Get Over It

Get Over It

I don’t know what possessed me. Maybe I was horny. Maybe I just needed the money. Or maybe I was just curious about what it was like to be in porn. But a kid like me? A 19-year-old from a middle-class suburban family? Even as I took the selfies the studio wanted — face shot, full body, ass and cock shot — my fingers trembled with fear and excitement. And btw? Taking a picture of your own ass isn’t all that easy. I’d thought of asking a friend to do it, a guy I thought might be gay, but I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to deal with any questions that might follow. And yet, all the same, even as I arched my back and shoved my ass out, as if someone were rimming me, I fantasized about who I might be paired with. Would he be gentle? Rough? Would he have a big cock? Would he fuck me or would he want me to fuck him?

I filled out the model application, attached my pics, cock throbbing and drooling with precum, then fingered myself and shot a load all over my belly. It wasn’t until later, as I was sucking on the cum dripping down my fingers that I wondered. Would the people at the studio even like me? Was I “twink material” enough for them? What if I was too skinny? Or worse…fat. Was my ass round enough? Goodness knows it was certainly tight enough, since I was still a virgin. Nothing but making out and mutual masturbation with guys I’d lost touch with.

I felt myself spiral, falling into a funk. What was wrong with me? Why the hell did I send in those pictures? What if someone saw me? Recognized me? It hadn’t occurred to me that the people at the other end might be…I dunno. Not nice. The moment I imagined them being nasty and cruel, or doing horrible things to me, to others, my heart sank. I’d heard stories. Rather, read them. On the internet.

Shit! Why the hell haven’t they replied? They’ve got my e-mail. My phone number. Not even a text!

It had only been 15 minutes.

All that night and all the next day I was moody, flip-flopping between excitement that the studio might have replied, and doubt because I hadn’t heard from them. I tried not to think about the pictures out there, in cyberspace. I focused on other things. I even confessed what I’d done with my closest friend, a girl I’d grown up with. We’d sometimes sit on a park bench and watch cute guys walk or run by. We’d try to guess — boxers or briefs? — while sipping on wine coolers we’d poured into plastic water bottles. We thought we were so slick. That Friday night had been no different from any other. She asked no questions. She made no judgements. She just breathed the same air I breathed. In another life, had I been straight, we might have been together. But I loved the look of men too much, the thought of having one of them, that special one, manhandle me and treat me like his bitch. His whore. Was that wrong?

“You know,” she started, and handed me her cigarette. I took it from her and inhaled. She continued. “Even if they say yes, you can always say no. You don’t have to follow through. I’m sure it happens all the time.”

I nodded. But she didn’t understand. I had to do it. I had to follow through. I lived in a small town. How else was I going to have sex with another man, let alone another twink, like me? And at the rate things were going — three months shy of my 20th, for fucks sake — I might never lose my virginity.

Several agonizingly long days later, I heard back from them. My heart raced as I scanned the e-mail.

Thank you for… We’re pleased to inform you that… We’re willing to fly you out and put you up… Please review the attached contract… You must get an HIV test to bareback… Blah, blah, fucking blah. Pay would be…

That’s all? I wondered. Wasn’t porn supposed to be lucrative? Didn’t producers give cute young guys loads of money to do the one thing we thought about constantly? I still downloaded the .pdf file and filled out the necessary spaces (By initialing here you verify that…) as if watching myself through someone else’s eyes. I didn’t print out the contract, however. I thought it best. In case someone walked in as I was printing. It would only lead to more questions. The questions would be innocent enough, I suppose. But I didn’t want to deal with my suspicious mom. She already thought I was on a path to hell, because of my friends. How was I supposed to keep the truth from her? I was horrible liar.

But that HIV test, though…was it really necessary? I was still a virgin. The only cum that had been inside me was my own, licked off my hand or fingered into my own hole. I knew the test results would come back negative. Still, it made me wonder what other things might be lurking out there.

Am I really ready for this? To face…whatever is out there?

But I already knew the answer.  I wanted to have fun, make money, and enjoy life while I was still young. I had to accept there would be things I might not know how to handle. But it’s all a part of growing up. Besides, how else would I learn? Now, it was time to get over it, come what may.

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