Among the Rich and Famous

© 2007 by Anel Viz. All rights reserved.


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         He was a made man, where he’d always wanted to be.  He’d known all along he had what it takes, and he’d been right.  He’d landed an audition in less than a week, nailed it and the guy who auditioned with him, and before a year was up his first photo shoot had made the centerfold and Cumstock Studios had released a half-dozen of his films, all of them winners.  They’d offered him a contract for an unprecedented twenty films that promised him (appropriately enough) top billing and left him free to negotiate his own magazine spreads and live appearances; they’d taken a mold of his dick for a line of dildos and he got royalties for every one sold; he had a fan club and a following of groupies too; and he won best actor at the erotic film festival, which hardly ever went to a man who only made gay porn.  Now, after more than a dozen years in the business and pushing forty, he was earning five thousand more per film than the other models, and he’d invested his money carefully and was ready to retire, but first he wanted to make one more film, just him and his lover.  The studio, however, wasn’t buying the idea.  He was sure he’d convince them eventually – he knew how to drive a hard bargain, so they always caved in and let him have his way – but it would take some doing.

       He’d become a star almost overnight, but it had taken a few years for him to become the star he wanted to be.  First they didn’t like the name Pay, but they thought Otis was worse, so at least he got rid of that one.  “Jiz’ll find a name for you,” the director told him, meaning the producer and co-owner of Cumstock Studios, Jiz Johnson.  It also turned out that they had pegged him for a top man, and he’d had his heart set on another kind of pegging.  On the other hand, he was lucky enough to meet the man who was to become his lifetime partner on the set of his very first shoot, a guy who knew the ropes and took him under his wing... took him under him, period.

       Jerry had been the fluffer for his first feature film.  He’d been standing next to him when the director went over the script (not that they gave him any dialogue) and heard him complain when he found out he was only going to top.

       “Sorry, but the writer has you down as an exclusive top.”

       Jerry thought the kid was about to break down and cry when he heard that, so he whispered to him, “Don’t sweat it.  You can take it up the ass all you want if you keep it under wraps.  Almost all their tops do.”

       “Yeah, but who with?”

       “I’d volunteer in a heartbeat.  Here it’s all about dick size, but if you ask me, it would be no less of a waste to let such a gorgeous bubble butt go unfucked.”


       “Yes, me.  I’m officially a studio passive, but I live my own life when I get off work.  How about it?”

       “Lemme think it over.”  Jerry didn’t look like much, but he seemed to know all the ins and outs of the studio and might be a useful resource person.  “Only one way fer me to find out if the kid got real talent,” he thought.  So when it came time for him to get on set he asked for a fluff.

       “You don’t need fluffing,” the director told him.

       “That ain’t fair.  All them other guys got fluffed, an’ they was tellin’ me that this here Jerry got the best mouth in the business.  Why not me?”

       “OK then, thirty seconds so you can find out what fluffing is all about.”

       Those thirty seconds did the trick; the kid had it over Joe hands down in the cocksucking department.  He gave him the address of the motel where he was staying and asked him to come that night.

       “Not yet, my friend.  We’ll wait on that until we know what I can do for you... and until you can afford me.”

       “I ain’t payin’ fer sex.  I do it free fer those I like; otherwise I git paid fer it.”

       “Then let’s just say I’m flattered you like me and leave it at that for now.”

       When Jiz Johnson got to see the assembled takes for Ballbusters and the director asked him to OK the film for release, he asked, “Who’s the new model with the ten inches?”

       “Nine and a half.”

       Jiz prided himself on his ability to size up a cock.  “OK, who’s the new the model with the nine and a half inches that look like ten?”

       “We haven’t chosen a name for him yet.”

       “Have him stop by my office so we can work out a contract.  How come you didn’t give him any dialogue?  Squeaky high voice?”

       “No, he sounds really masculine and sexy.  It’s his hick accent.  He got to California less than a month ago.”

       “What kind of accent?”


       “Well, send him around.”

       Jiz had expected a guy wet behind the ears whom he could walk all over.  He was surprised that the newcomer wasn’t about to jump in and sign anything.  He was even more surprised to find that there were things he considered more important than money.

       “Nevada Buck.  That me?”

       “Yes.  Don’t you like the name?”

       “No sir, I’m done with Nevada.  I don’t wanna be no cowboy.”

       Saying that took guts, or else the guy was stupid.  Jiz was a pot-bellied, middle-aged queen who liked to dress up in cowboy outfits that went heavy on the sequins.  “What’s wrong with cowboys?”  he asked archly.

       “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with cowboys, Mr. Johnson.  I jes’ don’t wanna be one no more.  I been a cowboy all my life an’ I come here to make m’self a new life.”

       “You don’t have to be a cowboy off screen.  And you can call me Jiz.”

       “With a name like Nevada?  Who’re ya kiddin’?”  No, the guy wasn’t stupid; he’d found a way out of that one easily enough.  But he went on: “An’ I don’t wanna play a cowboy all the time either.  I want that in the contract too: ‘Not all cowboys’.”

       Now he was pushing it.  “Have you ever listened to yourself talk?  What else are we going to do with you?”

       “Not all cowboys.  You put that in the contract, Jiz.  An’ I wanna do a couple o’ films where I ain’t a cowboy afore I play one fer ya.”

       “This is a very advantageous contract I’ve drawn up for you, the best first contract we’ve ever offered anyone, I’ll have you know.  Can’t you see that I’m willing to bend over backwards for you?”

       “If yer bendin’ over backwards is what it takes, I’m game fer that.  I jes’ don’t want no career as a friggin’ cowboy.”

       No, the kid was no dummy, anything but.  He was just honest.  “OK then, what do you think of the name Pierce Rodman?  Shall I pencil that in?”

       “Pierce Rodman.  Yeah, I like that fine.  Sounds real highfalutin’ an’ sophisticated like.  An’ you write in ‘Not all cowboys’ too, OK?”

       “Well, I suppose we could start with you as a sailor.  There are guys from Nevada in the Navy.”

       “Sure are.”

       Jiz picked up the phone and called the director while he penciled in the changes.  “It’s a go on Ballbusters.  Put ‘introducing Pierce Rodman’ at the end of the opening credits.  ...  Pierce with an I-E.  Do I have to spell it for you?  ...  Yes, of course the lamp stays.  ...  And I want you to use him in your next film.  With dialogue.  Make him a sailor who’s just joined the Navy.  ...  No, it’s too soon to put him down as ‘starring’.  List him first right after the ‘with’.”

       That’s how Otis became, for the time being, Pierce Rodman.  He looked through the rest of the contract while Jiz was on the phone.  “What’s this about a top?  Does that mean you ain’t gonna let me bottom?  I like to git fucked.  I like it best.”  He’d set his heart on making it as a bottom.

       “Sorry, Pierce, but you’re just too damn rugged looking and your cock is too big.  And I have my eye on you for our lead top man.  If it turns out you don’t have what it takes in that department, then maybe we’ll see.  But not yet.”

       “Cain’t I be yer top man an’ still take it up the ass sometimes?  Why should my fans care what I do with my own butt?”

       “They shouldn’t, but they do.  That’s just the way it is.  Anyway, you don’t have any fans yet.  No, a big guy like yourself has to be on top, especially one who shoots gallons like you.  What’s your secret?  How do you fit it all in those balls of yours?”

       “Bottoms cum too, Jiz.”

       “You don’t have to tell me that.”  He gave Pierce’s crotch a friendly squeeze.  “And you’re uncut too, I remember noticing.”

       “Ya mean ya’d let me be on the bottom if I was cut?  I ain’t goin’ that route.”

       “Good Heavens, no!” said Jiz.  “You’re in the skin flicks for how long?  Four, maybe five years?  But your dick is for life, and don’t you forget it.”

       “No sir, I won’t.  I was jes’ thinkin’ maybe ya’d be willin’ to bend over backwards on that one.”

       Jiz bent over backwards for him, but he still wouldn’t budge.  “Look Pierce, it’d be a waste not to have that big cock of yours plug at least two assholes per feature.  Just watching it go in will cause the viewers’ eyes to pop and make them squirm in their seats.  You have to give the public what they want.  Anything else?”

       “I heard ya talkin’ about the lamp.  I’m mighty sorry I broke it.  D’ya want me to pay fer it?”

       “Forget about it.  Just don’t make it a signature feature of your persona.”


       It was a great disappointment to Pierce that he only got to be fucked once on screen, at his audition, and that the studio steadfastly refused to release the footage.  Jiz did agree to let him watch it whenever he wanted, but they wouldn’t give him a copy because they were afraid he’d show it to someone.  For a time, that he ever bottomed at all was one of the best kept secrets in the industry.  Since word always gets around, they’d tried putting it in his contract that he must never bottom for anyone, but Jiz bent over backwards for him and they added “except with his partner in the privacy of his home”.  He didn’t have a partner yet, but it was an out.  Until then he wouldn’t sign.

       His next contract gave him a new name and terms more to his liking.

*  *  *

       Never in his wildest dreams had he pictured himself making movies, yet here he was just two weeks later, unpaid but well taken care of, the property of his ninth owner (if he was counting right), Jiz Johnson, the co-owner of Cumstock Productions, Inc.  He already had five ninety-minute films to add to his résumé, two of them with something resembling a plot, and his name had even appeared on the credits of the most recent of them, though they didn’t give his full name.  Still, it was an honor: first the names of the big stars, with Rodman’s heading them all, then “in” and the name of the film, then “with” followed by another seven or eight names, and at the tail end “and Dyl Doe”; no “introducing”, but of course he’d already been introduced.

       Well, isn’t life full of surprises!  To think that he’d spent the last two years cruising around the States in Randy’s semi after they dropped Jared off at the dude ranch, with two side trips into Canada and another to Mexico, where he’d earned some notoriety under the name Yanqui Dildo.  They even made up a song about him.  There was a Spanish version too, but he didn’t understand the words.

            Yanqui Dildo went to town

            Riding with his seven

            Inches shoved up some guy’s ass,

            Who swore it felt like heaven.

            Yanqui Dildo keep it up,

            Yanqui Dildo dandy!

            Well-lubed and at a steady pace

            Won’t all the boys be randy?

That was the second time he visited Mexico.  The collector, Larry Jordan, had taken him there for an exhibition, but he wasn’t allowed out of the airport.

       And to think he’d already made a film with the famous Rodman Pierce, the superstar that dick-head they called the Clone was modeled on!  (For some reason no one could figure out, the box Clone came in had ‘Pierce Rodman’ printed on it instead.)  He and the Clone had started out in the same sex shop and had met up again in Larry’s attic museum of erotica, though Clone was too stuck up to acknowledge him.  Clone was the only sex toy that Sykes had left in a mailbox that the police had never recovered.  No great loss.  He was always bragging about how he’d been cast from a mold of Rodman Pierce’s rod (though he sometimes called him Pierce Rodman) and how straight the two of them were, meaning himself and his model.  Hah!  Dyl had seen one of his flicks at the museum, the one called tnaW I tahW fo hguonE teG t‘naC tsuJ (he watched it in the mirror across from the TV screen), so he knew he was as queer as that other porn star, Three-Dollar Bill.

       The Clone had never recovered from the humiliation.  That was ironic, because until he saw the film Dylan Doe hadn’t realized what a fine specimen the Clone was.  He couldn’t stop ogling the original.  A dick is always more satisfying in the flesh for all five senses, and sight in particular benefits from the presence of the rest of the man, and this man was in glorious shape.

       The shape of his cock was equally glorious.  It looked hard as steel and measured ten inches fully erect, its circumference equal to the circle formed by touching thumb to middle finger on the average-sized male hand.  It rose in a gentle, barely perceptible, lily-white curve at a sixty degree angle from horizontal, flaring into a blushing mushroom head with a wide pee-slit at the pointed tip.  He kept his scrotum shaved and his pubis nicely trimmed under a flat six-pack stomach.  The hair lay blue-black and silky against his almost unnaturally pale skin.  His balls hung low between his graceful, sturdy thighs, each one a clearly outlined oval where it weighed down in the sack.  Best of all was his muscular ass and the way he pinched his cheeks in when someone licked at him from the other side.  And now he’d got to poke around in that beautiful butt a couple of times.  He almost wished the Clone were around so he could gloat.

       On the other hand, Rodman in the flesh was a sweetheart, one of the nicest guys he’d ever run into, or slid into, for that matter.  Unlike the Clone, except for the dicks and dildos he took up the ass the original, human Rodman had nothing stuck up about him.  Of course he would never replace Mike, Dyl’s first and only love, but he held him in as much esteem as he did Randy.  But Rodman was a hunk, while Randy was not much to his taste physically, a portly bear type who somehow managed to pick up hitchhikers who were cute as a button.  (There was no denying that.)  Rodman’s partner, Jerry, was also one cool dude.  He may not have had the greatest body in the world, but his dick was so oversized Dyl could imagine it mounted over someone’s fireplace like a prize fish, and he was the most sexually inventive person he’d come across since that nympho Janelle, who’d just about worn him out on the whole neighborhood and worn out the whole neighborhood on him.  He couldn’t have done much better than those two, and since Jiz had earmarked him as Rodman’s signature prop, he got to go home with them.  Just about anyone would have been an improvement over Skeeter, his eighth and least favorite owner, and it had been Rodman who’d saved him from the leering old goat.

       Skeeter worked as night watchman at the truck lot where they stored Randy’s semi cab while he was in the hospital.  That knock on the head had affected Randy’s motor skills, and it was doubtful he’d be able to drive again, but they kept their fingers crossed and held on to the truck while he went through rehab.  Skeeter didn’t make enough money as night watchman to support his nasty habits, and had slowly been secretly selling off or pawning whatever personal effects of Randy’s he’d been able to rummage in the back of the cab while he was away – a watch, his electric beard trimmer, a thick book on truck maintenance and repair.  Things like Randy’s toothbrush and grubby clothes no one would take, and the warehouse foreman knew just how far he could trust their night watchman and had had the good sense to lock up Randy’s wallet, keys and credit cards in the safe.  The things he could use himself, like Dyl, Skeeter took home and kept.  Only when he was scraping the bottom of the barrel and really strapped for cash did he drive Dyl to Palm Springs with his wife to see if he could find a porn studio interested in buying.

       At Cumstock Productions Jiz Johnson laughed in his face, but Rodman happened to be there.  “Me and Jerry’ve been thinking about trying out a sex toy,” he said.  “I’ll buy that blue one from you.”

       “Oh, no you won’t,” Jiz cut in.  “We’ll use it in your next flick.  Till then you don’t get to try it.  You look sensational every time someone does something new to you, and I mean to capture it on film.  It does vibrate, doesn’t it?”

       Skeeter had never tried turning Dyl on, but he said, “Sure as hell does.  Hums like a dream.”

       Jiz gave him five dollars, and Dyl had a new owner.

*  *  *

       Pierce’s first film was a smashing success, and all the major discount stores experienced a run on breakable lamps.  Gays went through the garbage of suspected closeted homophobes and outed the bastard whenever they came across a broken lamp.  His second feature, What to Do With a Drunken Sailor, clinched his popularity.  After one or two more films, he felt safe playing a cowboy.

       About the time the cowboy flick was released Jerry came up to Pierce and said, “If you keep screwing Jiz whenever he asks you to, you won’t have any leverage when it comes time to negotiate your next contract.”

       “You know about that?  You fuckin’ ’im too?  I bet he don’t hafta pay.”

       “Everyone knows about it.  But no, I’m not fucking him.  Jiz knows all about me, but he isn’t the type to put out for some fluffer.”

       “Well, thanks fer the tip.  I’ll keep it in mind.”

       “You been getting what you want?” Jerry whispered.

       “You mean fucked?”

       “Not so loud.  Remember your contract.”

       “Not yet, but I still ain’t payin’ fer it.  Remember what I told ya.”

       “I’ll tell you what, then.  I’ll charge you two hundred to set up a website for you – that’s dirt cheap, I’ll have you know – and I’ll throw in the fuck for free.  If you like it, maybe you’ll buy more.  Fucks, not websites.”

       “What’s so special ’bout my ass?  Or d’ya mean to screw ever’ top on the set as a matter o’ principle?”


       “You good at makin’ websites?”

       “Look them over and see for yourself.  I made most of the models’ sites for Cumstock, and they paid more and didn’t get a free fuck out of it.  Just don’t let anyone know what a bargain I’m giving you.”

       “It’s a deal.”

       They shook hands on it.  Both thought it would be a quickie, but Jerry slept over.  His eleven-plus inch dick was as much an eye-opener as his knack for oral.  Pierce thought he would split in two, and he just about did, but it was glorious, and halfway through he asked Jerry to marry him.

       Jerry cracked up.  “What’s your real name, Pierce?  I don’t like using a studio name when I’m alone with a guy I’m fucking.”

       “I don’t like my real name none.  How about ya call me Pay?”

       “Who else calls you that?”

       “Just some dude who give me a ride when I hitched down here a month or so ago.”

       “You gave him a ride too, I suppose.”


       “Did he fuck you?”

       “Sure did.  He was my second.  My audition was number three, an’ now yer number four.”

       “Just once with each?  You’ll let me have more of your sweet ass than that, I hope.”

       “Not if I gotta pay fer it.  Otherwise, Jerry hun, my sweet ass is yourn fer the askin’.”

       They did it a couple of times more the next morning.  Jerry wouldn’t bring him off, though, because he had another shoot at three that afternoon.  “And you just better have one hell of a big load, or this may be your last movie.  Jiz can afford to break a contract.”

       Pierce was not allowed to let on that he had a partner, so for the duration of his contract Jerry passed for one of his groupies who got to go to bed with him every so often, and no one suspected the skinny little kid was fucking the daylights out of him.  The other tops who spread their legs for the fluffer wondered about it at first, but when Jerry actually went and started a Pierce Rodman fan club and they saw him fawning over the stud like a puppy dog they figured that he’d finally met his match and that Cumstock’s top top was even fucking the guy who fucked them.

       Now, three years later and with twenty films to his credit, all of them having earned top XXX ratings, and several magazine spreads to boot, Pierce was Cumstock’s biggest star, and he had the clout to negotiate his next contract to suit his preferences.  By then he had figured out that Jiz called the shots and that it was he who had to be convinced that the fans would love him whatever he did and whatever was done to him.  So his second contract, this time for fifty full-length features, identified him as a versatile top and his price per film went up (bottoms get paid more, and top bottoms are paid the most).  According to Jiz, the publicity for his new persona required a new name – “Pierce Rodman flips over and becomes Rodman Pierce” which didn’t make much sense, but it created a lot of extra work for the guy who had taken over from Jerry as president of his fan club.

       His first feature as Rodman Pierce was supposed to be a surprise for everyone.  The studio wouldn’t tell if “flipped over” meant going bottom or turning het.  To keep everyone guessing, Cumstock signed on two unknown, big-breasted she-males, Gala and Vanity Fair, whose names no one would recognize put in the credits, and didn’t show their dicks until Rodman was ready to hump them.  The only other known stars were a black superstud and a blond pretty boy from het porn who, in return for an exorbitant fee (but nowhere near what Rodman got) had agreed to cornhole the most famous top in gay porn because of what it would do for their image.  (Go figure.)  The blond, Ben Slick, made a few more bi videos and had flip-flopped with Rodman before a year had gone by, after which the het studios wouldn’t touch him and he only worked the gay circuit.  By then word had leaked out that he was in a long-term relationship with his State Representative, so bottoming for Rodman may have had nothing to do with his getting fired.

       Glad as he was to get fucked six times on screen, Rodman thought it was by far the stupidest movie he ever made, and when he finally retired he had not changed his opinion of it, but Just Can’t Get Enough of What I Want was a smash at the box office and won best gay porn film that year.  It would also be the first in which he was allowed more than two words of dialogue.  Jerry’s insistence that he take elocution lessons had paid off, and Jiz was finally ready to let him speak.  That, too, had been part of the contract.

       The scene: a small, rather squalid-looking room with nothing in it but a double bed under an enormous mirror and a night table with a lamp to the left of the bed.  The window-shade is up and bright sunlight floods the room.  The door opens and two heavily made-up women, a brunette and a redhead in painfully tight skirts, come in followed by their pimp, a mean-looking, burly black dude, and then an extremely handsome, very masculine man in tight denims, Rodman Pierce.

       The superstud looks calmly around the room, none too pleased with its minimal comforts and cleanliness.  The two women stand whispering to each other and giggling nervously.  The black man flicks on the lamp, then goes to close the shade.  Finally, he goes over to his client, who takes out his wallet and counts out a large number of bills into the pimp’s dirty, calloused hand.  The pimp leaves, closing the door behind him.

       It looks at first as if there won’t be any plot, for immediately the two women are all over their client, blowing in his ear, licking his neck, stroking his crotch.  He makes no move, simply allowing them to whorehandle him to their hearts’ content, but when they take his hands and place them on their full-tittied bosoms he does deign to give them a little squeeze.  That’s enough, and in a second they’ve pulled their blouses up over their heads, and then turn their backs to him so he can unhook their bras.

       He sits on the night table and watches them do a little dance, singly at first, raising their arms above their heads while they sway their hips, then lowering them slowly, rubbing their hands down their face, over their shoulders and finally to their tits, which they cup in their palms and roll around, while their tongues do their own lewd little dance.  Next their tongues dance with each other.  Then they let go of their tits and slide their hands down into their crotch so their tongues can take over the tit play.

       The two whores slither over to the night table and one gets to work opening Rodman’s belt buckle while the other hikes up his tee-shirt and licks his chest, leaving his head and his raised arms caught in the fabric.  She keeps him blindfolded that way even after her companion has got him completely naked.  They go down on his dick and slurp him fore and aft.  Only when he is rock hard do they allow the shirt to come off.

       The whores keep their skirts on.  They stand him on the bed and one folds her tits around his tool, and the other licks at the head each time it appears as he humps between her boobies.  He loses his balance on the sagging mattress and tumbles over backwards, and the women immediately jump on top of him.

       When he’s had enough tit play he grabs both their crotches and gasps, “What have you got there?”  Off come their skirts and panties to reveal endowments almost as impressive as his.  He puts up a struggle, yelling something about a dirty trick and a rip-off, and the trannies have a hard time trying to subdue him.  He’s no match for the two of them.  One she-male gets her dick down his throat and the other plugs his ass.  He continues objecting, but with a dick in his mouth he can do no better than emit a few choking, muffled cries.

       The door opens and the pimp comes in followed by three tough-looking thugs, two Latinos and a much younger blond guy.  “Keep it down in here!” he growls.  “What’s with all the racket?”

       “The sonofabitch won’t hold still and let us do our job,” says the she-male who has her dick up his ass.

       The pimp turns to his bodyguard.  “Hold him down, you three,” he orders.

       “What’s in it for us?” one of the Latinos asks.

       “Oh, we’ll all get a piece of that sweet little ass.  Just wait your turn.”  And so they do.

       They tie Rodman’s hands together in front of his chest and with the pimp holding a not-very-real-looking revolver to his head all six of them fuck him one after another, first one trannie, then the other, then the pimp, then the Latinos, and last of all the blond.  He sucks each one of them too.  All the gang bangers sport larger than average endowments, as you would expect in a porno flick, but Rodman’s is the clear winner.  One of the Latinos doesn’t have all that long a dick, but it’s so thick Rodman can hardly get it in his mouth.  Then they all stand over him and beat off till he is covered in spunk.

       Everyone has cum except Rodman.  They throw his clothes out the window and leave him alone, naked on the bed, hands still tied.  He lies there panting for maybe half a minute and then sighs, “Wow!  Was that ever hot!”  He spends a few more minutes trying to free his hands before he gets the end of the cord between his teeth and simply pulls on it.  It opens as easily as a shoelace.  For the last ten minutes of the film you watch him get himself off interspersed with flashbacks to the preceding fuck scene.  It looks as if he shoots a generous portion, but it’s hard to tell just how much, since he’s already covered in the cum of six ejaculations.

       Rodman proved he’d been right all along.  The original script had him topping the pimp and one of the Latinos, but those scenes ended up on the cutting room floor.  All it took was bottoming in just one movie for Jiz to rewrite his contract and make him a versatile bottom.  The president of the fan club immediately dashed off a letter to him, drooling all over the page, in which he claimed first dibs on fucking Rodman in return for all the work the name change had given him.  But Rodman was already married.

       In its amended form, the new contract retained the stipulation from the first one he’d signed that off screen he could only bottom for a steady partner, if he had one.  Jiz’s eyes just about popped out of his head when his number one star named Jerry, who’d worked for him as a fluffer ever since he turned eighteen.  It was no secret that Jerry had been porking his top men for almost a decade, but like everyone else he had assumed that he only bottomed for Rodman (or Pierce) like the rest of his groupies.

       Jerry and Rodman exchanged vows in a Unitarian Church a week later in the presence of their closest friends from the studio.  Then they all went back to the ranch-style house Rodman had bought for himself in the Hollywood Hills, where the witnesses of the ceremony got to witness their first flip-flop as an official couple.  One of the cameramen filmed the whole thing, but the camera belonged to the studio, so Jiz confiscated the film and locked it in the archives, or so he said.  Everyone suspected he kept it in his safe at home and watched it for his private pleasure whenever he felt like it.  Despite the urging of everyone who’d seen them at their wedding, he was adamant and would not let the happy couple turn a film together.

*  *  *

       At about the same time Rodman and Jerry were tying the knot, the star who was to land the contract to be the third in the film they hoped someday to make together was still a virgin hanging around Sam’s Sex Shop at the other side of the country, where he ogled the merchandise and dreamt about love.  It never occurred to him that one day he’d end up a famous movie star, and that he’d ever be married to a woman seemed downright unthinkable.

       It was love at first sight.  He noticed him the second he came into Sam’s, and his heart melted.  They all noticed him, every one of them: the stock boy, Jamie at the cash register, Sam, who was going over the inventory of the video library, even the other customers.  He was so beautiful.  He must have been nineteen or twenty years old, slim, with a mop of auburn hair hanging down over sky blue eyes set in a deeply tanned face.  He moved with the grace of a diver or a figure skater.  It was late in August, and he wore a white tank-top and cut-off jeans.  He had the legs of a god.  He’d seen beautiful men before, but this one won his heart with the gentleness of his smile, an unparalleled gentleness, so natural and unaffected you couldn’t help but like him.  He looked so sweet.

       Being a virgin, he felt not so much desire as longing.  The beautiful young man noticed him too, while he was still by the door, clear across the store from where the other was hanging out near the dildos and other sex toys.  He kept glancing at him furtively, but he was with someone else, a dark-haired, muscular man, rougher-looking and a few years older than he, also very handsome.  Both men struck him as masculine in every way.  He couldn’t detect the faintest trace of effeminate mannerisms in either of them, and imagined that anyone who passed them in the street would have taken them for straight.  He was probably wrong about that, but he had no experience to speak of besides his virginal longings and could not pick up on the little hints which he later came to recognize immediately, for example their grooming and their choice in clothes.  What gave them away as gay that day was easy: the merchandise they looked at and the fact they were so obviously a couple.

       There was no chance the beauty would approach him while his partner was there, and of course he couldn’t approach him either.  The other guy was clearly the one in charge.  He nodded in his direction and whispered something in the young god’s ear.  They both laughed, and he felt crushed.  Then the dominant guy led his friend to the section of the store where they kept the bathing suits, thongs and sexy underwear.  They inspected the merchandise, discussing it, evaluating it, and worked their way down the aisle till they disappeared behind the partition and he lost sight of them.

       He stood there motionless, daydreaming about the young god.  What was his name?  What was he like?  What did he do with his partner?  Did the other man treat him well?  Did he appreciate what he had?  One could see that the young god was oblivious to the admiration of all who laid eyes on him, or rather believed that it was all directed at his lover, whom he clearly thought the world of.  The dark-haired stud seemed to share that opinion and took the open-mouthed stares of the gay passers-by they encountered – and of many of the women too, no doubt – as his due, unaware of who the real beauty was.  The young god was modesty itself.

       Then suddenly there they were, standing right in front of him, appraising the sex toys.  The boy-god with the gentle smile was carrying an indecently low-cut, light blue Speedo he had chosen, or that his friend had chosen for him.  At such close quarters he couldn’t risk so much as a sidelong glance in another’s direction, but directed his gaze at whatever his partner pointed to.  The lovesick virgin eavesdropped on every word of their conversation, as desirous to know what they had to say about the paraphernalia as if it concerned him directly.

       Every piece of merchandise they considered was examined with an eye to using it on the auburn-haired beauty.  His partner had very definite ideas.  “No castings of a porn star’s dick.  I’m not about to hand your ass over to some professional,” or else: “No, not purple, anything but purple.  You look good in blue, though, so I bet blue would look good in you.”  Had it not been so obvious that almost everything they said was a joke, one would have concluded that he treated his lover as a sex slave.  He’d take down the roughest, most painful-looking pieces of equipment to show him and make lewd suggestions about what they’d do with them.  He went so far as to make his friend turn around so he could measure his latest find against his butt and would even slap him across the backside with it to surprise him.  His friend, smitten in both senses of the word, would protest: “Aw, come off it, Jeffrey.  You gotta be kidding.”  That way he learned one of their names, but not the one that mattered.  Jeffrey never called the young god by name.

       They continued down the display case, joking about the whips, chains, gags and blindfolds.  Then Jeffrey looked at his watch and said, “Shit, we better get moving.  You go pick up the lube and condoms, then go look at some magazines or photo books or something while I go choose a couple of videos for tonight.  I want to surprise you.”

       Jeffrey went into the back room where they kept the rental DVDs.  The other picked up what he had been told to get, paid for it, then went to thumb through the magazines.  He soon tired of them and felt antsy to get out and be on his way, but since his friend had said he wanted to surprise him he didn’t go look for him at the back of the shop.  He eventually got bored and went outside to wait for him.

       Jamie whispered to Sam, “My God, wasn’t he gorgeous?”  Sam leered back at him and rolled his eyes.

       No sooner had he left the store than Jeffrey came out with a stack of videos.  He must have been watching him all the time, waiting for him to leave.  He made a detour down the sex toy aisle on his way to the cash register and quickly grabbed the last pair of furry handcuffs.  So that was the surprise he had in mind for his partner!  They were among the few items he hadn’t commented on.  The future porn star tried to make out what videos he had chosen as he hurried by, but couldn’t catch any of the titles.

       He didn’t see him again for nearly a month.  He spent a night of agony dreaming about that couple and the furry handcuffs.  He imagined his idol writhing helpless and naked on their bed and prayed that Jeffrey would treat him gently.  He was naive in those days.  He dreamed of true love, and never imagined that some people desire to be treated roughly, beg for it.  He thought there were just some who got off on dishing it out.

       The next day Jeffrey walked into the store alone, took hold of him and carried him to the counter.  Sam, the owner, was working the register.  Jeffrey plied him with questions, and Sam sang his praises, but of course he just wanted to make a sale.  “I’m sure you’ll like it.  You won’t be disappointed.”

       “I’m sure I won’t.  I’ll take it.”

       Then he asked to have him gift wrapped.  He could guess who was going to get him, but he might have been wrong.

       Sam asked, “Birthday, anniversary or no special occasion?”

       “Anniversary,” Jeffrey answered, and his heart soared.

       So for the next few months Dylan Doe was the world’s happiest vibrator, until Mike and Jeffrey got busted for having sex on the beach.  After a few weeks of lying unnoticed in the dunes, he was found by a beachcomber and embarked on the series of adventures that would lead him to fall into Skeeter’s hands several years later.

       By then he’d belonged to Randy for some time and had grown to like the nomadic life.  Randy owned his own cab, but the trailers belonged to the companies he contracted with to drive a load to the next city.  It was a large cab that had enough space behind the driver’s seat for a mattress to sleep on, a small refrigerator and Dyl, still in the same box of papers he’d been in when the cops handed him over to Jared.  Randy kept a tie-dye sheet hanging in front of it for the privacy he needed when he picked up a hitchhiker.

       They’d just picked up a new load in Bakersfield, a flatbed this time, and were supposed to haul it to Cleveland, which meant a long-needed vacation, because that was close to Randy’s home town.  They pulled into a truck stop at the edge of town to pick up some smokes and a cold twelve-pack of soft drinks to keep in the back-seat cooler.  Randy must not have liked the looks of how they’d lashed the load to the flatbed or else it had felt off-balance on his way out of town, because he dumped his purchases on the seat and without closing the cab door climbed up in back to make a few readjustments.  A truck backed out of a parking space and rammed into them, knocking him over the side of the truck.  Dyl heard the loud crack of his head hitting the pavement.  He lay motionless.  An ambulance arrived, and the medics lifted him onto a stretcher and carried him off to the hospital in a coma.

       Two days later another cab was sent for the load and Randy’s was brought back to the fenced-in lot at the Bakersfield warehouse where Skeeter was the night watchman.  Skeeter was a dirty, foul-smelling old coot whose mind was as filthy as his body.  Dyl would have hated him at first sight and shuddered when he took him home, thinking that he would prefer any hole to his, even an open grave or a sanitary landfill.

       He was wrong.  When they got home, Skeeter introduced him to his live-in girlfriend, Sweet Betsy.  “I got you a present, honey,” he said, swinging the unfortunate blue vibrator in front of her stupid, expressionless face.  “Me and you are gonna have ourselves a three-way!”

       Sweet Betsy just sat and stared at him, her butt-ugly mouth wide open like a big O.

       Then, just when Dyl was sure things couldn’t get any worse, Skeeter engineered the greatest humiliation of his life.  “Seems to me you two must have a lot in common.  Ya know what? – I’m gonna marry you two, for better or for worse, richer or poorer, and all that crap till death do you part.  Then we can swing!”

       So Dyl was married off to Sweet Betsy, that hideous, inflatable fuck doll, next to whom Sally the bag lady would have looked like a million dollars.  She had a mouth and a twat that resembled each other exactly, both such perfect circles that they had to have been drawn with a compass.  Skeeter officiated at the ceremony himself, in the presence of a handful of equally unsavory cronies from the warehouse.  It was a ghastly, traumatic experience, and he was sure it would haunt him forever.

       An ugly inflatable fuck doll may sound innocuous enough, but whoever named her Sweet Betsy ought to have had his head examined.  Rank Betsy was more like it.  Dyl was a stickler for cleanliness (among other things), but Skeeter washed his Betsy less often than he did himself, if ever, and he didn’t keep her just for decoration.  On top of that, all the wedding guests wanted a turn with her before Dyl was allowed to consummate the marriage.  He thought he would vomit, and told her straight out how bad she stank.  “In over seven years of sexual activity I can think of only one asshole that smelled as bad as you,” he said.

       “Well, you oughta know,” Sweet Betsy answered, “so don’t you go thinkin’ I’m all that thrilled about these arrangements either.”

       “You got the better deal, if you ask me.”

       “Sweet Betsy gets to take it in both ends from real humans every night – and they’re all of ’em straight humans too.  It ain’t no privilege to get handed over to some faggot dildo that gets all pissy just because he can’t find his favorite hole on me.”

       “I’d settle for any hole that got to taste the contents of a douche bag once in a blue moon.”

       “So what is it you want?”

       “I want a divorce.”

       Of all the many horrible things he had lived through, marriage to Sweet Betsy must have been the worst – worse than getting so covered in shit and vomit that even Sally almost threw him out sooner than washing him, though he’d become her principal source of income; worse than witnessing all those not entirely fake scenes of torture in Marv’s dungeon; worse than being exorcised by Uncle Favian, Janelle’s Evangelist brother; worse than lying for months on end forgotten in some box in the courthouse archives (it struck him that he was still living in that box); worse than...  No, it was not worse than losing Mike.  That was the great tragedy of his life, but even compared to that it was no bed of roses being Sweet Betsy’s put-upon husband.

       To be perfectly fair, it wasn’t her fault, but he couldn’t stand the sight, smell or thought of her.  Every night Skeeter would drink himself into a near stupor and then, cackling all the while, force his sex toys to perform a range of abominations limited only by Betsy’s two holes and his lack of imagination.  How on earth had he got himself into all this?

*  *  *

       What the blazes was he doing there, and where the hell had he come from?  The set itself was the least cluttered space in the room they were shooting in, which had been slowly filling up as word got around and every model who was at the studio came in to watch the spectacle.  Most were naked or partly naked, and those who weren’t laughing too hard were stroking their dicks, because whoever this clueless dweeb was, he sure was one gorgeous hunk and he sure knew how to fuck.  The question was, would the model bottoming for him, Three-Dollar Bill, a studio veteran known for his stamina, survive all those takes and retakes?


       Bill, also known as 3-D, groaned and buried his face in the pillow.

       This was the future Pierce Rodman’s first real shoot, and it was nothing like what he’d imagined.  Keeping it up in front of the camera was the easy part.  Understanding what was wanted of him was more than he could handle.  At least in the audition they’d let him do his thing, and he’d done it, even with a woman watching.  He hadn’t expected to be doing it in front of a female.  “What’s she here fer?” he’d asked.

       “To take notes.  Don’t let it worry you, she’s seen it all before.”

       “Hundreds of times, honey.  I think it’s hot.”

       “It’s OK by me.  I jes’ didn’t wanna offend no lady.”

       She might have thought it was hot, but she sat through the whole audition looking bored.  Only the reactions of the men on the set, and there were a lot of them – the talent scout, the cameraman, the lighting technician, the make-up specialist, etc. – reassured him that he was making a good job of it, but then he’d screwed up at the tail end and come inside the guy auditioning with him, and on account of that he almost didn’t make the cut.

       “You cum?” the guy behind the camera asked.  They were hopping mad.

       “Sher did.”

       “Why didn’t you pull out?”

       “’Cause I ain’t never come up a guy’s butt before.”

       The man whose butt he’d been pounding went all to pieces.  “Oh Christ!  Wasn’t he wearing a rubber?  You promised no bareback!”

       “Whatcher carryin’ on about?  Course I got one on.”

       “But you just said...”  A moment’s silence, and then the incredulous scout, cameraman, technician, make-up artist, lady secretary and bottom asked in chorus, “Do mean to tell me this is the first time you ever fucked a guy?”

       “A man gotta learn sometime, don’t ’e?  So wha’d I do wrong?”

       “We need to see you cum,” the man working the lights explained.  “We have to find out how much and how far you squirt.  It’s part of the audition.”

       “Jeez, I’m sorry.  Ya want me to beat off an’ show ya?”

       “You can do that now?  Right now?”

       “Sher.  Why not?”

       “Do you believe this guy?” the scout asked the cameraman.

       When he pulled off the condom and they saw the load he’d deposited inside it, however, they decided they could dispense with the jerk off; but the secretary looked damn disappointed.

       The director of Ballbusters was much more demanding.  The flick could just as easily been named after him.  “Cut!”

       “What’d I do wrong this time?”

       “You talked.”

       “But you jes’ said it was alright to make noise.”

       “Grunt all you want; just don’t say anything,” the script boy explained.  “No words.  Get it?”

       “But they always talk dirty in all them porn flicks, ever’one I ever seen.”

       “You say what’s in the script,” the writer told him.  “Nothing else.”

       “So when Bill said he couldn’t take no more, that was in the script?”

       “You got it.”

       “An’ that’s why ya got all mad when I stopped?”


       “Then why didn’t ya tell me that’s what it was?  How’m I s’posta git it right if ya don’t explain nothin’?”

       “I’m trying,” the director said, almost on the verge of tears.  “I’m really, really trying.  Do you realize how much of this fuck is going to end up on the cutting room floor?”

       “Don’t the script say we do the whole thing here on the bed?”

       The crew was in stitches, and Three-Dollar was afraid he’d need some down below before the day was over.  Jerry, the fluffer, was doing his best not to laugh.  The new  guy was clueless, but charming.  His ingenuousness had won him over right away, first when he almost started to cry because they wouldn’t let him bottom, and later when he’d stood there with his rock-hard nine and a half inches and asked for a fluffing, and the thirty seconds he’d held him in his mouth had been a rare treat.  He’d made up his mind to take him in hand and make his career a success.  He had everything it takes: the looks, the sexual know-how, the balls to stand up for himself, and brains too, once he caught on to how things work in the porn industry.  The others might think him a hopeless cause, but he could tell the guy was a winner, and Jiz would see it too.


       At least he knew what that meant now.  The first time the director said it he’d gone right on humping.

       “Cut!  I said ‘cut’, dammit.  Didn’t you hear me?”

       “Sher I heard ya.”

       “So why the hell didn’t you stop?”

       “God, yes.  Why didn’t you?” moaned 3-D Bill.

       “Didn’t know you was talkin’ to me.”

       “Who else would I have been talking to?”

       “Him.”  He pointed to a model who had come into the room and stood leaning with his back to the wall to watch the comedy.


       “Yep.  I thought you was callin’ him.

       “What on earth made you think that?”

       “I ain’t cut.”

       The director threw his hands up in the air.  The new model looked like a million bucks, he was hung like a horse, and he had enough energy to wear out the entire cast, but he didn’t know shit and he wouldn’t keep his mouth shut.  It was exasperating.

       “‘Cut’ means we stop and fix something, then go and do it over and hope we get it right.”

       “There’s somethin’ wrong?”

       “Yes.  You’re crying.”

       “No I ain’t.”

       “Yes, you are.  The tears are running down your face.”

       “It’s them lights.”

       “I told you not to stare into them.”

       “Well, I fergot.”


       Another take.  “Cut!”

       “Now why’d ya stop us?”  He pulled out and plunked back on his haunches, but Bill didn’t budge.  He stayed on his hands and knees with his head against the mattress and his butt up in the air, trying to catch his breath.

       “You’re going at him so hard you’ve knocked him clear across the bed.  The lamp was just about to tip over.”


       “So it just goes to show you that we don’t count for shit here,” Bill said.  “They don’t care what happens to me, but their precious lamp, that’s a whole nother story.”

       “If the lamp breaks we have to start all over again,” the director told him.  “We don’t have another like it at the studio.”

       Three-Dollar Bill rolled over on his side and let out a low wail.

       “This ain’t like no sex I ever done,” muttered their future top star, but all the time he was thinking, “Who’m I to talk?  I ain’t had hardly no experience, an’ these guys are pros.”

       “How so?  You’re fucking him, aren’t you?” the director asked.

       “Ain’t what I call fuckin’.”

       “Well, you have your dick up his ass, don’t you?”

       “Seems to me there’s a damn sight more to fuckin’ ’n that.”

       “So what do you call what you’re doing?” the writer wanted to know.

       “Damned if I know.  It’s just a lotta stoppin’ an’ startin’.”

       “Coitus interruptus”, chirped up the cut model, the one the newcomer had thought the director had been talking to towards the beginning of the shoot.  “You’ll get used to it.”

       “More like coitus redux,” said Jerry.

       “What’s redux?”

       “Think of it as déjà screw all over again.”

       “The newbie’s right, though.  What we do ought to have a name.  Whatever kind of sex it is, it isn’t your typical everyday sex, that’s for sure.”

       “Sorta reminds me of that game I seen some kids playin’ out in the street, where one of ’em tells the others what kinda steps they kin take an’ how many.”

       “Hey, I remember that game!” said the script boy.  “We called it ‘Mother, may I?’”

       “We used to call it ‘Giant Step’,” 3-D said.  “If you ask me, that sounds a lot more like the game I’m playing now.”

       “Mother, May I? and Giant Step,” the writer said.  “Those are two great titles.”

       “Quiet on the set!”

       But the new guy was on a roll.  “I stick my dick up ’is butt an’ I take it out again, an’ then I put it back in an’ take it out, then I shove it back in like ya tell me to, but then ya tell me to take it out so you kin powder ’is nose or move the piller or some other damn thing what ain’t got shit to do with fuckin’.  An’ I oblige, don’t I?  What I wanna know is when the hell do I fuck ’im like I’m s’posta?  I seen the script.  It says that I fuck ’im.  Make up yer mind already.  D’ya want me t’ fuck ’im or doncha?”

       “When the movie’s all done, you’ll see that it looks like you’re fucking him,” the director sighed.

       “It sure as hell feels to me like I’m being fucked,” said Three-Dollar Bill.  “It feels like he’s been fucking me for hours.”

       Jerry looked at his watch.  “Three and a half, and he hasn’t needed fluffing yet.”

       “Well, do me a favor, will you?  If he ever needs it, don’t.”

       “You OK, Bill?” the director asked, finally getting the message.

       “I think so, but I can’t take much more of this.  I’ll be one happy bottom when we’re done with this scene.  It’s a good thing I don’t have another shoot lined up till the week after next.  I don’t, do I?”

       The man with the clipboard rummaged through some papers.  “It looks like you’re down for Thursday.”

       “Oh, Christ!  And this doesn’t qualify for workman’s comp!”

       “I’ll see what I can do to shift the schedule around a bit.  If Johnnie Brass is available and willing to switch, you’ll have until Monday to recuperate.”

       “It’ll take a month of Mondays.”

       “Doncha like to be fucked?  Whatcha doin’ on the bottom then?”

       “Earning my daily bread working my ass off.”

       “Or letting someone else work your ass off,” yawned the cut model.

       “Ya mean ya don’t like it?  Ya mean all them ‘Harders!’ an’ ‘Poun’ me babys!’ you been sayin’ is jes’ in the script?  Jesus, I’m sorry.”

       “Of course they’re in the script,” said the writer.

       “Why didn’t ya say nothin’?  ’Cause it ain’t in the script?”

       “Look,” Bill told him, “I love being fucked.  But we’re not fucking, we’re making a video.”

       The first-timer turned in triumph to the director.  “See?  Even Bill here says so.”

       “Can’t we just get on with it and get it over with?” the director asked.

       “Doggie?” asked Three-Dollar Bill.


       “You want to trade places?”

       “No,” said the director.

       “Yes,” said the top.

       “You shut up,” the writer barked.  “No one’s talking to you.”

       3-D reluctantly got back on his knees.  After only five minutes of humping he’d been shoved clear across the bed again.  The lamp fell over with a crash and broke into a thousand pieces.

       Bill finally put his foot down.  “Start over and it’ll have to be with someone else.”

       “Not me,” said Cut.

       “Nor me.”

       “Nor me.”

       “Me neither.”  (To be perfectly honest about it, all of them were cut.)

       Jerry broke into applause.  “The next film he makes you should call The Champ.  But look, don’t we have a golden opportunity here?  Just let him go on fucking till he’s done and from now on shoot it in close-up or from the other side so the lamp’s out of it, then splice the film to make it look like the lamp falls over when he cums.”

       “I like it,” said the writer.

       “I like it,” said the director.

       “Jiz’ll love it,” said the cameraman.

       Everyone liked it except the stars of the scene.  “Till he’s done?  When will that be?”

       “Don’t seem fair to Bill here.  He’s plum wore out.”

       “Five more minutes, ten max,” the director said.  “Then you beat off between Bill’s ass cheeks and cum on his back.  Can you take ten minutes more, 3-D?  If it gets to be too much, just say when and we’ll go straight to the cum shot.”

       It must have been professional pride, because Three-Dollar Bill kept his eyes glued to the wall clock, and the second the ten minutes were up he whispered, “When.”  After that it was just a matter of a couple of minutes of masturbation before his back was drenched in cum.  Some got into his hair too.

       “That was the easiest scene I ever had to do,” Jerry said.  “All I had to do was stand and watch.  I didn’t fluff even once.”

       “Easy for you, maybe,” the director said.  “For me it was nerve racking.”

       “What gives you the right to bitch about it?” the battered bottom whined.

       “You did a great job,” Jerry said.  “You broke him in, and next time it’ll go like clockwork.”

       “You got that backwards, Jerry boy.  I’m broken; he’s ready for more.”

       “What’re you looking for, big boy?” Cut asked.  “Is something the matter?”

       “Where do I go to take a piss?”

*  *  *

       Dyl found everything at his first shoot as unfamiliar and disorienting as it had been for Rodman, but he kept his mouth shut and let the pros handle everything, and it came off without a hitch.  In fact, when it was over he felt better than he had in years and was humming merrily to himself.

       He’d been expecting to have a go at Rodman and had been mentally licking his chops for days.  Instead they assigned him to do a scene with two lesbians, Gloria and Princess Lily, and it looked as if he’d be starting off on the wrong foot, because Gloria glared at him and grumbled, “What are we supposed to do with that?  It looks like a dick!”

       “What do you think we’re supposed to do with it, sweetheart?” crooned Princess Lily.  “It’s a vibrator.  You’ve had one in your pussy before.  I know that for a fact.”  Lily was just a studio lezzie.  When she wasn’t working at Cumstock, Inc., she fucked men – lots of them.  Come to think of it, she was still working, only at a different job.

       “Does it have to be so... disgustingly realistic?” Gloria pouted.

       “Where’s the realism, sweetheart?  Plenty of men got blue balls, but there’s no such thing as a blue cock.  You can take my word for it; I’ve seen them all.  This one is lovely.  You’ll see; it’ll work like a charm.”

       She turned him on to show her, but of course Dyl didn’t work at all.  His motor had been dead ever since the night in Marv’s dungeon when Harley had thrown him at Bear, aiming for his head, but he’d missed and Dyl had gone crashing into the wall.  “Why the fuck won’t it work?” said Princess Lily, bringing him over to show the director.

       The director tossed him to the script-girl.  “Change the batteries, Tanya, and be quick about it!  We haven’t got all day.”

       Batteries didn’t do the trick, and Dyl felt certain that his career had come to end before it ever got started, but the set electrician said, “Let me have a look at it.”  He unscrewed Dyl’s base, glanced briefly inside, and announced, “Anyone could fix that.  Just needs a little solder.  It’ll take all of two minutes.”

       It didn’t take much more than two minutes and Dyl was feeling the old familiar vibrations and looking forward to be used in a human being again, even a woman.  He hadn’t tasted anything in weeks except for Sweet Betsy, and there was no question these cunts were going to be infinitely sweeter.  Lucky thing that Jiz Johnson wanted nothing to do with her!  But who in his right mind would?  Even Skeeter was sick of her.

       When his poker losses had just about cleaned him out of what he needed to keep himself in rotgut liquor, Skeeter had come home looking more depressed than Dyl had ever seen him, unless he was just sober for a change.  He nosed around the house, trying to find something he could get rid of for a price.  His eye fell on Dyl and Betsy, and he told them mournfully, “Well, old friends, it looks like we’ve come to a parting of the roads.”

       The pawnbroker would have nothing to do with them.  “Whattaya mean, how much’ll I give you for ’em?  How much will you give me to take that shit off your hands?”

       Skeeter had to look at his hands before he could figure out the man was talking about his sex toys.  So he drove them to Palm Springs and made the rounds of the studios until Dyl caught Rodman’s eye and Jiz Johnson agreed to buy him for a humiliating, low price.  Sally had charged four times as much for just an hour or two!

       Skeeter wasn’t willing to give up so easily, though.  “Sorry, but I can’t split them up.  Them two are a pair.  I married them myself.”

       “Fine,” Jiz told him, “then I’ll take the two of them for five bucks and throw the doll in the dumpster.  Take it or leave it.”

       Skeeter took it, but he took Sweet Betsy too, and drove her home to Bakersfield for a life of lying underneath the smelly old coot or squatting on the floor in front of his chair with her head squashed between his legs.

       So when it came time to plunge in at Cumstock, Dyl approached his job with a positive attitude and did his thing, and Gloria’s and Princess Lily’s too.  After that he’d been the prop for a couple of solos with one of their sexier female stars, who hadn’t bothered to use him to her best advantage, which is to say up the ass.  After the first of them he’d already grown tired of her idiotically long fingernails, tired of being squeezed between two titties and having the dumb broad stick out her tongue and pretend to lick him while she batted her false eyelashes.  He was beginning to wonder if they were ever going to let him work, but his fourth feature was one hundred percent gay, which made him one hundred percent happy.  He hadn’t had the chance to satisfy his basic orientation since Randy’s last hitchhiker.  As an added advantage, the bright lights on the set didn’t bother him since he spent nearly all his time in his co-stars’ assholes.  Everyone agreed it was his best film yet.

       Now he was working on his fifth feature, also gay.  They’d put him in three sex scenes, and two of them had been filmed already.  Now they were about to shoot the third.  Maybe this time he’d get to work over Rodman Pierce.  Of course no one ever told him anything.

       A door opened and the model they’d scheduled for his scene followed the writer onto the set.  Dyl couldn’t see who they’d lined up for him with the writer in the way, but he heard the click of high heels and a high-pitched voice that sounded familiar but he couldn’t quite a place.

       “A dildo!  Darling, you made my day.  I sho’ is one lucky bitch!”

       The writer stepped to the side, and the two of them caught sight of each other at the same moment.  “Better an’ better!  Why, that looks jes’ like ol’ Sally’s Dyl!”

       It was Roxanne.  A lifetime of coincidences had taught Dyl just how small this big world we live in can be, but to find himself back with Roxanne was something he would never have thought possible.  There was no doubt about it, though, because she went on and on as nobody but Roxanne could.  “He all mine, I hope.  I don’ hafta share him wif Roddy-doddy now, do I?  That big fella an’ ’is sweet vibrations is jes’ fo’ Roxannie the trannie, ain’ ’e?”

       “Sorry, Roxanne.  You get to play with it, but it goes up Rodman’s butt.”

       “Now ain’ that jes’ too cruel?  How come only Roddy?  Don’ I got a butt too?”

       “Everyone who’s seen your films knows you do, but it’s not for this baby, not this time; it’s for Rodman’s.  What’s wrong with that?  He’s a damn sight bigger.”

       Roxanne pulled a face.  “Big ain’ everythin’, sugar.  His don’ vibrate.  I oughta know.  I’ve tried ’em both.”

       “He may very well vibrate with that thing buzzing in his ass while he plugs you.  And you get to put it in there and turn it on.”

       “Now ya talkin’!  Where the hell is that sweet big white cock?”

       “In make-up.”

       “How about you lemme try that...”

       “Not a chance.”

       “Then he betta hurry up an’ git that yummy ass o’ his in here.”

       So Dyl knew where he was going, and knew how he was going to get there.  It was all good news.  Roxanne knew how to use him as well as anyone.  Only Mike and Janelle had had more experience with him.

       Roxanne climbed up on one of the high stools, her legs crossed and the script in her lap to read through it while she waited for her co-star to show up.  She mouthed her lines over and over, mentally trying out different ways to say them.  She was swinging her free leg back and forth impatiently, her shoe dangling from her big toe when the door opened again, but it was only the director.

       “Hi, Roxanne.  Hey!  Didn’t I tell you not to wear those spiked heels today?”

       “Ain’t nothin’ that goes with this dress you ask for.”

       “Then that’s OK.  Why are you looking at me like that?  Are you trying to stare me down or something?”

       “Will ya let ol’ Roxanne give ya a kiss?”

       “What for?”

       “To thank ya.”

       “Then you’re welcome, and let’s leave it at that.  What wonderful thing have I done?”

       “This part.  With him and Roddy.  It’s to die for.”

       “Why’re suddenly so excited it about it?”



       “Him.”  She pointed straight at Dyl.

       “The dildo?”

       “That ain’ no dildo, honey.  That’s Dyl Doe.”  She stressed both syllables equally.  “Sally’s pride an’ joy.  We knew each otha in New York.”

       “What makes you so sure it’s the same one?”

       “The way he gasp when he seen me, an’ he be talkin’ to hisself a mile a minute ever since.”

       “Whatever.  You know, Roxanne, you really are nuts.”

       So Roxanne was one of the people who could understand him, and he never knew it till now!  Neon had said that there were humans who could understand what you said once you’d made a deep connection with them like the one between him and Larry, but Dyl hadn’t really believed him.  But why not Mike, then, and why not Randy?  Or Janelle, for that matter?  No, Janelle never listened to anybody.

       “So what’d Roxanne do to deserve this plum?”

       “Who better to stick his first sex toy up Rodman’s ass?”

       “His first?  Thank you, Jesus!”

       “That’s right, his first.  And you’re the toy expert, and the Rodman expert too.  You’ve had your dick up there, and I don’t know how many fingers, and your tongue, and your nose...”

       “I ain’t done nothin’ to him he ain’t done to me.”

       “ know better than anyone how to push his button, and you find it quicker than anyone else too.  Except Jerry.”

       Roxanne made a face.  “Oh, Jerry!  Don’ you go tellin’ me about Jerry, ’cause I don’t wanna hear it.”


       “Roxanne, jealous?  Jealous of Roddy an’ Jerry?  You gotta be kiddin’.  I ain’t jealous.  I pissed.  Jerry use ta do ever’one, but will ’e give Roxanne any o’ them eleven an’ a half inches?  Ain’ I good enough fer ’im?  I’s good enough fer ’is Roddy, but I ain’ fer ’is rod!”

       “Jerry hasn’t put out since he and Rodman tied the knot, and that was a couple of years before you got here.  Otherwise you’d have had your share, believe me.”


       Rodman walked in through the door, and with him Jerry of the awesome endowment,  his partner of nearly ten years and personal fluffer.  No one but Rodman Pierce could boast his own personal fluffer, and the models he had fluffed while he was still in the business and those who’d heard their stories envied Rodman for him as much as for his killer body and fabulous contract which let him call not only all the shots, but just about all the shoots too.

       The porn star was wearing nothing but a pair of cut-off jeans – not even socks – and looking like a million dollars.  Dyl could feel the hum growing inside even without being turned on.  “Hi, Roxie.  I just heard it was you who’s gonna do me.    See, Jer, you were right.  I won’t need you here to fluff me with Roxie around.”

       “When have you ever needed fluffing, stud?  But I come anyway just to watch.  You make me so frigging hot.”

       “I always need you, Jer,” he said, planting a little kiss on his lips.  “Just knowing you’re there watching is all the fluff I need.”

       “He watches to keep an eye on ’im,” Roxanne said to no one in particular.

       “Don’t be catty, Roxie.  You know you’re my favorite she-male.”

       That was a left-handed compliment, and Roxanne knew it.  Rodman didn’t much care for she-males, but he had had a lot of them.  Ever since the first flick he’d bottomed in it had become a sort of on-screen specialty.  She also knew that she could make him shoot farther and moan louder than any of the butch models he worked with.

       “Well,” she said, “it’s the truth.  ‘So friggin’ hot,’ he says.  Ha!  I seen ’im watchin’ our scenes, chile, an’ I ain’ never see no eleven an’ a half inch bulge in his pants.”

       “You look at my partner’s crotch while you’re playing a scene with me?”

       “Don’ got much else to look at when ya doin’ me doggie, do I?”

       “And when you do me doggie?”

       “Oh, then I mostly keep my eyes on that sweet ass I got between my fingers, but look where you lookin’ too.”  She turned to Jerry and gave him a sly smile.  “You don’ expec’ me to believe all them stories with no proof, do ya?”

       “The only one I care about doesn’t need convincing,” Jerry told her.

       “Still not showin’, huh?  All fo’ yo’ Roddy.  Well, Roddy don’ need that much, not with his job, he don’t.”

       “Jerry has the monster cock, and you better believe it,” the cameraman said.  “You’ve heard all the old tops.  Why won’t you take their word for it, Roxanne?  Do you think it’s some kind of conspiracy?”

       “Then how a about a glimpse of yo’ butt?  Jes’ a teeny peek.”

       “My ass?  Only for Pay.”

       Everyone had heard his pet name for Rodman hundreds of times, but no one knew where it came from.  They guessed it had something to do with all the money Rodman made for the two of them, never suspecting that Jerry’s legitimate job brought in more than twice that.

       “He comes along as his manager,” the director said dryly, “and if we ask for anything that isn’t spelled out in the contract, he squeezes our balls until our dicks spit out more money for it.  He’s keeping extra special close watch now because of that so-called friend of yours.  That’s it, isn’t it, you cheap bastard?”

       “This really ya first time with a toy?” Roxanne asked Rodman.

       “We talked about it, but never got around to it.  And after we got the idea of using one in my next film, Jiz made me promise not to try it till we shot the scene.”

       “So I’s yo’ first one?”  (No, I am, thought Dyl.)  “I get to do things with you that Jerry ain’t never done?”  She stuck her tongue out at Jerry.

       “Am I gonna like it, Roxanne?”

       “Like it?  Rod baby, you are gonna love it.  This here is Mr. Dylan Doe, the Dylan Doe, an’ there ain’t no one like him in the business!”

       “So I chose a good one?”

       “You chose ’im?  You sho’ got the instincts, babe.  Me an’ Dyl is frien’s from way back.”

       “So the thing has a name then?”  He turned to the director.  “You make sure to put him in the credits, you hear?”

       “That’s Dyl Doe,” Roxanne said sternly.  “Dyl with a Y.”

       Well, at least Rodman didn’t question what she said.  Maybe he’d be able to understand Dyl too once he’d had him up his ass if Roxanne did a good job.

       “I always do a good job,” Roxanne said, looking straight at Dyl.

       “Who said you didn’t?” the director wanted to know.

       The last few doubts Dyl was harboring flew out the window.  She understood him, all right!

*  *  *

       The opening part of the scene belonged to Dyl and Roxanne.  First a long still of Dyl lying on the night table, then Roxanne comes in wearing a low-cut, pink satin dress that clings to her dark cocoa skin, hanging from her shoulders by straps as thin as string and going one-quarter of the way down her thighs.

       “Cut!  I don’t like the spikes, Roxanne.  Get rid of them.”

       “I ain’t wearin’ this dress without the shoes.”

       “Then we’ll start with you on the bed.”

       “I don’ care where we start.  No shoes, no dress.”

       “OK.  Just as long as we don’t have to see you walk in them.  We start with you on the bed in the dress and the shoes, and the first thing you do is kick them off.  Just make it look sexy.”

       “I can make anythin’ look sexy, honey.”

       Retake.  A long still of Dyl lying on the bed, then pan up to Roxanne standing on the other side of the bed, her back to the camera, rubbing her hips and the tops of her buttocks.  A little ass wiggle.  She sits on the bed, which requires hiking up her dress an inch or two,  and picks up Dyl, then folds her legs under her and pushes each shoe off with the other foot, extra sexy.  She picks the shoes up off the mattress and tosses them gently to the floor at the foot of the bed, one at a time.  She holds Dyl in front of her cleavage for a moment, light blue vinyl against shiny pink satin, then brings him to her face and passes him back and forth across her lips, murmuring softly to him.  “Do I got a treat for you today, my own sweet li’l private cock.  Jes’ you wait!” 

       Dyl didn’t mind the contact with soft, feminine flesh.  He could feel the bone outlining her masculine jaw which the blush had covered up and made to look gently rounded, and her odor was intensely virile.

       A knock.  “You in there, Sugar?”

       Dyl quickly stashed under the pillow.  “Door’s open.”

       Rodman saunters up to the bed, his torn cut-offs so low on his hips you’d think his bulge was holding them up.

       Then Roxanne delivered the line that worried her most, the one she had silently practiced over and over.  She was glad the director didn’t make her redo it.  “Oh, Stu, you are such a hunk!”  That day all the dialogue, dumb as ever, went well and required no retakes.

       Sugar gets onto her knees, sticks out her tongue, bends forward and licks down his treasure trail.  She squeezes his buns with both hands; Stu digs his fingers in her hair.  Then she cranes her neck to reach his lips, and with her hands clutching his upper arms, she pulls them both down onto the bed, with stretched out on top of her.  A long kiss, Sugar grinding her groin into Stu’s.

       “Roll over, hunk.  I wanna chew yo’ nips.”

       “Yeah, baby.  Chew them nips.”

       Chew, chew, chew.

       “Now mine!  Now mine!  I want ya to suck my titties!”

       Sugar gets to her knees, straddles herself right over the bulge in his shorts, and sits.

       “Cut!  We have to do that again, Roxanne.  You let your dress ride up too high.  We can see your nuts bulging out your thong.  Why didn’t you wear panties like I told you?’

       “Same reason as the shoes.  Ya really see ’em all that clear?”

       “Clearer,” the cameraman assured her.  “Tuck in your rocks, Roxie.”

       Roxanne’s more careful on the next take.  As soon as Sugar’s straddled on top of Stu, her nuts tucked safely out of sight, she reaches an arm behind her, unzips her dress halfway down her back, and pushes the top half of the dress down over her hips.  Her implants are large enough for the unzipped dress to accommodate her butt.  She cups her hands under her boobs and holds them just out of Stu’s reach.  He sticks out his tongue and pretends to strain to get at them.

       At this point the dialogue became so unspeakably inane, even by porn flick standards, that the director seriously thought about making the writer redo them, but everything was going well, so why tempt fate?

       Things continued to go without a hitch until they got to the part where Sugar pulls off Stu’s cut-offs and makes her comment about how she loves it when he goes commando.  As usual, that scene required more than twenty retakes, because Rodman was supposed to start off soft and get hard, and there’s no such thing as an unfluffer.

       “Would it help if we shoved a couple of ice cubes up your ass?” the director asked bitterly.

       Rodman gave him the finger.  “It would work better if you brought Jiz in and had him stand naked in the corner.”

       The whole room broke into laughter.  It was a very crowded set, since so many people had wanted to watch the filming of Rodman’s first dildo scene.  The director had to put his foot down: no more than five not directly involved in the filming.  Rodman chose them all personally.

       The director managed not to smile, or thought he did.  “Imagine Jiz naked in the corner and see if that works for you.”

       “It workin’ fo’ me, sweetheart.  Now we gonna hafta call in a fluffer.  How about it, Jerry?”

       Jerry gave her the finger.

       Thinking about Jiz with no clothes on must have worked, because Sugar successfully removed Stu’s shorts after two more takes, but they still had a few more retakes to go, because Stu was supposed to grow hard gradually, and Rodman’s rod kept springing up way too fast.  It was the last hurdle, though, because once all the way hard he was allowed to stay hard.

       Stu gets a more perfunctory blowjob than any of Rodman’s other roles, because this scene is all about his ass.  Sugar is all over it, and in it too – fingers, tongue, nose.  Lots of dumb lines that are supposed to hint “Dildo” and just about scream it, all of them going right over Stu’s head, which is hard to believe because he’s leaking sap like a sugar maple at the end of winter.  No one will care, and it can’t be helped.   Rodman was having the time of his life, because Roxanne was a pro, the best in the business.  She was good at everything, but in the rimming department she could even give Jerry a run for his money.

       Sugar finally comes out and says the word dildo.  Stu balks.  An argument, a tussle. Sugar on her back once again.  Kiss and make up.  “Lick my titties, Stu.  Don’t you like my titties?”

       “I love your titties, Sugar, but there’s something I like even more – your thick black cock!”

       Dress pulled up, panties ripped off.  Stu gives Sugar head.

       “Fuck me, baby!  Fuck me hard!  Fuck my sweet black man-pussy!”

       Sugar’s head is hanging over the side of the bed, her right hand thrust under the pillow.  Stu on his knees between her calves, dribbling spit onto his dick.

       “Fuck me, baby! Fuck me! Fuck me!”

       He hooks his elbows under her knees, lifts her legs, waddles forward a few inches, and plunges in.

       Now comes the dumbest stretch of dialogue in the whole movie: “Aarrrgh!” – “Fuck, that feels good!” – “Oh yeah, baby, do me!  Pound that ass!” – “Aarrrgh!” – “Ouf!” – “Oh shit!” – and so on and so forth.

       It gets worse.

       “Vibrate in me, baby!”

       “Men don’t vibrate, Sugar.  If you want vibrations, buy yourself a dildo.”

       “Try anyway.”

       “How the hell...?”

       “Like this!”

       Out comes Dyl from under the pillow, and with one swift thrust he disappears up Stu’s butthole.  “Wham!”  (That’s in the dialogue.  Sugar says it.)

       Roxanne went straight for the button every time.  That girl never missed.  Rodman’s eyes just about popped out of his head, and he let loose a stream of words that weren’t in the script.  They were so perfect, the director regretted not having made the writer redo the rest of it.

       It’s like an orgy on the set.  Every man there (and there were only men) has his dick out.  Everyone – the director, the cameraman, and Jerry too, but Roxanne is too dazed to take it all in, at least to take that all in.  It’s all solo action except for the two on camera, but they’re all hard, either beating off wildly or beating off slowly or just idly playing with it; in short, an orgy.

       The camera is right in front of Sugar’s face.  She shoots a huge load of cum right on the lens.  “You bitch!  You got it all over my shirt!”

       “Cut!”  They would have had to cut there anyway to clean the lens.

       Roxanne still has to finish Rodman off.  She twists Dyl around in his butt while she licks his cock and balls, him writhing, kicking, screaming obscenities, script be damned.  How he holds it back so long is anyone’s guess, but about half the audience cums before he does, as everyone who eventually rented the video must have done.

       The director tried to keep track of the squirts when Rodman came, but he lost count.  Dyl was sorry he couldn’t see him from where he was lodged, but what of it?  The best fuck he’d ever had (except Mike) came with a price.  Roxanne’s face was radiant.  She licked it up off Rodman’s trembling frame until he took her by the hair and pulled her off him.


       “The last drops are for Jerry, Rox.  You know that.”

       The director was ecstatic.  He sat in his canvas folding chair, his pants down around his ankles and an large wet stain in his boxers, shaking his head in awe and saying, “Wow!”  It took him a few minutes to recover his equilibrium, then he poured forth a torrent of words.  “My God, was that ever hot!  It’ll bring in millions!  We’ll buy out every porn studio in Palm Springs!  We’ll...  Did you get it all, Charlie?” he asked the cameraman.  “Are you sure your camera didn’t melt?”

       “I got it.”

       “And you think the footage is good?  You were able to hold it steady, playing with yourself like that?”  The cameraman was naked from the waist down.

       “It was on a tripod.  On wheels.  I just pushed it from place to place.”

       “And it’s in focus?”

       “Most of it, I’m sure.  A little splicing will take care of the bits that don’t come out.”

       “Will you shoot some more footage for me?”

       “What’s left to shoot?”

       “Rodman’s dick, while it’s soft.  That always comes in handy.  Hey!  What the fuck is going on on this set?”

       Those that hadn’t cum yet had paired up or formed threesomes and were sucking and licking and rimming.  Only Jerry was decent.  He’d tucked his dick discreetly back into his pants and waited for Rodman to recover his breath.  Now he went over to him and helped him to his feet.

       “You all right, Pay?”

       “I’ll be OK in a sec.  Hold me, Jer, will you?”

       The director was on a roll, walking up and down the set waving his arms wildly, oblivious to the sucking and groping going on around him, oblivious to the fact that his pants were still down around his ankles ready to trip him any minute, oblivious to his dick, which was flapping as crazily as his arms.

       “Jiz is gonna love this!  His fucking balls will go shooting out his ears!  And this picture is just the first.  We’re going to make a whole series with that little bugger!”  He pointed to Dyl, who was lying on the bed, dazed and humming.  No one had thought to turn him off.

       “Dyl sure gives one hell of a jolt, all right,” Rodman said, still breathing heavily.  “I know your other models will enjoy every minute of it.”

       “What’s this about our other models?  That baby’s yours; you earned it!”

       “That was my fiftieth picture.  The contract’s over.  I’m retiring.”

       “But you can’t do that!”

       “Oh yes, he can,” Jerry said.

       “Look,” Rodman explained, “it makes sense, doesn’t it?  I sure as hell don’t need the money, and I’ll be forty-nine in a couple of months.  Aren’t I better off getting out at the peak of my career?  I don’t need it for the sex.  I have Jerry.  I don’t need a damn thing when I have Jerry; and if I’m not in the business, I’ll have more of Jerry.”

       The director was fuming.  “You put him up to this!” he snarled at Jerry.

       “No I didn’t, but I’ll admit I encouraged him.  And why not?  He’s given you the best years of his life.”

       “You got that backwards.  We’ve given him the best years of his life.”

       “No, Jerry has.  Hey guys!”  Rodman said to everyone in the room, distracting them from their sex.  “ I’m outta here!  Come and give us a hug!”

       They were all over him in a second.  Most just gave him a friendly bear hug, but a couple of them groped him too.

       “Where’s Roxie?  I wanted to say goodbye.”

       “Roxanne?  Just about anywhere,” said one of the models he’d invited to watch.  “She found a tear in her dress and freaked out.”

       “Gosh, Cut, I hope I didn’t do it.”

       The director was less compassionate.  “Yeah, poor bitch.  She should have been more careful.”

       Rodman had yet to put a stitch on him.  No one had ever seen him remain flaccid for so long.  “Well, I’m off.  Where’d we leave my street clothes, Jer?”

       “In the duffle.  Don’t forget the cut-offs.  We’ll want them as a souvenir.  They ought to be on the floor somewhere.”

       “I think Roxanne ran off with them,” said the cameraman.

       “I’ll go look for them while you get dressed, Pay.  Then we’ll go straight home and change.”

       “Change for what?”

       “I made reservations for dinner.  Don’t you think we have something to celebrate?”

       Rodman walked over to the bed, picked Dyl up, and switched him off.  “Goodbye, old man,” he said.  “It’s been real, hasn’t it?  I think I’ll miss you most.”

       Dyl was devastated.  Then he remembered Mike, and that put  things into perspective.  Losing Mike hurt worse.  It still hurt worse, and he had lost him a lifetime ago.  How long had it been?  Eight years at least.  And what would his role be with Rodman and Jerry anyway?  There’d never been any real commitment between Mike and Jeffrey; Mike had had room in his heart for Dyl too, plenty of it.  These two were another story.  They’d been together since before he was made and would still be together when he was thrown in the trash.  They had each other and didn’t need anyone else, least of all a blue vibrator.

*  *  *

       Jerry Roth and Rodman Pierce had been a monogamous couple since their exchange of vows in the Unitarian Church, not counting the sex Rodman had with other Cumstock models.  That was business.  After letting all the friends who watched their celebration flip-flop touch his boner (an opportunity which only Jiz had passed up) and giving each a squeeze in the crotch in return, Jerry never laid hands on another man.  He quit his job as fluffer and devoted himself full time to the much more lucrative profession of making pornographic websites, but he remained a regular at the studio in his capacity of Rodman Pierce’s manager and financial planner.  Calling Jerry his personal fluffer was a joke, of course.  It was true, however, that no one had ever fluffed him except Jerry, who’d been allowed to give him fifteen seconds of mouth at his first professional shoot even though he didn’t need it.

       Rodman had invested wisely under his lover’s guidance, and the two were financially secure for life.  His years in the industry and Jerry’s influence above all had completely changed him.  If it weren’t for the good looks he had never lost, no one would have recognized him as Otis, that gullible, wet behind the ears, Nevada hick who’d landed an audition at the studio over twelve years earlier.  He’d finished off his GED, spent two years at a community college and got his B.A. from UCLA, worked with a speech teacher to clean up his accent and could now do a passable job in a variety of roles (though he still thought in Nevada dialect), fixed his grammar so that it was as good as any college-educated American (which isn’t saying much), and mastered the social graces he needed to inhabit the business world Jerry frequented.  Everyone respected him for his suave manners (which he dropped at Cumstock so the models he worked with wouldn’t feel intimidated) and his quick wit and intelligence, but he left the decision-making up to Jerry, who was a wilier coyote than he.

       Rodman Pierce looked at his lover and thought he had done well.  No, more than that.  He couldn’t have done better.  Now in his late thirties, Jerry Roth had turned into a fairly decent- looking man.  He looked older than Rodman now, thanks to his steel-gray hair, but what of it?  Rodman looked ten years younger than he was.  Jerry had finally begun to get some flesh on his bones – good, solid flesh, not flab – toward the end of his twenties, and by the time he turned thirty he no longer looked like the gangly kid he once did.  And he still had those beautiful eleven and a half inches in his pants.  No one had seen them in years except for his lover, his doctor, and the few people who had been able to tear their eyes off Rodman and Roxanne when they shot the dildo scene.  He would never have the stunning good looks of his partner, but what did that matter?

       As for Jerry, he’d loved Pay from the second he set eyes on him, loved him because he wore his heart on his sleeve, loved him for his authenticity.  That’s why he’d gone slowly, steered clear of him at first.  He didn’t want him to be just another fuck.  That’s why he’d been  willing to lie low and pass for the twerpiest of his groupies.  He never doubted his lover for a moment, and let him fuck the rest of them as a cover while he was working himself up in the business.  He’d guided him every step of the way, staying in the background so no one ever knew it.  He’d taught him how to dissemble (you can’t make it in show business – in any profession – if you can’t do that), but he could still read his heart like a book.  He had complete confidence in his love, absolute trust in his off-set fidelity, which more than offset his on-set infidelities.  He’d been confident from the first, knowing that Rodman valued the inner man more than looks, and as for his eleven and a half inches, well no one can remain a size queen after twelve years in the porn industry, and Rodman had never been one to begin with.  No, it wasn’t those eleven and a half inches that kept Rodman attached to him.  They attached him to him all right, but they weren’t what kept him attached.

       “Kiss me, Pay,” he said.

       Sex with each other was as good as it gets and more than they needed, and between the two of them they made almost as much money as they did cum, so by the time Rodman had turned his thirty-fifth film or so they’d reached the decision to get him out of the business as soon as he’d made the fifty movies he’d contracted for.

       Now Rodman Pierce had officially retired into the lap of luxury and of Jerry.  That they were and always had been an exclusive couple was universally recognized.  Even the bitchiest porn tabloids never questioned their fidelity.  There remained the one film they wanted to make together, however, and one infidelity for Jerry that they’d agreed on from the first, and the scene with Roxanne and Dyl had given them the leverage they needed to make both happen.  It was just a matter of keeping away from the studio and biding their time.

       They only had to wait a week before Jiz Johnson showed up at their door with a contract already drawn up.  In fact, he brought two contracts.

“You can’t do this to us!” he began.

       “What can’t he do to you?  What has Pay ever done to you besides appear in the seventy most lucrative movies Cumstock ever put out?  And you know they were only your biggest moneymakers because he was in them, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

       “I wasn’t talking to you.”

       “Jerry speaks for me, as my manager.  I don’t owe Cumstock anything.”

       “What about your fans?”

       “Don’t worry about my fans.  There are enough videos of me having sex in circulation to keep my fans pumping their meat till their dicks fall off.  Maybe I’ll do a farewell magazine spread for them.  Why not?  I turned a farewell film.  Or maybe I’ll write a hot autobiography they can take to bed with them.”

       “Great idea, Pay!”

       “Just explain to me why you want to retire when your career is just taking off.”

       “Just taking off?  At the age of thirty-eight?  After twelve years in the business?  Who are you kidding?”

       “That last video, the one with the dildo, that opens up a whole set of new possibilities to make movies.  It was a turning point.”

       “It certainly was a turning point.  He retired.  He won’t be young forever.  That he’s still young at thirty-eight is nothing short of a miracle.  Why shouldn’t he retire and enjoy his youth while it lasts if he can afford it?”

       “I don’t need the money,” Rodman cut in.  “Why else do models do it if not for the money?”

       “Fame, glamour, adulation...”

       “I have all that.”


       “What fun?  Have you ever starred in a porn flick, Jiz?  The idea of making a porn flick is dazzling,” Jerry said; “that’s how you lure them all in.  After that it’s for the money.”

       “What’s wrong with money?”

       “Nothing’s wrong with money.  We just have all we need, more than we need.”

       “What’s so horrible about making porn?”

       “There’s nothing horrible about making porn.  Do you think we’re prudes?  It’s just like any other business.  You work to support yourself, and when you can afford to retire in comfort, you do.  And Pay can retire in a lot more than comfort.”

       “There’s more to it than that, Jer.  I’ve already made three times as many porn flicks as I wanted to.  Before I started I may have been thinking in terms of hundreds, of continuing to make porn for as long as my looks lasted and I could get it up, but one film was enough, really.  I made more because the money was good and the work was enjoyable, but after I hooked up with Jerry here I didn’t need it for enjoyment anymore.  If I continued do porn all these years it was because I was under contract.  And I did my work well and never complained, never made any trouble.  You have nothing to reproach me with on that score.  I’m done with it.  I don’t regret doing it, but now I’m done.”

       “Do I have to beg?”

       “You can beg all you like,” Jerry said.  “We’re not stopping you.  Then, when you get tired of groveling you can go home.”

       “But you haven’t even looked at the contract!”

       “I’m not interested,” Rodman said firmly.

       “How do you know you’re not interested if you haven’t even seen it.  No model has ever been offered what we’re offering.”

       “For the umpteenth time, he doesn’t need the money.”

       “Who’s talking about money?  We’re offering health insurance...”

       “I have health insurance.  I’m on Jerry’s.  We’re civil partners, remember?”

       “...retirement benefits...”

       “Too late.  He’s retired already.”

       “...stock options...”

       “In a porn studio?”

       “In our parent companies – banks, pharmaceuticals, fast food chains, toys...”

       “Our answer is no.”

       “And all for just ten more films.  We understand that you don’t want to have to work all the time now and that this isn’t a career that can go on indefinitely.  You make them when you want to.  You tell us you have a free day or two on your hands, and even on a moment’s notice we’ll take charge of assembling a cast and crew at your convenience.  We’ll have a whole library of scripts reserved especially for you, the best that get submitted to us, and you get to pick and choose, or you come up with a plot and a part you want to play and we’ll have our writers churn something out.  Now isn’t that tempting?”

       “It would have been once.  Not any more.”

       “Then how about one more film, just one?  No stock options and all that, of course, but at the highest salary any porn star has ever commanded, and just for one scene.  And we’ll let you choose your scene too.”  That was the other contract Jiz had brought with him.  He was a sly operator.  He’d seen the tabloid headlines that would be appearing that weekend and the articles about Rodman’s retirement and some fabricated mushy love story about him and Jerry.  The tabloids would have a field day if he went back and made another film after that, just one would do it, and Cumstock would have him by the balls.

       “Well, there is one film I might want to make.  In fact, yes, I’d definitely do it; but just one.”

       “I have a contract here for one film too.”

       “Then sit down at the table with Jerry and iron out the details while I get us some coffee.  He’s in charge of the business side of things, as usual.”

       Jiz and Jerry sat down to negotiate, the soon to be scribbled over contract on the table in front of them.  Rodman got the coffee and came to stand behind Jerry.

       “Aren’t you going to sit down?” Jiz asked.

       “No.  Here I’m just an observer.”

       “So what’s this film your buddy wants to do?”

       “Partner, lover, boyfriend, husband... not buddy.”

       “What does Mr. Pierce here have in mind?”

       “A film of the two us, him and me, making love together.  Maybe a three-hour documentary, with interviews and scenes from the footage you have from our wedding.”

       “A three-hour porn flick?  Are you kidding?”

       “Part porn flick, part documentary.  A bit of both.”

       “Cumstock doesn’t make documentaries.”

       “Then the usual ninety-minute porn flick with Pay and me, and an option to use our footage in a documentary if we decide to make one.”

       “It’s out of the question.  We have to use Cumstock models.”

       “Then hire Jerry.  He’s got what it takes.  The proof is in your safe.  How long has it been since you last took it out?  A month or so?”

       “He may even have watched it this morning, Pay.”

       “No way.  He’s been watching my scene with Roxie and Dyl.  Can’t you see how worn out he is?”

       “We’re not making a film with Jerry.”

       “Then you’re not making a film.”

       “OK, you win.  I’ll let you make a film together, but you’ll have to take a studio name.”

       “We have one: Jerry Rutter.  Will that do?”

       “Jerry Rutter is fine.”

       “And you have to release it too,” Jerry insisted.  “That goes in the contract.”

       Jiz made a face; then he sighed.  “Agreed.  But it’ll also say Rodman has to make ten more for us.”






       “Three, then, but with our stars, and you’re not in them.”

       “I only want to do one film.  Just me and Pay.”

       “No, other people have to be in it.  How else are we supposed to drag it out for ninety minutes.”

       “That’s our problem,” said Rodman.

       “No problem,” Jerry corrected him.

       “I insist on at least one more actor.”

       “OK, but only one.  And we get to choose who.”

       “But Jer...”

       “Let me handle this, Pay.  Have I ever led you wrong before?”

       “An actor from the studio.”

       “Of course from the studio.”

       “And who is it going to be.”

       “Pay and I will discuss that between ourselves.  For now you just put in ‘with one star from other Cumstock films, to be chosen by the actors’.”

       “Anything else?”

       “That film gets made and released before Pay does any others.  You’ve reneged on contracts before.  We haven’t, and we won’t.”

       Jiz penciled in the changes.  “OK, I’ll bring this down to the studio and get it printed up.  Then you can come by and sign.  How much do you expect to be paid for this?”

       “Pay and I will do it for free, just to show how nice we are.  The other three at Pay’s usual rate.  But we want royalties for this one.”

       “Royalties!  That’s asking for more than we ever pay anybody!”

       “I’m just trying to be fair.  You seem to think a video with just Pay and me...”

       “And one more.”

       “...with Pay and me and someone else won’t bring in any money.  This way we don’t make money on it unless you do.  We won’t ask for much.  Only five percent.”

       “Five percent!”

       “For the two of us.  Not five percent each.”

       Jiz penciled that in too.  “Well, that’s settled.  I’m off to the studio to...”

       “No need to go to the studio.  I’ll bat it off at the computer, print off the copies, and we’ll sign here and now.”

       “I thought you’d want it notarized.”

       “I’m a notary public.  Didn’t you know?”

       “Is it legal to notarize something when you’re one of the signatories?”

       “I won’t be.  The contract will be between you and Pay.  It has to be, since there are three other pictures for him involved.  It’ll read ‘a gay video for the party of the second part and his partner’.”

       Jiz was scribbling madly.  “Here it is.  Go run it off.”

       “Not quite yet.  There are a couple more clauses we want added.”

       “Like what?”

       “That you surrender our wedding video and it becomes our exclusive copy to do what we want with, and you attest that you have no other copies.”

       “That video’s mine!”

       “It shouldn’t be.”

       “I won’t do it.”

       “Then Pay doesn’t do those three films you’re asking for.”

       “Ten, and I’ll hand over the wedding video.”


       “You are such a bastard, Jerry Roth.”

       “Rutter.  And look who’s talking.”

       “I give in; I give in.  The video’s yours.  Are you happy now?”

       “He’ll renege, Jer.  He’ll make copies and release them, and ours won’t be worth anything.”

       “You’re going to release it as your own.”

       “It is our own,” Jerry said, “but we don’t mean to release it, not unless there’s a market crash or something and we need it to fall back on.  And don’t worry, Pay, he won’t renege.”

       “How’re you going to keep him from doing it?”

       “Get out that pencil again, Jiz.  We’re going to make this a contract that even you won’t dare break.  Write this in: ‘If Cumstock Studios is found to have retained a copy of Rodman Pierce’s wedding video...’  You got that, Jiz?”

       “Yeah.  ‘...of Rodman Pierce’s wedding video...’”

       “‘...all the films Mr. Pierce has ever made for Cumstock, including those he made under the name of Pierce Rodman...’  Keep on writing, Jiz...  ‘become the exclusive property of Rodman Pierce.’”

       Rodman started laughing so hard he had to sit down on the sofa.

       “I can’t put that in the contract.  I don’t have the authority.”

       “Yes you do.  Don’t go trying to teach me contract law.”

       They’d timed their negotiations perfectly.  They’d planned it all in advance, down to the letter, chipping away bit by bit at the formidable Jiz Johnson and worn him down.  He wrote in everything they told him.

       “One thing more,” Rodman said.

       “You’re kidding!”

       “Only one, and it won’t cost you a thing.”

       “OK, what is it.”

       “Tell him, Jer.”

       “I get to cornhole you while Pay fucks your face.”

       “You fuck!”

       “Come off it, Jiz,” Rodman said.  “You know you want it.”

       He did.  Ever since the day of the wedding he’d wanted those eleven and a half inches up his ass.  Only his pride and fear of losing his absolute authority at the studio held him back.  In fact, it was his lust for Jerry, just a skinny little kid back then, that had made him dead set against the two of them making a film.  So it made sense, now that they were going to make that movie anyway, to take advantage of the opportunity and go for it.  That he’d get a taste of Rodman’s luscious dick again after all these years was an added incentive.  “You drive a hard bargain, Jerry,” he said.”

       “That’s not the only hard thing Jerry drives.”

       Jiz got up from the table and started unbuckling his pants.

       “Not here,” Jerry told him.  “At the studio.”

       With his pants already halfway open there was no backing down.  “No camera.  No video.”

       “No camera.  But the show has to be open to all Cumstock employees who want to watch.”

       “By invitation only.”

       “Then we get to do the inviting.”

       “And make sure Roxie gets a special invitation,” Rodman added.  “I want her to have her proof about Jerry.”

       Jiz wrote everything at Jerry’s dictation: “Mr. Jiz Johnson, as representative for the party of the first part, will be fucked in the face at Cumstock Studios by Rodman Pierce while being cornholed by Mr. Pierce’s long-term partner, said face-fucking and cornholing to be open for viewing by any Cumstock employee who wishes to witness it.”  Then Jerry typed out and printed off the contract, and Jiz and Rodman signed, with Jerry acting as notary.  They called in the boy who was cleaning the swimming pool as a witness.

       Jiz went back to the studio a defeated man.  When he’d gone, Rodman asked, “Will that contract really hold up in court with words like ‘cornhole’ and ‘face-fucking’ in it?”

       “Probably not, Pay, but it doesn’t matter.  Jiz won’t let it even get to court with the whole studio able to vouch that it happened.  He won’t take the chance of our trying to sue him.  This is one contract Jiz Johnson won’t ever break.”

       “But now I’ll have to make three more porn flicks.  I wanted out, you knew that, and I thought you wanted me out too.  It almost feels like you sold me.”

       “You can renege.  We make ours first, and it gets released before they can ask you to make the others.  With cornholing and face-fucking Jiz in the contract he won’t go public and take it to court, and if he does it probably won’t hold up.  You said so yourself.”

       “And if the court does uphold it?”

       “You can make up your own mind, make the films or renege.  I’d prefer you reneged.  It won’t cost us much, just some nominal fine, since we’ll have made ours for free and they won’t have paid you for the others yet, so where’s the fraud?  What do we have to lose, royalties?  We may even get to keep those, since Cumstock will be raking it in on ours.”

       “I don’t like that concession you made either, the one about having a third guy make the video with us.  Fucking Jiz is one thing; us in a three-way with another guy is something else.”

       “I told you not to worry about that.  Don’t you trust me?”

       No video was made of Jiz Johnson sandwiched between his top star and his lover, but just about everyone at the studio showed up to watch, including straights and lesbians, and most of them brought their own cameras.  No camcorders.  Rodman was a hunk and Jerry had a dick that no one at Cumstock could rival, but Jiz Johnson was close to sixty years old, a paunchy, balding, little queen, so it wouldn’t have been worth seeing a second time.  Someone did get it all down on audio tape, though.

       It took Jiz almost ten minutes to recover, which is to say a little less than one-fifth the time they spent working him over.  “OK, when do we start turning the film?  You’ve had your fun.”

       “So’ve you, baby,” Roxanne gloated.

       “Is next week soon enough?” Jerry asked.  “Pay and I are off for a weekend in Hawaii.”

       “Have you made up your mind who the third is going to be?”

       “Of course we have.  It didn’t take long to figure that one out.”

       “Who’s it going to be, then?  I’m guessing Roxanne.”

       “Oh yes, me!  Me me me me me!  I kin be a hay-ram lady called Jizza, an’ we’ll play the scene they jes’ done.”

       Rodman perked up his ears.  Jerry hadn’t told him anything, and he was dying to know what his friend had up his sleeve.

       “Guess again, Jiz.  It’s Dyl Doe.  And we get to take him on a Hawaiian vacation to practice with.  You OK with that, Pay, having Dyl as our third man?”

       Rodman Pierce beamed at his partner.  “I love you, Jer,” he said.  “I love you more than anything.”

       “More than having that dildo up your ass?”

       “Much more.  I love you more than I love having you up my ass.”

© 2007 by Anel Viz. All rights reserved.


Posted: 08/24/07