Wicked Confessions

Chapter 1

Edin Levine

His noises get louder as I thrust. I have him pinned under me, so I’m in complete control. He can’t move even a little. At the configuration I have him in, I’m surprised he can breathe. I’m not even sure what this one’s name is. It doesn’t matter. I close my eyes and take a breath, clearing the thoughts from my mind. Instead, thinking I’m not here. I’m not here.

Gay-for-pay. That’s all I’m doing.

Last year, I began at Rumor—Longwood U’s frat’s Delta Iota Kappa’s basement business. Yes, the frat’s name is DIK. Rumor is their side project that helps fund their expenses. My foray into gay porn started with me doing the whole gay chicken thing for money. Fifty dollars per sex act or federal minimum wage at a crappy work-study on campus? Gay chicken is far less work for far more money. It wasn’t a hard decision. Whatever it takes to provide for my daughter.

It didn’t take me long to compartmentalize the acts until I was barely part of the scene. The problem with Rumor was I depended on someone else to not only chicken out, but to wait long enough for me to make some damn money before they did.

So, when the frat branched off with a porn studio, Confessions, I volunteered. I was a little concerned when they announced it was only a gay porn studio. But then again, I think I’d be more freaked out with women at this point. I’ve been there and know what can come of that. I have an eight-year-old child as a constant reminder.

Gay-for-pay it is. It works out fine. I don’t need to be mentally present to make this work. In fact, it works best when I’m not present. My body’s here. My dick is here. But my head is far, far away.

Now I make $1200 per scene, which is usually no more than an hour long. This isn’t a professional studio, after all. This is a studio run by college frat boys who want to buy beer. Honestly, I’m not sure how they even get away with it. They’re technically on school property, and I’m fairly certain shooting porn is against school rules.

I’m not going to be the one to tell them, though. My kid needs food and clothes. Never mind all the other expenses that come with having a kid. I will take up black magic and curse anyone who ruins this for me. Fuck it.

The only way I’m able to afford school, hockey, and my daughter’s care is through porn.

I suppose that isn’t entirely fair. I know for a fact my bestie wouldn’t let me drop out because I can’t afford one of them. It’s only because of him and his husband that I’ve come as far as I have since leaving our awful situation with my ex.

This is the kind of thing I think about while I’m fucking some nameless man also looking for a payday. Absently, I wonder if he’s gay or also gay-for-pay. Is it gay when I’m the one sticking it in his ass?

The fine line comes when I need to end it. I’m aroused enough that I can keep myself hard—with the help of some Confessions supplements to keep it hard when I’m not into it—but getting off can be a tricky business. Since I haven’t found anyone I’m actually attracted to in this business, unsurprising since I’ve always been attracted to women, getting off is problematic.

It's not my imagination that’s the problem. It’s the fact that I have deeply seated trauma with sex. No, not from abuse. It’s because the first fucking girl I had sex with got pregnant and as a result, I was forced to live five very long, very miserable years married to her before it culminated in me nearly killing myself before I got out of the situation.

Not shockingly, the whole thing was traumatizing.

Okay, thinking about that isn’t going to get me off. It’s going to have the exact opposite effect.

Taking a deep breath, I bow my head and close my eyes, tuning out the room entirely. I grip the back of his neck a little tighter, bearing my weight down and driving home hard. Quick. The only sounds I allow to penetrate my thoughts are his sex sounds.

I erase his gender. I don’t want to imagine a female because that leads to nightmares. Or a male because I’m not attracted to men. Just a person who’s enjoying my dick. The proof of that is in the sounds they make. Their whines. The muffled, garbled begging. Their grunts.

There we go. Nearly there. Just about…

My orgasm spills over me as I fill the condom while fucking them. I shiver though I try to keep in the grimace. That low moan was a little too masculine for me to erase their gender. Grimacing is not the look they’re going for in the vids. I need to be enjoying this. No, I need to give them the illusion that I’m enjoying this.

I’m at the point where I can tune everyone out now, including not-a-guy-or-a-girl beneath me, and finish chasing my orgasm until it’s complete. The pleasure of my release is enough to finish it, and usually, that means I don’t need to focus on keeping my expression trained. I enjoy orgasms, after all.

When I’m empty, I pull myself free and let him go. Because I know I need a little more showmanship, I tap my spent dick on his abused hole a couple of times and then back off the bed. I glance up, careful not to look directly into the camera. The cameraman in my peripheral makes a motion of slapping his ass. So I do so, giving his bare cheek a good slap. The sound echoes in the room and he moans.

Satisfied that I’ve earned my money, I turn for the door to the bathroom, dropping my condom in the trash on the way by. For a minute, I do nothing but stand under the spray of hot water. They’ve offered more money if I extend the scene into the bathroom and while I’ve thought about it, I really need this time to decompress and disassociate from the last hour.

Doing a scene a week gives me just enough money to live. To take care of living expenses for me and Mo. But what I really need to do is get a little extra money in the bank. Five grand would be nice. A little nest egg for emergencies.

The thought makes me snort. Hell, I need to start saving for Christmas. Then Mo’s birthday is a month into the new year. And the girl keeps growing. I swear, I buy her new clothes every other month because she keeps outgrowing them.

God, I hate living like this.

Taking a cleansing breath, I glance at the wall. I’m thankful there are clocks all over the place. A lot of which are conveniently out of sight of where the cameras tend to point to let us know if we need to draw a scene out or if we’re free to end it when we’re ready.

They also remind me I can’t dally for long. I need to get to weight training. Run, run, run. That’s all I ever do.

Sighing, I wash myself thoroughly and turn off the water. Grabbing a towel off the bar, I quickly run it over my skin as I head back into the room moving it over my head and through my hair. When I’m done, I drop it on the edge of the bed where the guy I just fucked is still sprawled out. 

“You okay?” I ask as I bend for my underwear.

“You have a big dick,” he responds.

I glance down at my cock. It’s not that big. Truly. I think I’m somewhere in the neighborhood of six to six-and-a-half inches at best. And that’s only when I’m really into something. Otherwise, I imagine I definitely hover somewhere closer to six. “Thanks,” I say, unsure how to respond to that.

As I’m reaching for my pants, he asks, “Did you enjoy my hole?”

Is it insecurity or something else that makes guys ask this? I glance his way as I pull up my pants and give him a smile. It’s not genuine. I’ve been called aloof before, so I suppose that’s the kind of smile he gets. “Sure,” I answer.

Thankfully, he doesn’t try to engage me in any further conversation. I’m quick to dress and grab my phone and wallet from the drawer before leaving the room without another look back. I don’t try to hurt their feelings, but this is business. That’s it. I’m not here to explore or to get my rocks off for fun; I just need some quick and easy money.

There’s a man named Jasper at the door who hands me an envelope of cash with a smile. “See you next week,” he says.

I nod. “Later.”

The door to Confessions is a bit further down the hall from the door to Rumor and looks the same. I’m surprised there’s so much room in the basement for two apartment-like studios. The Rumor suite has three bedrooms, bathrooms, and a couple other rooms that I’ve seen them dress to resemble different parts of a house; dining room, den, study, living room.

There’s also a waiting room and a door that leads to what I’m assuming is an office of sorts. And there must be storage for all the furniture they bring in and out.

The Confessions studio is much the same, but there’s a single bedroom and a larger space they set up as different rooms of a house. More often than not, I find it looking like a frat house. Apparently, there’s a big market for frat guys fucking other guys. Who knew?

Back upstairs and after walking through the shrine of dicks, I bypass the poor lad in a Playboy bikini, complete with big bunny ears and a painted-on nose and whiskers. I’m not sure you could pay me to do that stuff.

While the coaches haven’t declared a set time for weight training, I only have an hour until I need to pick up Mo from aftercare by six. They are not happy when I’m late. I know it’s only a matter of time before they threaten to kick her out if I can’t get there on time, too.

Last year, it wasn’t such a big deal since the last pickup was at 6:30. Practice usually finishes at six, which meant I had plenty of time to shower, change, and get to Mo before the place closed. Those thirty minutes made a lot of difference, though. I feel like I’m always late now. Everywhere I go. It’s frustrating. I’m always racing the clock and can never get ahead.

 ***

I make it to aftercare at three of six and the lady gives me a warning look. But I’m here before last call, so I flash her a smile as Mo runs to me. I scoop her up and hug her tightly. “How was your day?” I ask, turning to walk down the sidewalk.

I’m thankful everything is right on campus. I never have to leave the Longwood U property unless I’m heading to my best friend’s house.

“Good. I’m learning about the two times,” she tells me.

Her arms are wrapped around my neck and her legs are straight out, bouncing as I walk. I exaggerate it so her legs really bounce, making her giggle.

“Two times?” I ask.

“Yeah. Two times one. Two times two. Two times three.”

“Ah. How’s that going?”

She shrugs. “Missy is a know-it-all. She’s always showing off. She can already do up to two times six.”

I’m pretty sure Missy is both my child’s bestie and nemesis. They’re frenemies every single day.

“She must work hard,” I say.

Mo huffs. “She has a tutor.” I can hear her rolling her eyes. Yes, my eight-year-old, it has a very specific tone.

I laugh. “Do you want a tutor?”

“Are you kidding, Dad? No!”

I laugh again and give her a squeeze. “What do you have for homework?”

“Just a worksheet for my two times and I need to read a paragraph and then explain in one sentence what it said. If you can say it in one sentence, why did they write the whole paragraph to begin with?”

That’s a fair question. I nod understandingly.

“What do you want for dinner?”

“Hummmm,” she muses, thinking, and I grin. “Chicken nuggets. And peas.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, and toast with jelly!”

My kid has eclectic tastes.

“We’ll see what we have.”

“Do you think Mario ate my chicken nuggets again?” Morgan asks.

“If so, we’re stealing his frozen Snickers bars for dessert.”

“Yes!”

I set Morgan on her feet just outside the house. She turns and runs up the stairs, throwing open the door. “I’m home!” she calls.

“OPA!” half a dozen male voices chorus.

No, I have no idea where that came from.

I glance up at the sign on the siding, to the Greek letters ΩΞΛ—Omega Xi Lambda. The second Longwood U fraternity. Yes, I’m part of this fraternity and live here with my daughter.

I was incredibly hesitant when they approached me last year. We were living off campus with my best friend, Dak, and his husband, Sparrow. While I was working on getting my shit together three years ago, I signed the parental rights of my daughter to Dak.

Honestly, I didn’t know how it was going to work out. The world felt too heavy. I felt like I was drowning, and the water kept pulling me under. There were many, many nights when I didn’t think I was going to wake up.

Part of me didn’t want to wake up.

That’s why I signed parental rights over to Dak. There was no way I was letting Mo get handed back to her mother. Nuh-uh. That was a toxic place for both of us. And it would be a cold fucking day in hell when I allowed my daughter to be under the care of either set of her grandparents. Fuck all that.

But I also knew how dark the place that I was in was. At least I had the conscious thought to make sure my Mo was safe.

It turned out okay. I’m better, though not perfect. I’m probably going to carry around a lot of ugly baggage for the rest of my life. But I’m happy to be alive. I’m happy to have my daughter.

When I told the frat guys that I had a daughter full-time, they still wanted me. They assured me I could bring her too, which I thought was weird. I made it abundantly clear I wasn’t raising my child in a party house. And even being new to campus, I knew OXL was known for their over-the-top parties.

I was assured over and over again.

Stepping into the house, I can see where a handful of the guys are gathered on the floor. Mo’s already joined them, hanging over Mario’s shoulders as she tells them about the 2 times tables. I lean against the doorframe to watch them.

Any reservations I had were erased pretty quickly. Every last one of these guys fell in love with my daughter. She has them wrapped right around her fingers, playing them like marionettes.

There’s always someone to help her study. Always someone for her to play with. I’ll never forget the day I came downstairs, and she had three of the biggest guys in the frat house wearing makeup, tutus, and tiaras while she painted their nails.

If nothing else, they’re going to be great fathers one day.