What Price Fantasy

He isn't tall, but he's larger than life. He isn't ripped, but he's brawny. Like a thoroughbred fighter, Brad is beefy in all the right places: robust thighs, meaty abs, and hands that can break my neck with the force of a nutcracker. His left arm bears a skull and dueling swords tattoo - an imprint of danger – and his head is striking to behold. In its grandness, his head brims with carnal secrets as ancient as sex itself. To glimpse at those secrets is to gaze into eyes the blue of Neptune. To experience those secrets is to feel a cock that inspires the awe... and fear... of a cop baton.

Brad's cock - a vein demarcates it; foreskin wraps around the base of a head that glistens with pre-cum; and it craves punk asshole 24/7. Brad knows the power of his cock. He knows the power of pleasure. He works with his body. He's a bartender, a former forest ranger, a whore, and a porn dude. You've seen him. You've seen him in jeans and a tank top, chomping on a cigar while ordering a slave boy to lick his boots. You've seen him in leather chaps, lying on his back as a muscle asshole pumps the cum out of him. You've seen him in army fatigue, in red jock straps, and in jogging shorts. Whatever fantasy action figure Brad embodies, he is no mellow fornicator. He punches as ruthlessly as he fucks. He spits as copiously as he cusses: “Take it, bitch... Nasty ass... Deep in your slut guts...”

Brad isn't just empty words. He does what he says. No bull shitter, that one – a bona fide trucker mouth.           

And that is what intrigues me about Brad. In an era of steroid-manufactured physiques and photo shopped images, here is a man who is raw and real, a man who fucks upon instinct, no holds barred. That he takes pleasure in being filmed proves that he is both unapologetic and proud of his animalism. The more savage his butt plowing, the more potent is his orgasm.

Man fucking is how Brad expresses his maleness.

With most porn stars, I am content to jack off to them, holding them in my imagination as nothing more than celluloid anatomies, two-dimensional erogenous zones. I couldn't have that with Brad. Since I spend dough on his porn, I had to get the real deal. He's a living and breathing corporeal being after all, not a CGI animation. In this way, Brad is accessible. And his accessibility means that anything with him is possible. So one day I decided to surf for Brad's e-mail on the internet.

We met in April 2008. Brad flew in from Chicago. He came to San Francisco for a sex party; I was the pre-party favor. We were scheduled to meet at 7:30 that night. As I left the gym an hour before, I called him to confirm our session.                 

“I want to eat out your ass,” I said.

“You better work for it,” he said.

Hearing his voice for the first time on my phone got my adrenaline pumping. He was talking to me. At last, the man of many a man's fantasies was talking to me and saying the things I wanted to hear. And what a voice – tough, bossy, masculine.

The plan was that I would leave my front door open. He was to go down the hallway to the last room and there I would be, naked. We would take it from there. The true professional that Brad is, he did not veer from the agenda.

Brad walked in dressed in a black tank top, black boots against white socks, and army shorts flaunting a bulge. He grabbed my head and spat into my mouth, then raised his arm and shoved my face into his armpit. His armpit was rank, sweaty, as intoxicating as poppers. Giddy with delirium, I unzipped his shorts to allow his penis freedom. At the sight and feel of Brad's prick, my imagination faltered. Hard penises have never been a shortage in my life, but Brad's engorged man muscle was something else. This was an ass demolition in the making. My mouth had never stretched wider. My eyes had never teared up so from such gagging. If this was how his dick felt in my head, then what more up my fucking butthole?

In a second that it took me to catch my breath, Brad was naked. He turned around, propped a leg on the edge of the bed, and bent over.

“Eat my raunchy ass,” he ordered.    

Brad's ass was as round and luminous as two moons. I was lost in a space of white sheets, white walls, and white floor. A TV on a table and a pair of laptops placed on the bed, all of which flickered porn images featuring Brad himself, illuminated the room. But nothing lured me more like a blind man to light than those manly butt cheeks.   

Brad spread his ass to show off the center of the universe: his butthole. It was dark and smooth. And it was pulsating. None of Brad's porn had ever shown this element of his talent. The man was a pro in summoning attention with a wink of his bunghole. This was more seductive than a kiss. Those butt lips were daring me to plunge into an abyss of otherworldly promises.  

His hole tasted of ass sweat and leather, of piss-stained jock strap and meat. 

“Deeper,” Brad said.  

He sure as hell was moist and satin smooth up there. My tongue slid inside him with the ease of a serpent.

“Stick your finger in.”

His rectal walls clamped around my middle finger. I was literally flipping off Brad up his asshole, falling deep into the core of his being with my fuck you finger. 

How many years had a fantasized about this? Jacked off to this? How many times had I shot my load to this and then collapsed on my pillow a heap of despondency because what had just transpired was all in my head? Now, no more. I was finger fucking and tongue fucking the alpha male of my desires. Brad was flesh and blood, cock and ass, sweat and spit. I wasn't thinking. I wasn't imagining. Everything that was happening was an act of base instinct. I was breathing in Brad's inner male heat as my oxygen. I was sucking up his butt scum and sweaty balls as my sustenance.         

Brad was my life support.     

He stood upright and turned to face me. I remained on my knees. Brad's cock was palpitating, starving for butthole attention. “Get on the bed so I can fuck you,” Brad said.         

I got on my fours. Porn scenes of Brad playing on the laptops dominated my vision: he was nailing a trailer boy on a pool table; he was manned up in construction gear while piston fisting a man hog; he was hammering his pole into a wall of male asses lined up for his taking. My hole for the first time was feeling what those bottoms he was abusing on screen were feeling. Brad's penis sent me into orbit for an infinite cycle around the sun. No other part of my body existed. The only sensation was of a giant inside me, pummeling in and out, prodding around, bludgeoning the innards up my anal passage and beyond. Liver, heart, brain, appendix – all of that ceased to be. I ceased to be.        

Brad had so invaded the essence of my existence that I had become his cock.         

“Fuck!” I yelled. “Fuck!” I kept yelling. What else could I yell? Say? How else could I express what I was feeling, what had become of me?    

“You got that right, faggot,” Brad said.          

I shut my eyes. Brad's butt bashing coupled with his man odor and bodily secretions on my face plunged me into myself, deep into the spots of my interiors that he was ravaging. I was imploding. I once read that Brad had grown up in a mid-western farm town, that he had been a forest ranger before finding his calling as a porn star whore who moonlights as a bartender. Since then, I had been obsessed with knowing how this red neck, white trash farm stud fucks guy butt.    

Now I knew.  

I sucked on the finger I had rammed inside Brad. I envisioned his manhole, that irresistible orifice. I envisioned his pissing in his tight 501's. The wet spot on his crotch was expanding to his thighs. He guzzled down more beer from a bottle. Beer wet his black goatee. His stallion urine continued to gush out of that dick now ripping apart my crap chute. I envisioned him naked save for his boots, lying on a rock and jacking off while fingering his greasy porn hole. He was raising his legs in the air to show off his rectum, then ejaculating on his Smokey ranger hat while sniffing his own scent and licking his own taste off his fuck finger. He ejaculated hard. His butthole spasmed upon each mountain-high squirt of wad. I envisioned...

“You want it?” Brad asked with a meanness that demanded only one answer.         

“Yes,” I said.  

“You want it?”

“Fuck, yeah. Please give it to me. Way up inside me.”         

I held onto Brad's hands. We were thrashing back and forth on the bed like a rocket hurtling toward the moon.

Brad emitted a cry as his sex fluids surged forth a flood from a broken dam. Jism smoldered in my bowels and splattered out of me. Brad didn't stop fucking. He didn't stop coming. He didn't stop grunting.      

He didn't stop.           

“Be one with me, Brad,” I whimpered. “Be one with me. Be one. Be one.”

One final gasp. At last, Brad crashed on top of me and wrapped his arms around me. His perspiration coalesced with mine. His breath heated the nape of my neck.

“Stay in me,” I pleaded, soft as a prayer. “Don't let go. Be one with me. Don't let go.”

His dick was still hard. My butt lips could feel his shaft thumping as he unleashed his last drops. He tightened his hold of me. His breathing filled my head.

We were melting as one.

 Brad had me stand beside him in front of a full-length mirror. It was as if he were seeing me for the first time. He shoved a finger up my ass to feel the wreckage he had caused.        

“Is this why you work out? So that you can get fucked all the time?”     

Brad and I stand almost at equal height. I am not a small guy either. Guys tell me I'm muscular. But in the wake of his dynamite fuck, Brad at that moment could have been ten feet tall.           

“Yes,” I said. “I work out so that you will want to screw me. Again and again.”

He inserted another finger into me, then another. Brad's fingers up my butt serving as a cork to prevent his cum from spilling out; his alpha spunk, like blood, rushing to my head and pumping my heart; his sweat bronzing my body – how could I not enslave myself to this man?

There Brad stood beside me, shoulder to shoulder, head to head, yet how far larger he appeared. In the mirror his blue orbs were as mystifying as unchartered territories; his workman's body was a missile of semen; his head was ever grander with other secrets I had yet to discover.         

There Brad claimed his possession of me one more time, my heaven and hell, my fire and ice. He replaced his fingers with his penis. His penis elicited from me a praise to the All Mighty. His pounding threw me into a bottomless pit of profanities. And though his steaming man seed was burning anew inside of me, try as I did to hold on to Brad, he was as elusive as snow melting upon the first sunrise of spring.     

Just as suddenly as Brad had stepped into my room and entered my body, he was gone.

But not forever.

Brad moved from the Windy City to the City by the Bay in 2011. Since then I have been soliciting his services as often as once a month. “You have a nice ass,” he has told me. “You're fun... You're crazy...”     

Crazy is right. The guy loves to plow the brains out of me. The more I lose my senses, my pride, and my self-respect, the more his man whore dick grows monstrous. He likes it best when I'm on my fours. That way he can feel his balls slapping against my asshole.      

“Your ass looks nice like that,” he always says. “Your ass feels so hot.”      

Once, I was yelling so loud that the windows could have cracked. I arched my back. I spread my legs further apart to ease the cramps on my thighs. This caused my butt to jut up as though it were begging Brad to rip me open till the end of time. Amid my tortured yells, I pleaded, “Spare me, Brad. Take a break. Please.”          

“You sure?” he asked. “You feel too fuckin' good.”        

His voice coming from above me was like the voice of God.          

“Yes. Please. Break.”      

“No fuckin' way, pig. You better take it if you want your money's worth.”         

“Yes, Brad. Yes.” How could I deny the command of a man I worship?       

My obedience must have pleased Brad because after a train ride of butthole slamming, he released himself from me and sat upright against the headboard in front of me. His ramrod was glistening with his pre-spooge and my butt juice. The look on his face was a fusion of revulsion and delight.       

“Get over here,” Brad said.           

I slid in between his legs. “Yes, Brad,” I said.           

I deep throated Brad's cock.        

Brad stroked my hair.         

I nibbled on his balls.       

He raised his legs.      

I lapped up his shithole.       

He caressed my back.      

As I caught my breath, I said, “You know, you can be a really nice guy at times.”           

“Don't tell anyone,” Brad said.         

It has gotten to be that with each fuck, Brad reveals a tid bit of himself: he is devoted to a boyfriend of many years porn hot as he; he keeps to himself at the gym; and if he is prone to silence, then that's because he's more shy than stuck up.      

Brad can be all giving, too. Almost. On one occasion, Brad nearly declined his fee. “You don't have to...” But he said no more. And on a couple of occasions, he let me kiss him, but no more after that.           

Even so, Brad is a nice guy, more than nice – he's goddamn amazing - though I'm not to tell anyone. Neither am I to kiss him nor am I to love him.           

Still, I need to believe that Brad's genuine moments - his personal revelations and gestures of affection – are hints of a friendship in embryo. I need to believe that something real and lasting can transcend the ephemerality of a fantasy, that his hunger for me isn’t a mere act he puts on in exchange for cash.

Any time outside of the bedroom that I chance upon Brad, I try to glimpse at emotions that lurk beneath his image. At the gym or in the Castro, at a bar or on the subway, I give him a hug and plant a peck on his cheek. Brad smiles, eyes aglow and all teeth. He hugs me back. He pats my behind. In a voice that’s both gruff and endearing, he says, “Good to see ya.”

He might mean it. He might not. Maybe I’ll never know.