Star Strike

“So, David Lee, you are new to our fans. Tell us a bit about yourself. You have an exotic look about you. Where does that come from—where do you hail from?”

Holding onto the stem of the leaf skimmer that I have dipped into the house pool water, I give a little nervous smile—naturally nervous, as I certainly am new to this—to the scene director and in the direction of one of three video cameramen with his hand in the air indicating he’s the main camera at the moment. I am nineteen and I am in the skimpiest of red Speedos. Next to me, stretched out on a bed lounger, wearing nothing but a smile, is the thirty-eight-year-old Brazilian gay porn star Ricardo Alcanzar, a plastic surgeon turned porn star because he’s a handsome devil and, mostly, because he has a monster dick. I’ve been told he is nine and a half inches. That doesn’t mean that much to me, though, as new as I am to all of this.

I’m not a virgin to men, of course, although if the script calls for that, that’s what I’ll be. Alcanzar, on the other hand, is a seasoned, cocky male porn star, deserving his arrogance.

I clear my throat. “Umm, yes. I’m an army brat, so I guess I can say I’m from everywhere. My dad most recently was at the Presidio in Monterrey, so I graduated high school there. I live in L.A. now and go to college here.”

I’d been told not to say which college, and it was a college in name only. It was the Anaheim College of the Arts and was really just a training school for Hollywood hopefuls. I’d done well on the stage in Monterrey and everyone said I should be a star, so I’d come to L.A. to try to make that happen. As yet, it wasn’t happening quite like I’d envisioned it.

“So, a native Californian,” the director said. “Not too many of those around in this business. Most of the guys come from somewhere else. And you look more exotic than being from California. Tell us about that.”

“My dad is from Oklahoma, but my mom is Thai. My dad was stationed in Thailand and they met there. So, I’m mixed.”

I’d been told that would be an advantage in movies. I looked mostly American Midwest, but I had an Asian slant and I was told that I could also pull off Native American, which would be a good advantage if Hollywood ever went back to filming traditional Westerns. Or I could do Mediterranean. My skin tone was olive; it could go more than one way, depending on the camera treatment. And I was undersized, although in good proportions.

“And that’s where you get your smaller size from—from your Asian side?”

“I suppose.”

“How tall are you, David? And how much do you weigh?” Strange questions for a normal interview, but this wasn’t a normal interview.

“I’m five foot five,” I said. “140 pounds.” I’d been told this was the basic theme of the studio this role—the young-looking submissive—was being filled for. It was one of several new studios specializing in size and age difference—forceful, established porn stars on barely legal guys. It apparently was the rage in DVD buyers.

“Ricardo here is five foot ten and 180 pounds,” the director said, and the camera panned to the Brazilian stretched out on the pool bed, stroking his cock. “And he’s ten inches,” the director said, adding at least half an inch to the star to titillate the viewers. These stats were established now, but there were a couple more to pin down before we could get down to business.

“How old are you, David?”

“I’m eighteen. Just last month.” They were trimming a year off my age. The director said the viewers wouldn’t have any trouble believing it. They would want to believe it.

“And you are here for what?”

“To be fucked on camera,” I said.

“Which you have agreed to?”

“Yes.” So, that legality taken care of.

“You have said you’ve seen Ricardo in action before and you’re leaking in anticipation of being done by him, right?”

“Yes,” I said. No, I hadn’t picked him. Yes, I’d seen him in action on the screen. Yes, I’d fantasized being fucked by him. I hadn’t thought of doing it in a movie, though.

“What positions do you like best, David? What would you like Ricardo to do with you?”

“Umm, I don’t know. I don’t really . . .”

And this was the crux of the film—why they’d charge more than the going rate for it. “Are you telling us you’ve never been fucked before by a man? You are eighteen. Ricardo here is thirty-eight and hung like a bull. This will be your first time?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking of doing it—and am ready for it. I just haven’t . . . yet.” No, it wouldn’t be my first time, but it was close enough. It would be my fourth time. It would be like my first time, I thought, looking down at the size of the cock the Brazilian was stroking.

“Your first time,” the director exclaimed as if they had unexpectedly stumbled onto a treasure. “What do you think of that, Ricardo?”

“Sweet,” the Brazilian said. “He’ll be tight, then. I like a tight ass.”

“So, will you go easy with our young man here?”

“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” Ricardo said. “I think I’ll fuck the shit out of him. Isn’t this what these movies are all about? I’ll tear him apart on screen.”

The director and Ricardo laughed. The camera focused on me to capture the genuine look of slight panic in my face.

“Shall we begin then? David, on your knees and give homage to Ricardo’s cock, please. To the viewers at home, I think we’ll title this scene The Pool Boy’s First Time.”

As I went down on my knees beside the pool lounger, my thoughts went to why I was here and how this would be my fourth time, all within the last two weeks.

* * * *

That I got fucked that first time wasn’t really an issue. I’d figured that was going to happen when one of my instructors, Joe Winslow, who taught dance at the Anaheim College of Arts, asked me out on date. We had to take dance—voice, as well. We knew coming into the school that if we wanted to make it in the industry, we had had to be at least adequate in all elements of the discipline. From the start, Winslow had been attentive and hands-on with me. He wasn’t young—maybe in his early forties—and it had been a long time since he’d gotten up on his toes in a dance, but he was still in good shape and was a handsome man. He’d been a good background dancer in his day and was “real world” in his advice on what we had to do to get into and ahead in the business.

“You mean like guys going out together bar cruising to check the territory out?” I had asked.

“No, I mean like two men who are sexually interested in each other going out together to see whether and how well they would fit as a couple.”

“As a couple?” I asked, confused—but not really.

“Yes, as a couple—in bed.”

Oh. He was giving it to me straight. I hadn’t told him I was gay. I had thought maybe he was. But he was telling me he knew I was gay—and that he was interested in hooking up with me.

So, then, I knew it was a date and I knew if I went with him and didn’t turn him off somehow, it was going to end in bed. I’d messed around with guys before, but nothing beyond cock frotting and mutual jacking off. I didn’t get aroused by women like I did by men, so I’d become resolved that, if I was going to have a sex life, it most likely was going to be with men. I had to admit that I was into myself—my looks and liking to be looked at. That went together, I accepted, with being gay.

Thus, when Joe Winslow asked if I’d like to take in the gay bar scene one Saturday night and established the basis for us going out together, I said yes, and I went with him, deciding it was time I went all the way. The date came after he tried to cover me in the locker room at the school after dance practice one night, but when I told him I’d never done it before, he’d backed off then. He came back with the date request two weeks later, though, and I’d said yes. I was saying yes to it all. I’m sure that’s how he understood it.

And Joe Winslow did fuck me—but not for the first time. He didn’t pop my male cherry. This was Hollywood. I’d come here to mingle with the stars. And it was a star who had me first.

“You’re a great dancer, but you aren’t loose enough,” Winslow had said. “Have you ever danced on a pole for men?”

“No. I haven’t even been to a gay bar,” I said.

“It shows. But you want to go, don’t you?”

“Well . . . yes, someday.”

“How about Saturday. You need to loosen up. I recruit and train male dancers for a place called the Adonis Lounge on Santa Monica Boulevard. You could dance with the best of them if you loosened up. There’s good money to be made in that. I know you’re having trouble meeting your tuition. They have an amateur segment Saturday night. Go there with me Saturday night. I can get you in. Wear something sexy under your clothes. Let’s go to the wardrobe department and see what we can find.”

“Uh, yes, I guess so,” I’d said.

At the door to the dance studio, he’d turned and said, “You know what you really need to do to loosen up.” And then when I didn’t answer, he’d said, “You need to be fucked well. You need to be laid.”

I’d known that for some time myself. I didn’t answer that, but not saying no to him was an answer. We both knew that.

He was putting me into the position to make money off giving myself to a man—and good money for doing it the first time. I didn’t think about it then, but I’m sure he made more than I did off the deal. He wanted to lay me himself, I’m sure. But he wanted to make money off me being laid first.

* * * *

So, we started at the Adonis Lounge, and I did dance the pole, with two guys on poles beside me on stage. Winslow had made sure I got the center position, and he’d known just what I should be wearing—and how little of anything I should be wearing. I made over two hundred dollars in money stuck in the waistband of my thong for just fifteen minutes of dancing. I’d also received several propositions, which I smiled away good-naturedly, as Joe Winslow had instructed me to do.

There was one very disconcerting connection made across the footlights, though. There was one man who didn’t proposition or call out to me or stick money in my waistband. He just stood back and undressed and fucked me with his eyes. Ten of the fifteen minutes I was up there, I was dancing for him, looking beyond the guys touching and saying dirty things to me to the man behind them just looking. I had them. I wanted to have him too.

He was handsome as the devil, maybe in his early thirties—movie star handsome and I kept thinking I’d seen him somewhere before. He was dark and sultry, muscular. But it was his eyes. They were hazel and they reached right into me, opened me up, and laid me out.

Afterward, when I’d dressed and gone back to Winslow’s table, I mentioned him. “There was this one guy . . . looked like someone I’d seen before.”

“Grant Sexton. I saw him,” Winslow said. “He’s over there, looking at you now.”

I looked over at the bar. He was sitting on a stool, and he had a hand on the hip of one of the other dancers who had been on stage with me—one who hadn’t put more clothes on. He’d just come out into the audience after our set and was flirting with and being fondled by men. He’d wound up at the bar, slouching between the thighs of the guy Winslow identified as Grant Sexton. The name rang a bell. He had his own adventure TV show and he’d been in a few movies. I’d never thought of seeing him in a gay club, though.

“There’s another club nearby, Fubar,” Winslow said. “It’s classier and quieter. I’d like to go on to that. You shouldn’t just see what one kind of gay club is like. Let’s go.”

“OK,” I said. It was his date; he was paying and he’d arranged for me to make good money off the night, so he was calling the shots. I regretted that we’d be leaving Sexton behind, though. I’d gotten the feeling he wanted to connect. I gave him a look as we were leaving the Adonis Lounge, but he was putting the make on the dancer who was leaning into him.

Winslow was right that Fubar was a quieter, more intimate bar. There was a band playing smooth jazz and a dance floor. Winslow and I danced together. He was a professional and he said I was good and he’d been right that dancing the pole for men had loosened me up a good bit. He held me close and we kissed. I thought we were working our way toward bed. We danced so close enough together that I knew he was hard. And there was every reason for him to think I was as well.

“I’m hot. Let’s go over to the bar and have a drink,” he said. I suspected he was hot in a way that a drink wouldn’t solve. But this was his date.

“Yeah, that would be good,” I said.

We got close to the bar, and he said, “There’s someone over there I want to talk to. You go ahead and I’ll catch up with you.”

When I saddled up to the bar, Grant Sexton was next to me. He reached around me and put a hand on my hip. “Hi, there. Saw you dance at the Adonis Lounge. You’re a real looker and a great dancer. Can I buy you a drink?”

“I’m here with—”

“Beer or something harder?” he said, giving me a dazzling smile.

“Neither, I think,” I said. “I’m nineteen.”

“Then beer it is,” he said, giving me a wink, and ordering two beers.

He could have been Italian as touchy feely as he was with his hands. He pulled out of me quickly that I was going to acting school and established he was an actor, although he didn’t declare how important an actor he was. So, we had plenty to talk about and I lost track of how long it was taking for Winslow to get back to us.

After the first beer there was a second. As the second one was dying out, he was holding me close. Early in the third beer, he was running his fingers over my basket, and toward the end of that beer, he had taken my hand and put it on his basket and we were kissing.

Winslow arrived before Sexton could order another beer. They greeted each other, with me being surprised that they knew each other. I was between them, but there was a subtle change of Sexton withdrawing his embrace of me and Winslow taking over. It all went smoothly, and very soon Sexton said there was someone he needed to talk to, and he glided away.

Winslow and I stayed for him to have a drink and me to nurse what was pretty much an empty beer glass other than the foam. That was OK, though, I’d had enough to drink. I’d let Sexton feel me up and kiss me, and I was feeling a little guilty about that. I was Winslow’s date. Although Sexton had been kissing me when Winslow was coming up to the bar, he said nothing about that and acted like nothing had happened.

I thought that was a little peculiar, but later it all made sense.

We left the bar and were walking out on the street when a black cargo van with a Mercedes grill on it pulled up beside us. The passenger window rolled down, and a voice from inside said, “Winslow. Over here. Put your boy in the van.”

Winslow guided me over to the passenger window. Grant Sexton was in the driver’s seat. “Hello there, David,” he called out to me. “Climb in. Let’s go for a ride.”

Winslow opened the door. “Get in the van, David,” he said.

I gave him a panicked look. “You want me to—?”

“Get into the van, David,” he repeated. “This is what you need.” I got in the van and Joe closed the passenger door—from the curbside.

Grant Sexton drove for about eight blocks east on Santa Monica and pulled over in front of a Trader Joe’s supermarket. He switched the engine off and turned to me in the seat. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. You could get a taxi from here. I’d give you money for the cab. But Joe told me you were a virgin and it was getting in the way—and that you were ripe and, he thought, ready for it. Did you go on a date with Joe tonight ready to be fucked?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Do you want it from Joe Winslow more than you want it from me?”

“No,” I admitted.

“So, do you want to get out of the van and get a taxi home or stay with me through a fuck? I’ll guide you through it and treat you right.”

I paused, but not for long. “I’ll stay,” I said. Somehow it was OK that he’d laid it out and given me the choice. I did come out tonight thinking this was it—and that it was about time. He was a movie star—and a whole lot better looking than Joe Winslow was—and Joe was a good-looking guy. I’d been ready to go the distance with Winslow tonight.

“Good,” Sexton said. He cupped the back of my neck with a hand and pulled me in for a kiss. It wasn’t our first kiss. It was a lot deeper and more open than the one in the bar. While we were in the kiss, he unzipped me, put his hand in my fly, and moved it under the waistband of the red silk bikini briefs I’d danced the pole in at the Adonis Lounge. He encased my cock in a fist. I tensed up and covered his hand with mine as if to pull him away.

He came out of the kiss, though, and said, “Relax. We’re going to do this. Give it to me.” He took my lips with his again, I felt my legs go to rubber, and I moved my hand away, letting my arms dangle at my side. He pulled his face away but only a few inches and his hazel eyes captured mine and held them, searching my expression, as he stroked me off with his fist. He could tell when I was ready to blow because he dipped his head, opened his mouth over my cock, and took my ejaculate in his throat. After I’d come, he lowered his mouth, taking my balls, one after the other, in his mouth and sucking on them and teasing out the testes with his tongue. I lay back in the seat, a mound of gelatin, and moaned. With a jerk, I gave him a secondary ejaculation, and he lapped it up with his tongue.

Although, since we weren’t using the store, we were illegally parked right there in front of a downtown open-all-night supermarket, the windows of the van were smoked, so, even though there were people moving in and out of the grocery store, none of them saw what was going on in the front seat of the van.

“Sweet,” he said, straightening up behind the wheel. “You do want it.” He turned the ignition back on and moved around, the corner, south on a dark street that led into a warehouse area a block off Santa Monica. He pulled into an open gate in chain-link fencing and around the side of a darkened warehouse to a loading dock area between two dark warehouse buildings.

“Don’t worry, this area is safe,” he said, adding, “Now you,” as he unzipped himself and fished out his erection. Again, the hand cupped the back of my neck, but this time, it pulled my head down into his lap, and I opened my mouth over his cock. He held my head in place, cupped between his hands, as I gave him head. I’d dabbled in this before, but not very much, and I’m sure I didn’t do a great job. But I did an adequate job. He engorged.

Lifting my head off his cock, he said in a hoarse voice, “Go over the seat into the back of the van.” He put his hands under my armpits and helped me over the seat.

“Go slow, OK?” I squeaked out as I went over into the back of the van.

“Sure thing,” Sexton said, as he followed me, showing the dexterity of the star of an adventure TV series about as well as his stunt double did, I’ll bet.

The back of the van was tricked out for fucking, I saw when he’d flicked on the dim side lights. Blue carpeting went up the walls and across the ceiling and down the insides of the back doors. There were no windows. There were framed photos of male-on-male fuck positions on the walls in case Sexton forgot them, I guess. The floor was a cut-to-size wrestling mat. In addition to turning on the soft lighting, he’d turned on soft music with a steady beat to it as well.

We embraced and wrestled and bumped against each other as Sexton got both of us undressed and stretched out against each other on the floor of the van. There was a lot of preparation. Sexton took the lead on everything. I didn’t know anything to do but to open to him and give him what he wanted. He knew what to do with a virgin—how to prepare him and take it slow and open him up and, once mounted and sheathed, to take it all. To pop that male cherry, but slowly, coaxing it to nearly the sound of the pop when it was done.

This being my first time, he barebacked me and I didn’t know enough about any of it to ask for anything different.

We kissed and fondled and frotted each other’s cocks. He showed me out to sixty-nine, and he introduced me to a dildo and fingered me to work me open for my first anal.

“Here, sniff this,” he said, waving a small bottle under my nose.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“A popper,” he answered. “Harmless, but it will loosen you up, heighten your arousal.”

It did, and I took a whiff of it myself several times while he was working my body.

“Know what will help even more?” he asked.

“No, what?”

“A bit of bondage. Just your arms. You won’t feel any responsibility for what is happening. It’ll help the first time. OK?”

“Why not?” I responded, mellow from the effect of the popper.

“It’ll be good. You’ll take it better the first time, be less tense from having less guilt of crossing over.”

He used restraints at the corners of the backs of the front seats to bind my wrists over my head. Then he put a bolster under the small of my back, spread, bent, and raised my legs, and pushed his knees under my buttocks.

I got mouthy as he worked his cock inside me, and he told me to go ahead and let it out. He’d made the van virtually soundproof—that carpeting going up the walls and across the van ceiling—and we were in an isolated place anyway. Helpless, open, and vulnerable to him, I writhed under him, panting and groaning and crying out. It was rough going at first taking him inside me—but not as bad as I thought it would be. I had used a dildo for some months before, knowing I was moving toward this life, and Sexton had used a lubed dildo here in the van already. I’d taken a couple of hits from the poppers. I’d prepared myself for excruciating pain the first time.

Although the feel was different and none of it was pleasant at first, he went in fairly easily and then he held as I adjusted to him. When he started to pump, it was slow and shallow before the rhythm and depth increased, but we eventually reached the beat of the music in the background, he released my wrists, and I clutched his buttocks, moaned my surrender, and fell into the natural rhythm of the coupling. It wasn’t all that painful. The emotion of having a man inside me was pulling the feeling of pleasure in front of the pain and discomfort. It was a surprise that relaxed me and helped me take it.

And I was being fucked by a handsome TV and movie star. When it came to the crucial point of the deed being done, I gave over naturally and responded fully to the fuck, lying there, stretched out and completely open to him as he took everything he wanted. Any point of regret or reluctance had been an emotional, not a physical, barrier and a thin one. At the point of his climax, he took me with him, although I’d come before that. We both twitched and jerked and let our held breath out, slamming our pelvises against each other in brutal ecstasy, as he released—again and again.

Once wasn’t enough—not for either one of us. He fucked me and he fucked me and he fucked me—face on, from behind on all fours, from the side, him on his back and me above him, looking at the ceiling of the van. Every position he wanted me in or service wanted me to do for him—if I didn’t intuitively know how to perform it, all it took was a gentle manipulation of my body and I gave it to him. When he was done, I was totally used up; I had given him everything he wanted.

I was no longer a virgin—to much of anything one man can do to another—when, two hours later, he dropped me off at the apartment in Anaheim that I shared with three other guys and bowlegged and sore in ways I’d never been sore before, I climbed the stairs to the fourth floor.

That was over. That was done now.

* * * *

“I called you in here to let you know that $500 has been received toward your tuition bill.”

“Received to my tuition bill?” I asked, rather nonsensically. Five hundred dollars at that point was a lot of money for me. I’d come in Monday morning with a hundred dollars to deposit from what had been slipped into my waistband at the Adonis Lounge that Saturday night, and I’d been feeling like that was a real victory. Before I could get to the college financial office to turn that over, I’d been called in to be told about this even larger deposit.

“It’s for a scene you did with the TV star Grant Sexton,” the financial officer was saying, giving me a knowing smile. “Mr. Winslow has an arrangement set up for that.”

“Sexton? Scene? Mr. Winslow?” I said, still not catching up with it.

The financial officer was enjoying this and was giving me an assessing look that showed interest on his own part. “Oh, didn’t you know? This is a regular arrangement. Our Mr. Winslow procures young men for Grant Sexton, for a fee, to the young man, to Mr. Winslow, and to the school. If you got $500 out of this, you must of have sold to him as a virgin. Is that right, David? Were you a virgin to men before Saturday night? A really cute trick like you? Did you enjoy Sexton? Ready for something bigger now? Perhaps for $300, you might—”

“Uh, thanks for telling me,” I said, tucking my own $100 back in my jeans pocket. Putting that toward tuition wasn’t a pressing need now. Considering how I’d gotten it, maybe a more frivolous purchase was in order. I stood up from the chair and backed to the door. “I think I’m late for a class now. Sorry. And thanks.”

I was out of there in a flash, but I ran into Joe Winslow in the hall on my way to music class.

“There you are. Everything go OK Saturday night?” Winslow asked.

“Fine,” I said, eyes downcast.

“Really fine?” he asked, taking my chin between two fingers and raising my face so that we were looking into each other’s eyes. “You were ready for this, David. You wanted this. You were expecting me to fuck you Saturday night, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And you would have gone with me willingly?”

“Yes.”

“You had something sellable Saturday night, David. You’re in Hollywood now, where everything you can do to get into the industry and ahead is free game. You made money off the first time. It’s a renewable resource. It’s worked out well for you.”

“Yes, I suppose,” I reluctantly admitted. “But I was told it was recorded.”

“He fucked you in his van, didn’t he?”

“Yes, but—”

“You didn’t see the cameras in the top corners?”

“No.”

“A TV and movie star. And now recorded—from several angles. When edited it will surely make a best-selling video. He’s famous and you’ve got a great face and body. You’re on film being fucked by Gran Sexton. Hadn’t you dreamed of fucking with TV and movie stars like Grant Sexton when you came to Hollywood?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“Did he fuck you well? Do you think you took it well and looked good on camera taking it?”

“Yes.”

“So, everything’s OK? You’re good with building on this, on working on your career—with me, to the extent I can help you?”

“Yes, I guess?”

“You just guess?”

“No. It’s fine.”

“So, you will still go with me—will take what you were willing to take when you went out with me on Saturday night? You’ll take my cock in exchange for me helping you get ahead in the business?”

“Yes.”

“Go to lunch with me today. I’ll clear your afternoon classes.”

“Yes.”

He fucked me on a motel room bed. He was already starting to give me private lessons on top of what I got in the school classroom—more practical instruction on how to get ahead—and, in this case, how to give great head.

I’d already gotten a revelation when Winslow had undressed. “Shit, you’re big. Long.” I said.

He laughed. “A little above size, yes, and a lot longer in comparison with Grant Sexton. You didn’t realize he’s built small?”

“No, I don’t have that much experience with men in erection.”

“That’s a little gift I give to guys I acquire for him who aren’t experienced—like you. He likes to pop male cherries, but he isn’t that taxing in doing so. You lost it to him for the first time, but he didn’t tear you apart. Say thanks, Joe.”

“Thanks, Joe,” I said.

“I think that’s why Sexton likes to do virgins—or one reason he does. He’s the first, so there’s no comparison for his sex partner to make. To them every first cock is enormous. The question of whether you thought he fucked you good. Did he lay you out and fill you? Did you feel him moving inside you?”

“Yes, he fucked me really good. But you say I have more—longer and thicker—to look forward to?”

“Yes, I’m a lot longer. I’m going to make you yodel.” And then he laughed and when I didn’t respond, he said, “Say thanks, Joe, to me, David. We’re going to get you to where you can more than pay your way with your body. Today, I’m going to make you yodel. Tomorrow you’ll be prepared for a guy who is both long and thick.”

And he did. By the end of the afternoon, I was yodeling.

For starters, though, he sat on the foot of the bed, knees spread, and I knelt between his thighs.

“Yes, suck on the head. More gently than that. Let your tongue glide down the underside. Now back up. Flick the urethra—the piss slit—with the tip your tongue, like you’re going to get your tongue in there and fuck the slit. Ah, yes, like that. Very nice. You’re doing very well, David.”

After pulling me up and turning me onto my back on the bed, he positioned himself, and, as I arched my back, focusing wildly on the ceiling tiles, and panted, groaned, and moaned, he entered, entered, entered me and fucked the shit out of me. I yodeled. Sexton’s fucking was nothing like Winslow’s fucking. I was used.

Afterward, as we lay in a stretched embrace on the bed, he whispered, “There’s money to be made in films. Porn films. I know a director. It wouldn’t take much to prepare you. The films would love you. You’ve got a great little body. You can play younger and vulnerable. Innocent. A virgin over and over again.”

“Movies? Porn movies?”

“$700 or $800 a scene. You wouldn’t have to worry about tuition money. You could move into your own apartment.”

“But my reputation. I wouldn’t—?”

“You’re already on film in a Grant Sexton scene—it’s already out there or soon to be. It’s a close-kept secret in Hollywood,” Winslow said. “Lots of stars have started that way.” Then he reeled off a lot of names, going back to the beginning of film. Grant Sexton was one of them. “Of course, you’d have to let the director fuck you, so he’ll be assured you can and will do it well on film.”

“I understand,” I said.

And so, within the space of two weeks, I had experienced my initial three times under a man with his cock inside me. Grant Sexton was first. Joe Winslow was second. And the director of the gay male porn film, The Pool Boy’s First Time, was third.

* * * *

And, number four, in the filming of The Pool Boy’s First Time, was the nine-and-a-half, thick inches Brazilian porn star, Ricardo Alcanzar. I’d managed to go up significantly in measurements in just four goes at it.

“Cut!” the director called out. “Very nice, guys. Very nice, indeed. The ravishment of the innocent. You’re a master, Rick. And you did a great job, David. The buyers will love you. Just do that over and over again and you’ll be a star.”

Alcanzar pulled out of me and rose off of my shuddering body on the pool bed. He smoothed the cum he’d already shot on my belly, which was mixed with the cum I’d unloaded as well, and leaned down and kissed me on the mouth. That meant something. That wasn’t for the cameras.

“Great lay, kid,” he whispered. “You’re really, really nice. Maybe go out for a drink together after this is wrapped up and we’d gotten showered?”

“Uh, yes, I guess so.” Me out on a date with a mega porn star? Just two weeks after being out with Grant Sexton? Sweet.

“Then maybe back to my place? I’ll do you right. We won’t be on camera—won’t have to worry about camera angles. I can hold positions longer; make you squeal real good.”

“OK, sure.” No cameras. Just the hunky Brazilian with his nine-and-a-half-inch cock.

He left me then, immobilized on my back on the pool bed, one leg bent, my foot flat on the surface of the pool bed. The arm on that side thrown across my forehead, my head arched over the top of the bed. My other arm and leg dangling off the side of the bed. My pelvis elevated on a pillow, my gaping hole showing, cum dribbling out of it. The cameras had lingered for half a minute after Alcanzar had withdrawn, making love to my body. The lingering shot would be retained in the final cut of the film.

The director walked over to the pool bed and looked down at me. He already was bare-chested. I watched him as he stripped off his jeans and briefs and straddled my pelvis on the pool bed. I jerked and gave a little cry as his thrust inside me, not unusually long but beer can cock thick. His mouth went to my nipples, and I moved my hands to his shoulder blades, digging in, moaning, as he began to pump me. Knowing better now, I began to move with him soon, getting into the mutual rhythm of fuck more quickly, getting more and more pleasure out of the act.

Number five.

He hadn’t even asked. He’d just assumed he had privileges. I was learning that that went with the new territory I was entering. Oh, well.