Free Gianni by Justin Luke Zirilli Page A

a life, right? Non-stop money for the easiest work you could ever imagine. Stuff most boys do for free.
    Okay, it’s not completely easy. That homepage shoot took three hours because the camera crew had to fuck with the lighting every five minutes to capture the depth and deliciousness of my abs. I got soft and hard again at least a hundred times. But still. Of all the things I could do for cash, jerking off is pretty straightforward and stress-free. I mean, I’ve had a ton of practice — I’m one of few people for whom all that time spent with my hand down my pants when I should have been doing homework actually became more useful for my future.
    Solo scenes demand a minimum amount of preparation — it’s hard to screw up getting yourself off — though some gigs do require my full attention. Next week I shoot a double-penetration scene out in L.A. and I get to be the spit-roasted stud in the middle. It won’t exactly take Meryl Streep-level acting skills to convince my fans I’m enjoying myself — because hello! How could I not be? Still, it’s a performance. It requires a certain level of skill, like any other.
    But that’s next week.
    Right now I’m in the studio, shooting preview shots for my featured star profile on LostBoyz. The studio is on the fourth floor of this mixed-use all-rental building in the Village. Down the hall some Off-Broadway show is holding auditions. Warbled high notes and off-key piano fill our “soundproof” room. It isn’t cute. In the lobby I saw a bunch of Japanese businessmen all speaking in panic voices on their cell phones. They weren’t cute, either. There’s a bodega around the corner that boasts, “The Best Pizza in NY! – Anonymous” on a dirty, cracked sign above the door. Like that’s fooling anybody.
    This makeshift studio was rented out for the day by LostBoyz. As soon as we’re done, the next renter will be allowed in to do whatever it is they’re going to do. Maybe I’ll leave a photo behind to let them know I was buck naked, rubbing my taint all over that leather sofa. Then again, for all I know, another porn company might use this room next, and I don’t need them stealing all my ideas for hot poses.
    “Bend over,” the photographer says, just as nonchalantly as if he were asking me my opinion on the weather. I do as I am asked, pop my butt up and out just so, giving it the perfect bubble effect so many other porn stars would kill for.
    “Now on your back. And hold your right leg up. Tense your thigh.”
    Done. Done. Done. Easy.
    “Brush your hair behind your left ear. Can you get any harder?”
    I sigh loudly, as if this is an imposition. But it’s no problem. I swear, whenever I go soft from doing this all day, I just imagine the rising digits in my bank account, and…
boing
!
    The photographer is wearing sunglasses. Indoors. Bless his heart. He’s pretending he doesn’t want to jam it in me. He shoots me as if I were a vase of tulips or a bacon cheeseburger. Snap snap snap. All the while he tells me of more important shoots he has lined up. He’ll be photographing Beyonce next week, along with some big deal show during Fashion Week. Ha. Why does he bother? He’s a fucking gay porn photographer, and guess what they shoot? Gay porn. Not pop stars, not runway models. If he wanted to be out taking pictures of butterflies in Central Park, that’s where he’d be. Instead, he makes his bread capturing guys like me pounding each other like dough, and all the while he plays it off like this is some slummy side gig rather than his perverted profession of choice. You just KNOW he’s tugging at his balls as he uploads these to his computer. The only time he’ll shoot Beyonce is if he chases her down the street, fighting it out with other paparazzi slugs as she high-tails it in the opposite direction.
    I don’t appreciate how insignificant he’s trying to make me feel. Doesn’t he know who I am? He even pretended to mispronounce my name before the