Porn Stories 3: Leaf Insects

South America, 2013

Disclaimer: This is a fictionalized account based on my experiences working in porn. Characters and events may be composites. NSFW gallery & audio for paid subscribers only.

Porn Stories 3: Leaf Insects

South America, 2013 - The Arrival (Day 1)

The sun was setting over the rainforest, and it shrieked in protest and celebration. Howler monkeys and buzzing cicadas, dry leaves crunching four feet, branches swaying with primates, water trickling from streams. Our contribution to the symphony was Rihanna warbling from a tiny Bluetooth speaker. Gay men love to gild the majesty of nature with a female vocal. I swam to the infinity pool’s edge; it seemed to drop off into the Pacific Ocean. It was warm as bathwater and looked like a 1950s film matte. Our two-story hacienda was perched on a mountain in the heart of the South American jungle.

The Brazilian superhero posed at the shallow end. His olive skin was made for this light, his muscles wet and languid, eyes the color of both the pool and the sunset. “Lift your ass, please, spread please,” said the photographer in a German accent. The Brazilian puckered a waxed hole to the sun. Behind him, a towering light provided the fill. As the sun disappeared, insects kamikazed into its bulb; pops echoed around the pool like bang snaps.

The Fireman jerked awake. His torso was draped over the chaise lounge like a pile of white bricks covered in freckles. Muscles I didn’t know the names of cinched into a thin waist then sprouted legs like a fireman’s. The only softness in his face were teen idol lashes over blue eyes. He gave me a lazy, cool hello and flipped over. Acne dotted his back like bed bug bites. "Finally, a flaw," I thought, a little ashamed.

An action star sat with his legs in the water; his bowl of cereal looked like a teacup. His back was a majestic V of creamy, perfect skin. A fresh buzz cut and a thousand-yard stare like a soldier on break. Near him, a boy was napping. I had no idea snoring could be sexy. He was a milky coffee, and even in sleep, his abs were tight, laser-cut, defined by tanning oil. An enormous uncut cock rested in its sheath under a plume of manicured pubic hair, an inch long as required by the studio contract.

Another model with his back to me was fidgeting with his phone. He replayed "Rude Boy" for the chorus of birds. Nobody complained. When he turned around, I stifled a teenage girl's gasp. Aqua eyes, full lips, a strong jaw, precise and effortless muscles covered in fine dark hair. An ambiguity that would make a Hollywood executive drool. He could have been a young missionary, a fisherman, a plantation owner, a jock in a letterman jacket.

He swam to the edge, drank a gulp of water, and spit it in a long arc as if he could reach the ocean. He looked at me and smiled, waiting for me to introduce myself, which I did. “I’m Leo.” “I’m Abel.” He shook my hand and winked. I wondered how many free drinks, after-party orgies, skipped lines, and “I’ll make an exception this one time” the wink had gotten him. My ears flushed.

Twenty-four hours ago, I was in Brooklyn, freezing in a coat closet I called a room, where rats scratched at the windows. I’d gotten a call to replace a cameraman at the 11th hour on a big-budget studio porn, the kind set in Fire Island or Mykonos, in mansions with storylines of love triangles and betrayal. I hated the artificiality of studio porn, and the owner was a messy, conservative queen, but a tropical gig as Hurricane Nemo barreled toward New York was a no-brainer.

“Group shot, boys,” the photographer reloaded. The Fireman rummaged through his bag. He walked over to The Sexy Sleepy Boy, kissed him on the forehead, and handed him a small container. Abel restarted "Unapologetic," and the Action Star did pushups. The Sexy Sleepy Boy dabbed foundation on The Fireman’s bacne. Before they got in the water, the four men rubbed baby oil on one another mechanically.

The pool had no stairs, just a long, luxurious slant. They entered as smooth as crocodiles. When they got in frame, any swish disappeared. Their knees and elbows turned to cement. They posed like 90s supermodels, licked their lips, squinted their eyes, and clenched their jaws in unison. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so elegant.

The photographer had been shooting since we landed this morning, in every room and bathroom, even in the Jeep. Clothed, nude, soft, erect. Alone, in duos and threesomes, inside one another in all configurations. Every orifice and appendage. Everything starts with these images.

Every pimple, stretch mark, eye, tooth, and dick vein will be photoshopped. The photos will be posted on Tumblr, Twitter, in escort profiles, magazines, ad banners, on dildo and fleshlight boxes, on party flyers. They’ll promote go-go dancing gigs and live sex shows in bathhouses and porn theaters. They'll be linked to gossip blogs which follow the performer’s every move like a sports star. Every studio trade, sex act, retirement, coupling, drug spiral, and suicide. The feature-length film will be released Video on Demand and DVD, sliced into short videos, nominated for porn awards, each with its own ceremony and afterparties.

The performer’s days and nights will revolve around these images. What they eat, drink, party, what gyms they pick, who they fuck for money, and who they fuck for free. Maintenance is full time, thousands of hours at the gym, supplements, and tubs of chalky white shakes that now lined the kitchen island. Drugs, steroids, and hormones, prescribed and clandestine. For some, this beauty was a birthright, and for others, it was work, brutal gym regimens, nose jobs, lipo sculpt, BBLs, calf implants, fillers, and anal bleachings. Nature's only democratic gift was their giant penises, the only body part they couldn’t enhance (even those would be enlarged in post-production).

In the Flesh Industrial Complex, everything starts with these images.

It happened so gradually that I almost didn’t notice. All of them were hard. They grabbed one another’s erections in choreographed softcore. Crocodiles and ugly ducklings in an infinity pool.

“Beautiful boys.” And it was. The magic hour, the weather, the elevation, the pool, this air of accomplishment. This was fucking sexy.

It would be the only fleeting moment of sensuality of the grueling seven-day shoot.

---

“You’re not really doing the group shot without me are you?” A serpentine voice from inside the house. The photographer stiffened. “I thought you guys were still filming the gonzo threesome in the jungle.”

“We just finished. My Trimix shot is still kicking,” the model said, pointing at the erection under his speedo as he stomped to the pool.

I waved to introduce myself, but he walked past me. I didn’t need an introduction, though. His name was Caine. I’d seen him on porn boxes and circuit party flyers since I was a baby Gay. He’d been a businessman, a mechanic, a coach, a Tom of Finland come to life. A brutalist jaw, dimples on square cheeks, a deep cleft under a five o’clock shadow as if an angel had carved it. A raven pompadour and thick eyebrows over beady dark eyes. A tribal tattoo covered half of his body. He looked 35. My brain did the math. He must have been 35 for a decade.

He gave my body a quick glance before ignoring me. I looked at his body too. The pulled crow's feet from a brow lift, jaw fillers, the waxy gleam of botox, a pec and chin implant, and the tiny scar of lipo. The shots in his ass made it move like claymation. He muscled himself into the middle of the group shot so quickly that The Sexy Sleepy Boy almost fell over. The photographer scratched the back of his head. “I’ll need to adjust the lights.” Tiny bug explosions filled the silence.

“How did the waterfall shoot go?” Abel asked Caine. “Amateur hour; the new kid couldn’t come.” “Always hard the first time,” Abel said gently. “What’s the point if he can’t do the one thing he’s supposed to? Other queens would kill to be in his place,” Caine said, frothing at the mouth.

A voice came from the house, followed by the slamming of equipment on marble. “Don’t worry, I got it!” His face resembled a Mayan statue. His nose was sloped and indigenous, like mine. He had a sturdy, svelte body, like he could be in a painting in a Mexican calendar, with a head of feathers, holding a woman with a ripped dress. “Why are you the one complaining? I had to do all the work. My mouth still tastes like lube. And his room is right there, by the way.” The Mayan Prince pointed at one of the bungalows near the pool. Caine shrugged. “So what if he hears a little constructive criticism?” The models perked up at the whiff of drama. “What matters is I saved the day! Pobrecito was having trouble, so I filled up my mouth with Spunk lube and moved my hands up and down on his dick.” He pantomimed a sloppy blowjob with breathing and moans. The models cackled. He widened his eyes as if he’d been surprised by the biggest load in history. “I let it dribble down these beautiful tits.” The Fireman and The Action Star clapped. “Showbusiness!” He pronounced “show” like “cho.” The tension diffused.

The Mayan Prince looked at me as if I had just materialized in the pool.

“New cameraman?” I nodded. “Hablas Español?” “Sí.” “Mucho gusto.” He shook my hand with a strong grip and motioned to the horizon. “Can you believe we’re here for a week?” It was the most anyone had said to me since I arrived.

He pranced into the pool and joined the group. He became a statue like the other five. The photographer grunted and pulled the frame back.

I had never been around this many men who believed they were beautiful.

Until then, I’d spent most of my time in Queer spaces where we could be at war with our bodies and even our gender, but where our physique wasn’t a passport or diploma. The muscles of antiquity were an aberration, and our insecurities gave way to easier welcomes. I felt trapped in an aquarium with another species. The photographer rapid-fired as I swam out.

Leaves had fallen in the water, but there were no trees above us. So many leaves. They looked funny. On closer inspection, I saw their tiny, twitching legs.

I walked to my room, which was, of course, the bungalow near the pool. It was freezing. The New Kid was in his twin bed, staring at the ceiling. Mid-20s, with a spiky, dorky haircut. He softly greeted me. “Is it OK if I have the A/C on high?” he asked softly in Spanish with a Venezuelan accent. I’m going to catch a fucking cold, I thought, but I nodded. A beat-up duffel bag, a cheap studded belt , and torn jeans were on the chair. “My girlfriend doesn’t know I’m doing this,” he blurted out. I didn’t know what to say other than, “I can’t believe call time is so early. I’m going to shower and go to bed.” I said it gently. He blushed and closed his eyes.

The hacienda owners had wisely spent all the money on the bathroom; the shower was straight out of a J.Lo music video. I hummed "Waiting for Tonight" as I dried my hair in the full-length mirror. The bathroom door was cracked open, and I could see The New Kid in the reflection. He was already asleep, his chest moving slowly. Chiseled abs, lean but strong pecs and biceps, two sharp dark nipples in the moonlight. I looked at my reflection. I’m never going to look like that.

I was surprised by my bitterness. I had never been attracted to muscle queens. I didn’t covet their bodies or even think I deserved them. I lacked the discipline for the gym and found weightlifting painfully boring. I observed my new jealousy like an exotic animal behind glass. What would happen if it ever got out? Outside, I heard music and laughter from Caine’s room above the bungalows. I felt queasy. This was going to be a long fucking week.

I got into bed, shivering. There was a leaf on my pillow. Then it started to crawl. I shook it off gently. Leaf insects have the rarest of masquerade camouflage. 47 million years of evolution, just to look insignificant.

Next on Porn Stories: Caine and Abel. Read: Porn Stories 1 & Porn Stories 2

Day 1/7 Costa Rica, 2013