Gay Erotic Stories

I reviewed the publicity still in front of me. It showed a young athletic man in a tiny swimsuit. He had clearly spent considerable gym time sculpting his body. It was finely muscled, but not bulky. His hair was dirty blond. The swimsuit bulged provocatively in front. The figure was turned slightly to the left, showing the protuberance of a bubble butt jutting out from behind. The suit was cut to ride high and show off the dimpled muscles of the ass. The chest was devoid of hair. The face was young but decidedly masculine.

Casting was one of my favorite parts of making a film. I pressed a switch on the intercom.

"Show Mr. Stockton in, Nancy."

My assistant opened the eight-foot high mahogany door to my office, and the flesh and blood rendition of the photograph walked in. He was dressed quite a bit differently: worn jeans, dark grey shirt, cream-colored blazer, and oxford shoes. It worked for him in a distinctly Hollywood way. Elsewhere? I'm not so sure. I stood up and shook hands, indicating that he should take a seat.

“So Rafe," I opened, "What do you think of the part?"

"It's challenging and much bigger than anything I've ever done. I appreciate the chance to audition, Mr. Rosenberg. I'm sure I can handle it."

"Ben," I said, "Call me Ben. I'm not offering you the part yet. I know you understand that. But I'm very hopeful. Give me your impression of the character. Tell me what you think makes him tick. The stuff that's not in the script."

"Well, Ben," the boy stammered, "he's tough as nails on the outside but he's got big issues that he hides from everyone around him. What you see is not what you get. No. That's not right. What the other characters see is not what they get. The audience must see it, though. When he rapes the hero's wife, it's not out of lust for her. It's payback time. He's raping the hero himself."

"So he's gay?" I ask with well-feigned incredulity.

"No," Rafe answered. "Not in the conventional sense. It's a power fuck. He's getting payback for all the years of failed dreams while the hero prospered. Like a prison fuck. The—pardon the phrase--cumming is not the most important part. What really matters is who is on top."

"But what about that as a subtext?" I broached. "Unrequited homosexual feelings."

"It's been done too many times before," he said. "Any sophisticated audience will resent such an obvious twist."

"But what if it isn't obvious," I replied. "What if the audience walks out unsure about the relationship."

"That's a challenge. The actor would have to walk a fine line. If the audience is to be genuinely confused, the character would have to be as well. That might work. Is he gay? Does he admit it. Does he even know it?"

Geez, this was like shooting fish in a barrel. "Are you, Rafe?" I asked.

"Am I what?"

"Gay," I said bluntly. "The performance you outline would seem to require a gay actor. Or one who has confronted the same personal ambiguities as the character himself. Are you?"

"Well," he replied. "An actor doesn't have to be a serial killer to play one."

"But he has to find within himself those dark impulses that, if indulged, lead to the moral and psychological descent implied in the script. And you haven't answered my question. Are you gay?"

"No," he looked down. "I'm not." This didn't mean anything. No young actor with leading man aspirations could answer otherwise. "But they claim that everyone lies somewhere on a gay-straight continuum. That's where the insight would come from."

"We're not talking about 'everyone' here, Rafe." I stared hard at him. "We're talking about you and whether you have the experience and resources to play the part. Frankly, I had you 90% pegged for the part when you came in, but you just changed my conception of the character. You might be too damn straight to pull it off."

Rafe looked at me for a few seconds then stood up. He doffed his jacket and undid the top three button of his shirt. He sat languidly on the arm of a chair and crossed his legs at the ankles. He bent his head down and looked up at me through raised eyes like a young Lauren Bacall. I suppressed a laugh and walked over to him.

"I expect a performance from my actors," I announced, "not an impersonation." I put my hand on his exposed chest, reached in and cupped his tit. "Will you perform for me?"

I looked at him straight in the eye (so to speak), and he realized what he had to do. Dropping to his knees, he massaged my hard cock through my pants and began undoing my belt. Out sprang my 8 inch cut cock. He raised his eyes and I nodded. Swallowing first he took the bulbous head into his mouth. After a minute or so of tonguing, he took me in smoothly until his nose was buried into my graying bush. He'd done this before and he was really good at it. I toyed with the idea of letting him finish me with his sweet mouth, but I reminded myself what he was here for.

"Get you clothes off and get down on the floor," I ordered. "On your knees and elbows."

Rafe hesitated.

"Can't you take direction, boy?"

Rafe stripped slowly. His chest was broad and hairless; his pecs, two marble slabs. He sported a thick uncut cock about 6" in its present not quite flaccid state. He knelt on the carpet, his hard glutes raised in the air. Damn, they were fine. One way or another, I was going to get these on film. I turned him slightly to the right, so the hidden camera would have a good angle.

"I'm going to show you what a power rape really is, Rafe." I announced. "Pay attention. The character you're up for is going to do to the wife what I am about to do to you." The problem in the back of my mind was how to make it clear to the audience that she was getting ass fucked while still keeping an R rating.

I pulled a condom from my pocket and slipped it over my cock. Kneeling behind him, I positioned the tip of my cock against his rosette. The condom was lubricated; Rafe wasn't. I pushed, but he resisted so I grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head back as far as it would go.

"Open up for me bitch," I hissed, " or you won't be able to walk normally for a week." That was it! I couldn't explicitly show him entering her ass, but I could make it clear with the right dialog. I pushed as hard as I could and I burst through. In one motion, I was buried to the hilt.

Rafe screamed loudly. It was perfect. I would play the audio for Annette so she could mimic it on film. I did not pause, but began pounding the young man with deep long strokes. He whimpered all the while. Normally, I would massage a guy's cock while doing this, but this particular fuck demanded something else. No indication on my part that he mattered in any way. I reached around and grabbed his pecks, digging my nails into the flesh. That would work in the film, too: a quick shot of him manhandling her tits while he did his thing. Annette would insist on a body double, but that'd be easy to work in.

I pounded him for about ten minutes. I released his tits so I could kneel upright and see what I was doing. I love the sight of my cock going in and out of a man's ass. After a while, he reached down and began stroking himself. He stopped whimpering and began to pant loudly.

"Stop it! Goddamn it!" I said. "I don't want you to come. This is not about you." I put my hands around his throat and cut off his wind. As I continued to pound, I felt him surge beneath me. Spurt after spurt hit the expensive carpet. I came with a rush then as well. I kept pounding him until I was completely drained. When I was finished, he was passed out on the floor. I pulled out and got a glass of water from the bathroom and tossed it in his face. He sputtered and began to pick himself up. I sat down in the chair he had been using.

"Clean up your cum, while you're down there," I ordered. "That's expensive carpeting." He looked around helplessly, looking for something to use. "Use your tongue, Rafe." He began licking the spots off the carpet, doing, I thought, a rather good job. "Now me, Rafe." He knelt in front of me and peeled back the condom. He tongued my cock clean of my own jism. I took the condom from him, tied it in a knot. I watched while Rafe dressed. He did it slowly and seductively as a reverse strip tease. When he was done, he came over to my chair, sat down on my lap and kissed me on the lips.

"Did I earn the part, Ben?" he cooed.

"What you earned, Rafe, is a screen test, Rafe," I stood up, dumping him on the floor, walked over to my desk and punched the intercom. "Nancy, set up a screen test for Mr. Stockton. Thursday at 7:45AM. Makeup at 6. Feltz will direct. Get that contract player, uh, Kathleen Drew, to play opposite him."

I turned to Rafe. "Learn pages 24 through 27 and 46 through 49 of the script. Cold. Be at Makeup at 6 AM. Marty Feltz, my second unit director, will handle the shoot." I shot him a hard look. "If you get the part, I will expect you to cooperate with me in developing the character. Fully cooperate. Is that understood."

"I understand, Ben." He walked over to me with his lips parted, expecting to kiss. Instead, I bent down and began putting on my pants.

"Nancy will give you a gate pass for Thursday," I said dismissively. "And Rafe?"

"Yes?"

"Call me Mr. Rosenberg."

I watched him leave in confusion. I finished dressing and picked up another folder. I flipped through until I found the clipping I liked. It was a full page Calvin Klein ad from the Sunday New York Times Magazine. The model was dark and shirtless, his chest much more muscled than Rafe's and hairy, his face unshaven. His eyes burned as though trying to melt the lens. I asked Nancy to send him in. He was even more impressive in person. We went through the usual preliminaries and then ….

"Call me Ben," I said. "Understand, I'm not offering you the part yet, Tony, but I feel really good about it. Tell me what you think makes the character tick; the stuff that's not in the script."

I watched him intently as he began to speak. His voice was smooth and deep. God, how I love casting!