Free Gianni by Justin Luke Zirilli

Gianni
    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