Free Gianni by Justin Luke Zirilli Page B

shoot started — calling me “Johnny.” Like, seriously? Do I look that fucking ordinary?
    Bitch, please. I’m the hottest thing on the scene right now. I know it. Your gay girlfriend knows it. The Japanese businessmen downstairs know it. This isn’t just some egomaniacal little boy talking, okay? I’ve got the throbbing checking account, the fawning fan sites, the constant phone calls from competing porn companies on both coasts to prove it. Every gay guy clicking through XTube wants to fuck me. Not that they’ll come right out and admit that to their boyfriends or husbands. No… they’ll just click around for an hour or two, praying silently that they stumble upon another illegally uploaded scene of mine, hoping their significant other doesn’t come home and catch them. (Little do they know that their spouses were jacking off to me on their lunch break.)
    Yeah, a lot of people want to fuck me. Lucky for them, all they need is a wish and a fat wallet. My RentBoy profile gets more traffic than the Google homepage. My out rate is a solid G, my in rate twice as much. Want to keep me overnight or for a weekend? I suggest you get in contact with a Saudi prince and beg for a loan.
    I can top. I can bottom. I can do both simultaneously. I’ve got a massive 9-incher that won’t quit, an ass tighter than a garden hose, abs harder than a slab of marble. Who doesn’t want to toss off across the hairless chest of Gianni Green, Mr. Barely Eighteen? I haven’t met a single gay guy yet.
    Making bank taking your clothes off is quite a way to go. It’s the best joke I ever played, and the punchline is big enough to buy me cross-country tickets to the White Party in Palm Springs and still leave cash on the side to hit up Gay Days in Orlando and Southern Decadence in New Orleans. Not that I actually pay to travel, but the funds are there in case. I’ve got the dollars to buy the full catalogue of drugs every night of the week if I want to. Of course I don’t shill out a penny for my E, G, Molly, and K… so that money goes toward imported underwear with names I can’t pronounce and skin cleansing products made from black diamonds (not legally sold in the United States). Gotta love the irony: the richer you are, the more desperate everybody is to give you what you want for free. I can go days on end without spending a dime of my own dinero. Don’t think I waste my breath on “thank you,” either.
    When you fuck for a living, your life isn’t like everybody else’s. It’s a 24-hour party where bottles pop like Fourth of July fireworks and you KiKi with laughing shadows, celebrity drag queens, major nightlife personalities, and beautiful faceless bodies until you fall asleep, wake up as the sun is going back down, and do it all over again.
    Can you believe that this is the life of Mr. Barely Eighteen? Well, it wasn’t always that way. Mr. Barely Seventeen was a run-of-the-mill (albeit hot) Long Island teenager. He had a mommy and daddy. He went to high school and planned on going to college. But now? Now he’s on his way to porn stardom with no need for that higher education bullshit. I’ll be like the Bill Gates or Steve Jobs of porn. Famous. Rich. And everyone can be jealous because I did it without wasting time in a classroom. Ironically, one of my upcoming scenes will be shot on a classroom set. That counts, right?
    Today in the studio, Gianni Green wears a jockstrap (pointless, as my dick hasn’t been kept in it). My cameraman is overdressed in a suit and sunglasses — you know, because he’s just
sooo
talented and in demand. Hate to break it to you, Mr. Sunglasses… you’re being paid to take flattering photos of the hole I shit out of. Those tinted specs try their best to say “I have to hurry, sweetie – I’ve got a plane to Milan in an hour.” Really? Maybe if I poke my cock out a little further between my legs, I’ll see the bulge in your pants get even bigger.
    In the blaze of these massively hot