The Porn Shoot

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?"