“And… action. Yo, Dillinger, what up?” asked the disembodied voice of the cameraman.

“Not much, man,” Dillinger mumbled, sitting on the bed with his back against the wall, still uncomfortable even now, on his fourth shoot, with the knowledge that gay dudes were gonna jerk off while watching him. “Hanging out, workin’.”

“You been gettin’ much tail lately?”

Dillinger pulled the brim of his trucker hat down over his Wayfakers, trying to preserve his anonymity. “Nah, man,” he rumbled. “Bitches are all tight ‘n’ shit with it lately.”

“They want you to buy ‘em drinks and dinner and shit, right?”

“Yeah.” Dillinger absently touched his crotch with his right hand. “I ain’t got the cash for it, man.”

“Well, we’ll fix that today. You ready to put on a show?”

He pulled his hat down again. “You show me the fuckin’ money, yeah,” he said in his rough Brooklyn accent.

The trucker hat was a fashion accessory that had made a comeback after an all too brief absence. It was Von Dutch, the sort of hat you’d expect a straight dude to wear if he was totally out of touch with Manhattan fashion. A Von Dutch hat worn today in any style-obsessed venue would require an accompanying outfit of such supremely constructed irony that only the most seasoned hipster could pull it off.

But since Dillinger was a fashion-clueless straight dude, who thought it was awesome because he’d seen lots of skaters and BMX dudes wearing it, it had the magical power to make all the style queens who watched his videos, and who would otherwise denounce said hat, start leaking precum at the sight of it. Add to that the bodega Wayfakers, with their neon blue temples, and his cluelessness was complete.

Cameron, the photographer, had given a lot of thought to the wardrobe. Dillinger’s boots were Carhartt, the pants Ben Davis, real blue collar clothes, though Dillinger himself had provided the worn-down, hole-spattered Mets t-shirt he now lifted up and over his chiseled abs.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Cameron purred. “You know guys wanna touch that, right?”

Dillinger gave a shrug, the élan of a New Yorker’s “seen it all” attitude. “They can look. Ain’t fuckin’ touchin’.”

“Not even for a couple hundred bucks more?”

Dillinger hesitated, just a second, then his hand squeezed his crotch. “Na, man, I ain’t queer, sorry.” There was no negative intonation in the Q word, just the casual use of an epithet he’d grown up with. Queers were okay, they just weren’t gettin’ any of Dillinger’s meat. Or could they, the audience would wonder, because he did pause for a second, he did start to get hard at the idea, didn’t he…

Oh how they squirmed then, the fans at home. He was everything they wanted, everything they’d grown up desiring in their shitty little towns, something a few of them had maybe even touched, one night out by the water tower, an encounter that had ended with an admonition like “Tell anyone about this and I’ll kick the shit out of you.”

“Okay, man, that’s cool. Why don’t you pull that dick out for us?”

Dillinger took his time undoing his black leather belt, unbuttoning his pants, sliding down the zipper. He’d gone commando today, it was quickly apparent, as the white marble of his tool was revealed by the parting zipper.

Dillinger’s eyes were fixed on a TV offscreen and to the right of the camera, where straight porn was looping to stimulate him. His male gaze glazed as he pulled out nine glorious fat inches of straight cock, imagining that slut onscreen screaming for him, more, more…

A phone vibrated in the background, usually no reason to stop – the cinema all the more vérité for it. Then Cameron glanced over at it.

“Fuck. Cut. Shit.”

It took Dillinger a moment to come back to himself. Like any man, once his hand was on his dick, taking it off without having it off wasn’t natural.

“Sorry. I gotta reschedule this. It’s my mom.”

Dillinger tore off his sunglasses, making eye contact, earnest, upset.

“Oh, shit, is she okay?” Henry Davis asked, pushing his business back into his pants and doing them back up. Dillinger was gone.

“Her blood sugar’s way up. I’ve gotta head over there now, sorry man.”

Henry jumped off the bed and hugged his friend. “Jesus, Cameron, forget about it. Go.”

Cameron fumbled in his pants and handed Henry two Benjamins. “For your troubles, dude.”

“No, I can’t…” Henry demurred. “You do so much for me.”

Which was true. All the photos he used in “Hamilton’s” profile, top quality professional photographer content, were taken by Cameron. Cameron worked by day as an assistant to a successful photographer and temperamental asshole, and after hours he ran Straight Guys of New York, a porn site on which “Real STR8 Dudes” who’d never ever do gay stuff would, for the right amount, jerk off on camera for the gratification of gay dudes.

In reality, the majority of the STR8 Dudes were gay men like Henry, mostly struggling actors who thought it sure beat waiting tables. But none of them had the following Dillinger had acquired, after just three videos.

Henry and Cameron had worked hard on Dillinger, even giving him a small cop ‘stache that took only days to grow in, and was just as quickly erased after a shoot, returning Henry to his naturally wholesome state.

The story arc, which it certainly was in the heads of Dillinger’s fans, would soon have to satisfy the ache in their groin with Dillinger finally letting someone suck him off, fulfilling the fantasy the viewers had dreamed of all this time, the most they could hope for, Dillinger’s eyes on the straight porn, one hand rhythmically pushing a man’s head up and down on his shaft, no other physical contact allowed or expected…

Cameron smiled. “Henry, even with all the pirating, I’m making serious bank on Dillinger. Take the fucking money.”

Henry took it, relieved. He had to pay The Bill, after all, and that would leave him broke again.

Cameron kissed him, a friendly kiss with a reminder in it of what they’d done, once, which made Henry smile. After the first Dillinger shoot, the two good friends had both acknowledged the holy-fucking-shit-that-was-hotness of the scene they’d just taped, both of them with raging hard-ons from it, even after Henry had blown for the camera.

And since they were both young and hung and full, oh-so-full at that moment, of cum, they’d fallen on the bed and fucked like bunnies, and then gone back to being friends who’d always laugh at that moment. (Which, yes, had been just as terrific as you could imagine.)

Cameron patted Henry’s flat tummy. “Keep that eight pack fresh for me, okay? Next Tuesday good for you?”

“Perfect. Say hi to Mom for me.”