“I wouldn’t do that,” I promised him, as I took the card.
“Are you going to call him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I ought to, just to find out what it’s all about.”
“You’d be willing to appear in a frigging gay porn video?”
“Why not? Lots of guys do, from what I hear.”
“I’d be too embarrassed. To be in a straight porn video,” Robert explained. “Let alone one with a bunch of queers.”
“Well, you might be surprised how pleasant it can be to be surrounded by a bunch of queers, if you’d only give yourself the chance,” I joked.
He grimaced. The poor guy really was straight! He had no idea what he was missing.
But he’d planted a seed—a seed which, as things turned out, bore an extremely profuse and erotic crop of fruit!
I put the business card in my pocket. I finished getting dressed. I said goodbye to Robert and I left the gym, thinking no more of it.
Later that evening, though, when I was at home, I took out the card and inspected it. It had the man’s name on it—I’ll call him Jerry, here—and the contact information for his studio, which was located in San Diego, California. He was far from home. There wasn’t anything about the card which suggested it was a porn studio.
I did a search on the Internet, and I quickly found the studio’s website. It did indeed offer gay porn videos, either for sale as DVDs or as downloads. It seemed to be a comparatively small, modest, unpretentious organization. But it had an extensive inventory, which included a series of videos called Eurostuds. These videos had been made in England, France, Germany, Italy, and Czechoslovakia—with, the website promised, Spain and Hungary still to come.
On the back of the card, a cell phone number was penciled. Call me, was written below, in English.
My curiosity was getting the better of me. But I slept on it. The next day happened to be a Saturday. That morning, I took out my phone and punched in the number.
“Jerry, here,” a pleasant-sounding male voice replied, in English.
“Ah, you don’t know me, sir,” I said. “My name is Emeric. You gave my friend Robert your business card, and he gave it to me.”
“Oh, I remember Robert. The big guy, right, with all the muscles?”
“Yes. We go to the same gym.”
“Are you a bodybuilder, too?”
“I work out,” I said, modestly.
“Do you think you’d be interested in making a video for me?”
“Maybe.”
“You do know what kind of videos these are, don’t you?”
“Robert told me.” I could feel myself blushing. “They’re explicit, aren’t they?”
“Very.”
“And they’re gay.”
“Extremely,” Jerry said, with a droll inflection. “Think you’re up to that?”
“I don’t know. I’ve done a lot of nude modeling.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” I probably sounded a bit boastful. But, after all, I wasn’t exaggerating—I was just stating a fact.
“Can you send me a picture of yourself?”
“Sure.” I was neither more nor less narcissistic than the average gay guy. But I just happened to have quite an extensive gallery of photos of myself stored on my phone, including some shots of me taken during physique contests, and some in which I was nude. I selected a few of my favorites, which I thought were especially flattering, and I sent them to Jerry.
There was pause at the other end of our connection. Then: “Jesus fucking Christ almighty!” the American exclaimed, loudly and blasphemously.
“Is anything wrong?” I asked, naïvely.
“Wrong? Hell, no, if what I’m seeing is for real. Are these photos of you?”
“Of course.”
“Have they been photo shopped?”
“Of course not.”
“Is your dick as big when it’s hard as it looks here, soft?”
I had another, uncharacteristic, attack of modesty. “Ah—I don’t know. It’s just average, I guess.”
“When can I meet you and see what you look like in person?”
“Any time you like.”
“How about right now? I’ll treat you to lunch. No strings attached. We’ll talk. I bet we can do some business together. If not—” There was almost an audible shrug in the other man’s voice. “What’ve you got to lose?”
“Nothing, I suppose.”
And so I agreed to meet Jerry at a restaurant downtown, in an hour.
I walked into the place, not knowing exactly what to expect. He knew what I looked like, of course, and when he spotted me, he stood up and waved, inviting me to join him at his table.
He wasn’t alone. He had two other men with him.
Jerry was a very handsome, well-preserved man, with graying blond hair and very bright, penetrating blue eyes. I later found out that he was in his fifties, but he looked at least ten years younger than his actual age. Later on, too, he confided in me that he’d once worked in the adult film industry himself, performing in both gay and straight movies, and that he’d also been an escort. Now he was making his money behind the scenes.
He was traveling with his cameraman, Neil—a burly number in his mid-thirties (I guessed). Neil wasn’t conventionally good-looking—he had a broken nose, and a scar on his cheek—but he was pleasant, and for my taste, he looked quite fuckable.
Here in Budapest, the two Americans had hooked up with a local boy named Anton. Anton, I soon learned, had already appeared in a couple of sex scenes which Jerry had directed and Neil had shot. But Anton also served as their interpreter. Neither of the two Americans spoke Hungarian, of course, except for a few useful phrases (mostly pickup lines) which they’d already acquired since their arrival.
Anton was a dark-haired twink, barely out of his teens, with an effervescent personality. He cruised every male with whom he came within eyeshot, including me and the waiter who came to take our order.
We chatted while we waited for our food to arrive. These men weren’t at all intimidating, and I soon relaxed and felt at ease in their company.
“You speak excellent English, Emeric,” Jerry told me.
“Thank you. I always like to have a chance to talk with native English speakers. If I make a mistake, please correct me,” I urged him.
“Tell us a little bit about yourself.”
I did so.
“Are you gay, straight, bi, gay for pay, or what?” This time, it was Neil who asked the question.
I wondered, idly, what the alternative what might encompass. But I admitted I was gay.
“Oh, thank God,” Neil replied, with great fervor.
Anton laughed. “Neil and Jerry have been disappointed because so many of the guys they’ve worked with here, so far, have been gay for pay,” he explained. “I’m an exception—and now so are you.”
“I’m about as gay as they come,” I vowed. “No ambivalence here! But why the disappointment, as long as the guys perform satisfactorily? Or don’t they?”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Jerry said. “I’ve got nothing against a guy who prefers women, or who’s gay for pay. I work with men like that all the time, back home in the States. Some of them can be very convincing, having sex with another guy in front of a camera. They really get into it. But sometimes, too, they can be a little stiff—and not in a good way,” he joked. “I like to see enthusiasm on the set, whatever a guy’s actual orientation may be.”
The waiter brought our plates. Digging in, we continued our conversation.
Jerry explained to me how he made the Eurostuds series. He had developed a simple, effective system. He and Neil would spend two or three weeks in each country, presenting themselves to the authorities as just another couple of tourists, although ones who happened to have some unusually sophisticated camera equipment packed in their luggage. In each city on their itinerary, they recruited local guys who were willing to perform for them, in the videos. Some of
these guys had been contacted and signed up ahead of time. Others were simply approached and picked up on the street, the way Jerry had accosted Robert. Jerry and Neil checked into fairly luxurious suites in hotels, and that’s where they filmed, saving themselves the expense of actual sets. All they really needed, after all, was a bed!
Because the two Americans were discreet, and careful, the managements of the hotels never suspected what their premises were being used for. (The maids who had to clean the rooms after Jerry and Neil checked out were no doubt accustomed to finding evidence of sexual activity left behind.)
“I like realism,” Jerry declared. “Beautiful men, really having sex, really getting into it together—not faking it, or putting on an act. I like to see sweat, to say nothing of all kinds of other body fluids.”
I now felt comfortable enough in Jerry’s presence to bring up the subject of money. I knew enough about the porn industry to know that I’d be paid a flat fee, one time only.
“So—how much do you pay the guys, who work for you?” I asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.
“I’m still getting used to this freaking Hungarian money of yours,” Jerry said. “The going rate is one hundred thousand forints. In cash, of course. Cash on the barrelhead, the moment the cum shot is in the can,” he specified.
“Don’t worry, Emeric,” Anton told me. “You can trust Jerry. He won’t cheat you.”
“Thanks, kid,” Jerry told Anton. “Now, that’s what I call an unsolicited testimonial!”
It was a good amount of money, but I wondered whether it was subject to negotiation. I remembered how excited Jerry had sounded, when he’d seen the photos I’d sent him from my phone.
“I don’t know,” I said, feigning reluctance. “If I’m going to suck and fuck on camera, for anybody to see—maybe I ought to hold out for a little more.”
Jerry was unfazed. “Give me a number,” he suggested.
“One hundred and fifty thousand,” I said.
“I’ll split the difference. One hundred and twenty-five thousand. And that’s only because I like the way you look. You’re giving me a hard-on, while I’m sitting here,” he joked.
“One hundred and thirty thousand,” I countered.
“Don’t push your luck. You’re pretty, but you aren’t the only muscle man in this town.”
“One hundred and thirty thousand, and I’ll put on a really good show for you,” I promised. “You want enthusiasm? I’ll show you enthusiasm. There’s nothing gay for pay about me,” I reminded him. “I’m gay all the way.”
“For that amount of money, you’re going to have to spread your ass and take another guy’s dick,” Jerry warned me. “Seeing a butch muscle stud like you getting fucked—that’s the kind of thing the audience really goes for.”
“No problem. I like to take it up the ass,” I bragged. “I work my asshole just as hard as I work my other muscles,” I joked.
Jerry grinned. “Goddamn it, how can I refuse? Okay—one hundred and thirty thousand it is. Deal.” We shook hands.
[Translator’s note: One hundred and thirty thousand forints is approximately four hundred and sixty United States dollars. Emeric sold himself cheaply, back in those days. He didn’t acquire delusions of grandeur until later.]
[Author’s note: Sandor, you are such a bitch!]
“Are you free right now?” Jerry wanted to know.
“You mean, to—?”
“To do the shoot.”
These American entrepreneurs certainly didn’t believe in procrastination. “Sure.” Ordinarily, I hit the gym on Saturday afternoon. But to earn some extra cash, I could afford to skip one workout.
“Good. I know exactly who I’d like to pair you with,” Jerry mused.
“Me!” Anton volunteered.
“Not such a bad idea, kid. I can see Emeric topping you, pounding your pretty little ass. But first—I’d like to see if Manny’s available, this afternoon or evening.” Jerry proceeded to pull out his cell phone and call Manny, whoever he was.
Their conversation, conducted in English, was brief and to the point:
“Hey, Manny. How’s it hanging?” Jerry asked. “Are you in the mood to make some more money? Yeah, I thought so. I’ve got a muscle stud here with a beautiful round ass, for you to fuck. His name’s Emeric Varady. Oh, you’ve heard of him? You know what he looks like? Small world. You’d like to fuck him? So much the better. Now’s your chance. Come to our hotel, as soon as you can. We’ll be there, waiting for you. Yeah, the same deal as before. See you soon.”
Jerry paid the check, and then we left the restaurant and went to his hotel, which was within walking distance.
In the bedroom of the suite, the maid had made up the bed. Neil turned it down, and set up his photographer’s lights on their tripods on either side of it, while Jerry got busy on his laptop, calling up a contract which he printed out and had me sign.
Anton wasn’t really needed, because his services as a translator weren’t required. But he stuck around and offered moral (or immoral) support.
I stripped and treated myself to a long, thorough shower. Then I got dressed again, because Jerry said my costar Manny and I would start the filming with our clothes on, and what I had on would do just fine. This was a spontaneous school of filmmaking!
My fellow actor knocked on the door, and Jerry let him in.
I didn’t know Manny, as he insisted on calling himself. As things turned out, I learned that he trained in another gym. We’d never run into each other in any of Budapest’s gay bars, which was surprising. He was a well-built, well-hung, handsome young bastard, kind of arrogant and full of himself, but undeniably sexy.
Like a lot of guys who worked in Hungary’s sex industry, he used a non-Hungarian stage name. He’d chosen Manny, he informed me, because it sounded “American,” and “like a tough guy.”
There was nothing wrong with this guy’s self-esteem. He loved to talk about himself. He told me all about his ambition to become a porn star. He was already pursuing a career as a male prostitute. He bragged about the rich foreigner who’d paid him for sex the previous weekend—by coincidence, in another room in this very same hotel. During this monologue, I barely got a word in edgewise.
Jerry printed out a contract for Manny, as well.
“Do you take it up the ass, like Jerry said?” Manny asked me, while he busied himself signing copies of the document.
“Every chance I get,” I boasted.
“Good. Then we ought to get along just fine. I like to fuck,” he said—which turned out to be a considerable understatement. “Do you like it rough?”
My instinctive caution kicked in. “Define what you mean by rough.”
“Manny has a certain specialty,” Jerry explained, for my benefit. “When he’s screwing a guy on camera, he starts out slow and easy. But then, gradually, before you know it, he’s picked up the pace, and he starts hammering the other guy with these really fast, hard, rabbit-like pistoning motions. And he can keep that up for one hell of a long time, before he’s finally ready to come. A lot of times, the guy who’s getting fucked has trouble taking it. He acts like he’s being raped, and usually he’s not faking it. He’ll start telling Manny to stop, and Manny will just say something to him like, ‘shut up, bitch, you’re here to be plowed, so you might as well just lie there and take it and love it.’ Which may be Politically Incorrect, but it looks damn hot.”
“Oh, I see,” I said. “Well, I do like to be fucked. My ass can usually take a lot of punishment. If I start begging for mercy, just ignore me and go on plowing me.”
Manny smiled. “Looking forward to it.”
“Kid, I think you and Manny are going to get along just fine,” Jerry said, gleefully.
The hotel’s bed, with the lamps set on those tripods on either side of it, was waiting for us to occupy it. The strong, even harsh, lighting killed any shadows, bathing the bed in a pool of even white light. Neil placed a bottle of gel lubricant and a box of cond
oms on the nightstand beside the bed. This was all the set dressing which appeared to be necessary.
Manny had worked for Jerry before, only a few days previously, and as a result he knew exactly what Jerry required. Manny coached me before we began shooting, in the most matter of fact way imaginable.
“Okay, dude—we pretend we’ve hooked up somewhere, and we’ve come here to fuck. We stand here beside the bed, and we undress each other,” he told me. “Slowly, with lots of huggy kissy. Once we’re naked, we get on the bed. You suck my cock. I suck yours. You lick my ass. I lick yours. Then I put on the rubber and I lube up, and we get ready to fuck. First, with you on your hands and knees on the bed, and me standing beside the bed and giving it to you from behind. It hurts you a little,” he said, with a hint of wry self-mockery, “because I’m so fucking big—but you’re so turned on, you take it anyway, and you really get off on it. Then we’re both on the bed. You sit on my dick, first facing me, then with your back to me. I shove it up into you from below, and we do the jackhammer thing, bangety bangety boom bang. You keep begging for it, and telling me how good it feels up your ass. Then we end up with you on your back with your legs in the air, and me pounding you some more. You jerk yourself until shoot your load. I pull out of your butt, I rip off the rubber, and I shoot all over your face and in your mouth. You love it, because you’re such a dirty cock-hungry slut. You can’t get enough of it, so you lick the cum off my cock. Then you can suck it a little more, too. Some guys are sensitive right after they’ve come, but not me, so suck away. More huggy kissy, ooh we’re in love, and everybody’s happy. Cut, The End. They lived happily ever after. Got it?”
“I think so.”
“There’s nothing to it,” he assured me. “You’ll do fine. Oh, but don’t look at the camera,” he added. “That’s a no-no, unless Jerry wants you to look at it. Look at me, instead. Like you’re in love with me, and you’re so fucking hot for my dick you can’t help yourself,” he suggested. “That’s always good. That’s what they want to see, when they’re at home jerking off over these videos.”
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