The Porn Shoot

The Porn Shoot - Going Gay for Pay

Blurb: A straight college guy in desperate need of cash gets an offer from a gay porn producer he can't refuse.

After weeks of epic partying and totally failing to budget, constantly handing my debit card over without a care in the world, I wake up horribly hungover again. I reach for my phone, my eyes straining against the bright sunlight pouring into my bedroom, finding a text from my bank announcing that I'd overdrafted my checking account the night before. God damn it. Why did I buy that chick so many drinks? She was hot and I scored, fucking the shit out of her until I busted and kicked her out of my place, but was it worth it? I literally had nothing left in my account, less than nothing now that I owed the fucking bank an extra $35. I would have paid with my credit card, but that was already long ago maxed out. I was barely making the minimum payments on $3,000 worth of debt.

As a student in a college town, a place with a relatively low cost of living, I shouldn't be struggling at all. I'm a bartender at one of the most popular bars downtown, usually pulling in $450 a week because the managers always schedule me for the prime weekend shifts. I'm one of the hottest guys they have and they take full advantage, hoards of drunk, horny chicks always ogling me all night, flirting with me as they stare up into my intoxicating hazel eyes and eagerly buy more drinks. The money is fantastic for working three 6 hour shifts a week, easily covering my bills, but I'm horribly irresponsible. Horribly fucking irresponsible. I spend like my cash flow is infinite, swiping my card without even thinking about my balance if it means I'll have a good time. That's exactly what happened last night.

Now I'd gone way too far, less than a penny to my name with just a week left until my rent is due. I'm only working three shifts before I'll have to pay. Fuck! Why did I ever sign the lease for this stupid fucking place? It's $1,000 a month, extraordinarily expensive compared to other one bedroom units in town, but I was intent on having a nice apartment near the bars, wanting my own space to bring girls back to when I got lucky. I justified the obnoxious price telling myself that living here would make it easy to get to work, but my real goal was an easy stumble home on the nights I went out for fun. Living downtown, a short stroll away from all the action, those nights had grown more frequent than they ever were before, my spending constantly seeming to get worse. I know I'm definitely going to have to crawl to my mom and dad again asking for money again.

My parents had bailed me out five of the eight times I paid my $1,000 rent, sending the difference between what I had and what I owed, sometimes just $100 and on a couple occasions half. I'd grown accustomed to the backstop, completely reliant on it to maintain lifestyle, so of course I call my mom expecting them to help me out again.

She sighs loudly on the phone hearing the request. "How much are you going to need?"

"Uh, about $600?" I guess.

My mom emits an even louder sigh hearing the amount. "Seriously, Jamie?" she grumbles, sounding more disappointed in me than ever. "That's the most you've asked us for all year! Son, we love you more than anything in the world, but what did I tell you last month?"

I'm sitting hungover on my couch with a pounding headache and a dry mouth trying to recall the conversation. The whole month was a blur of drinking and sex. "You said dad was putting his foot down and that he really wasn't kidding," I finally remember. "But he's said that before, mom! What am I supposed to do?"

"Can't you just pick up some extra shifts this week?" she suggests.

"I have class!" I immediately protest. "I can't be out until 3:00 AM every night of the week!"

My mom huffs. "You seem to have plenty of time to spend money but you expect me to believe you don't have time to make more? We can't keep paying your rent for you, Jamie."

"Mom, do you want me to get fucking evicted?" I plead.

She's silent for a few moments. "No, of course I don't want you to get evicted, but that isn't going to work this time. I agree with your dad. You need to start appreciating that your actions have consequences. We can't bail you out for the rest of your life."

"Mom, please!" I beg, trying to break her. "I won't ask again!" I can picture her shaking her head as soon as the words escape my mouth, imagining the doubt spread across her face right now.

"How many times have you told me that this year?" she asks angrily.

"Well, I'm serious now. I won't ask again," I promise, even though I'd already made that claim several times. Those $100 payments had come earlier, my deficits steadily growing as my parents continued to willingly hand me money.

"No, I'm serious this time," my mom says intently. "We've had enough, and we can't afford to keep doing this anymore. You're a 22-year-old man and you've needed our help almost every month this school year. I know you make enough money to cover your bills."

"I'll be fucking homeless, mom!" I scream into my phone.

"Then you can move back home and you won't have to worry about paying rent anymore," she says sternly.

"I'm not moving back home," I growl.

"You're not going to have a choice unless you start managing your--"

I pull the phone from my ear, my mom's voice still squawking, and hang up right there. They don't even care if I'm going to be fucking homeless! How the fuck am I supposed to come up with $1,000 in a week?

Instead of being responsible and thinking about how I might be able to pull the challenge off, I do what I always do when I'm pissed off. I suit up in my workout gear, throwing a backward baseball hat over my short brown hair, and stroll over to the gym down the street, intent on unleashing my frustration by hitting the weights hard.

At 6 feet and 180 pounds, I'm no bodybuilder, but I'm in great shape considering how much booze I chug in any given week. I have to look stacked to pull off the skimpy tank top I'm usually wearing behind the bar, my physique drawing all the sorority sluts to tip. They love my hard round pecs, blocky shoulders, and big biceps, occasionally glimpsing the faint abs outlined on my stomach when I innocently lift my shirt up to make them gawk. As much as I love working my upper body, leg day is my favorite day and it always comes twice a week. My thighs are thick, my calves sculpted, my huge glutes poking out of absolutely everything I wear. Women fucking love a man with a nice ass, they fucking love it! Squats are my favorite exercise of all time, the burn that comes with moving an impossibly heavy amount of weight almost getting me high. I punish myself hard for all the torture I constantly inflict on my body at the bars, relishing in feeling exhausted, pumped, and beastly.

I'm resting between sets on the squat machine when a guy in his 50s who definitely doesn't look like he lifts randomly walks up to me. "You have a really great physique," he compliments. He's short and trim, with neatly combed silver hair, his bristly mustache transitioning into a well-trimmed silver beard. He was obviously here to leisurely plod on a treadmill.

I can barely hear him over the music blaring in my ears. "Thanks," I answer, thinking he's going to walk away. Fucking old creep. I wear my headphones when I'm in the gym precisely because I don't want people like him fucking my sessions up.

"Any...use...extra cash?" he seems to ask more quietly, most of the words totally unintelligible.

Hearing "extra cash" instantly attracts my attention, unless the dude was trying to pick me up. I'm not a fucking escort, I'd deck him right there. I pluck the headphones out of my ears anyway, willing to listen. "What?" I say way too loudly after listening to my music for an hour.

He smiles, perfect porcelain veneers poking out beneath his silver moustache, realizing that I'd caught the key words. "Hey, you're talking a little loudly. Mind if we step outside and speak for a few minutes?"

I'm already tempted to throw my middle finger up at him. "I don't think so, dude. Have a good one." Fucking creep! I start to push my headphones back into my ears.

"Well, I'll hand you $100 if you follow me and hear me out," he offers, eyeing me for a few seconds before he turns and walks away.

I don't believe the guy for a second, but I decide to take the chance, knowing how much I need the money right now. I hold back for a bit and then follow him out the gym's front door, finding the old man waiting for me about ten feet away, smiling again as he grabs a leather wallet from his back pocket. He unfolds it and plucks out a crisp $100 bill, pressing it into my fingers.

"What the fuck is this?" I ask suspiciously.

He doesn't seem fazed at all by aggression or my hesitance, like he's accustomed to encountering this kind of reaction. "What's your name?"

I don't feel like I have anything to lose telling him, $100 in my hand. "Jamie," I answer.

"Jamie, I'm Bob," he introduces himself, offering a limp handshake. He looks around to make sure there's no one else close. "I'm looking for attractive guys who want to do some modeling work."

I'm immediately skeptical about that. I looked good, but I didn't look that good. I was nowhere near the level of a fitness model who could do a magazine shoot. "What kind of modeling work?" I wonder suspiciously.

The guy pulls a business card out of his front pocket, handing it to me. "I'll be straight up with you, I'm talking about porn," he says quietly. "Would you have any interest at all in shooting a scene for my company?"

I pocket the money and his card without even glancing at it, nervously rubbing a hand across my face. I'd never imagined that someone would publicly approach me like this asking if I wanted to do porn, but right now I really do need the fucking money. I feel like the universe is handing me the perfect opportunity to escape my rut. "I don't know, man, how much would you pay me if I were interested?"

Bob flashes another smile. "I might be willing to give you $750 for an initial scene."

I cock my head, my lip turning into a sneer. "Might?"

"If you're at all interested, text or email me some shots of your dick and ass later," he instructs seriously. "I can see that you have the face and the body we're looking for, but I need to be sure you have the rest before we can actually set something up."

I shake my head, assuming this is the old dude's way of getting hot young straight guys to send him nudes. "Fuck off, man."

Bob snorts, shrugging his shoulders. "You have my card. Look us up if you think this isn't legitimate, and text me if you change your mind." He turns around and starts strolling away, pulling keys out of his pocket, a car starting in the distance. Bob crosses the parking lot and climbs into a black Audi R8, backing out of the space and slowly driving past me, peering through the tinted window and smiling like he'd proven his point.

Holy shit, that's $200,000 car! Realizing that the old guy must have serious money, I reach into my pocket and actually examine his business card. He was Bob Howard of Campus Productions, a name that vaguely sounded like corporate speak for a porn company, the old man's phone number and email address listed there. I look up, searching for the car, but he's already turned out of the parking lot.

Whether he was serious or not, I know I won't be able to finish my gym session. I need to look this dude up right now. Walking back to my apartment, I realize I have no qualms about being naked on the internet. Who fucking cares? People post their nudes everywhere all the time, for free, and given the number of naked selfies I've sent out over the years, there are probably already pictures of me floating around somewhere anyway. I'm not above getting paid to be in a porn scene. I'd probably fucking brag about it.

I don't bother taking a shower, sinking my sweaty body down the couch as soon as I'm through the door. I have to Google the name of Bob's company trying to find one of their web sites, only one relevant result appearing: a site called "Real College Studs." I click through the 18+ bullshit front page, quickly realizing that all of the thumbails show guys either touching each other or kissing. This is a fucking gay porn site! He was trying to get me to film gay porn! Feeling disgusted, I close the tab immediately. Fuck you, Bob Howard. I'm not fucking some other dude to get your $750. I'm desperate to pay my rent but I'm not that desperate. Game over.

I try calling my mom twice, hoping she's changed her tune since she'd declined to bail me out again, but she doesn't answer. Half an hour later, she sends a text in one massive block repeating over and over again how much my parents both love me, but now that I'm 22 I need to start being responsible with my money. Sometimes lessons are hard, but they need to be learned anyway, yadda, yadda, yadda.

God fucking damn it. They're not going to give me the $600. I'd never had a phone call end in an explicit denial until today, and now my mom was repeating the same case in the long text. I throw my phone down hard on the floor and immediately regret it. The last thing I need is a shattered screen and another bill to pay. Fortunately, the glass is intact when I peel it off the carpet. At least I hadn't fucked my phone up the way I'd fucked up everything else.

I think for an hour but quickly realize I'm out of options. Even if I managed to snatch a shift from one of the other bartenders every night this week, the slow days wouldn't pay anything close to what I make on the weekends. I worked those shifts when I started at the bar and I know how fucking miserable they are. I'd never be able to pay my rent without selling my laptop or my phone for some paltry sum, and I definitely couldn't do that.

Bob's offer is sounding more tempting with every passing minute. I decide to text the silver-haired old guy, feeling like it's the only choice I have. If I could score an extra shift, I'd probably have my rent paid with the $100 he'd handed me plus the scene rate he'd promised. /Dude, I might be interested, but I looked your site up. How the fuck am I supposed to do this if I'm straight/?

/Is this Jamie from the gym/? he texts back almost immediately.

/Yeah./

/Still need those dick and ass shots to be sure we can use you/, Bob reminds me. /But we work with straight guys all the time. We'd give you something to keep your dick hard, and then you're basically just following directions. We usually film for a couple hours and then edit to make everything look hot and seamless./

A couple hours? I'm already doubting I could actually do this. How could I have another guy all over me for hours? On the other hand, that would be $375 an hour, close to what I earned after a whole week of long shifts at the bar. Filming the scene might be excruciating, but it would also be a quick and easy way out of the mess I'd created for myself.

I decide to check out a couple of the movies on the web site to see what I might be getting myself into. My dick is totally soft in my shorts watching the brief trailers, but the guys always go all the way in every scene. They kiss, they suck, they lick ass, they fuck. I'd have to do it all if I wanted the money. I start trying to convince myself that filming for Bob is a realistic possibility, scrolling through the web site's list of models. Some of them look gay as fuck, but many of them actually resemble me. No wonder the old dude had scouted me out. I look like I could be one of the shirtless straight-looking guys on the big header image splashed across every page of the site. He wasn't kidding about working with other straight men all the time. If they could stomach doing gay porn, why couldn't I? How bad could it possibly be?

/How soon we could do this, man/? I text Bob.

/I really need those pics before we can start talking about scheduling/, he replies.

I grin knowing that he won't be disappointed when he finally sees the images. My dick is easily bigger than any of the ones I'd seen in the scene trailers I watched, my ass definitely more impressive. /But if they're good? How soon could we do it/?

/We could have you come out in a few weeks I think/.

Shit, a few weeks? I don't have that much time to wait. /Any chance we could do something this week? I need the money by the first of the month/. I regret writing that as soon as the message is sent. I'd just admitted how desperate I was to land the cash the old guy was dangling.

/Send the pics and I can give you an answer/, Bob texts back.

I spend ten minutes scrolling through my photo album, looking for the most impressive shots of my cock and ass that I can find. My heart starts pounding as I insert them into the message thread. Am I really doing this? Fuck it. I need the fucking money. I press send.

/Can we do a quick phone call/? Bob instantly texts back.

I know he liked what he saw and the situation immediately feels real. I hold the glowing phone screen in my hand, trying to gather the courage to say yes, but the old guy doesn't wait. My phone starts ringing, an unknown number splashing across the screen. Whatever, fuck it. I slide my finger across to answer.

"Hey, Jamie, this is Bob," he greets.

"Hi, Bob," I almost whisper into my phone. I can't believe I'm doing this.

"So those pictures were perfect," he offers without any hesitation. "You're perfect. You have everything we're looking for, and I'd definitely love to work with you."

I feel sweat dripping down my sides, my face tingling. "Ok, awesome," I say.

"And tell you what, I know you want to get started as soon as possible, so I'm going to do you a favor and slot you into the schedule this weekend. Will that work for you?"

"Uh, yeah...yeah, that will work," I stammer. I really can't believe I'm fucking scheduling myself to do gay porn as soon as I possibly can. This is not how I expected my day to go after reaming out a hot girl last night.

"Now I'm going to need you to do a couple things beforehand, before we shoot," Bob cautions.

Fuck my life, is this when he's going to drop that he needs to personally audition me or some disgusting shit like that? I'm dreading what he's going to say next.

"First, I need you to understand that you have to finish the shoot," he says emphatically. "If you get up and walk away before we're done, you don't get paid. Period. Is that clear?"

I'm relieved for a moment. "Yeah, that definitely makes sense."

"Great. Text me some really clear pictures of your ID when we get off the phone, front and back, and we'll get your paperwork started. Next thing," Bob starts, "I'm going to text you an address when I hang up."

Oh shit, here it comes. Fuck blowing this old man, I'll call my mom over and over again until she finally answers her damn phone. I'll break her down. I'll fucking fake tears if that's what it takes.

"It's a spa in town that we work with," Bob explains. "You just need to go in sometime before Saturday and tell them you're there for Campus Productions. They'll give you a mani, pedi, and touch up your haircut. Maybe trim your beard a little. You don't need to worry about paying anything, we'll already have that taken care for you."

The haircut sounded great, but never in my life had I entertained getting a manicure or a pedicure. That sounded fucking miserable. "Do I really have to do all that?" I ask. "Can I just get the touch up?"

Bob laughs. "No, you need the whole package if you want to shoot with us and get paid! We need you looking perfect for the cameras. Is that a problem?"

Whatever, at least he wasn't asking me to suck his dick. "No, no problem," I agree.

"And there's one last thing," Bob says.

Now here it finally comes for real.

"You can't masturbate or have sex until after the shoot is done," he insists. "Don't hang out with any girls, don't look at porn, just keep your hands off your dick. We need a great cum shot for the scene and we can't have a model firing blanks. Can you do that for me?"

The guy is way more professional than I gave him credit for when I thought he was just creeping on me at the gym. This really is all a business to him. "Yeah, I can do that," I promise.

"Great, Jamie. I'll send you the details for the shoot in a couple days but we'll probably be filming on Saturday afternoon," he says. "I'm really excited to work with you."

"Yeah, me too," I lie. I'm already fucking dreading it but I need the $750.

"Bye for now, Jamie, we'll see you this weekend," Bob concludes.

"Have a good one, man." I hang up, letting my phone fall to the couch. Does committing to filming a gay porn scene count as being responsible? I hope my parents never find out about this shit, but if they ever do, I'll remind my mom how desperate I was for the cash. This is all her fault. Except not really, it's my fault for spending my earnings so recklessly, and maybe I deserved to suffer having some guy's mouth slobbering all over my dick as penance. The fear of having to resort to doing this again might actually help me to get my act together.

I hate knowing that I'll have to give up my two stroke sessions a day, that I won't even have a chance of scoring pussy until next week, but I can't afford to fuck this up. After not getting off for a week, looking at a fucking flower would probably be enough to get my dick hard. At least that would hopefully make the job easier.

I'd made a deal with Bob and set a date, but I still tried lobbying my mom hard, feeling more and more anxious about potentially having to fool around with another guy on camera as the days passed. She wouldn't even answer my fucking phone calls. /Tell me if this isn't about money and I'll call you back/, she texted after my first attempt. /Love you, Jamie/. Yeah, right, whatever. I even thought about calling my dad, but I knew that was a dead end. He wouldn't just say no, he'd probably spend half an hour yelling about how ungrateful and irresponsible I am. Fuck that. By Thursday I was resigned to my fate. I had to shoot the scene. I had to fuck a guy if I wanted to pay my rent.

I drove to the spa on Friday afternoon, feeling ridiculously awkward telling the hot young receptionist that I was "here for Campus Productions." She must have known exactly what it meant, that I was destined to be naked on a set with some gay dude all over me, but she was professional about it. The chick pulled out a fucking folder after asking for my name, drawing out a piece of paper that presumably listed the specifications Bob had requested. I felt like I was being tortured sitting in a place full of chatty women, the only guy there, having someone scrape dead skin off my feet and meticulously clipping my fingernails, but I treated the experience as practice for being uncomfortable. I definitely needed that. At least none of the people bothered trying to talk to me, that piece of paper probably instructing them to avoid it. I was relieved getting to the haircut, knowing that the ordeal was almost over, finally free after my beard was mostly sliced off. On the bright side, I looked great for my Friday night shift at the bar. I walked out with $200.

And now I'm twenty minutes into a drive across town from my apartment, turning into a neighborhood called "Hillside Estates," every house there obnoxiously huge and sited on a big swath of land, all the lawns bright green and well-maintained. The properties must easily be worth at least a million dollars each, and I can barely believe there are people in a college town who have that kind of money. Fuck performing, how do I start a porn site so I can live in this neighborhood and cruise around town in a sweet Audi R8 like Bob?

The GPS beckons me to turn and I drive up a long paved driveway to a huge two-story mansion that's built in a modern style, rectangular shapes and huge plates of glass everywhere. The house seemed like a bold place to be filming porn, but who am I to judge? The old guy has so much land his neighbors had probably never noticed. I park beside several other modest vehicles sitting in the driveway, immediately assuming they weren't Bob's. No, his cars were probably safely tucked away in what looks like a four car garage. I wonder how many other people are here to watch me actually go through with this as I reluctantly climb out of my car, walking up a lushly landscaped pathway to a huge front door. I take a deep breath before I ring the bell.

Bob answers the door, warmly smiling as he pulls me into the house. "First thing, Jamie," he says as we're walking through a grand foyer, "you're going to be Brent for the rest of the shoot. Don't say your real name to anyone here. You're Brent now."

I nod my head. Brent. I don't like it, the pseudonym definitely not one I would have chosen, but I was going to put up with a lot worse than everyone in the house calling me Brent all day. The short silver-haired guy leads me into a monumental living room with several huge couches, light pouring in from the massive windows. There are four other people already sitting there, all of them looking at me, but the younger guy sitting on the couch apart from the other men is definitely observing me the most intently. Bob leads me toward him, the guy jumping up.

"Brent, this is Logan, your scene partner today," he introduces.

The young guy smiles goofily as we shake hands, his eyes deep blue. "Nice to meet you," he says, not sounding nearly as gay as I'd expected.

"Yeah, nice to meet you," I mutter back. Logan didn't look girly, more like pretty, his face boyish, the opposite of handsome and rugged. He was a few inches shorter than me, obviously less muscular, his body well-tanned. He's clean-shaven, the guy's straight blond hair brushed over the top of his head and swept across the ride side of his forehead, the sides buzzed. He definitely looks gay.

I feel awkward standing there above him as Logan sits down, Bob ambling over to the other couch and gripping a clipboard off an ornate coffee table. He walks back over, holding it out to me and handing me a pen.

"We'll start by having you fill out this paperwork we need for our records," he says. "All the places you need to sign are highlighted already. Have a seat and get to know Logan a little."

Sitting down next to my scene partner feels even more awkward, knowing that I'm about to have the little gay guy all over me. I put some distance between us, struggling not to overdo it.

He chuckles at me. "You're straight, right?" Logan recognizes.

"Yeah," I say a little nervously, not looking at his face as I start searching for the highlighted spots on the contract.

"I figured when I saw you. This must be your first time. You nervous?"

I'm starting to sweat just having him ask me these questions. "Yeah, definitely pretty nervous," I mumble, scribbling my signature on one of the forms.

"You ever done any acting before?" Logan asks.

"Not really," I mutter gruffly, trying to concentrate on the paperwork. "Well, I'm a bartender, does that count? I have to pretend to like people all the time."

He laughs at that. "In town? Where do you work?"

"College Sports," I answer, finally glancing at Logan.

His face lights up. "No wonder you look familiar. I love that place! My friends always want to go there."

My head kicks back in surprise. "Your gay friends want to go to Sports?" The place was always crawling with the frat and sorority crowd, not the kind of bar I imagined many gay guys would choose to hang out in.

"No, I really don't have many gay friends," Logan says matter-of-factly. "They're all dramatic and they all sleep with each other all the time. It gets old. I hang out with girls mostly."

Staring back down at the paperwork, I feel surprised. I don't know why I'd always assumed gay guys always hung out together. I saw them with big groups of chicks all the time at work. "I wish I could say that!" I joke, feeling more at ease with him.

Logan laughs. "Hey, I'm a great wingman! But yeah, think of the scene like your job. You're just pretending you like me so we can both get paid. Act like you're enjoying everything even if you hate it and you'll be fine. We just need to look and sound good for the camera."

Hearing him say it that way bothers me. "Not that I don't like you, man. You seem nice."

"You know what I mean, that you're into me," Logan corrects himself. "If you're good at it, they'll give you a lot more scenes."

I sign the last highlighted box, setting the clipboard aside. "I don't really see myself doing this more than once," I say, glancing back up to his face.

"Really?" he asks like he's surprised. "I've made about $20,000 in the last six months."

My eyebrows jump up hearing that number. "Wow, seriously?" I could pay my rent for a whole year, pay off my credit card, and still have thousands in the bank if someone handed me that kind of money.

"Yeah, and some of the other straight guys have done a few dozen scenes each," he continues. "They've made way more than me. I'm still kind of new to this."

I'm nervous as fuck about doing this one scene, but knowing how much I could potentially make from Bob suddenly has me wanting to give it everything I have. I'm going to fuck Logan like he's the hottest girl in the world to prove myself to the old man.

"You reconsidering now?" he wonders with another laugh.

I grin at him and nod my head. "A little, man. I just needed to cover my rent but that's some serious cash."

"That's why I keep coming back!" Logan's face turns blank and he's quiet for a few seconds. "You want to, like...practice a little while we're waiting?" he asks sincerely. "Just so you're comfortable before we start filming with each other."

The way he poses the question, I don't even feel like the gay guy is coming on to me, more like he wants to help me do my best. But that euphemism, practice, forces reality to settle in. We're about to be naked together, our hands all over each other, expected to kiss and suck and fuck.

"It's cool if you don't," Logan breaks into my thoughts. "I just wanted to offer knowing that you're straight and this is your first scene."

I look at him appreciatively, even if I am suddenly more anxious than ever. "No, man, I think that's a good idea. What do we...uh, what do we do?" My pulse quickens and my heart starts thundering in my chest.

Logan's face is totally neutral as he reaches a hand out to my thigh and plants it there. He starts caressing his fingers against my gym shorts, sliding down to my bare leg and dragging his warm fingertips across my skin. "You good with that?" he whispers.

My whole body shudders as Logan softly strokes my leg. "Yeah," I murmur. I'd always imagined being touched by another guy would be repulsive, somehow feeling horrible, but if I closed my eyes right now I definitely wouldn't have known that Logan wasn't a chick. He presses more of his soft hand down on my thigh, gently tracing over it. His gentle caress actually feels good, my dick even starting to fill out. That would weird me out if I wasn't desperately aware of the fact that I hadn't fired off a load in a solid week. I decide Bob wasn't just insistent about my being chaste because he cared about the cum shot. No, he wanted my body primed to react to the slightest stimulus and now it was working perfectly. Having the gay guy's hand on my leg was somehow enough to get my cock hard.

"Should I touch your dick a little or would you rather wait?" Logan asks. "I know that might be weird for you."

I suddenly realize I actually had closed my eyes at some point, imagining that Logan was a girl as he massaged my leg and I enjoyed it. "No, I really should start getting used to it," I decide. I jump up, hiking my gym shorts and boxer briefs down to my ankles before I settle back on the couch. My shaft is already close to full mast.

"Wow," he whispers. "You have a really big dick, don't you?"

I chuckle at him, feeling proud. I definitely wasn't above taking a compliment from a gay guy who handled penises professionally. "Yeah, man, it gets pretty big." I feel Logan's hand wrap around my balls, which are obnoxiously massive and full after a week of denying myself any pleasure. I was expecting that touch to be immediately repulsive too, but it's not. Having a stranger touch me intimately is almost exciting, even if it is another dude. Logan slowly works his hand higher, cradling his fingers around my dick and starting to stroke me. I'm rock hard in seconds, so horny and eager for release that I'm actually enjoying these sensations too.

"Damn," Logan mutters. "I'm going to struggle with this one."

That makes me smirk. I knew I was bigger than the guys in the trailers I'd previewed! My heart's still pounding as my scene partner softly jerks me off but I'm calming down, suddenly understanding how all those other straight guys were able to do these scenes. I didn't have to be attracted to Logan to appreciate his hand, to let him give me pleasure. This isn't ideal, not something I would ever seek out, but it's not horrible either.

"Looks like you boys are enjoying getting acquainted," Bob remarks, showing off his white veneers again as Logan lets my hard cock go. There's another middle-aged guy standing at his side.

I was so distracted having my dick touched that I hadn't even noticed them approaching, and now it feels weird, realizing that two other guys were looking on as another dude stroked me. Whatever, not like they give a shit. Nothing worth panicking about.

Bob hands me a blue pill and a bottle of water. "What is this?"

"Viagra. This will make it way easier to keep your dick hard while you're working with Logan and stopping and starting for the scene," Bob explains.

I twist the cap off the water bottle, downing the pill and taking a big swig.

"This is Rick, one of my production assistants," Bob introduces the man standing next to him. "He's going to take you into the bathroom real quick and trim your body hair up a bit for the scene."

"Uh, ok," I mutter, imagining the dude gleefully rubbing his hands all over me as he does the deed. I stand up and follow Rick to a huge bathroom with marble counters and expensive-looking tile. He flips all the light switches on, the room obscenely illuminated. "Don't worry, man, I won't be feeling you up while I do this," he says calmly. "I'll just tell you where I need you. Can you take your clothes off for me?"

Getting naked in front of people in a gym locker room is second nature, but stripping down in front of a single guy who's going to trim my body hair for me is awkward as fuck. I do it anyway. I'm going to have to get used to things being awkward for the next couple hours.

Rick puts a guard on the end of an electric beard trimmer as I'm sliding my boxer briefs down, turning back around and intently examining my body in the bright light. He presses a button and the trimmer starts buzzing loudly, the guy running it over my chest, the blades whirring every time they slice into my body hair. He runs it down my stomach next, as I'm looking down with fascination, noticing that he only spares my happy trail from the trim. He kneels down and starts to move toward my pubes next, hesitating with the noisy trimmer in his hand.

"You already have the crotch pretty clean," Rick decides, running the trimmer up and down my thighs instead. "Turn around for me." I feel the guard rubbing all over my ass cheeks, nervous that he's going to spread them apart, but he doesn't. "Alright, turn back around." He stands back up and looks me over, appraising his work and turning the trimmer off. "Ok, I think you're good." He opens a cabinet, grabbing a packaged plastic toothbrush and a towel. "Take a good shower and soap up thoroughly, especially around your dick and your hole," Rick instructs. "Brush your teeth and come back out to the living room. Don't bother getting dressed again, we'll have an outfit for you."

"Ok, thanks," I mutter.

Rick leaves the room and I walk up to the huge shower, turning the nob. Water starts pouring out from five separate heads, two mounted above and three on the side of one of the walls. Stepping in and sliding the door shut, pouring body wash into my hands and soaping myself up, I can't believe I'm standing in the old silver-haired man's shower, prepping myself to stick my dick in another dude. At least the Viagra is definitely working. Rubbing a soapy hand all over my shaft is enough to make it start filling out. Maybe this wasn't going to be as tough as I'd imagined. After cleansing my massive ass, I turn the shower off, opening the door as water trickles out of the five shower heads, drying myself off with Bob's fluffy towel. I rip the toothbrush out of its package, thoroughly brushing my teeth and stopping to stare at myself in the mirror. I look good. Knowing that I'm hot enough to film this scene, remembering how Bob had eagerly called me within a minute of sighting my junk, I feel a surge of self-confidence. I'm ready.

I walk back into the living room with the towel wrapped around my waist, Logan eagerly looking over and obviously checking out my body. He's so gay. My scene partner is obviously freshly showered too, his hair still a little damp. He's dressed in a blue v-neck shirt and gray sweatpants now.

"What sizes do you wear, Brent?" Bob calls from the other couch.

"Medium shirt, 32 for pants," I answer.

Rick walks away, disappearing into another room and coming back with a black t-shirt, khaki shorts, and a pair of white Calvin Klein briefs, pressing the clothes into my hands. I drop my towel right there in front of everyone, Logan looking on as I suit up. I sit down next to him as we're waiting, closer than I'd ventured the first time. I feel comfortable with him now.

"Have you ever kissed a guy before?" he asks shyly. "I mean, I'm assuming I know the answer."

I twist my head to his, my eyes a little wide realizing that it's only a matter of time until I can't say I haven't. My heart is pounding in my chest again, a kiss somehow seeming infinitely more intimate than having my dick stroked. "No, I've definitely never done that before."

"We can practice a little if you're nervous about it," Logan offers, sounding like a professional again, not like he was coming on to me.

I start anxiously running my hand through my hair. Fuck, if I want to get invited back, if I want to have a chance at getting paid again, I know I need to make this look good. "Yeah, man, I'd be cool with that." My scene partner doesn't waste any time gingerly wrapping his arm around me, as I turn toward his face, finding him warmly smiling. He wraps his hand around the back of my head, pulling me closer into him as my eyes shut and our lips meet with one simple smack.

Logan lifts away, letting his hand fall to my shoulder. "Was that Ok?" he asks.

Being kissed by a guy, like everything else I'd endured so far, wasn't as immediately abhorrent as I'd envisioned. It was fine. "Yeah," I whisper to him, opening my eyes to find him staring into mine. "Yeah, not as bad as I was expecting."

The little gay guy smiles again as he draws closer and my eyes shut, gently kissing my lips, rubbing his smooth face into my trimmed beard. I start to kiss him back, wrapping my lips around his, my dick starting to fill out. Fucking Viagra. Logan tickles his tongue against my lips and I part them, knowing that we're about to be doing this for real with a camera running. He slips his tongue softly into my mouth, rolling it against mine with our faces pressed together, as my tongue starts thrusting into his. I would have believed he was a girl with my eyes closed, feeling his smooth face rubbing against mine as we make out, but the actual kissing is certainly different. Logan is confident, rougher, more aggressive than any girl I'd ever kissed in my life, passion slowly building as our tongues creep deeper into each other. My dick is rock hard in the shorts Bob's crew had given me, almost painfully pushing into the tight fabric, when Logan pulls away.

"I think you'll be fine," he whispers. "You're a good kisser."

My eyes bat open and I feel strange, knowing that I fucking liked the way he kissed me. I panic a little, silently reminding myself that Logan's made $20,000 doing this. Of course he's good at it. If I kissed a girl who was shooting porn scenes all the time, she'd probably be able to kiss me like that too. It doesn't mean anything. "Thanks," I mumble.

"Alright, boys," Bob calls energetically from across the room, "we're ready to start filming."

--Bryce Twitter: @BryceManningFic