Anton

I'd thought it was going to be such a good day.

But it wasn't.

It was a bad day.

And quite literally, as you'll see later, a bad hair day.

A shit day.

The sort of day when all your expectations are turned completely upside down.

The sort of day when you at last manage to pick up the hot guy from the bar that you've been lusting after for the past four months - all rippling muscles and a body to die for...

…you take him home and into the bedroom…

…and then he suddenly turns over, sticks his ass right up into the air and begs you to fuck him like there's no tomorrow.

Or take another example. There's the Calvin Klein Night at the local bar that you've been looking forward to for months.

You're expecting all the hunkiest guys in town to be there, dressed in nothing but their skimpiest white underwear. A sort of multi-Marky Mark night…

But when you turn up, dressed just in your own most flattering undershorts, you discover that you've misheard the invitation.

It's really a Patsy Cline evening - and everyone else is wearing chaps, checked shirts and stetsons.

And you just know that that night's going to haunt you for the rest of your life.

Yes, that's exactly the sort of day that I'm going to tell you about now.

And it had started off so well, too…

For the first time in a couple of weeks I'd got a booking as a model.

Well, I guess you can work out that I'm using the word "model" pretty loosely here - when I arrive at some guys' places they don't even have a camera!

But I enjoy the work, all right. In fact, I've even met quite a few hot guys that way. There's a lot of young studs out there who don't want any sort of permanent relationship with other guys from the bars but would rather pay me to come over and give them a good time with no strings attached.

Gee, sometimes I feel that I ought to be paying them - until it's time to pay the rent and then I'm pleased I took the money after all.

Anyway, as I was saying, on this particular day I was really up for some fun. I'd got a call from a really hot customer. And when I'd seen him once before, he hadn't only paid real well for the photo session but afterwards had given my ass the best pounding it'd had for months.

I was sure looking forward to seeing him again.

But old habits die hard, they say, and en route to his apartment I stopped off at my favourite rest room for a minute or two.

There was really no need to do that.

It's just that, like I say, old habits die hard.

Though there was nothing at all old about the guy inside.

He looked like a trucker or something - maybe a coupla' hundred pounds of pure muscle but topped with a face to die for, straight out of a Versace or Armani ad. And, as he saw me, he gave me a real knowing smile.

That was all I needed and within a minute we'd disappeared into a stall where I had his dick down my throat and was burying my face in his really hairy crotch - just the sort I like.

Gee, how I've always loved the way a guy smells down there - especially when, like this one, I guessed he hadn't yet had a shower that day.

Am I slutty or what?

But after three or four minutes, with him pushing the back of my head right into him as hard as he could, I had to stop.

If I wasn't careful, I'd be late for my appointment and lose a client.

In any case, I just had to come up for air.

And that's when it happened.

My contact lens dropped out.

With a shriek of horror I plunged my fingers back into his bush, pulling the hair this way and that in a desperate attempt to find the lens.

Not only would a new one cost me plenty - unless I managed to persuade the optician to give me a big discount in return for a blowjob, like last time - but how the hell was I supposed to pose for photos if I couldn't even see the camera?

Could I find that lens? Could I hell. And my search wasn't helped at all by the guy's humungous dick that got in the way all the time.

A coupla' minutes before I'd worshipped it.

Now it was just a darned nuisance getting in the way.

And then, if it was possible, things went from bad to worse.

Because, as I was carefully teasing apart the thick mass of his pubes, looking carefully for the lens, I found something else.

Just about the last thing I wanted to see.

Something that had little teeny legs.

Which moved.

And so did I.

I raced out of the rest room as fast as I could.

I was only five minutes late for the photographer - but I could tell he wasn't too happy.

And he got even more pissed when I told him that, without my lens, I couldn't see a thing any more.

Until he remembered he had a spare pair of glasses himself.

An old pair of his dad's he said.

And, sure enough, they looked about 50 years old.

I'm wearing them in the pictures. And I don't think I'll ever live them down.

The photo shoot went OK after that, considering.

I tried to look hot - and, when all's said and done, I know I've got a good body.

But it's pretty hard to perform when you know you're a dead ringer for Clark Kent before he disappears into the phone booth.

I tried to make up for things by giving the guy lots of glimpses of my ass.

After all, just like before I was looking for a good time after he'd finished taking the pictures.

But he wasn't biting today.

He wasn't even sucking.

So, after an hour or so, I got dressed and ready to leave.

And that's when he told me.

"Anton", he said, "you're a professional so I know you won't take this the wrong way.

"If you're going to succeed in modelling you're gonna have to get rid of a few personal mannerisms.

"It's nothin' too serious. Not like a limp wrist or a queeny walk.

"But you just gotta stop scratching your eyebrows all the time."

Like I told you, it had turned out to be a real bad hair day.