Sword and Sandal

by Roland Graeme

  NJ NYC area professional photographer seeks handsome muscular nude models, good pay. Send me your best nude shots in color or b & w. Photographic quality is not important. I need a full frontal shot, a full rear shot, and a close face shot. Sorry, but no return on photographs submitted. Be sure to include your return address and phone number.

  “There’s our chance to make some money,” Renzo said.

  “Yeah, right. The guy probably just keeps the photos to jerk off over, and he never contacts any of the guys who send their pictures in to him.”

  “You are so cynical, Gino! How do you think they find the guys who pose for the pictures in these magazines? They advertise, of course, just like this.”

  “Maybe.”

  “These are some rags, though, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah. I still can’t believe you had the balls to buy them.”

  “Aw, that old guy at the newsstand knew the score. We weren’t fooling him. And all of these horny motherfuckers, paying for these ads, looking for some action,” Renzo said. “Who’d have thought?”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “There seem to be lots of them out there.”

  “This shit is making me horny,” Renzo declared.

  “Me, too.”

  “Take off your clothes, Gino. I want to sixty-nine.”

  We stripped. We had ourselves one hell of a hot session, there on Renzo’s bed.

  Afterward, when we were lying on the bed together, relaxing, Renzo picked up one of the magazines and leafed through it again.

  “We really ought to reply to some of these ads,” he said.

  “Sure. Why not?” As usual, having had sex had put me in a more easygoing, receptive mood.

  “It might be fun to hook up with some of these guys who are giving it away for free. But this photographer who’s looking for models—”

  “Yeah? What about him?”

  “I think we ought to send him some pictures.”

  “Of us?”

  “Who else?”

  “I don’t know, Renzo. What if he—you know—does things with them?”

  “Such as?”

  “Publishes them, in those dirty magazines.”

  “He can’t publish them—not legally—without us signing what they call a release form,” Renzo pointed out.

  “Well, it’s the illegal publication that I’m worried about!”

  “Fuck,” Renzo scoffed. “That’s the least of my worries. We could sue his ass off, for that.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure we’d make out real well, trying to do that.”

  “Come on, Gino,” Renzo coaxed. “Live a little. Take a chance. Let’s take some pictures of each other, and send them to the guy. Let’s give him a cheap thrill. What’ve we got to lose?”

  “Our reputations.”

  “That’s a laugh! Come on, Gino,” my buddy repeated. “Don’t be such a wuss. Let’s take some pictures.”

  No sooner suggested, than done.

  As I’ve said, back in those pre-Internet and pre-cellphone days, the inexpensive Polaroid camera was a gay man’s best friend. You could take photos of yourself, quickly and easily, and exchange them with potential tricks. You could even photograph yourself and your tricks having sex, if you so chose. The Polaroid was the “selfie” of its day.

  Renzo got out his camera.

  “Wait,” I insisted. “I want to comb my hair, first.”

  “Jesus, you really are a fucking prima donna,” he told me.

  “I just want to look nice—that’s all.”

  “Trust me. This guy isn’t interested in our hair.”

  In fact, we had a lot of fun, taking turns posing for each other. We made sure we snapped an assortment of close-up facial shots, as well as full body shots, including both full frontal and bare-assed rear views. As the photo session proceeded, Renzo and I got a bit frisky. We masturbated, so that our erections could be shown in some of the pictures. We spread our ass cheeks and fingered our assholes for the camera. We assumed our best come-hither, sexually provocative facial expressions. It got kind of wild, and when we were finished, we put the camera aside and we ended up having sex again. It was too bad that we didn’t have our new friend Tony, or some other third guy, there in the basement with us, to take some photos with both of us in the frame, recording our sex for posterity!

  We slept on it—literally. Then, the next day, we looked through the Polaroids we’d taken. We selected the best of them, and we mailed them off to the “professional photographer” in New York City, whose name was John.

  I insisted to Renzo that we wouldn’t receive any answer. But I was quickly proved wrong. I was so sure that this was just a scam that I’d agreed to give John my parents’ phone number. And so I was stunned when, a week later, I received a call from him.

  “Is this Gino?” the man at the other end of the connection asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This is John, from New York City. I received the photos you sent me, of you and your friend Renzo. They’re extraordinary. I’d like to set up a photo session with both of you, here in Manhattan, and take some real photos of you two men. Would you be agreeable to that?”

  “Jesus. I don’t know,” I said, cautiously.

  “What are your concerns?”

  “I’ve never done anything like this. You know—posed for that kind of pictures before. And neither has Renzo. We only did it—took those pictures of each other, and sent them to you, I mean—as a sort of a dare.”

  “There’s nothing to be shy or embarrassed about. I’ve worked with lots of models who are new to it.”

  “Ah, about the money—?”

  “I’ll pay you fifty dollars an hour. Fifty for you—and fifty for Renzo.”

  I was stunned. Fifty dollars, back then, was a small fortune. And Renzo and I could earn it just by dropping our pants?

  I told John I’d call him back.

  I conferred with Renzo. The upshot was that we called John back, and we arranged to take the bus into Manhattan, to meet up with him.

  Even during the brief trip, I continued to have misgivings. In the back of my mind was the fear that Renzo and I would be lured into some dingy hole, where we’d be overpowered by thugs, or drugged, and forced into some sort of a bizarre male white slavery trade.

  Oh, me of little faith! John, as it turned out, really was a professional photographer. Furthermore, he had a certain reputation. He had a studio in lower Manhattan; far from being a hole, dingy or otherwise, it was comfortable and well equipped.

  John, to put it bluntly, was no Adonis. He was a pleasant-looking, soft-spoken, mild-mannered man. When Renzo and I first met him, he was in his forties, and his hair was thinning. No one, looking at him and evaluating him objectively, would ever have guessed that he was a sexual dynamo who enjoyed an extremely active and varied sex life.

  John was living proof that personality can be more important than physical appearance, when it comes to making conquests. There was just something about him that put people—men, in particular—at their ease, and made them susceptible to his charm.

  One area of his studio was furnished not unlike a typical living room. At our first meeting, he invited us to sit down, and he served coffee.

  “You’re both magnificent-looking,” John told us. “Have either of you ever been in the military?”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” I replied.

  As for Renzo, he merely snickered. And for good reason. The thought of Renzo subjecting himself voluntarily to military discipline was pretty outlandish.

  John seemed a bit disappointed. I subsequently learned that he had a “thing” for men in uniform. In fact, John never met a man in uniform whom he didn’t like—and whom he tried to recruit for his own purposes. Soldiers, sailors, Marines, Coast Guardsmen, cops, security guards—you name it, he pursued it. And successfully. I can relate to his obsession: I’ve been known to fetishize the occasional hot guy in uniform, myself. The irony was that none of the men John enticed to his studio ever
kept his uniform on for very long. Invariably, they agreed to strip naked and pose for his camera.

  Renzo and I, of course, were wearing casual clothes, and we’d come prepared to shed them. So, once we’d finished our coffee, it took very little persuasion on John’s part to get us both to strip naked for him.

  “Tell me if you’re not warm enough,” he told us, solicitously. “I can turn up the heat.”

  “So can we,” Renzo promised him.

  The resulting photo session was actually quite a lot of fun. John knew how to put us at our ease. And I had the satisfaction of, for once, not being in Renzo’s shadow. Having already posed for photographers in conjunction with physique contests, I was comfortable in front of a camera. The only difference was that I wasn’t wearing posing trunks. It took me no more than a few minutes to adjust to being photographed in the nude. I went through my repertory of muscle display poses, and then John suggested some more relaxed attitudes.

  Renzo, by contrast, was a bit wooden, at least at first. He had no qualms about being photographed naked, but for the most part he simply stood there and glowered. John didn’t seem to mind. He even complimented Renzo at one point, telling him that his surly facial expression was “sexy”—which I had to agree was true. It was sexy, in a rough-trade way that would no doubt appeal to part of the intended audience for the pictures.

  We put our clothes back on, we signed the model releases, and John paid us—in cash. It was a most pleasant business transaction.

  “I’d like to work with you again,” John said.

  “You bet,” Renzo told him. “Any time you say, man. As long as you’ve got the bread, we’ve got the bods,” he added, with a smirk.

  John hesitated. “Maybe next time … you boys would be willing to do a little more?”

  Renzo, unusually for him, was a bit slow on the uptake. “Huh? A little more what?”

  “John means something more explicit,” I suggested.

  “Yes,” the photographer said. “Such as showing erections … and bodily contact. Interaction between the two of you.”

  “Oh. You don’t just want us to get naked. You want us to make out in front of the camera,” Renzo said, bluntly.

  “Exactly.”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “It’s a little late for you to start acting all shy and modest now,” Renzo pointed out. “Hell, Gino. We’d only be doing what we already do, back home. The only difference would be that we’d be doing it front of John.”

  “And in front of his camera,” I reminded him. “Which will be recording it for posterity.”

  Renzo shrugged. “Posterity is going to have to fucking take care of itself. It’s the here and now I plan to worry about.” In his own way, Renzo was quite the philosopher. “Anyhow, John. How much would we get paid for the kind of gig you’re talking about? And keep in mind,” he added, slyly, “the more you’re willing to shell out—the more Gino and I are ready to put out.”

  “I could raise your fee to seventy-five,” John said. “Seventy-five, for each of you.”

  “That’s not enough,” Renzo insisted. “Make it a hundred, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  “If I’m going to pay two hundred dollars for a photo shoot, I’m going to have to see—ah—” Once again, John hesitated, as though he was at a loss for words. “You know. Explicit sex,” he finally said.

  Renzo smiled. “You mean sucking, fucking, and rimming?”

  John actually blushed. “Two men making love to each other, yes.”

  “Yeah, ‘making love’—that does sound nicer,” Renzo agreed. “Well, don’t you worry, my man. For a hundred bucks apiece, Gino and I will make one hell of a lot of love. I promise you, it’ll be good and hot. You’re going to have to be careful, because the lens on your camera is likely to get all steamed up.”

  Now I was blushing. “I like the way you take it for granted I’m going to go along with this, Renzo,” I muttered.

  “Ah, who are you trying to kid?” he scoffed. “You know damn well you’re going to do it. Come on, Gino. We’ll be doing our buddy John, here, a favor.” Renzo, the altruist! “And it’ll be fun.”

  I gave in, as Renzo knew I would. We set up another appointment. Then we left John’s studio and went on a shopping spree, quickly spending the money we’d just earned. Easy come, easy go, as they say.

  A week later, we made the trip into Manhattan again.

  I was nervous, but I tried my best to conceal the fact and imitate Renzo’s blasé attitude.

  The expenditure of two hundred dollars no doubt made this a big-budget production, in John’s eyes. He’d gone to considerable trouble to create a “set” in one corner of his studio. At the time, futons were all the rage, and John had one placed on top of a low wooden platform. To create some additional visual interest, and follow through on the vaguely Japanese theme, he’d placed a folding Japanese screen between one side of the bed and the wall. On the opposite side of the bed, there was a small black lacquered nightstand. This held an orchid with a spray of delicate white blooms, growing in a blue glazed pot.

  All of this was quite tasteful, although the effect was diminished somewhat by the presence on the nightstand, next to the potted orchid, of a tube of lubricant and a bottle of liquid poppers.

  Once again, we started out by sitting down and having coffee. Ever the gracious host, John also offered us a joint, although, interestingly enough, he didn’t partake of it himself. Maybe he was afraid the marijuana would interfere with his operation of the camera. While he busied himself positioning and adjusting the lights around the bed, Renzo and I passed the joint back and forth. By the time John suggested we get started, the two of us were in a nice, mellow mood. I’d overcome my nervousness.

  Renzo wasn’t a typical Italian-American guy from New Jersey for nothing. For this occasion, he was wearing a valued piece of jewelry, a gold necklace composed of heavy links, and his major concern was whether he’d be allowed to keep it on during the photo shoot. The necklace, he insisted, would provide “a touch of class.”

  John didn’t argue with him. And so, with me stark naked, and Renzo nude except for his precious neck adornment, we got onto the futon and got down to work.

  John didn’t leave us to our own devices; he gave us a steady flow of “direction.” We started out with kissing and caressing, followed by rubbing our bodies together. Then we moved on to mutual masturbation. After taking turns kissing and licking various parts of each other’s bodies, we got down to some serious cocksucking. Snorting the poppers, we took turns going down on each other. Then we moved into a sixty-nine.

  After taking some more hits of the poppers, we proceeded to the next item on the agenda—rimming.

  One advantage of posing for still photos, as opposed to making a movie, was that John allowed us to take a break at this point, while he reloaded his camera. Renzo and I shared another joint. As a result, we were definitely stoned when we resumed work. I don’t think we’d shown much in the way of inhibition up to this point, but now we gleefully threw off all restraint. To put it bluntly, we fucked like animals, taking turns greasing up our dicks and shoving them up each other’s butts. We screwed each other in just about every conceivable position, working up quite a sweat. Darting about the perimeters of the bed, John snapped pictures of us from all sorts of angles.

  Once again, we permitted ourselves a brief break—during which the three of us debated what kind of come shots we should deliver. Finally, we decided that Renzo would fuck me again, then pull out at the last moment and blast his wad onto my face—and into my open mouth. Then I’d masturbate myself to orgasm, while he helped me come by playing with my nipples.

  By a weird coincidence, one of the finished photos of me coming showed my semen jetting free from my penis and flying through the air in an arc—which precisely matched the curve of the orchid beside the bed. Some people think that image was faked, or retouched, but it wasn’t. It was what John called a happy accident.
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br />   If I may be so immodest, I think we gave John two awesome-looking outpourings of semen. We hadn’t shirked; we’d earned our money.

  At the time, it didn’t occur to me to ask John what he intended to do with the photos. I assumed they’d be published, in some form or other, and sold to gay men. And I was right. A few months later, Renzo and I each received in the mail a complimentary copy of a magazine titled More Than Just Friends. There Renzo and I were, in full color, sucking, fucking, and rimming, as he’d put it, on every page.

  Some of the photos were provided with captions, most of which struck me as decidedly incongruous. I never did anything like this with another guy before, I was quoted as saying, before I was shown sucking Renzo’s cock with a nonchalant expertise which rather belied that claim of inexperience. Damn, could that fucking cock of yours be any bigger? was a rhetorical question attributed to Renzo, accompanying the first photo showing me penetrating his ass. It’s tearing me apart! he supposedly complained. Oh, take it out, it’s killing me! Again, the ecstatic look on his face seemed to contradict the printed text.

  Some of those damn photos continue to circulate, to this day. As for the magazine itself—I’ve recently seen an original, “mint” condition copy of More Than Just Friends offered for sale at three hundred dollars—three times what I was paid for posing for those frigging pictures in the first place!

  But I suppose I shouldn’t complain. Those photos preserve Renzo and me in our youthful, lusty splendor. If I may be immodest once again—we weren’t a bad-looking couple. And we certainly enjoyed sex.

  Chapter Five: I Meet and Worship One of My Idols

  I’m often asked, usually by bodybuilding fans, “Is it true that you and Eric Streiff were lovers?”

  I’ve been known to answer the question evasively. But there seems to be no point in avoiding it here. Eric and I never a couple, in any kind of a romantic sense. But we were friends, we were physically intimate on many occasions, and we certainly enjoyed each other’s bodies. In short, we did have sex together—often.

  Did I love him? You bet. In the way a guy loves his “bro,” to use current terminology. There was always a core of something pure and innocent in my feelings for Eric. Although I have to admit that some of the things we did together, while we were in each other’s company behind closed doors, were neither pure nor innocent!