Best Gay Erotica 2011 (25 page)

So, as BuTay and Kayo reprised that love scene at BuTay's place that night, EJ plotted how to exploit their pairing to the fullest. The dynamic duo made four flicks together:
A Love for All Times
(which presented them in three different eras—the Harlem Renaissance, the disco years and the high-top fade nineties—finding each other and falling in love)
; Fed Sex
(yes, Kayo delivered a package BuTay
loved
receiving);
Same Script, Different Ass
(Kayo did the same scene three times but saved the very best bootay for last); and the #1 fan fave,
Fruit Salad
(in which Kayo ate orange slices, chocolate covered cherries, blueberry jam and grapes out of BuTay's azz)—and became the new joint face of Full Moons. They were inseparable; you didn't see one without the other. Twenty-four hours after meeting, Kayo packed up his duffel and moved out of the one-bedroom apartment in Rego Park, Queens, he was sharing with three roommates (he had the sofa on odd nights, the floor on even), and into BuTay's two-bedroom co-op in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. BuTay stopped ordering from San Cho's Chinese Palace, the corner deli and Junior's every other day; Kayo whipped up meals that were filling, nutritious and tasty. Kayo encouraged BuTay to write more; BuTay encouraged Kayo to enroll in chef school. They attended Black Gay Prides in New York, Detroit, Philly, Boston, Miami and Oakland, where they were feted as the new Bobby and Flex-Deon Blake. They vacationed in Hawaii, spent Thanksgiving with Kayo's grandmother in Birmingham and visited BuTay's cousin and his partner in Charlotte for Christmas. They celebrated New Year's in Times Square, probably the only Black men kissing for close to an hour (with all those stupefyingly drunk people, no one seemed to notice). Kayo threw BuTay a
surprise birthday party during Martin Luther King weekend in Atlanta. They had front-row seats for Oleta Adams at B.B. King's on Valentine's Day.

Then Kayo was killed a week later in a hit-and-run accident in Harlem. The driver, who was followed home by an eyewitness, was cited just one month earlier for driving while intoxicated, his sixth DUI citation in two years. It was because of this history (and the promise from the DA that second-degree murder charges would be sought) that the driver entered a guilty plea to voluntary vehicular manslaughter and leaving the scene of an accident. He'd eventually be sentenced to twelve years in jail and three years probation.

Evan was
devastated
. He had to identify Tracy at the morgue. He sobbed as the coroner pulled back the sheet revealing Tracy's scarred face and mangled upper body and didn't stop weeping for an entire day. Then he stood awake for another entire day, holding and smelling all of Tracy's possessions. Then he slept for an entire day. Then he became angry. And angrier. And
angrier
. Tracy was his first love, his
only
love—he'd never felt that way about anyone. Not only had he never known love like that before, he never knew that kind of love existed. He'd given up hope of finding THE ONE long before he was in the game. He didn't believe in “soul mates”—until Tracy. They fell into each other's eyes, lips, arms and lives as if they'd always been waiting for this. And Tracy was only in Evan's life for eleven months.
Eleven months. Fuck
all that “look-on-the-bright-side” bullshit:
You two were lucky to have found each other when you did. Be glad you had what you had and shared what you did. In this business, most people fly solo, and some would kill to experience what you had with him.
Evan
wasn't
thankful for what he had with Tracy, because it wasn't enough. They deserved to be together and they deserved more than what they had had.
The universe couldn't give them a year,
one
lousy fucking year? Instead of being in mourning, Evan was enraged.

 

EJ wasn't grieving, either. Just a week after Kayo's death, he released a
Best of
compilation that could only be downloaded online. The extras included “bloopers” (fumbled lines), “home movies” (clips of Kayo at the office and appearing at different erotica events), and Kayo's audition, in which he rubbed his body down with oil, jerked off and, on a dare, let EJ fuck him with his tongue, then his fingers, then his dick. As too many of Full Moons' models were aware, EJ had the very bad habit of slipping a mickey in the drink of a newbie. It wouldn't knock them out, just lessen their defenses, so he could “seduce” them into doing things they wouldn't normally do. Kayo claimed to be a total top but given his ass (while BuTay had an upper case
B:
Basketballs, Kayo had an upper case
P:
Plump and Protruding) and his six-month stint as an escort when he first arrived in New York (his former profile on
www.rentboy.com
identified him as “99% top”), the chance that someone
hadn't
been up in it was slim.

EJ was taking credit for being that someone. Anyone logging on to the Full Moons website was greeted with the banner:
Watch Kayo Get Krunked in His Trunk for the First Time!
Evan couldn't believe that EJ could be so tacky and classless, not to mention sneaky: one night many years ago when they were both a little tipsy, EJ disclosed that he had a complex about coming up short in the crotch (one would think hanging around so many Black and Latino men would make that hang-up worse). This explained why Kayo yelped with delight when the ass was tossed and the fingers probed him but could barely be heard
breathing
while being fucked. And those moans and groans? They were from
other
films he'd done (BuTay would know; he
had costarred in them
and
shared a bed with the man). Kayo was knocked out from boredom, just didn't feel a thing, or both. To portray himself as a good lover, EJ had to doctor the video's soundtrack (naturally, there are no shots of his dick, just him trying to bump and grind away to no avail, then a rather unimpressive sperm spritz on Kayo's ass).

BuTay stormed into the office. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

EJ was seated at his desk. He didn't look up from what he was reading. “What do you mean?”

“Don't you think it's too soon to put something like that out?”

“No, I don't.”

“Well, it is”

“Don't tell me how to run my business.”

“
Your
business? Who do you think helped build this business?”

“
Helped
build. I'm glad you know it.”

“The least you could've done is let
me
know. I shouldn't have to find out about it elsewhere.”

“You were his boyfriend, not his agent.”

“What is your problem?”

“I don't have one.”

“Why are you being nasty?”

“I'm not. I'm just being realistic.”

“If
that
was the case, you wouldn't have embarrassed yourself like that.”

“I haven't.”

“You don't think so?”

“I know so.”

“You obviously haven't been cruising the blogosphere. You're a laughing stock.”

“Like I care what they think. They didn't purchase three thousand copies of the collection in three days. If anything, they're giving me free publicity blogging about it.”

“This is not good publicity, EJ. Only a desperate, despicable man would release such crap,
and
put himself in it. You're fooling yourself.”

“No,
you
are.”

“
Oh?
And what am I fooling myself about?”

“About how you feel.”

“About what?”

“You know.”

Evan scoffed. “Why are you so fucking bitter?”

“Bitter? About what?”

“About us
not
being an us.”

“Don't flatter yourself, BuTay.”

“My
name
is
Evan
.”

“
My
name suits you best. And you've proven me right by showing the world that what you sit on—and
who
you sit on—makes it your most appealing attribute.”

“
Fuck you, EJ
.”

“You had your chance. Now, please leave, I have work to do. And make sure you're here tomorrow morning at six.”

“What? What the hell for?”

“Because someone has to fill in for your boyfriend on the shoot.”

Evan heaved. “First, I am just getting back from Birmingham—”

“Yet you had the energy to come over and berate me.”

“
Secondly
, I am not ready to go back to work.”

“You have no choice.”

“Say what?”

“You are still under contract. You don't get to choose what
films you do;
I
make that decision.” He smiled. “Besides, I'm sure he'd want you to carry on for him.”

Evan was flabbergasted. “You said I could have the rest of the month off.”

“Six A.M. Sharp. Please.” He turned back to the paperwork.

 

BuTay read his contract, and there it was in black and white: clause 23/a did in fact say that if he didn't follow the boss's orders, he could be sued for breach of contract; any monies owed him by the studio would be used not only to pay other actors for the work he wouldn't do but to cover EJ's legal fees as well. EJ never had a reason to invoke the clause before; even when they weren't getting along, he always put the image and reputation of Full Moons way above being spiteful. Not any longer.

BuTay arrived at the office at 5:59 A.M.

He was contractually bound to do three more films after filling in for Kayo in
Hot Sauce
(it wasn't used as a condiment). He was slammed by Lil' Walter, who was no more than five feet tall but had one humongous stick. BuTay's heart wasn't in it. Neither was his ass. But he still gave it “that old college try” (one of EJ's standard lines when he wasn't getting what he wanted out of an actor) and came through—and
came
.

He managed to cum on the next film—
Fat Is Where It's At
—despite being paired with gentlemen who could moonlight as sumo wrestlers. EJ took great glee in watching BuTay being mashed into the mattress by the rotund Latino and getting thrown around as if he were a rag doll by the beyond-bear white boy. The brother was also a blob, but at least he was agile and had good coordination for a man his size.

And he even came during
Gangstas & Goths
, EJ's disastrous rip-off of
Ruffnecks & Rednecks
—but it wasn't easy. During the entire shoot, he was mentally reciting the Lord's Prayer,
calling on the angels to protect him from any unholy spirits that surrounded his partner, who looked like one of the devil's disciples: skin white as milk decorated with black eyeliner and black lipstick; black Doc Martens, black stonewashed jeans, black mock and a black cape; and wavy black hair styled in the shape of horns. That's right,
horns
. But the tongue piercing saved the day (his chin, both lips, both nostrils, both ears, both eyebrows and his navel were also clipped). BuTay had never been kissed or tasted by a man with one—and it turned him
on
. And Damien (his
given
name; BuTay just knew he'd find 666 engraved on him somewhere) enjoyed eating ass more than fucking it—he spent ten minutes doing the former rather splendidly, fifteen on the latter with very lackluster results, then returned to the former for another twenty-five thrilling minutes. Since BuTay was lying on his belly, he didn't have to look at Damien's frightening face. Their fountains spouted at the same time.

 

But BuTay wouldn't be cumming today. EJ was hell-bent on sticking it to him one more time, showing neither compassion nor sorrow over Kayo's death or sympathy for BuTay's loss. Placing him in projects he knew would fuck with him—or fuck him over. Now, this. EJ's final chance to humiliate BuTay. And once again, someone else would be doing the dirty work. BuTay didn't like his own sperm being on his body and only tolerated it being dumped on his back or legs or ass or chest by others (it's expected in the porn trade). But this…
this
was just a half step away from pissing in somebody's face.

Big hunched up. He huffed. He hollered, “I'm cummin', yo
,”
seven or eight times (
then cum already, motherfucker
). He aimed. He fired.

He fell.

BuTay had pushed him off—and that was no easy feat. Big
was a hulky dude, but BuTay managed to unpin his left leg.

As his dick ejaculated onto the floor, Big looked up, incredulous.
“What the fuck, yo?”

BuTay didn't answer. He slid off the bed, swooped up his clothes and barreled down the bunker steps, everyone watching in shock.

EJ was right behind him. He grabbed BuTay's left arm. “Where do you think you're going?”

BuTay snatched it away. “
Get
your fuckin' hands off me.”

“You are not going to fuck this up for me.”

“Hmph, I just did.” He began putting on his clothes.

“You better get your black ass back up there.”

“Oh. My
Black
ass? Careful, the red is starting to show on your neck.”

“Don't try that race card crap with me.”

“You're the one holding—and
dealing
—from that deck.”

“I've just about had it with you.”

“Oh? And what are you going to do
with
me, Massa?”

“I'm not your Massa. But you have been pimping yourself out as a slave to masters for some time.”

BuTay rolled his eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“What's the line you use? ‘It's my job.' You've been using porn as an excuse to fulfill your desire of being possessed by us. But let a white man who doesn't want to fuck you on camera or pay you for it express genuine interest, and you run in the other direction…”