METHOD ACTING by Haven Tesla
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. To maximize reading pleasure, leave logic behind at the door - this story aspires only to be funny and sexy (unless you're the narrator), not seen as a representation of reality.
All characters are over the age of 18 and not intended to resemble any real person, while the daytime television industry and Emmy Awards are similarly fictionalized. I previously published this story on NCMC and am presenting it here with minor revisions.
<<< PART 2: The Show Must Go On >>>
"You're awfully quiet," observed Hank. "What's wrong?"
What wasn't? When we last left my character Max, he was reeling from acting in a gay porn flick against his will. I could identify with him. Hank had been spot-on when he'd suggested that I would be able to tap into Max's sense of violation and self-loathing. A straight guy is supposed to hold on to his anal virginity forever, but here I was at 22 with an ass that ached for days following its rough pounding by my co-stars, Randy and Ross.
I didn't want to appear a pussy who couldn't handle a bit of pain for the sake of his art and moaned about it to anyone who would listen. But Hank wasn't just anyone. He was the guy who'd bent over backwards to improve my career trajectory. He was my boss, my mentor and, most importantly, my friend. I trusted him.
"I can't stop thinking about that scene," I confessed.
"Which scene?" Hank asked guilelessly.
"You know ... the scene where I got ..." I couldn't bring myself to say "fucked". "Um, where I had sex with Randy and Ross. It keeps haunting me. No matter how thoroughly I scrub myself in the shower, I can never feel clean enough."
I hated how whiny I came out sounding. Man, I hoped Hank wouldn't think lesser of me.
Far from it, he gazed at me with empathy. "I wouldn't expect any different of a manly, straight stud like you, Colt. Frankly I'd be worried if you told me you had no qualms about having Randy plunder your man-pussy and pop your cherry." (I cringed inwardly at Hank's unintentionally emasculating choice of words.) "But you do understand that sacrifices are sometimes necessary, right?"
I nodded slightly.
He continued, "Mark my words, it's going to pay off. You turned in the performance of a lifetime and your name is practically a lock for the Best Younger Actor trophy."
"I sure hope so," I muttered glumly.
"Come now, Colt. You've got critics and fans alike enthralled. The blogosphere practically exploded when those scenes aired."
"Yeah, but they were mostly taking about how sexy and scandalous the scenes were?" I didn't add that the comments were typically accompanied by screenshots and GIFs of my naked flesh and gay smooches with Randy.
Hank waved aside my concerns. "Well, that's the way to get them talking, Colt. Keep your bod, I mean face, in the minds of the Academy voters. That doesn't mean we get to rest on our laurels though. We need to keep you front-burner from now till Emmy season."
I was crestfallen; I'd hoped my character would get a bit of a breather after such an emotionally exhausting storyline. I said as much to Hank, who chided me for my admittedly disgraceful lack of enthusiasm.
"Eyes on the prize, Colt. I've gone through a lot of trouble to line up another meaty storyline for you."
Hank shared that, after Max's traumatic homosexual encounter, my character was to embark on an effort to reassert his attractiveness to girls.
I perked up at this; it sounded right up my alley. I could certainly do with the female attention. Ever since I started playing this role, women seemed to wrongly assume that I was gay. It probably had something to do with those provocative, homoerotic underwear and swimwear ads I'd done for a gay fashion brand. It had certainly brought me a lot of publicity as Hank had promised, but not of the variety I would've liked when it came to my sex life.
Unfortunately, my hopes of bedding a stream of female guest stars were quickly dashed. Hank clarified that it was to be a storyline about the dangers of `sexting', so Max wasn't actually about to have any good old-fashioned booty calls. Instead, he would be sharing sexually explicit images of himself with girls he met online. I didn't like the sound of that at all, but I couldn't deny that sexting was a hot-button social issue. Those were, after all, the bread and butter of soap operas. I just wished it didn't involve me getting naked again.
Now don't get me wrong; I had nothing to be ashamed of. My physique was the best it had ever been since Hank had encouraged me to hit the gym twice a day. It was the sexual objectification at which I balked. Men weren't meant to be sex objects! Hank sympathized, but he also reminded me that even big-name actors hadn't shied away from nudity when the role called for it. However, their roles didn't seem to call for it quite so often!
The sexting storyline played out over a couple of weeks. For the first episode, I got to keep on my underwear, only because it was product placement for the gay fashion line that I'd modeled. Of course, the tight little bikini briefs they supplied didn't exactly do much to protect my modesty, but at least it was something.
After that, I was buck naked with increasingly small items behind which to hide my manhood. There must have been some prodigious editing because I couldn't fathom how 90% of the nude scenes I filmed could possibly have made it past the censors otherwise. The ultimate exposure, though, was yet to come.
I had once laughed at my cast-mate Ross for having to play the part of a male stripper, but now I found myself having to enact a similar striptease in front of a webcam. Hank tried to be helpful, hiring a bona fide male stripper to instruct me, but I suspect the guy was more interested in molesting my nearly-naked body than he was in teaching me his trade (if you could call it that).
Hank insisted that he was just being hands-on, but I really don't think that entails slipping three fingers up my butthole or twisting my nipples repeatedly. It certainly didn't require him to press himself up against my back and rub his cock in my ass-crack!
The only reason I refrained from raising a ruckus was I didn't want Hank to feel bad about putting me in proximity to this pervert. I fear he is sometimes too trusting; blissfully unaware that there are fags out there who simply want to get their paws all over real men.
Regardless of the creepy stripper's true intentions, I gleaned enough from his groping sessions disguised as lessons to put on a convincing performance when we shot Max stripping for a girl he'd met on webcam.
Filming coincided with another studio open day (funny how our open days inexorably fell during taping of my nude scenes). So I had an unusually large and especially unwelcome audience as I stripped down to a tiny g-string designed to look like an elephant's trunk. It was supposed to be cute but I just found it mortifying because the pouch barely covered the root of my dick and the rest of it was literally a string around my waist and up my ass-crack. Why would a straight dude like Max even own one of these?
I tried my best to ignore the spectators but it was difficult to completely block out their tittering and the whirring of their camera phones as they snapped souvenir photos of my striptease. I tore open my sleeveless t-shirt and ran through the moves the stripper had taught me, all of which were geared towards showing off my oiled-up physique.
The more clothes I took off, the harder it became. Flexing my biceps and abs was the easy part. Tugging down the sweatpants, then dancing and thrusting my junk in just the g-string was cringe-worthy. But it was the twerking that really dialed the humiliation up to maximum. I would not soon forget the squeals of delight from my onlookers; I even heard one remark that my glutes were like "ripe melons". Can you imagine? God I felt so fucking embarrassed!
"Come on, Max, let me see the junk in your trunk," cooed the actress appearing on the webcam.
I had to stop myself from glancing back at my audience; I could feel their eyes boring holes into my bare back, which was about to get even barer. With great reluctance, I undid the knot in the string and ripped off my last stitch of clothing. With my groin shaved smooth (the result of regular public shavings by the studio crew), my cock and balls appeared larger, which I guess was the silver lining. At least the voyeurs would glimpse my manhood at its best.
Thinking that the scene was over, I was thrown for a loop when my co-star made an unexpected demand. "Oh Max," she simpered, "surely a big boy like you isn't going to stop there."
"Huh?"
"Oh, there's a lot more fun we could have, Max. Why don't you go fetch a cucumber from your fridge? Or maybe a banana? Or better yet, both?"
This time I did glance backwards, to catch Hank's eye. Was this girl for real? This hadn't been in the script.
Hank nodded over at the prop table beside him. I noticed a rather large banana and an even bigger cucumber lying on top of it.
I started to walk off-camera, covering my crotch with my hands, but the director yelled "Cut!"
As I blinked in confusion, he asked me what I thought I was doing. "Max is in his own bedroom, in an empty apartment. Why would he cover up on the way to the kitchen?"
"Uh, it's not like you'll be allowed to show me naked on national TV?" I pointed out.
"No, Colt," Hank replied patiently, "but we want to retain the integrity of the scene."
"But those people are watching," I hissed at him in a low voice. "And they've got camera phones."
"Relax, Colt. You do trust me when I say I run a very tight ship around here?"
I nodded immediately.
"Then don't worry your pretty little head about things like that. Just play your role as naturally as possible, and you'll be on stage accepting your Emmy before you know it."
I hesitantly dropped my hands to my sides, and the flash of cameras doubled as the studio visitors grappled to capture my full-frontal nudity. Ignoring them (with great difficulty), I walked over to the prop table and picked up the banana and cucumber.
"What's she going to make me do with these?" I asked Hank, although I feared the answer was already obvious.
"It's just acting," replied Hank in a soothing tone. "Just focus on that, and the rest will be easy. After all, it's not your first time doing this now, is it? I did say you'd come to appreciate method acting."
Hank was right. Sliding that banana up my ass would have hurt a lot more if I'd not already experienced fingering and fucking. I was beet red with humiliation though, from having to do this in front of an eagerly-watching audience. Hank assured me that my crimson face could be explained away from the strain of anally penetrating myself with the substantially-sized fruit.
By the time I substituted the banana for the even bigger cucumber, I was dripping with sweat and trembling with a combination of pain and shame. I couldn't stop myself from moaning as I buried the 10-inch vegetable in my man-pussy, I mean ass. It was so fucking big! How did fags manage this?
I allowed my free hand to wander across my torso, stroking the oiled-up flesh and tweaking my nipples until they stood out like bullets. To my chagrin, I noticed that my aureoles were permanently puffy and more pronounced from all the manhandling they received.
Splayed out on the chair in front of the computer with my legs widely spread, there wasn't a square inch of my sweaty body that wasn't fully exposed to onlookers in this perverse tableau. My disgrace was complete, but they apparently loved every moment of it.
After 15 minutes of raping my own asshole, I felt my balls churn and gasped as my stiff, untouched cock spurted. I was virtually drenched in my own spunk from head to toe, due to the fact that I hadn't cum since the day we'd filmed my gay sex scene with Randy and Ross. Hank had advised me that masturbation would throw me off my A-game, which made sense since that was what my football coach back in high school had always told the team before a match. So my balls were pretty full, which only added to my humiliation in this case because what kind of man blows his wad from raping his own ass?
When my co-star on the webcam told me to clean myself up by eating my mess, I didn't even have the energy to argue. After all, my first shot had landed in my open mouth as I cried out from the force of my orgasm. Hank later informed me that I had achieved the perfect O-face.
"We'll try our darnedest to keep it in the final cut. Or at least make it available on the bonus clips section of our website. Such stellar acting shouldn't be missed by viewers."
I had strong doubts about being seen at such a vulnerable moment, but I trusted that Hank knew what he was doing.
"By the way, Colt, the studio visitors were really impressed by your performance today. They're clamoring for your autograph. Why don't you spare a moment for them?"
"Uh, maybe after I shower and get dressed?" I was acutely aware that all I had on was the g-string (which I had quickly re-donned), and that I reeked of cum and sweat.
Hank laughed and shook his head. "Nah, what would be the point? It's not like they haven't just witnessed that scene you did."
Well, I couldn't really argue when he put it that way.
The autograph session took longer than anticipated. Each fan didn't just want my signature; they also wanted photographs with me. They were clearly amused by my state of undress, getting their pics snapped with them pointing at my nipples, junk or bare ass. One daring guy even asked if he could borrow one of the "props" so Hank handed him the cucumber; before I knew it he had shoved it up my ass! Of course, the rest of my fans then wanted their own opportunity to be pictured "in the scene".
"This is the most amazing studio tour I've ever been on," gushed one college girl, as she took a dozen photos of her boyfriend roughly thrusting the cucumber deep into my ass with one hand while pinching my nipples with the other.
I was in too much discomfort to respond, but several other studio visitors murmured their consensus.
"Yeah, I've never known a TV star to be so accommodating of his fans," agreed a middle-aged man who had earlier turned down the cucumber prop in favor of sticking his own fingers in my butt.
"We're all rooting for you to win the Emmy," declared a teenager whose mother had allowed him to sit on my lap and grind down on my cock. I don't think she noticed when the kid sneakily dipped his fingers into my pouch and fondled my dick!
Meeting the fans, I discovered, can be quite as challenging as method acting.
When all the visitors had finally left, with a few last gropes and tugs, Hank shared an idea he'd come up with from watching my interaction with the fans.
"Colt, I've been contemplating how to raise your profile some more, and the obvious way is philanthropy. Practically every soap star has a cause that they support, so it's past time you had one too. I'm thinking an anti-bullying charity, with a particular focus on homophobia."
I was appalled. "You want me to support a charity for sissy boys who can't handle being put in their place by real men?"
Hank had the good grace to look abashed. "No, no, Colt. I totally agree that those fags get only what they deserve, but you've got to understand the composition of our audience and especially the Academy. That place has effectively been infiltrated by the homos and their supporters. It can't have escaped your notice that they've awarded the Best Younger Actor Emmy to an actor playing a gay role for the past two years in a row."
I nodded. That guy was almost certainly another queer in the making. He was way too comfortable, even enthusiastic, kissing his onscreen boyfriend. They were probably boinking for real offset. I mean, a genuinely straight guy wouldn't be willing to stick his tongue down another man's throat and roll around in bed together on national television.
"Well, you're not playing a gay role, so you've got to show your affinity with the LGBT community in some other manner. It's the only way you can foolproof getting that Emmy nod."
I groaned. `Affinity' with a bunch of homos! What had my life come to? "Are you sure, Hank? There's no other way?"
"Fraid not, kiddo. So you up for it?"
I nodded again, reluctantly.
Hank smiled apologetically. "I know it's rough, Colt, but you know I wouldn't ask it of you if it wasn't absolutely necessary."
"Yeah, I know," I assured him. "So what's the plan - how do I show my `support' for this homo charity?"
"You know how Broadway puts on an annual show to raise money for HIV/AIDS?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that a strip-show?"
"Yeah, that's the one. It's a pretty successful venture; those homos sure love their man-flesh. It's the quickest way to their wallets. So I was thinking we could emulate Broadway and put together a show of our own with you, Randy, Ross and the other male cast members. After all, you've already had lessons in stripping, and I can easily get your instructor back to teach the rest."
"But Hank..." I started to protest.
"Trust me, Colt. My plan is solid. Ticket sales alone should bring in quite a bit, to say nothing of the merchandise. I was thinking of a nude pin-up calendar with you as Mister February and Mister December as well. I bet you'd make a handsome naked Cupid and an even sexier naughty Santa."
This was all going too fast for me. My mind was in a whirl. A public strip show? Naked calendar? Naughty Santa?
The whole concept sounded abhorrent to me: exploiting my body to raise funds to support bullied fags. If anybody else had proposed it I would've told them in no uncertain terms where they could stuff their brilliant idea. But this concept came from Hank, and I was convinced that he despised homos as much as I did. As he himself had confirmed, he wouldn't have made such a suggestion if it wasn't absolutely vital to my career.
"Okay," I ventured unhappily.
"Good man," said Hank, clapping me on the back. "I know that took a lot of guts, just like handling those fans just now. How's your man-pussy?"
I cringed at that word again, but knew he didn't mean anything by it; he was just concerned about me. "I'm sore, but I'll survive."
"Oh, I have no doubt. Real men like you and me can take a little pain."
It briefly crossed my mind that if he considered being anally penetrated no big deal then he should try it himself, but I was immediately ashamed for even entertaining the thought.
True to his personality, Hank threw together the Soap Stud Revue in record time. I don't know how he managed it, but he even lured back several former cast members to take part. I wasn't a fan of the event's name, but evidently it clicked with the customers we were targeting. Tickets sold out in a matter of hours and we had to schedule an afternoon matinee to cope with the demand.
While Hank sorted out the logistics, my cast-mates and I had to rehearse our routines under the gaze (and gropes) of our stripping instructor, I mean choreographer. Each actor had a solo, a duet with another actor, and the group performance at the end. Although Randy's character had recently gained a boyfriend (an Australian exchange student), it was apparently a popular request that he and I be paired up for the duet. I was shaken to see how explicitly gay they had made my routine with Randy.
"Hank, it's practically a scene out of a gay porno!" I complained after our first rehearsal.
Hank nodded ruefully. "That's what the audience demanded. They loved your chemistry with Randy when you guys filmed the gay porn scene and wanted a reenactment."
"It was one thing to do that scene in the studio, but in a ballroom with 500 guests -"
"Actually, 1000 guests - I had to upgrade us to a bigger venue."
"One thousand?!"
"Two if you count the matinee," clarified Hank.
"Oh geez, I can't possibly do this in front of 2,000 people!"
"Colt, what's the matter with you? Stage fright is not something people want to see in a rising star."
"It's not stage fright! I'd be fine if it weren't for the gay thing."
Hank sighed heavily. "Colt, please don't tell me you need me to hold your hand every time a minor obstacle crops up. I'm doing everything in my power to further your career, but I've also got a show to run. As much as I want to be there for you, I'm hoping you can show some initiative of your own and do your part without coming whining to me every 5 seconds."
I felt incredibly small. How could I be such an ingrate? "I'm sorry, Hank. I didn't mean to be a whiner. I really, really appreciate everything you've done for me. I won't let you down, Hank!"
Hank smiled. "I have faith in you, Colt."
After that little pep talk, I applied myself vigorously to the rehearsals. My solo performance was called `Ass Bandit' and saw me dressed not unlike Zorro, all in black with a cowboy hat, leather boots and an eye mask. The choreographer was inspired by my "bubble butt" (his words) and decided it would be the focus of the number. While I gradually stripped down to just the hat and boots, I was to draw attention to my well-toned behind.
"Slap it, stroke it, twerk it, spread it ... just make sure their gaze is fixed on it all throughout. Let them feast their eyes on those magnificent glutes and that tight but not-so-virgin asshole." The choreographer casually fingered said hole as he coached me through my steps. I gritted my teeth and bore it for Hank's sake. I really didn't like baring my most private orifice for an audience of 2,000 but that was the scripted routine which I knew Hank had already vetted and I didn't want to trouble him with changes.
My double act with Randy was dubbed "Tonsil Hockey" and had us both kitted out in ice hockey gear, which we shed over the course of the act. In line with the title, we started making out as soon as the helmets were off. (Since they were the first to go, this meant a lot of French kissing from start to finish. The choreographer insisted we use tongues and lots of spit.)
The bulky outer gear was quickly discarded, leaving us in just skintight underwear: a sleeveless top and compression shorts. Both were white, which meant they turned translucent once Randy and I started slobbering over each other's bodies.
Someone had the bright (and I mean that sarcastically) idea of incorporating ice into the act, which saw us running ice-cubes over each other's bodies with our mouths before shoving them down our compression shorts. If you've ever had ice down your undies you'll know how uncomfortable it is. Randy and I squirmed miserably, and were consequently quite glad when the time came for total nudity because it meant we could get those damned ice-cubes out!
"You know," mused the choreographer, handling the ice hockey sticks that we used as props in our act. "We should find a way to incorporate these as well. Randy, you want to suck on this shaft, get it nice and wet?"
The 18-year-old obediently swallowed as much of the stick as he could, lubricating it with his saliva. The next thing I knew, he was lying on his back, his hairy legs lifted up towards his shoulders with his tiny, pink hole on display. (I was amazed at how tight it appeared despite his present storyline, which featured him being fucked on a daily basis by the well-hung Aussie.)
"Colt, you want to do the honors?" asked the choreographer.
I shook my head. What was it with this group and their constant desire to anally violate men?
The choreographer shrugged. "Suit yourself." He rammed the shaft up Randy's rectum in a single hard thrust. The teen howled in agony.
"Relax, Randy. We're barely inside. You can get more of this into you."
"Oh God," whimpered Randy. The choreographer unrelentingly fed more and more of the shaft into Randy's man-pussy. I noted with disgust that he was shamelessly stiff despite his pathetic mewling.
"Isn't this too explicit for the show?" I pointed out as the cast gathered around Randy's sweaty, writhing body to watch the choreographer briskly fuck his pussy with the hockey stick.
"Hmm, I guess you're right," the choreographer conceded. He gave the hockey stick one last shove, burying it as deep as it ever had been inside Randy (eliciting another shriek). "We'll think of something else."
It was eventually settled that Randy and I would keep up the ice hockey theme by clenching the puck between our butt cheeks. This was harder than it should have been, because the act required us to dance the tango in our jockstraps.
"The tango is the height of sensuality," declared the choreographer. He inspected us critically, making us hold our pose for a long moment, unmindful of our embarrassment at having our crotches mashed together. The mesh jockstraps we were wearing did little to preserve our modesty.
"Clenching really makes your glutes pop," observed the choreographer approvingly. "Alright, keep going!"
The number ended with us extracting the puck from each other's butts with our mouths. That allegedly fulfilled the homoeroticism quota without breaching the bounds of common decency.
"In what universe," was my retort, but it went unheeded.
The last number was the group one, and it was titled after a popular song lyric, "It's Getting Hot in Here". As flames were projected onto the backdrop and theatrical smoke was pumped out on stage, the entire male cast emerged in firefighter garb.
At Hank's instigation, I was given the dubious honor of being center stage. I get that he wanted me to have a prominent place in the act, but he must not have counted on me being the first to be stripped and the only one to be totally naked.
My cast-mates pounced on me, tearing off my uniform, leaving me in a tiny gold thong. Prop fire extinguishers were used to spray foam (highly-concentrated but harmless soap suds, not the real stuff used by firefighters) onto my naked body and down the front of my thong.
Then, in one swift move, Ross ripped away my thong! If not for the paltry cover of foam, I would have been full frontally exposed to the audience. As it was, the foam wasn't lasting and my frenetic dance moves made it dissipate even more quickly. Although they kept topping it up with a fresh layer, spectators would inevitably catch glimpses of my cock and balls.
My shame was exacerbated by the fact that none of the other actors were so blatantly and lengthily exposed. They all got to keep on their thongs - even that faggot Randy!
And if I'd thought that being exposed to 2,000 paying customers was bad, I was in for a rude shock when Hank revealed his solution for the fans who hadn't managed to snag a ticket or lived too far away to attend the gala.
"We could offer a video recording of the performance for sale in our online shop," he revealed. "That way, fans from all across the world would get their chance to watch the revue and contribute to a good cause. We could even throw in some backstage footage, digital copies of the calendar, pin-up posters ..."
My heart sank at the thought of my debasement being viewed throughout the globe, but I couldn't possibly pour cold water on one of Hank's ideas.
I soldiered through the photoshoot for the naked calendar and publicity posters, which regrettably employed the same pervert who had photographed Randy and me for the gay fashion line. To my utter dismay, he didn't even bother to hide his glee at snapping us totally naked this time around. His assistant was similarly elated to have another opportunity to oil up my body.
As Hank had suggested, I was featured on two months of the calendar: sporting wings and a bow for February and a Santa hat and bauble for December. Randy was Mister July, wearing an Uncle Sam hat and holding a firecracker over his groin, while Ross was Mister October, clutching a tiny jack-o-lantern in front of his nether regions. The cover featured me totally naked except for a copy of the calendar which I held (very low) over my junk. The words STOP BULLYING, END HOMOPHOBIA were scrawled across my chest in lipstick.
The calendar flew off the (virtual) shelves as soon as it went on sale and several reprints had to be commissioned. The press on the red carpet of the Soap Stud Revue congratulated me on its success since I was the cover boy. I had to force a smile and accept the accolades knowing that I had inadvertently raised plenty of money in aid of fags!
The revue itself was a foregone conclusion. By the end of the night, two thousand people could say they'd seen my privates, and I suspect the rest of the world wouldn't have to wait for the official video to be released before they could say the same. Many of the guests had their phones out, making amateur recordings of the strip routines which would be uploaded to the internet within 24 hours.
Squeals of "OMG, I can see his hole!" and "Are you getting his dick in the video?" abounded at both performances. One woman even screamed at Randy and me to "screw already, you know want to!" Hank had not exaggerated the popularity of my onscreen pairing with Randy. The crowd roared its approval every time we made out.
But it was the final act that truly sealed my fate. Taking to the stage in my firefighter uniform, I lost it within seconds and spent the next 15 minutes naked except for the foam poorly covering my junk. As I was paraded about on the shoulders of my cast-mates in their glittery thongs, I realized just how absolute my exposure was. I might be on the path to an Emmy win, but would I ever recover my dignity?
<< To Be Continued >>
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