Best Gay Erotica 2011

by Richard Labont

  BuTay could have “retired.” Between the films, photo shoots, public appearances, gifts and escort service, he’d clocked nearly a half million, most of it undeclared and sitting in various stocks, money market CDs, high-yield savings and checking accounts (he received sound financial tips from an investment banker who waived his consulting fee after BuTay waved his ass in his face and up on his dick for three hours; it was one of the few times BuTay had sex with a Black man during that whiteout period). But he felt…not obligated, not indebted, perhaps grateful to EJ. The man was the first to offer to put him in pictures, gave him his first big break (indirectly), and remained a close friend and confidant after he left to become part of the Good Ol’ Boy family, advising him on what moves to take to make the most of his first fourteen minutes of fame.

  So, to take ahold of his own image (and as sort of a quid pro quo), BuTay joined Full Moons as a contracted star player. Truth be told, BuTay was actually coming to EJ’s rescue: after releasing a string of moderate successes, Full Moons was on the brink of bankruptcy. EJ needed new blood to pump new life into the company and pairing some of his somewhat-popular performers with the enormously popular BuTay could do just that. BuTay’s salary dropped considerably (from $12,500 to $2,500) and the escort service dried up (the white men no longer wanted to pay for the privilege) but he didn’t mind; he was, in a sense, coming back home, and his peace of mind and happiness were more important than money. While there was some initial resistance to his addition to the roster (a few refused to work with him, and one actor, Masta Ace, snapped on him to his face: “The white boys don’t want yo’ azz no mo’, so you come to us, huh?”), that changed once they saw how uninhibited and insatiable he was (he had been storing up the real freakiness for some time and was finally able to let it all out). Pretty soon the other actors were jockeying for position to be next in line, including Masta Ace—and so were the “down low” hip-hop artists, R&B singers and professional ball players, who usually requested his cumpany after a concert, awards show or game. BuTay purchased a special cell just for them, their reps or their boiz to call, clocking several G’s per appointment (after a few tried to use their own ice as payment, he required the funds be wired into a special account or the cash be placed in his hands before the do went down). He was also the “headliner” (he bobbed on at least a dozen knobs) at FreakOut, a midweek sexcursion for closeted Black male celebs (to keep gossip hounds like Wendy Williams at bay, the dates and city are switched each year).

  So he was still BuTay, but was also affectionately referred to as EOA (Equal Opportunity Azz) by the Children, for just about every color under the sun, moon and stars had had him (on film, anyway). His FM catalog includes: Rican Rump Shakers (the ravenous Ricky Martinez pulverized him in the last car of a northbound #1 train on an early Sunday morning); Dominican Dick Down (the “J” Crew—Jonathan, Jaime, Jiminez, Jermaine and Joey—jumped his ass as part of an initiation, then took turns jumping in his ass); the My ____ Guy trilogy, in which three fans were selected by BuTay to be his costar (the Jamaican was Rowdy Boi; the Brazilian, Mighty Manuel Montez and the Arabian, Kaseem the Dream who, as the DVD cover proclaimed, “knows how to make BuTay scream!”); My Chocolate Fortune Cookie (with the delectable Brandon Lee showing BuTay how to prepare and do the chop suey); Cowboyz & Indians (Chief Beef, a hulking six-foot, two hundred-forty-pound Navaho with a braided ponytail that reached his waist, lassoed BuTay round the waist—and up the ass); and the TLA Video #1 hits Two Gays Can Play That Game (in which the studio’s first white actors—identical twin brothers Kain and Able—played the sex switch on and double teamed BuTay; they earned a GayVN nod for Best Threesome) and Workin’ It Out, a tribute to the infamous Black Workout series of the late eighties/early nineties (and, for those in the know, the tawdry henanigans at the New York Sports Club in Harlem), which brought Full Moons seven GayVN nominations—Best Director (EJ), Best Actor (BuTay), Best Duo (BuTay and Francois Sagat), Best Orgy (BuTay, Supreme, Tiger Tyson, Sexcyone, Eddie Diaz and Shorty J), Best Screenplay (Henry “The Head” Howdini and BuTay), Best Music (openly gay hip-hop artists Tori Fixx and Shorty Roc), and Best Ethnic-Themed Video (yes, a bone thrown to the “minority” flicks that usually find themselves shut out of the other categories). It only took the latter category (the first winner that didn’t feature white actors in the cast), but the recognition was a vindication for EJ, who found himself mentioned in the same sentences as powerhouse porn director/moguls Chi Chi LaRue, Michael Lucas and Bruce Cam and invited to give insight as an “expert” in the trade publications and at porn conventions. In some quarters, Full Moons was no longer dismissed as just another “urban” (read: Black/Latino/Blatino) studio, á la CoCoBoyz, Latino Fan Club, and StreetLife.

  He had the profits, he had the profile, he finally had the respect. But there was still one thing EJ wanted.

  “EJ, no.” Evan pushed him back. EJ attempted to kiss him. They were alone in the office on this particular night.

  EJ leaned forward; they were nose to nose. “Evan, please. I…I have wanted you for so long.”

  “I know.”

  “No, you don’t know. It’s not about fucking you. It’s about making love to you.”

  Evan recalled their discussion about mixing biz and pleasure. “We work together. We’re friends. It would ruin both relationships.”

  “But I love you.”

  Evan’s eyes widened. “You…do?”

  “Yes, I do. I always have. And I am in love with you.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes.”

  Uh-oh. Evan could tell by the look in EJ’s eyes that he was serious. “I…love you too, EJ, but…not that way.”

  EJ stepped back, looking down, defeated.

  Evan reached out for him. EJ pulled away.

  And he continued pulling farther away. It was never easy for EJ, watching Evan being fucked by so many others, and it certainly didn’t get any easier after disclosing his feelings and being rejected. Now he was humiliated and had to continue directing the man he loved and was in love with being fucked by others. Before it was frustrating; now it was painful, and it pained Evan to see the pain EJ was going through. But what could he do? EJ became indifferent; he soon addressed Evan only as BuTay and would only discuss business with him.

  Things became surprisingly less tense between them when Evan and Kayo (birth name Tracy Armond Murrell) fell in love. EJ “discovered” Kayo dancing as a go-go boy at Escuelita. He was one of those cornbread-fed boys (“from the ’ham”) who ventured to the Big Apple to make it big. Tall, thick and torn (not ripped). Rich brown skin. Doe-eyed. Bushy eyebrows. Square jaw. A smile brighter than a neon sign.

  Yup, one look and he K.O.’s you (EJ gave him the perfect stage name). As the artist once again known as Prince sang: You sex-y motherfucker.

  When Kayo cruised (he didn’t have a bop, strut or swagger, yet it was just as masculine but much more regal) into the office, and his and BuTay’s eyes met…WHAM!!! It was a first-sight thing. As they were introduced, they shook hands and neither wanted to let go. As they made small talk on the love seat, Kayo pulled BuTay onto his left thigh; BuTay ran his fingers through his dark brown locks. They rehearsed their kissing scene at least a dozen times—and that was the only scene they rehearsed. When the cameras rolled and Kayo placed his arms around BuTay’s waist, they gazed into each other’s eyes and kissed. And when BuTay eased his azz down on Kayo’s dick and they became one…everyone—the cameraman, the grip guy, the lighting director, the script guy and the fluff boy (whose services weren’t needed at all)—could clearly see they were not acting. And when they, as Kayo would later describe it, “caught some heaven”…yes, the earth tilted off its axis for a second or two, it was that seismic and powerful. But everyone, including BuTay, was shocked when EJ didn’t yell cut. He just let them do their thing. EJ was still love struck, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d filmed several hundred scenes over a decade and had never seen such chemistry. This wasn’t something you c
ould cajole, coerce or create; it just was. He was witnessing magic; they were a perfect match. He saw the bottom line: the dollar sign.

  So, as BuTay and Kayo reprised that love scene at BuTay’s place that night, EJ plotted how to exploit their pairing to the fullest. The dynamic duo made four flicks together: A Love for All Times (which presented them in three different eras—the Harlem Renaissance, the disco years and the high-top fade nineties—finding each other and falling in love); Fed Sex (yes, Kayo delivered a package BuTay loved receiving); Same Script, Different Ass (Kayo did the same scene three times but saved the very best bootay for last); and the #1 fan fave, Fruit Salad (in which Kayo ate orange slices, chocolate covered cherries, blueberry jam and grapes out of BuTay’s azz)—and became the new joint face of Full Moons. They were inseparable; you didn’t see one without the other. Twenty-four hours after meeting, Kayo packed up his duffel and moved out of the one-bedroom apartment in Rego Park, Queens, he was sharing with three roommates (he had the sofa on odd nights, the floor on even), and into BuTay’s two-bedroom co-op in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. BuTay stopped ordering from San Cho’s Chinese Palace, the corner deli and Junior’s every other day; Kayo whipped up meals that were filling, nutritious and tasty. Kayo encouraged BuTay to write more; BuTay encouraged Kayo to enroll in chef school. They attended Black Gay Prides in New York, Detroit, Philly, Boston, Miami and Oakland, where they were feted as the new Bobby and Flex-Deon Blake. They vacationed in Hawaii, spent Thanksgiving with Kayo’s grandmother in Birmingham and visited BuTay’s cousin and his partner in Charlotte for Christmas. They celebrated New Year’s in Times Square, probably the only Black men kissing for close to an hour (with all those stupefyingly drunk people, no one seemed to notice). Kayo threw BuTay a surprise birthday party during Martin Luther King weekend in Atlanta. They had front-row seats for Oleta Adams at B.B. King’s on Valentine’s Day.

  Then Kayo was killed a week later in a hit-and-run accident in Harlem. The driver, who was followed home by an eyewitness, was cited just one month earlier for driving while intoxicated, his sixth DUI citation in two years. It was because of this history (and the promise from the DA that second-degree murder charges would be sought) that the driver entered a guilty plea to voluntary vehicular manslaughter and leaving the scene of an accident. He’d eventually be sentenced to twelve years in jail and three years probation.

  Evan was devastated. He had to identify Tracy at the morgue. He sobbed as the coroner pulled back the sheet revealing Tracy’s scarred face and mangled upper body and didn’t stop weeping for an entire day. Then he stood awake for another entire day, holding and smelling all of Tracy’s possessions. Then he slept for an entire day. Then he became angry. And angrier. And angrier. Tracy was his first love, his only love—he’d never felt that way about anyone. Not only had he never known love like that before, he never knew that kind of love existed. He’d given up hope of finding THE ONE long before he was in the game. He didn’t believe in “soul mates”—until Tracy. They fell into each other’s eyes, lips, arms and lives as if they’d always been waiting for this. And Tracy was only in Evan’s life for eleven months. Eleven months. Fuck all that “look-on-the-bright-side” bullshit: You two were lucky to have found each other when you did. Be glad you had what you had and shared what you did. In this business, most people fly solo, and some would kill to experience what you had with him. Evan wasn’t thankful for what he had with Tracy, because it wasn’t enough. They deserved to be together and they deserved more than what they had had. The universe couldn’t give them a year, one lousy fucking year? Instead of being in mourning, Evan was enraged.

  EJ wasn’t grieving, either. Just a week after Kayo’s death, he released a Best of compilation that could only be downloaded online. The extras included “bloopers” (fumbled lines), “home movies” (clips of Kayo at the office and appearing at different erotica events), and Kayo’s audition, in which he rubbed his body down with oil, jerked off and, on a dare, let EJ fuck him with his tongue, then his fingers, then his dick. As too many of Full Moons’ models were aware, EJ had the very bad habit of slipping a mickey in the drink of a newbie. It wouldn’t knock them out, just lessen their defenses, so he could “seduce” them into doing things they wouldn’t normally do. Kayo claimed to be a total top but given his ass (while BuTay had an upper case B: Basketballs, Kayo had an upper case P: Plump and Protruding) and his six-month stint as an escort when he first arrived in New York (his former profile on www.rentboy.comidentified him as “99% top”), the chance that someone hadn’t been up in it was slim.

  EJ was taking credit for being that someone. Anyone logging on to the Full Moons website was greeted with the banner: Watch Kayo Get Krunked in His Trunk for the First Time! Evan couldn’t believe that EJ could be so tacky and classless, not to mention sneaky: one night many years ago when they were both a little tipsy, EJ disclosed that he had a complex about coming up short in the crotch (one would think hanging around so many Black and Latino men would make that hang-up worse). This explained why Kayo yelped with delight when the ass was tossed and the fingers probed him but could barely be heard breathing while being fucked. And those moans and groans? They were from other films he’d done (BuTay would know; he had costarred in them and shared a bed with the man). Kayo was knocked out from boredom, just didn’t feel a thing, or both. To portray himself as a good lover, EJ had to doctor the video’s soundtrack (naturally, there are no shots of his dick, just him trying to bump and grind away to no avail, then a rather unimpressive sperm spritz on Kayo’s ass).

  BuTay stormed into the office. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  EJ was seated at his desk. He didn’t look up from what he was reading. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you think it’s too soon to put something like that out?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, it is”

  “Don’t tell me how to run my business.”

  “Your business? Who do you think helped build this business?”

  “Helped build. I’m glad you know it.”

  “The least you could’ve done is let me know. I shouldn’t have to find out about it elsewhere.”

  “You were his boyfriend, not his agent.”

  “What is your problem?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Why are you being nasty?”

  “I’m not. I’m just being realistic.”

  “If that was the case, you wouldn’t have embarrassed yourself like that.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “You obviously haven’t been cruising the blogosphere. You’re a laughing stock.”

  “Like I care what they think. They didn’t purchase three thousand copies of the collection in three days. If anything, they’re giving me free publicity blogging about it.”

  “This is not good publicity, EJ. Only a desperate, despicable man would release such crap, and put himself in it. You’re fooling yourself.”

  “No, you are.”

  “Oh? And what am I fooling myself about?”

  “About how you feel.”

  “About what?”

  “You know.”

  Evan scoffed. “Why are you so fucking bitter?”

  “Bitter? About what?”

  “About us not being an us.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, BuTay.”

  “My name is Evan.”

  “My name suits you best. And you’ve proven me right by showing the world that what you sit on—and who you sit on—makes it your most appealing attribute.”

  “Fuck you, EJ.”

  “You had your chance. Now, please leave, I have work to do. And make sure you’re here tomorrow morning at six.”

  “What? What the hell for?”

  “Because someone has to fill in for your boyfriend on the shoot.”

  Evan heaved. “First, I am just getting back from Birmingham—”

 
“Yet you had the energy to come over and berate me.”

  “Secondly, I am not ready to go back to work.”

  “You have no choice.”

  “Say what?”

  “You are still under contract. You don’t get to choose what films you do; I make that decision.” He smiled. “Besides, I’m sure he’d want you to carry on for him.”

  Evan was flabbergasted. “You said I could have the rest of the month off.”

  “Six A.M. Sharp. Please.” He turned back to the paperwork.

  BuTay read his contract, and there it was in black and white: clause 23/a did in fact say that if he didn’t follow the boss’s orders, he could be sued for breach of contract; any monies owed him by the studio would be used not only to pay other actors for the work he wouldn’t do but to cover EJ’s legal fees as well. EJ never had a reason to invoke the clause before; even when they weren’t getting along, he always put the image and reputation of Full Moons way above being spiteful. Not any longer.

  BuTay arrived at the office at 5:59 A.M.

  He was contractually bound to do three more films after filling in for Kayo in Hot Sauce (it wasn’t used as a condiment). He was slammed by Lil’ Walter, who was no more than five feet tall but had one humongous stick. BuTay’s heart wasn’t in it. Neither was his ass. But he still gave it “that old college try” (one of EJ’s standard lines when he wasn’t getting what he wanted out of an actor) and came through—and came.

  He managed to cum on the next film—Fat Is Where It’s At—despite being paired with gentlemen who could moonlight as sumo wrestlers. EJ took great glee in watching BuTay being mashed into the mattress by the rotund Latino and getting thrown around as if he were a rag doll by the beyond-bear white boy. The brother was also a blob, but at least he was agile and had good coordination for a man his size.