Coc-Sucer: Weeend

Broke. Down and out in Paris. Hiding out from brutal creditors. I'm in scarily way too deep. If you wanna hear about it, the things I did, the predicament I find myself in, all you have to do is buy me a cognac... and listen, eventually I may come up with the truth, only slightly embellished. Of course, you'll never be certain which parts are true, and which teasing fabrication. But I'm not about to get into that, right now. No, just listen, and I'll tell you all you need to know.

I'm the guy who tests out the limits of conventional morality, sees through all the petty lies and hypocrisies of the bourgeois lifestyle, all the festering unhealthy repressions of those small-minded plastic people trapped in their daily closed-up commuter grind. I view the world through Beatnik eyes, a hipster's view, an existentialist live-for-the-moment Left Bank immediacy. I'm the rebel against conformity. And trouble follows me around. It's not always deliberate. It's not something I do intentionally. It just tends to happen to me. It just does.

Until, in a cheap Brasserie wondering where the hell my next franc is going to come from, I encounter a college friend, a slightly built French boy of some twenty-three years. When he first sits down across the table from me I don't even recognise him. Paul... isn't it? Paul something. It's been a long time, and I'm preoccupied. A lot has happened. But he buys me a drink and I'll be nice to anyone who buys me a drink.

As we get into talking, with the wine coursing its pleasing effect through my mind, details of my predicament begin to emerge. I don't know why, but I tell him things I probably shouldn't have. He's easy to talk to in a relaxed Gallic kind of way, and hey, I can shoot the breeze anyway. It's one of the few things I'm good at. Maybe I exaggerate – about Mack The Knife, the Mafiosi drug-deal rackets, but only a little.

He catches my drift. "Money, you need money? No questions asked, fringe legal?"

"Why, what do you have in mind?" I'm intrigued now. And yes, more than a little desperate. If I can't at least come up with a token repayment on my loans... things start getting nasty. You don't mess with Mack the Knife.

He's about to suggest something, then backs off. "No, you won't be interested."

"I might be, try me." Something ticking in my head.

"No, it's alright."

I persist. He deals me clues and hints, nothing explicit, his suggestions coming in fragments. But I'm sure I've got him fitted into my inventory of character-types. I can work him. Eventually he glances around in a conspiratorial sort of way, and draws his chair closer to me, then mentions a name, a casual acquaintance. "Photos and stuff, risqué, you know? They've got it lined up, an erotic movie, but one of the guys dropped out at the last moment. So there's a vacancy there, an opening, you want in?"

I pause.

He shrugs. "You say why, I say why not?"

He writes me an address on a napkin. I'm dubious, but I'm a free spirit, an adventurer, a ducker and diver, I'm the fly-guy, aren't I, living the edge? Loose cars, fast drugs and hard women. That gives me license to transgress further. Don't think for a minute that I'm about to make excuses for myself. No way, I haven't changed my opinions a jot, and anything I admit here and now is not – repeat not, by way of justification. I'd do exactly the same thing again if the same situation arose again. The only difference between me and you is that I'm not afraid to admit it.

So, with nothing to lose, I follow the lead up across the bohemian Montmartre to an ageing apartment block set back off the Rue D'Remarks. The concierge looks at me oddly, but directs me up to the correct suite where a man with a paranoid edge cautiously opens the door a crack, then suspiciously admits me.

"Paul sent you?"

I nod. "He said you'd pay me for some, er porn shoots."

"He told you that did he?" The man says he is Mr Jules, which is probably not his name anyway, and he must be on the wrong side of his fifties, greasy, in a black leather jacket and thin greying moustache. He smells of Gauloises and garlic. "You have the necessary equipment?"

I shrug. "I guess so."

"Let me be the judge of that. Undress please."

There's a momentary startle of fear. This is a little weird, a bit too pervy for my liking. But I think of the Bad Guys out there with my name on their list. I look around for a changing room, then stupidly realise there's no reason for modesty. I'll be nude for the shoots, so I might as well get used to the idea. Think of it like a trip to the Doctors. I pull my T-shirt up and off, then slide out of my sandals. The Frenchman's eyes are on me as I nervously tug my jeans down and turn shyly to let him appraise my nudity. My cock swaying stupidly, it seems suddenly small and unimpressive and I find myself blushing, fighting the urge to cover myself.

He leans back in his chair and lights a cigarette. "Make it stiff now."

I feel like turning away and forgetting the whole deal. This is a mistake. But in an agony of embarrassment I reach down and begin to wank the defiantly flaccid penis, my balls bouncing. I think of porn shoots – of naked girls opening their legs for me to fuck, of one girl sucking my balls while another has my cock in her lush mouth, and slowly it stiffens in my hand and stands out red and fierce.

"Yes, OK, enough – it will suffice, you get 25 Euros for some test-shots."

I nod unenthusiastically, aware of my cock jiggling sympathetically as I do so. At the same moment there's movement from the room beyond, and Paul comes in, my contact. He's wearing a short dressing gown. Something snags at the back of my mind, a connection.

"He's pretty good, eh?" says Paul running his eyes up and down my naked body. "Good cock."

"It'll do, it's adequate" nods Mr Jules. "You wanna start now?"

I nod, a little uncertainly this time. Mr Jules hoists a big heavy Pentax from a drawer and gestures with an expression of bored tedium that I should follow him. We go through into a half-darkened adjoining room, I'm pacing naked, aware of the cool air on my bare skin and the motion of my penis slapping up against my belly. The thought that I'm naked with two guys, and my clothes are out of reach somewhere in the room we've now left, is a little unsettling. But 25 Euros is tempting. Sure, I could do with more – much more, but it's a start. It's something.

It's an old house, there's a stale mustiness to the air, shadowy shapes of furniture shrouded in protective off-white sheets. Old portraits hung on old walls of people who I suspect are long-dead. We emerge unexpectedly into the blinding sunlight of a small enclosed garden. There are shrubs and shady trees, a low fountain that doesn't work and is rimmed in green mould, but no women. At the same moment Paul slips the dressing gown casually off and is as naked beneath it as I am, and startling erect. The size and arousal of his penis belies his slight body.

I feel trapped and scared, this is gay porn, I've been set up, but retreat is impossible. I have no clothes. Mr Jules is already aiming his camera, and horror of horrors Paul is moving to stand way too close by my side. I suppress an urge to move as he drapes his arm around my waist and smiles for the camera. We pose, two naked sissy-boys with our todgers hung out.

"Let's get some contact" says Mr Jules, coughing around his Gauloises. "You are friends, you fancy each other."

Paul reaches out in one easy movement and I wince as I feel his fingers closing around my shaft.

"C'mon, c'mon" urges Mr Jules impatiently, indicating with rapid gestures. Steeling myself I reach down and grasp Paul's cock in a cringing toe-curling moment of contact. It feels warm and firm in my hand as Mr Jules moves around taking a series of shots.

"Now, a little mouth-action please."

Before I have time to think Paul bobs down like liquid sex to crouch at my feet. I feel cool intimate fingers on my balls, and before I can react, a warm moist enveloping mouth sliding over my glans. I stand there with my cock in Paul's sensual mouth as the camera flashes. As the film is wound on, instead of releasing me, Paul is easing more cock between his lips and sucking gently, sucking me with a mouth that might have gone to a special college to learn all the wonderful tricks it knew.

I close my eyes in a fury of sensation as the camera flashes again, and the sucking continues. At last Paul eases back and my cock bounces free glistening with his saliva. Despite myself I'm now fiercely aroused, my cock fat and inflamed with passion so that when the instruction is called I comply only too eager to get it back into that mouth.

It feels bizarre, erotic, in a numb sensual way, my body reacting with a raw eagerness that my mind is still incapable of accepting, my cock glistening with saliva, swollen to bursting point with the intimate attentions it is receiving, and it craves more, pulling me with a will and urgency of its own. Helplessly I'm caught up in the unreality, stupidly naked with a nude youth at my feet, mouth gaping and the sleazy Frenchman squeezing off camera shots.

"Down and kneel please" and I go down.

Paul is on all fours now with my tower of flesh buried in his face. I grit my teeth as it begins again.

"Lean back, fuck his face."

Then Paul lies on his back and I'm straddling him, he's looking up now, my cock poking into his face, and I'm willing the lips apart and sliding it in as far as it will go, until Paul emits a throaty gurgling sound and retches deep in his throat, and I draw back. As directed I rest my slimy cock on his chin, on his nose, in each eye-socket in turn, then my balls are in his mouth, I can't help groaning in sated pleasure. With every move his eyes are fixed on my cock, which is fat and swollen up to the navel, my stomach crawling in sensations I dare not admit to. Then I stand up again, Paul crouched beneath me, my cock an inch from boy's face.

"I want you to come all over Paul's face" orders the Frenchman. "You can do that now?"

Numbly I nod. Already one of Paul's hands is circling my waist to hold my bare bottom firmly so I can't move, the other begins pistoning my cock into his face, pumping saliva at such a rate I fear he'll drown, tongue snaking out to lick and kiss it. And all of a sudden I'm jetting out long spermy strands of whiteness over his face that run like tears down his cheek and across his nose.

I feel a chill, and that strange shyness that always follows ejaculation. I feel vulnerable, exposed, cheated. Paul gets up cheerfully, uses a towel to wipe his face and we're conducted back into the house, where I retrieve my clothes. With a begrudging manner Mr Jules counts out 25 Euros and tosses it casually onto the desk-top.

"This was a test-shoot. You understand test-shoot?"

'Of course I fucking understand test-shoot' I think, scooping up the money. I've earned it. I need it.

"Now you do a blood test."

"Blood test?"

"Oui, you understand everything we do, we do bareback. We always operate the same team with known medical histories, so first we must check out you're not carrying anything nasty in your body-fluids."

It makes sense. I let him wield a syringe and extract a sample.

He nods. "Good. You turn up here. Tomorrow. Nine am, for proper filming. OK?"

"OK" I admit grudgingly. "There will be girls?"

Mr Jules snorts derisively. "You young whippersnappers are vile disgusting creatures. Such dirty pretty things. Slime, semen and filth are all that drives you. Why should you be permitted to inflict your base urges on the fragrant beauty of young women? Better young men expend their perverse energies on each other, if they must. Until they're fit to rejoin civilised society."

Feeling a little truculent and cheated I allow Paul to accompany me back out into the street, and towards a Bistro where his buys us cognac.

"I didn't realise..." I manage to stammer out eventually. "I'm sorry I did that to you, cumming on you, you know."

He brushed my apologies away. "You've got a nice cock, I enjoyed sucking it, and hey, we've all done stuff."

"I haven't."

"I don't believe that for a moment. There must have been times at ecole when you experimented, when you fooled around with other guys?"

"Well, maybe."

"And since then, there have been times when you are curious, when you are tempted to try other things, taste from another menu...?"

I'm not sure. What happens in your secret fantasies stays in your head. It's different to being naked in the garden with a naked guy sucking your todger. Now I'm dressed, now the alcohol is having its pleasing effect, combined with the post-orgasmic calm, I relax back into the chair.

"So what's the big deal with this shoot tomorrow?"

"Loving sex between two guys can be a beautiful thing" he smiles pleasantly. "This is not like that. This is nothing to do with being Gay or straight. It's just things we do with our bodies. Minds, gender orientation, the higher human functions have nothing to do with it. They've got a big estate-car to take us, crew and performers, to a chateau way out there. A fantastic dream of a place. The owner allows us to use it as a set, on condition he gets to watch. Know what I mean?"

The melancholy warmth of the Parisian afternoon is affecting my senses – and after all, ecstasy, despair, mental unbalance are all part of my day-to-day norm. The money in my jacket. It won't solve my problems, but it's enough to keep my creditors off my back for a few vital days, until some other opportunity presents itself.

"That's it, Paul. I'll not be there tomorrow, I'm not going through with it."

He drains his glass, and watches me curiously. "You sure?"

We've more or less wound up, we walk a little way together, then he indicates his flat. We shake hands. It's strange to think where that hand has been, and even stranger to recall exactly which part of his body my hand was holding. I head off alone, but accidentally meet my favourite Moroccan dealer in the square. Sometimes there's more to life than just living. I score some hash. It takes my 25 Euros, but what the hell. I need a little relaxation. I never fail to fail, it's the one thing I really do well, the easiest thing to do, the path of no resistance. It's only when I turn onto my boulevard that I pull up fast.

There's a car parked directly beneath my flat. Gun-sharks, bullet-monkeys, hit-men from the dark-side of Uranus. Or from Mack the Knife anyway. This is where my life gets really psychedelic. I don't need hallucinogenics, the very molecules of my being generate their own acid. I'm instantly regretting the hash. Well, no, not so much the hash itself, merely the loss of cash involved in acquiring it.

I duck back before they can see me, head down an alley and around the back. It looks clear. I climb the fire-escape and ram in through the sash-window, only they've been here first. Cold tremors rake up and down my spine. My room is trashed. Sure, it's never actually pristine, some might not even notice the change. But I do. They've been in here ransacking the place. Now they're sat out there watching, waiting for me. I flatten up against the wall so I can squint out the window without being seen. Yes, they're still there. It's not safe here, it's not safe anywhere in the city.

I tumble back down the fire-escape taking three rungs at a time, almost screwing my ankle in the process. Slouch low and walk fast until I've put distance between us. They'll be watching the coach station. Rail stations too. They'll have snitches out sniffing for me. Almost by accident, or maybe it's destiny I realise where I am. I hang around as long as I dare, then climb the stairs and knock timidly. It opens inwards.

"Hello Paul, guess I've changed my mind about tomorrow."

He ushers me in, smiling in a darkly attractive way. "You want to stay?"

"Sure, if it's alright. I can sleep on the couch here."

"Share my bed, it's better that way. We can... y'know, rehearse the movie together, if you follow me?"

"Merci, but I think I'll take the couch if that's alright with you?"

He smiles, and prepares coffee and a plate of Madeleine's. Unnervingly, as he smiles, I get a memory flashback of looking down and watching my erection sliding in between those sweetly smiling lips. How do I feel about that? Judging by the reaction in my pants, not in a bad way. I sit down. His apartment is clean and neat in ways that mine never has been. A row of well-read books arranged in alphabetical order by author. Some arty framed prints on the wall, only a few of them vaguely homo-erotic. I take mental notes of the ones worth stealing, if things get really bad.

I want to smoke the dope. Hell, I deserve it. But if I get it out I'm going to have to share it with him. Eventually the need overcomes my reluctance and I carefully roll a fat joint. We sit passing it back and forth breathing in the hallucinatory seeds of ecstasy, the evening light falling through the curtains becoming hazy with intoxicating fumes that swirl and dance as my mind slurs delightfully. He has a tousled angel-headed gipsy-poet look, somewhere between a young Marc Bolan and the androgynous Maria Schneider in 'Last Tango In Paris'. He's twenty-three but looks eighteen, and probably always will.

Inevitably, I don't use the couch. Against my wildest anticipations we end up on his bed together, although I make sure I keep my pants on. I sleep alright, between nightmares. I wake to find his hand resting on the flat of my stomach. When it creeps down to the elasticated waistband of my shorts, and insinuates beneath I reach down and lazily shove his hand away. He waits a few moments, then tries again. This time his hand slides down the front of my shorts more quickly and I have no time to stop him, until he's holding my cock. It actually feels quite nice, so I let him begin to slowly and sensually masturbate me. Once it becomes apparent that I'm not about to interfere his other hand draws my shorts down and hooks the waistband under my balls so he has greater free access.

I lie back as the warm sensations glow from my thighs. Then, before I know what's happening, I feel his mouth on me. I inhale sharply as the sucking begins. Why not? It's been snug in his mouth before, and that felt kinda nice, as I recall. Why make him plead for something you need? A blow-job is a wonderful thing no matter who's doing it. It seems so easy.

With girls you gotta build up through a complex courtship, bide your time, be patient and tender until she might, or might not, go down. With Paul there's no complications. He insists on sucking it. So I let him. Perfectly paced, neither too fast or too slow. He only unmouths me once, long enough to shuck off his own pants, then lies down next to me, before returning it to his mouth. The way he's lying it's as though he expects some sixty-nine action. In the twilight I can clearly see his stiff cock inches from my face. It's clean, almost sculpted and, as cocks go, it looks OK. I begrudgingly reach out and encircle it, giving it a few long strokes. The least I can do, considering that he's got me halfway down his throat.

I lie still, holding his cock, watching it close up. For no apparent reason I can explain I dip and lick its head. The way he responds, taking me deeper and sucking with excruciating intensity has the desired effect. He's offering quid quo pro. I lie back. Well, why not, there's a technique to this. If you just circle your lips around the crown, just tight enough for him to feel it, but without sucking or tasting, slide your lips up and down, it's like you're doing it without doing it. Hell, I've had chicks do that. It's no big deal. Is it really too much to ask? I tense up, but the way his mouth is working me, and the way the dope is still swimming around the back of my head, I'm not really thinking straight anyway.