— originally published in Torso magazine - April, 1995 —

TRICKY HICKS MIX DICK-LICK FLICKS

_____

My college roomie Steven burst into our dorm room. He was sopping wet.

"Won't this shitty weather ever stop?" he shouted.

I glanced out the window where a cold rain pelted our campus. I guess you'd call it rain. It appeared to be partly rain, partly snow and partly sleet--with a few hailstones thrown in for bad measure.

It was the last part of a long, wet winter, but there was no end in sight to the foul weather. Knowing how things usually proceed in our part of the country, out here in the middle of nowhere, I knew we could look for­ward to clear, warm, sunny weather maybe three months down the pike at the earliest.

Steven sat on his bunk bed and pulled off his wet boots.

"I have to go somewhere tropical," he said. "I want to go to Florida for spring break."

This had been our refrain since before Christmas. Steven and I, along with the guys across the hall--Brad and Joe (aka Joe-Bob)--could talk of nothing else.

"How are we gonna afford a trip to Florida?" I asked Steven. "We barely have enough money for pizza and beer on Saturday nights."

Steven pulled off his sweater and began unbuckling his belt. "Listen, Paul," he said. "When I get my MBA, I'm going to BUY Florida."

He shucked off his jeans. He was wearing long, unrevealing thermal underwear, but on his toned body they looked snug and sexy. Steven's a long­distance runner with chestnut hair and a handsome, boyish face. He lifts weights two or three times a week, and that keeps him from having a typical skinny runner's frame.

"Yeah, right ..." I said. "By the time you pay off your student loans, you'll be lucky to afford a pair of mouse ears from Disney World."

"What can I say? It's a bitch being poor."

He reached for his favorite titty magazine--a special issue devoted to the beaches of Fort Lauderdale.

"I want some skin!" he said, Flipping through the pictures of wet T-shirt contests and bellyflop competitions. "I want some poontang."

To tell the truth, Steven's magazine was pretty exciting to me, too. Not that I'm especially rabid for the female form. But all those pictures of bare flesh--male and female--made me pine for a stretch of beach where I could get near-naked and stretch out for some good times. I'd have sold my soul for a trip to Florida.

Steven sat on his bunk and leafed through the magazine. He pulled idly at the crotch of his long johns. "Shit, this magazine gives me a stiffy every time," he said.

I laughed, surreptitiously glancing at his basket of goodies. Steven didn't give me much chance to check him out, however. He pulled the covers up over himself.

I sighed with disappointment. How I wanted to see him naked with his dick hard and raring to go! I had seen him nude in the showers, and he appeared to have a sterling piece of equipment. His dick was so thick and springy that even when he was unaroused he seemed to have a semi­hard-on. But although he was always talking about his "stiffies," he had yet to let me see one.

Steven apparently thought my sigh was merely frustration with the crummy weather.

"We've gotta find a way to earn some quick cash," he said.

"No shit," I replied.

I was not out to Steven. I guess I was still trying to convince myself that I was straight. I'd had sex with some of my male friends back in high school, but I'd experimented with girls along the way, too.

Steven, Brad, Joe-Bob and I ran with a liberal crowd, and we all knew of same-sex couples on campus. They were mostly women. The majority of people thought lesbians were chic and sexy. Virtually nobody was bothered by them--except for a few fundamentalist Christians. There were a few male-male couples, but they weren't as visible as the dykes.

I wouldn't have been friends with Steven and Brad and Joe-Bob if they'd been homophobic. I was sure they weren't. Still, it's one thing to be open­minded and another thing to be interested in checking out the scene for oneself. I wondered if Steven's frequent remarks about his boner were a hint that he'd be interested in feeding it to me some night.

I wondered too whether Brad and Joe-Bob were ever getting any pleasure from each other across the hallway. One day, a few weeks back, Bob was bragging about how big his cock was, and Brad had rolled his eyes and said, "I've seen it, dudes, and it's not going to win any contests."

Now Steven was practically drooling on the photographs of the Florida revels. His body fidgeted beneath his blanket. I felt myself getting a stiffy of my own and decided I had to get out of the room.

'Tm going to the library, " I said, reaching for my yellow fisherman's slicker.

"Don't get your dick caught in the vertical file, " Steven said.

"Right. See you at dinner." I gestured toward his body squirming beneath the covers. "Be gentle," I told him.

When I showed up at the food commons that night, my buddies were in mid-meal. They were talking so animatedly about something that they weren't even doing their usual mock­gagging routine over the braised meatloaf.

"I tell you, we can get rich doing this," said Brad. He's a tall grunge-guy, with a classic chiseled profile, shoulder­length brown-red hair and a sexy goatee.

"No way!" said Steven. "We can barely find girls to do it with. How are we gonna find girls to do it with in front of the whole world."

"Maybe we can do it with an inflatable girl!" said Joe-Bob.

I asked them what was going on, and Brad handed me a copy of a fairly cheesy-looking porno mag. "This is our ticket to Lauderdale," he said.

Circled on the page next to an ad for a foot-long dildo was a notice that somebody had circled with red ink. It was an ad from an "amateur erotics" video company called "Hot and Ready."

"We pay up to $10 per minute for usable footage," the ad read. "Our reputable company will buy your explicit videography for exclusive distribution. Straight, gay, specialty and solo (M/F) considered."

My heart started pounding as I read it. Were my pals seriously considering this enterprise?

"Look," said Brad. "It's lucrative, it's fun, and it's legal. Why not? What do you think, Paul?" he asked me.

I swallowed. "It's a wild idea," I said. "But it's not really feasible, is it?"

"What's 'feasible'?" asked Joe-Bob. (I should mention that although Joe­Bob is a big friendly dude with a loopy smile and a great football player's bod, he's not exactly Mr. Brainpower.)

"It means 'workable,' shit-for­brains," said Brad. "And this is workable. I can borrow my friend Bill's camcorder, and we'll be all set."

"Except for the girls ..." said Steven.

"Who needs girls?" Brad asked.

"You mean homo stuff!" Joe-Bob said, sounding slightly alarmed.

"No," said Brad. "Not homo stuff ..." And then he smiled slyly. "Unless the spirit moves us ..." he added half-kiddingly. "No, I'm talking about solos."

"Nobody's going to buy a tape of me singing, " said Joe-Bob.

Simultaneously Brad and Steven picked a pea off of their plates and flicked it at Joe-Bob's forehead.

"Solo masturbation, you idiot!" said Brad.

"But what if somebody recognizes us?" said Steven. "What if ten years from now I'm applying for a job at some world-class accounting firm, and somebody recognizes me as a video dick-flogger? What if my MOTHER sees me, for Christ's sake?"

"Does your mother regularly receive the new releases from the Hot and Ready Studios?" asked Brad. "Don't worry. We'll disguise ourselves so nobody will recognize us. We can wear wigs and hats--along with masks or sunglasses or ski masks. I've got it all figured out."

"I can wear my swim goggles," said Joe-Bob.

"There you go," said Brad encouragingly.

Steven and I were still reluctant, but we told Brad we'd think about it. I was sure that we'd never really send any tapes off to Hot and Ready. But I figured it was a great excuse for a jack­off session with the guys. I began a subtle campaign to convince Steven.

"Think of sandy beaches," I said. "Think of bronzed bodies, glistening with coconut oil. Think of the EPCOT Center ..." I handed him his well-worn magazine layout.

"What if I can't get it up in front of the camera?" he said. And I knew he'd decided to at least give it the old college try.

The camera rolled about a week later. The four of us gathered in Brad and Joe-Bob's room late on Friday afternoon. The guys had draped the windows and floor and furniture with sheets. Brad had his friend Bill's video camera, which he'd told Bill he needed to borrow in order to tape a biology experiment--not exactly a lie when you think about it. He also had an armload full of blank tapes and a box full of disguises.

Brad volunteered to be first up. He loaded the camera and showed Steven how it worked. Then he put some wild music on the CD player, and Brad began his sexy strip. His long hair swayed as he danced. "Hey, dudes!" he said into the camera. 'Tm Goatee Man, and I'm gonna perform for you like a horny, nasty goat ..."

When he danced, he writhed like something out of a Bob Fosse routine. He stuck his tongue out lewdly at the camera. Joe-Bob laughed as though this were the funniest thing he'd ever seen. And I began to get the hard-on of my life.

Brad wore his usual grunge-duds. His only disguise was a pair of Ray­Bans. Before long, the Ray-Bans were all that he wore. When he stripped off his raggedy boxers, a long, tapering semi-erect dick flopped out.

Camera-totin' Steven got down on his knees in front of Brad, getting a closeup shot of his merchandise.

"Do you like my goat-dick, you horny perverts?" Brad said to the camera. He was really getting into it.

"Take your time," Steven said. "Remember, it's ten dollars a minute." (I guess Steven's doubts about this enterprise were dissipating.)

Brad's dance and solo turn took about thirty-five minutes. When he got ready to cum, he began talking a filthy streak into the camera. He invited the "freaks out there in video-land" to "pull out your whangers and pump them up." (Something told me he'd seen a porno tape or two somewhere before.) When he came, he bleated like a goat. One long shot of milky cum squirted toward the camera, narrowly missing Steven's arm.

"My turn!" said Joe-Bob, rubbing the lump beneath his striped painter's pants.

"Whoa! Hold on, Joey," said Brad, wiping his spent goat-dick with a bath towel. "I want to put a new tape in the camera."

Joe-Bob, just as he'd promised us, wore his swim goggles. He had "borrowed" some cans of colored hair spray from the makeup room of the theater-arts department, and he had sprayed his thick, straight, bottle-blond bangs a bright Bozo orange.

His striptease wasn't as artsy as Brad's. He simply peeled off his clothes--down to the boxer shorts, which had a polka-dot pattern, nicely fitting with his clown motif. He pulled a big flesh-pole out through the fly of his boxers. His dick was a thick, pulsing muscle with a red-purple head that was rounded and shiny like a clown's nose.

Joe-Bob's body was in incredible shape; his pectorals were massive and his belly was tight. He had a pale brown fuzz all over his bulky upper torso. When he finally pulled down his boxers, I was pleased to see that he had a gluteus maximus to die for. Brad held the camera with one hand; with the other he sprayed some of the orange hairspray toward Joe-Bob's patch of dirty-blond pubic hair. He missed his target, instead shouting a splotch of orange onto Joe-Bob's ample ball-sack. Joe-Bob giggled. "Hey, man ... that shit's cold!"

Joe-Bob didn't talk to the camera like Brad had done, but knowing Joe­Bob, I guess maybe that was just as well. He just flipped his big piece of meat around for the camera and grunted. He spat into his hand, rubbing the spittle onto his equipment.

"Hey, guys ... I wanna show you something," he said.

He flopped back onto one of the bunks and heaved his thick legs back over his head so that his muscled butt was smiling at us. I grabbed his hairy ankles and helped him maintain the position. Steven parted Joe-Bob's ass­cheeks and gave the camera a nice closeup of pink anus. Then Joe-Bob grunted and thrust his penis up closer to his face. I couldn't believe that some­body so muscle-bound could perform auto-fellatio with such ease. But he did it like a pro. He strained his neck forward, pushing his lips up to encircle his clown-nose prick-head. He squeezed his shaft with his free hand until a globule of pre-orgasmic stickiness oozed out of his pecker-slit. Then he licked up this sperm-sample with his talented tongue.

Joe-Bob fellated himself for sever­al minutes before reaching up with his hand and jacking his rod Furiously. I could smell the musk and sweat emanating from the back of his balls and that funky ass-crack. His grunts got louder as he began shooting stream after stream of sudsy jism all over his face. There was cum on his forehead, in his Bozo hair, on his swim goggles-­everywhere. He licked a big glob off his lips.

"It's good for you!" he explained to the camera. "It's got cholesterol in it!" (I think he meant to say protein.)

Next it was Steven's turn. I stood hoping that I wouldn't lose control and lunge at his crotch.

Brad put the striptease music on the CD player again, and Steven stood and began to undress. He was shyer than either Brad or Joe-Bob. His disguise was elaborate: A blond curly wig, a baseball hat and a pair of dark sunglasses. He took a good five minutes just to take his shirt and pants off. Then he began tentatively rubbing the crotch of his long underwear.

"C'mon, man ... get naked," Joe­Bob said impatiently. "Let's see that woody of yours."

Steven pulled off his thermal T­shirt, revealing his chiseled chest with its tender pink nipples and its sprinkle of coarse brown pectoral hair. Finally, he sloughed off the rest of his underwear. His penis was as springy as it had been when I'd seen it in the showers. But it was no woody.

He manipulated his genitals for several minutes, even looking at his Ft. Lauderdale magazine. But his dick was not getting hard. Brad stopped the camera.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

'Tm too nervous," said Steven. "I need a blow-job."

"Any volunteers?" asked Brad, half­kidding.

We all looked at one another, and then I said, "Sure, why not?"

"Whoa, dude!" said Joe-Bob. "Freaky shit!"

I knelt in front of Steven, and licked my lips, and then a curious thing happened.

A woody materialized in front of my eyes before I even touched him. Steven's dick went from springy to stone-solid in about five seconds flat. It was amazing.

"Ahhh. The fabled stiffy ..." I said.

I grabbed his bone and began stroking it. Steven groaned with pleasure.

"Suck it, dude," said Joe-Bob.

"Yeah," Steve echoed in a soft, excited voice, "do it. Give my boner some mouth."

"Hand me a rubber," I told Brad.

"A rubber?" Joe-Bob marveled. "What are you going to do, Paul? Fuck him in the butthole?"

"Watch me," I said. I pulled a nonlubricated condom out of its package and rolled it carefully on Steven's throbbing, blood-engorged rod.

"No offense, guy," I told him. "I want everything to be safe."

"No problem."

I put my Harlequin's mask over my eyes. "You better get this on camera," I told Brad.

"Right."

I heard the gentle whir of the machine as I let my lips encircle Steven's latex-capped cockhead. He groaned with excitement. "Oh, yeah. Give me some head, " he said. "Make me come in your mouth."

"No way," said Brad. "We've gotta see you squirt, Steven. You've gotta take the rubber off before you squirt."

I continued sucking the shaft­-slowly at first, then picking up speed as the other guys urged me on. "Take your clothes off," Steven said to me between his pleasure-groans.

I was nude in a matter of moments; my thick, uncircumcised tool was hot and ready for a workout. The guys were impressed.

I put an unlubricated condom on my own hard-on, and Steve and I got into a sixty-nine position on Joe-Bob's single bed. We practiced a simultaneous deep-throat, but we both gagged a little in the effort.

For the next fifteen minutes we were all over each other. I spread Steven's butt-cheeks so that the camera would get a spectacular shot of his pink, fur-lined anal opening. Then I felt ... Damn! ... It was Joe-Bob spreading my ass! I gasped as I felt him sink a lubricated middle finger deep into my hole. Brad kept the camera running through the whole show.

What materialized then was a marathon three-way so hot that I thought the world was ending. You could call it the "old college triad," I guess. There was cock-sucking and butthole-massaging; bare-ass wrestling and mutual jacking off.

We finished by kneeling on the bunk in a row-with me in the middle. Steven pumped my peter with his hand while I pumped Joe-Bob's. We all peeled off our scumbags and creamed for the camera at the same time. Joe­Bob's mattress was soaked with the triple cum shot. There was a large syrupy spunk-puddle on the sheet­lined floor, and some of Steven's cum had even splattered his magazine. We collapsed on the damp mattress, a tan­gle of sweaty, hairy limbs.

Then Brad jerked off for us again while Joe-Bob manned the camcorder. And that gave us about another half hour's footage.

After we'd showered off, we sat around naked, watching the results of our shoot and calculating our possible earnings. We had shot about three hours of tape altogether--counting the stripteases and the wrestling and general horseplay . That was a hundred and eighty minutes of tape times ten dollars for a total of $1,800 dollars! As long as the footage was deemed usable by the Hot and Ready people, we had it made. We had our spring-break fund.

By late the following afternoon we had packed up the cassettes, and Brad and Joe-Bob made a trek to the post office. Then began the waiting game.

This wait was excruciating, but it was made easier by one factor: Now, every night when our study hours were over, instead of watching bad TV sitcoms or going down to the dorm basement for a game of ping-pong­-the four of us would have an orgy. And now nobody had to run the camera, which meant that all four of us could get into the act at the same time. And we didn't have to wear those funky disguises.

"For sure, we'd have heard from them by now, " said Brad one afternoon as we waited for the mail. "We're gonna have to make plane and hotel reservations ... if we're going to Florida."

The disappointment came just a few minutes later, when the postman arrived. We learned that our package had been returned to the post office; the "Hot and Ready" company had gone out of business several months earlier.

"Shit," said Brad. "Looks like we'll be building snowmen instead of sandcastles this year."

We talked about what we'd be doing in lieu of going to Florida. I figured I'd go visit my parents; the other guys were less sure.

"I've got this cousin named Wayne who said he'd pay my way if I wanted to go visit him," Joe-Bob told us. "He said I could bring along some friends--if you all want to join me."

"Sounds like a possibility, " said Steven.

But Joe-Bob seemed preoccupied. "Oh ... I don't know ..." he said.

"What's the problem?"

"Well, this cousin Wayne. He's an okay guy. He's about five years older than me ... and he's got a lot of money. But I don't know. He always seemed a little ... homo ... to me."

We all laughed at Joe-Bob, reminding him that anyone who, less than twelve hours earlier, had tried to stuff simultaneously three turgid dicks into his mouth shouldn't feel uneasy about staying with a gay cousin.

"So where does this cousin live, anyway?" I asked.

"Palm Springs, California."

There were about five seconds of stunned silence before we began hurling verbal abuse (and any heavy objects that were handy) at Joe-Bob.

"You fucking dildo-brain!" said Brad. "Why didn't you tell us about this cousin before? It would have saved us this whole escapade. For Christ's sake, get on the telephone and call the guy! Tell him four studly horndogs will soon be on his doorstep, ready to party!"

Joe-Bob may have been a horndog. But right now he had a hangdog expression.

"I'm sorry, dudes," he said. "I guess I didn't stop to think." Then his face brightened. "But just think of all the fun we might have missed out on if I'd thought about Wayne earlier."

We had to consider that for a few minutes. And we decided grudgingly that maybe Joe-Bob wasn't such a dildo-brain after all. 

THE     END

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