Amateur casted jock solo jerking
Title: “An Elaborate Undressing: The Casting Call Masturbation Session”
The casting call sign read plainly: “Amateur straight jocks wanted for webcam video”. A chorus of nervous laughter echoed through the waiting room as Mr. Straight Jock read the words aloud. His demeanor suggested a man who relished his masculinity and resented any threat to it. He puffed out his chest, his face a map of suspicion and doubt, as if scaling an invisible mountain.
“Are you sure about this?” he said, tapping his finger against the sign. “It says ‘gay’.” The other men in the room — a motley assortment of ripped, toned bodies — shifted uncomfortably, suddenly hyper-conscious of their own masculinity.
Their shepherd, a beady-eyed man with an impish grin, looked at them through half-lidded eyes. “That’s just a technical term, fellas,” he said, his voice a snake’s hiss. “Means we’re gonna showcase the bodiest bods in town. Nothin’ fancy.”
Emboldened, the men decided to risk the casting call. Mr. Straight Jock, always seeking to prove his worth, took the lead. “I’ll go first,” he said, his voice steady. As he entered the casting room, the door sliding shut with an ominous thud, the impish man grinned.
The room was drab, save for a single camera perched on a tripod in the center. Mr. Straight Jock’s eyes darted from corner to corner, searching for hidden cameras, for traps. ” llevar. lo que. Tangalar. griyo. ” The words echoed in his head, a desperate mantra to maintain his composure, to prove his heterosexuality.
“Alright, fellas,” the director called, his voice devoid of passion. “Strip down to your skivvies and show us what ya got.”
Mr. Straight Jock’s jaw clenched. He had never disrobed in front of a man, let alone a camera. But he persisted, his machismo overriding any doubts. He peeled off his shirt, revealing a torso chiseled from marble, each muscle a testament to his heterosexual prowess.
The camera clicked into frame, a hungry Cyclops eyeing its prey. The official Amateur casting has now begun, and casting choice #1 is Mr. Straight Jock.” The director’s voice was a robotic monotone, devoid of inflection.
Mr. Straight Jock stood there, shirtless, a statue of masculinity. “Now turn around,” the director commanded. “Show us the goods.”
With a silent curse, Mr. Straight Jock complied, slowly rotating like a piece of meat on a spit. The camera zoomed in on his back, his glutes, cataloging every inch of his anatomy.
“Very good,” the director said. “Now remove the pants.”
Mr. Straight Jock’s hands trembled as he undid his belt, each movement an exercise in self-control. “Man up,” he whispered to himself, as he slid his jeans to the floor. “You’re a straight jock.” His boxer briefs strained against his pelvic bone, a testament to his heterosexual vigor.
“Now touch yourself,” the director said matter-of-factly. “Show us how you get off.”
Mr. Straight Jock’s heart thudded in his chest. This was the moment of truth, the make-or-break of his heterosexuality. “I can’t,” he stammered, his eyes wide with panic. “That’s gay.”
