Bodybuilder in Blue

by Emeric Varady

  I was prepared for a long wait, followed by a polite rejection. So I was dumbfounded when I received a phone call from the studio only a few days later. When would it be convenient for me to come to their office (which was located in downtown Budapest) for a face to face interview?

  I suggested the following afternoon. I usually hit the gym after I got off work, but this opportunity was worth skipping one workout for. I agreed to go to their office directly from my job.

  I was nervous, and I had trouble falling asleep that night. I was sure that, for any number of reasons, they wouldn’t like me—that I just wasn’t good enough to work in higher-class porn.

  But my interview went well. For one thing, this was a big business, bringing in a lot of money, and the studio took it extremely seriously. They ran their operation professionally. I don’t know just what I anticipated—a grubby little office tucked away in some rundown building, maybe, with the activities conducted furtively, as though they were something to be ashamed of.

  But this office was spacious and elegant, with a reception area, a conference room—the works. And, far from being ashamed of its products, the studio had blown-up photos of its stars framed and displayed on the walls.

  I found myself seated at the big table in the conference room, with no fewer than three men sitting opposite me—all of them attired in suits and ties. They offered me coffee, which I accepted and drank, gratefully, because my throat suddenly felt tight and dry.

  One of the men, Gregor, did most of the talking. His official title was Talent Coordinator, but he also produced many of the videos.

  Gregor had managed to find a copy of the video I’d done for Jerry—talk about it being a small world!—and he told me he was impressed by what he’d seen.

  “So you’re versatile,” Gregor suggested. “Neither a top nor a bottom, necessarily?”

  “I like it both ways,” I admitted. “Is that—being versatile—a bad thing? Do you have to specialize?”

  “Not at all. Versatility is good. Especially when we’re talking about a guy as well-built and as masculine as you. A butch number who can be both aggressive and submissive—that’s hot.” But then Gregor hesitated.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. For a moment, I feared they might be having second thoughts about hiring me. Maybe I photographed better than I looked in person!

  “Oh, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you, that’s for sure,” Gregor assured me. “But I always feel obligated to tell anyone who wants to get into this business—well, we are talking about sexually explicit videos, which are distributed worldwide. And there’s a stigma attached to performing in them, in some quarters. You do realize that, once you start doing porn, there’s really no going back. Going back to anonymity, I mean. You can retire from the business eventually, and move on to something else. But the videos will always be out there. Like one of those prehistoric bugs caught and preserved in amber,” he added, which struck me as an interesting analogy. “You’re going to have to accept the fact that your grandchildren, if you ever have any, will know that Grandpa was kind of wild, back in his day.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  We talked some more, and finally they got around to making an offer.

  “I suppose you’d like to know how much this job pays,” Gregor remarked.

  “Please,” I replied, trying to look and sound as casual about the matter as possible.

  “Well, our standard beginner’s contract—meaning, one scene in one video, with nothing further guaranteed—is for a flat fee of two hundred thousand forints.”

  I was stunned. I wasn’t certain I’d heard him correctly. To me, two hundred thousand forints was a small fortune. [Translator’s note: Approximately nine hundred United States dollars.] I’d made almost that much working for Jerry, to be sure, but that was for two separate sex scenes and two cum shots.

  “Two hundred thousand forints?” I repeated, incredulously. “Just for having sex? Just once?”

  Gregor smiled. “An experienced actor might say there’s a little more to it than that. But, yes—that’s the amount we’d be willing to pay you.”

  I didn’t have to think about it. Nor was I about to risk jeopardizing the deal by trying to haggle. “Where do I sign?” I asked.

  I really lucked out on that video. During the next couple of weeks, as we stayed in touch and finalized the plans for the shoot, Gregor informed me that I was going to be paired up with an actor whom I’ll call Tamas. (Connoisseurs of Hungarian gay porn will have no trouble guessing who he is, from the description that follows.) I was thrilled. Tamas was only a couple of years older than me, but he already had a lengthy videography to his credit. He was a genuine sex-industry star.

  Like a surprising number of men who become gay icons, Tamas wasn’t gay, himself. Rather, he was gay for pay. He identified himself as straight, and he made straight and bisexual videos, for other studios. He was so straight, in fact, that there was a whole list of things he wouldn’t do in a video, no matter how much money he was offered. For example, he might put his arm around another guy’s shoulders and give him a chaste, buddy-buddy sort of a hug and a peck on the cheek, but he wouldn’t actually kiss another guy on the mouth. That, Gregor warned me, was strictly off limits. “A guaranteed dick-deflater, so far as my good friend Tamas is concerned,” was the way Gregor put it, wryly.

  Nor would Tamas touch another guy’s dick, not even to give him a hand job, let alone suck it.

  He’d deign to allow a fellow (male) porn actor to worship his body, licking and sucking him everywhere. (And Tamas had a body which was well worth the worshipping.) He’d let himself be blown, and rimmed. “He does like to have his balls sucked,” Gregor informed me, helpfully. Tamas’ gay porn specialty, though, was fucking his costars up the ass. He had a huge, indefatigable cock, and he’d use it to pound another guy’s hole with brute force and unflagging energy. The recipient of this treatment had to be a truly dedicated, insatiable bottom. Otherwise, he ran the very real risk of having his anus reamed out so painfully that he’d be out of commission for a while.

  I’d seen a couple of Tamas’ videos, and I’d been impressed—especially by that famous cock of his, and by his equally famous stamina. When he was erect—which he was ninety-nine per cent of the time while he was on camera—his fuck tool was not only awesomely long, but possessed of a circumference equivalent to that of a beer can. There was a sort of gay urban legend making the rounds, to the effect that more than one guy had actually fainted from the pain of being hammered by that dick of death, and they’d had to be revived in order to continue with the scene. I suspected the story was true.

  Tamas got away with having such a limited sexual repertory because he was so fantastically well built, so well hung, and he was so damn good-looking. And I have to admit that he wasn’t a wooden performer, unlike some gay for pay porn actors. No, he really seemed to get into it. He had classic “bedroom eyes” and an intense, smoldering gaze. Whenever he looked at the guy with whom he was having sex, or directly at the camera, he projected a raw, intense sexuality.

  He had a large international following. It would be an interesting scientific experiment to try to calculate the approximate number of gallons of semen spilled by his fans, while they whacked themselves senseless watching him in action.

  In a fever of anticipation, I hit the weights extra hard, getting myself well pumped up so I’d look my best. A few days before the shoot, Gregor sent me to a fancy hair salon, at the studio’s expense, so I could get “a decent haircut,” as he put it. I flattered myself that I looked pretty damn hot when I reported for duty.

  We’d be filming on location, outside of Budapest—in a vacation home which belonged to a couple who’d invested money in the studio. Interestingly enough, they were a straight couple, savvy enough to realize that there was money to be made in gay porn. (Well, ostensibly, they were straight. When I met them, I got a certain familiar vibe from the husband, whom I suspected might be more accu
rately described as bi.) Using their vacation home as a set would cut costs and thus increase profits. And they couldn’t wait to show the completed product to their friends!

  And so, with the owners serving as hosts, the film crew descended upon their property for a weekend. The actors came and went as they were needed, with the exception of Tamas. Because he’d be appearing in every scene, he was on the premises for the duration.

  I was instructed to report for duty first thing on Saturday morning. Because they couldn’t predict exactly when they’d shoot my scene, I was told to expect to spend the night. This was no real inconvenience for me, and it had one advantage—I ended up being served some excellent, home-cooked, free meals.

  I took a bus to the small town near the house, and Gregor picked me up and drove me to the location.

  The property was located deep in a forest, so there was certainly no lack of privacy. There was a master bedroom, and two guest bedrooms. Ironically, with the master bedroom being used as a film set, no one actually slept in it that weekend. Our hosts camped out in their living room in sleeping bags, and so did Gregor and most of us actors. Tamas, in recognition of his star status, had one of the guest bedrooms all to himself, and the director and a couple of the crew members shared the other one, sharing the bed or camping out on the floor.

  This video didn’t have anything which could be called a plot. Tamas portrayed the owner of the house, who entertained a steady stream of tricks. In separate scenes, he had sex in succession with four guys, myself included, and then, as the grand finale, he joined two other men in a threesome.

  I have to admit that I really enjoyed myself. Everyone involved in this project was thoroughly professional, and yet the mood on the set was relaxed. The husband and wife both loved to cook, and they prided themselves on serving us tasty meals.

  I discovered that the hardest-working guy on the premises was not, in fact, one of us actors, but the director’s assistant. His name was Laszlo, and he was a gung-ho young film student, whose ambition was to become someday a director of real movies, as he put it. This dude really had to hustle. In addition to trying to make sure that everyone else stayed happy, Laszlo was in charge of making up the bed in the master bedroom with freshly laundered and ironed sheets and pillowcases. This in itself was almost a full-time job. To create some visual variety, each sex act took place on a set of differently colored sheets— hot pink, sky blue, bright yellow, and so forth. (By the time Tamas and I ended up on that bed together, the bed linens were a vivid lime green.) I didn’t really see the point of the ironing, since the sheets got rumpled and messed up very quickly once a scene got going. But I guess that’s all part of the illusion which is filmmaking.

  As for Tamas, he was friendly enough, although he tended to concentrate on the task at hand—and with good reason, I realized. By my calculations, he was expected to deliver a minimum of five cum shots within a period of less than forty-eight hours—and more, if he was up to it. As I soon discovered for myself, there was nothing wrong with either his sexual equipment or his libido. But he availed himself of a little pharmaceutical assistance in the form of a little blue pill, which I observed him popping on two separate occasions.

  His girlfriend, Magda, came to visit him on the set that Saturday. She was pretty, funny, and warm. She seemed to have no problem whatsoever with the fact that her boyfriend was having sex with men, in a professional capacity. She and our hostess sat on the sidelines and made girl talk, chatting about clothes.

  At the risk of sounding sexist, I have to admit that Magda was no glamor girl. To put it bluntly, she was plump. She was overweight and softly rounded, all over—like one of those fleshy, full-figured women Rubens liked to paint, in fact. She jiggled, and I imagined that going to bed with her was—well, not unlike humping a mass of gelatin, fresh from a mold.

  Tamas obviously didn’t care. He adored her. For him, screwing one of us hot, hard-bodied, hung gay studs was purely business, a chore to be gotten over and done with as quickly and efficiently as possible. Fucking fat Magda, on the other hand, was sheer delight for him. It was torture for him that he couldn’t indulge himself with her on this weekend, because he had to conserve his spunk. There’s no accounting for taste.

  Magda had an earthy sense of humor which endeared her to everyone. I soon felt comfortable enough in her company to ask her a personal question—namely, how being in a relationship with such a busy porn star impacted upon her own sex life.

  She laughed, and she confirmed my suspicion that, before and after one of these marathon film shoots, Tamas needed to rest up and conserve his sexual energy, ahead of time, and recuperate for a day or two, afterwards.

  “But he’s very good with his fingers and his tongue,” she assured me, which made me blush. “Even when his prick is temporarily out of action, he manages to keep me happy. And when he’s not busy making a video—oh, my God, the sex is fantastic! I bet I have the most satisfied pussy in Hungary.”

  As a porn performer, Tamas had another invaluable attribute, in addition to his huge dick and his staying power. He could come on cue, like clockwork, every single time.

  It may surprise consumers of gay porn to learn that we performers often do rehearse our scenes, to some extent, before we film them.

  Our scene in the video had a token story line. I was a naïve young muscle pup, who admired and lusted after Tamas. When he deigned to pick me up and take me with him to his country house, I was so hot and bothered that I gladly surrendered myself to him. I let him do whatever he wanted to do to me—i.e., fuck me silly. My character worshipped the guy.

  As in a “real” film, the scenes weren’t shot in sequence. The studio’s priority was to get the sex scenes done first. Tamas and I would fuck for the camera. Then, later—probably after the dinner break—we’d get around to shooting the additional, brief bits in which, fully clothed, I’d arrive at the house, where Tamas would show me around and entertain me. The two of us would drink some wine and exchange some sexually suggestive banter before we retired to the bedroom. There, we’d shed our clothes … but, by that stage in the proceedings, our actual sex would presumably already be safely “in the can.”

  “Don’t be nervous, Emeric,” our director, an energetic man named Endre, told me. “But if you are, it’s in character, so just go with the flow. Remember, you’re supposed to be this innocent little muscle virgin who can’t believe he’s been picked up by his idol, who’s going to fuck him. You’re so hot for this stud to pop your cherry that you’re practically on fire. You’re smoking. Finally, your fantasies come true, and you give the guy your ass. Let me hear a lot of verbalization during the sex, Emeric. Tell Tamas how big his cock is and how much it hurts for you to take it up your ass, and how much you like it. All that sort of shit.”

  Now that I’d seen Tamas’ prick in all its erect, virile glory, and in three dimensions rather than in just two, I was beginning to worry that I might not have to fake my pain.

  We did a dry run of our scene, so to speak. Stripped down to our underwear, we went through the basic motions on the bed, so that the lighting and the camera angles could be checked and fine-tuned. Tamas taught me a few tricks of the trade, such as how we could arrange our bodies during an act of anal intercourse to ensure that our limbs didn’t block the camera’s view of the penetration. The challenge, he explained, was to make these adjustments look spontaneous.

  Pretending to have sex like that, oddly enough, made me feel self-conscious, in a way that doing the actual take did not.

  Tamas was reassuring. “It’ll be fine,” he told me, as we got ready to do our scene for real. “I’ve worked with a lot of guys who were new to the business. I’m no prima donna, if I do say so myself. I want us both to look good. Now, listen,” he went on, briskly. “When I’m ready to come, I’ll tap you with my finger, somewhere on your body that’s outside of camera range at the moment. Like this, one … two … three. I’ll pull out on three, and I can usually start shooting on four. On f
ive, at the most. So be ready to take my load—on your face, on your chest—or wherever. Oh, and I usually come a lot, and wet,” he warned me, which turned out to be no exaggeration. “Then, after I’m done coming, you jerk off, until you shoot. Take your time doing it, if you have to. I’ll wait, and so will the camera,” he promised, not without some humor. “What the hell? None of us is going anywhere, until it’s a wrap.”

  “If you want to, Emeric, take some of Tamas’ cum and use it to lube your cock while you jerk off,” Endre suggested, helpfully. “That always looks hot.”

  “Okay, will do,” I mumbled.

  We started. Shedding out underwear, we got onto the bed, on those lime green sheets.

  Somewhat to my relief, I got over my nervousness fast. It was as though, once my hands, my lips, and tongue made their first contact with Tamas’ gorgeous nude body, the feel, the smell, and the taste of him put everything else out of my mind. I was able to concentrate on pleasing him. I had no trouble at all getting into a body worship scene with him—and God knew he had a body worthy of being idolized.

  I did what countless consumers of gay porn no doubt wished that they could do. I licked Tamas everywhere. I tongued his armpits, his nipples, his testicles, and his asshole. I even made oral love to his big bare feet, licking his soles, inserting my tongue between his toes, and sucking on them.

  He seemed to get genuinely excited. “Quit fucking around. What you’re doing to me feels pretty damn good, but I want my cock sucked. Get your fucking mouth on my hot, dirty dick,” he demanded, gruffly. “Suck me, you goddamn muscle tease! Suck my cock!”

  I sucked him. He was quite a mouthful. I had to struggle to repress my gag reflex as I worked on the full length of his thick dick. Wildly aroused, I became a total oral whore, hot and hungry for that cock. I wasn’t acting.

  Oh, Magda, you lucky bitch! I couldn’t help thinking, as I deep-throated the prick which pounded her pussy. Perversely, the realization that I was sucking the dick which made love to her only seemed to inflame me, spurring me on to greater feats of cocksucking. Fuck! I wanted to moan. Fuck, your lover is hung! Yeah, big thick straight stud cock in my mouth—in my throat. Damn, it’s good!