the floor until he finally came to the "right" one. He ultimately decided on a baby blue bikini with navy blue stripes in a chevron pattern that drew the eye to his crotch. "Put this one on," he commanded, and when he did, Armando spent what seemed to me to be an inordinate amount of time checking the fit. Ultimately, he decreed, "Perfetto!" When Johnny pointed out that the suit was cut so low that it exposed some of his pubes, Armando smiled from cheek to cheek and assured him, "It is the modern fashion. The girls will fight over you now."
"You," Armando ushered me forward. "Show me what you have," but I was already starting to pop a boner. I was hoping that no one had noticed, but Mike had, and Johnny and Armando probably had too. I coughed and made an excuse that I needed a glass of water, so I went into the bathroom and didn't come out until my boner had receded—most of the way anyway.
When I returned to the sitting room and dropped my swimsuit for Armando, he gasped, "Gesu Christo!" making the sign of the cross. "You have il pene mostruoso." After crossing himself again, he said, "Girarsi," indicating with the rotation of a finger that I should turn around, and so I did. Though Armando had laid hands on Johnny quite liberally, he did so only after Johnny had donned the swimsuit. With me, he rubbed his hands all over my naked ass, combed out my public hairs with his fingers, and "accidentally" brushed against my balls. I felt like a horse being put up for auction, and I'm pretty sure I caught the words cavallo' (horse) and stallone' (stud) in his ramblings.
Turning once again to the open suitcase, Armando rummaged through about five times as many swimsuits as he had for Johnny and finally shouted, "Eureka!" handing me a ruby red bikini with a deep-cut white pouch that clearly showed the outline of my shaft, helmet, and ridge. A metal ring held together the very narrow waist band on the side of each hip, and a third, larger ring substituted for a belt buckle, revealing far more of my pubes than I thought might be legal. The seat was just wide enough to cover my butt crack, but narrow enough to expose the dimples in my butt cheeks. I looked to Mike for his judgement, but all he did was cover his mouth to conceal a massive, devilish grin.
When we started to exit Mike's suite in our new ultra-revealing swimsuits, I reached for our old suits on the floor, but Armando beat me to them, threw them in the waste basket, and pantomimed spitting on them. As we walked out the door, Mike chuckled, "You boys have fun."
Johnny was chomping at the bit to get to the beach, but I convinced him that we had to go back to our room and jerk off first unless he wanted me to embarrass the hell out of him as we walked through the hotel lobby.
We spent most of that time on the beach eyeing beautiful girls and young women in their thongs and string bikinis, and we got many stares—from guys as well as gals—and even a few whistles in return. Of course, we spent a lot of time adjusting our junk or rolling over on our stomachs, and we had to run back to our hotel room once to jerk off.
Just as we were getting ready to go back to the hotel a second time, we were approached by two gorgeous blondes who introduced themselves as Britta and Inga, Swedish college students on summer vacation. To make a long story short, we ended up back in our hotel room with those two "older women" teaching us the facts of life...well...some of the facts anyway.
Britta got Johnny naked first, and when Inga got my swimsuit off, she swooned, "Oooh, this one is huge."
Britta responded, "If you can't handle it, leave it for me, and I will take care of it as soon as I finish with this one." When she went down on me the first time, I thought I was going to die from ecstasy. [So that's what it feels like to have a mouth instead of a hand on your cock.]
When I regained enough sanity to open my eyes, I looked over to discover that Johnny was experiencing the same joy that I was. Like me, he alternated between grinning like a Cheshire cat and clawing the sheets in exquisite pain.
After several minutes, our Swedish vixens muttered something in their native language and switched places, Inga on Johnny and Britta on me. They took their time deep kissing us, licking our bodies from head to toe, gently nibbling on our nipples, and swallowing our cocks. Even though my erect dick was almost nine inches at the time, I was amazed at how much of it they could swallow.
Every time either Johnny or I would get close to shooting, they would let up and switch places again. After nearly an hour of that sweet torture, they finally let us explode in their mouths. When I saw Johnny come first, I felt envious—not envious of him, but envious of her. I imagined that it was my mouth that he was blasting his man juice into. It was enough to make me burst forth. Then, the Swedes did something that stunned both Johnny and me.
With my cum in Inga's mouth and Johnny's cum in Britta's they kissed each other, mixing our cum and swapping it back and forth. After a couple of minutes, Inga kissed me, feeding me the mixture in her mouth, and Britta did the same to Johnny. I didn't know at the time if Johnny was about to freak out, but I was fuckin' loving it. Maybe he figured it was worth it to have a sexy woman's tongue exploring every nook and cranny of his mouth even if it was coated in cum...and even if that cum was his best friend's.
My first blow job and my first cum kiss. I was in friggin' heaven. But they still weren't done. They switched places again, Inga cum-kissing Johnny, and Britta cum-kissing me.
Between the blow jobs and the jet lag, Johnny and I were exhausted. The four of us ended up in one bed with Johnny and me in the middle and one of the blonde bombshells on either side of us. Inga and Britta encouraged us to take a nap so that we would be rested enough to do it again, but when we woke, they were gone, and Johnny and I found ourselves hugging each other. The ladies left a note thanking us for a good time and promising to see us again, but they never did. Johnny and I decided to shower and go back to the beach, but when we looked for our babe-magnet swimsuits, they were gone too. We concluded that the blondes must have taken them for souvenirs.
When we went back to Mike's suite to meet him for dinner, Armando was still there. They had spent the whole day sorting through and trying on various swimsuits. When we asked Armando if we could have our old swimsuits back, he said that the maid had already emptied the trash.
"What happened to the ones he gave you this morning?" Mike asked.
Sheepishly, I answered, "Well, we...kinda lost them."
"Aha!" shouted the photographer. "Armando told you that the girls would love you!" He pointed to a pile of swimsuits on the floor.
"Those are the ones I tried on and Armando rejected," said Mike.
"They are all `eccelente,' he said, "but not right for this shoot."
When Johnny and I began to sort through them, Armando insisted, "Take them all. I am done with those." And so we did.
The next day, Armando photographed Mike in countless poses by the hotel pool and different beaches. Everywhere they went, Mike drew a throng of admirers, not because he was a famous football player, but because he was a gorgeous hunk wearing practically nothing. Johnny and I called Mike's new fans "the thong throng."
The third day was spent trying on numerous pairs of underwear, and the fourth day, Armando photographed Mike wearing that underwear in his suite and even in some public locations. Many of the poses were very provocative—getting in and out of bed, getting dressed or undressed, pulling down his briefs half way, exposing practically all of his pubes and even the base of his shaft. Johnny and I watched some of the session and then went back to our room to jerk off before heading back to the beach, where we had hoped to find our Swedish bombshells or other equally uninhibited women.
On the fifth day, we decided to skip the beach when we learned that Armando was bringing in six gorgeous models, two women and four men, to supplement the shots in endless permutations.
In one scene, Mike sat on the bed alone, completely naked, legs crossed to conceal his privates. The featured underwear simply lay on the bed next to him. In a variation, Mike held the underwear up to his nose to sniff it. In another pose, Mike sat on the bed putting on a sock with his legs spread in such a way as to draw the eye to his underwear. Then, Armando slowly began adding models in various combinations: one model standing or sitting behind him wearing the Christian Andersen underwear or completely naked with his junk concealed only by Mike's shoulder, a woman or man lying under the covers (partially) behind him, a woman and a man, two women, two men, Mike lying under the covers with various combinations of models in different poses, dressed or undressed.
In another scene, Mike stood completely naked looking into a dresser drawer full of underwear, as if trying to decide which pair to wear. His image was reflected in the mirror and his cock and balls were concealed only by the drawer shot at just the right angle. Then, as before, Armando shot the same scene with different combinations of models in an assortment of poses.
Once, Armando had two of the male models go into the bathroom, and when they came back out a few minutes later, their underwear was filled out a bit more than before. When it hit me what they had done, my own underwear began to fill out more. One of the hunks seemed to take note and winked at me. Later, he slipped me a piece of paper with his room number on it.
In one of the outdoor scenes, two of the male models, dressed as cops, led Mike, handcuffed and wearing only his underwear, to a police cruiser. In another, he stood in front of a burning apartment building next to a fire engine and surrounded by the four male models dressed as firemen. Of course, the building was not really on fire (though many of the onlookers were), but Armando said that effect would be added in the final production. Of course, it goes without saying that all of the outdoor shoots were traffic stoppers.
Armando repeatedly tried to convince Johnny and me to pose in some of the shots, and Johnny would have killed to be photographed lying in bed between the two female models, but Mike put his foot down on that. "They're 15!" he yelled at Armando. "Leave them alone. You can call them in three years." Mike did allow us to act as extras in some of the outdoor shots, but we were fully clothed and surrounded by other extras who were also completely dressed.
Johnny fell all over himself trying to coax the two female models to his hotel room, but I have no doubt that they spent the night in Mike's room, so Johnny and I contented ourselves swapping fantasies of sex with them...and sex with the two of them plus the two Swedes. Then, of course, we jerked off.
When we got home from Hawaii, Johnny and I each discovered that we had an extra suitcase. We had not noticed them because Mike had bought each of us a new set of luggage, and they had been handled mostly by bellmen and skycaps. When we opened them, we found them filled with the swimsuits and underwear from the photo sessions, the ones he and Mike had used and the ones they had discarded. I couldn't wait to wear some of them to football camp.