Viva Las Vega

Summer vacation. I’d wrangled a conference to attend to get my way paid, but I liked taking a cruising, let-it-all-hang-out vacation twice a year—summer to the beach, usually, and winter to a ski resort. I wanted something a bit different this summer—Las Vegas—where I’d quite satisfactorily let it all hang out once before. And I wasn’t going there for the casino gambling.

The airline attendant, small, blond, smiling, holes for piercings in his ears but unadorned for now, while he was working, leaned down as he was going to the back to take his seat for landing at Las Vegas’s McCarran Airport and whispered, “If you’re interested, hang back near the gate and wait for me to come out. Luggage at baggage claim?”

He had on a name badge claiming he was Josh. He was not that far into his twenties, I didn’t think, or he had a very good plastic surgeon. “Just my carry on,” I whispered back. “I’m traveling light.”

He gave a little giggle and whispered, “Oh, God, I don’t think so,” and sashayed down the aisle to his landing seat in the tail of the plane. I knew what he was alluding to. This wasn’t an out-of-the-blue hookup offer. He had already copped a feel and shown that he was pleasantly surprised and very much interested.

He was a good-looking, slim, narrow-hipped little guy, so I was hooked. I also was randy. This is what I came to Las Vegas periodically for. He’d first brought it up when he arrived with the drinks cart. He’d given me a second and third look when I’d gotten on the plane in the connecting flight in Chicago. As he handed me a cup and a small bottle of vodka, he did the giggle thing of his and said, “You’re that vodka guy in the commercials, aren’t you?” He let his hand brush across my crotch as he moved it away. It was evident that he knew me from more than the TV commercials.

“Guilty,” I said as I took the bottle. It wasn’t the brand I peddled in the commercials, which had earned me the nickname of Sizzling Julio. I was an accountant in New York, and not a senior one either, but I also modeled—both on the runway and in TV and billboard ad commercials. I’d done male-on-male porn once too, not incidentally—and certainly relevant in this situation.

There was demand for dark-haired, sultry, cut Brazilians with blue eyes in the commercial world—and in the gay male porn world too, in which I’d dabbled once so far. The blue eyes were two of the only things I’d inherited from a Scandinavian visitor to Rio. My mother had been a high-priced prostitute and I’d been raised in a brothel until she’d sent me to her sister in New York. So, the sex act wasn’t much of a mystery or a taboo for me when I was old enough to be doing it myself—except that I did it with men rather than what I saw happening in the whore house my mother worked in. It was probably the blue eyes that made the difference in getting me modeling and commercial gigs, though, so I thanked Daddy daily, whoever and wherever he was.

On the next pass, which Josh seemed to have made specially to flirt with me, although he came bearing another small bottle of vodka, he leaned down and whispered, “Happens in Vegas.” This time he let his hand linger on my basket.

“Guilty again,” I said, giving him what the commercial directors called my sultry smile. He shivered and moved back down the aisle, swaying his pert little butt, making sure I saw him do it. I did. He was offering himself to me. Happens in Vegas was a movie I’d been in on an earlier trip to Vegas. It was the only porn movie I’d done so far, although I got plenty of offers to do more. I didn’t do anything like this in New York, although it had been offered there. I’d told the director who said he wanted to do me in a movie that I kept it all straight in New York. I was just about to take a summer vacation in Las Vegas, though, which is where I went for relief, and he said he’d meet me there.

He hadn’t been careless with his wording when he said he wanted to do me in a movie. I was in three of the four scenes in Happens in Vegas. He did me in one, me bottoming for him and a third guy. He’d done me in private in New York after one of the vodka company shoots, which is why he wanted to put me in a movie. In the modeling world, it was called greasing the skids—giving out during one shoot with the hopes the director or producer, or whoever had fucked you, put you in another shoot. It wasn’t a big deal, other than I didn’t do much same-sex sex in New York—not that doing same sex was a big deal with me. Sex is sex is sex is sex. When you have a beautiful body and know it, you don’t limit yourself in using it.

A second scene in Happens in Vegas was me fucking a little blond guy, like Josh. The third was a flip-flop. These defined me in what I always called my Las Vegas Phase. My tastes and desires were versatile. I like to do small blond guys, like Josh, but I like being done by big muscle men, and I especially liked group work, with me as a focus. I did women too, when I had the need and there was some advantage in doing so. Like most models, I was narcissistic and admitted to it. I came to Las Vegas to let it all hang out. And I’d let it all hang out in Happens in Vegas. The viewers—and there were a lot of them; it was a very popular movie—saw all of me, including my eight and a half hard, thick inches. That was the other attribute I’d inherited from my Scandinavian dad. (Thanks, Daddy.)

Josh’s last, brief stop, what he’d said before asking me to hold back at the gate and wait for him had closed the deal as far as he and I were concerned. In a breathy voice, he’s said, “Eight inches?” When he said it, he was holding it through the material of my trousers. That’s what had been emphasized in the film credits. The little bugger was very good at feeling a guy up without the surrounding passengers being any the wiser.

“Eight and a half,” I’d responded.

“Cut, with a big mushroom cap if the movie cameras didn’t lie.”

“The cameras didn’t lie,” I answered. There are those who say size doesn’t matter. Those aren’t gay male bottoms saying that, though. And what man of pride in that department doesn’t know what he measures out to be?

Josh had gone all rubbery and said, “Oh fuckin’ shit,” before asking me to wait for him to come off the plane.

When he did, he signaled to me with a nod of his head, and went to a door near the gate, opened it with his pass, and nodded to me again. We went down that corridor and then another, all windowless, sterile, and with some sort of metal walls, me carrying my duffle bag at my side. Eventually, he swiped his card at another door and we entered a small interview room of some sort. No windows. Another door, closed, a desk, and two straight-back chairs.

I fucked the shit out of him on the table. It would have looked great on film.

He wanted us both naked. He wanted to memorize my dark, lightly muscular, perfectly formed, slightly hirsute Brazilian stud body. He wanted to savor having been done by the vodka commercial guy, the porn movie guy with the eight and a half hard inches. He wanted a wild adventure to tell his boyfriends about. I was equally happy and turned on by putting my hands on a small blond with narrow hips and firm, pert buttocks that I could press my face in and then squeeze and separate, and blow on as his hole blossomed open for me, and then bury my eight and a half inches and fuck the hell out of him.

I sat on the table, while Josh knelt between my spread thighs and sucked my cock to its full size. He spent extra time playing with the mushroom cap with his lips and tongue. I could tell that he’d been impressed by what the actor had done who had giving me that attention in the movie. All the time he was letting his hands roam, getting as much a feel of my Brazilian-Scandinavian stud body as he could, his hands running through the tight black curls on my pecs, down my tapering torso and then gliding over the backs of my thighs as his little blond head bobbed on my cock. I ran my fingers into his curly blond hair and gave him guidance on what he was doing well and what he then was doing better and best. It was a full blow job. He played the cock until I gave him a warning. He pulled off in time for me to cream his cheeks.

“Shit, you’re big—as big as in the movie,” he murmured, his voice full of awe. “And you’ve got a lot of cum, just like in the movies. So, that wasn’t all fake.”

“No, that wasn’t all fake, Josh.”

“Nor the instant reloading?” He suddenly was showing concern that the show was already over.

I laughed. “It isn’t as instant as in the movie, Josh. But it’s close enough for us here.”

I came off the table and put my hands on his little body and turned him, belly down, on top the table. I went down on my knees behind him, palmed his buttocks, and separated them. “There are things we can do to entertain ourselves until I get hard again.”

“Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. YES!” he exclaimed as I blew on his hole to see it pucker. I buried my face in his crack and started expertly eating him out, preparing him for me. I held him in place, bent over the table with my left hand on his narrow waist. My right one went around and under him, and, as he moaned and groaned and babbled I know not what, I jacked him off to a nicely shot ejaculation while I ate him out.

When it was time to put him on his back on the table and mount him, he begged in a breathy voice, “Like in the movie. Do me like you did the little guy in the movie.”

I laughed and put him on his back on the table top, positioned his right leg running up my torso, his ankle hooked on my shoulder, turned his pelvis slightly away from me, grabbed his left calf and spread and raised it away from his body.

He arched his back and his head, his eyes rolling up into his head and his mouth open in a big yawn attached to heavy panting and groaning as I slowly gave him all of my eight-plus thick inches, reveling in the thickness that was splitting the difference in those narrow hips of his, and fucked him and fucked him and fucked him, taking my time in filling out the bulb of my condom.

We pretended like there was a camera across the room taking in not only the expression on his face while he was being spiked, but the dilated hole as well, and of the cock moving in and out of it, my arm naturally out of the way so as not to obstruct the view. It can’t be naturally done for the camera. You always have to keep the camera angle and the focus of the shot in mind. I learned so much in shooting that one porn flick.

We were both dressed again when he, hobbling and with a big grin on his face, opened the other door in the room with his key card. We had been fucking just on the other side of the soundproof wall (fortunately) from the busy baggage claim area.

He stood there, hanging on to the doorframe, as I filtered out into the crowd. The last thing I heard him whisper was, “Holy shit, you’re big.”

I smiled and walked past the luggage carousels and out to the taxi ranks.

Welcome to Las Vegas. Viva Las Vegas.

* * * *

“It’s called Hawk’s Gym, on East Sahara. I go there.”

“Of course you do,” I said, with a little laugh. “Thanks for the recommendation, Manny.”

He been leaning against his taxi fender outside of McCarran airport arrivals, like a lion in resting awareness. He was all muscle, Hispanic, ugly of face but beautiful of massive body, bulging arms crossed on his bulging chest above a Roman armor-sculpted torso, all tightly covered by an athletic T-shirt. Tattooing everywhere. He smiled knowingly at me as I approached his cab, going to a grin when, I surmise, he got some inkling of where he’d seen me before.

He was ugly enough that I wondered if he had a hard time getting it—whether he’d be extra appreciative of getting it from a looker. I often found that was the case. I was more interested in the body. A darkened room could negate an ugly face. In any case, I had nothing negative to say about a thug, if he was commanding. This guy’s body would be great in any light.

“Where to?” he asked as I got into the cab.

“The Gaylords Hotel on East Desert Inn Road,” I answered from in back, but leaning forward, arms folded on top of the passenger seat beside the man. The ID card on the dashboard identified him as Manuel Garcia, thirty-three. Five years older than I was.

“Ah, Gaylords. I know it well.”

Lots of information in that short sentence. “Well, or intimately?” I asked.

“Really well,” he responded, with a laugh. He held his right hand up, folded his thumb under inside the palm, and moved it in and out, in an obvious gesture. “I’ve had more than one fare end up sharing a bed with me there.”

“On top or on the bottom?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered and laughed.

“Good to know,” I said.

Gaylords was an exclusively gay hotel off the main drag. And Garcia was signaling he was what I was acknowledging to be—that he too was gay was revealed while we were still in the exit road from the airport onto the nearby South Las Vegas Boulevard, the heart of The Strip.

“The vodka commercials. You’re that guy, right?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m that guy,” I said. I risked reaching into the front seat and touching his exposed bicep, and when he didn’t react negatively, I ran my hand over the bulge, following the curve of it. My approval of big muscles—and his, specifically—clearly conveyed to him. “Nice definition,” said.

“I can be more than nice,” he responded. “Are you coming on to me?”

“I could be,” I said. “It’s been a long flight.” I didn’t mention that I’d fucked a guy since I landed. I was randy for the other side of that, though—being fucked myself.

We were out on the boulevard, but not for long. He turned on Tropicana and then on the less-congested South Eastern Avenue to cruise toward the old town.

“And you were in that movie done here,” Manuel said.

“Happens in Vegas?”

“Yes, that one.”

“Yes, that too,”

“I like how you took it, under that muscle guy. He was Hispanic, wasn’t he, like me?”

“I liked that too—taking it from a muscle guy,” I said, “and, yes, I’m sure he was an Hispanic stud—like you. I’m Brazilian. Latin hot blood. You too, maybe?” We were pulling up to the entrance of Gaylords—and then beyond, into the parking lot, to the corner of the parking lot, under a tree.

“He wasn’t an ugly guy like me, though, was he, the Hispanic in the porn flick?”

“I focus on the body,” I said, running my hand over his bicep again. I’m sure he got the message.

That’s when I asked him about a gym for gay guys that was close to here, if possible. I had leaned into him, sticking my tongue out and running it up the vein in his neck. He shuddered but held. But he hadn’t stopped at the entrance to let me out, so he wasn’t breaking this off.

“It’s called Hawk’s Gym, on East Sahara. I go there.”

“Of course you do,” I said, with a little laugh. “Thanks for the recommendation, Manny.”

“It’s just two lights further up into the old town from here, and hook a left. It’s right there on the left.”

“You going to put the cab in park and come upstairs?” I asked. “I’m not sure I can find my room on my own, and I need someone to carry my bag.”

He laughed. “You’re in great shape. You can carry your own bag. I need to be on the meter today. I couldn’t take long.”

That wasn’t a no.

“I don’t pay for it, Manny. I give good value myself. Do you have friends you could impress by telling them you’d shagged one of the actors in Happens in Vegas?”

He reached over and turned the meter off.

“How long you take is up to you,” I said. “That guy in Happens in Vegas—he had nothing on you. I like a big man with muscles.” I leaned in closer and whispered in his ear, “Turn the car off and come upstairs and fuck me, Manny.”

He turned the engine off; went upstairs with me, the guy at reception doing no more than raising his eyebrow and giving a little smile; and fucked me. He laid me out good and rang my chimes.

There was no further foreplay. He had us both stripped and me up against the wall, my back to the wall next to the door to the room, my knees hooked on his hips. A full-length mirror was on the wall right beside us, leading into the room, and I was able to watch from the side the big, muscular brute bully, all tattoos, fuck me against the wall. He was beer-can cock thick. Not long, but cruel in his power thrusts, moving my back up and down on the wall next to the door, as he pistoned his shaft up inside me like he had another fare waiting for him down in the cab. I managed to get a hand between us and jacked myself off.

When he came, he stepped away from me, pulling the condom off his cock and making a great shot into the wastebasket through the bathroom door in the wall opposite the mirror, and let me just slide down on the floor. I expected him to dress quickly then and leave to get his cab back on the road, but I was wrong. He went into the room, naked, found the minibar, extracted a can of cold beer, and sat on the foot of the bed, playing with himself with one hand, drinking off the beer with the other, and watching me with his eyes. I lay on the floor by the door, moaning, with a little smile of satisfaction on my face, and playing with my cock with my hand.

“I think that’s how the dude did you in the movie,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” I answered. But “the dude” had done me a second time. Would Manny?

Yes, he would.

After several minutes and having finished his beer and worked his cock up to half hard again, he rose from the bed, came to the entrance into the room, crouched over and grabbed me under the armpits, and dragged me across the floor, to the bed.

He sat on the end of the bed, holding me on my knees between his spread thighs, and fed his cock into my mouth. Panting and moaning, I worked his cock into full erection again. He wasn’t satisfied. He wanted to work my throat over longer. He pulled me up on the bed, with my head hanging over the foot of the bed. He crouched over me, one hand palming my sternum, holding me down on the bed, psychologically if not physically. I opened my mouth wide, and he slid his shaft inside, going deep, throat-fucking me. His free hand was massaging my throat, feeling where the cock was reaching. I palmed his buttocks in surrender. This was the same way the big stud in Happens in Vegas had face fucked me. Manny had, indeed, seen the movie. He wanted it the same way. Moaning, I let him have it. But he didn’t cum inside my throat as the stud in the movie had.

I, however, had come a second time. He had leaned over me, the hand on my sternum, going to my cock, and he had beaten me off, my cum splashing up onto his hard belly.

He came off the bed, dragged me into the center of the room, pushing me over onto my back. He hooked my ankles on his shoulders, thrust inside me and fucked me in a missionary—deep, hard, brutally—on the hotel room floor. I writhed under him, letting him know that he was doing me well, just the way I liked it. Just the way the brute in Happens in Vegas had done it. Both of them rough. Both of them doing me totally.

I lay there, moaning and panting, as he took a quick shower, dressed, turned and smiled at me at the door, and saluted. “As good for you as the guy in the movie?” he asked.

“Absolutely, yes,” I murmured.

“I left my card by the TV over there. Call me if you need another ride while you’re in Vegas—a ride in my cab or on my cock—or both. The meter will be off for either.” He left, with a laugh.

I went up on my knees to make sure he’d really left his card on the bureau and then, with a satisfied groan, I fell back on the floor.

Less than two hours back in Vegas and I’d had it both of the ways I liked it already. Viva Las Vegas.

I crawled onto the bed, closed my eyes, and slept. The trip out from New York had been exhausting. I had a conference to go to in the morning.

* * * *

I slept until dinnertime, went to a nearby old-fashioned chrome Airstream trailer-like diner for a burger and chips, and then came back to the room and changed into gym gear, clearing out my duffle bag except for a change of clothes. I picked up the taxi card that Manny had left and considered it briefly but then decided otherwise—I might never make it to the gym and I had different muscles to work than those I’d work with Manny—and had a car from the hotel drive me the short distance to Hawk’s Gym.

Manny had been right. It clearly was a gay guys’ cruising gym. There was serious bodybuilding going on there, but there also was some dedicated body cruising going on. I liked being ogled, so that was fine with me. Yes, I was narcissistic. What good-looking gay guy isn’t? I want to be worshipped. I want to be wanted, to be covered and held close. I want to be possessed. I want a man who wanted to be inside me so much that he’d take me by force. When I can’t raise that sort of want in another guy anymore, I’ll just let myself go to pot and sit in the shadows. I certainly won’t be going to a gym anymore.

I was stripped to just athletic shorts and gym shoes like all of the guys who were there to display themselves were doing—and there were a lot of them—and I went about my business of exercising mixed with ogling other guys, posing for them so they could ogle me, and doing a bit of flirting. My vodka TV commercials came up constantly, and I readily owned up to them. More than one knew about the porn movie too, and referred to it loud enough that others heard. That didn’t bother me. In the process I learned that I wasn’t the only male porn actor working out here. This was a center of hedonism after all.

I was both shopping and being shopped.

There were no small, young blonds there that evening, but there was a guy a few years older than I was who was good-looking, with a reddish crew cut and a bit of red fuzz on his torso, and who had a great, younger-guy’s willowy build. He moved about in his exercises, broken up by batting his long eyelashes at other guys, including me.

Once in passing me, he murmured, “Have you seen Daddy’s Little Boy?” I assumed that was a porn movie he’d been in and that, hearing I’d been in one, he wanted to establish a connection. I hadn’t heard of it, but I didn’t reject the notion of establishing a connection.

His hips were extraordinarily narrow and his butt was bubbled and firm. I imagined how it would be moving my hard cock into his crack, and I decided he’d be good enough for me. There were more than enough muscle-bound hunks, who obviously spent all of their time in the gym, who I decided would do as tops. I wanted to fuck, but I didn’t care all that much which position I took. I’d already had it both ways that day. Anything that happened now was just gravy.

One particularly gorgeous muscle boy, about my same age, was sculpted perfectly. His black body glistened under the lights of the gym floor and other men moved around him, giving him deference like he was a god. I liked being done by black studs. I had nothing against being done by a god. My research indicated that the rumor was true—that, on average, they were a lot bigger than the average white, Asian, or Hispanic guy was. I’d also found that they were more self-centered, concentrating on getting themselves off and being in control—and, generally, they were rougher. I got off on a guy roughly concentrating on his own needs and using me to the max.

And he was a god. He was a black bull, which I could clearly see. All he was wearing were tight gym shorts. The curve of his monster cock, long and thick, could clearly be followed under the tight material, nestled in his groin, moving across his pubes from right to left.

His eyes followed me around the gym floor, and when he had his opportunity, he took it. I was exercising on the rings, which I knew I did well, lifting my body off the floor—the rings weren’t set to be working much higher than I could stand—pulling my legs straight up, with my pointed toes going over my head, pulling up into a Maltese Cross, doing a few flips. Yes, I’d been a competitive collegiate gymnast.

“Very nice,” I heard in a smooth baritone voice. It was the black god. “You need someone to spot you?” he asked.

“Sure,” I answered. What I was looking for was someone divine to fuck me.

He stood behind me. When I went into the splits, legs straight out from my body, he nestled in behind me, his groin, now with a hard on, pressed into my buttocks, the erection moving into the crack. He was gripping my waist between his hands. If we didn’t both have gym shorts on, he’d have been bulb deep in my hole. As it was, I could tell the cockhead was there, pressing into the rim. One of his hands glided to my belly, and other cupped my basket. Guys were watching us, but surreptitiously. This was what they came here to see. They didn’t want us to notice them watching us and stop what we were doing.

“Do you always spot this close?” I asked.

“You complaining?” he responded.

“Not in the least.”

“I can spot closer if you like.”

“I like.” He palmed my belly with a beefy hand, pulling my butt close into his groin. He moved his pelvis, almost imperceptively, but enough to make me pant and groan at the feel of his erection pressing into my butt crack. If we hadn’t had gym shorts on, he’d be fucking me. Guys around us noticed, of course, but they kept their distance, ogling us in our dance of mutual seduction. Both the black stud and I knew this would end with him fucking me. The question was whether we’d do it in private, semiprivacy, or right here on the gym floor if the gym staff let us. He was probably a regular here; I wasn’t. I’d let him take the lead on where we did it and when—as long as we did it.

“Steady there,” he said in a low voice. We were in that position way longer than we needed to be even if he had sensed I was slipping and he was helping me recover. He was rocking me back and forward, dry humping me.

He put his mouth to my ear and whispered, “I saw you in the movies. I want to fuck you.”

“I get that,” I answered. “Whatever you want; wherever you want it.”

“Go to the sauna after you’ve exercised.” Then he backed away from me and moved to another area of the floor, not looking at me again while, trembling, I completed my routine of floor exercises . . . and went to the sauna.

In the sauna four men, in pairs, were having sex. On one side wall of benches, one older, thin guy—the guy with the red crew cut I’d flirted with briefly on the gym floor—was kneeling on a lower bench between the spread thighs of one of the muscle-bound guys, sitting on a higher bench, and was giving him head. On the opposite side a muscle guy had a young Hispanic guy in his lap, facing away, and on his cock and was fucking him. I hadn’t remembered seeing the small Hispanic guy on the gym floor. He was sort of cute. He was limber and knew how to take cock.

I went to the bank of benches at the top on the wall opposite the door and lay along the bench, a towel around my waist. The black god came into the sauna and sat on the benches on the door wall. He came in wearing a towel around his middle, but he folded that back and watched the action in the sauna while he pulled on his gigantic black cock. His muscular body glistened with sweat. I found myself trembling in anticipation.

I felt fingers touch my stretched-out left foot. The red crew cut guy was sitting below me. I raised and spread my legs, bending them and putting my feet flat on the bench, my towel opening to give Red Crew Cut a good look of my goods. I heard him gasp and felt his hand on my left calf as he scooted closer to me. The small Hispanic was on the move too. He came over and sat on the bench below mine beside my head. His hand was gliding over my torso, and he leaned over and took my lips in his. Red Crew Cut was licking up my legs, onto my thighs, kissing and licking my inner thighs on both sides. He cupped my balls in a hand and then, unknotting my towel and flipping it open, he took my cock in his mouth and was giving me head.

I looked over to the black god. He smiled and nodded at me. He wanted to watch me giving or taking it before he took it from me. I could do that.

I lifted the Hispanic guy up and set him down crouched over my face. I started eating out his ass, preparing him. He was moaning and whispering, “Sí, sí.” I sensed movement in the sauna and looked over, hoping to see the black bull making a move. But it was one of the other muscle men who was coming up on my bench—one who had touched me on the gym floor and who I had just smiled at, letting him know I wouldn’t reject him. He pushed Red Crew Cut aside, grasped my hips between his hands, moved into position, slid inside me, and started pumping me slowly. I arched my back and moaned to let him know he had privileges to do that. I looked over to the black god who smiled and nodded again.

I moved the Hispanic guy down to where he was straddling my lower belly. He babbled, “Sí, joder me,” as I pulled him down onto me, forcing his passage to sheath my shaft, and I raised and lowered him, fucking him as he had begged me to do, while the muscle guy below me fucked me. After a few minutes of this, I felt the muscle man being moved aside and there he was, at last, the black bull, entering me, thicker and longer than the muscle guy. Fucking me.

I finished with the Hispanic guy, and he was replaced by red crew cut and still the black bull fucked on.

God, I liked a good group fuck.

Later, in the dark of night, on my bed in the Gaylords Hotel, I lay on my back, back arched, moaning deeply, while the black bull, crouched over me, knees pressed in under my buttocks, hands holding my hips, thrust and thrust and thrust.

When he had come, not long after I had, with him beating me off, he went into the bathroom and took a shower, leaving the door open so that light spilled out across the floor toward the bed. I lay there, panting lightly and luxuriating in having been well fucked. He came out of the bathroom, dressed in jeans and a tight T-shirt. He looked at the bed, hesitating like maybe he would come back and fuck me again. If he had, I would have been happy. Then he turned and opened the door to the outer corridor.

“Wait, what’s your name?” I asked. We’d been fucking half the night and I didn’t even know what his name was. I didn’t know anything other than he was a black bull god who could fuck forever.

He hesitated again, facing away from me. He was turned enough toward the mirror beside the door, though, that I could see in the mirror, with the help of light streaming from the bathroom, that he had a little smile on his face. I was sure he’d heard me. He didn’t answer, though. He walked into the corridor and clicked the door shut behind him.

I looked at the travel clock on the nightstand beside the bed. It was 3:30 in the morning. Conference session at the Excalibur Hotel all the way back to toward the airport would start at 9:00 a.m. Groaning, I tried to close my legs, finding I couldn’t—that I didn’t really want to. I wanted the black bull between them again. I flopped back on the bed and went into an exhausted sleep.

* * * *

“You’re a half hour late. The seminar started at 9:00. It’s 9:30.”

It took me a moment to recover. The man who slid into the seat beside me in the Excalibur Hotel ballroom was the black bull from the previous night. “I had trouble getting up,” I finally whispered back.

“Funny, you didn’t have trouble getting it up last night,” he answered. We got a shush from in front of us for that, and I turned my face forward. He put a hand on my thigh, and I trembled. He’d had his hand higher than that the previous night, and I had been naked then. The man intimately knew me—every square inch of me. Some of the inside of me too—my passage, my throat. He’d wanted the same deep-throat head, my head hanging over the foot of the bed, giving his cock a long, straight angle to slide in, that the taxi driver had gotten. He’d seen the sequence in Happens in Vegas too. He’d gotten what he wanted. I’d given him everything he wanted. He’d been both refined and demanding in what he had wanted.

The shusher got up and changed seats.

“My name is Craig. Craig Feld,” the black bull whispered then. “And I’m thinking you aren’t really Juan Mortime.”

“Juan Mortime?” I asked.

“The name in the credits for Happens in Vegas. I presume you were working under an assumed name.”

I laughed, as muted as I could manage with a speech droning on at the front of the hall. “I’d forgotten that name was used. Rest assured I didn’t come up with that name myself. I’m Julio Souza,” I answered. There, now he knew even more about me. I gave him my real name. He already knew me totally. There didn’t seem a reason to lie. He could find out from the conference records. “Are you an accountant too?”

“Sadly, yes,” he answered. “And more sadly I’m an accountant here in Las Vegas, for the firm running this conference. So, I have to go off and work on the conference now. Be out front of the Excalibur at 5:15 at the end of today’s session, and I’ll take you on an adventure. I’ll be in the Ford 150 truck.”

“The Ford 150 truck,” I asked. “There probably are a couple of thousands of them here in Las Vegas.”

He laughed. “It’s red and it has a ‘Fuck you’ sticker on the back window—and inside will be the guy who fucked you last night, and will fuck you again tonight unless you didn’t enjoy it last night.”

“Does it have a backseat?”

“Yes, it’s a four-door.”

“Will you fuck me in the backseat?”

“I’ll fuck you in the truck bed, if that’s what you want.”

“I’ll be there,” I said.

And I was.

When I climbed into the truck, Craig said, “I have plans for this evening but I can’t wait.” He didn’t explain, but he didn’t have to. He drove into the Excalibur garage and found an isolated spot where the cars on either side obviously hadn’t been moved for some time judging by the sheen of dust on them. He pulled my face down into his lap and I gave him a blow job while he reached down, unzipped me, and beat me off to an ejaculation . . . all in the front seat.

We ate at a steak house and, leaving there after dark, he drove to the area where he said there was a gay nightclub called Piranha, on Paradise Road. We didn’t stop there, though. He drove on up the street and parked and we walked back into an alley, where there was a door with a neon sign over it flashing “Barracuda” at us.

“It’s a raunchier place than Piranha, but it’s a subsidiary of Piranha,” Craig explained as we approached it. “If guys get too frisky in Piranha, they just send them over here. It has a dance review mimicking the Chippendales dancers, but there are a couple of troupes of them, featuring different body styles, and, of course, they aren’t as classy at the Chippendales. They can be taken to the rooms upstairs, though, and used. That’s what we’ll do.”

“We’ll take a dancer upstairs and use him together?” That didn’t sound half bad to me.

“That’s what I was thinking, yes. You said you flip-flop.”

That’s what we did do. We watched the dancers until Craig could see which one interested me and aroused me the most. He was, of course, small, with narrow hips, and blond and blue eyed. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen, but he was limber, a good dancer, and he made and maintained eye contact with me, seemingly knowing I would pick him and he would be glad of it.

He suffered for it, both Craig and I being bull hung, but he at least pretended to love it. I fucked him on a bed in a small room with the beat of the music and dancers coming through the floor. I took him in a missionary. Then Craig fucked him in the crab position, with the little blond stretched on top of Craig’s body, pointed at the ceiling and held tight by Craig, while the young man rose and fell on Craig’s cock. Before Craig finished, he directed me to climb up on the bed between their spread legs, which I did, and while the rent-boy babbled and groaned, I slid my cock in on top of Craig’s and we doubled him, until the young guy cried out and came.

Craig left the young guy to me then, completely malleable and docile, letting me move him however I wanted, and I bent him over the bed and fucked him in a doggie. He cried out and put his hand to my thigh, signaling me to stop. I did so, waiting for him to stretch to my needs. He murmured, “Too big. You both are too big.” But we’d already both been inside him, together. The pain must have caught up with him, or the angle of the doggie took more of me inside him. But then I saw that he had a bottle of poppers there on the bed beside him. He’d been fortifying himself. I opened it and ran it under his nose. He inhaled, and I sensed him opening more to me. He sighed and began to rock on my cock, fucking himself. I no longer was too big for him.

Craig came in behind me and fucked me while I fucked the dancer. The dancer claimed to have loved the evening and, as we left, asked me if he hadn’t seen me in a movie. I said yes, told him the name and that I also was in the vodka commercials that he then remembered having seen. He went off, cash in hand, to brag to his buddies that he’d been fucked by the Brazilian stud in Happens in Vegas.

Craig came back to the hotel with me. He pulled me into a crab position, like the one he’d fucked the dancer in, and he brought a hand around and beat me off while I fucked myself on his shaft. Then I fucked myself riding his cock cowboy style, with him on his back on the bed and me straddling his hips and rising and falling on the shaft. At 3:00 a.m. we were both sitting yoga style on the bed, facing each other, embracing, my legs wrapped around his waist, the two of us rocking together, his cock deep inside me.

We were both asleep by 3:30 a.m., but we both were a half hour late to the 9:00 accounting seminar at the conference the next morning.

* * * *

“Let’s get out of here and go to the bar.”

“I thought you’d never suggest it,” I said. Craig had come into the ballroom an hour after lunch, crept up to where I was sitting, and saved me from the wrap-up speeches at the accounting convention. We went to the hotel’s Sports Book Bar. It looked like there were more conventioneers in here than were still in the ballroom listening to the closing speeches. We got our drinks at the bar and found an empty table.

“So, have you gotten a lot out of this convention?” Craig asked.

“I’ve gotten fucked well and I have fucked well,” I said, with a smile.

“I meant out of the convention itself.”

“Are you asking as a representative of those putting the convention on or to hear me groan?” I asked.

“I have better ways to get a groan out of you.” We both laughed. “But I wondered how you’d like to be part of putting these conventions on. My firm does this every year. As a commercial model you’d be smash hit as eye candy in putting on something like this.”

“Would I?”

“And you’re an accountant. You could come work for our office here in Las Vegas.”

“Is this a marriage proposal?” I made it sound flippant, but I was beginning to wonder what Craig was after here.

“Hardly. I’m not the marrying kind. I like my men casual and frequently changed.”

“So do I,” I said, retreating from possibilities. I hadn’t really thought about it, though, and chances were very good I thought the same as he was saying he did. No, I didn’t think I was drifting into something more permanent with Craig. I came to Las Vegas to let loose, not to get bogged down.

“I do like to revisit old victories from time to time, though,” he added.

“Good to hear,” I responded. And it was good to hear. I wasn’t ready to settle down to one man, but I certainly wouldn’t turn down periodic performances with Craig.

“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.