Gianni (2 page)

Never. Again. I should tattoo that on my other shoulder.

“Just hurry up,” I say to Mr. Sunglasses.

“Sure, Johnny.”

Fuck you
, I reply silently, hoping he can read it in my eyes.

Everyone calls me Gianni. My friends all have little nommes de porn, too. We don’t call each other by our real names, even outside the studio. In an industry filled with alter egos, it’s just easier to discard those original egos and start fresh. My Twitter name is GianniGreenXXX. I have a Facebook fan page and an Instagram. On my Twitter is a link to my Amazon wish list, if you’d like to buy me a new dildo or flat screen TV. (You might be surprised how many guys do.)

Every porn boy has a Genesis story to go along with his name. I was wearing Versace boxer briefs on the set of my first shoot. A more weathered sex boy at the time suggested “Gianni” when they were putting together the credits. I admired the kid because he was hung like a horse and had worked with basically every single major porn site around the world. In the end, I was too lazy to make up my own name anyway. And so the porn industry christened me on that very day as “Gianni.” I didn’t get dunked under water in a big ceramic bowl… but I did have two other guys shoot all over my chest and torso. As for my last name, Green? My eyes are green. I told you I was lazy.

I’ve been using the name for so long that at times, I forget what my real name is. No one calls me by it anymore, since anyone who ever knew me by that name was discarded like a used condom so long ago. When I sign a check or receive official mail at my place, I stare at my actual name like it’s not there, as if the envelope were addressed to Current Resident or the old lady that died a month before I moved in. I don’t have a whole lot of friends outside the industry, anyway — I meet enough people through my work that I don’t have time for people who wear anything more than a pair of briefs. We tend to stick with our own kind, and since I prefer the people around me to be gay and hot, practically everyone I know who doesn’t have a XXX after their Twitter handle is the next best thing to a porn star — go-go boys, shirtless bartenders, print models between gigs. People who stay up all night, for whom it’s no problem to have dark circles under their eyes in the morning.

“Okay, Johnny. You’re done for tonight. Good luck on that date.” Mr. Sunglasses chuckles again as he packs away his camera.

I don’t respond. He looks at me standing there and remembers. The click clack of his shoes quickens as he walks across the studio and hands me a lump of cash. Half paid on the spot — another sweet stipulation thanks to my cutthroat agent.

“I’ll have the shots to LostBoyz sometime tomorrow,” he says. “I won’t get to it ‘til late because I have to shoot this major party tonight.”

I stare. I blink. I smile. I say nothing. I don’t even bend over to pick up my clothes. Mr. Sunglasses stands there, facing me. I can’t see his eyes, but I know where they’re looking. I rub my hands down my hairless chest, over my rippling abs, slip them into the front of my jock. I bring myself to full attention, licking my lips, nibbling them. I pump harder and faster, squeezing my ass cheeks to bring out the dimples that match the ones on either side of my face.

His mouth opens, but there’s nothing to be said. I moan lightly, my eyes clenching shut. “Oh God. Oh God. Oh… here I come!”

And then I step forward, grabbing his shoulder with my left hand to steady myself as I pump with the right. I shoot, jet after jet, all over him. One stream hits his jacket sleeve, another launches onto the shirt underneath. Some of it dribbles down his pants. A drop or two even lands on those expensive shoes. I barely feel the orgasm at all, but I act like it was a real whopper.

“Oops. Hope you brought a change of clothes for that major party.” I smile and push my cheek against his mouth, making a kissing noise. “Thanks for wishing me good luck on my date.” I grab the bottom of his suit jacket and use it to rub the few remaining droplets of cum off the head of my dick, then dart off to the privacy of the restroom to put my clothes on. (A boy’s got to be modest!)

Okay, so I may not be the classiest fella in the world, spreading my hole and bouncing my boner for money. But that makes him even lower. I won’t be judged. I won’t be condescended to. Off I go, carrying my clothing, leaving the noticeably erect Mr. Sunglasses searching for something to wipe up my seed before he’s late to his ultra VIP event.

Outside it’s pouring. Rain forces New Yorkers to pull out their trusty umbrellas, turning everyone into very tall, very fat monsters — as if the sidewalks weren’t jam-packed already. Puddles gather at corners — you either hop over or dance around them. The twig-like stems of umbrellas threaten to stab your eyes out as ice-cold droplets of scummy water dampen your hair, equalizing the very poorest and the very richest of us as one massive nest of drowned rats. Every cab is immediately occupied or off-duty, heading back to those magical cab-holding pens. Me? I don’t mind it much. I just walk. I actually move slower when it rains. What’s the rush? This particular rain is cold and sharp, like pieces of shattered glass. It’s a welcome change from Mr. Sunglass’ burning lighting equipment, which always makes me feel like a rotisserie chicken. I had planned on taking a cab to meet my Grindr hookup, but that idea is shot to shit thanks to the rain.

That’s fine. He can wait. And if he can’t, I’ll just sign back on and find a replacement.

But he’ll wait. He’ll wait all night long if I make him. The kid’s name is Danny and we’ve been chatting for weeks. I’ll admit, I don’t usually chat longer than five minutes with a Grindr guy. By then I’ve either blocked them or sent them my address. But Danny has been very, very persistent.

“Good morning, Gianni! Have a good day at work. Hope today puts a big smile on your face! Let’s meet up soon.” That was the cutesy message I woke up to a few days ago — whenever I last slept. See what I’m dealing with?

Yes, Danny knows I work — he just doesn’t know what kind of work I do. I still had some dude’s dried cum on me when I pulled up that cheerful morning greeting on my phone. It was a good night. I made at least a thousand and the john didn’t ask for anything freaky. Just a warm hole to go to bed with and wake up to, a warm body in bed in between. Overnight calls can require an unfortunate amount of spooning, but they’re paying customers so there’s nothing to do but grin and bear it no matter how badly you’d rather sneak off to the sofa. This john pretty much kept to his side of the bed. He was rewarded with another fuck before he had to leave for whatever pointless conference he was in town for, while I stayed in bed with his seed drying on me until checkout, seeing if there were any other potential clients or NSA hotties in the vicinity — better yet, in that very hotel. Instead, I spent that time chatting with Danny, who said he was finally coming into the city one afternoon this week and wouldn’t it be great to meet for a drink?

Photo shoots make me horny. All that boner-touching and no real action. I don’t always bust a nut on the photographer — that was unplanned, but dude pissed me off. So I said sure. Why not, Danny boy. Let’s have a drink. Maybe that’s what it takes to loosen this kid up enough to get him on his knees.

Considering that most Grindr chats begin and end with the usual sexual 20 questions (“Top? Bottom? Into? U Hung? U Horned? PnP? 3Way?”), I kept Danny unblocked because he was unique and at least somewhat entertaining. He tried having actual, non-sex-related conversations, sharing the mundane details of his day or movies he’d watched or, at one point, some funny interaction he and his best girlfriend had with a confused old lady at the mall who thought he was her grandson. He never asked for nudes. He never hinted at the size of his cock or how tight his hole was, not a single clue as to whether he’s a top or a bottom. I could have asked, of course, but that’s not how Gianni operates.

I am desired. Men pay top dollar to watch me, touch me, fuck me. I give them what they want… for the right price, of course. I do not initiate. I do not show interest. Because that would mean I wanted something from them, when we all know it’s them who want me. So I wait for them to come for it. They all do, sooner or later.

What can I say? Danny’s approach paid off — he scored an invoice-free date with Gianni. I could tell him I’m a male escort and he’d have to pay by the hour to sip a cosmo with me, but such an admission would scare this cute little thing into hitting the block button. It’s highly unlikely he could afford me. So I played as innocent as I could.

Sure, his profile picture is cute, but it could be whatever filter he put it through on Instagram. You know — the right angle, the right graininess, the right age and day and time at which it was taken. Thanks to the wonders of technology, everyone can look like a 10 in at least one photo if they’re willing to spend a couple hours in front of the bathroom mirror perfecting the shot. Thankfully, a Grindr snub is considered standard protocol if a trick doesn’t look like his photos. If Danny’s anything less than a solid 9, I’ll walk in and walk right back out.

And speaking of pictures — Danny never sent any of the XXX-variety. Not even a shirtless tease. One night when I was out drinking, he was home trying to be the Grindr romantic, so I sent him one of my amateur selfies (as opposed to the nudes I’m paid handsomely for) — me in my desk chair, fully boned, legs spread, biting my lip to add just a shred of innocence. Danny had some sort of awkward, shocked reaction. “Oh! Well, I didn’t expect that!” (Two minute pause). “I mean, it’s cute! You’re cute. Haha. Oh boy.” He didn’t take the bait and return with a naughty selfie of his own, though. Thank God I didn’t send him one with the LostBoyz watermark in the corner… we’d be through before we even began.

So what is Danny looking for, exactly? Your guess is as good as mine. I’ve met many a homo who puts on the whole cutesy act only to sneak his hand down my pants the second I look the other way. Not that I have a problem with that. His profile says he’s only looking for a relationship, friends, and networking opportunities, but so did the profiles of five other guys I fucked this month. He’s cute. I’m horny. And, for the first time in weeks, I’d like to screw around without having to furnish a bill or wonder if that HD video camera is picking up the ingrown hair on my ass.

Danny is from Jersey and doesn’t come to the city much. He had been driven in via bridge or tunnel a month back when we first chatted. His buddies forced him to call in sick to his job (I forgot what he does) and dragged him to some young gay dance party in Hell’s Kitchen. I was also at that young gay dance party, blitzed out of my mind and possibly jerking someone off in the bathroom. I didn’t get his Grindr message until the next morning when I was puking my brains out.

“Hey! We are apparently at the same party right now. You’re cute! Are you upstairs or downstairs?”

My response: “HSIZX$XYL!”

I was slightly more coherent the following afternoon.

Anyway, being from that other place that’s not Manhattan, Danny had no idea where we should meet. He suggested some gay coffeehouse in Chelsea that shut down ages ago. I had never heard of it, but Google was pretty helpful. It sounded cute — a relic from back when Chelsea was the place for curious young gay guys to roam around and meet people, back when you actually had to go out in public to get some ass.

Apparently New York has changed a lot in the past decade. Now anyone who’s anyone is in Hell’s Kitchen, along with all the homeless guys who want to bum their cigarettes. I’m pretty sure that old gay coffeehouse is now a pizzeria — but I wouldn’t really know, since the only time I’m in Chelsea is when I’m zooming through it in a cab to or from Hell’s Kitchen.

Since Danny was useless, I picked our meeting place – a not-brand-new, not-yet-too-old lounge. It’s not one of those hyper-modern, weirdly themed watering holes that still smell like new paint, but it’s not teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, either.

The rain has gotten heavier and my shirt is sopping. It sticks to my chest and starts to itch. These fat East Coast raindrops can be a real bitch. I’m okay with being a little late, but there’s no way I’d be able to walk from the Village to Hell’s Kitchen in less than an hour. Instead I hop on the subway, full of wet and angry people trying to get to the dry safety of their own homes. The train takes too long to start and there’s a mariachi band in my car trying their best to play “La Cucaracha” on guitars that are out of tune and missing strings. Fantastic.

The bar I picked was once the hottest place in Hell’s Kitchen — or so I hear. Being relatively new to the city, all I can go on is what my friends who have been here longer tell me. According to them, the place was once the crème de la crème. Now it’s pulling out all the stops to survive the Drunk Darwinism that makes the dozen or so gay bars in Hell’s Kitchen compete viciously with one another for the almighty gay dollar.

During the day, this place is home to older queens who drop by for a drink you can only find on a diner’s paper placemat. After that, the Hell’s Kitchen yuppies prance back from their mid-level jobs in media companies and gay non-profits, taking their cocktails outside to the front porch where they can suck down cigarettes and whiskey in equal measure while making dinner plans. Finally, at night, the place goes nuts with DJs on both floors, go-go dancers aplenty, and various activities involving the word “blow” that stuff the bathrooms to overflowing. The interior is much like that of every other bar in New York City: dark. The absence of light makes up for the fact that gays can’t slap a favorable Instagram filter on their actual faces before they go out for the evening. Every once in a while, a gigantic ice luge in the shape of a cock appears on the bar. I’ve never seen it used, but it adds to the odd décor.

It’s a quarter past yuppie, but there are none to be found on the porch outside. Their precious Madison Avenue ‘dos must be preserved — they’re either inside, crowded around the bar, staring out at the gray weather wistfully, or back home mixing their own martinis before settling down for a night of Netflix and Facebook.

I received Danny’s text on my way out of the subway. “Hey – are you here yet? I’m inside.”