The following story of my "dream" job as a costume designer for Matt Damon is, alas, a total fantasy and entirely the outpouring of my very active sexual imagination. Ed C.
My reputation in Hollywood for designing funky beachwear had begun to attract some of the up-and-coming dropdead gorgeous bit players who were trying to win the ratrace for stardom. Some of those who bought my outrageous togs did make it to the top, only to find that what they had to do to get there usually made them end up being the chief rat. But I didn't care about any of that tarnished-star nonsense. I was perfectly happy to share with my buds the I-knew-him-when stories I had accumulated over the years of those fresh pink-cheeked young innocents coming into my shop with their tanned, oiled hard bodies oozing sex out of every beautiful pore, their hot cocks practically bursting through their white duck pants. I had learned to seem casual as I suggested to each new customer that he take an armful of beach trunks to a "private" dressing room where he could take his time trying them on. I would, of course, drop in to make my own recommendations, coming at the precise moment when he was first putting his feet into the swimwear. Naturally I had a two-way mirror to make the timing perfect so that I could observe and suggest to my heart's content. And believe me, when I saw of the world's most pampered dicks my heart was very content. So over the years I had gotten leisurely looks ("Ummm...I think maybe blue isn't your color...but, ah...well let me look again...) at Ed Norton (long and slender), Tobey Maguire (squeezably soft), Val Kilmer (hungus humongous) and Ben Stiller (cute and hard).
After some years of seeing a lot of lovely pubescent flesh in all its naked glory, I began to feel a little jaded and wondered if the thrill of seeing rising-star cock was getting boring. But then, one golden California day, the tired feeling of having seen it all vanished in a moment. I had been doing inventory and only gradually became aware that someone was standing quietly before me, patiently waiting for me to notice him. When I did finally look up, I knew in a nanosecond that unmistakble crooked smile was not on the face of a filmstar wannabee, but A -- no, make that THE star of stars, the incredibly boyishly charming Matt Damon. I must have flushed in astonishment because he began to stammer apologetically for interrupting me. My throat, which had suddenly become quite dry, managed to get out some dorky words, like "How...how can I help you, Mr. Damon? Something in, ah, ah..." He laughed and filled in the word I couldn't seem to find, leaning over the counter and speaking in a hushed voice to hide my embarrassment: "Are you trying to say swimwear?" I felt my knees weaken, while simultaneously, as his lips seemed to come teasingly close to mine, I realized the bulge in my pants was almost out of control. I pressed hard against the glass, frantically trying to keep Junior under control. "Well," he continued, ignoring my rapid breathing, "actually that's not why I'm here. You see," he said almost whispering as an adoring crowd began to gather, "I like your designs and I want you to be my designer for my next film."
For the first time I understood what Blanche DuBois in "A Streetcar Named Desire" meant when she said, "Sometimes suddenly there's God!" At that moment when I blurted out "Yes! Yes! Yes!" I thought all my wildest dreams were coming true. But I was wrongedy wrong. What I didn't know was that there would be one more fantastic fantasy which would explode into a reality I had never hoped could be possible. I began immediately to turn over the shop to my assistant manager so I could begin sketching out some rough ideas. I had thought that in my first meeting with Matt I would act like king of the assholes, but he was so sweet, so understanding, my nervousness disappeared after the first five minutes. But it quickly returned when, after he sat me down on his dressing room sofa, he casually drapped his solid arm over my shoulder, looking over my sketches,leaning closer into me as he said, "Hey, man, I love that!" or "Shit, totally cool." I began to sweat and tried to jam my portfolio harder against my rising dick, all the while saying to myself like a mantra, "Down, boy, down. Behave yourself." I was in ecstasy, giddy from being an inch from those soft, wide lips. I wanted this "business" session to go on forever. But suddenly Matt jumped up from the sofa and bolted to the other side of the room. My only thought was, "Fuck it, he noticed my large lump and he's sorry he hired me. Holy shit, I blew it." He was silent for what seemed to be an eternity and I got ready to pack and leave. Then, without any warning at all, he turned and said the most beautiful words I've ever heard in my life.
"Look," he began, "I do like your designs, really. They're terrific. But I need to ask you a favor." He was clearly blushing, and I sat like a fucking dummy, unable to say something simple, like, "Well, what is it, Matt?" knowing that if he asked me to jump in front of a fucking train I would have said, "What station, and what time?" When I finally heard what IT was, it was like I had died on the spot and gone straight to heaven with no detours. "You don't have to do this," he continued, and by now he was practically crimson. "You see, Minnie Driver and I are having a serious problem in our relationship, so we've stopped, ah, having sex. And I, ah, you see I am really hot for some relief, and I don't get much satisfaction from jerking off. I need another body." I still had no idea where he was headed. Then the heavens, in fact the whole fucking universe opened up and rolled at my feet. "Look, Minnie and I have agreed that I wouldn't fuck anybody else. Well, actually, she said no other woman. And that, I think," and by now that radiant smile was lighting up the whole room, "leaves me a large loophole." My mouth almost dropped to the floor. "Now don't get me wrong," he said teasingly, "I just need to pretend you're Minnie, even though certain, ah, things might get in the way. But what the fuck, I'm an actor with a huge imagination so I for an hour you'll be my Minnie. I'll just keep my eyes closed," he said with an impish wink.
I threw my portfolio across the room, dropping any pretense of being embarrassed, which was a good thing since by now my cock was almost busting my zipper. I could barely breathe, but managed to get out a weak, "Well, if you want to, I don't mind." The next hour was a blur of indescribable passion. When he took my face in his wide hands and gently, so very gently pressed his lips on mine, I felt myself drifting into a world of feelings and colors I never knew existed. Then he led me to his small bed and slowly stretched his entire huge body on top of my trembling one while he began to push his large tongue deep into my mouth. By then I had lost all my inhibitions and grabbed at his shirt, practically ripping it off, exposing his firm, brown chest with its light dusting of fine haris. I started to lick at his nipples which were surprisingly soft and nubile. We quickly tore at each other's pants, but I stopped him from pulling off his tight, white shorts. I wanted to concentrate on wrapping my legs around his huge thighs, pushing my whole body into his for as long as I could. Finally I knew I was getting ready to shoot off and had better get to the good part fast. I yanked off that last remaining barrier between our naked bodies. His cock was warm, and throbbing so hard it seem to be shaking. I quickly slid down to his balls which were like a young boy's, quite small, tender and succulent, like a tasty appetizer. I had to keep myself from biting into them. And I couldn't believe he had so little pubic hair. I suppose I had expected barbed wire, but he looked almost like a hairless child, and I wondered, "Does he shave down there?" But it didn't matter. My tongue was so hungry for him I began to thrash and grab anything I could get my hands on. I vaguely remember hearing some kind of strange, low sound coming from his lips, not quite a moan, but more like a deep, satisfying sigh.
Without warning Matt jumped up and turned me over so that he was on top of me, jamming his cock into whatever opening he could find. His legs were enormous but he managed to remain light, almost floating above in slow motion, running his strong arms up and down my arched back. I heard him saying softly, "Minnie, Minnie." He began to kiss me hard, then harder, and I wondered if I would ever be able to breathe again. "Wait," I called out, "I have to come up for air!" He laughed so hard his hole body began to shake. This made us both relax. We were settling down into a bliss that was beyond cocks and jiz. We were in total cosmic ecstasy.
The rest of our lovemaking was more gentle, slower. I must have drifted off into some soft dream state. Matt had again stretched his lengthy, muscular body on top of mine. I could feel his hot breath on my neck, feel his sweet balls on mine. I was used to ending lovemaking in a frantic eruption, shooting off into whatever direction my jiz wanted to go. But our time ended in a tender easing out of our juices together in a warm, languid release which seemed to last an eternity. Even after I thought there wasn't a drop left in my dick, Matt kept on messaging my still stiff member, bringing something from deep inside of me I never knew was there. I looked down at his golden starmeat to see there was still more of that lovely liquid oozing onto my balls. I have never been so relaxed, so at peace, and I don't expect ever to be so again.
After a while Matt yawned and smiled that gorgeous smile again, then slowly got out of the rumpled bed to pull on his clothes. I watched his every move, wanting to keep those final images in my mind so I could draw on them in those times when I would feel my hand moving slowly toward Junior. "Gotta go," he said, "I'm having lunch with Minnie." Suddenly, an odd thought occurred to me. I began to think about his passion, and it seemed so real I started to wonder where it had really come from. I tried to put the thought out of my mind, but it kept reasserting itself. Suppose, I thought, that the story about Minnie was just a crock which he uses to hide a secret which, if it got out, would damage his image as a hunk panting after some of the most beautiful women in Hollywood. As he slipped on his Gucci loafers, I knew I couldn't resist any longer. "Matt," I said, and when he looked at me, I felt that he knew what was probably coming, and I began to wonder how many times he had used the Minnie story to get fresh cock. "Matt, if you don't mind my being blunt, are you gay?" For a few seconds he had that wounded-doe caught in the headlights look. Then the smile returned as effortlessly as if he had practiced it and refined it many, many years ago. He opened the door, paused, and turned around. He looked directly at me and said without a trace of a blush, "What do you think?" And then he was gone.