How Writing Erotic Fiction Led to My Fifteen Minutes of Fame In Porn
Now posing in the nude can be oh-so-artsy or down-and-dirty smutty depending on who’s doing it and for what. My first plunge in exhibitionistic immortality came oddly enough from a fine arts doctoral student who reached out to me a few years ago down here in Fort Lauderdale where I live on the hook-up site, Daddyhunt, to pose nude for his photo project called “Guys in Their Living Space.” The best of the shoot would be displayed, wall mural size, along with those of a dozen other men, at a gallery in Miami’s new Art District as part of his doctoral dissertation.
The shoot took a few hours and Doug, tall, all ass and geeky, was purely professional about the whole thing, doing the shoot with me sprawled naked in my living room. No erections here, more like Michelangelo’s soft-cocked Adam.
The night of Doug’s exhibit, I dragged along one of my buddies who still didn’t believe what I had done. After pondering myself up on a wall, bigger than life, ten feet by six feet, and, well, getting self-aroused, I stepped back and quietly observed the reactions of my admirers, mostly retro-hippy collegiate types, with a sprinkling of older couples and smartly dressed yuppies. Surprisingly, the only other gay men in the room were those up on the wall, all with friends or lovers.
Only one man, an older guy, dressed in a blazer and slacks, actually recognized me as the man in the picture and coming up to me at the refreshment table quipped, “Nice tan, young man.” If he only knew I was probably older than he was.
A few years later, again at an age when most men – straight or gay – would be content to have their remote control for their TV in their lap, I went on the now defunct male escort site “Rentboy” to gain the hustler’s perspective of what it was it was like to be a man-for-hire. After all, I would use the hustler motif in two of my books, “Not in It For the love,” published by Totally Bound Press; and in my latest work, “Buy Guys,” published by Wilde City Press. Believe or not, that one month I was on the site, four men plunked down a hundred and fifty dollars to spend an hour with me.
And so, in a convoluted way, it was desire to experience what I would write about that led to my fifteen minutes of fame in porn. Chris, a producer for San Francisco-based Pantheon Productions that specializes in older men, bear and daddy porn, was canvassing for potential new talent for some planned shooting dates in Lauderdale, saw my RB ad, and e-mailed me, asking if I might be interested.
I only hesitated for two reasons and not that my high school English teacher would ever see the results: would I be able to perform, i.e., keep Mr. Peter up for a four hour shoot, Viagra or no Viagra; and not so much how much I’d make but when I’d get paid.
You see, I had already been hustled by a local porn producer who when asked that question said payment would be forthcoming six to eight weeks after the shoot. Huh? And what if he snookered me? What was my recourse? Complain to the Better Business Bureau of Porn Distributors?
But Chris assured me I would be paid the day I did the shoot and that I could do a “solo” if I liked. I was still a bit gun shy till Chris added it would be just me and him and that he would provide all the arousal material I needed. With that he e-mailed over his pic. He was a youngish, tight bodied, handsome fucker complete with goatee, not some old, fat, leering troll as I imagined most porn directors to be. He apologized for not being hairy to which I replied, “Don’t worry, you’ll do.”
On the day of my junket into the world of virtual sex, I reported to one of the local guesthouses by the beach where Chris had rented a suite. He met me at the door wearing only a pair of cargo shorts and was obviously pleased with my furry, equally shirtless body.
“Yep, you’re definitely daddy material,” he said with a sly smile.
After I signed my life away or I should say my images into residual-free perpetuity, we bantered around a screen name. Randy which I used on rentboy was already taken so we decided on Ray Andrews, my real first name and Andrew my middle name. I asked where Ray Andrews would surface, either Pantheonbears.com or Hotoldermales.com. “Probably both,” he went on, stroking my crotch, “you fit ‘em both real well.” I wondered if guys still bought DVD’s with all the porn on the web, and Chris concurred that that end of the business had transitioned to streaming but there was still money to be made.
All that was left was the shoot.
We started with stills of me in a jockstrap and boots, first sprawled across a chair, my legs lasciviously spread, then posed against the wall. From all angles of course.
“Nice pouch, daddy,” Chris replied as he casually let his shorts drop to the floor in between snaps. He wasn’t wearing underwear.
Then came my own unveiling, and with this boyish 40 year old standing there naked in front of me, every so often pulling on his nice cut cock which was getting hard, I had no problems in the erection department. By the time we moved to the video, he was even coming over to give me an occasional lick or two in the right places. I knew it was all for the camera, but I can’t deny this aging faggot didn’t enjoy it.
It didn’t take much to get me close and I had to actually hold back a bit so Chris got his required ten minutes of footage, zooming in closer and closer, as cum finally cascaded over my dick and the camera lingered there like some photographer for National Geographic shooting a newly erupted volcano.
As I cleaned up, I asked Chris if he wanted me to give him some “relief” but he just gave me a kiss and said he was O.K. Spoken like a true porn coach.
“We usually pay by check but I was able get to the ATM. Cash OK?”
“No problem,” was my understated reply.
We parted cordially, he promised to look me up for a possible dynamic duo next time he was in town, and I didn’t bother to count the bills till I got back to my car. Because ATM’s only spit out twenties, he had actually overpaid me for the session – $260 instead of the $250 he had quoted when we were still in e-negotiations.
I looked at my watch. I had been with Chris for exactly 57 minutes.
The easiest money I ever made in my life.
As a kid, I thought movie stars never grew old and today I still think photography in all its forms is the closest thing we have to immortality. So if I’m lucky enough to live to ninety-seven, I guess there just may be some young boy out there in Cyberland still jerking off over my furry daddy bod, forever perpetualized in time one warm Lauderdale Tuesday afternoon in a room by the beach.