Best Gay Erotica 2011 (23 page)

He kept that promise—for a year. EJ continued his quest to convince Evan to act (suggesting that he ease into the biz by doing a solo scene with a dildo) and become his lover (needlessly patting his ass as if they were on a basketball team and brushing behind him
very
slowly). And many of the actors who came through Full Moons' doors really tempted him to take off
his clothes, on and off camera. The boiz—Black, Latino and Bla-tino—were too fuckin' fine for words; most flirted with him, some pushed up (literally), and a few requested, with dick in hand, that he “fluff” them before they went on camera. It also didn't help that EJ sometimes filmed in the upstairs bunker; the sounds and smells were hard to ignore—and made
him
hard. But he resisted and never saw anyone outside the office; he didn't want to get a reputation for sleeping with his employer's actors. He knew that if he took just one baby step in that direction, he would be pulled all the way in.

It's just a matter of time
, many told him,
before you take that dive
. Unfortunately for EJ, it didn't happen in a film he directed. It was on a Monday before class, and Evan dropped by the office to pick up his paycheck. EJ was helping cast
Ruffnecks & Rednecks
; he and Jess Cunningham, the president of Good Ol' Boy Productions and the director/producer/writer of
R & R
(yeah, believe it or not, porn flicks
do
have scripts, even if they aren't longer than a dozen pages), had seen fifty actors over two days and no one had captured Jess's eye.

But when Jess saw Evan walk in the door, the search was over.

“Well, it's about time!”
Jess cried like Anthony Perkins after he first lays eyes on Diana Ross in
Mahogany
. He swooped down on BuTay like a vulture and ushered him over to a couch where one of the proposed rednecks, an Oliver Platt look-alike wearing black jeans and a white muscle tee, sat.

“He's not here to audition,” EJ dryly stated. Evan frowned at him.
That's right, white man, speak for me like you always know you can.

“Are you kidding me? He's
perfect
.” He turned to Evan. “
You
are Benji.”

EJ did the introductions (the “redneck” in question going by
the name Peeter Paul), after which Evan politely informed him, “I'm not an actor.”

“With
that
face?
That
body?” Jess's eyes dropped down. “And
that
junky trunk?”

Oh, no. Another wannabe-hip white boy in our midst. At least EJ didn't pretend to be down or get it; he left the Blackisms to the ones who know and do them the best.

“
You
are Benji,” he repeated, just in case it was missed the first time.

Evan didn't have the chance to respond—Jess handed him a copy of the script and pointed to the description of Benjamin, aka Benji, highlighted in orange: Black as midnight, very thick full lips, light lust-filled eyes, short haircut, medium muscular build, ass like a donkey.

It was borderline racist. Yet…
That's me
, Evan thought to himself.

“
You
are the man I have always dreamed of bringing this character to life. Please,
please
read for me,” Jess pleaded.

Evan glanced at EJ, who shrugged.

“Hey, Boss, can you give me a lift?” As Evan read the line, Peeter Paul's eyes were glued to Evan's ass.

“Uh…” Jess began, cautiously. “Can you be more… ethnic?”

“More what?”

“You know, more…more ghetto.” Uh-huh.
You mean more niggerish, like the slave master said in the movie
Drum
, right?

“I didn't grow up in a ghetto.” And he didn't. Coral Springs is a way-upper-middle-class enclave twenty miles south of Detroit. Like his father (a pediatrician) and mother (an insurance adjustor), his neighbors earned close to seven figures annually, sent their children to the Jack & Jill club and to HBCU's, and vacationed on Martha's Vineyard in the summer and the
Poconos in the fall. So his vocabulary wasn't sprinkled with “yo,” “ain't,” and the ever-popular “nigga,” even after living in Crown Heights for three years.

“Oh.” Jess was clearly surprised (or was that disappointment?).

But Evan knew just what he wanted.

“I'll give it a try.” He winked at EJ; EJ knew he was playing with him. Evan's posture became slumped. He put on his DON'T FUCK WITH ME mask, which he had perfected while living in da 'hood. He glared at Peeter Paul, who leaned back. His voice went from tenor to baritone, with a little scratchiness in the throat added for affect. “Ya Boss. Can ya gimme a lif'?”

Evan never thought he'd see someone do it, but Jess jumped for joy.
“That's it!

Both Evan and EJ smiled.

Jess paced, clapping furiously. “We'll fly you down to Atlanta next Wednesday. You can stay at my home. I'm sure EJ won't mind doing without you for a couple of days….”

“Sorry, but I'm not your man,” Evan interrupted.

“But you
are
,” he replied.

“I can't.”

“Yes, you
can
.”

“It's not something I want to do.”

“You'll want to.”

Jess ignored the
no
. He called Evan on his cell. He called him at his apartment. He emailed him. He sent flowers to the office, even a “flesh-o-gram” (a buffed brother who disrobed to a hip-hop version of “There's No Business Like Show Business”). But it was that “final,
final
offer” he put on the table (he presented him with five) that changed his mind.

Evan (now christened BuTay) wasn't looking forward to being pawed and plowed by a ratty ragamuffin named (what else?) Bubba, who looked like he just rolled out from
under
the trailer park (balding, bearded and beer-bellied), but managed not to reveal that he was totally creeped out by the fellow's clammy hands, pungent body odor, and monstrously hairy back (after all, it's called
acting
). As it turned out, once he and Bubba got into it, it was a hell of a lot better than he thought it could be: the man wasn't a bad kisser, devoured BuTay's dick like his life depended on it, had somethin' to work with himself (nine inches with a decent width), and
worked
BuTay rather nicely in four different positions (bent over, doggie, on his back and BuTay's favorite, sitting down). Add the thick humidity of a sweltering Atlanta afternoon; the incessant buzz of the gnats and mosquitoes; a rusty, rickety red and blue pickup truck; a ripped, stained mattress; BuTay chewing on Bubba's pink, fuzzy balls; Bubba gnawing on BuTay's asshole as his scruffy beard scratched BuTay's unblemished booty; the thump of the gun rack (hooked to the back window and holding an AK-47 rifle) as BuTay bumped his ass down and Bubba pumped his dick up; BuTay decorating Bubba's face (Bubba insisted) and Bubba polishing BuTay's ass with his own cream…and you had the makings of a
semen
al moment in porn, a moment that Smutmeister, the critic for the online zine Get Off, described as “one of the most repulsive
and
hottest fucking scenes ever.”

Evan
was
repulsed by the whole experience, yet that was the key to making it so hot. It was nasty sex with a nasty man—and he made it even
nastier
, upping the
eeeeeeew
factor with some inspired improvisation (snacking on Bubba's crusty toes and catching the sweat dropping off his forehead with his tongue), moaning his lines with bone-chilling sureness (
“Rock me wit'
dat cock, Papa Bear, yeeeaaah!”
and
“Bang ma big black butay, Bubba!”
) and yodeling (it would become his celluloid hallmark). And, any time he began to lose the lust Jess recognized in his eyes—or the breakfast he had eaten several hours before they filmed—he thought of the $10,000 cashier's check he'd receive at the end of the day's shoot.

What people do for money…

 

The
pre
verted passion BuTay exuded was so convincing that he earned the GayVN award (the Oscar of queer porn) for Best Supporting Actor, the first Negro victor (the voters must've forgotten he was the lead). Smutmeister christened him “the Hattie McDaniel of Gay Smut” (since Smutmeister quoted him as declaring, “I'd rather play a ho' than be one,” and BuTay wore a stars and bars bandana on his head in the film, the comparison was convenient though misguided), and his triumph was heralded as “a new day for the industry.” What that “new day” was supposed to look like and bring with it no one ever explained, although the implication was clear to most: Black actors had “arrived” and would receive commensurate pay, perks and promotion. Of course, that day never came, but BuTay did become the new “it” boy. He made two more
R & R
flicks, getting
very
trashy with Shane, a Toby Keith twin, in a truck stop bathroom. Their filthiest scenes: Shane splashing Coors and licking it off of BuTay's chest, back and ass; BuTay cleaning out the cheese clumped under Shane's foreskin with his tongue and Shane sticking his lit cigar into BuTay's ass—and BuTay
smoking
it. His reunion with Bubba for a barnyard frolic was almost as nauseating as their first romp: wrestling naked in a giant aluminum tub full of slop; BuTay inhaling and licking Bubba's sweaty, smelly armpits and Bubba using BuTay's bootay as the bowl and inserting a carrot, an ear of corn, a cucumber
and slithers of tomato to create the ultimate garden salad. BuTay got back-to-back Best Actor GayVN nods.

 

After that, the make of white man selected as his costars improved
dramatically
(Black men are usually paired with white men who are, for lack of a better word, trolls), beginning with the
International BuTay
series, which chronicled his sexploits with men of different European backgrounds (Russian, French, Spanish and British) during a gymnastics competition (BuTay got pummeled on the pommel horse); a Foreign Legion boot camp (the four soldiers had a ball declaring war on his ass); a soccer match (the Madrid boys had thighs—and dicks—of steel, and BuTay thoroughly enjoyed squeezing and pleasing them all) and a rehearsal for an all-male production of
Hamlet
(the tagline: “Ay,
He's
the Rub!”).

In
Forgive Me Father
, he confessed his sins (“I'm a homo and I'm going to hell”) to a priest (the very brawny and beary Arpod Miklos), who committed a few sins on and inside of him—in the confessional. But
Bangin' Black Boyz 'n' Bootz
was the across-the-board fave: his Timberlands were literally knocked off his feet by the very well endowed Chad Hunt, who attempted to reconstruct BuTay's rectum by violently banging him up against a sanding table, hung over a stepladder and on the roof of a pile driver, as BuTay begged for both mercy
and
more. Their ferocious fuckfest (and its cum-gushing climax) deservedly won the GayVN Award for Best Couple.

 

BuTay didn't make the bulk of his green on the screen, though. He appeared at gay clubs and public events (from the White Party circuit to the Folsom Street Fair) where he'd autograph copies of his DVDs; in two instances caught on film, he signed one fan's chest and another's dick. He refused to dance or strip
for cash; the thought of doing either made him feel…dirty. But he offered his services to a very select clientele as an escort. Men in the sex industry have adopted that title when in reality they are nothing but prostitutes, but BuTay actually escorted his callers to banquets, concerts and conferences (the married “straight” men got a kick out of introducing him as their “boyfriend,” “assistant,” and in one instance, “son”). His ad—which ran in
A Man's Man
, a tasteful flesh rag that caters to the wealthy, for two years—specifically stated that “sex is not a part of the package,” although he would sleep in the same bed and sometimes allowed some intimate play (massage, rimming, frottage, blow jobs, mutual jerk-off), depending on the man (i.e., if they didn't totally gross him out, which was most of the time). He was paid $1,000-$1,500 for a night and $3,000-$5,000 for a weekend,
not
including first-class travel (be it on a commercial airline, their private jet or an Acela express train), ground transportation (his preference: black stretch limos), meals (an Apple marketing VP in Simi Valley hired food and wine connoisseur Ted Allen of “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” to prepare a romantic dinner, midnight snack and breakfast for two), and “miscellaneous” (such as a clothing allowance for the appropriate wardrobe, be it a tux, a linen suit, silk pajamas, tennis wear, golf gear, even Speedos and sandals for the beach). Everyone was more than generous, but some were
really
big spenders. A forensic biologist in Reston took him on a five-day cruise to the Bahamas, where they stayed for two nights and three days at the swanky JW Marriott (BuTay couldn't get over the giant, crystal chandeliers and the gold-embossed doorknobs, handles and faucets). A Broadway producer treated him to a two-week excursion to Sydney, Amsterdam and Munich. He received $15,000 in cash and gifts (including a custom-made eel-skin coat and a forty-two-inch plasma screen television) from a cardiologist in Portland.
An entertainment lawyer in Beverly Hills sent him a Mercedes; one of
his
clients, a semicloseted Oscar-winning actor, did the same (he sold them both).