HUMOR
o I’m in Palm Springs reading the news
paper when the following ad catches my
eye: “Pomstar B B Q & Video Shoot, S a t
urday 1 p.m., A ll Worlds Resort."
"W hat do you suppose they serve at a pom
star barbecue?" I ask my partner.
“Footlong hot dogs, I guess,” he says.
I’m kind of conflicted about pom. O n the
one hand, I think it can be dehumanizing, an
obstacle to intimacy. O n the other hand...w ell,
pom can keep the other hand pretty busy.
So I figure, what the hell. W e’re on vaca
tion, and besides, I can use the 10-buck admis
sion fee as a tax deduction.
W hen 1 arrive, I discover they’re actually
barbecuing hamburgers, but the pom stars are
the ones handling the meat, which only seems
appropriate. Aaron Tanner, a former financial
adviser and today’s bottom, works the grill. I’m
introduced to him by his real name, which
only serves to confuse me.
I have a hard enough time remembering names
as it is. Like with Tom Cruises alleged boyfriend,
Chad Slater, whose real name is Kyle Bradford. I
could understand if the man were bom Murray
Rosenblatt or Gomez Jones, but why invent a norn
de pom when you’ve already got one?
I ask Aaron how much he makes on a
shoot. “T h a t’s a personal question,” he sniffs.
I see. Taking pictures usually reserved for
the proctologist is OK, but asking about
finances, now that’s too invasive.
“Today we’ll be filming Pomstruck 4 ,” the
production assistant announces to the crowd o f
about 60 men gathered on the patio. (For those
o f you who might have missed Pomstrucks 1-3,
they’re all about naked men having sex at a
resort in Palm Springs.)
Pomstruck 4 is a decidedly low-budget
S
Masturbate theater
Struck by pom
THE GOSPEL
ACCORDING
TO MARC
by M arc Acito
affair— one camera, one light, a lot of condoms
and a Costco-size bottle of lube with a pump
top. T here’s no fluffer, despite numerous volun
teers from the audience. Aaron does the hon
ors for his co-star, whose pom name is Ttno
Lopez, not to be confused with Tina Louise,
television’s Ginger from Gilligan's Island.
1 kneel down to get a better view of the
action and notice at least a half-dozen guys in
the crowd playing pocket pool. Frankly, the
sex doesn’t do a thing for me. G rant
ed, I’m not going anywhere until
it’s over, but I’m not aroused
either. It’s just not as sexy with
out the wompa-wompa music.
T he director, Rafael (one
name only please, like Madonna
or Cher), films the blow jobs
first, which take an hour or so,
then sets up the rim shots. “OK,
spread ’em,” he instructs Tino.
The entire crowd moves forward en
masse in anticipation.
“Now dive!" he shouts like a sub
marine commander. Perhaps they
should call this movie Das Booty instead. I glance
sideways and note that lots of periscopes are up.
“O K ,” the PA announces, “we’ll be back in
15 minutes for penetration,” which is a state
ment you don’t hear every day.
The penetration shots take a long time, and
the crowd grows restless. In between takes,
Aaron swigs Mountain Dew and rubs Ambusol
on his ass to numb the irritation. (You try getting
screwed for hours on end without chafing.) Tino
changes to a fresh condom every time we break.
I don’t know why, he just likes it that way.
Aaron does his cum shot, then fakes an
orgasm three more
close-ups, like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met
Sally. “D on’t wipe that up,” Rafael says to the
PA, “we need that for the next shot.” (C onti
nuity is so important in filmmaking.)
But Tino is having trouble delivering the
goods, and Aaron has to lie there all sticky
while he waits for Tino to finish. A cell phone
goes off. Guys in the crowd start looking at
their watches and muttering about dinner
reservations. I’m reminded of the time I went
to Cape Canaveral and had to wait a really
long time before the rocket finally launched.
Tino is sent to the bathroom to concentrate.
“Clear a space,” the PA says. “W hen he’s
ready, he’ll come running.” O r perhaps cum
running, if we’re lucky.
But alas, it seems the old well’s done run
dry. Tino can’t finish.
“W e’ll do the cum shot tomorrow,” the PA
announces to the few of us remaining. Most of
the guys in the audience have wandered off,
some going back to their rooms to do what
poor Tino cannot.
But for me, this is the best way the day can
end. Instead of simply standing passively by as
anonymous voyeurs, the audience has used this
little display as an appetizer to the main
course of intimacy with a real live person.
In a world in which gay men are already
isolated by virtue of our identities, it wanns the
cockles of my heart to see us connect, whatever
the means. And if you’ve ever had your cockles
warmed, you know how good that can feel.
And that, my friends, is T h e Gospel
According to Marc. j H
I
MARC A c it o works hard for his money — in
this case, harder than usual. He can be
reached at m arcacito@ attbi.com .
m
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