The People in Rossford: Chapter 26

Being Borrowed

“That’s it,” Guy said, soothingly. “That’s it.” Then he shut up.

Guy had worked with Jack Corby a long time ago, and on his sets, while the boys were fucking, he talked to them, he interjected, “Go a little harder. Really thrust into him. You’re liking that, aren’t you?”

Every artistic bone in Guy McClintock’s body protested against this. He stopped himself from talking. No one wanted to hear his voice. It was best to not be there, as much as you could. If you were too present, how could they get in the zone? How could Tristan get that look on his face? Something like terror and anticipation, if the cameraman positioned a little above them, zooming onto his face, was too present? You wanted to get every bead of sweat, every whimper, every vein that rose up in his cheeks. You had to be an artist. No one really knew this. No one thought about it. The reality was that increasingly the watchers of gay porn were fat and lonely, or skinny and lonely and the closest thing they ever had to sex was the occasional blowjob. There were the lucky ones who had lives sort of like an episode of Queer as Folk, full of blow and blowjobs and sucking and fucking, but they were not the ones who paid thirty dollars a month for a subscription to Guy McClintock’s Rude Boy’s

“Oh… Oh, God Oh, God!” Tristan whimpered in an increasingly nasal voice. The camera swooped down on the top of Noah’s bent head, on his back, on the softness of his butt cheeks, concentrated on the gentle and insistent drive of his hips as he pressed into Tristan, whose long legs were thrown back. One was hooked around Noah’s waist now.

The sound was up just enough that with the camera on Noah, while his tongue was out a little from his hardly parted lips, you could hear him breathing, quicker and quicker now. He was a professional. The boy was a fucking artist, though he didn’t know it. He knew exactly how to do it so the camera could see his cock, which was thick for a boy so small, pressing into Tristan. Tristan knew what he was doing too. They were deep in the pleasure. His boys were always deep in the pleasure. But after so long a time it was as unconscious as breathing to know how to fuck so the camera got it.

They turned so that Tristan was on his hands and knees and the camera from all angles could see Noah coming into his fuzzy, blond ass. What a perfect ass, like the sun! Guy thought.

Oh, fuck!” Noah caught his breath and pulled out quickly, pulling off the condom. That’s what they needed. Even real amateur porn, the shit that the kids were baking at home now and tossing on the net, knew that this was the pay shot.

“Oh, God! Fuck!”

Noah did it like this, his body rocking, his voice catching in his throat, shooting his load, jerking his body forward like the kick of a gun. Once, twice, in the end five times, when the camera went to Tristan’s back and filmed the progress of Noah’s orgasm.

They lay still for a long time, which Guy filmed, knowing he’d have time enough to edit what he wanted. For the movie he wanted some sense of a long time where they swooned in ecstasy, yet a real long time would bore the clientele, who usually didn’t have the patience required for a real sex life.

Noah lay on his stomach, the camera loving his smooth, firm little body, creamy as a cloud, the curls of his brown hair. Tristan’s hands negligently went into it, stroking it the way he was stroking his own cock.

“That was good, Noah,” he said, with a chuckle. “You ready for me to fuck you, now?”

Looking half asleep, not opening his eyes, Noah nodded.

“Oh, God, fuck me! Oh, fuck me! Oh, God! Uh. Uh. Oh… fuck!”

They had fucked it up. He would have to tell that Danasia girl after they finished up. In a good movie what would have happened was Noah would fuck Tristan until Tristan came, he would do it like a farmer in Vermont tapping a tree until all the sap spilled from him. And then Tristan would do the same to him. The camera would watch his body being fucked like thunder through the sky, and watch the seed shoot out of him, in turn, as he groaned. The flip flop was the best movie. They had not done this. So a few hours would have to pass, to get them good and loaded again, and then they would shoot that. Or, the pieces of this movie would be clipped with the next one and somewhere along the line the desired film would be produced. It was all art.

“Uh! Uh! Awww!” Noah wailed while he heard Tristan’s body slapping against his. He opened his eyes to look up and Tristan’s beautiful, long, innocent face was turning red. Beads of sweat were coming up, his butter colored hair was standing up. A low growl was coming out of his throat that Noah joined with a shout like a Hallelujah.

It was art, but it wasn’t made up. He had been to Pride gatherings and club gatherings, with Paul and Burt usually, where the great unwashed clapped for him like he was Gandhi, and being a pornstar meant something. But there he was largely untouchable. In most of the world he was untouchable. Years ago, he’d developed a scab on the back of his neck. His grandmother had put salicylic acid on it until he could feel it burning, and the skin returned to life. Life was pain. He was pretty much a scab. But right now, this was real. His body shaking, being fucked to the deepest level, Tristan’s cock drilling into the deepest part of him again and again was real. And the more real he was, the more he writhed and wriggled and moaned, the more his teeth chattered and his eyes rolled back in his head while Tristan pushed his legs further back and the cameras moved around him, then more famous he was and the more money he made.

They wouldn’t have to shoot again. Here was the pay load. Noah felt it. To his surprise he felt it. His thick cock, clutched in his fist, his body jerked as the orgasm came up from the depths of him with a groan and a groan and another groan.

As the last of the coming rang itself from him sweat limned his body, semen slicked his hand. It unfastened from his still hard penis and Tristan, pulled out of him, getting ready to shoot his load over him, marveling, “That was beautiful, Noe.”

Tristan throbbed deep inside of him still, Noah tightened himself over the absence of Tristan while, above him, Tristan was bringing himself to orgasm. Yes, it was beautiful.

WHEN NOAH RILEY was just sixteen—or maybe he told himself it was sixteen, it might have well still been fifteen—Bobby Reinbolt asked him to suck his dick.

When he asked Noah, he went weak in the knees and it was like some perverse bolt shot through him almost making him collapse. Bobby was the track star just like his younger brother was the football star, and Noah was as obsessed with Bobby was the rest of the school was. He had fooled around. He had done things, almost without any sense of why he was doing them, or even from great desire. But this was the first time real desire shot through him and undid him, like atoms flying, like wine evaporating and only leaving that hot, intoxicating smell and Bobby said, tenderly, thickly. “Do it right here. Do against the high school wall.”

He let Noah unbuckle his jeans and pull them down. Noah trembled, not believing this was happening to him. His imagination was slow to catch up with his past experience, and despite all the things he’d done he never felt sexual, let alone homosexual. There really wasn’t much of a word for it in Rummelsville, or at least not in his house. He was like an altar boy in front of the tabernacle, so reverently pulling Bobby’s trunks down, so, tenderly taking his cock in his hands, a heavy, twitching cock, the vein underneath, throbbing with sacred blood. Noah opened his mouth and closed his eyes and took Bobby in.

It ended when Bobby groaned and Noah coughed a little as Bobby held his head.Noah had tried to pull away at first, but Bobby’s hands holding his head wouldn’t let him, so he didn’t try anymore. Thick and salty, semen flooded his mouth, went down his throat. He tried not to gag. He heard: “Yeah. That’s it.”

And he heard it behind him. Not from Bobby.

“Yeah, make that faggot take it.”

Bobby held Noah’s head firm, his mouth full of dick.He massaged Noah’s head and said, “Take it, faggot. Yeah, take it.”

And then Bobby was reluctantly pulling his cock from Noah’s mouth and slipping it into his shorts. Pulling his pants back up, he said, “Your turn, Nelson.”

And the boy behind Noah was now in front of him, taking his jeans down, and Noah knew there were others, and that it would be foolish to run. So now Nelson, with none of Bobby’s gentleness fucked his mouth, and then Jack Elsener, and then Toby Simpson, and it must have been four of them at least.

Something went off in him, at last. Enough of this nightmare. He got up, mouth full of come, coughing, throat sore.

“Where are you going, faggot?” A hand reached out for him. “We’re not finished yet.”

“I’m,” Noah coughed on his voice, and spat, “finished.”

He tried to walked away. And then he tried to run when one reached out for him. He ran a few feet, terrified, hearing laughter behind before his foot tripped and he felt his chin bumping on the grass on the other side of the blacktop.

“Look, faggot,” the voice behind him said with a jovial chuckle, firmly pinning him down, working his belt and yanking his pants down, “I told you, I ain’t finished with you. And just for making me run, I’m gonna fuck you. All right?”

And then he did. It isn’t true it hurts to be fucked. It hurts when someone doesn’t know what he’s doing, when you don’t know what’s being done to you, and you’ve never opened yourself up before, when you don’t know your own body. That night, his mouth full of grass and dirt, a two hundred pound football player bearing down on him, moaning, groaning, snorting like a bull, full of lust, while the others joined to watch, Noah learned to leave his own body. Sex was a spiritual thing. It would send you right out of yourself.

A FRIEND HAD SAID he looked like California.

“You’ve got the shorts, and the hair, and the… I don’t know,” Daphne said.

There was a mall up in Portage, a half hour away, and by now everyone looked like California. It was as simple as walking into Hollister or one of the many stores full of what his mother wiltingly called “atmosphere” with a roll of her eyes, and buying the cargo shorts, the snug shirt with the logo, the hemp necklaces no self respecting hippie or pothead would ever pay for, the overpriced, and completing the look with thin and impractical leather flipflops.

This was not what Noah thought when he was eighteen. When he was eighteen reality was not a friend. A face pushed into the grass and a rape in the night, surrounded by men he couldn’t see, men who could have been anyone, who made him play sick and skip class, and then turn sick in truth had promptly taught him to escape reality or too much thought. Too much thought terrified him.

So when Daphne said he looked like California, he decided the only thing to do was go to California. He waited until graduation. He’d been saving up money at the store in Michigan City and Billy, who Naomi was living with at the time, sure didn’t want him. It was easy to go. And after a lifetime of Rummelsville, nothing on the streets of LA was that bad.

Guy was working in California then. He had plans for making great films there. When Noah came into the studio, he had already made Pizza Slut. Noah wasn’t sure if that was the type of movie Guy had always longed to make or not, but it was bigger than any movie he’d ever been in. What was more, he had seen it, and to him Johnny Mellow was a star.

For the audition, which Noah wanted to do because he felt confident he could really be a star in this, all he had to do was take of his clothes, stroke himself, show his large cock, stroke it, bend over, and have someone expose his asshole. That was the part that made him shudder. All he remembered was the rape, and no hand but his own and but to wipe had been there.

This was why when Guy asked in another filmed interview, “Do you want to be fucked?” Noah immediately said yes.

Whatever people said about porn, and about the sex business, Noah experienced this. Back in Rummelsville where all the guys had been straight and Christian, and half of those guys had performed sex acts on him building up to rape outside of a parking lot, he had experienced hypocrisy, cruelty, pain and then just the simple truth that nothing he’d ever heard meant anything to him. Daphne and a few other girls said he was cute. Later on the streets men had begged for his cock, his ass or his mouth, with such greed he knew they didn’t see him. He could have been Quazimodo they were in such a state. But here, for the first time, there was attention from Guy. There was acceptance from Burt, strong and buff, and from Johnny who looked all innocence and was also a Hoosier. Guy asked him, simply, if he wanted to be fucked. No chuckling in his ear, no hilbillly son of a bitch yanking his trousers down and telling him ‘Ahm gonna fuck you.”

“Well, try it with this, first,” Guy said. “You gotta practice.”

The practice films of him with the pink gel dildo, and the Pyrex dildo, fucking himself were all there, of Paul, as Johnny Mellow, inserting fingers in his ass, shocking him into a new pleasure.

“It hurts when someone doesn’t know what they’re doing,” Johnny said. “And when you don’t know what you’re doing, either. When you don’t know how to take someone in. Don’t worry,” he chuckled. “I’ll be easy on you. If it’s too much, just say stop.”

He didn’t say stop. The camera hardly mattered. By now Noah knew Johnny, so it was more or less comfortable talking to him. And this was work, work that allowed him to get other types of work where he wasn’t naked or pimping himself to desperate men on the street. He could never remember what he wore, but Paul—or Johnny—came in, chewing gum, looking country and innocent, his marmalade hair a little spiked, that sweetness and shyness in his green eyes. He had one of those old Cuban shirts from the 50’s white with a black stripe down the middle, but it was snug on him and when it was time, when Guy stopped talking, Paul took the gum out of his mouth and put it in the wrapper like a gentleman, and then he pulled Noah to him. And it was the first time he’d been with Paul, the first time he’d done this. Paul’s mouth was all spearmint. Noah was trembling and Paul was whispering where no camera could hear, “Don’t be afraid.Don’t fall apart. I got you,” He was kissing him and whispering reassurance, making love to him, undressing him slowly, covering his body in kisses, gently inserting his fingers, moving them so that Noah made a music and cried out with joy before, in time, Paul sat him gently down, and meekly, humbly, whispered for permission, and then, pulling him down slowly, entered.

“It can be,” Paul said, as all of Paul filled him and Noah tightened on him in shock of the pleasure, wanting to pull him all in, adjusting to sweet Paul’s rhythm, “the most wonderful thing in the world.”

And so it was.