“Trying to get me naked?” You squat and untie your sneakers, fumbling to arrange your hard-on without him noticing. Flushing from your neck up, like fireworks.

  “That’s what we’re here for.” He smiles abstractly.

  You slip off your sneakers, tuck the socks within; place your sneakers to the side of the room, out of the shot. You wonder if your feet smell. You return to the window and watch the light play across the cars, enjoying the warm wood beneath your naked feet.

  “Would you like it if the people on the street could see you?” The gentle click of the camera counts off a series of shots.

  “I dunno.” You tilt your head into the glass, stare down at the pedestrians, imagine yourself naked on the fire escape outside. “Maybe. I might like it.”

  “You should.”

  You turn back to him, stare into the big eye of the camera, feel the heat of its attention. “So,” clearing your throat, “what would you like me to do?”

  “What do you want to do?” Click. Pause. The camera loads the film with a mechanical whirr.

  “Uh…” You laugh. “Get naked and fuck, I guess. Yeah, I could do that.”

  “Why don’t you start with the shirt?”

  You lift your polo shirt, baring your thin torso and the sprinkle of hair around your belly button. You ease it over your head as the steady pulse of the camera fills the room. You toss your shirt at him with a warm smile. “Aren’t you getting naked too?”

  “Why don’t you stand over there, by the lamp.” You saunter over to the tall lamp with the globe top and prop yourself next to it. You undo the top button of your jeans, exposing the waistband of your briefs, thrust your hips forward. You study him as he shoots you, his face intense and focused. You smile. His jeans are tenting but he keeps his distance.

  You clear your throat, pause, afraid of distracting him. “So, like, how many guys have you shot? Like this?”

  “A few.” He sounds distant. The photographer moves closer, you tilt into his approach. “Look at me. Give me your eyes.” You stare into the camera, eyes wide and hopeful. You wet your lips and pout like you’ve seen in the porn movies, but he reminds you to be natural. He makes a joke about your obvious erection and you laugh. A volley of shots capture your image. “Good, that’s what I want.”

  You run your hands down your chest, stopping to finger a nipple, then graze the waistband of your jeans. “You want me to take these off?”

  “Whatever you feel comfortable with.” He reloads the camera; the soft whirr of film fills the silence.

  You toy with your jeans, not sure if you are ready, but your hands are already moving full speed ahead. You edge the denim down your thighs, letting it pool at your ankles. The camera clicks. You step out of your jeans on unsteady feet, falling against the wall as you stumble. Red stripes flush your cheeks. “Duh!”

  Your white briefs barely cover you, your dick is straining the fabric. You realign your erection, making it diagonal against your pelvis. You look in the mirror, watch yourself being photographed, constantly aware of the man watching you.

  “That’s nice.”

  A few more shots click off as your cock inches up and out of the waistband. You finger the head and flick the precum off the slit. You turn around, inching your briefs down to expose the soft mound of your ass. “You like it?”

  The camera agrees with a series of clicks. “Turn around,” he says. His voice is deep and commanding. You comply, covering your erection. You stare down at your body, memories of beating off burning in your head. You’re not naked, but feel exposed, raw, excited.

  You pull down the front of your briefs, trapping your thighs with the fabric. Your cock springs into your hand and you keep it covered, feeling its heat singe your palm. “Move your hand,” he says. You stand with your back against the wall, dropping your hands to your sides, a dare in your eyes.

  He moves into the room with you, the only sounds your comingled breath, the soft click of the camera marking thrumming seconds. You step out of your briefs, spread your legs, expose yourself.

  The whirr of the camera announces the end of the roll. “Okay, I think we’re done.”

  You wait for something else to happen, your dick begging for it. The photographer steps back into the living room, putting the rolls of film into black canisters, his camera back into the back. You wait for something to happen, really need it to. “I uh…I thought we were going to…”

  “It’s okay. Get dressed and we can schedule another shoot. You’ve got great architecture.”

  You stroke your cock, look at him longingly. He watches. “I need to, you know.”

  He nods, keeps his eyes on you. You stroke yourself, moving to the center of the room, bridging the distance, one, two, three steps; a drizzle of precum puddles on the floor. You slick the head of your cock, watch him watching you, having never jerked off in front of a complete stranger before, your skin singing with his attention. “You want to help me?” A froggy-throated request.

  “You are doing fine on your own.” He sits in the chair as you turn to the mirror, look at that boy in the mirror, the lean tight boy with the shaggy hair, pumping his cock, inching himself quickly, tweaking a nipple and biting down on his lip, jerking off to you. You explode, pounding yourself into submission, legs weak, mouth dry, heaving sperm onto the floor and the mirror.

  A tense silence, broken only by your breath, the traffic outside, a jackhammer in the distance. “See, I told you it was white,” he says, pointing at the river of sperm sliding down the mirror. He hands you a towel and you clean off, slip into your clothes while he watches.

  “Email me and we’ll set up another session.” Back to business. He escorts you back to the door, barely an hour in, encouraging you to come back for the second round, telling you that the proofs from today will be ready by then. You’ll get a free print, your choice. You can barely hear him, your body zinging in a hundred directions. You bound back out into the day, thinking of surprising your boyfriend at work, and fucking him into next week. Hell no, fucking him all week.

  A BEAUTIFUL FACE

  Robert Patrick

  At eighteen, I was a little backward even by the standards of a small Midwest American town in 1950. I had never cum with anyone, even though I sometimes thought I heard my cousins jacking off in the dark at the same time as I did when family gatherings caused us to bed down together. Chester, my best friend in high school—well, really, I guess, my only friend anywhere, ever—Chester, who was lean and lanky and had straight, greasy hair, said he hung around with me only “because beautiful people have more fun.” I never even thought about what he might have meant by that. Or we could just leave it that I never thought. It never seemed to me that I had any fun for him to share, unless the group picnics, school dances, and chorus and glee club activities I got bullied into doing were his idea of fun. I guess they were.

  Came graduation, Chester declared that he was going to go to Hollywood and be an actor. Well, he did go to Hollywood. I got a crumpled postcard with someone’s footprints on it, saying, You ought to come visit me sometime.

  Not long after, a girl from my class whom I had asked to the graduation dance but hadn’t kissed went pretty crazy and told people I was the devil. They dragged her away, but my folks put me on a Greyhound bus with a hundred dollars and a small valise and said maybe I’d be happier there, I should look it over. I wasn’t aware that I seemed unhappy. I wasn’t aware of anything. In retrospect, I suppose I was a bit of a zombie. Good grades, good hygiene, and, as I realize now, good looks, but nothing happening whatsoever.

  The greatest novelty of the two-day trip to Hollywood was that I got off the bus smelly and dirty. I don’t think I’d ever actually been dirty before. Chester met me at the station, looking weirdly spiffed-up, his greasy hair arranged in a kind of upsweep, and he wore a leather jacket. He had a car that clanked and grunted and groaned as he took us up into some hills behind Grauman’s Chinese Theatre to what I now realize was a slum, but the palm trees and sunshine and the fact the house was pink made me feel I was in Oz.

  I was surprised that the single back room he rented had only a screen door, not a wooden one. But its lack of any furniture but a mattress covered with a single sheet seemed romantic and Bohemian, like the beatniks I had vaguely read about. We were no sooner inside than he started touching me and asking how I felt. Before very long he had our pants down and lay on top of me on the mattress and rubbed our cocks together till we came, while I watched a tiny airplane in the chalk-blue sky through the tattered door-screen.

  I was thrilled and trembling. I just wanted to do it again, but he made us toasted cheese sandwiches on a waffle iron and went on and on about an audition he had, a “cattle call” for young men. That night he huffed and gasped on top of me twice more with my enthusiastic approval. In the morning he told me to come with him. I would have leapt into the sun if he told me to.

  We clunked to a several-story white stucco building and went upstairs to a way-sunny room with a polished floor (probably, now that I reflect on it, a dance studio) where a hundred guys our age, mostly dressed like Chester, stood multiplied by big mirrors. I was thinking only of what we had done last night and wondering how many times we would do it when we left this place. We were given numbers and stood watching as the boys in pairs read some lines from wrinkled script pages. I think I dimly wondered what it might be like to do it with some of the other boys, but that may be my current old man’s fantasies interfering with memory. Anyway, at a long table sat several men and women who took notes and sometimes asked a few questions of a boy. But most boys were stopped after a few lines and told, “Thank you.”

  When they called Chester’s number, he dragged me forward with him and handed me pages. I read whatever the pages said in between his speeches. I really don’t remember what it was. Halfway through the short scene, there was a whistle. I looked up and saw a tall man in a gray suit leaning in a far corner, hard to see clearly because of the sun. He made a little figure-eight with one finger and a woman at the table said to us, “Switch parts, please.” Chester started the scene again, reading what I had read before. I read what had been his lines. We were allowed to read the whole scene.

  The lady called us to the table and asked a few questions (birthday, birthplace, experience), always glancing at the man in the corner. She asked me to stay. Chester looked bewildered, depressed. He trickled out, saying he’d wait outside. The man in the corner waved his hand slightly, and a man at the table went out just behind Chester.

  The man in the suit walked out. Another man from the table took my arm and walked me out. On the sidewalk, the first table-man was talking to Chester and giving him money. Chester kept looking quickly from the money in the man’s hands, up to me, then back at the money. I was shown into a limousine where the man in gray waited, smiling.

  As we rode out to Malibu, he asked me many questions about my life. Somewhere amongst them, he told me that he was the producer of “the picture,” and that I should call him Carter. The car stopped at what looked like a pretty plain little house, but when we went through the front door, the interior was revealed to be huge and dark and round, until your eyes got used to the soft light coming through seaside walls of curved, tinted glass.

  We sat on enormous cushions on the floor by an unlit fireplace. Quiet servants brought us cool drinks and later a light dinner, as he discussed “the picture” and “the role.” I hadn’t the slightest idea what he was talking about, but the soft carpet, the sideways sun across the sea, the susurrating sounds of the tinted waves and the wind, and the smell and taste of the excellent, unknown food were mesmerizing. He said I’d stay there for the night. And excused himself.

  An Asian servant who was already in hat and coat to leave showed me to a vast, nearly empty bedroom, and left. The bed was triple-size and round, raised on two round step-levels. I sat on it and saw myself reflected in a big dressing-table mirror. There was nothing on the table.

  Carter came in in a dressing gown over pajamas. “My wife’s room,” he said. “She left me just lately.” He came up the steps, undressed me, and laid me back on the bed, my lower legs over the edge. He spread my legs and knelt on the top step. With a nervous smile at me, he bent his head down and sucked my cock.

  The last light of the setting sun shone on his small bald spot. I got hard in his hot wetness very soon, and shot a wad that came spewing back out of his mouth. He looked up, white cream on his chin, then lifted my legs and very slowly forced his dick into my asshole. It felt very odd and I hardly recognized it as sex, but he took my hand, placed it on my sticky dick, and made motions with it. I jacked and soon became erect again, and the getting fucked became quite pleasant. He whispered for me to cum, so I did, and then, I suppose, he did. He pulled out of me and stood staring down at my asshole, which must have been a mess, for some time. His hand almost went out to touch it, but he spun and left instead.

  The next day one car showed up with my sparse luggage, and others showed up with teachers and designers and photographers and press-persons. They took photos, then dyed my hair and took more photos, then threw the first photos away and changed my clothes and took my picture again. The woman who had been at the audition table came, too, and talked with Carter a lot in corners. He got a bit gruff and red-faced and she got quiet and nodded. She stood in the corner still nodding, even when he walked away from her and came toward me, smiling, asking, “And how’s our boy? How’s our golden boy?”

  Each day the director of the picture came by and worked with me on the script. It seemed I was to play a boy who raised a favorite horse, only to have it die at the very finish of a great race. There was dispute about its position at the finish line, but ultimately it was decided that the little unknown horse had won. There was an inconclusive adolescent love story, too.

  Each day I studied the script and diction, and exercised with a Swedish man. A tall blond man taught me riding along the beach. And each night Carter came into my room and sputtered my white goo onto his chin and my thighs, then pushed prick in and out of me till I blew my second load and he his first. And each night he lingered looking down at the load seeping from my excited anus.

  I wasn’t aware that my anus had become excited until one afternoon an Asian came down onto the beach and told my riding master that Mister Carter would not be in until very, very late. To my surprise, I thought, “He may not fuck me tonight!” and my anus squeezed and squeezed and throbbed like some kind of bizarre hollow cock while my real, external cock got semihard in my jodhpurs.

  I don’t know how the riding instructor knew he could fuck me. He told me years later that he “could smell it.” Anyway, he threw me back on the bed and jammed joint in me, without blowing me and without asking any permission. His cock was longer than Carter’s, but I missed the blow job and came too soon, so it was annoying to have him keep fucking me while I pulled at my own soft, mucky meat.

  But Carter appeared in the bedroom doorway and stood there wide eyed. The riding instructor saw where my gaze went and turned to see his boss. He just grinned and shrugged and kept on fucking me. Carter stood staring. I sat up on my elbows and saw in the wife’s mirror the riding instructor’s ass, its hairy hole snapping each time he drove dick into me. I suppose that was what Carter saw, too.

  The blond finished in me, pulled out with flair, and walked down the steps, grabbing his clothes casually. At the door, he made a lordly gesture to Carter, meaning, Please feel free to use the facilities now.

  Carter came over to the bed and up the steps. He stood looking down at whatever was leaking out of me. He knelt, I thought to blow me. But he stayed still for a long time, and then dipped his head down and started sucking my asshole.

  I gasped and buckled and twisted, but his hands gripped my knees. I saw stars and clouds and went in and out of consciousness. In one moment of awareness, I saw that my legs were around his neck holding his face in my flue, and I was aware that I was grinding my gut-end against his slurping, moaning mouth.

  I forced my eyes to focus in the gloom and saw his face rise for breath from between my thighs. Never had I seen anything like it. His forehead and cheeks shone with cum and sweat and spit. It was like sunrise. His eyes were blurry like mine, but seemed to be looking at something supernatural. His mouth was stretched in a smile I’d never seen even in paintings of saints. He stared at me, past me, into me for a moment, and then went back in there for more of whatever he was experiencing in my ass.

  I got hard and jacked until I shot vulgarly, abundantly on myself. Without a thought I shoved the load down, down past my balls to flavor my anus for him. I think he jacked off a couple of times, too. Anyway, he made orgasmic noises.

  Then he left me. Next morning, all sorts of people woke me to tell me that he had asphyxiated himself in the garage. The woman I recognized said he had left me the house, and his wife wouldn’t contest it because she got two others, and anyway there was blackmail on her, but I’d be a fool to keep it, because I’d never be able to afford the upkeep unless this picture was an unprecedented hit.

  Making the movie was easy. Carter had told the press I was perfect for the part and really, he was right. All I had to do was show up and say my lines. The professional actors were very kind to me.

  But they couldn’t help on the last day of shooting when the director three times threw his script down and left the set and had to be sweet-talked back. The movie ended with a close-up for my character, his reaction after weeks of total despair to hearing that the brave little horse had indeed won the race of its life. I made every face I could think of, but nothing pleased the director. He screamed to a studio official right on the set, “The script is thin and dry, all the way. Everything hangs on this moment. I can light the little lout, I can bring up music from every side, but if he can’t show us complicated joy, we’re down the fucking drain.” That was extreme. Back in 1950, people didn’t casually say “fucking” in public.

 

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