Best Gay Erotica 2011

by Richard Labont

  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 semenal 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 preverted 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 sele
cted 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).

  Of course, there were a few extraordinary cases where he did more than just show up. He participated in a celebrity date auction sponsored by COLT Men to benefit the pediatric AIDS ward at Los Angeles Memorial Hospital. He was “won” by Stefan and Eduardo Franz-Lopez, a professional bodybuilding international (Latvian and Ecuadorian) couple. He didn’t know if the wild evening (very passionate sex on the beach, by a fire, under the moonlight) they spent together was worth the $7,650 they bid, but it was for him (it was his first—and still his best—ménage à trois). He earned $4,000 as a model for a Tom of Finland exhibit in San Francisco, where several of the artist’s works were brought to life. He was captured being fucked in a locker room by one white man while another looked on. As BuTay stood with both his head and dick positioned to the left and arched upward, Baron was seated behind him with his dick halfway up inside BuTay, focusing on the ass while clutching BuTay around the torso with his right arm and squeezing a tube of what was marked Vaseline (it was actually toothpaste) with his left. The shoot was supposed to take less than an hour but dragged on for close to two. An exact replica of the drawing was needed (one detail was changed: it wasn’t done bareback) and something was always in the wrong position: BuTay’s ass, Baron’s dick, BuTay’s neck, Baron’s left arm, BuTay’s right shoulder, Baron’s hair, BuTay’s right elbow, Baron’s left eye, BuTay’s nose, Baron’s left thumb, BuTay’s right pinky, Baron’s shorts (which were pulled down between his waist and knees). While it was supposed to look like they were fucking they weren’t supposed to be fucking, and BuTay and Baron kept messing up the shot because it was feeling so good. Getting in was no problem; getting in and remaining completely still was. Baron was expected to get excited but not too excited, and it was hard for him (his dick) not to—and it was hard for BuTay (his ass) not to, too. Even if Baron moved his dick just a quarter inch, BuTay couldn’t help but react and move his ass along (it also impressed BuTay that Baron could hold an erection for much of that time). BuTay also found it hard not to stick out his tongue, unpurse and lick his lips and hold his dick in check. Just when the photographer was about to lose the few strands of hair on his head, they finally nailed it—and then Baron went on to nail it. BuTay shot his own load, as did Kristoff, the voyeur, who remarked: “That was the best almost fuck I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  And let’s not forget the well-known televangelist in Fort Lauderdale, who threw a costume party in which two lucky guests won a raffle to participate in a foursome—while the other eight guests watched. Clips can be found on Forbidden Videos and XTube, with BuTay by a pool sucking off Jason Vorhees, being sucked off by Captain Hook, and getting fucked by Predator. The nine-hour fiesta, which included a buffet where the Green Lantern, Spider-Man, Batman and Robin, Pinhead, the Lone Ranger, Freddy Krueger and the Grinch doused him with soy and duck sauce and ate sushi off of him, brought him a hefty $30,000.

  Evan was having fun. Lots of fun. Maybe too much fun. He never imagined being a part of the Triple X club and at times still couldn’t believe that he was. He accepted that, at this time in his life, he was fucking for a living and there was nothing inherently wrong with that. It was easy money—he could shoot a scene a day (more like three to five hours) and make enough to cover all his bills for several months. He loved to fuck, loved to be fucked, so if someone wanted to shell out thousands of dollars a pop for him to get popped, why not? He paid off his student loans and became a homeowner at twenty-three, a power move that made his parents proud. He visited countries and met people he probably never would have. And his time was his own—he could devote days, sometimes an entire month, to writing the Great American Novel he’d been carrying around since he was twelve. He didn’t have to punch a time clock or ask permission to take a break. He was his own boss; others had to work around his schedule—if he chose to have one.

  He knew that, one day, there’d be no more gravy for the mashed potatoes—but was somewhat taken aback by the reason why.

  There’s an unwritten but understood rule Black actors operate under in gay porn: Once you go Black you can never come back. White actors can fuck and be fucked by every color of the rainbow on film but Black men usually have to choose a side. This is why you will probably never see a Matthew Rush (yeah, he’s a Negro), Jay Black, Dred Scott or Simon Cox paired up with someone who doesn’t have a tan courtesy of the sun or a salon (that includes your Latinos Blancos). You can start out on the Blackhand side and venture over (uh, what colored man doesn’t want to be with a white boy?), but once y
ou cross that white line, you fall out of flavor. You’re no longer “exclusive.” You are no longer “one of ours,” as BuTay heard more than one white man say to him.

  His membership in the Snow Patrol was revoked (and immediately passed on to Deisel Washington) with the release of BuTay-Liscious , his Full Moons debut. His contract was up with Good Ol’ Boy and, while Jess pushed to extend it for another eight films, he wasn’t interested (they did issue one last title—Black Puddin: BuTay’s Best). After being smothered by white men for three years, he wished to get Black to his roots. He took a lot of flack from folk, Black gay folk especially, in and outside the industry, working for a company with such a “questionable” name, for only getting fucked by white men onscreen, and for being a snow queen (which was totally untrue; Bubba was his very first white man, and he always said the only way he’d sleep with one was if he were paid to). He had never really cared about what others thought, but being branded a traitor to the race—a spook, Mandingo, house nigger—by his own bothered him. It also ruined his love life: while marriage proposals from white men presented themselves weekly, the brothers weren’t calling at all, except those who wished to brag they bagged a porn star (he could smell ’em a mile away). Even some of the cuties at Full Moons who had become friends threw him shade.