Viva Las Vegas

"I mean I've read your résumé. So has my boss. You could have a job out here in Las Vegas. In our firm. You seem to really like it here."

"Your boss wants to fuck me too?"

"Well, yes. And, yes, he wanted me to approach you on this. I pointed you out to him and he nearly creamed his pants. But I have another, shorter-term proposal for you, if my boss's proposition doesn't interest you. You could do that and still make your plane home to New York tomorrow."

I was intrigued, but first propositions first. "I don't want to live in Las Vegas, Craig. I'm an accountant because it's a steady job and I want to have a respectable front. It's dull as toast, though. I need a wild getaway periodically, especially in summer. That's what Las Vegas is. The convention here was a good way to come back here on someone else's dime—the ideal summer vacation cruise. I come here at my own expense at least once a year anyway. Las Vegas is my fun retreat. It helps me survive the job in New York, although New York itself has other inducements. If I came to live in Las Vegas, it would become my dull-as-toast accounting job prison."

"OK, I understand that," Craig said. "No move to Las Vegas."

"What's your other idea then?"

"Another movie," he said.

"Another movie?" I asked.

"Yes. Everyone seems to know about Happens in Vegas. How about edition two of that? It would be fun and profitable. I know a filmmaker out here; he knows about Happens in Vegas. He's salivating at the chance to put you in another film. We could do it tonight. I could make all of the arrangements."

* * * *

It wasn't really that long a drive from the hotel and Hawk's Gym to an area of the Las Vegas version of the hood called the Downtown East. The gay strip club was entered through an alley off North 30th Street and Contract Avenue. As we drove into the area, I was surprised to see that everyone on the streets was black. I hadn't thought of Las Vegas as having a large black population—Hispanic, yes, but not black. Craig, of course, was comfortable here. He'd explained the movie to me, including the color scheme, but I guess it hadn't all settled in before the convention was over and we were driving up here. My plane out, back to New York, was the next afternoon. This was my last night in Las Vegas for this visit.

I admit being nervous and shaking a little when we got out of the truck and the black youths playing ball in the alley gave me a good lookover as we walked to the club entrance. Still, there was excitement too. Every time I came to this town there was something else to up the ante on arousal. This is what it would be for this trip, but I'd already upped the ante a couple of times, so this was going to be a trip to remember.

The movie was going to have three scenes, all featuring me. I would be the only guy in it who wasn't a black bull. The black bulls were already assembled in the club when we got there. The club had been shut down for the night in order to film the movie. The usual patrons had been told there would be a special showing for them of the film to make up for the one-night closure. The tentative name of the movie was going to be White Boy on Black Turf. It would make use of it being filmed in a gay strip club.

The first scene was me, not being fully aware of what sort of club this was—in the hood, patronized almost solely by blacks. I showed up auditioning for a job as a pole dancer and rent-boy. There were blacks at the audition too, and the owner of the club, a massive black bull, put us through our paces in the audition, eventually focusing in on me, making me dance the pole for him in not much of anything and then nothing and then auditioning me for rent-boy by fucking me there, in the shadows of a closed bar room, on top of one of the tables. It was to be a twenty-minute fuck on film and it was supposed to be very rough and graphic. It was all of that. In the film, I got the job and it went right on to the next segment. In real life, it took me nearly an hour to recover and move on.

The second scene, only fifteen minutes long, was of me and a couple of black dancers dancing the poles for a full bar room of black bull patrons—letting the patrons get close enough to stuff our waistbands with money and to cop feels and with tension building on the dancers driving the patrons wild. We were fucked on stage, but by other performers, as part of the orchestrated act.

The third and last scene was a gang bang, with the black bull patrons letting loose and storming the stage. There was ten minutes of them taking over and fucking the three dancers, me being the only white one, on stage. This was followed by fifteen minutes of eight black bulls, including Craig, gang banging me, including a couple of doubles, in a room in the back of the club.

They did it on film, as cameramen were all over all the scenes. The various angles and shots would be spliced together in an edit afterward. They also did it in real life. I was quite the experience. Hordes of black bulls, all with beautiful, massive, muscular bodies and with giant cocks. All fucking me, some together. I lay on the bed in the back room afterward, wiped out and moaning, slathered in cum, with the director sitting on the bed beside me, stroking my body, no doubt contemplating fucking me himself, but wisely determining I'd had more than enough, and telling me what a terrific movie it would be. I again would appear in it as Juan Mortime, a name that Happens in Vegas had already made famous.

The director leaned down and whispered in my ear, "Come back to Vegas when you are fresh and randy. Lay with me then and I'll put you in another movie. We'll fuck first and I'll exhaust you in sex on film later this time."

I knew I'd be returning to Las Vegas.

Craig drove me back to the hotel, ran me through the shower, put me to bed, and very wisely decided he wouldn't stay the night and ride my ass any more either.

The movie and the director's proposition had a strange effect on me. I woke up horny. I ordered in a gigantic breakfast and wolfed it all down. I found Manny, the Hispanic stud taxi driver's card and asked him for a ride to the airport, wondering if he could come an extra hour or two earlier than I needed the ride. He could and did. We thrashed away in the bed and on the floor and in the shower, with him holding me loosely bent over in front of him with water cascading down on us, with me writhing and flopping around in his strong control, while he fucked me deep and hard in the ass. I almost was late for my plane.

Viva Las Vegas.