90 minutes a day and a pretty face… You’d be amazed at what some good looks and time in the gym can do for you. The possibilities are endless: get an agent, get a role, get laid and get laid some more. Having just a good face or just a good body will only get you so far. You need both—the total package—to really make it big. This is why you eat right—no carbs after seven, keep your fat intake under twenty grams per day, no fast food—NEVER any fast food. Fat people eat fast food.
You do a minimum of thirty minutes of cardio per day, time well spent on the elliptical behind the young blonde with the great spandex ass. You spend a minimum of forty-five minutes on weight training. Guys come up to you. “What do you do for this or that?” pointing to their biceps or delts that are inferior to yours. “Genetics,” you reply. The face… well, you were born with that. You’ll start out with a couple modeling gigs, then do a couple local commercials, then some National stuff, then land that sitcom role on Grey’s Anatomy of a guy who dies after having a steel pipe pushed through his chest, his wife crying at his side while Dr. Yang delivers the bad news. The day would come.
You’re doing curls, looking good. Your arms have a nice pump.
“Hey,” some guy says.
“Hey.”
“Have you ever done any modeling?”
And that’s how it starts, the gateway to the stars. This guy you thought was going to hit on you is only a talent scout, admiring your gifts. He tells you about this modeling gig that pays good-looking guys like you good money; says he’s an agent.
“Here’s my card.”
The next day, you call the number on the card and they want you in, asap. You meet at this studio apartment downtown for your first shoot.
They want you in jeans, nothing else.
“Take your shirt off.”
“How much are you paying me?”
“Five-hundred per session.”
You remove your shirt. The gay guy setting up the lighting salivates over you. It’s flattering, really.
The camera flashes.
“Put your hand here.”
Flash.
“Pull your pants lower with your thumb. Look at the camera.”
Flash.
“Flex.”
You do as they say.
Somewhere, women are going to stroke their pussies to the image of your abs, visualizing how big your cock is; what it would feel like; what the whip cream would taste like being licked from your chest and lower abdomen.
An hour later, you put your shirt back on. They write you a check for five-hundred dollars, and you’re done. You feel good.
The next day, you get a call.
“You received a lot of views. They want you to do some full-nude shots.”
“Wow. That’s great, but no thanks.”
“They’ll pay you a lot for full-nude. Plus, this will look great on your modeling resume. And anyway, you know your body’s made for it.”
“I don’t know.”
“A thousand dollars a session.”
You take the offer. You meet at the same apartment building. The same cameraman is there but with some different guy working the lights. There’re also two other guys hanging out. One brings over some vodka.
“Here.”
“Thanks.”
“And this will help take the edge off.”
He hands you a Valium that you swallow.
“Disrobe.”
You take your shirt off.
“How much do you work out?”
You explain your workout routine to the guy that has never seen a body so sculpted.
“Your pants.”
The shoot begins.
Flash.
“Put your hand here.”
Flash.
“Turn around.”
Flash.
“Turn back around.”
Flash.
“Stroke it.”
Flash.
“Keep stroking it.”
Flash.
You think about all the women that are going to cream their panties looking at pictures of you stroking your dick. Thinking about this makes you hard. All the guys in the room are fixated on your gift of a body.
“Ok,” the cameraman says, coming up from behind the camera, breathing heavily.
One of the guys hands a robe to you. He eyes you up and down.
“Nice work.”
The way he said that makes you a little uncomfortable. You quickly wrap the robe around your waist. You slide your jeans up over your legs, drop the robe, and put your shirt on.
“Here you go.” They hand you a check for one-thousand dollars.
“Thanks.”
You leave feeling shameful about your decision to do the shoot but then think about all the women out there toying their pussies to your photos.
The next day, you get a call.
“You received a ton of views. They really like you.”
“I’m sure.”
“They think you’ve got what it takes to go next level. They’re talking movies.”
“Movies?”
“Yep.”
This is it: your big break, and it’s happening practically overnight. It’s amazing what a pretty face and 90 minutes a day in the gym will do for you.
“What kind of movie?”
“Well, porno.”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” All of a sudden this guy gives you attitude.
You give some back. “Look, man, I don’t know.”
“This is your big break and you don’t know?”
“Well, yeah.”
“You already showed your dick to the world.”
And despite this sounding grand, you don’t feel good.
“And now they want to pay you two-thousand per scene to show it, and you don’t know?”
“Two-thousand?”
“Yep.”
That’s a lot of money for fucking some hot chicks, while women everywhere masturbate to you.
“Do I get to pick the girls?”
“Girls? There are no girls.”
“I don’t get it.”
“There are no girls. This is a male-only movie.”
“What?”
“Who do you think you’ve been stroking your cock for?”
This is where you realize it isn’t women that want to see you, it’s men. Practically overnight, you’ve become a hit in the gay community, receiving the most hits on some dude-on-dude site. Your stomach drops out of you. Why didn’t you see this? Why didn’t you question them? You hang up on the words coming from the other end.
Over the next couple hours, the phone rings several times. You don’t answer.
The next day, that hot blonde with the great spandex ass is at the gym. She smiles shyly at you. You smile back.
“Hi.”
That night, you take her for drinks and then fuck her back at your place.
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