Gay-for-Pay Pt. 02

"But you're not lousy in bed, Marco."

"What?" Marco says, taken aback.

"The other night, at that leather guy's house. I watched you. And you weren't just good—you were totally fuckin' great. I wished I could be just like you."

"Be careful what you wish for, Abel. You might just get it."

************

On the drive to Sherman Oaks, Marco gives Abel a crash course in the art and craft of making porn. First and foremost, you should always remember that porn is just a business like any other. You show up, you take direction, you do your job, you don't take anything personally, and, most important of all, you get your money and get the hell out. The guys who are there for the parties and the drugs and even the sex don't tend to last very long because, mostly, it's just a grind and the demands on your body can be extreme. You've got to be able to perform on command, meaning get it up, keep it up, sometimes for hours at a time, and then come on cue. That can be more demanding than it sounds when matched with someone you don't find particularly attractive, which happens. And if you don't perform up to expectations, they'll bounce you in a minute because when it comes to porn, warm bodies are a dime a dozen. But if you do prove to be a good performer, and look good on camera, the work can prove to be quite lucrative. And more than that, it can prove to be an unbelievably strong boost to your ego. And as far as Marco is concerned, that is far and away the most important thing.

They arrive at an imposing house of white stone and stucco, at the far end of a secluded lane shaded by a row of towering palm trees that overhang the street. Abel is agape at how expensive it looks.

Marco laughs and explains that the consortium of investors that owns the production company rent the house and provide other amenities to J.D. who is their most consistent and lucrative producer. They certainly don't want another porn studio luring him away because the competition for really good producers/directors is fierce. But not to worry, Marco explains, because the porn companies are not hurting for money; in fact, even in the worst of times, they are quite literally rolling in dough.

"It's true. Nothing but the best for J.D.," Marco sighs, continuing. "On his shoots they have everything: food, beverages, even good liquor. You're lucky if you sign with J.D. because he likes to keep his guys close and not loan them around like other producers do. It would be hard for me to walk away just because of him."

Marco raps on the big wooden door and is greeted by a young guy in a baseball cap, t-shirt and cargo shorts.

"Hola, Ronnie."

"Hey, Marco. Come on in."

"Ronnie is J.D.'s assistant," Marco says by way of introduction to Abel.

"Yeah, he said you'd be bringing someone by. He's in the game room. It's OK to head on back, but keep it down because he's already in the middle of the shoot."

Marco leads Abel down the hallway to a wide opening in the rear of the house. Just before entering he holds a finger to his lips indicating no talking from here. At the opening Abel sees a sprawling room with high ceilings, a large TV and sofa at one end and a fine, wood-grained pool table at the other end. That's where J.D. is standing alongside a young man using one of those ultra-light, wide lens, handheld motion picture cameras. J.D., a man in his early to mid-forties, is easily recognizable simply because he is easily the oldest man in the room.

J.D. and the cameraman are focused on two naked actors who are embracing and kissing next to the pool table. When Marco and Abel step into the room, Abel notices a second cameraman stationed at a different angle to the action and positioned further back, also busily capturing the action. Marco indicates for Abel to hang back near the entrance while he moves noiselessly up to J.D., taps him lightly on the shoulder to show he has arrived, and then quickly retreats well back again after J.D. glances over his shoulder and gives him a friendly thumbs up.

Marco brings Abel around to a corner of the room that gives them an unobstructed view of the action, but still well away from the camera angles. Despite the unfolding scene, Abel's attention is drawn to J.D. whom he had not expected to be this old. Or so ordinary-looking. But with his wire-rimmed glasses, thinning hair and slightly pudgy frame, Abel can't help but think that this guy is just about as far from a porn star as you can get.

Not only that, but Abel observes that even the cameramen, the gofers, even the assistant Ronnie are all quite young, in their twenties, and obviously quite physically fit, making the contrast with J.D. all the more stark. Abel muses that the entire scene looks more like something out of a college classroom than a porn set, with the authoritative-looking J.D. in the role of an aging wizened professor leading his eager pack of young charges. That comforting image from his college days makes Abel feel almost relaxed being here.

J.D. makes several hand signals to the cameramen who respond by instantly shifting their positions. Abel is impressed that they can pick up on such visual cues considering that they did not once take their eyes off the action as they filmed. And not just them, the director also makes what looks to be signals to the actors who also seem to respond without once breaking their focus on each other. One of the cardinal sins of any porn actor, according to Marco, is to be caught glancing at the director rather than concentrating on one's partner.

Abel lets his own attention drift to the good-looking actors now locked in a sizzling embrace.

"PATRICK?!"

The room erupts into chaos. J.D. spins around and glares at Marco.

"Marco! What the fuck?" he explodes, throwing up his hands.

Meanwhile Marco locks eyes with Patrick and his entire frame slumps when he realizes what has just happened. He exchanges a deeply regretful look with Patrick and then turns to J.D.

"Sorry, J.D. This is all my fault," he says with a futile sweep of his arms.

But to his credit, J.D. has already surmised some of what is going on just by glancing at Abel and then Patrick. With a quick wave of his hand he instructs the camera guys to stop filming.

"Hey, fellas," he says to the two cameramen, "why don't we take a quick break and regroup."

Marco exchanges another look of regret with Patrick who is clearly horrified, mouths a quick "I'm sorry," and then grabs Abel by the arm and starts maneuvering him toward the exit.

"Come on, Abel. Let's take this outside."

Abel is loud. Boisterous. Incensed. "You knew! The whole damn time, you knew who he was . . . what he was! Oh, my fuckin' God, Marco, you led me into it. You set me up! You lied to me, you let me think . . . all the while pretending to be my friend. I can't fuckin' believe this! Jesus-Fucking-Christ!"

Marco drags him down the hall, out a pair of large French doors, and onto a rounded Greek portico out back. They find themselves in a wide lush backyard. Marco makes no attempt to explain until they are in the grass, well away from the house.

"OK, OK, I get it: You're upset."

"Is that what you call it: upset? You pretender. You lousy fuckin' liar! I'm not upset, I'm totally fucking furious. You're such a phony. Have you been lying to me the whole time?"

"What are you talking about? No, I have not been lying to you. Dammit, Abel, will you calm down?"

Just then Patrick comes sprinting out of the house looking utterly distraught. He has obviously dressed quickly, his jeans unzipped, his shirt flagging open, no socks or shoes.

"Oh, my God, Abel, I am so sorry," he says breathlessly. "I didn't want to mislead you, and I sure as heck didn't want you to find out this way. Marco?"

"It's not your fault, it's mine," Marco says, still grasping for what to say. "Patrick, I swear. I didn't think you were working today."

"I wasn't. It was a last-minute thing. J.D. called me this morning and asked me to come in."

"Well, that makes it all OK," Abel offers sarcastically.

"Don't blame him. Blame me," Marco says to Abel. "He was just doing me a favor."

"Is that what you call it?" Abel demands hotly. "Because back in Little Rock we just call it a lie."

Marco exhales, a look of total exasperation on his face.

"He just wanted me to run into you at the bar, sort of accidentally on purpose," Patrick explains. "Not to hurt you. Just to build you up. That's all."

"Was it now?" Abel responds bitterly. "And I suppose all the rest of it—you know what I mean. I'm just supposed to believe that was all accidentally on purpose too?"

"It was," Patrick insists. "That wasn't part of the plan. It just happened."

"It's true, man," Marco adds. "I asked him to meet you. Buck you up. Give you some encouragement. Patrick's a dammed good actor. Really professional. He's even studying it in school."

"Yeah, he's a pro, all right," Abel spits out. "I got a taste of what a really good pro he is."

"Hey, man, can it, will ya," Marco warns. "He doesn't deserve that. Patrick's a really good guy."

"What do you want from me: a medal?" Abel replies. "Look, Marco, I'm not a basket case. You didn't have to send in one of your porno friends to rescue me."

"Wow, that's low," Patrick says. "Do you really think I deserve that?"

"I thought you liked me," Abel says. "For me, not as a favor to a friend."

"I did like you. I do like you."

Just then J.D. emerges from the house and strides over to the group.

"So, boys: We got everything squared away out here?"

"We're working on it," Marco says. "Funny how much trouble you can get into just trying to do somebody a favor. It basically just blew up in my face."

"Wow, sounds complicated," J.D. remarks. "Here's a little nugget of advice I thought you'd have learned by now, Marco: Never mix your friends with work. That'll always gonna blow up in your face. . . . So, Patrick, you about ready to come back inside? If we don't get back on track, we're gonna blow our whole schedule to kingdom come. I've got another couple of guys showing up in an hour and we're not even half-way through this one."

Patrick and J.D. start back to the house, but Patrick stops and turns briefly to Abel, searching for something to say. But finding no words, he instead reaches out and squeezes Abel's hand before hurrying off to catch up with J.D.

"Don't blame him," Marco implores again. "This is all on me."

"Fine, then I'll blame you. I'm not a charity case, Marco. I asked for help. I didn't ask for you to baby me."

"Why are you so dammed angry?" Marco wonders. "Look, I know I messed up. But why make such a federal case of it? OK, so I went a little overboard . . . just trying to help a friend."

"Seems like people are always trying to do that: help me out, take care of me, baby me. Trying to smooth things over. Jo does it all the time, even when she thinks I don't know."

"Is it so bad?"

"It is if it makes me feel like less of a man. All of you—Jo included--need to knock it the hell off. Like right now, Marco."

"OK, I get it," Marco says. "No, really, I get it. You need to stand on your own two feet, and the rest of us need to get the hell out of the way. Tell you what, amigo. From now on, it's all up to you. I'll stop trying to run interference. From now on it's totally your call."

"Thanks."

"No, Abel, I mean it. Right here, right now: there's a decision to be made. Do we stay or go: It's up to you, man."

"I say stay."

"Even knowing that when we go back in there, you'll have to watch Patrick get it on with some other guy: You up for that?"

"I'm a big boy now, Marco. I can handle it."

"OK, so be it. Let's go inside and watch."

Upon reentering the game room, Abel and Marco observe that the scene between Patrick and his partner has progressed beyond that initial embrace to some considerably hotter action. Patrick is on his knees in front of the muscular brown-skinned young man, fingering and nuzzling the guy's generous set of balls. Abel is immediately arrested by the sight of his friend eagerly lifting and licking the young man's hairy crinkly ballsac, and he feels a heated charge in his own groin at just how fantastically sensuous Patrick's partner is. He is tall, well over six feet, black-haired and bronze-skinned, and Abel cannot tell if he is Greek, Italian, Latino, or maybe some combination of the three. He is a full shade darker than either Marco or his own copper colored tone. And like Marco, he is so extremely handsome as to stir a moment's pang of jealousy in Abel as he watches Patrick dive actively into his task of pleasing this hunk.

And nothing about this young man is more impressive than his long, dark, and deliciously curved slice of manly cockmeat. Patrick obviously relishes showering his attention on the dude's magnificent instrument, and does not hesitate pulling it deeply into his throat. Abel knows full well how good Patrick is at oral stimulation of a cock, and watches as the guy reacts in obvious pleasure at the blond boy's active and repeated ministrations.

Abel can see why J.D. would want to match Patrick with this guy, the boy's pale smooth skin contrasting beautifully with the mocha coloring and natural swarthiness of the young hunk. And that image of the young man's long earth-tone poker sliding in and out of Patrick's red lips is enough to make Abel blush and shift about at the depth of his own rising desire.

Apparently, Abel isn't the only one feeling the heat because after only a few minutes of this wonderful stimulation, the hunk abruptly yanks his meat out of Patrick, pulls the boy to his feet, and wraps him up in another sizzling kiss.

Abel can feel his own boner swelling in his jeans as Patrick and the hunk grind their rock-hard cocks together. The heat quotient in the room is being raised considerably by the ever-increasing chorus of moans, groans, croaks and sighs escaping from the duo.

The dark hunk drops down and begins returning Patrick's blow job with some pretty impressive cock-sucking skills of his own. But this is only the opening gambit. He suddenly grabs Patrick and hoists him onto the pool table, lifts and separates his legs, and buries his stubbly chin inside Patrick's smooth pink bud. The boy gasps in obvious delight at the tantalizing sensations being poured into him with such forceful relish by the clearly very experienced brown hunk.

Patrick's fuckmate lifts his head after several minutes of this ass-play. "You ready for it?" he asks.

And then without really waiting for a reply he suddenly brandishes his cock like a sword and begins plunging it into Patrick's waiting boy hole.

Both boys groan as the glistening cock finds its mark and quickly sinks most of the way in. Abel cannot recall ever seeing anything so purely sensual as this naked display, and his body shivers with the friction being generated right in front of his eyes.

The boys have now become essentially one, moving in unison, rocking back and forth, clinging to each other. The fuckstrokes flow like waves between them, beginning in one and terminating in the other.

"Oh, God, yeah. Fuck me. Just like that . . ."

The steamy image of Patrick and the hunk locked in each other's arms holds Abel's attention like a fever dream, but he is only vaguely aware of movement all around the two boys. Like a pair of huge, shimmering, hovering black birds over the couple, the cameras lift and turn and glide all about, sometimes drawing in close, sometimes backing away, all at the silent behest of J.D. who does not once take his eyes off the two humping boys.

At some point, the hunk slides his strong arms under Patrick's slender form and scoops him up off the pool table. And without once dislodging his cock from the boy's crevice, he easily balances him in midair and continues plying him with more long, hot, penetrating fuckstrokes.

"Fuck! Oh, God, yes! This is it. I . . . I'm gonna cum!" Patrick cries out as the hunk lowers him back onto the table.

As he jerks and starts to shoot, one of the camera birds swoops in, capturing the moment in intimate detail while the other hangs back, still watching from afar, and fluttering just above the action.

Seconds later the hunk joins in, ripping his cock out of Patrick's gaping hole and unloading on the boy's heaving stomach. This time, the first camera retreats, pulling back, still shooting, while the second camera descends, capturing it all in real time. Patrick moans softly as the hunk showers him with his generous load, the thick silvery drops mixing with his own warm milky cum.

The cameras hold steady until the last bits of spurt finally dribble out of the imposing dick. As Patrick settles back and breathes deeply, a great glow of contentment settling over his face, a similar look of bliss blankets the visage of the handsome hunk. Abel can't tear his eyes away from the incredibly beautiful young man.

"Great! Fantastic!" J.D. declares from just over the first cameraman's shoulder where he has been watching the action unfold with unwavering focus.

"That's it! It's a wrap! Great job, boys! I doubt if I'll be needing to cut much out of that!"

He watches with a look of huge satisfaction as Ronnie steps in and tosses towels to the two sweat-streaked boys who look as though they have been through a very heavy workout. As the cameramen retreat from the scene, Abel wipes his own brow and is surprised to find he has also started to sweat.

"You boys take your time getting cleaned up," J.D. adds breezily. "I think for the next scene, we'll be heading upstairs to the master bedroom."

He turns to Abel.

"So, Abel, what do ya think? Think you could do that?"

"I don't know," Abel says with great earnestness. "That was pretty amazing."

"Damn right," J.D. agrees. "Gotta give the people what they want."

"That guy there, the tall, um, dark one. So what is he: Mexican?"

"Paulo? Yeah, everybody loves Paulo," J.D. laughs. "No, he's Peruvian, I think. That right, Ronnie?"

"Yeah, Peruvian," Ronnie nods.

"From the mountains," J.D. adds. "Hot as hell, huh? Must be something in the water up there. Listen, if you like that, why not stick around and catch the next scene? We've got the hottest boys in the business. Who's up next, Ronnie? Are they here yet?"

"Well, it was supposed to be Ryan and Theo, but Ryan just called. He's sick. Can't make it."

"Sick? That's bullshit. He just hit town last night. Sick my black eye. Hungover, I'll wager."

"Who's Ryan?" Marco inquires. "I don't think him."

"He's new," J.D. explains. "One of those we signed when we spent a couple of weeks filming in Kansas City last summer. Good-looking boy. Got that All-American look—ya know? You'd like him. He's got real potential, but . . ."

"But what?"

"He's not reliable. We've brought him out here a couple of times to do some shoots. But every fucking time . . . Well, see, he likes to party too much. Can't resist the nightlife. He goes out the night before, ties one on, and then he's too wasted to work the next day. It's a damn shame really. He's got the looks and he's got the moves—a lot like you, Abel—but doesn't look like he's gonna work out."

"That's too bad," Marco says.

J.D.'s gaze settles on Abel. "It is . . . but one guy's loss can be another guy's gain."

"Oh, no, you don't, you devil," Marco says intensely. "He's not ready, J.D. He doesn't know anything about the business."

"Wait, you're not suggesting . . ." Abel says.

"Exactly what he's suggesting," Marco says. "When it comes to recruiting, J.D. is shameless."

"Whoa, hold the phone," J.D. says, lifting his arms in mock indignation. "Who's the one who called me and said he had a friend who was interested in porn and would I mind if he came out and peeked over my shoulder for a while? I'm all about opportunity as you very well know, Marco."