by Tyler Knight
For the disruption my presence is causing, Alpha Man is probably contemplating choking me out and dumping my groggy ass in his warehouse while they drive to the location without me. He shoots me a look that can cut steel.
After a while, this studio’s male contract porn star, Mitch Adams, strides in from the warehouse. He’s a master negotiator, and because of this I have never been so happy to see another male talent. He cuts the tension by selling the virtues of the other men in the room to the girls. Guys sitting on the sidelines like fifth graders picked last for kick ball are now popular. All is forgiven as Mitch coordinates a flowchart of sex partners to everyone’s satisfaction.
• • •
I’m standing in the eye of the Orgy. Wet sounds of sixty-nines and blow jobs all around me. On my little sex island, Alicia Lee and Belinda Rose are both on their knees slurping away on my cock as if to establish who’s the best cocksucker in Christendom, and I’m dying, trying not to come. If you come too soon, you will be fired on the spot and your reputation as a professional male talent will be ruined. My eyes rove the room in an attempt to divert my attention from what is happening to me.
Everything looks surreal under the bright Keno Flo lights, washing reality in a garish, cartoon flavoring. Colors are punched up. Edges sharpened. Sweat glistens. One Asian girl double fists another guy’s whale cock as it flips to-and-fro in her hands. It’s an X-rated hentai cartoon with a girl wrestling a tentacle!
Below me, the swap-sucking continues. One girl is gracious enough to hold my dick in place while the other girl assaults it. Belinda then stands to kiss me leaving Alicia on her knees to attend to my dick, solo. Lazy arms draped across my shoulders. Me cupping a firm, young ass. I drift in the moment.
I guide Belinda down to the floor and fuck her where she lies. I cover her with my body, turning myself into a man-blanket, only to be chided by Jackson, a camera man, that “I can’t see shit! Open up for the camera.”
“SWITCH!” screams Alpha Man from behind another camera.
The game of musical cocks begins. The girls all make dashes crisscrossing the room to their next fuck partners like door busters on Black Friday. I see a Korean girl, Lena, who insisted on sticking with only two guys, including me, look at me with pleading eyes from across the blur of bodies sprinting across the space between us. Before I can react, a tiny hand with alarming strength tugs at my arm, dragging me away. I give Lena an I’m sorry shrug as I am pushed down into the sofa.I’m looking up at a pair of eyes peeking out at me from behind a cascade of sweat-drenched hair. The familiar warmth of snug vagina encircles my penis. I sit there while she bounces up and down on my dick, getting off several times. A few girls nearby our spot in the orgy stop to watch as this kid flows from orgasm to orgasm.
“You go girl! Get you some!” cheers one of the other girls. Occasionally, I actually fuck her back, but the reason I’m conservative with the fucking is the girl has a death-grip pussy. If I fuck her back and I pop, I’m done for.
Moans, more akin to a zombie invasion than a fuck-fest, fill the air from all corners of the room, punctuated with staccato squeals. The girl on top of me humps away. This kid is killing me. Everything in me is telling me to come in her but I fight it. I divert my focus… It’s really hot under these lights… I’m sweating. Wet slapping sounds of bodies crashing into each other surround me.
My balls twitch in preparations to unload. Not yet!
“SWITCH!”
Thank you, Jesus!
Before I can move, another girl lowers her hot muff onto my dick. Mercifully, she is not anywhere near as snug. Another coupling occupies a spot on the sofas next to us mirroring the same cowgirl position. Two pistons, side by side, in hypnotic up and down action. Keeping myself busy, I grab a breast dangling in front of me. Damn…fake. I suppress the desire to laugh as I recall an earlier conversation between two girls in the Alpha Man’s waiting room:
“Wow, your tits look amazing. Are they real?”
“Of course they’re real!!”
“SWITCH!” Still on my back, this time stretched across the same sofa. Two different girls. Random Girl Number One smothers me with her ass on my face. She and Random Girl Number Two lick my cock in tandem as beautiful curtains framing bubble gum pink dangle in front of my nose. I lick. Can’t see who is doing what, but you can feel that they have two distinct fellating styles. A tongue up and down one side of my shaft, while lips encircle the head.
“Sonoavabitch!” from somewhere across the tempest. Somebody has come too soon. There is always one. Arguing erupts.
“I’m okay! Gimmie a minute to recover!”
“Get the fuck off of my set, you goddamn mope!”
Better him than me.
“SWITCH!”
The fucking flowchart order is fucked to hell, so this time it’s Tyler’s choice. I want Alicia. A rival turns to my quarry. Fuck. That. I sprint, balls flapping and cock swinging, across the room and tackle a giggling Alicia Lee! I bend her over.
We lock together doggy style. She is shit talking. Taunting me while we sprint-fuck at the upper limits of my Viagra’d-up heart.
“Fuck me, damn it!”
“I am!”
My lungs burn as they fight to keep up the exchange of stale air for fresh.
“Harder! Fuck me like you mean it! C’mon, give it to me! Give-me-your-cock!”
The smell, once only on the periphery of my consciousness, now takes its place front and center of my senses. A unique bouquet of pheromones, assholes, balls, sweat, and pussy, all stirred up and baked under the Kino Flo lights. Inebriated by the musk of animal lust, I want to beat my chest and howl.
The Tourette’s-afflicted Alicia says, “Yeah motherfucker, that’s my spot—no don’t slow down, you idiot! Ugh, you suck at fucking!”
Alicia flexes her Kegels. She aims to pop me, and she will if I am not vigilant. We’ve been locked together into this position for several rotations now, ignoring the calls for “Switch!” Same nerves on my dick being stimulated over, and over. Her pussy heats to the friction.
She coos, “There, there, it’s okay.”
Somebody calls, “SWITCH!”
Alicia, talking shit, does not give me the option of zoning my mind out. Each time I’m on the brink, I attempt to compartmentalize my environment and what is happening to me. Each time, she finds me and drags me back to the orgy. No escape.
I’m a professional… I cannot let this girl make me pop too soon… I made it this far!
The hormones and chemicals soaking my brain mix lust and fear. Fear that if she does pop me I will be humiliated like the mope that got fired earlier. Reputation in this business is everything, and a fuck up this early in my career will cost me my livelihood or, at best, send me back to the bukkake line. I make an error of looking down… A heart-shaped ass wrapped in golden skin. Sweat beads skip and bounce, pooling in a reservoir on her lower back… A tan line-shaped “T”; the top of the T spreads out across her hips and the stem plunges down into the crevasse… My hands gripped around her hips. Fingers digging into her flesh. My eyes lose focus and my balls twinge.
Dear God, I’m gonna co—“CUT!”
Teetering on the edge of bliss, I withdraw myself from Alicia with great care, but she reaches back and claws my side, fighting for my dick like a snarling hyena on a bone. I’m free.
Pop shot time.
The girls all kneel side by side. The men file behind one another to one-by-one jerk off into the starlets’ faces.
And that would be me, last in line, standing in front of the kneeling, drenched women. Torqueing my dick. Unable to come. This is almost funny.
The pop shots are all timed. Timed in the sense that the director’s dream is to get every pop shot off within seconds of each other. Timed also in the sense that I know they are running out of tape. This pressure is not conducive to getting off. It
is cruel, having to save my one shot for when it is most convenient for someone else. I know there is nothing erotic about stroking off to girls drenched in other men’s come. So I choose to not see them. I shut my eyes.
Stroke-stroke-stroke-stroke… Sounds of snowballing—come swapping between the girls—enter my ears. I’ve learned from experience with a bukkake that I have to keep my eyes shut at all costs.
I stand over the last girl who is drenched in come, almost ready to glaze her face with my load. If coming too soon is the worst, then coming last in an orgy is a close second. I go into my mind and conjure up images of Alicia, doggy.
Stroke-stroke-stroke… An unseen girl says to another girl, “Mm mmm. Lemme lick that come off your chin!”
Shut the fuck up!
Stroke-stroke-stroke…
Swishing sounds.
Almost there—Stroke-stroke…
Cum gargling.
I find my groove and release my load.
Two hours of non-stop fucking.
I hate pussy.
As soon as my pop, the last pop, is delivered, Alpha takes his hand-held camera and asks the girls to rate each guy and how he fucked her. The mini feuds that I was oblivious to during the orgy surface. Some men rate a two out of ten. The kid that came too soon gets a zero. Mitch, whom all the girls love gets an average score of a nine. I get an eight. Can’t please everybody.
• • •
The house seems empty. Talent has headed to Alpha’s Elusive Scoundrels office to get the paychecks. I find an empty bedroom and attempt something I’ve always wanted to try. It has been said that Ron Jeremy could suck his own dick. Using a wall for support, I flip my legs over my head. I stick out my tongue.
Damn! Just a half inch more—just then, the lights come on with a flick!
The bedroom floods with light, and from my upside down point of view I see porn stars that still have some fucking left in them enter. Other naked people whom I had no idea were in the room scurry about like roaches.
And then there’s me. Asshole in the air. Trying to suck my own cock.
Something’s Rotten in Chatsworth
I’m hopped up on Viagra tossing an Asian girl back and forth with Malik like we’re Joe Montana and Jerry fucking Rice. Chemically enhanced, my skull is crunchy cereal caught in a vice from the Inquisition and I’ve got a tone in my ears from my own private emergency broadcast station, wailing just for me.
“Cut,” says Jackson. “We got enough vag, let’s get the anal.”
Great, ass-spelunking. I’ve never been a fan of the Sodomy Arts. When you see me digging in a girl’s asshole, it’s all about the money.
“Are you clean?” I ask the girl.
The female talent’s preparation for an anal sex scene begins a day before she sets foot on set. This is when she stops eating. In a perfect situation, the girl has the discipline to fast for the entire day. If on the day of her scene there are pages of dialogue to shoot, the girl may still have to wait around for an additional half day before the filming of the sex actually starts. Dialogue is always filmed before the sex scene to preserve the girl’s hair and makeup.
Food catering, aka craft service, offers temptations. Because of expediency, craft service is almost always some kind of fast food. Mexican. Or Chinese. Often there’s Starbucks delivered to set, which could restore her food depleted energy levels. Today is no different.
Right before filming the anal sex, the girl takes an enema bottle and a box of baby wipes to clean out whatever residual matter may still be lurking inside her colon. The amount of food material remaining depends on the individual’s digestive system. And her discipline. The starlet alternates between the enema and warm water. When she’s confident she’s clean, she chews a couple of Imodium tablets which slow her bowels.
Our girl says, “Yeah, but lemme clean up a little bit more,” and goes off set to the bathroom, taking a box of baby wipes from the rape kit with her.
With no girl on the bed, I’m self-conscious lying next to another dude while we both stroke our cocks to keep our motors running in feminine absence. I stand up.
Jackson, the director sits on the foot of the bed and says, “You been doing an a’ight job for Elusive Scoundrels, dog. You really stepped up these past couple of months.”
DVD Gangstas reneged on my performing contract without paying me a cent, so I’ve moved on, shooting for any studio that’ll use me as a hired gun. Business is spiraling down the toilet industry-wide thanks to Internet piracy and torrent sites, and to a lesser degree, the economy. The Elusive Scoundrels are taking care of me on a per-scene basis, and they shoot me a lot. I perform well, I’m insulated from economic pain.
“Thanks, man,” I say. “I always give it my best.”
Malik is the new “it” kid. He’s on his back stroking his cock, using two hands but it’s really a job for three. His dick is a baby’s arm holding an apple. Malik busts a freestyle rap.
“So,” I say, “I figure since I have a normal-sized dick I’ll warm the girl up with me doing the first anal position.”
“Nah, nigga,” says Malik. “Lemme tap that ass first while I’m still hard. You got a smaller dick so you don’t need as much to keep you going.”
Pulling the size card… Nice.
“Whatever.”
I’ve popped two one-hundred milligram Viagras in the past hour. This is many times the doctor-recommended dose. When I was a rookie, a chip of a pill could get me up. But after so many scenes, there are diminishing returns. Even at best, Viagra only helps me for an hour, two at the most, before it works against me. Where’s this girl? This is fucking with my Viagra timing…let’s go!
“Okay, back! Let’s fuck!” she says, as she bounds onto the bed and into Malik’s arms. They fall down together in their own little laughing pile of youth, and I’m as welcome as a speck of rat shit in your vanilla ice cream.
“Let’s shoot this fucking thing,” I say, and the kids stop their grab-assing.
“Action!” shouts Jackson, and back into the melee I go. I’m lying on my back, my dick in her mouth while Malik widens the gauge of her asshole with his dick. The blowjob sucks, and in this case this not a good thing. Malik is a battering ram and each impact either scrapes my dick against her teeth or knocks it out of her mouth entirely. I’m getting blown by a blender’s hungry blades on puree. I feel the drug’s window of efficacy closing and that’s a motherfucker because my heart wants to leap the fuck out of my mouth and I’m getting a serious case of Viagra-numbed dick.
Malik is going DEFCON 4, slamming into the gates of her ass as though he’s a barbarian laying siege to Constantinople.
“Switch,” says Jackson.
Malik stops the assault and I position myself behind the girl’s ass. Her sphincter is open, red and raw. Her gaping O-ring is damn near blown out, offering a clear shot of her textured, pink innards that seem to tumble on to infinity. On her rim, flecks of fecal matter that have the consistency of gruel and the color of bread gone bad. An unholy stench of slaughtered cows suspended in a vat of mayonnaise left to turn in the desert leaps out of her exposed cavity and slaps my face like a dame in a Bogart movie. The worst part of this is, the Viagra-and-exasperation cocktail has left me short of breath. And my mouth is open.
I snap my mouth shut and vacuum seal my lips, but the phantom taste still lingers on my palate.
Jackson peeks over the top of the camera’s viewfinder. “Go ahead, nigga. Fuck ass. I’m rolling camera.”
“I need a minute,” I say.
Malik and the girl, giddy with porn-induced psychosis, continue their sport fucking while I kneel next to them with my cold cock in hand. Normally if my dick goes down I just have to look at a girl’s ass and I’m dealt back in the hand, but I’m taking a bad beat on the river because sewer cheeks has eliminated my last out. Looking at her ass is not an
option.
I’m rubbing a brittle, dry-rotted eraser passing for my dick with the business end of her ass, seen through my peripheral vision, aimed at me. I get off the bed and go into my mind.
Within the time it takes to microwave a bag of popcorn, an eternity in pornoland when timed location fees tick away like a taximeter, I manage to conjure up some shit from my mental wank bank to get me going.
I’m fucking the girl’s ass, not looking down, mouth closed and taking sips of air from my nose because smell is the lesser of two evils.
Jackson positions himself behind me, holding the camera next to my head and shooting over my shoulder and down for the point-of-view/you-are-there shot. His dragon breath blows hot on my neck.
He whispers, “Gimmie some in-and-outs.”
What he wants is for me to pull my dick out of the girl’s asshole entirely so he can zoom in and shoot the gape. Every bit of common sense in me screams, Don’t do it! Even if I was in a “normal” scene it’s a challenge because I’m fast becoming erection-impaired, and I can’t get the sloshing tempest I’m stirring up inside the girl’s bowels out of my head.
I extract my penis and Jackson’s stubbly face over my shoulder is making us some kind of fucked-up two-headed porn chimera and I’m cresting the apex of a roller coaster looking down.
I shove my cock back into her asshole and get a few strokes when Jackson whispers voice-of-God style into my ear, “Do it again.”
My heart goes supernova and my field of vision diminishes to a speck. Could be from the adrenaline dump, could be from the side effects of the Viagra. Who the fuck cares? What difference does it make at this point? Again, I back my dick out of the asshole and—the barrel clicks on empty.
I look down. Her sphincter puckers and protrudes like a toothless old man’s lips with a mouthful of Skoal. There is some seepage.
My dick freefalls. I stroke three or four times, not looking at the flecks of fecal matter on my shrinking shaft. I could point the leakage out to Jackson so the girl can clean up, but it’s camouflaged into my skin and the last thing I want to do is stop the camera. I won’t ever get back anything resembling an erection if we delay. I don’t want to quit but my options are grim. So, I rub the shit flakes into my dick, using it as lube. A python plays grab, twist, and pull with my guts, and there’s an acrid bite of bile in my mouth that singes the back of my throat.
