Viva Las Vegas

Summer vacation. I'd wrangled a conference to attend to get my way paid, but I liked taking a cruising, let-it-all-hang-out vacation twice a year—summer to the beach, usually, and winter to a ski resort. I wanted something a bit different this summer—Las Vegas—where I'd quite satisfactorily let it all hang out once before. And I wasn't going there for the casino gambling.

The airline attendant, small, blond, smiling, holes for piercings in his ears but unadorned for now, while he was working, leaned down as he was going to the back to take his seat for landing at Las Vegas's McCarran Airport and whispered, "If you're interested, hang back near the gate and wait for me to come out. Luggage at baggage claim?"

He had on a name badge claiming he was Josh. He was not that far into his twenties, I didn't think, or he had a very good plastic surgeon. "Just my carry on," I whispered back. "I'm traveling light."

He gave a little giggle and whispered, "Oh, God, I don't think so," and sashayed down the aisle to his landing seat in the tail of the plane. I knew what he was alluding to. This wasn't an out-of-the-blue hookup offer. He had already copped a feel and shown that he was pleasantly surprised and very much interested.

He was a good-looking, slim, narrow-hipped little guy, so I was hooked. I also was randy. This is what I came to Las Vegas periodically for. He'd first brought it up when he arrived with the drinks cart. He'd given me a second and third look when I'd gotten on the plane in the connecting flight in Chicago. As he handed me a cup and a small bottle of vodka, he did the giggle thing of his and said, "You're that vodka guy in the commercials, aren't you?" He let his hand brush across my crotch as he moved it away. It was evident that he knew me from more than the TV commercials.

"Guilty," I said as I took the bottle. It wasn't the brand I peddled in the commercials, which had earned me the nickname of Sizzling Julio. I was an accountant in New York, and not a senior one either, but I also modeled—both on the runway and in TV and billboard ad commercials. I'd done male-on-male porn once too, not incidentally—and certainly relevant in this situation.

There was demand for dark-haired, sultry, cut Brazilians with blue eyes in the commercial world—and in the gay male porn world too, in which I'd dabbled once so far. The blue eyes were two of the only things I'd inherited from a Scandinavian visitor to Rio. My mother had been a high-priced prostitute and I'd been raised in a brothel until she'd sent me to her sister in New York. So, the sex act wasn't much of a mystery or a taboo for me when I was old enough to be doing it myself—except that I did it with men rather than what I saw happening in the whore house my mother worked in. It was probably the blue eyes that made the difference in getting me modeling and commercial gigs, though, so I thanked Daddy daily, whoever and wherever he was.

On the next pass, which Josh seemed to have made specially to flirt with me, although he came bearing another small bottle of vodka, he leaned down and whispered, "Happens in Vegas." This time he let his hand linger on my basket.

"Guilty again," I said, giving him what the commercial directors called my sultry smile. He shivered and moved back down the aisle, swaying his pert little butt, making sure I saw him do it. I did. He was offering himself to me. Happens in Vegas was a movie I'd been in on an earlier trip to Vegas. It was the only porn movie I'd done so far, although I got plenty of offers to do more. I didn't do anything like this in New York, although it had been offered there. I'd told the director who said he wanted to do me in a movie that I kept it all straight in New York. I was just about to take a summer vacation in Las Vegas, though, which is where I went for relief, and he said he'd meet me there.

He hadn't been careless with his wording when he said he wanted to do me in a movie. I was in three of the four scenes in Happens in Vegas. He did me in one, me bottoming for him and a third guy. He'd done me in private in New York after one of the vodka company shoots, which is why he wanted to put me in a movie. In the modeling world, it was called greasing the skids—giving out during one shoot with the hopes the director or producer, or whoever had fucked you, put you in another shoot. It wasn't a big deal, other than I didn't do much same-sex sex in New York—not that doing same sex was a big deal with me. Sex is sex is sex is sex. When you have a beautiful body and know it, you don't limit yourself in using it.

A second scene in Happens in Vegas was me fucking a little blond guy, like Josh. The third was a flip-flop. These defined me in what I always called my Las Vegas Phase. My tastes and desires were versatile. I like to do small blond guys, like Josh, but I like being done by big muscle men, and I especially liked group work, with me as a focus. I did women too, when I had the need and there was some advantage in doing so. Like most models, I was narcissistic and admitted to it. I came to Las Vegas to let it all hang out. And I'd let it all hang out in Happens in Vegas. The viewers—and there were a lot of them; it was a very popular movie—saw all of me, including my eight and a half hard, thick inches. That was the other attribute I'd inherited from my Scandinavian dad. (Thanks, Daddy.)

Josh's last, brief stop, what he'd said before asking me to hold back at the gate and wait for him had closed the deal as far as he and I were concerned. In a breathy voice, he's said, "Eight inches?" When he said it, he was holding it through the material of my trousers. That's what had been emphasized in the film credits. The little bugger was very good at feeling a guy up without the surrounding passengers being any the wiser.

"Eight and a half," I'd responded.

"Cut, with a big mushroom cap if the movie cameras didn't lie."

"The cameras didn't lie," I answered. There are those who say size doesn't matter. Those aren't gay male bottoms saying that, though. And what man of pride in that department doesn't know what he measures out to be?

Josh had gone all rubbery and said, "Oh fuckin' shit," before asking me to wait for him to come off the plane.

When he did, he signaled to me with a nod of his head, and went to a door near the gate, opened it with his pass, and nodded to me again. We went down that corridor and then another, all windowless, sterile, and with some sort of metal walls, me carrying my duffle bag at my side. Eventually, he swiped his card at another door and we entered a small interview room of some sort. No windows. Another door, closed, a desk, and two straight-back chairs.

I fucked the shit out of him on the table. It would have looked great on film.

He wanted us both naked. He wanted to memorize my dark, lightly muscular, perfectly formed, slightly hirsute Brazilian stud body. He wanted to savor having been done by the vodka commercial guy, the porn movie guy with the eight and a half hard inches. He wanted a wild adventure to tell his boyfriends about. I was equally happy and turned on by putting my hands on a small blond with narrow hips and firm, pert buttocks that I could press my face in and then squeeze and separate, and blow on as his hole blossomed open for me, and then bury my eight and a half inches and fuck the hell out of him.

I sat on the table, while Josh knelt between my spread thighs and sucked my cock to its full size. He spent extra time playing with the mushroom cap with his lips and tongue. I could tell that he'd been impressed by what the actor had done who had giving me that attention in the movie. All the time he was letting his hands roam, getting as much a feel of my Brazilian-Scandinavian stud body as he could, his hands running through the tight black curls on my pecs, down my tapering torso and then gliding over the backs of my thighs as his little blond head bobbed on my cock. I ran my fingers into his curly blond hair and gave him guidance on what he was doing well and what he then was doing better and best. It was a full blow job. He played the cock until I gave him a warning. He pulled off in time for me to cream his cheeks.

"Shit, you're big—as big as in the movie," he murmured, his voice full of awe. "And you've got a lot of cum, just like in the movies. So, that wasn't all fake."

"No, that wasn't all fake, Josh."

"Nor the instant reloading?" He suddenly was showing concern that the show was already over.

I laughed. "It isn't as instant as in the movie, Josh. But it's close enough for us here."

I came off the table and put my hands on his little body and turned him, belly down, on top the table. I went down on my knees behind him, palmed his buttocks, and separated them. "There are things we can do to entertain ourselves until I get hard again."

"Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. YES!" he exclaimed as I blew on his hole to see it pucker. I buried my face in his crack and started expertly eating him out, preparing him for me. I held him in place, bent over the table with my left hand on his narrow waist. My right one went around and under him, and, as he moaned and groaned and babbled I know not what, I jacked him off to a nicely shot ejaculation while I ate him out.

When it was time to put him on his back on the table and mount him, he begged in a breathy voice, "Like in the movie. Do me like you did the little guy in the movie."

I laughed and put him on his back on the table top, positioned his right leg running up my torso, his ankle hooked on my shoulder, turned his pelvis slightly away from me, grabbed his left calf and spread and raised it away from his body.

He arched his back and his head, his eyes rolling up into his head and his mouth open in a big yawn attached to heavy panting and groaning as I slowly gave him all of my eight-plus thick inches, reveling in the thickness that was splitting the difference in those narrow hips of his, and fucked him and fucked him and fucked him, taking my time in filling out the bulb of my condom.

We pretended like there was a camera across the room taking in not only the expression on his face while he was being spiked, but the dilated hole as well, and of the cock moving in and out of it, my arm naturally out of the way so as not to obstruct the view. It can't be naturally done for the camera. You always have to keep the camera angle and the focus of the shot in mind. I learned so much in shooting that one porn flick.

We were both dressed again when he, hobbling and with a big grin on his face, opened the other door in the room with his key card. We had been fucking just on the other side of the soundproof wall (fortunately) from the busy baggage claim area.

He stood there, hanging on to the doorframe, as I filtered out into the crowd. The last thing I heard him whisper was, "Holy shit, you're big."

I smiled and walked past the luggage carousels and out to the taxi ranks.

Welcome to Las Vegas. Viva Las Vegas.

* * * *

"It's called Hawk's Gym, on East Sahara. I go there."

"Of course you do," I said, with a little laugh. "Thanks for the recommendation, Manny."

He been leaning against his taxi fender outside of McCarran airport arrivals, like a lion in resting awareness. He was all muscle, Hispanic, ugly of face but beautiful of massive body, bulging arms crossed on his bulging chest above a Roman armor-sculpted torso, all tightly covered by an athletic T-shirt. Tattooing everywhere. He smiled knowingly at me as I approached his cab, going to a grin when, I surmise, he got some inkling of where he'd seen me before.

He was ugly enough that I wondered if he had a hard time getting it—whether he'd be extra appreciative of getting it from a looker. I often found that was the case. I was more interested in the body. A darkened room could negate an ugly face. In any case, I had nothing negative to say about a thug, if he was commanding. This guy's body would be great in any light.

"Where to?" he asked as I got into the cab.

"The Gaylords Hotel on East Desert Inn Road," I answered from in back, but leaning forward, arms folded on top of the passenger seat beside the man. The ID card on the dashboard identified him as Manuel Garcia, thirty-three. Five years older than I was.

"Ah, Gaylords. I know it well."

Lots of information in that short sentence. "Well, or intimately?" I asked.

"Really well," he responded, with a laugh. He held his right hand up, folded his thumb under inside the palm, and moved it in and out, in an obvious gesture. "I've had more than one fare end up sharing a bed with me there."

"On top or on the bottom?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered and laughed.

"Good to know," I said.

Gaylords was an exclusively gay hotel off the main drag. And Garcia was signaling he was what I was acknowledging to be—that he too was gay was revealed while we were still in the exit road from the airport onto the nearby South Las Vegas Boulevard, the heart of The Strip.

"The vodka commercials. You're that guy, right?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm that guy," I said. I risked reaching into the front seat and touching his exposed bicep, and when he didn't react negatively, I ran my hand over the bulge, following the curve of it. My approval of big muscles—and his, specifically—clearly conveyed to him. "Nice definition," said.

"I can be more than nice," he responded. "Are you coming on to me?"

"I could be," I said. "It's been a long flight." I didn't mention that I'd fucked a guy since I landed. I was randy for the other side of that, though—being fucked myself.

We were out on the boulevard, but not for long. He turned on Tropicana and then on the less-congested South Eastern Avenue to cruise toward the old town.

"And you were in that movie done here," Manuel said.

"Happens in Vegas?"

"Yes, that one."

"Yes, that too,"

"I like how you took it, under that muscle guy. He was Hispanic, wasn't he, like me?"

"I liked that too—taking it from a muscle guy," I said, "and, yes, I'm sure he was an Hispanic stud—like you. I'm Brazilian. Latin hot blood. You too, maybe?" We were pulling up to the entrance of Gaylords—and then beyond, into the parking lot, to the corner of the parking lot, under a tree.

"He wasn't an ugly guy like me, though, was he, the Hispanic in the porn flick?"

"I focus on the body," I said, running my hand over his bicep again. I'm sure he got the message.

That's when I asked him about a gym for gay guys that was close to here, if possible. I had leaned into him, sticking my tongue out and running it up the vein in his neck. He shuddered but held. But he hadn't stopped at the entrance to let me out, so he wasn't breaking this off.

"It's called Hawk's Gym, on East Sahara. I go there."

"Of course you do," I said, with a little laugh. "Thanks for the recommendation, Manny."

"It's just two lights further up into the old town from here, and hook a left. It's right there on the left."

"You going to put the cab in park and come upstairs?" I asked. "I'm not sure I can find my room on my own, and I need someone to carry my bag."

He laughed. "You're in great shape. You can carry your own bag. I need to be on the meter today. I couldn't take long."

That wasn't a no.

"I don't pay for it, Manny. I give good value myself. Do you have friends you could impress by telling them you'd shagged one of the actors in Happens in Vegas?"

He reached over and turned the meter off.

"How long you take is up to you," I said. "That guy in Happens in Vegas—he had nothing on you. I like a big man with muscles." I leaned in closer and whispered in his ear, "Turn the car off and come upstairs and fuck me, Manny."

He turned the engine off; went upstairs with me, the guy at reception doing no more than raising his eyebrow and giving a little smile; and fucked me. He laid me out good and rang my chimes.

There was no further foreplay. He had us both stripped and me up against the wall, my back to the wall next to the door to the room, my knees hooked on his hips. A full-length mirror was on the wall right beside us, leading into the room, and I was able to watch from the side the big, muscular brute bully, all tattoos, fuck me against the wall. He was beer-can cock thick. Not long, but cruel in his power thrusts, moving my back up and down on the wall next to the door, as he pistoned his shaft up inside me like he had another fare waiting for him down in the cab. I managed to get a hand between us and jacked myself off.

When he came, he stepped away from me, pulling the condom off his cock and making a great shot into the wastebasket through the bathroom door in the wall opposite the mirror, and let me just slide down on the floor. I expected him to dress quickly then and leave to get his cab back on the road, but I was wrong. He went into the room, naked, found the minibar, extracted a can of cold beer, and sat on the foot of the bed, playing with himself with one hand, drinking off the beer with the other, and watching me with his eyes. I lay on the floor by the door, moaning, with a little smile of satisfaction on my face, and playing with my cock with my hand.

"I think that's how the dude did you in the movie," he said.

"Yes, it is," I answered. But "the dude" had done me a second time. Would Manny?

Yes, he would.

After several minutes and having finished his beer and worked his cock up to half hard again, he rose from the bed, came to the entrance into the room, crouched over and grabbed me under the armpits, and dragged me across the floor, to the bed.

He sat on the end of the bed, holding me on my knees between his spread thighs, and fed his cock into my mouth. Panting and moaning, I worked his cock into full erection again. He wasn't satisfied. He wanted to work my throat over longer. He pulled me up on the bed, with my head hanging over the foot of the bed. He crouched over me, one hand palming my sternum, holding me down on the bed, psychologically if not physically. I opened my mouth wide, and he slid his shaft inside, going deep, throat-fucking me. His free hand was massaging my throat, feeling where the cock was reaching. I palmed his buttocks in surrender. This was the same way the big stud in Happens in Vegas had face fucked me. Manny had, indeed, seen the movie. He wanted it the same way. Moaning, I let him have it. But he didn't cum inside my throat as the stud in the movie had.

I, however, had come a second time. He had leaned over me, the hand on my sternum, going to my cock, and he had beaten me off, my cum splashing up onto his hard belly.

He came off the bed, dragged me into the center of the room, pushing me over onto my back. He hooked my ankles on his shoulders, thrust inside me and fucked me in a missionary—deep, hard, brutally—on the hotel room floor. I writhed under him, letting him know that he was doing me well, just the way I liked it. Just the way the brute in Happens in Vegas had done it. Both of them rough. Both of them doing me totally.

I lay there, moaning and panting, as he took a quick shower, dressed, turned and smiled at me at the door, and saluted. "As good for you as the guy in the movie?" he asked.

"Absolutely, yes," I murmured.

"I left my card by the TV over there. Call me if you need another ride while you're in Vegas—a ride in my cab or on my cock—or both. The meter will be off for either." He left, with a laugh.

I went up on my knees to make sure he'd really left his card on the bureau and then, with a satisfied groan, I fell back on the floor.

Less than two hours back in Vegas and I'd had it both of the ways I liked it already. Viva Las Vegas.

I crawled onto the bed, closed my eyes, and slept. The trip out from New York had been exhausting. I had a conference to go to in the morning.