OK, now those of you who follow my blog know a while back I was on rentboy.com for a month (a) to do some first hand research into what it was like to be a hustler for my gay fiction writing and (b) for kicks. And while I couldn’t live off my rentboy income that month, I did have a few guys throw one hundred fifty bucks on the bureau. So at my advancing age, no complaints.
Well, it so happens Chris, a producer for San Francisco-based Pantheon Productions that specializes in older men, bear and daddy porn, was canvassing for potential new talent for some planned shooting dates in Lauderdale, saw my ad, and asked if I might be interested.
Being a career exhibitionist, rooted I think in an insecure adolescence which has made me forever seeking acceptance, I only hesitated for two reasons and not that my high school English teacher would ever see the results: would I be able to perform, i.e., keep Mr. Peter up for a four hour shoot, Viagra or no Viagra; and not so much how much I’d make but when I’d get paid.
You see, I had already been hustled by a local porn producer who when asked that question said payment would be forthcoming six to eight weeks after the shoot. Huh? And what if he snookered me? What was my recourse? Complain to the Better Business Bureau of Porn?
But Chris assured me I would be paid the day I did the shoot and that I could do a “solo” if I liked. I was still a bit gun shy til Chris added it would be just me and him and that he would provide all the arousal material I needed. With that he e- mailed over his pic. He was a youngish, tight bodied, handsome fucker complete with goatee, not some old, fat, leering troll as I imagined most porn directors to be. He apologized for not being hairy to which I replied, “Don’t worry, you’ll do.”
On the day of my junket into the world of virtual sex, I reported to one of the local guesthouses by the beach where Chris had rented a room. He met me at the door wearing only a pair of cargo shorts and was obviously pleased with my furry, equally shirtless body.
“Yep, you’re definitely daddy material,” he said with a sly smile.
After I signed my life away or I should say my images into residual-free perpetuity, we bantered around a screen name. Randy which I used on rentboy was already taken so we decided on Ray Andrews, my real first name and Andrew my middle name. I asked where Ray Andrews would surface – either Pantheonbears.com or Hotoldermales.com. “Probably both,” he went on, stroking my crotch, “you fit ‘em both real well.” I wondered if guys still bought DVD’s with all the porn on the web, and Chris concurred that that end of the business had transitioned to streaming but there was still money to be made.
All that was left was the shoot.
We started with stills of me in a jockstrap and boots, first sprawled across a chair, my legs lasciviously spread, then posed against the wall. From all angles of course.
“Nice pouch, daddy,” Chris replied as he casually let his shorts drop to the floor in between snaps.
Then came my own unveiling, and with this boyish 40 year old standing there naked in front of me, ever so often pulling on his nice cut cock which was getting hard, I had no problems in the erection department. By the time we moved to the video, he was even coming over to give me an occasional lick or two in the right places. I knew it was all for the camera, but I can’t deny this aging faggot didn’t enjoy it.
It didn’t take much to get me close and I had to actually hold back a bit so Chris got his required ten minutes of footage, zooming in closer and closer, as cum finally cascaded over my dick and the camera lingered there like some photographer for National Geographic shooting a newly erupted volcano.
As I cleaned up, I asked Chris if he wanted me to give him some “relief” but he just gave me a kiss and said he was O.K. Spoken like a true porn coach.
“We usually pay by check but I was able get to the ATM. Cash OK?”
“No problem,” was my understated reply.
We parted cordially, he promised to look me up for a possible dynamic duo next time he was in town, and I didn’t bother to count the bills til I got back to my car. Because ATM’s only spit out twenties, he had actually overpaid me for the session – $260 instead of the $250 he had quoted when we were still in e negotiations.
I looked at my watch. I had been with Chris for exactly 57 minutes.
As a kid, I thought movie stars never grew old and today I still think film is the closest thing we have to immortality. So if I’m lucky enough to live to 97, I guess there just may be some young boy out there in cyberland still jerking off over my furry daddy bod, forever perpetualized in time one warm Lauderdale Tuesday afternoon in a room by the beach.
Tomorrow: Lauderdale’s own version of Berlin’s Laboratory: Slammers