Making of a Porn Star

"Here we are again with our favorite American sub porn star, Brady Boyd. Say hello to your fans out there, Brady." The voice behind the camera at the foot of the bed was a low, sensuous one, speaking in English, with an accent—slightly English English but something else as well. I, of course, knew that Costas was Cypriot and that we were in the studio in his house in the hills overlooking Limassol on the southern coast of the island.

"Hello fans," I said, giving a bit of a wave and a smile. I was sitting against the headboard of the bed to the right of a big, black hunk of a man, similarly propped against the headboard. I was in gym shorts and a tank top; he was just in gym shorts. He had a beefy arm around my shoulders and his left hand on my thigh, just above my knee, the fingers underneath the hem of my gym shorts. I had my legs bent and spread, with my feet flat on the surface of the bed. Costas had posed us there before starting to film. There were two other cameramen, out of range, on either side of the bed. As Costas asked the question, and as he had instructed me to do, I moved my leg to lay on top of the other guy's thigh, and he ran his hand further up my thigh under the material of my gym shorts.

It wasn't an accident that his hand puffed the material of my shorts out so that the camera could see all the way up to my balls.

"You are our star for this film, Brady, and you are quite experienced now, but you haven't been doing this for long, have you?"

"No, just a few months," I answered. "But this is my fifth shoot."

"And you aren't yet nineteen, are you?"

"I'll be nineteen next month," I answered. I was older but I passed as younger, and those subscribing to Costas's subscription Web site apparently liked to think of me as younger.

"Where are you from and what do you do?"

"Other than porn films?" I asked, and gave a little laugh. I was told to do that—to act the innocent.

"Yes, are you a student?"

"Yes, I just started college. And I'm from a farm in Colorado. Just left home for the first time." I'd actually started graduate school before this came along, and I was from further north, where they still were producing sunny Scandinavia blonds. My gig here, though, was freshness, submissive vulnerability.

"Well, we have a real treat for you and the viewers today, Brady. You've told me before, but tell the viewers what you like in a man."

"I like bulls. Big black bulls," I answered, looking into the camera Costas was holding and giving a shy smile.

"Contrasts," he'd said. "Give them sweet and savory."

"I like to be dominated and manhandled," I added. And it was true—I did.

"And we just happen to have that for you today," Costas said. "This is Sami, who will be fucking our porn star, Brady, today. My, you are a big one, aren't you, Sami? Where do you come from?"

"I'm French. But I'm from Algeria." The voice was a bass, the French accent noticeable. He'd been told to speak slowly and distinctly—and not much. But he wasn't here to talk.

"He's a big brute, isn't he, Brady? You think you can handle him?"

"I'm hoping he'll handle me," I said and gave a weak little smile. We'd practiced this line before, as well as the expression I'd put with it. "But, yes, he's big."

"How old are you and what do you do, Sami?"

"I'm twenty-four and I fuck little white boys." Costas laughed. This too had been a devised line to parallel the one I'd given earlier.

"Are you a student too? And have you done porn before?"

"I work in construction," Sami answered. "And, no, this is my first time doing a movie."

"But you like topping young men like our star, Brady, here?"

"Just what I like, yes. I'll break him if you let me." On cue he gave a mean, thuggish look and then changed it to a grin. He moved his big, beefy hand from my thigh to my belly, running his pinky in under the waistband of my gym shorts as he'd been instructed to do. This, of course, wasn't his first film. He was a star top in his own right, but mostly in regional films in France until Costas had gone on a recruiting drive in the States and stopped in Paris on his way back to Cyprus. Costas's studio was international.

"That should be interesting," Costas said, which was an understatement. It was the whole hook of this film—the contrasting sizes, the submissiveness of me and the dominance of the big black bull.

"The differences between you are striking," Costas said, as if this had just occurred to him. "You are small of stature, Brady, and Sami here is so big. Does that frighten you?"

"A little bit, yes," I answered. "But it arouses me too." Sami moved his hand to my basket and pulled me closer into him. I laid my head against his bicep and moved a hand to his basket. I gave a little look of surprise and concern when I felt how big he was—just as I'd been coached to do.

"Let's give our viewers a sense of the differences. How tall are you and how much do you weigh, Brady?"

"I'm five foot six and weigh 142 pounds," I answered.

"That's 170 in centimeters and sixty-four kilos. And you, Sami?"

"I'm 198 centimeters tall and 104 kilos."

"For our American viewers, that six foot six, a whole foot of difference, and nearly ninety pounds of difference too. And the more vital measurement?"

"You mean dick size?" I asked, and then answered, "Let's just say I'm normal sized."

Sami gave a grin. "twenty-one," he answered proudly.

"That's over eight inches. Very impressive. You think you can handle that, Brady?"

"I can try," I said, showing him a cringe.

"I'm not sure we have a condom to cover that, Sami."

"I don't use condoms," Sami growled. Barebacking was a hallmark of Limassol Films, and Costas liked to work it into the introductions that it was going to be barebacking, to enhance the audience's arousal. He also liked to reflect that it hadn't been planned to be barebacking. Sometimes he had the actors get into the film and either "forget" to use a condom or be too much in heat to take the time to use one, or, for some other reason, bring one out but toss it aside without using it. That gave the viewer an extra little jolt.

"Brady?"

"That's fine with me." And it was, we were tested and medicated to make it as safe as possible, and I did prefer the raw effect of flesh directly on flesh, the release of cum inside me, and the cum serving as extra lubricant when the brute kept on stroking.

"You're so much bigger than he is, Sami. You are going to show him mercy, aren't you?" Costas said, milking the anticipation for all it was worth.

"No, I'm going to fuck the shit out of him—leaving him sobbing like a baby."

"So, do you want to back out of this movie, Brady?" Costas asked.

"No, it's what I want," I answered. "If he can break, me, I want him to."

"Show it to us—show us what's going to stretch you to the limit, shred you, if he can. Pull it out, Brady."

I pulled Sami's gym shorts down and he lifted his buttocks to aid in that. He took over and pulled the shorts completely off, leaving him fully naked on the bed—and magnificent both in form and erection.

"Don't be shy, Brady. Hold it up for us."

I didn't have to hold it up. It was proudly jutting up from his trimmed, kinky pubes. I moved my hand up and down it, though, and I could feel Sami shudder. His hand of the arm he had around my shoulder closed tightly on my bicep. "It's black, jet-black, darker than the rest of him," I said, in amazement. I wasn't really all that amazed, though. He'd fucked me already—when we'd first been introduced, later on the terrace of the Limassol house by the pool just because we wanted to fuck, and earlier today in rehearsals for the filming. And it wasn't really jet-black. It had a bluish tint to it.

"Yes, really black. Just the way you like it," Costas said.

"Yes, just the way I like it," I agreed.

"Then perhaps it's time to stop talking and to do something useful with it," Costas said.

That was Sami's cue. He pulled the tank top over my head and brought us closer together by pressing on my bicep with his hand. I turned my face to his, and we went into a kiss. His left hand pushed the front of my gym shorts down, and he fisted my cock. I was already stroking his with my hand.

He pushed me down, into his lap, and I took his cock in my mouth, nearly deep-throating it. Gagging on it. Just like I was supposed to.

* * * *

I didn't seek out appearing in porn films. That was the farthest intention from my mind until after I already was in them. I was entering graduate school, or at least appearing for my first graduate degree semester at the anthropology department of the University of Arizona in Tucson. I wanted to be an archeologist and had shown up in Tucson on a hope and a prayer. I'd barely been able to scrape together the money for undergraduate studies, and here I was, at twenty-one, an orphan with no means of support and bills appearing for tuition and room and board. I'd applied for scholarships but none had come through.

I was in a last-ditch effort to gather some experience in archaeology before the university discovered I wasn't going to pay any bills—that I couldn't. That's what led me to be on a study project right off the bat at the Mesa Verde National Park, in Four Corners, where Utah, Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona met, where a group from the university was included in excavating an eight hundred-year-old Pueblo Indian cliff dwelling that had recently been discovered. We were to be there for a month. Other groups, of course, would be there longer and at different times. It wasn't going to be a dig that would be completed in a year or even five years. But for that month, I'd have a tent over my head near the dig and meals provided. It would take the university that long, I thought, to discover that I couldn't pay for the classes that would build on this excavation experience. I was holding out hope that a scholarship would come in before then or that one of the senior archaeologists would decide that I was such a brilliant student and worker that they would take me under their wing and pay my way.

That's essentially what happened, although not nearly in the way I imagined or hoped it would.

I'll also establish that I wasn't a complete innocent sexually by the time and I knew I probably was gay—probably, because I hadn't done all that much about finding out for sure. I had tunnel vision concerning becoming an archaeologist. Just a smaller-and-younger-looking Nebraska farm boy, born late in life to a couple who didn't make it to the end of my undergraduate days, with a blond, oh-my-gosh look, a small, but toned body, and a dream about what I would be doing with my future.

I had done some fooling around, but nothing too heavy—a bit of fondling during wrestling practices with other guys my age—I had been a high school varsity wrestler in the 140-pound weight class and a gymnast as well and had been good but not good enough for a collegiate scholarship. There also had been some hand jobs and a few blow jobs with a coach who got skittish and convinced me that we should forget it ever happened. I'd done enough to know I liked that better than the alternative, but I'd never gone any farther than dreaming of bottoming for another guy.

So, although I was taken advantage of and maneuvered and coaxed into films, I can't say that I said no anywhere along the line and, if I regretted it, which I don't, really, I couldn't really blame anyone but myself.

There were several groups working the Mesa Verde cliff house excavation when I was there. The professor heading up the university's group decided that we'd get better exposure if he assigned us individually or in pairs to other established teams. I was assigned to a European one. More specifically, the team was from the island of Cyprus in the Mediterranean, an island that had a rich history in settlement that went all the way back to the Neolithic period. I had read about the excavation that was going on there in Cyprus, and I knew I'd give my right testicle to do work there.

That's essentially what I did.

The archaeologist in charge was named Costas Nikolides. He had gotten his doctorate in England and his was a name I had heard before. He was an imposing man, with a booming but velvety baritone voice and charming mix of Greek and English accent. He had a commanding presence and the physique of a Zeus—a thick, but muscular body that brought "powerful" to mind rather than "fat." He wasn't tall but he was a handsome man, always giving the impression that he was moving with purpose and determination. He had the dark, olive-toned skin of the Mediterranean man and black hair, which lightly covered his body in tight, curly swirls. He liked to work bare-chested, wearing low-riding khaki cargo shorts, a bush hat, and construction boots with thick, white socks.

Although his team at Mesa Verde was a hodge-podge of Europeans and Americans of all ages and both sexes, all of whom were in awe of him and treated him almost as a god, he had two right-hand men he'd brought with him from Cyprus. They both were young. One was a Greek Cypriot named Xantos Michaledis, who was maybe in his late twenties and was gaunt and sinewy. He was handsome in a foxy or hawkish sort of way, but he was quiet, hanging on every wish and order of Nikolides. He was the ultimate gofer and "would die for" Costas appendage. I was told that his family went back to the time when Genoa ruled the island and that he was of Jewish Italian descent, long having, by necessity, dropped the Jewish for Greek Orthodox.

The other assistant was a big, black man, central African by descent, Benji Ougala, and I never quite figured out how he had hooked up with Costas, although it evidently was connected to his talent as a photographer. He always—except sometimes when he was fucking someone—had a video camera or still camera in his hands, recording whatever Nikolides pointed to. He was big, strong, and muscular. Like Nikolides and Michaledis, he worked on the dig in just shorts, bush hat and construction boots. His body was nearly overdeveloped muscular, hairless, and gleamed ebony in the sun. He probably was closer to forty than thirty and he was always smiling—not necessarily a friendly smile; more of an "I could eat you alive and I just might" smile. I stayed out of his way as much as possible for as long as possible—but then, once he's fucked me I couldn't get enough of him.

The style of dress of Costas and his assistants caught on with the team, and it wasn't long until all of the men were down to shorts and a head covering of some sort and the women were only adding halter tops or bras. I didn't have the fancy cargo shorts and construction boots, but Costas didn't seem to mind my skimpy cut-off jeans shorts and sandals and remarked a couple of times that I was turning berry brown and had a nice, lean body.

I desperately wanted to go work for Costas Nikolides on Neolithic excavations in Cyprus from the very first days I was with him. He was thoroughly professional and brilliant in his deductions and discussions of what we were working on. He was mesmerizing and charismatic. My focus changed from studying at the University of Arizona to following him to the ends of the earth. I made myself as indispensable and promising, as an archaeologist, as I could, nearly throwing myself at him in worship. And he noticed. At the beginning of the last week I was to be with the dig, he said he had a proposition for me and would I come have dinner with him at the park's lodge, the Far View Lodge, that evening. He wasn't tenting with the others near the dig site. He was staying at the park's hilltop hotel.

There was no question whether or not I would attend him at the hotel that evening. It was what I was hoping a praying for.

"You can drive up to the lodge with my assistants and me," he said. "I'll have Xantos drive you back afterward."

* * * *

"You are a very impressive young man."

We were sitting on the Spruce Tree terrace, Costas Nikolides and I, after having dinner in the Far View Lodge's Metate Room Restaurant. The lodge in the Mesa Verde Park was a balance of rustic and sophisticated. The views over the semiarid red rocks cliff area were breathtaking. Twilight had fallen while we were eating dinner by a window wall and watching the deer and other wild animals coming to the stream in the meadow below to drink. Costas had been quite solicitous of me, sitting close to me and touching me when he spoke to establish a connection that Mediterranean folks like to have when they were conversing—or that's the explanation he gave me.

We had moved on to the terrace with a bottle of wine and two glasses. It was our second bottle, and, being nervous and wanting to make a good impression without thinking that drunk didn't produce a very good impression, I had a buzz on. I'd drunk most of both the first and second bottles of wine. Costas had urged the wine on me, and I couldn't tell him no politely. I also felt the sexuality of the handsome, charismatic Greek Cypriot, and a small thrill went through my body at those moments that he touched me with his fingers on my forearm.

"I'm happy that you like my work," I said. "I've tried hard to learn the basics of site excavation."

"You do that well, yes—you are quite competent with the basics of the work—but you are impressive for more than that. You are a beautiful young man."

"Sometimes I feel like I'm not as strong—as well developed as, say Xantos or Benji, to be able to do the heavy work."

"It's your youthful look and supple body that makes you impressive in that way," Costas said. "You can go into tight places that Benji can't and you are more careful, better at working with artifact fragments, than Xantos is. But there are other aspects about you too that impress me and have prompted me to make a proposition to you."

(God, I was being dense, I now realize.)

"A proposition?"

"Yes, if you can delay your studies here in the United States, I would like for you to come back to Cyprus with me—to work for me on the excavation we are doing at the Lemba Neolithic site on Cyprus. I've watched you when I've told the team of this work, and I can see that it interests you."

"Yes, it does," I answered.

"I can see you look at me too," Costas said in a lower voice, "and if I'm not mistaken, I think I interest you too."

I didn't respond to that, but looked away, down into the meadow, at the shadows of the deer moving around the stream. I couldn't deny it. He did interest me.

"Sexually," Costas whispered.

I couldn't deny that either.

"Are you, Jeff? Are you interested in me sexually?" My name was Jeff then. The stage name, Brady Boyd, was picked up later. "I ask," he continued, "because I'm interested in you sexually. I go with men, and I am interested in covering you. Do you go with men too? Could you be interested in lying under me?"

I still didn't respond, but surely he could see me trembling.

"Jeff?"

"Yes," I said in a low voice, struggling to get it out.

"Yes, you go with men? And, yes, you would be interested in me bedding you?"

"Yes, I'm interested—and flattered—but I'm afraid. I have little experience with men. You say bedded. You want to fuck me? I've never gone that far . . . I don't have experience in—"

I heard him give a low laugh. "I have enough experience for both of us. . By bedded I don't mean that I want you just once. I want you in my bed to enjoy over and over again, in many different positions. I am a highly sexed man. I could pleasure you beyond your wildest dreams. Your freshness is a large part of your charm. I would develop you. Train you. I would like you to sign contracts to come to Cyprus with me, but I would want it to be contingent on you serving me fully—for you to be in my bed, writhing under me. I would work your beautiful little body hard. Make no mistake about that. Can you do that?"