Chapter 2
RILEY
My palms are sweating. I don’t think I’ve been this nervous about something since I came out to my parents when I was fourteen. And I’m not sure if the nausea I’m feeling is anxiety or the lead foot of this driver in stop-and-go LA traffic.
Moving to the West Coast from the South has been quite an eye-opening experience so far.
Navigating my way around a big city after spending my whole life in a small town has been a learning curve.
I opted to order an Uber because I didn’t want to take the chance that I’d miss an exit on the freeway with no way to turn around and find myself taking an hour-long detour.
No way am I leaving a meeting this huge up to chance.
Although now that the driver has hit the gas to propel us forward just a few feet before slamming on the brakes again, I’m second-guessing my decision not to drive myself.
I’ve been secretly wanting to try my hand at sex work, which I would never be able to do back home.
Travelling the world, having sex with tons of hot boys in their prime like the guys I follow on social media, sounds like a literal dream job.
I’ve got enough money to live on for a year out here with no job at all, but my grandmother always said, “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,” and I think I’d get too restless without something to focus my time and energy on.
But where on earth did I find the balls to email Nathan St. James to ask for advice about getting noticed on Fanboy?
I’ve obviously had a user account for years; it’s the most popular creator-controlled gay porn site on the web, and I’m a semi-closeted gay man who grew up in the buckle of the Bible Belt.
I survived many lonely nights on Fanboy creators’ videos, but Nathan’s especially.
His content is so different from everyone else’s in that he’s never actually in front of the camera.
His page is full of photos and videos he’s taken of performers, so for the price of one subscription, you get access to all kinds of different content with different people.
It’s a unique business model, but he’s so talented that creators are clamoring to work with him.
There’s something about the way he films the performers that just makes them glow, and his cinematography adds a layer of authenticity and intimacy to his videos.
Even the obviously staged videos feel natural, and not like cheesy 90s Skinemax.
If I’m going to give this whole porn thing a shot, that’s the type of content I want to be making.
Maybe it was the high of clicking “submit” on my creator application on Fanboy that made me think I could just email Nathan St. James out of the blue like he doesn’t probably get hundreds of messages a day from real creators.
And sure, I hoped for a reply…but I never dreamed I’d wake up the next morning to an email from Nathan saying he wants to set up and film my first collab… with Luke Larson.
I mean, on top of being a porn veteran, the guy is basically a god in the flesh.
Those dark, soulful eyes…thick, straight hair that’s long and floppy on the top and shaved on the sides…
the dark stubble accenting his high cheekbones and square jaw with a full, dark mustache framing perfect lips…
and that body. Mmph, he is chiseled perfection from head to toe, with a full sleeve of geometric shapes tattooed down his right arm, and a cactus in bloom inked over his left thigh, the colors stark against his pale skin.
His pecs are firm and round with trimmed dark hair accenting a silver barbell pierced through his left nipple that I want to suck on.
And his cock…not too thick or long, it’s literally in perfect proportion to the rest of him.
Some guys get into porn because they have monster dicks, but in my experience, bigger doesn’t always mean better if they don’t know how to use it.
And Luke Larson seems to know how to use what he’s got.
If it sounds like I know every inch of his body, it’s because I’ve subscribed to his Fanboy page on and off for years, and I’ve splurged on his pay-per-view videos more often than I should probably ever admit.
His content is out of my price range, if I’m being honest, but he’s everything I’m physically attracted to in a man, and every time I got one of those automated “daily deals” in my direct messages, I was powerless to resist.
I’ve also been following him on every social media platform he inhabits—and he inhabits a lot of them.
He’s built a massive following across multiple apps, even outside of his work in porn.
He was one of the first influencers before “influencer” was even a term, going viral with videos of his day-to-day life: his workout routine, his solo travels around the world, and sneak peeks behind the scenes of filming content.
Sometimes he included short conversations with other creators, but most of his more family-friendly content was just him talking to the camera, giving him an authenticity that’s sorely lacking on the internet these days.
And now I’m on my way to his house.
I shift in the back seat, anxiously checking the ETA on my phone for the hundredth time. Ten minutes away now. God, I’m going to meet Luke Larson in ten minutes. To talk about having sex with him. On camera.
My face flames, and now my ass is sweating too.
Good lord, what am I doing? I’m nobody, and he’s been in this industry since big studios were cranking out pizza delivery boy videos, and everyone just called them “porn stars.” If possible, he’s blown up even more with social media and the shift from big studios to sites like Fanboy that allow you to have control over the content you create, who you work with, and how much you get paid.
I still remember one of his first videos on Fanboy with Beau Brady, another favorite of mine.
I dropped seventy bucks on twenty minutes of footage, but I jacked off to that twenty minutes twice a day for like six months.
So it was money well spent. Practically free.
I suck in a few deep breaths to try and center myself and stop freaking sweating. He might not even like my vibe after we meet. He might think I’m just some young, dumb hick who will never cut it in this business. And maybe I am. I shouldn’t get my hopes up.
If nothing else, it’ll be a good story, right? Hey, did I tell you about that time I met Luke Larson?
The driver is pulling up to a gated complex of attached condos, and my stomach threatens to flip its way into my throat as he speaks to the gate attendant and is waved through.
I quickly run my sweaty palms down the front of my polo.
Am I too casual? Is a polo paired with jeans and cowboy boots too small town for a meeting like this?
My options were limited, since I only moved here a week ago with whatever could fit in my car, but maybe I should have gone out and bought something.
Now that I’m here, I think I probably look ridiculous.
No time left to worry about that, though.
I pay the driver in a daze and find my sweaty ass standing on Luke Larson’s front step.
I reach a shaky hand up to knock on the door, and too late, I worry: What if he’s an asshole?
They say never meet your heroes; he could be some kind of diva with an inflated ego who—
I’m distracted from the start of that particular freak out when I hear a loud, high-pitched yapping coming from somewhere deep in the condo and gradually growing louder and closer to the front door.
The bark is more of a squeak, really. The dog is obviously small and probably young.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling too wide.
The idea of a hulk of a man like Luke Larson with a tiny dog is too funny.
“Agatha, knock it off!” a voice scolds from behind the door, but there’s no heat in it. “Jesus fucking Christ, puppy-girl, it is not that serious…”
The door swings open, and suddenly I’m face-to-face with Luke Larson…
wearing nothing but a towel. He’s got a wiener dog puppy cradled in his right hand against his bare chest, his left arm extended to open the door, giving me a good glimpse of the silver barbell through his nipple.
I swallow hard in an attempt to get my brain to make some words and send them to my mouth.
Any words at all. I’m definitely underdressed. Or…overdressed, I guess.
“Sorry, I just got out of the shower. Running a little behind thanks to this hellion getting ahold of my underwear and refusing to give them back.” He kisses the puppy on the head fondly and swings the door wider, waving me inside.
“Riley, right? Is that your real name or a stage name? I guess I should’ve asked Nate when he set this up. ”
I’m preoccupied by the dusting of trimmed dark hair across his thick, round pecs, and I’m trying hard not to stare, but I think I manage a “Yes, sir,” without my voice wobbling too much.
“Goddamn, you really are a good boy, aren’t you?
” Luke chuckles, his straight, bright white teeth flashing in that perfect mouth.
My heart somersaults in my chest. “None of that ‘sir’ business. Unless that’s what you’re into?
Never mind, we’ll get into all that in a bit.
” He gestures in the direction of the living room with the hand holding the puppy, hitching up his towel with the other.
“Make yourself comfortable, I’m just gonna get dressed and put Aggie in her crate, and I’ll be right out. ”
He turns and jogs up the stairs, and my eyes are drawn to his perfect ass as he goes.
Taking in my surroundings, his condo is not what I expected.
I guess maybe I imagined him in more of a bachelor pad: moody lighting and dark walls with a pool table in the corner or something.
But the space I find myself in now has beautiful natural light.
It’s golden hour, and the sun is streaming through the glass patio doors to bathe well-placed greenery in sunlight.
A modern, minimalist sectional and a brown leather chair are arranged in the center of the room in a way that’s strategic but cozy, around the natural wood coffee table.
A soft white blanket is folded neatly across the back of the chair, and I can’t help but imagine him snuggled up in it with a book.
I have no idea if he’s a reader, but the space seems more inviting for reading than watching television.
The kitchen is fairly small, but the open-concept nature of this floor makes the combined living room/office/kitchen feel spacious.
I glance up the stairs where Luke disappeared a moment before.
I’m assuming his bedroom and the bathroom are up there, loft-style.
I can’t help but wonder what his bedroom looks like.
Is it as clean and sparse as the downstairs?
Does he hire someone to clean up after him, or is he just a neat freak?
I have so many questions about this man that I almost forget all about my nerves and the reason I’m here.
Almost.
I take a seat on the couch, running my palms along the plush cushions.
Everything Luke owns feels expensive, but not in a pretentious way.
More like he’s willing to pay extra for luxury, and I can appreciate that.
It’s definitely a step up from the IKEA furniture back at my shared place.
I can’t complain too much; I answered a “roommate wanted” ad online for a place in East Hollywood and showed up to find it fully furnished, as promised.
Can’t beat furniture you didn’t have to buy, I guess.
But the stiff, angular assemble-it-yourself couch at my place has nothing on the cloud I’m sitting on now.
I wonder if he’ll fuck me on this couch?
The thought of it has my head swimming and my dick perking up.
I wonder if we’ll film the collab here? Or will he rent a place?
Does he film in his home, or does he keep that separate from his work?
How many questions can I ask him before he decides I’m too na?ve and throws me out?
He’s so much more experienced than me in every way—in the industry, in sex, in life.
I don’t want him to think I’m a waste of his time.
Standing up, I begin to pace in a futile attempt to burn off some of this restless energy.
I glance back up the stairs. No sign of him yet.
I’ve got to calm down. However this evening goes, whether he decides he wants to work with me or not, it’s all meant to be.
All part of God’s plan, my mom would say.
I’m not too sure God or my mom would approve of me meeting up with an older guy to see if we’re compatible enough to have sex on camera and sell the video online.
All I know is that I’ve never wanted anything more.