Mohawk Nation 2
by AKA
Being a grip on a gay porn shoot is a whole lot less interesting than it sounds. And to be honest, I’m not a grip so much as an everything man, getting coffee and lube, making sure the little blue pills are readily available, pretty much doing everything except yelling “Make it look like you’re enjoying this!” at the actors.
Porn shoots are a lot less sexy when you’re on set. I probably don’t need to tell you that, but I feel it’s kind of necessary in order to make the story I’m going to relate a bit more… interesting. Not that it needs to be more interesting, you understand, it’s pretty fucking amazing on its own merits, but I probably should set the scene here so you’ll fully appreciate everything that I tell you later on. And believe me, you’ll want to stick around for that.
As long as we’re divulging, I should also add that I’m not even gay. Or, I guess, not exclusively gay. Sex isn’t the black and white world I was lead to believe it was. I mean, I’m an open-minded guy and I can appreciate a sexy body no matter which sex happens to be wearing it, right? I mean, you guys, I’m gonna assume, are probably gay as all get out. Super gay or something, which is fine, whatever. I’m just not. And I get accused of chickening out or something all the fucking time. Like, “How can you like having sex with men and then say you’re not gay?” And my standard reply is, “I’m not entirely gay and I’m not entirely straight, either. I like having sex, period. I like fucking a girl or fucking a guy. I like having my dick sucked no matter who’s down there sucking. I like kissing guys and girls and I like having my butt played with occasionally so I don’t know what that makes me and I don’t really care.”
Wow. Sorry. Didn’t mean to come off all judgmental, there, but it gets kind of old, y’know? Girlfriends accusing me of being gay, boyfriends saying I’m not gay enough. One day I’ll find someone who understands me - or maybe I won’t. All I know is, I’m having a lot of fun right now so fuck ‘em if they can’t accept me, right?
Anyway, all that shit doesn’t have much to do with my story, anyway, but I thought I’d let you understand my point of view when it comes to the dudes of the Mohawk Nation calendars. Which is what and who I’m going to be talking about, here, so maybe you should go take a gander at one of the calendars over at amazon.com or, better yet, take a drive over to Barnes and Noble or Borders or even that little gay bookstore in your local ghetto because if no one else is carrying these things, they’re sure to have a stack of them - if they’re not sold out. And it’ll be worth your time, I promise you. No matter what your particular fetish happens to be, leather or denim, cops or cowboys, butts or hairy chests, hell they even have a foot calendar out now! I mean, these dudes really understand their demographic, and no one looks better hanging up on your wall than a ‘Hawk.
Anyway, let’s assume you’re already familiar with these dudes and their frozen pictures. They haven’t exactly hit mainstream, yet, but they’re certainly not ‘under the radar’ anymore, either. Kind of like Tom of Finland, y’know? I mean, you mention the Mohawk Nation at any gay bar or club, and everything kind of stops and that’s all any dude there wants to talk about, suddenly. But you’re not going to catch them parading around on Oprah or having a feature story on CNN, y’know what I’m saying? These dudes are still niche enough to be cool, and hot enough to be noticed. They’re this year’s Chippendales or International Male, only the target market isn’t exactly a secret.
So what with the success of the calendars and the books, where’s the videos, everyone keeps asking? Where are the hot ‘Hawk on ‘Hawk poolside porn shoots? It’s pretty obvious that these fellows have the necessary bearing (no pun intended) and even more obvious that they own the necessary equipment and are ready, willing and able to show it off, so why aren’t my local porn shops stocked with “’Hawks on Patrol” or “Hot ‘Hawks” or “Harry Potter and the ‘Hawk up My Ass” or something?
Well, now we come to the heart of my tale. I can tell you where they are, and why they aren’t on your porn shelf or downloadable off Rapidshare right now - it’s because there aren’t any.
See, I’m not just a porn set go-getter, I’m also a mainstream film dude, but in the current financial climate getting those gigs is a bit of a challenge. It really is ‘who you know’ and who I know, partly because of my own sexual predilections, happen to be the sort of people pointing their cameras at two people fucking. So it was that I found myself on the set of Chi Chi LaRue’s “Hawks!” this week and how you find yourself sitting there reading these words. But this film won’t ever be released because… but I’m getting ahead of myself.
This wasn’t the first time a Mohawk Nation film had been planned, but there had been some complications that kept earlier attempts from succeeding. Nobody would say what those complications were, but I had my own suspicions - that those failures were due to some of the usual crap that goes into a fuck film when they try to create an aura of ‘believability’ around something that should be as natural as, well, fucking.
You know what I mean. The set up. The so-called plot. The flimsy bit of ‘acting’ and ‘dialog’ that happens at the beginning of these things where the characters are defined as being, I don’t know, horny cowboys or long distance truckers or first-time fist fuckers who happen upon a dungeon in the basement of their neighbor’s house. Some weird excuse for a plot that’s supposed to set up all the sex that happens later. Dude finds another hot dude cleaning his pool. Dude one is all, “Oh, he’s hot, but I can’t let him know I’m attracted to him at all, even though I’m all leering at him and rubbing my naughty parts under my teeny tiny swim suit.” Dude two is all, “Wow, that guy is hot and he’s rubbing his cock. I wonder if he’s hot for me? Maybe I should bend over like this and show him my hot ass and then accidentally give him a blow job.”
Or something like that.
Me, I think the less your brain is in there complicating things and the more you let your body do the talking, the better it is for all concerned. It’s not that I want to fuck a dumb dude more than a smart dude - smart’s got nothing to do with it. But when you’re in there good and deep, and then you start thinking about your TiVo and if you remembered to record House this week, or that deadline you’ve got pending, or a million other things that get in the way of the dirty deed, you’re just messing up what should be a simple, filthy act for everyone to relax and enjoy. Then your dick’s gonna start doing all the thinking and in this case, when you’re both naked, horny, hot and ready - it’s about fucking time your dick did all the thinking.
Okay, enough with the sermons. But, you know, there’s a reason Tequila exists! For fuck’s sake!
And I mean that literally.
So they kept trying it with the ‘Hawks, right? But a funny thing kept happening on the set. And it became pretty fucking clear why all those photo shoots only show one of these Mohawk Nation guys instead of two of them together.
“The problem,” it was whispered, “is that they can’t act their way out of a paper bag.”
“No,” it was countered, “the problem is that all the steroids they’re obviously popping means that their balls are the size of peanuts.”
“No,” someone else would gossip, “the problem is that their pictures are so airbrushed that the hi-def cameras are showing off exactly how unglamorous they really are.”
Friends, I was there at the first attempt, and I can tell you that all those excuses are bullshit. The problem wasn’t that these dudes couldn’t act, because how much acting, exactly, is involved in your average fuckfest? Secondly, their balls could never be described as peanut-sized. If anything, seeing the pair on one of these dudes up close and personal would make you doubt they were actual and for-real because they’re so fucking big! And if their photos were airbrushed at all, it must have been to add blemishes and imperfections because I can tell you from first-hand experience that the Mohawk Nation tribe members I’ve met are exactly as handsome and built and beautiful as those calendars portray.
If anything, they’re even better looking in person.
No, the reason why no one had succeeded in capturing the sheer, unfiltered, ungodly, inhuman sexual power and physical beauty of these guys was quite simply because any time you got two of them together in the same room… well, let me start at the beginning before I jump to the end.
Porn shoots aren’t usually very big productions. Typically, you either shoot at a studio in L.A. or San Francisco, or you rent someone’s property in Palm Springs or the valley, you bring in a couple of cameras (if you’re lucky, and one if you’re not) and a sound guy and someone who can set up the lighting, then you spend a few boring days watching two hot naked dudes who probably just met pretend that they’re really into each other, when at the same time they have a crew of other dudes hanging around them with all these distractions, while another dude is yelling at them how they should be abusing each other anally. Honestly, it’s not very fun and not very sexy. Wish I could tell you different, but there it is.
I was pretty psyched about being on the set of the first Mohawk porn shoot, though. I was really curious about these guys and had my own favorite. We all have our personal tastes when it comes to who and what turns us on, and for me it’s a built dude with a hairy chest, dark hair, blue eyes and a smile that lights up his whole face. Mr. June was that dude in fucking spades, and he was going to be in the movie. And there would be another of these Mohawk Nation dudes, along with two seasoned professionals, coming to the shoot when all was said and done.
Frankly I wouldn’t have kicked a single one of them out of my bed, right?
I’m not bad looking, if I do say so myself. Kind of on the thin side, but I keep fit. Not a gym queen by any means - probably, all the sex helps me stay in shape more than anything else. I get - and give - quite a workout between the sheets. I keep the head cleanly shaved, because I like the feel of hands on my scalp, wear a little goatee, have a nice sized cock on the thick side, a few piercings here and there, some for show and some for pleasure, and a creamy white bubble butt that loves to get fucked.
Yeah, I’m a slut, I freely admit that. I like sex! No, I love sex! I love everything about it. And I think it should be fun and freaky and make you feel good and make your partners feel good and at the end of it you should feel satisfied and happy and content and not guilty or sorry or bad. How is that wrong, I ask you?
I wanted to be all cool about it, so I didn’t act like I was excited at all. Didn’t even ask anyone which of the ‘Hawks would be showing up, but my ‘in’ to the production (a regular fuck buddy, if I am being totally honest) told me specifically that Mr. June - the original Mr. June - was one of them, knowing my admiration for that man’s particular image.
If you haven’t seen it yet, let me enlighten you. This particular image is in black and white. We’re apparently at some construction site, because there’s a piece of heavy equipment (nudge, nudge, wink, wink) and a chain link fence in the immediate vicinity. Perched at the open door of the crane or bulldozer or whatever it is, is our man for June. He wears the tightest fitting jeans on the planet and a pair of work boots, the kind made of beige colored leather with the ankle collar and the brass eyelets - not that I notice those kinds of details, you understand. Under one arm, his hard hat is pressed to the side of his otherwise naked body. And what a body it is!
Muscle? You better believe he’s got muscle, and friend it is fucking everywhere. It’s like he was built from the ground up out of nothing but manly brawn, manly fur and anything else that comes in the manly construction set. He seems a bit sweaty from his shirtless destruction of whatever building was lucky enough to have him swinging his big wrecking ball at it, and the thick rug of fur spread across his huge fucking pecs sparkles with beads of salty man sweat.
He is looking not at the camera, but at some fixed point above it - into the future, perhaps, or at the object of his obvious lust. I say ‘obvious’ because remember those jeans I mentioned? Well, whoever the wardrobe genius was who gave them to him knew what he was doing, because one of the biggest, fattest, juiciest looking pricks in the world is overtly pressing itself against the well-worn denim, and every detail of it has been somehow lovingly outlined. The dude - or one of his chums - must have been buffing those jeans along the prominent bulge of his manhood for hours to make sure that every vein, every bulge, every sweet inch of it is so prominently displayed that the dude might as well be naked.
His helmet is positioned nearly at his right hip, and the swollen basket pushes all that meat forward with authority. It’s obscene, really, how good his cock looks behind his pants. And there’s not an ounce of fat on his thickly muscled form. You can even see the moist pit of his furry muscular arm, because the photographer just knew - he just knew that I like nothing better than sticking my nose in another man’s stinking pit and snorting his essence. Fuck, it is a hot photo, and I have splooged more jizz than a stallion on a stud farm to that image of Mr. June, so you better believe I arrived bright and early for the shoot.
You may be asking yourself how I knew that the dude had blue eyes, and the truth was that I didn’t, but I imagined that he did. As I said, he wasn’t looking at the camera and it was a black and white picture, but his eyes were bright and alight and the effect of that against the dark fur of his form and that fucking sexy Mohawk atop his skull drove me fucking batshit. He was absolutely perfect, in my mind. And I wanted to meet him.
And by ‘meet’ I mean ‘fuck.’
The crew was there and so were the two professional porn stars brought in to show the new guy the tricks of the trade. Admittedly, these were very hot porn stars. I won’t tell you their names, because maybe they don’t want it known what happened that day - reputations are important, after all, especially in the porn trade - but let’s just say that one is from France and a definite muscle stud, and the other is a slim Czech hottie with a horse-sized cock, but neither is particularly shy about parading their assets around for everyone to see.
We were all going about our various set-up routines, shooting the shit, setting the lights, doing sound checks and the two actors were getting, uh, ready for the camera when this sound echoes through the studio like two boulders having sex.
It’s him. The ‘Hawk. Mr. Fucking June. He had cleared his throat for attention and somehow managed to get everyone in the room to stop whatever it was they were doing and give it to him, because my friend, Mr. June was all that and a bag of fucking chips!
Oh, man, did he ever surpass my expectations. He was standing at the threshold near the entrance to the set. It was a bit dark over there, but his towering form was like some kind of sexual beacon. You couldn’t not look at him. He walked forward and said, “Hi,” as simply as that, like this sort of thing happened every fucking day, like some sex god walked into a room and made everyone start popping boners and salivating and forget their own names as he tried introducing himself around.
He was fucking huge, for one thing. Easily over six feet tall, and built like the proverbial brick shithouse. I mean, everything bulged on this guy’s bod. That calendar picture didn’t even begin to do him justice. I watched him walk from man to man, offering his hand in greeting, and fucking every one of them had their jaw on the floor and a hard-on raging in their pants. How could you not? I don’t care if you’re gay or straight or somewhere in-between like me, this guy was something… special. You could practically - no - literally feel the sexual heat he gave off.
He was wearing those jeans. I shit you not. Those fucking jeans and they fucking fit him like a fucking glove. He had on a white T-shirt that seemed a touch too small for him, though I’m not sure anyone makes a T-shirt in size fucking awesome. Chest, shoulders, arms, everything was testing the limits of that lucky shirt.
He moved with a predatory grace, like a panther summing up the display of meat for his dinner. His eyes moved over the bodies of every man he encountered, and that smile never left his lips. He had to know what kind of effect he was having, he had to!
Suddenly it was my turn. I watched him approach. As he released the cameraman’s hand, his eyes shifted to me and I knew I had all of his attention. I could feel him examining me, like his gaze was made of fire as it traveled over my body. My prick was already throbbing but now it grew rock-hard.
His eyes were blue. So deeply blue. Like the sky. Like the sea. Like jewels.
He moved toward me and offered his hand and said something, but there was a kind of roaring in my ears and I couldn’t hear him. I watched his lips move, the play of his tongue on his white teeth, the dimples on his cheeks, the way the creases on his forehead deepened when he smiled. His Mohawk was larger, now, taller than in his calendar picture. The sides of his head were shaved perfectly clean, and even his ears looked sexy.
I took his hand in mine and he squeezed gently. I think I came a little. My balls seized up and I was suddenly very hot and then very cold and the roaring stopped as he bent toward me. “You’re fucking hot,” he said softly. His voice was a low growl. I could feel the heat of his huge body bathing mine. “Let’s fuck later,” he said, squeezing my hand again. He may have even licked my ear, but I was so dazed and horny that he could have licked my whole body and I wouldn’t have known it.
Then he was off to the next person to greet, and I was left standing there with a raging hard-on and a pair of cum-stained Y-fronts and the echo of his words in my head.
You’re fucking hot.
Let’s fuck later.
This small example illustrates another possible reason why no ‘Hawk-Porn had made it out of the studio. The minute a member of their tribe shows up - the fucking second they walk in the room - every other man becomes a walking hard-on and the thought of getting anything at all done kind of flies out the window.
Mr. June, on his own, was bad enough. We couldn’t concentrate. We couldn’t communicate. He wasn’t even naked, yet, and already every dude in that room was ready to drop trou and start servicing the guy. And things only got worse from there.
A ‘Hawk in his clothes is one thing, but a naked ‘Hawk is something else altogether. That’s when you realize why they keep their skivvies on in those calendar pictures. A fully exposed tribe member of the Mohawk Nation is something beyond mere masculine beauty. I’m sure that seeing one of these men naked on your wall would keep you rubbing yourself raw for hours. Having one right there, in person, is almost unbearable.
Someone finally got their shit together, some assistant or tech, and they managed to find their voice and ask Mr. June to unclothe himself so we could adjust the lights to show off his skin to its best effect. Some dudes have been abusing a few illicit drugs for one reason or another, and we need to compensate. It should’ve been clear to anyone within a stone’s throw of Mr. June that this man’s skin was perfection. Clear, smooth, silken and beautiful. Still, it’s a job and somebody’s got to do it, right?
I’d seen him shirtless, sure. We all had. I knew what was under that T-shirt. Hell, I’d practically burned his picture into my brain. So when he stripped that off and pulled it over his head, revealing that amazing collection of perfect brawn and luscious fur, my Mr. Stiffy was already in overdrive. It was when the dude started to unzip his jeans and pull the crotch open that my world began to spin in an entirely new direction and everything started to unwind.
The dude owned…. okay, let me just pause for a second and try to get my shit together. I mean, just thinking about that…. just imaging his…. just the thought… the memory… oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.
Sorry. Sorry about that. Okay. Let me… okay. The dude, Mr. June, he starts to peel himself out of those jeans, right? And everyone is, like, holding their breath or something. Pin drop time, y’know? Because, like I said, those jeans did an awfully good job of revealing what was hidden inside them. And, sure, when you see something like that you wonder if it’s real. Because how could it be? That’s a fucking huge cock on a fucking huge man! Gotta be a prop or some artful image manipulation or something, right?
His big meaty hands reach down and undo the button on his jeans. He’s all cool as shit, right? Taking it slow, he’s got to know we’re all getting off on this but he’s so casual about it, so calm. He’s not stripping. This isn’t a show. He’s just taking off his clothes. He’s standing right there, that huge man, that handsome face, that tall sexy Mohawk on his head like an announcement of his Alpha status among the pack of us wolves, and he pops open the top button and there’s like this shared intake of breath. This is it. We all know it. We all want to see it. And here it comes.
So he pulls his jeans open and the zipper fucking undoes itself - I mean, it’s like the poor thing was doing all it could to contain him and now, finally unburdened, it fucking peeled itself apart from the sheer size go his equipment. And now we can all see the full bushy curls of his pubes, no way this dude trims anything, he’s so fucking furry and it’s clear he loves it, so his pants are now pulled open but that fucking huge prick, it’s lodged along his thigh, making its own fold in the denim, a fat tube snaking sideways from the fat bulge between his legs, and the fucking head is flaring out near his hip and he starts - slowly - he starts to peel those skin-tight jeans down his body.
Now I wish I was behind him. Just for a second. Y’know? I want to see his ass. You fucking know he has a furry ass, and a furry crack, and two round, perfect, muscular globes of butt meat all sweaty and salty and lickable. I want to see his butt revealed in all its glory, the most gorgeous ass in the world.
But I have a prime spot up front! I mean, I can see everything! And he’s smiling and looking at us - at me - as he strips the jeans off his hips and pushes them down his body, off his butt, and then he pushes his bear paw into his jeans and grabs onto the fat shaft of his meat and starts tugging out inch after thick, glorious, amazing inch of cock.
Friend, it is huge! It is awesome! It is the biggest fucking prick I have ever seen, and remember that I work with porn stars! But this thing… this cock… this massive shank of meat puts any other prick I’ve ever encountered to utter shame.
It flops out. No, ‘flop’ males it sound less impressive than it was. It surges out. It charges out. It makes its presence known with force and magnificence. It needs its own musical accompaniment, this thing does. It requires a whole fucking soundtrack, just this moment, the magical reveal, the money shot.
The plump and abundant head is cowled in a tight collar of foreskin. Its pink tip pushes forward, the lips of the mouth look like they’re forming a kiss, and the shape of his helmet, the luscious mushroom cap of his plum, dangles at the end of what has to be a full foot of prick that, released from its cage, seems to be swelling even larger. The shaft is massive, a veiny snake of epic proportions arching forward and down, an inviting shank of delicious meat waiting to be worshiped. I can imagine my hands around his prick, squeezing against its obvious firmness, feeling its heat and weight in my grip. I want to charge forward and take hold of it and pull it fully inside my mouth and suck on its abundance. I want to make him feel my tongue as I plunge it beneath that tight cowl of skin and taste his salted honey discharge.
He growls again, or moans or something, an obviously pleasureable sound from his throat, and he pets the inches of his cock with the back of his hand before digging in and pulling out two hen’s egg-sized balls hanging low in a hairy sack you just want to suck on until he cums all over your face. Fuck! I mean, fuck! It’s the most gorgeous, lip-smacking, gargantuan and sexy set of cock and balls any of us has ever seen.
He bends down to pull his jeans off his thickly muscled legs and then straightens, now fully naked and revealed in all his magnificence. It’s nearly unbelievable, the man’s utter beauty and perfection. But he’s standing right there. He’s fucking standing there, and if I take two steps forward he’d be in my arms. I could put my hands all over his furry chest, dig my fingers into that forest of dark curls, pluck the fat nipples mounted so invitingly at the lower edge of each huge globe of muscular perfection mounted on his chest. He is breathing slowly, his arms at his sides. I watch the eight-pack of perfectly assembled abs marching up his belly swell and recede. The flaring arrows of his Apollo’s belt point unerringly toward the fat, long, lickable prick and its mouth-filling head. The muscles of his legs flare outward like thick cables. Even his feet are beautiful. Fuck, even his toes are amazing.
Once he was naked, something changed in the room. I could feel it. There was a physical alteration of the environment. And it wasn’t just the fact that a nude dude was suddenly there - the two porn guys had been naked practically from the get-go, and the set was hardly charged with sexual stimulation. But the change was tactile. It was like the heat was turned up. It was the feeling of warm air blowing across your skin, or a tongue at your asshole, or breath on your neck. It was moist and warm and thick and powerful. The energy changed completely, and everyone could feel it.
The two porn stars are jerking off. A couple other dudes spontaneously cum in their pants. I am doing everything I can to maintain - maybe my own bisexuality is keeping me from exploding with warm cream, I don’t know, but the room is now so sexually charged that an orgy of extraordinary passion is on the edge of commencing.
And that’s when the second ‘Hawk appeared.
I recognized him, too. Of course, not at first, because I was too busy having my mind blown by the vision of the musclebound naked man with the mammoth, mouthwatering cock six feet in front of me. He was standing on the set, so he was well-lit, and the overtly lustful stares of the cast and crew was making his enormity start to swell and rise. It was clear he enjoyed this kind of attention, and maybe he wasn’t aware that the other ‘Hawk had joined us.
The new ‘Hawk was Mr. May, an Irish god walking the earth with a flaming red Mohawk perched on his ivory noggin, wide as a man’s hand and thick with curls. Unlike Mr. June, Mr. May’s Mohawk didn’t stop at his neck, it flowed down his wide, tapered, muscular back in a heavy cascade, like a warm waterfall over massive boulders. He had piercing green eyes, a goatee around his full, luscious lips and a full-muscled body covered in smooth, creamy skin. A treasure trail of the same strawberry blonde curls, small and tight this time, started at his smiling navel and traveled south, erupting into another thick bush of pubic fur crowning another huge hunk of meat that he was already hauling out of his knee-length basketball shorts. His shirt had been stripped off and dropped to the studio floor, and in seconds he had stripped himself free of his clothes entirely, revealing a body every bit as huge, powerful, impressive and sexy as his tribal friend.
I heard Mr. May’s voice quite distinctly this time, without the distracting roaring of blood in my ears. It was deep and resonant, almost musical, but his words sounded alien to me, and I didn’t understand them fully.
The sound of that voice managed to pry my attention from the elephant in the room - or more precisely, the elephant’s trunk - and I looked toward him. My heart flipped in my chest and my tongue went dry and my brain started departing for someplace else because this, the two of them, together - it was too much to take.
He was speaking to the other ‘Hawk, for his attention was riveted on the huge naked furry figure. His naked form was every bit as magnificent and ungodly in its beauty as Mr. June’s. He was light to his tribe-mate’s shadow. He was dawn to the other man’s midnight. His body was glowing, there, even at the edge of the light. He was radiant and stunning, and his cock - another massive leviathan of perfect masculine power - was visibly throbbing and swelling and arching forward, drooling a silver string from its mouth.
He was so beautiful. Mr. June was a hirsute masculine tower, all hard bulges and angles. His face was almost severely chiseled in its masculine aspects, and his blue eyes smoldered behind the dark lashes with overt and abundant lust. Mr. May, by contrast, had an almost angelic and unearthly beauty about him. Just as thickly developed as his counterpart - with a broad and massive chest, heavy, powerful arms and legs packed with incredible brawn - and every inch as tall of stature and broad of shoulder, but his body had a sort of grace and magnificence of form that the other man made up for in overt size and brutal strength. The swell of one muscle on the Irishman’s body melted into its neighbor, they didn’t contend for space under his silky white flesh. His eyes were loving, passionate, soft. His mouth - his smile - was compassionate and sensual, rather than lascivious and raunchy. He was ardent, while Mr. June was horny. He was eager and excited, while his brother was horny and hot-blooded.
They were twins of the same father, but each a contrast of the other.
I looked back at Mr. June. The man before me, whose body was showing definite signs of arousal even though he was not in any way visibly pleasuring himself, turned his head to the side. His Mohawk was high and proud and a smile touched his lips, and he answered his brother’s words with a response that sounded equally foreign, and not in any language I was familiar with.
Almost as soon as those words had left Mr. June’s lips, his own dick was suddenly at full throttle. It was amazing and weird and erotic and shocking. The thing just rose up all at once, thick and shiny, throbbing and swelling and lengthening all in one sudden growth spurt. It practically slapped him in the face, rising to erection so quickly. The head pushed free and its ridge flared wide and the shaft bulged with veins and turned red and it was huge, twelve or fourteen or sixteen inches high and thick as a baby’s arm and the head was wet and shiny, because something was coming out of its eye, something fluid and clear running down its length, and a smell reached my nostrils, a raw scent, a feral scent, the smell of cum and ass and sweat and sex.
There was a bright blue-white lightning bolt in the room with us, just for a moment. Like a camera’s flash or an exploding klieg overhead. It was blinding and shocking and exciting, and it was gone nearly as quickly as it appeared. It made my skin tingle and my balls throb and my dick swell and my hair stand on end. After it had disappeared, and my vision was temporarily blinded, it felt like something had supercharged my already amplified libido and filled my head with the overwhelming power and urgency of the moment of orgasm - the fullness and fulfillment of sex.
And then there was the sound of tearing cloth and something crashing to the ground and movement all around me and the room was hot, very hot, and someone’s hand was on my ass, their fingers slipping between my cheeks, exploring my wet hole, pushing inside me, and someone’s mouth was on my lips, their tongue was pushing inside my mouth, and my hand was gripping a hot, hard prick and sliding along its length and teasing it’s tip with my thumb and a tongue replaced the fingers at my hole and I opened for it and felt it squirm and shove its hot welcome wetness inside me and someone pinched and twisted my nipple and the kiss, the kiss was deep and true, and the room was hot, very hot, and there was a cock at my lips, a giant cock, wet and warm and hard, pushing inside my mouth, and I welcomed it, and sucked on it, and a sudden surge of salty cream splashed everywhere, and I sucked and swallowed and hungered for more and all at once, we were all naked and fucking and kissing and ripping at clothing and licking asses and sucking dicks and pinching nipples and chewing butt cheeks and hands and mouths and tongues and cocks and on and on and on.
That’s all I remember of the rest of that day. Sex, sex and more sex. Hot, limitless, passionate, no-holds-barred sex. I can’t even tell you whether either of the ‘Hawks and I did anything. It’s like this dream I had or a memory of something that I didn’t fully experience. Maybe we were all drugged. Maybe the secret of those guys is that they laced the coffee with Spanish Fly or something. All I know is that once the two of those handsome, muscular, and incredibly sexy gentlemen locked eyes, the place was a cauldron of sexual activity.
No one cared who they were with or whose dick was inside whose ass or who they were blowing or who was blowing them. So much cum was flying around that it was like a hot, creamy thunderstorm in there.
Again, that’s my memory of it. When I woke up, or recovered, or whatever, I was still on that set. Hours had passed and we were all naked, tangled up in each other’s arms and legs, still vibrating from the intensity of our orgiastic release.
There was no sign of Mr. May or Mr. June. There were remnants of ripped clothing everywhere, and we were all sticky with cum and the whole place smelled like a locker room. Someone started to laugh and then someone else joined in. We felt good. We felt whole, and satisfied, and fucking, I don’t know… male. Hyper masculine. Having a cock was a great thing. Having balls, having muscle, it was all great and we all felt it and we all loved it.
Even without the benefit of those two handsome gentlemen, we started up again! I was kissing the man next to me. Someone grabbed my dick and started giving me one hell of a blow job. I was pushing my hips, fucking his face, someone else was plugging his ass, making him moan on my joint and sending shivers down my spine, while someone else was behind that guy licking his hole, and someone else was fucking the ass of the guy rimming the guy fucking the guy sucking my dick while I was kissing the other guy getting his cock sucked by the guy getting his ass licked by the guy getting his hole fucked.
I made quite a few friends that day, and none of us quite knew what to make of it, but we all agreed that we should do it again, and very soon. But as far as the film was concerned, we never rolled video and not a second of any of that hot action had been recorded. As far as I know, no one has been able to get a ‘Hawk on film doing what they do best. But I’m here to tell you, when you look at their pictures, when you’re jerking off to a calendar or fantasizing about Mr. June while fucking your boyfriend… the Mohawk Nation is out there, and they’re exactly as amazing and gorgeous and sexy as you think they are.
But who are they, really? I still don’t know.
END