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Jeff & Mike
|In case you haven't noticed, cum is also a big theme in my work. Sometimes when I work in the darkroom, I actually stand there, tongs in one hand and my dick in the other, watching a muscle picture emerge; and I shoot from just imagining that OTHER GUYS will soon be standing in some gallery, looking at these pics I took of them, and shooting hot rivers of ropy jism into their Armani slacks, as their oblivious girlfriends stand right beside them, swilling cheap gallery-opening wine, not even knowing that the picture on the wall they're staring at might very well be their boyfriend's own obliques or deltoids or calves in the first place, an art-object captured by my camera! Sometimes I jack off on my own negatives, then swirl the spunk around in the developing fluid. It doesn't do anything optically, but I like the thought of my cum somehow absorbed into the matrix of the image. Hey man, you gotta love your work.
Where the fuck was I�? Oh yeah. Meeting Jeff�I promise, no more digressions.
So, anyway Jeff answers my ad, and comes into my studio. We kibbitz a bit, he tells me he's a grad student too, but I can tell right away he's not what I'm looking for. Oh, he's hot all right - about 6'2, definitely "over two hundred" and about - what? - 22 at the time I think it was. And he's got this like, strong jaw thing going and a long, freckled nose, broken when he was a kid or something because his bridge is really pronounced. And blonde surfer hair - then he's got these eyes, big and green with all lashes and shit. With his big freckled nose and piercing eyes, he's like the American fuckin' dream. Smart fucker, too. Booksmart, I mean. Knows shitloads about chemistry and biology and anatomy and stuff, he's just modeling to make enough money to finish grad school. "I figure, hell, I didn't ask to be born a hot stud - it just happened to me. Why shouldn't I make some money off it?" This, he volunteered. Cocky piece of shit.
But with all this, he's still just not BUILT enough for what I'm looking for. I can tell, I mean - look at those clothes! His French blue shirt is all tight on his frame, sure - but it's trim and tight, like a model. The guys I'm looking to photograph would be, like, so stuffed into even an X-L shirt, it couldn't even fit him right - his chest and lats would pull up the material from the waist, and the deltoids would mound out, pulling the material so taut the threads would be getting sheer, and would be so tight across the chest it would look like the buttons would fly off. For this project I wasn't shooting pretty-boys; I wanted BIG muscles. Bodybuilder-muscles.
So I tell him forget it, and he gets all indignant, and says, "You ain't even seen my bod, bro!" And I'm all like, jeez okay, go for it, whatever. So he pulls off his shirt, one button at a time, the teasing bastard - and yeah, okay, I pop a goddamn boner right there. I mean, first, he's got this skin: it's the smoothest damn skin I ever saw anywhere, not a blemish anywhere. Tan and smooth, a real surfer tan, all golden. Because, obviously, this boy probably never missed a chance to take off his shirt since he was, like, ten years old. Real cocky. And damn, why shouldn't he be? He wrestled, went to state in gymnastics, surfed every morning, kicked ass in all the "personal" sports. Oh yeah - his abs. They're like, all tight and sucked-in and shit, like he's doing stomach crunches right now, but he's totally relaxed. I guess his waist is about, what? 29, 30 inches. Fuckin' nice preppy jock boy model, you get the point. He's got a white pooka-shell necklace on his thick neck that sets off his pearly white teeth. "Well - here it is."
He's gorgeous. But still nothing I can use for my project, and I tell him so. He looks at me like he can't believe it - nobody's ever been so blas� about his bod before. He launches into some goddamn diatribe about how he can't believe it, since he was 15, he's had pretty punked-out boho boys like me coming up to him in goddamn MALLS and shit and gawking, and asking him to pull up the hem of his shirt to show his abs. He has to fuckin' fight 'em off in the gay clubs, or when he's out jogging on a sunny day. Girls too, though he told me he completely ignored them, like they didn't even exist in his airspace or something. He wanted boy-worship and didn't give a shit who knew about it. So, like, he's gotten used to being adored, and now here I don't want him? I just laughed. "Yeah, you cocky piece of shit, get this straight: I CAN'T USE YOU! Now get out of my apartment."
"Well�fuck!" He then says, he just spent the last semester on "sabbatical", in reality down in South Beach, doing nothing but working out and tanning and making himself as buff and pretty as possible, ramping up his modeling income so he could finish school. Did okay, too, until now. This fascinated me.
"You mean," I asked - "You mean you did NOTHING for three months but work on your body?" "Fuckin' A," he nodded. "Oh, I had plenty of sex, too�I used to love finishing a workout, then going out on the beach somewhere, just scoping a guy in a crowd, another wanna-be model or whatever, and just going over and tapping him on the shoulder or something to get his attention and BAM! Up goes an arm, WHAM! Out pops my softball-sized Viking bicep." Fuck - really?
Jeff said "Damn straight!" He told me he would bounce his bicep up and down a couple times, or lick it or some shit, playing games. I mean, he'd pick out a cute guy, in the middle of a crowd of friends or whatever, and then fuckin' SEDUCE the guy with his biceps. He might as well have whipped it out and started pissing on the guy, right out in public. "What did they do? The guys, I mean?"
Jeff told me that sometimes, the guy's friends would laugh and goof and try to make a joke of it, by showing their biceps back or asking Jeff if they could squeeze his arm or something. Or more often, the guy's friends would get all afraid and take off, leaving their hapless buddy to Jeff's mercy. But always, without fail, Jeff's "mark", the cute guy himself, would stay. His eyes would bug out and glaze over, and he'd stare at Jeff, looking back and forth from that veiny baseball of flesh, popping and jumping in front of his eyes - to Jeff's fucking beautiful chiseled face, with his thick jaw and these white teeth�then Jeff would start murmuring shit about loving his muscle, loving his peaked biceps and shit�and slowly bringing his flexed arm closer, closer, to the guy's face. Every fucking time, Jeff said, the awed kid would reach out to touch the engorged muscle bouncing a couple inches from his face, and Jeff would know he's got another willing slave. He'd slip him his phone number right there, and the guy always called. Jeff ALWAYS got whoever he wanted.
But now, here I am - 6', 189, a freckled, worked-out, tattooed and goateed Irish red-head buff boy as cute as a bug's ear, and I'm fucking telling him to take a hike! He couldn't believe it. I must have been driving him crazy from the first time I opened the door, my tank top framing my deep chest and full shoulders, huge dick flopping under my shorts, red hair all tousled and bed-headed. Of course, I hadn't been working out as much as I had in college, so I carried a bit more bulk than my ripped-up peak. Actually, I've heard guys tell me they prefer my build when it's a little heftier. You know, big round shoulders, solid belly pooching out slightly through the wife-beater - big, high, white, round glutes peeking out the top of my low-slung shorts. And my trademark massive tan red-blonde hairy leg - my big calves, in particular, since I was wearing these long baggy shorts and flip-flops that day. Beefy, you could say, and solid. So anyway, he must know I dig his bod - he can see the tent in my cargo-shorts. But I'm not kvelling over him, or shooting rolls of film, or whatever. Sorry, I say. For my art, I need freaky. You're fuckin' hot, and certainly, yes, if you must know, you're causing my penis to become inflated; but for artistic purposes, you're useless. His jaw dropped.
I go on: "I might as well go hire a stupid straight physique model, if I wanted to shoot a bod like yours." He still doesn't get it, and gets all sulky, but fuck, what do I care. "But�guys always go apeshit over me! There's something wrong with you if this doesn't turn you on, dude!" Okay, fucker! If it makes you feel better I'll blow a load. No really - no bullshit. Flex your bicep for me, let me see that peak, and I'll blow a load, then get out. You want this cute punk-ass boy to shoot jism on the floor because of your hot biceps, I will, sonofabitch. Just don't diss my fuckin' art!
So Jeff shakes his head and smiles, and says, yeah, yeah�that's what I want. So he flexes - lifts his right arm up, makes a fist, and squeezes. And I'm like, watching this ball pile up between his elbow and his shoulder, and then he says "you want more?" and I say yes and he squeezes harder. And I'm, like, AMAZED by the sheer beauty of his deep, smooth pits - how the pec stretched and hardened as it tapered into an overhang over those deep pits. And the smell! God, Jeff smelled amazing. He never uses deodorant, and just gives off this sweet, intoxicating musk.
Back to Jeff flexing�So, he's squeezing pretty good, and his bicep is looking, like, 18 inches around. I'm struck fucking DUMB, right, by the height and shape and sheer mass of his arm, and how thin his skin is -- but then something freaky happens on the top of his bicep, right where it crests over the top: this little knob of muscle appears, bursting out of the bigger, lower mound, and it settles on top, like the peak of a mountain. His arm's now, like, 19 real inches, none of these bullshit inches - okay, it's not so much that it's BIG, it's that it's really defined, much more than mine, the fucker. A deep fissure starts to plow its way down in between the two heads of muscle, and an even bigger one separating the bicep from the triceps below it. I'm hypnotized.
He says "More?" and all I can do is nod stupidly, and he closes his eyes and squeezes again, and the peak on top starts to quiver and blow up like a balloon, and the fissure between the two heads becomes even deeper, and his forearm blows outward and snakes with veins, throbbing. Then he takes his other hand up and with his fingertips taps the upper crest of the muscle, two or three times, and this THUD comes with each tap. "Have you ever�seen a more perfect�arm?"
And I blow a load with such force, it jets across about three feet to where he's standing. Jesus, my cum actually spatters his abs, and drops down onto the tarp with a weird, amazingly sexy splattering sound -- like it's raining oatmeal.
I collapse, and he looks down at me writhing on the floor. He pulls his shirt back on, smiles and exhales. "So do I get the job?" Damn, his jaw is like a horse, his mischievous eyes gleaming green, his cropped blonde hair sparkling, his teeth are so white�I stare deep into his eyes, and when my balls stop spasming out teasponsfull of spunk, I shout "Fuck off, you arrogant prick, I told you you're not right. But if you want to be my boyfriend, fuck yeah, let's make it work."
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