The First Time I Modeled, It Was Like a Campy, 80's Gay Porno
I seduced the photographer, despite his attempted "professionalism."
Original illustration by Eduardo.
I wasn’t sure if we were going to have sex. I knew photographers weren’t supposed to sleep with their models, but that doesn’t mean they don’t try. (In fact, MANY of them do, and the modeling industry is well overdue for a Me Too moment.)
But what if I wanted to hook up? Could I seduce him? Or what if I got an anxiety boner, and it ruined all the pics because my rock-hard cock became the focus of the picture? Well, the simplest way to remedy the issue would be to… ya know.
Then again, my life wasn’t a porno. I had never walked into a doctor’s office with priapism and had a busty nurse with plump DSLs suck me dry. And I don’t even HAVE a stepdad, so nothing I can do there. Maybe I’d get stuck in something while wearing a jockstrap, and the only way he could pull me out was by finger-hooking my hole. (These things happen all the time.)
I shook my head. Just go, model, have fun, and get paid, I told myself. Stop being such a horndog.
This was the first time I’d been asked to model, and you should have seen how my eyes lit up when he asked me if I’d pose. I felt like the prettiest girl at the ball. See, I was 24, recently out as bisexual, and not the confident, charming, charismatic, incredibly humble Boyslut you’ve come to know and love.
I was intimidated by attractive gay men. Not only did I find them cliquey, I wasn’t enmeshed in gay culture. I didn’t watch Drag Race, had never seen Paris Is Burning, and had no idea who Laura Dern was. Not to mention, my fashion tastes were—how should I put this delicately—questionable. (They’re still questionable today, but at least questionable in a queer sense and not a straight sense.)
So, for slightly unhealthy reasons, I felt validated. I could be one of the hot Provincetown boys, and I accepted his offer without hesitation.
It wasn’t going to be a nude photoshoot. My genitals would be covered, he assured me. And the photos were just for the artist. He wasn’t actually a photographer but a painter who drew inspiration from his photos.
On the day of the shoot, I biked down Commerical Street to his bare-bones studio, a single room in a tall building with large bay windows and natural light.
He was quiet and kind—rather unassuming. In Provincetown, there’s a lot of flamboyance and lookers, but he wasn’t that. No flash or glitz—just an artist looking to create.
He told me he’d take photos in different outfits, holding various items. I should just have fun with it, he explained.
I started with clothing on. I was a nervous wreck because I had never modeled and wasn’t sure exactly what to do with my face. I’d been told I looked constipated whenever I tried to take a sexy photo, and apparently, that under-douched look wasn’t considered “hot.”
But he didn’t critique me. He hardly gave me any direction at all. In fact, he kept saying, “Damn, these look great.” And with each compliment, I became more confident. The more I felt like an actual model.
I began feeling myself, both literally and figuratively. Now shirtless, I rubbed my hand through my chest hair until I pulled a patch in the center. I wrapped one hand around my throat, tilting my neck back, with my eyes closed and my mouth open.
Then, I looked directly at the camera. I had my smolder—my smize. I was that bitch, turning myself on.
I took off my pants, revealing my hot pink undies. (While I wasn’t enmeshed in gay culture, I always loved gaudy underwear, even before I came out.) While he didn’t ask me to undress, I felt compelled. I wanted—needed—the camera to see more of me.
I sat down on the floor and spread my legs wide. The photographer followed, squatting down low to keep me in the frame. His camera wasn’t pointed at my face. It was focused directly on my dick. Then I saw his lens expand as he zoomed in.
My dick, loving the attention, stood up. I had to readjust my undies so that it would fit, and the tip of my dick popped out. My underwear was tiny, and there was no way my cock would fit back in, so I let my head peep through the elastic band.
He snapped photos for what felt like forever without tilting the camera to see my face. Periodically, he’d take a moment to look at me directly, making eye contact before looking back through the lens. The first time I winked. The second time I bit my lip. The third time I grabbed my hard cock through my underwear and stroked it slowly. Finally, he stood up, stretched out his back, and said, “Let’s have you change into this.” He pinched a white loincloth between his middle finger and thumb.
A photo from the shoot.
“Sure,” I said. I stripped down before approaching him. I was hard as a rock, wobbling as I walked towards him. I grabbed the loincloth.
“Let me see what you have so far,” I said.
I let my boner rub against his thigh for a second before I moved it. He didn’t acknowledge it—neither did I. It was for such a brief time that it could have been by accident, or perhaps I didn’t know we touched.
He scrolled through the photos. “These are hot,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said.
I let my dick brush up against him once more as I stepped away to put on the loincloth. He turned around professionally to give me some privacy, but I kept talking. “So, what do you have in mind for these?”
I took my time putting on the loincloth so my dick was still out when he turned around. When I finally did dress, I was pitching a massive tent.
“Just keep doing what you’re doing; it’s really sexy,” he replied, staring at my dick.
When he glanced back up at me, I made a face. Not one of disgust, but one of: Why were you staring at my dick? He recoiled, nervous he had crossed the professional line. He hadn’t, but I was getting aroused by the mindfuck. I, like my role model Lucille Bluth, was getting off on being withholding. The more confused he got, unsure whether I was flirting, the more turned on I became. I was a sexual troll, and my dick had never been harder.
Wearing nothing but that loincloth, which hardly covered my dick and didn’t cover my balls, I returned to my position in front of the camera.
I was throbbing. My member had been standing tall for over an hour, and I desperately needed to bust.
It didn’t take long until my positions were provocative. I was biting my lip, grabbing my dick, eye-fucking the camera—and the man behind it. I got back down on the floor and started playing with my hard cock. I’d push it forward and let it bounce back, hitting my stomach. I did this a few times until my dick flew out of the loincloth. I began stroking. He put the camera down and looked me directly in the eyes. I held his gaze. On his knees, he crawled to me.
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