Gianni
Authors: Justin Luke Zirilli
Justin Luke Zirilli
Contents
For Alan Picus,
My teacher, business partner, and best friend.
Live fast. Die young. Leave a well-hung, smashingly beautiful corpse. Grab life by the cock and jack it off until it explodes like a geyser. Live like there’s no tomorrow… because you won’t be sleeping for the next 48 hours, so technically there is no tomorrow, anyway. It’s all about right now. Today.
These are my mottos. Some of them, at least. I have many more.
If you want to live a carefree, gorgeous life like mine, here are a few ways to get started. Cross the street when traffic is flying at you, then flip them off like it’s their fault. Mix drugs like you’re making a Long Island Iced Tea and pay for none of them. Take a spontaneous flight to Palm Springs because a daddy out there bought the ticket, even if you have dinner plans in New York City with your boyfriend.
I haven’t slept in three days. No problem. I can sleep when I’m dead, which will probably be in about more three days. What can I say? I’m busy getting busy. When cash calls, I’m there to answer with my hands held out and my legs wide open.
My friends call me Time Bomb. They swear they can hear me ticking. They take bets at who will be in the blast radius when I go off. I imagine, when I do explode, it’ll be a shower of unicorns and rainbows, maybe even some of those ratchet old-fashioned pink triangles. The shower would last all day, so large you could see it from space like the Great Wall of China. My ashes would circle the globe like the cloud from a volcano and anyone who breathed them in would feel an irresistible urge to suck the nearest available cock. I love the nickname so much I had it tattooed on my left shoulder: Time Bomb.
My ex says I’m a walking piece of fiction just begging for an unhappy ending. I’m the scum of the earth and I’ll pay for it in a sizzling, herpes-and-chlamydia-filled afterlife sooner rather than later. Credit where credit is due: he has a way with words. He also happens to be hung like a five year old and is even less mature. So I’ve found a suitably childish nickname for him: Voldemort, AKA He Who Must Not Be Named. Because any mention of that bitch has me rolling me eyes uncontrollably, searching for the nearest wastebasket to throw up in. Not that I give a shit anymore, because trust me, I absolutely won that breakup. Need proof? Voldemort will be elated to hear that the guy who dumped his flat ass is this month’s featured Jack Off Solo Star on the homepage of LostBoyz.com, the East Coast’s most popular gay teen porn site. (And FYI: Voldemort’s favorite.)
That’s right. That’s going to be me spread-eagled, thumbing my boner on the free preview video that pops up when you hit the home page. You’ll hear me moan as I shoot my load, but you have to become a member if you want to see that frothy fountain of fierceness. Spoiler alert: I hit myself in the face AND leave a fucking impressionist painting of splooge on the headboard behind me. I shit you not. Sign up now.
For the next month or so I can rest easy knowing that sex-starved members will be getting off to my performance, staring into my O Face like it’s the fucking Ark of the Covenant. I can jack off five times a day knowing I’ll get direct deposit royalties for the next ten years because my porn agent struck a ridiculous deal with the site’s owner. I’m not a LostBoyz exclusive, though the Lost Old Dude who runs it would strangle his own mother to sign me. I’m his obsidian-haired golden boy, a Grabby award-winner in the making. He’s petrified that my chiseled body might one day be drenched in golden showers on some piss play site, my runway model face soaked under a torrent of semen in some one-off bukkake video. He’ll do anything and pay anything to convince the world that Gianni Green is his and his alone.
So thanks to my shark of an agent, we are holding the owner of LostBoyz homo-hostage. I am free to work wherever I want, whenever I want — but I won’t do it, as long as he keeps paying me. What a life, right? Non-stop money for the easiest work you could ever imagine. Stuff most boys do for free.
Okay, it’s not completely easy. That homepage shoot took three hours because the camera crew had to fuck with the lighting every five minutes to capture the depth and deliciousness of my abs. I got soft and hard again at least a hundred times. But still. Of all the things I could do for cash, jerking off is pretty straightforward and stress-free. I mean, I’ve had a ton of practice — I’m one of few people for whom all that time spent with my hand down my pants when I should have been doing homework actually became more useful for my future.
Solo scenes demand a minimum amount of preparation — it’s hard to screw up getting yourself off — though some gigs do require my full attention. Next week I shoot a double-penetration scene out in L.A. and I get to be the spit-roasted stud in the middle. It won’t exactly take Meryl Streep-level acting skills to convince my fans I’m enjoying myself — because hello! How could I not be? Still, it’s a performance. It requires a certain level of skill, like any other.
But that’s next week.
Right now I’m in the studio, shooting preview shots for my featured star profile on LostBoyz. The studio is on the fourth floor of this mixed-use all-rental building in the Village. Down the hall some Off-Broadway show is holding auditions. Warbled high notes and off-key piano fill our “soundproof” room. It isn’t cute. In the lobby I saw a bunch of Japanese businessmen all speaking in panic voices on their cell phones. They weren’t cute, either. There’s a bodega around the corner that boasts, “The Best Pizza in NY! – Anonymous” on a dirty, cracked sign above the door. Like that’s fooling anybody.
This makeshift studio was rented out for the day by LostBoyz. As soon as we’re done, the next renter will be allowed in to do whatever it is they’re going to do. Maybe I’ll leave a photo behind to let them know I was buck naked, rubbing my taint all over that leather sofa. Then again, for all I know, another porn company might use this room next, and I don’t need them stealing all my ideas for hot poses.
“Bend over,” the photographer says, just as nonchalantly as if he were asking me my opinion on the weather. I do as I am asked, pop my butt up and out just so, giving it the perfect bubble effect so many other porn stars would kill for.
“Now on your back. And hold your right leg up. Tense your thigh.”
Done. Done. Done. Easy.
“Brush your hair behind your left ear. Can you get any harder?”
I sigh loudly, as if this is an imposition. But it’s no problem. I swear, whenever I go soft from doing this all day, I just imagine the rising digits in my bank account, and…
boing
!
The photographer is wearing sunglasses. Indoors. Bless his heart. He’s pretending he doesn’t want to jam it in me. He shoots me as if I were a vase of tulips or a bacon cheeseburger. Snap snap snap. All the while he tells me of more important shoots he has lined up. He’ll be photographing Beyonce next week, along with some big deal show during Fashion Week. Ha. Why does he bother? He’s a fucking gay porn photographer, and guess what they shoot? Gay porn. Not pop stars, not runway models. If he wanted to be out taking pictures of butterflies in Central Park, that’s where he’d be. Instead, he makes his bread capturing guys like me pounding each other like dough, and all the while he plays it off like this is some slummy side gig rather than his perverted profession of choice. You just KNOW he’s tugging at his balls as he uploads these to his computer. The only time he’ll shoot Beyonce is if he chases her down the street, fighting it out with other paparazzi slugs as she high-tails it in the opposite direction.
I don’t appreciate how insignificant he’s trying to make me feel. Doesn’t he know who I am? He even pretended to mispronounce my name before the shoot started — calling me “Johnny.” Like, seriously? Do I look that fucking ordinary?
Bitch, please. I’m the hottest thing on the scene right now. I know it. Your gay girlfriend knows it. The Japanese businessmen downstairs know it. This isn’t just some egomaniacal little boy talking, okay? I’ve got the throbbing checking account, the fawning fan sites, the constant phone calls from competing porn companies on both coasts to prove it. Every gay guy clicking through XTube wants to fuck me. Not that they’ll come right out and admit that to their boyfriends or husbands. No… they’ll just click around for an hour or two, praying silently that they stumble upon another illegally uploaded scene of mine, hoping their significant other doesn’t come home and catch them. (Little do they know that their spouses were jacking off to me on their lunch break.)
Yeah, a lot of people want to fuck me. Lucky for them, all they need is a wish and a fat wallet. My RentBoy profile gets more traffic than the Google homepage. My out rate is a solid G, my in rate twice as much. Want to keep me overnight or for a weekend? I suggest you get in contact with a Saudi prince and beg for a loan.
I can top. I can bottom. I can do both simultaneously. I’ve got a massive 9-incher that won’t quit, an ass tighter than a garden hose, abs harder than a slab of marble. Who doesn’t want to toss off across the hairless chest of Gianni Green, Mr. Barely Eighteen? I haven’t met a single gay guy yet.
Making bank taking your clothes off is quite a way to go. It’s the best joke I ever played, and the punchline is big enough to buy me cross-country tickets to the White Party in Palm Springs and still leave cash on the side to hit up Gay Days in Orlando and Southern Decadence in New Orleans. Not that I actually pay to travel, but the funds are there in case. I’ve got the dollars to buy the full catalogue of drugs every night of the week if I want to. Of course I don’t shill out a penny for my E, G, Molly, and K… so that money goes toward imported underwear with names I can’t pronounce and skin cleansing products made from black diamonds (not legally sold in the United States). Gotta love the irony: the richer you are, the more desperate everybody is to give you what you want for free. I can go days on end without spending a dime of my own dinero. Don’t think I waste my breath on “thank you,” either.
When you fuck for a living, your life isn’t like everybody else’s. It’s a 24-hour party where bottles pop like Fourth of July fireworks and you KiKi with laughing shadows, celebrity drag queens, major nightlife personalities, and beautiful faceless bodies until you fall asleep, wake up as the sun is going back down, and do it all over again.
Can you believe that this is the life of Mr. Barely Eighteen? Well, it wasn’t always that way. Mr. Barely Seventeen was a run-of-the-mill (albeit hot) Long Island teenager. He had a mommy and daddy. He went to high school and planned on going to college. But now? Now he’s on his way to porn stardom with no need for that higher education bullshit. I’ll be like the Bill Gates or Steve Jobs of porn. Famous. Rich. And everyone can be jealous because I did it without wasting time in a classroom. Ironically, one of my upcoming scenes will be shot on a classroom set. That counts, right?
Today in the studio, Gianni Green wears a jockstrap (pointless, as my dick hasn’t been kept in it). My cameraman is overdressed in a suit and sunglasses — you know, because he’s just
sooo
talented and in demand. Hate to break it to you, Mr. Sunglasses… you’re being paid to take flattering photos of the hole I shit out of. Those tinted specs try their best to say “I have to hurry, sweetie – I’ve got a plane to Milan in an hour.” Really? Maybe if I poke my cock out a little further between my legs, I’ll see the bulge in your pants get even bigger.
In the blaze of these massively hot lights, I notice little black dots peppering the golden brown of my leg. Shit! There’s stubble on my inner thigh again? Isn’t that convenient. I just got a fucking full body wax a few days ago. The black dots don’t usually start poking up for two weeks.
But that probably bothers other gay boys a lot more than it does me. The hundred-plus bucks they’d shell out for another waxing would put a major dent in that paycheck from whatever restaurant they’re waiting or hosting at. And that might lead to fewer drinks at the club… or, God bless them, a weekend without doing the circuit at all just so they can keep saving for that belly button piercing they always wanted. Money is never an issue for boys like me. I just don’t want to waste time in the salon again.
“Are we almost done?” I ask, punctuating the question with a cute eye roll that Mr. Sunglasses captures in a flurry of bright flashes.
“You have a hot date?” he asks, snickering.
Mr. Sunglasses may be laughing, but he’s right. I do have a date. Well, a Grindr hookup, which is as much of a date as I’m willing to have at this point. I keep the entire spectrum of gay hook up apps on digital speed dial on the front screen of my iPhone. I’m going fucking insane not being able to check all the messages I’ve gotten in the past hour. Hot, horny guys who have probably found someone else by now, potential clients… and here I am stuck in a room with this asshole.
It isn’t impossible for a porn star and escort to find a boyfriend willing to go along with this line of work, especially when you’re hot as fuck like yours truly. But try telling him at the last second you’re missing his birthday dinner because you’re on your way to Vegas in a private jet with a last-minute client, or you don’t want to waste the load you’ve built up having sex with him this morning because you’re shooting a gangbang in three hours. It wasn’t long before Voldemort took to my Facebook fan page to share with my followers what I’m “really like” (a worthless, slutty piece of shit, basically), then immediately texting me apologies and tearful Emojis begging me not to break up with him. I did, obviously — he was bad for business, and the only reason I agreed to date him in the first place is that it wouldn’t slow down my work or sex life any, so why not? I’d never had a boyfriend, and if you ask most single gays, getting one is all they think about. I figured it must be something worth having. How fucking wrong could I be? Usually a pain in my ass lasts for a maximum of fifteen minutes and leaves at least a thousand bucks on the nightstand. Voldemort was a constant pain in my ass, and since he didn’t exactly make a Gianni Green-level salary go-go dancing two nights a week, I ended up paying for him almost every time we went out.