I played a clip with this guy, who I now know is Peter North, double-penetrating a woman I had searched for on the “vintage” site: Sarah Young—a foxy Italian with curly bangs, a polka-dotted blouse halfway ripped off, and quite a hairy snatch. Peter double-teamed Sarah with a black guy, who I didn’t know was Sean Michaels. At first, since I didn’t know Peter, I considered that Sean—because he’s a black guy—was the pornstar, while Peter was just some white boy filler. And so, I watched—not knowing either guy—Sean fucking Sarah’s ass and Peter plowing Sarah’s pussy.
I was looking forward to what I knew would be the last thing in any clip: the old phrase “money shot,” which was now just called a “facial”—the withdrawal of Sean and Peter’s cocks from Sarah’s ass and her pussy to cum on her face. And so, Sean pulled out and held his cock in front of Sarah’s face. I expected him to turkey-baste her. He started slow, cumming in some inch-length dribbles. At the same time, Peter continued to fuck Sarah in a wheelbarrow position, really slamming into her. Peter edged, his eyes squinted as tight as his taut triceps. Then Peter withdrew and took up more than half of my computer screen as he started to unload on Sarah’s face. He’s almost came on Sean, too, because it was like a shotgun spray.
Peter came nine times, and then he pumped into the double-digits. By that time, Sean was out of the frame. Sarah smiled with her face plastered. The sopping, curly bangs of her hair began to straighten with the drying slickness. Like egg-whites, jizz dripped from Sarah’s chin.
The clip faded out. Then a pop up appeared: a call for recruits. In the afterglow, I considered that I had a shot to become Peter’s apprentice.
I figured all I had to do was stop jerking off for a few days to “save up.” Then get my camera phone and record myself. I thought I probably shouldn’t take a pic, because I believed the industry folks would think I’d faked my load and enhanced it with flicks from a spoonful of yogurt (which, it was rumored, was used in production).
I imagined after I had finished recording myself cumming, I would want to select a song. Something like “Praise You” by Fatboy Slim to play in the background. It would show I had chops besides acting. That I could edit, too, maybe even direct—
—Whoa, I told my daydreaming self, Don’t get too ahead, just yet!
I saw on the recruitment site that I needed to include a summary of my info:
-Ounces: Well, I figured I could count tablespoons, maybe even a quarter of a cup.
-Distance: I remembered that one time I stood with my back to the wall in the shower and came horizontally, hitting the opposite wall a few feet away.
-Average ejaculations: As I jerked off while watching Peter facialize Sarah I had matched him splurt for splurt. I’d need to go back and tally how many that was.
From there, if I got accepted, then North Pole Productions would fly me to California. I’d get buff, tanned up, and waxed down. My start would be a five-minute feature without my face in the frame; just my cock and a girl and what I could deliver. I would prove myself.
I could make it a career: work out in the mornings; fuck chicks in the afternoon, blowing loads in their faces; and get thumbs-up from businessmen in airports on the evening flights from my mansion in LA to my condo in Miami.
But I didn’t, because I didn’t want to feel emptier than I did.
The Men and Pornography series is the product of the joint call from elephant journal Love and Relationships and The Good Life on The Good Men Project. Read more on elephant journal: Until Porn Do We Part: How a Virtual Sex Addiction Ruined My Marriage.
Image credit: david_shankbone/Flickr