I wore chunky plastic rings in various loud colors that matched or accentuated the dress, and plastic yellow bangles. I wrapped a string of yellow pearls around my neck like a choker. My wig was sitting on a mannequin head atop the television: Elizabeth Taylor big hair, same color as my own so I didn’t need to worry about the back of my own hair showing through at the bottom of the wig in a little dovetail. All I had left to do were my nails, in a garish orange glitter I’d found for a buck fifty that morning at the corner drug store.
George’s latest CD-ROM was playing on the computer behind me, and everyone was ragging him because of the dialogue and the script and the performers he’d cast. Eric sat at the keyboard, controlling the action. “This one’s balls look deformed, George, couldn’t you have found someone who looks more normal?”
“His cock is big and that’s all that matters in these things.”
“That’s right, it’s only when you’ve got a little dick that you need to have a perfect body and face.”
I couldn’t keep track of who was talking, but it didn’t really matter, the overall effect was more important. George and I were friends, but I had just met the rest of the boys, except of course for Royal Flush, who’d talked me into going in drag, and also Jordan, who was the boyfriend of one of George’s friends and had been the boyfriend of someone I’d known at college. There were a few boys I’d been able to pin names to, but I had quickly forgotten most of them as soon as I was introduced. Half of them seemed to know each other already, although I couldn’t tell if they were friends or just remembered each other from George’s apartment last Wigstock. I saw at least two of them exchange phone numbers, and there was a fair amount of cruising going on, especially as guys took off certain articles of clothing to struggle into dresses.
I had my eye set on a boy named Nathan since the moment he walked in. Right now, he was just sitting on the couch, watching it all happen around him, and there was something about the demure way he sat that really turned me on. That semi-overwhelmed look made him seem so wholesome, like a Midwestern tourist on his first visit to New York, and in some way it made him seem young, even though he was probably three or four years older than I was, maybe twenty-eight, twenty-nine. Which was a bit young for how I usually liked my men, when I wanted a relationship, but just fine for some hot and sweaty guiltless sex.
Nathan was wearing a very slutty clubbing shirt, very East Village, an all-white sequin crop-top with a wide collar and a zipper down to his navel, but all very much a boy’s cut. He wasn’t planning on wearing a dress today, just a wig. Half the boys, it turned out, were just doing demi-drag, although they were having fun trying on various dresses while they were getting ready, and using it as an excuse to strut their stuff for each other. Nathan had found a little blond bob, like Marilyn Monroe in Some Like It Hot, which suited him quite well.
I didn’t know him, and I didn’t know the couple he’d come with, but as an excuse to start talking with him I took the bottle of orange nail polish that worked so fabulously with my equally-garish dress, sat down next to him on the couch and stared into his eyes while I asked him, fluttering my mascaraed eyelashes and trying to sound forced-innocent as I held the bottle out to him, if he would do me.
He gave me the once over, unmistakably undressing me in his mind, having caught the obvious double-entendre. I felt even more turned on than I usually did when I was being checked out, because I knew he was able to see the male me beneath the dress. And also because I knew my body was different because of the drag: I’d shaved. Chest, legs, armpits, all smooth flesh. Soon I’d have stubble all over my body, coarse and prickly, rubbing against the inside of my clothes, rubbing against other flesh. I tried to imagine how it would feel to run a tongue across my stubbly chest and nipples. This decision I’d made—to do drag for Wigstock with my friend—was going to be with me for many weeks.
My friend Miss Flush was a swimmer, and had even taken a medal at the Gay Games. I remembered the stories she’d told me (her makeup was done and she had her wig on, so her gender had changed when we talked about her, mine too, since I was also done except for the nails and wig) about shaving down before the meets, how everyone was checking each other out, how it was all intensely erotic, male flesh everywhere bulging out of tiny Speedos. The scene here was like that, with everything serving to remind you that underneath the makeup and the wigs, underneath the shaved chests and armpits and legs, these bodies were still male .
I’d never done drag before, except once during my freshman year in high school when I’d had to play Juliet in a skit we performed at a pep rally. As the youngest member of the track team, I was given the most humiliating part, and because I had that lanky young boy runner’s frame I looked much more femme than any of the women, who were all rather square-shouldered and thick-calved from running with the team and working out for years.
“Sure,” Nathan said, and took the bottle of polish from me.
The phone rang. George picked it up and said, “Salon.”
I looked over my shoulder to watch the computer screen for a moment. They were picking strippers, and a not-especially attractive skinhead with a big dick was beating himself off on the black leather couch that Nathan and I were sitting on. I tried to imagine this apartment as the set of a porn shoot. One way to cut costs.
“Look at this,” Eric was saying, “the leather guy just said he was twenty-five in the sound byte, but his statistics say he’s twenty-nine.”
“Can’t we watch the guppie sequence again?” Bernie begged.
“Look at how long his nails are,” Peter exclaimed, as the action moved in for a close-up of him fisting his meat just before the cum shot.
I looked down at my own nails. Nathan was working on my third one, painting with even strokes from the moons towards the tips. I couldn’t help glancing down past our cluster of fingers into his crotch, so near at hand, as it were, and looking oh-so-inviting.
“Flo has such lovely long fingers,” Nathan said, lifting my hand for a moment to show everyone his handiwork, then replacing my hand on his knee. “I bet they’d feel great wrapped around a cock.”
He didn’t look up as he said this, but continued to paint the next nail. It was the same sort of machismo semi-porn talk everyone had been making all afternoon, so I didn’t really think he meant for me to act on it. It was all bravado. But I wanted to take him up on it so badly, and I wondered what he’d do if I called his bluff. He was flirting with me, I knew, which felt great since I was not sure how I looked right then. I’m not usually much of an exhibitionist, but then, I wasn’t usually wearing a dress; maybe there was something about already being so far out there, in terms of my appearance, that made me bolder than I normally would be.
“That can be easily arranged,” I said, and with my free hand I unzipped his jeans. My fingers snaked into his fly and worked their way across his underwear, groping along his cock and balls. I could feel him begin to stiffen through the fabric under my touch. He was wearing some sort of white briefs, and I tugged at the elastic waistband to free his cock. I pulled it through the fly of his jeans, as it continued to swell within my hand, and began working my way up and down the shaft.
Around us, everyone was going about their business as usual. The phone rang and George answered it. “Futura Bold.”
Simon declared, “Looks like we’ve lost two queens before we’ve even started.” But once they’d gotten a look at Nathan’s prick they went back to their own preparations.
Except for Bernie.
Bernie was digging about in the cardboard box of wigs and a moment later came striding over to us with a long blond braid that was meant as an extension. “I always knew you were a bottle job,” Bernie told Nathan, as he wrapped the extension around Nathan’s cock and balls, tying it off with a flourish and a bow. “There, now,” he said, “crotch wig slash cock ring,” and turned on his heels away from us.
I was still pumping up and down on Nathan’s cock as he painted a second coat
on the nails of my left hand. His strokes were no longer even, but he was trying.
“So, how do they feel?” I asked him, squeezing as I brought my hand down toward his balls.
“Good,” he said, his voice cracking a little, unexpectedly, as his breath caught.
I smiled. “Good. Now, blow on these until they dry,” I said, holding my hand in front of his face as if I wanted him to kiss it, “while I blow on this.”
I slid off the couch and with my free hand pulled my dress under me as I crouched between his knees. He gripped my left wrist with both his hands, and his stiff cock jerked in anticipation. I wanted it down my throat, but I was going to tease him until his balls ached. I leaned forward and kissed the head, all lip, leaving an orange lipstick crown.
The phone rang and George answered it. “Helvetica Black.” At the same time, the doorbell rang.
My heart began to pound as I realized I was having sex in front of mostly total strangers. With a total stranger, for that matter, although that didn’t bother me. Not knowing the onlookers, however, especially not knowing who had just come in or how they would react, did disturb me. Sure, most of the guys weren’t watching us all the time, and they weren’t watching us with the intention of getting off from watching us, but they certainly looked over at us from time to time, curious, if nothing else. I wondered what they were thinking. They hadn’t exactly voiced their acceptance of our sex, but they hadn’t withheld their consent either. The newcomers hadn’t had a chance to withhold their consent. As my face hovered in front of Nathan’s eagerly twitching cock, I wondered what to do, how they would respond. A zillion other hangups and concerns held me frozen with indecision.
Then I remembered that I was a bitchy, irreverent drag queen. None of these queens would recognize me out of drag, anyway. I opened my mouth. My tongue met the warm, dry flesh of Nathan’s cock and eagerly began bathing it in saliva, wetting it down for my now-orange lips to glide smoothly along the shaft. With my right hand, I grabbed the base of his cock and pulled it toward me, positioning it. My lips sunk lower, toward the blond braid that Bernie had tied on. I rocked back and forth on my high heels, his cock sliding into and out of my mouth with the motion.
My own cock throbbed insistently beneath my dress. With my right hand (I was afraid the nails of my left weren’t dry) I reached beneath the folds of fabric to grab hold of it, poking out from my loose boxer shorts. I began to jerk off, thrusting into my palm each time I rocked forward onto Nathan’s cock.
My knees began to ache, and I stood up. They felt like I’d been doing squats at the gym for two solid hours. “Now, don’t you move,” I told Nathan. He twitched his cock. “Well, you can move that,” I conceded.
I reached beside him on the couch for my clutch purse and opened it. I pulled out a condom. “A girl’s got to be prepared,” I said, and tore it open with my teeth.
Before I had a chance to roll it over Nathan’s cock, however, Nathan had lifted up the skirt of my dress and tugged down my boxer shorts. He pulled me toward him, and his mouth closed around my dick as he eagerly shoved himself onto me.
“I told you not to move,” I complained, although I didn’t mean a word of it: I wanted him to move and keep moving, his mouth sliding up and down along my dick. His pointed tongue probed into the loose folds of my ballsac. My entire shaft was in his mouth. His tongue swirled around the crown when he’d pulled back.
The couple who had come in when the doorbell rang—a towheaded blond and his dark-skinned Brazilian-looking lover—were staring at us, curious and unbelieving and semi-uncomfortable at such blatant sexuality. They looked away when they noticed I’d seen them watching. I didn’t care, let them watch. Not that they could see anything, anyway. My skirt had dropped over Nathan’s head, so all they could see was the bobbing orange fabric. All I could see was bobbing orange fabric, too, but damned if it didn’t feel fine.
Nathan pulled off my cock for air, and lay back against the couch as he caught his breath. One hand still held his own cock, which he’d been tugging on as he sucked me off. His dick was bright red, swollen from his desire and the crotch wig slash cock ring. I delicately stepped out of my boxer shorts, which I realized were foolish things to be wearing when I knew I’d have to be in drag and would need to “tuck.” The unrolled condom in my hand had begun to go dry, but I had a small bottle of lube in my clutch purse. “A girl’s got to be prepared,” I said again, as I knelt down in front of Nathan with the lube in one hand and the condom in the other.
I greased his dick and rolled the condom onto it. “Hold this,” I said, and lifted my skirt. Nathan held the edge of the fabric for me, and I lubed my ass quickly, slicking my hole down for easy, painless access. I squirted some more lube onto his condomed cock for good measure, and then straddled him. He was still holding my skirt up, as if he were a voyeur peeking at my genitals. That turned me on. Slowly, I lowered myself onto him, positioning his cock with my hands.
It is always a curious feeling, I think, to have a man’s cock inside your body. No matter how much I want it, my body still resists, at least a little bit, something to overcome. I wrestled with myself—I wanted this cock inside me now—and tried to relax. He was in, but something still was not right. I shifted, I adjusted, I breathed deeply. His cock felt good in there, I felt good. I flexed my legs, lifting myself off him slightly, and then slid back down. I was in control. Nathan lay on the couch as I fucked myself on his cock, holding my skirt up so he could watch what was happening, the inches of his cock disappearing up my ass.
I felt I was getting near to coming so I settled onto him and stopped for a moment, resting, delaying the moment of orgasm to draw out this delicious feeling of sex for as long as possible. We didn’t move, but we changed roles. He took charge. I unzipped his sequined crop-top. His stomach beneath was pale, with a small thatch of hair on his chest. The sides of the shirt fell back as his body shifted on the couch, thrusting his cock up into me. I tweaked his now-exposed nipples, but soon abandoned them to lift my dress. Again, I felt a delicious exhibitionistic thrill as I held the skirt of my dress aloft. It felt so dirty, like I was flashing him, and I think that feeling turned me on even more than the mere fact of our flesh sliding together.
I was bouncing up and down on his cock, holding the dress away from my cock, which flopped rhythmically against his abs. And then my cock spasmed and I was coming, orgasm rolling through my entire body in quick shudders. Four of them, then a long sigh.
My cum shined on Nathan’s chest like melted white sequins. His cock was still inside me, and once I caught my breath he continued to thrust up into me. I leaned forward and rolled his nipples between my fingers again, urging him on toward climax. Suddenly I tugged on them, hard. Nathan cried out and began to come. I clenched my ass, holding tightly onto him as his cock squirmed within me, shooting his cum into the condom’s reservoir tip.
When he lay still, pleasantly spent from his orgasm, I grabbed my purse, which lay beside him on the couch. His cock was still comfortably inside me, and began to go soft. I took out my lipstick and, using the mirror in my compact, began to touch up my make up. When I was satisfied, I leaned forward and left a perfect lipstick mark above his right nipple.
Nathan smiled dreamily, and started to sit up, to disentangle his body from mine, where we were still joined together under my skirt. I pushed him back down on the couch. “Where do you think you’re going?” I asked him, and handed him the bottle of orange glitter polish. “You’ve still got to take care of my other hand.”
Social Relations
Scott O’Hara
Fuck. Pull out. Beat it to get it hard again. Re-insert. Fuck. This time, after a minute or two, it slips out on its own. Beat it. Re-insert. Fuck. This time the director calls a halt. “Let’s do some dialogue and reaction shots,” he says, wearily. “Then we can get back to this after you’ve had a rest.”
Believe me, the process of shooting a pornflick is nothing like the product.
Tommy and
I were actually hitting it off rather well: he was an enthusiastic bottom, and I was in a relatively toppish mood, so my dick had twice managed to achieve that upcurved-banana look that is so riveting to viewers. Nice. Fact is, I think they’d already gotten plenty of useable footage, but directors always want extra to play with. My first director told me they liked to work with a three-to-one ratio—three minutes shot for every one used in the video. Mind you, I’ve seen some of his subsequent videos that looked like they were one-to-one, but I understand about ideals not always being the same as results. And hey, I’m a performer. (“Talent,” they try to call us, a term that makes me shudder.) I know how difficult it can be to get useable footage.
So Tommy and I got to relax awhile; when we spontaneously started playing with each other’s tits, the director knew it was time to get back to shooting. And this time, for some reason, I was really into it, I guess, because it felt like we’d initiated the sex ourselves instead of being directed; and my dick got really super-hard, and I managed to plow him from every angle for about twenty minutes before the director finally asked his cameraman, “How much tape do we have left?” A good director always asks that before he tells the performers to give him a cumshot. And there was plenty of tape, so he nodded to us, and we both started working up to shoot our loads. Tommy, as I said, was enthusiastic: he was one of the few bottoms I know who really stayed rockhard during the whole fuck. Didn’t have to beat off or anything. Fact is, he should’ve been a top. So I rolled him over on his back, bent over and went down on him: directors always like that number, and it turns me on, too. And he went wild and started bucking up and down, fucking himself on my dick and fucking my mouth, and within about thirty seconds he started moaning that he was gonna shoot, and at the appropriate moment I pulled off and let him spray all over his stomach, while I was ramming against his prostate. And then a few seconds later I pulled out and mixed my load with his. Perfect double-cumshot.
Best of the Best Gay Erotica Page 9
