The Bukkake Line
by Tyler Knight from his blog TylerKnight.,com
The line of mopes wraps around the warehouse. It moves, I take a step. These men are not the chiseled, two-hundred pound studs with eight-inch-plus penises of the A-list. They will never get the call to work with even passable looking women in a scene for a mid-tier studio, and they know it. This is the bukkake line.
Sure, I’m in line just like these mopes are, but I’m different. I’ve done scenes for top-tier studios already. Christ, look at these guys, then look at me. I’m not like them. Even my shirt, the sample I modeled in a designer fashion show may be old but it’s a tangible link to what I’ve done. Proof of who I was. More than these mopes will ever accomplish in ten lifetimes.
Conversations include: a group scene where one mope brags about actually getting to fuck the girl for a solid minute before another mope tapped him on the shoulder to swap out; another man boasts of his one-on-one scene with a used up, twenty-year porn veteran, milf that he managed to not fuck up, which he proclaims, “We had a connection!”; to the porn parties they lie about being invited to.
The line moves. I take a step.
Directors for other bukkakes and group scenes (most not any better off than the mopes) rove up and down the bukkake line handing out business cards. One director poaches talent for a fifteen-on-one scene with a burly and pregnant woman that’s shooting down the street in an hour. The man front of me is swallowed by the building. I follow.
Inside the processing room we’re tagged and packed like cattle along an assembly line. I fill out the release and show my HIV/STD test to a production assistant that doesn’t even glance at it. Next, I hold my IDs next to my face and another P.A. takes a snapshot with a digital camera.
The line moves. I take a step.
The next P.A. keeps the beef line moving and into the killing floor. He tells me to be quiet as I enter because the filming has started. Through the doors I hear it. Panting. Snortling. Not unlike a kennel of English bulldogs. I enter the room.
Take a step.
The first thing you notice in the main room is: the line has congealed into a clump of man asses. They sag, and drag. Some pinch together, others hang down, flapping against the backs of legs. Hair covers some, puss drips from sores on another. Probably one hundred have packed in before you; you hurry to the side to strip your clothes to make room for the men that pile in behind you. The brightness of the lights is obscene and it’s cold like a meat locker–your breath hangs in the air in front of you, and the hairs on your legs and forearms stand erect. You pick an unoccupied spot on the floor for your clothes, and your bag, then walk to the crowd.
Take a step.
The other men are naked except for their shoes. The mob surrounding the girls (the rumor is there are actually two girls) has to be ten men deep because even though you’re taller than the average mope you can’t see the center. You hear, though. What you hear is squishy, wet, two-inch cocks jerking off in unison, like a thousand teens smacking chewing gum. With the sheer volume of men in the room the sound echoes off the walls. Punctuating this sound is the frequent moaning of your fellow man ass-mates at the front of the line as they dump their loads, followed by gargling.
Take a step.
Naked, you take your place in the pack, and no sooner than you do this does the trickle of new arrivals fill in around you; the group absorbs you into its mass. Inch by inch, the current moves you closer and closer to the front. Still, nothing is visible. Just the occasional cheap phone sex voices:
“Ooooohh yeah baaaaybeee. Gimmie that hot load, you stud!”
Another woman’s voice says, “Yeah, I’m soooo horny!”
Take a step.
Now you’re now at the middle ranks of the Man Ass Organism and are absorbed into it as yet more naked men pack in behind you. You’re trying to stroke your cock up to an erection with the only spit in your hand for lube, shoulder to hairy shoulder, surrounded by hundreds of strangers, and it’s harder and harder to breathe because there are no windows in this room and the used-up air that enters your mouth has exited the lungs of scores of other men. You taste the staleness.
Take a step.
When you are closer to what you think is the front, the odor invades your nose and there’s no way to escape it. Hygiene is not a big priority for some of these guys, but you’ve been around unwashed people before. No, that’s not it. It’s too acrid and burning to be just body odor. You look straight ahead because heaven forbid if you look down you see that you’re stroking your cock millimeters from some hairy, saggy ass. This gives you an acute awareness of the fact that there is some dude pulling his pud directly behind your ass at this very moment. His breath blows warm on your nape. Is he looking down at your cheeks as he strokes?
Take a step.
The Man Ass Organism spits you out to the front of the line the way an amoeba excretes waste through its membrane. There they are. Two girls, on their knees, caked from head-to-toe in the multi-shaded come of a hundred men. Drenched baby bibs are tied to their necks. Faces covered, you can distinguish them only by their breast size. The studio lights above them heat the jizz on their foreheads, creating swirling spunk currents the way a lava lamp would, solving the mystery of the stench. Both women’s breasts have space on the undersides where the semen dried to a crust–crackling, and splitting, and flaking when a tit moves.
Two men stand ahead of you in line. An unseen, megaphone amplified voice screeches over the ambient din, “You two! Snowball! Go, go, go!”
The two men take their steps.
A dripping slot opens just above Big Tits Girl’s chin that can only be a mouth. She sucks one man, and Small Tits Girl sucks off the other. Gooey hands grasp at the men’s doughy asses for leverage as the girls shove mope dicks into their faces. Big Tit’s man pumps her face and after ten seconds, convulses, howls, then slathers his load into her mouth and onto her face. She swishes spooze around her mouth and teeth the way you’d rinse with Listerine. The second man shoots his load into Small Tits Girl’s mouth. Both girls gargle their ejaculate in unison as the men step away and are re-absorbed into the crowd. Small Tits leans over, places her head in the Big Tits’s lap, and opens her mouth like a hungry baby bird. Big Tits then purses her lips. Come mixed with spittle, phlegm, and yet more come drips from Big Tit’s mouth in long strings, and into Small Tit’s mouth. Small Tits sits up, kisses Big Tits, and the women snowball the loads back and forth, fingering their pussies all the while. The opaque liquid, now well mixed, drizzles down their chins and onto their tits, and the floor. This is when you see for the first time that the girls are kneeling in a pool of semen and it’s clear why the other men are wearing shoes. You recall among the gossip in the line, one story was about some shoeless man at a previous bukkake that slipped and fell into the primordial ejaculate pool.
Eye-spots surrounded by semen lock in on you, and a soaked princess beckons you over. The megaphone screams, “Go!”
You take a step. When your foot lands, it squishes deep into what feels like warm hair conditioner. Your foot sinks and the gelatine goo oozes hot between your toes. When you lift your foot the sticky floor doesn’t want to let it go. You stand in front of the girls, cock in hand, no erection. The Big Tits Come Princess scoops spilled seed from the floor and feeds it to Small Tits Girl, whom sucks her friend’s finders dry. She smiles at you, blowing come-bubbles. Your stomach flips inside out, and your breathing comes shallow, and it feels as though your bones have been sucked out of your legs. You sway.
The megaphone shrieks, “Stop! Half-time show!”
The director’s minions–dressed in rain coats, hats, fly-fishing boots and gardening gloves–cattle prod their way through the crowd carrying industrial strength blow dryers. The appliances roar to life and the minions glaze the women’s faces with the come, glazing them like pottery. Fresh broiled spunk wafts into your nasal cavity. You look around and see the dead eyes of the Organism reflecting your feelings back at you; the Beast Of One Hundred Penises is looking through you to the girls, stroking away. Moaning and the sound of smack-smack-smack–
Enough!
You push your way through the Organism, not caring that you graze past someone’s loose genitals in your haste, which is good because as you rush, greasy penises brush against your wrist and your hips.
Once in the back, clear of the Organism, your body doubles over, resting your hands on your knees, sucking in air until the roof of your mouth tingles and your pulse throbs in your eardrums, and you get the tell-tale tunnel vision from hyperventilating.
Your pants are in your hands but you remember there’s not enough bus fare in the pockets to get you out of the Valley, let alone get something to eat, and you still have a week to go until you might get paid for the three-on-one you did last week–assuming the check clears. Your gut, heaving a moment ago, now bellows to be filled. You take a step. To the back of the Organism.
The moaning mass of flesh wraps itself around you once again. You step, wait, and step again until the Organism shits you out once more. There is only one Come Princess, now. She rests upside down on the back of her neck and shoulders. Legs open, speculum prying her vagina open. The guy ahead of you drops his load down the pried open vagina. You’re up.
A gas masked minion squirts cheap lube into your hand from an industrial sized drum. You close your eyes and go through your wank bank of images in your head to get you cock hard. You stroke, thinking of that sweet-smelling bank teller with the low-cut blouse who took your deposit, and this jars you from the fantasy because you remember that you have to give the inverted snatch in front of you her deposit. You keep stroking but your curiosity nags at you to peek, but you’re so close to coming and don’t want blow it, but your eyes have minds of their own. You peek. Her clamped open cunt is infinite, raw, and teeming with mottled, bubbling spunk. Still clutching your penis, your eyes roll back and the floor comes up on you hard and fast.
When your eyes open, you’re at the back of the crowd, next to the pile of clothes, semen stuck between the webbing of your fingers, a tightening feel of crust drying on the left side of your face and lips. You lick your lips and are rewarded with a bitter-salt taste on the tip of your tongue.
Your feet kick away a pair of skid-marked tighty whiteys to get to your socks, but fuck it, do you really want to put them on again? You’ve got one pant leg on when you stop and look to the dried sperm crusting on your feet. Your shirt, the one you got paid $1,500 to wear down the runway in Milan, is missing. Scanning the back of the room, you spot it. A mope is using it as a come rag. You struggle to control yourself from weeping and manage long enough to sling your bag over your shoulder and walk.
As you are leaving a minion stops you. He says, “Don’t forget your cash.”
He hands you fifty bucks, a baby wipe for your face, and a t-shirt that says:
“I Got Cummed On and Left For Dead In A Bukkake And All I Got Was This Stupid T-shirt.”
The minion says, “Can you come back to do the Gangsta-Land Come Slam next week? There will only be ten of you, you actually get to fuck the girl, and the pay is $150.”
At first you think he doesn’t know you’ve failed, but then you realize he doesn’t care. You’re walking corpse, there to make the set look full. As a mope, nothing you ever do will matter.
I’ve also been a “mope” for hire, as a favor to Jim who personally asked me to, and for entertainment fodder for that doc still not finished by that inept, abusive piece of shit non-producer. The late Sledge also did it, as well as Brandon Iron. It’s a porno circus. Very disgusting but at times entertaining like when a mope would run up to bust a nut before Jim even started filming. That shit was Nast-T! The smell of wads under hot lamps smelled like rotten eggs. The sperm omlet cooked once was vomit inducing. Who jerks off to this kind of shit I’ll never understand. I was always stared at by a closet homo when I did it, too.
What an awesome read, this guys blog is great.
I too don’t understand how people can get off to this. Bukkake’s are nauseating. How much do the broads get paid for these shoots anyway?
You just get turned on to his blog after my comment the other day? NL- yes thank you
You should wait a month, then post the story about the outbreak for those that are too lazy to click.
I think the appeal of a bukkake shoot is that there is no dress rehearsal for an experience like this. It’s not the same couple doing the same positions on the same couch. You don’t know how a woman is going to react to porn’s unwashed masses. Your fantasy is that she loves it, but your eyes tell you it’s disgusting. As long as your brain doesn’t communicate with your eyes, you’re fine and the fantasy can survive.
No one who witnessed Ami Emerson eating the 71-load cum omelette was ever the same.
” The director says, ‘Cut.’
Thank Christ. Me, shooting smut in the back of a speeding van with two white girls–bald cunts, panties around their ankles–is a game of ‘Pin the Felony on the Negro’ waiting to happen. ”
lol
Brandon’s shoots were better than Jim’s! by far! wouldn’t you say Brandon?. And they were Blow-bangs with better looking chicks.
It may be just me but this account reads very much like Palahniuk’s ‘Snuff’ (I may be misremembering the title :/) which was about the same subject; not least in terms of tone and structure. Anyone..? Anyone..? Bueller?
You mean “Choke”, Randal?
Hello Origen, sir! I wasn’t sure initially, so I just Googled both titles to double check and it is actually ‘Snuff’ rather than ‘Choke’ – but I can see where the confusion lies in terms of general thematic similarities. I haven’t read it particularly recently, but it struck me reading Mr. Knight’s account there were some interesting similarities between the two..
Tyler’s writing needs some work, tbh. I know he’s going for the whole post-modernist, stream-of-consciousness style but he needs more concise diction and less metaphorical description.
If you get an opportunity to sample ‘Snuff’, I’d be interested to read your opinion: generally, but also specifically regarding the point raised, O-Man. ‘Rant’ by the same author is also well worth a look.
And thanks to all for tuning in to Fapbook Review. We’ll see you same time, next time.
lol, Randal. Thanks for the heads up…
As far as the underlying metaphor, ive yet to take any significant plunge of prose n poetry into the repugnant and surreal world of bukkake because it would put me in competition with the hitchhikers guide to the galaxy’s worst poetry in the known universe list for being so vile and loathed. All that aside, it should b acknowledged that participants can be the best journalists, even if u might have issue with substance &/or stye.
I mean if i want to get both philosophical and descriptive, i could start off with:”what is this man ass that stands bfore me, blubbery with man handles hanging, adorning, ass cheeks pimply, pocked and sagging, wih cottage cheese nuggets pushing out its skin. What for am i staring at these vile things? is it because my wounded, weary eyes have lost the will to wander any farther than what stands in front of my drooping face?”)
Totally Vogon, Jeremy ;D
thanks, i’d do paragraph two, but someone would have to pay me
Tempting, but I’m all out of change, sadly.
In other news tho, congratz on your recent engagement and mainstream moves; glad to see you catching a decent break, Jeremy.
Now about that AIDS..
AIDS is a scam to bring the brother and the gay man down, and everyone else after that, but it failed, although the dollars keep rolling in. Nixon started this mess throwing a heap load of a cash at corrupt scientists looking for a viral cure for cancer. He thought he was revive his image by seeming humanitarian but all it created was more sickness and death and profit. Then later AIDS was born based on the same nonsense from formally out of work retrovirologists like Robert “Scientific Misconduct” Gallo, who stole and corrupted books and lab samples attempting to strike it rich. The declaration that HTLV3 (later revised to the hip sounding HIV) was the cause of AIDS (originally known as gay immune deficiency syndrome, I’m not making this up) was made in April, 1984, the same month and year Owell’s “sex crime” novel was born. There are a lot of eiree parallels.
Eiree parallels between Orwell’s 1984 and Gallo’s AIDS (these are just off the top of my head):
1. Winston’s diary begins: April, 1984
Gallo’s declaration of finding the “likely cause of AIDS” was made: April, 1984
2. In the book “1984”, it is a crime to have sex, and it stood against allegiance against the party and big brother. Sex leads to death.
In Gallo’s 1984, promiscuous sex leads to AIDS (especially if you’re black, gay or shooting up), which is against the principles of a good society/big brother. Sex leads to death.
3. In Orwell’s 1984, everyone rationalizes through doublethink, whereas they simultaneously hold on to two contradictory beliefs at the same time.
In Gallo’s 1984, HIV = death, even though many have HIV without AIDS and vice versa. Also, a retrovirus, which has no brain and is so small that no microscope can see it, is a very simple molecular structure and exists in plenty in every healthy human host, yet it is both claimed to kill t-cells and hide in them for many, many years without causing any sickness whatsoever. Examples of doublethink can go on, on, on and on…
4. In 1984, Julia tells Winston the war is not real and is just the means to, kill, weaken and control the masses.
In Gallo’s 1984, illuminati goals of population reduction are enacted with claims that AIDS will kill many, many millions. It is just a means to kill, weaken and control the masses.
5. In Orwell’s 1984, Freedom is slavery.
In Gallo’s 1984, any one who differs in opinion with the party is fucked. There is no peer review of Gallo’s data or any scientific debate before declarations are made and billions of dollars thrown out to corrupted scientists who are controlled from the start. Freedom IS slavery.
6. In both cases, the newspeak dictionary keeps getting smaller and smaller and smaller, so there is no longer any need to think; only act based upon the principles of big brother.
eerie, whoops
Well as far as ‘1984’ goes, we’re all experiencing a surveillance culture of some degree; bizarrely, awareness of the system seems to grow whilst the net is tightened..
If you haven’t already, Jeremy, I’d recommend Orwell’s ‘Selection’s from Essays and Journalism: 1931-1949’ for illumination on how some shit never changes, to paraphrase Tupac.
We also live in Huxley’s world of control through drugs. Huxley originally said his book was prophetic, but then revised it to say the future was coming a lot faster than he originally evisioned. Orwell, was a prophet of sorts, seeking to warn us, as well. Both have been connected with the “illuminati”/Fabian society, as well.