Model Men

by Neil Plakcy

  Steve sighed, tweaking a nipple with one hand, slapping the underside of his shaft with the other. “Fucker shot on my chest while I jizzed up several hundred dollars worth of high-end merch. Then he yanked the blue plug out, setting it rolling to the floor. My pink one I kept. A keepsake.”

  I was still stroking behind my easel. If he saw, he didn’t say anything. “Did you get the job?” I couldn’t help but ask.

  Steve laughed. “That’s the weird part of the story, dude.”

  I looked up and over at him. “The dildos, plural, weren’t the weird part?”

  He shook his head. “My agent called me that night. I asked him if I got the job. Turns out, I had it the day before. Portfolio had been enough.”

  I stopped jacking and drawing. “The photographer set you up?”

  The laughter grew, echoing around the room. “Yup. Knew all along what he was doing.”

  “And you weren’t mad?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Nah. You should’ve seen the photos. Ran in every major market. Me smiling from ear to ear, eyes closed, secretly cumming for the world to see, with a pink dildo rammed tight up my ass. Little did they know.”

  I coughed. “More hot than weird, dude.”

  Again he laughed, the stroke up and down on his long, thick shaft suddenly quickened. “My parents saw the ad, Greg.”

  And then I laughed, as well. “Yup, weird, dude. Definitely weird.”

  But then his laughter abruptly stopped, a silence enveloping the room, save for the sound of my jacking echoing his. “Weirder than this?” he eventually squeaked out.

  I nodded. “I see your point.”

  He grinned. “Dude, you’re seeing a lot more than my point right about now.” He swung it to and fro, for effect. Which caused me to groan, just barely beneath my breath. “You, uh, you almost finished over there?” he added. “With your sketching, I mean?”

  I stood up, baggy pants falling to the ground, my own point ramrod straight, aimed right his way, fist wrapped around it as a bead of sweat cascaded down my forehead, a similar-sized bead of pre-come dripping over my wide, mushroomed head. “Guess I could use a break,” I replied, nearly in a pant.

  He winked and beckoned me over, his cock released, pointing down at mine, two divining rods. Only it wasn’t water they were after. I strode over, kicking my pants to the side, cock swaying as I approached him. Weird, as he’d said, but so fucking hot as to put the sun to shame. And then I stood at the edge of the box, staring up at him, his steely cock just a few centimeters away from my mouth, and then not even that.

  I downed him in one fell swoop, salty jizz hitting the back of my throat like a bullet as a gagging tear made a beeline across my cheek. He moaned as I sucked him in, knees buckling, his hand reaching out to grab the back of my head, to coax me down further, until his balls were slamming against my chin.

  “Fuuuck,” he sighed, pummeling my face.

  I stared up, his head tilted back, mouth agape, sweat trickling down the narrow trench between his pecs. Stunning, with a capital S. I popped his prick out, yanking on his swaying balls. “Speaking of which,” I rasped. “How about getting on your back for me?”

  He smiled and hopped down off the box, then took a seat, feet dangling before he fell backward, legs raised wide, that beautiful hole of his again on display. “Better?” he asked, already with a slow stroke on his fat prick.

  I turned and stared, smiling broadly before retrieving one of the tools of my trade, namely a nice-sized paintbrush. “Understatement,” I replied, licking and lapping at his heavy, smooth nuts. His knees went up to his chest, cock pushed through between athletic thighs, so that I could suck on the happy trio: cock, balls, and hole. In that order. Hole last, my tongue diving in, spit dripping down as I reamed him out, his stunning ass rocking into my eager mouth.

  “Fuuuck,” he echoed, repeating the word, again and again, the sound whizzing around my head like a swarm of bees. Horny bees, but still.

  Reluctantly, I moved my mouth away. “Just getting to that,” I said, sliding my middle finger up and in and back, his hole gripping my spit-slick digit, breath sucked in as I pushed and prodded. He exhaled, released, and my index finger joined its neighbor, all while I tickled his balls with the brush I’d brought back. Not a dildo, but it would do in a pinch, I figured.

  He spread his legs wide again, peering down at what I had in mind for him. “Dirty roomie,” he chided, grabbing his cock.

  I retracted my fingers and spanked his hole with the bristles. “You say it like it’s a bad thing,” I said, flipping the brush over, the thick round end swirling around his glistening ring. I crouched down and spit at his hole, then slid it in, one inch, two, three. “Fuck it, you’re right; dirty roomie.”

  He arched his back, eyelids fluttering, breath ragged. Four inches, five. “Filthy, in fact,” he amended, voice gravelly, pace picking up on his swollen cock, the head now slick with pre-come. His whole body, etched with contracted muscle, shook and rocked as I assailed his hole, ramming and jamming that brush in and out, in and out, my cock getting a heavy beating of its own as I watched on in anticipation.

  “Close,” he grunted, pounding his prick lightening fast now, mammoth balls steadily rising.

  “Ditto,” I groaned, knees already buckling, sweat pouring down, every nerve ending in my body ablaze.

  Then the final “Fuuuck” as his body quaked, his cock erupting, heavy streams of molten spunk shooting this way and that, drenching his ripped belly, broad chest, the creaking wooden box, the cement floor, all while the end of the brush protruded out of his perfect ass.

  I shot a split-second later, matching him moan for moan, the sound echoing off the walls, my load joining his on the floor, splat, splat, splat. My fist pounded away, milking every last drop, until I collapsed on the ground, panting, and then gently retrieved my brush from his hole. He bucked one final time, legs again dangling over the box, cock still at half-mast, sticky with gobs of cum.

  “I think I found my muse,” I only half-joked, eyes glued to him.

  “David to your Michelangelo?” he asked, pushing himself up on his elbows, a wink and smirk cast wide across his picture-perfect face.

  “David looked pretty happy, as far as I can recall. Lord only knows what he had shoved up his ass. And Michelangelo worked with a chisel and a hammer.”

  Steve winced. “Ouch.” Then he jumped down and wrestled me to the ground. “Keep the heavy equipment away from my ass, roomie,” he warned, lips soon pressed up tight to mine, mouths colliding as we rolled around the studio.

  Which is just where we found ourselves two weeks later.

  He stood behind me, hand on my shoulder, the finished painting sitting on my easel. “You deserve that A, roomie,” he said, with a pat. “What do you call it?”

  I stared with pride at my work and smiled. The Birth of Vincent, I replied.

  He chuckled. “Looks more like Vincent on the half-shell. But at least I know why he has that shit-eating grin on his face. Nice touch making the angels all leather-daddy-like, too.” He squinted, face up close to the canvas. “One of them has a brush in his hand, huh? Wonder what he’s gonna do with it?” He breathed hard into my ear, biting down on a tender lobe, sending a rush of adrenalin up my spine, my heart beating in double time.

  I pushed my backside into him, his granite-solid crotch butting up against me. “Maybe it’s the artist’s turn for some brushing,” I told him. “Why should the muse have all the fun?”

  He turned me around and ran his lips across my mouth. “Because the muse gets paid top dollar to have fun, roomie.” His tongue snaked its way inside, before he added, “But this one’s on the house.”

  Have at it, boy, I thought, releasing the beast. Have the fuck at it.

  WHEN GARY MET LARRY

  T. Hitman

  The leather. Its smell permeated the air inside the warehouse. Rich and lemony up one aisle, raw and masculine, even arousing, down another.

  Big J
im Augusta clapped a hand to my shoulder. “I understand you’re an accomplished shutterbug.”

  Not too accomplished, I thought—I was making six bucks an hour standing on my feet all day picking horse supplies. “I guess,” I said.

  He pulled me aside, into a corner of the same aisle where dressage clothes and leather chaps shared shelf space. “Let me tell you what I need. In the weeks ahead, we’re gonna be doing a big push, big, getting the Statewide Tack brand out there to the globe. To do that, I need a new catalog—and a new photographer to shoot it. The old approach doesn’t work anymore. I don’t have a lot of money to pay you up front and I want you to save costs whenever possible, but you could make it up with bonuses in the backend if you give me solid gold. And, if you do a great job, you get the next one and we’ll renegotiate your fee.”

  The clank and clatter of a metal trolley trundling down the aisle echoed through the vastness. Driving the cart was a young man recently hired in anticipation of the holiday season rush who’d inspired more than one double-take from me. He wore a Cleveland Indians baseball cap, the bill turned backward, and hummed to himself while chewing on a pen. Handsome, oh yeah. A little goofy, but he wore even that well. His name was Gary. Secretly, I was smitten.

  “Do you know what you’re looking for?” I asked.

  “Something that knocks our customers on their rich butts and gets them to open up their wallets. We’re going to be offering cowboy hats, men’s jeans, real high-end gear in addition to the usual stuff.”

  I nodded. “You want to save on the cost of the shoot? Don’t hire professional models. Throw some cash at your handsomest warehouse workers. Use your best resources for models, like you’re doing for the photographer.”

  Big Jim folded his arms and nodded. “I like the way you think.”

  “I hope you like the way I photograph. Cowboy gear? That one looks like a cowboy to me.” I tipped my chin at the retreating back of the young man.

  “Looks more like an Indian to me. I fuckin’ hate the Indians.…”

  A few days later in another part of the warehouse, I met Larry, though met is an overstatement. He had just been hired and was riding a forklift, pulling down shrink-wrapped pallets of equine supplies, when I walked up to the machine. I knew he was the other guy in my unfolding storyline the instant I stole my first glance at him. Not as tall as Gary, I pegged him at around the six-foot mark and a few years older than his coworker, though decades in some ways, judging by his hard expression. Gary had dark hair, cut like a baseball player’s. Larry’s was blond, brush-cut.

  Even then, being an amateur photographer who’d shot mostly landscapes and a few male nudes, I’d learned to live through pictures and observe a lot in a short amount of time. Whole lives, in some instances, which was the case with Larry. He wore fatigue cut-offs with big, baggy pockets, and I knew the hard scowl, like his shorts, had come from the military.

  I’d already sold Gary on the idea—he’d just about creamed his khakis at the prospect of getting paid to be a model. I wanted this guy with the great set of hairy legs and the length of sweat sock showing at the tops of his dirty steel-toes. I drank in his handsomeness and called up, some thirty feet, to the metal rafters.

  “Hey, you up there, can you come on down?”

  The legs shifted pose. Blue eyes gazed from a clipboard to me. “Hold on a sec.”

  The seconds ticked past. Eventually, he gave the controls a spin and lowered.

  “You’re Larry, right?”

  He nodded. His distrusting expression solidified.

  “How’d you like to make some extra green in your next paycheck?”

  “Overtime?”

  “Of a sort,” I said. I introduced myself and explained the offer.

  “Modeling?”

  “This could change your life. I’m planning for it to change mine.”

  Larry shook my hand, putting enough strength into the gesture to make me wince. I knew I had chosen well. Sometimes, there’s a chemical spark that is clear and obvious and just works. Larry and Gary would be the faces of the new Statewide Tack catalog. Neither of the young men suspected they had star power, but I did.

  Sunlight streamed through the loading dock. A warm October breeze scattered dry leaves across the pavement. The foliage was a week past peak; a steady rain a few days earlier had brought down most of it. This third day of Indian Summer had baked the afternoon into something pleasant and perfumed with autumn smells.

  I approached Gary, who stood at one of the open garage doors, staring out at the almost too bright landscape. I caught a hint of his sweat, clean and masculine, around the October leaves and struggled for my next breath. I said his name. Gary turned around and smiled.

  “Tonight, at my studio. Big Jim says you can clear out an hour early, with pay.”

  “Dude, I’m so there,” Gary said.

  I could tell that his mind was opening up to the possibilities of a life beyond this warehouse existence. I sensed the night was going to be amazing.

  I rented a small house that had an attached garage. I kept my studio in a spare bedroom inside the house but had found a use for the garage beyond simply parking my car. By six o’clock, I had transformed it into a barn, complete with all the props. Bales of hay created the illusion of a working farm. I had a saddle on the stand and a colorful Navajo blanket tacked to the wall. I only needed my two cowboys.

  A pickup pulled into the driveway. I saw that Larry was driving. Gary sat beside him in the front passenger seat. Carpooling was a good sign. In order to accomplish what I had in mind, there would need to be chemistry between my models as well.

  Saddles, blankets, riding helmets, ropes, and other tack supplies had been the staple of the previous Statewide catalogs. But with this new edition, which would be mass-mailed in advance of the holidays, Big Jim had wisely expanded the business to appeal to a broader audience. I reminded the guys that riding shirts, men’s jeans, cowboy hats, and boots would fill space between the glossy pages.

  “Since most of the customers are girls and women, Jim wants men of a certain caliber to model the clothes—men who will make a statement and catch the eyes of the customers. Men so handsome, the ladies are gonna cream at the sight of them and sales will skyrocket.”

  Larry folded his arms. I ordered myself not to look at the big toe poking through the rip in his sweat sock after he’d shed his boots, but failed. Gary perked up.

  “You really think…?”

  I handed each man a cold longneck. “Think you’ve both got the goods? Absolutely, I know you do.”

  Larry took a swig. “How do you know?”

  I didn’t answer right away. Should I tell them I loved the male physique and knew it intimately, and not just from the other side of the camera, that I’d shot about a dozen men nude in the very spot in my studio where they stood clothed? I settled for “I’ve got a great eye. Now let’s make this happen.”

  On one of the tables, new jeans, western button-downs, clean white boot socks, cowboy hats, leather chaps, belts, and even riding jockstraps had been laid out, all of it new and waiting to be filled. I told the guys to get dressed and left them alone with the excuse I’d be attending to a few last minute details. Truth was, I’d caught their scent, that clean masculine smell of new rain on bare skin, and didn’t think I’d make it through the preparations without throwing an obvious hard-on, likely either delaying or screwing up the shoot.

  Several tense minutes later, Larry called my name. I walked back into the studio to see him leaning his ass on the edge of the desk. He was naked except for the pair of black boxer briefs spray-painted onto his waist and the old pair of socks on his size 12s. Those magnificent hairy legs tempted my eyes. On my next breath, my lungs filled with the smell of tooled leather, athletic sweat, men’s feet.

  “What’s up with this?” Larry grumbled. He held up one of the jockstraps. “I don’t gotta wear it, do I?”

  Before I could answer, Gary said, “Yeah, you didn’t say anyth
ing about us being photographed with our dicks swinging.”

  I chuckled, aware that Gary was barefoot, his pants unzipped and hanging open, his T-shirt in a pile beside his discarded socks, and extremely conscious of the thin line of dark hair cutting down the center of his abdomen. “That’s because you aren’t expected to model underwear. The jocks, like the rest of the clothes, are yours, compliments of Statewide Tack. We’re creating a fantasy here, a story of two hard-working young cowboys. Attractive, All-American guys who work up an honest day’s sweat and then party down at sunset. The real-life versions of those men wear jocks like the ones in your hands. It’s up to you if you want to wear them for the shoot.”

  Gary absently scratched at the dense pelt visible through the open halves of his pants. “I haven’t squeezed my nuts into one of these for at least five years.”

  He dropped his jeans, taking the tight-whites beneath with them in the process. Time seemed to fall off track, turning seconds into minutes, and the minutes into seconds. Using the camera of my mind, I recorded the image of his dick, a long and hairy tube over a mismatched set of meaty low-hanging nuts.

  “Do you think I could model underwear if I wanted?” he asked.

  “Better than Marky Mark, man,” I said.

  About an hour that felt like a full day later, I was down on my knees, recording his dick up close, and sucking down as much of it as my throat could handle.

  The photo that would go on to grace the cover, the one that people, male and female, would masturbate over, fantasize about, cum to, almost never happened.

  I snapped maybe a hundred others, two dozen of which ended up in the pages of the catalog. The rest were posed and stiff shots of the two men wearing their clothes and a few other wardrobe options and, granted, wearing them well, but nothing that would make a great or alluring cover photo. The problem was that they were in the clothes, but not in the characters. I admit, my lack of direction and growing disappointment wasn’t helping our cause.