Michael sits down next to me on the Indian divan. He inflates his chest, squares himself to the camera. I stretch myself out in his cradling arms: Jesus of the Pietà.
“Action!” calls Dustin from behind one of the cameras.
Micheal leans in to kiss my lips, my neck, my furrowed brow. I trust Dustin has not yet zoomed in. Viewers will see Michael’s fingertips tracing a line from my ribs, along my flank, to the tender pocket behind my knee. I am glad to notice, as he kisses and caresses me, the Viagra I swallowed nearly an hour ago taking effect. Soon I shall be able to dissociate without worry.
Our kissing intensifies over time, long enough to prime the viewers, but not so long that they might fast-forward to the heart of our performance. Michael kneads my thighs with his big hands. I temper the flexing of my hips and toes. In one practiced movement, without breaking our embrace, we maneuver so that he reclines on the divan while I straddle his narrow hips. I notice that, like an amateur, he glances at the camera suspended from the ceiling, recording us from above.
At this point, I expect Dustin to zoom in onto our mouths. Viewers will confirm that our kissing adheres to canonical sequencing: coy, lingering, passionate; attending the neck, collarbone and chest; with light nibbling, heavy breathing, and moderate tongue-play. The rituals of pornography, though tacit, are codified.
From Greek drama I’ve gleaned some principles of performance. In the interests of parallelism, I spend the same time fellating Michael as I do kissing him. As I glade my lips faster and faster over his ungainly shaft, we communicate through antiphony:
“Yeah, suck that monster cock,” he says.
“You can’t get enough of that, can you?” he says.
I moan emphatically.
He presses his fingers through my seraph’s curls and, raising his hips, forces himself farther down my accommodating throat. I work at him for several minutes before he rolls me onto my back and pushes my knees to my chest. His mouth disappears beneath my scrotum. Like many tops, his performance of anilingus lacks inspiration. His tongue flicks around my opening, leaving it mostly untouched. He likely does not trust that I cleaned myself thoroughly before the shoot. After a time, Dustin signals—fist punching open palm—that we should get on with the main event.
The transition from oral to anal sex can never be seamless, nor should it be abrupt. I take advantage of the entr’acte, where Michael applies lubricant to himself, to dissociate. I remain aware enough of my body to sustain an erection, yet prefer to re-imagine everything from the perspective of an outsider, a voyeur. Playing video games has been, for me, a positive first step toward controlled impersonality.
The top typically penetrates the bottom from some dominant position: missionary, doggy-style, piledriver, Viennese oyster. What I find pleases viewers most, however, is if at first I assume the role of an aggressive bottom, and then allow the top to dominate me by shifts and degrees. I (see myself) lower myself, the animate gargoyle, upon his gargantuan appendange. I (see myself) cup his face with my hands and, applying urgent kisses, engulf him with lulling, adagio undulations. We establish a steady cadence. Before long, he starts to buck up into me. Clutching my buttocks, with perhaps more force than he means, he lifts me onto my back.
He drives into me for a time, changing tempo, teething my neck and lips. I (see myself) tug lightly at his hair while I (see myself) fret and pant. What remains a mystery to me, what I can never ask, is whether any given top understands that behind a screen of behaviors I feel no pleasure (larvatus prodeo), or whether each thinks of himself as the exception, the true elite in a league of tyros.
Gazing into his eyes (from beside myself), I see a disconcerting intensity. Either Michael mistakes performance for reality, or—worse—he never knew their difference. He turns me over onto all fours. For two full minutes he slams into me with his all. I (see myself) claw like a subjected animal at the divan’s cushion, its involute crimson pattern selected to conceal any stray bodily fluid. He strikes my buttocks hard enough to leave marks. When I (see myself) hang my head in exasperation, he yanks it back by my curls, pulling my contorting face into the light. I (hear myself) manufacture shallow whimperies and cries: the apocryphal language of love. As soon as I fear pain might compel me to reintegrate, Michael eases up. His strong hands roll me onto my back yet again.
Because so many viewers climax before the actors themselves, pornographic law requires that we conclude with a simulacrum of tenderness. We settle back into missionary position. Michael enters me with full thrusts, kissing me where vampires feed. Dustin, I am sure, will edit the scene to fade out from the overhead camera. I (see myself) wrap my legs around Michael’s thin waist, gazing over his shoulder into the dark glass eye of ten thousand unseen seers. With several abrupt movements, he floods my bowels with hopeless copies of himself. Reintegrating now of my own accord, I run my fingers through his hair, caress his muscular back, sigh. With sleepy feline eyes I try to communicate to viewers that, in lieu of Michael’s monstrous organ, what I truly desire are their invasions, their anonymous bodies against mine.
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