Description It started with a calendar: twelve men who were stunning in a dozen different ways, bearing the same symbol—the sign of a growing nation of men raised to unparalleled beauty and fathomless sexual ability and appetite.
|Updated||13 Jan 2014|
I guess, like everyone else, I first became aware of them through their calendar. I don’t want to admit it, but that was my first exposure to the men of Mohawk Nation—a silly, glossy wall calendar designed to titillate the admirer of the male physique.
There are always plenty of them around. They appear like magic at about the same time, featuring athletes or bodybuilders or models or porn stars, all in various states of undress from the shirtless bare-chested men to those who grin and bare it all, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.
Me, I like a little fantasy. The hint of something amazing, without the blatant exposure. The outline of a thick cock pressing against fabric, the suggestion of the ridge of the helmet against white cotton briefs. Sure, I’ll admit I’m turned on by the sight of a nice, juicy prick, but isn’t there something more erotic about keeping a few secrets hidden away?
Anyway, the calendar. At first, it was like those French footballers, you know the ones? They came out every year, black and white images of those athletic men hiding their privates behind balls and equipment. Every image highly charged with sexuality and fantasy. The Mohawk Nation calendar was similar. Printed in full color, though, so that the men on its pages seemed to be reaching out toward you from your wall. Almost hyper-real, and every detail of their bodies presented in loving detail. Every vein, every curl of hair, everything seemingly so airbrushed and perfected that the men couldn’t possibly look that good, but it didn’t really matter, apparently, because they sold a shitload that first year.
I bought one. Sure. I mean, you saw them. How could you not? Even if they weren’t 100% real, they were just too fucking amazing to easily dismiss. Twelve gorgeous men, with a few things in common. All of them were build like brick shithouses. Muscle on top of muscle. Thick, hard, bulging and amazing. Secondly, they all seemed to be extremely well endowed, though thankfully (as far as I was concerned, though I seemed to be alone in my opinion) there were no overt images that exposed every inch of them. And then, of course, there were the mohawks.
I suppose every calendar needs a gimmick, and that was theirs. All the men, no matter how else they looked, sported a mohawk across their heads like a vertical crown. No names were attached to any of them, besides the month they were featured on. Twelve stunning, absolutely gorgeous men who, in every other way, seemed as different as could be.
Mr. January was a Latin god, with smoldering dark eyes and a lascivious grin on his lips. His chest, which was amazing in itself, had two fat nipples mounted on it which seemed ready to be licked like chocolate kisses. He wore a pair of sky blue Speedos that were forced low on his hips by the sheer heft and obvious size of the meat they were expected to hold. You could fucking grate cheese on the guy’s abs.
February’s man was a golden god, with bright blonde hair and turquoise eyes. His lips, full and moist, were practically wrapped around your dick as you looked at him. He had the face of an angel and the body of a fucking construction worker, with thick arms and wide shoulders tapering down to an absurdly small waist. And there, again, hidden behind a pair of red squarecut trunks was the obvious outline of a shank of sexmeat that could choke, well, me.
March brought me an African king, whose lusciously dark skin shone like metal. He had a prominent brow and wide, beautiful eyes, with a killer smile that managed to imply exactly what he wanted to do to your body and how capably he was able to do it. He looked tall in his photo, though his body was the most heavily muscled, yet. His pecs were like boulders and his legs were as wide as his waist, and then there, again, at the center of his amazing body was another captive cock that had to be ten inches long and thick as a beercan.
And on it went, month after month. The red-headed beauty with the green eyes and the fine treasure trail down his abs leading to a hint of auburn pubes peaking over his tightie whities in May. The bearded, hirsute, musclebound man’s man with dark, thick fur lining every inch of his impressive frame in August, and that cigar chomped between his lips like a dick. October’s Asian behemoth, with his smooth, silky skin and that massive length of cock nestled inside a pair of black satin boxers, and finally the almost unbelievably beautiful man gracing December’s days, with his bronzed skin, those ice blue eyes and a mohawk crest almost as huge and impressive as the bulge that made his athletic supporter sag low and full.
And then, between their pectoral globes, the small silver medallion that seemed almost suspended there. It looked like a kind of familial crest or royal seal, a simple circle with an X scribed within it, and a small symbol housed in each wedge. So small, it was difficult to discern what the symbols were, but in the coming months these gentlemen, and more like them, would soon be appearing in magazines, coffee table books, videos and artwork celebrating their beauty, power and ultimate masculinity.
The Mohawk Nation became something of a dynasty, its growing membership of gorgeous and muscular men appearing with growing regularity as their fame and infamy grew. Because these men were more than mere showpieces, more than another pretty face mounted on a spectacular body.
There was something more about them. Something tangible and sexy, like an aura they projected, or a sphere of complete masculine power and authority. It was hard not to fall under their spell, and if one were lucky enough to encounter one in person… well—
Let me try to explain based on my own first in-person meeting with a member of the Mohawk Nation. I was at my gym, early in the morning, my usual hour before work when I could get in a good workout and not be bothered by the meat market the place could become in the afternoons and evenings.
I was on the treadmill, my headphones stuck in my ears, concentrating more on my workout than anything else—until my eye was pulled toward the shape of a man unlike any I had ever seen before.
I say my eye was pulled, and that’s what it felt like. It wasn’t that I was merely drawn to him because of his size—because he was huge—or his clothing, of which there was very little, save for a pair of workout shorts that hugged his impressive ass and a tight tanktop that barely managed to contain the assembled muscular development bulging along every inch of his torso. As soon as he entered that cavernous space, I could feel a kind of magnetism about him, as if he was a lodestone and I was made of steel. He was a black hole in space, a vortex that drew everyone toward him without escape.
I didn’t recognize him from the calendar or the book. But the crest of dark black hair across his otherwise clean-shaven scalp and the twinkle of silver around his neck announced who and what he was, even if his impressive build and awe-inspiring presence didn’t. Everyone who was in any way familiar with the Mohawk magic had studied every one of those photos with a microscope. Sure, we all figured, they had to be Photoshopped. Nobody really looked that perfect. No one was so handsome, so built, so absolutely masculine to that degree, except fantasies and morphs.
But there he was. One of them. Placing 100-pound plates on each end of a barbell, the muscles of his arms swelling with mass, his face an utterly calm mask of inhuman beauty and perfection, before lying his muscular frame down on an inclined bench and pumping out prefect reps one after the other as if those hundreds of pounds weighed nothing at all.
It was unbelievable. It was incredible. I watched him as he moved from machine to machine and bench to bench, loading ungodly amounts of weight before quickly and easily pushing his body to lift, heft, and curl more than anyone could or should do.
And he never stopped. Never took a breather. He was a machine or a robot or something, and I watched his body swelling with brawn as he pushed blood into his muscles and they grew larger and larger along every inch of his tall frame.
And then he stopped, and he turned, and he was walking toward me, looking into my eyes, coming closer and closer. I watched him approach and my heart was beating fast and my face flushed and my whole body heated up. A sexual god, a perfect man, was walking toward me with a look of feral need and intense lust clearly evident in his eyes. How big was he, anyway? Six-six? Six-eight? Were his treads shaking the building, or did it only seem that way?
Then he was mounting the treadmill next to mine, and turning the revolutions up, and he was running with steady, even strides, and not even breathing hard.
I think I was frozen or something. It all seemed otherworldly, or as if I was existing inside a dream. He was massive, and beautiful, and a kind of heat came off his body, and a scent as well. Not the stink of sweat, but something like it, something raw and carnal, something that zeroed in on my erogenous zones and made my skin tingle and my cock throb and swell. Watching him move, watching the play of his muscles beneath that flawless flesh, the bounce of his pecs, his prominent nipples rubbing against the material of his top, the shifting of his massive sexual equipment housed in the crotch of his shorts, even from the side I could see the outline of the head of his prick as it pushed and bounced and rubbed itself all over—it was all too erotic and too exciting.
I think I was standing there staring at him for several minutes before he turned his head and locked eyes with me. A kind of spark shook me, something like electricity that coated my skin in tingles, and I felt myself suddenly heating up with longing and desire under his scrutiny. He opened his lips, his sensual, full, kissable lips and said, “Hello,” and then he smiled and I realized I was standing there in my gym staring at him.
Have you ever been confronted with someone you find so beautiful that you feel awkward and embarrassed and at a loss for words, as if anything you say would sound stupid or superfluous unless it was “I think you are the most handsome man I have ever seen and I want to be naked with you immediately if not sooner”? I felt that way just then. His simple greeting, the look in his eyes, all that muscle and cock on display—it was too much for me, and I had an urge to escape. He was like a predator and I was a small animal held in his trap. I swallowed hard and tried to smile and licked my lips and found my gaze drifting down the muscled contours of his body until my eyes stopped to rest at the exact center of his huge frame, where his amazing and colossal cock was still shifting and bouncing and shoving intently as he jogged in place.
Then I heard him speaking again. “Do you live nearby?” he asked.
I brought my eyes upwards toward his intense gaze again. His smile was heart-melting and dick-hardening. He had stopped moving, now, and stood on his treadmill next to mine. He was ten or twelve inches taller, and god knows how many pounds of muscle he had on me. Dozens, probably. His neck was thick and powerful. He had turned slightly to face me and was resting his perfect, luscious, lickable ass on one handrail. He brought his meaty arms up and crossed them over his enormous chest, pushing the two massive globes of brawn toward each other and increasing the cleavage by the inch. The pendant he wore rose above the low neck line of his tank top and caught the light, glinting silver against his darkly tanned flesh. His mohawk rose atop his head like a cock’s comb, at least four inches tall and dark as night. “What?” I said, as if lost in some drug-induced haze.
He lips curled into a knowing grin. His teeth flashed like a tiger’s and his eyes narrowed. He had long lashes and thick brows surrounding his bright orbs, making them laser sharp and bright as an afternoon sky. He offered his hand, drawing it from his pac. It, too, was huge, like a bear’s paw. He said, “My name’s Steve,” as I took his warm, rough grip in mine, and I watched the play of his bicep as we shook hands. It was like a melon made of cables of power beneath his paper-thin flesh, bulging and flexing. “I asked if you lived near here.”
“Sort of,” I answered. “I’m a 10 minute drive—”
“Can we go to your place?”
“What?” I asked again.
He leaned toward me, towering above me, seeming to swell outward in all directions, and he put his lips to my ear and said, softly, “Do you want to fuck? I’m really horny after my workout. I want to fuck.” I could smell him. Smell his ass. Smell his balls. Smell his sex. His heat rose into my nostrils, bathed my skin, raised the hairs on the back of my neck. The power of him. The sheer, raw, sexual power of him was radiating from his body in waves of heat and need.
Then he leaned back with that smile on his lips and that look in his eyes and winked. “Can we go to your place?” He pulled his hand from mine and moved it down his torso, over his chest and across his belly and rested his palm against the wealth of cock and balls evident in his shorts and said, “Now?”
He barely fit in my Honda. I probably broke several traffic laws getting us on the road toward my house. His sensual stink filled the cabin of my car and my dick was rock-hard the whole way. I was pumping precum like a hose and didn’t bother to change out of my own workout duds, so I stank too, though I doubt his body was reacting to me the same way mine was to his.
We were halfway home when he moved his huge paw onto my crotch and began massaging my painful erection. His hand squeezed and rubbed and caressed me with an expert touch. “Wait,” I pleaded, “you’re gonna make me cum.” I could feel it. It was too much. The stimulation of him alone was enough, and now he was priming the pump and driving me to distraction.
“Feel good?” he asked. His tone was gruff and deep. It sounded like he needed this more than I did. “Fuck, you’re huge,” he said, and then, “I can’t wait. Pull over.”
“Right here?” I looked at his face.
He was already pushing his hand under the waistband of my sweats. His fingers clawed through my moist pubic bush and he surrounded my shaft with his grip and squeezed me hard. “Now,” he said. “I can’t wait another second.”
He went down on me in my car. Fuck, he was good. I came almost immediately, I couldn’t help myself. I shoved a thick load down his throat and he swallowed with greedy moans and hungry slurps. He was so big, it was wonder we could do it at all, but it was clear to me that this was something he needed, not just wanted, and when he came back up after satisfying me, he pushed his lips to my mouth and kissed me soundly and deeply and with passion. I could taste the salty essence of my load on his tongue. “Fuck,” he said softly, between kisses, “fuck.”
Then his hand was on his own crotch and I watched him grow. “Is it far?” he asked.
I shook my head and started the engine, but my eyes were glued to the massive prick he was slowly rubbing toward erection. I watched him grow inch by inch, mesmerized by the size of his equipment as it lurched eagerly forward toward the edge of his shorts along his thickly muscled thigh. “Hurry,” he said, rubbing his hand across his thick inches. “I want to fuck you with this.”
I wasn’t even sure if my well-trained ass could take him, but I was more than willing to give it a shot. I pushed the gearbox into first and took off, trying very hard to keep my eyes on the road instead of on his quickly burgeoning meat. He was making low moans and deep groaning noises as we pulled into my driveway and I pulled the parking brake up so hard I thought I might’ve broken it off. “This is it,” I said. “We’re home.”
He opened the door and extracted himself from my car. He stood up and up—was he even bigger now? His body seemed to expand as he emerged from my Civic, all his muscled unfolding and bulging outward, but nothing was as big or obvious as the foot-long prick that tented his shorts in an almost amusing fashion. He started to extract himself in my front yard and I shoved him from behind toward my front door, aware that the neighbors were already bearing witness to a scene straight out of some softcore muscle worship video and were about to graduate to full frontal in a matter of seconds.
He stumbled slightly and I unlocked my door and ushered him inside, as quick as I could, and he stood there, a tower of muscle and sex, and I said, “We’re home.”
The words had an effect like a key slipping into a lock. He turned toward me and was literally ripping me out of my clothes. His mouth sank to my chest and he sucked my nipple into his mouth, teasing and torturing me with his tongue and teeth. His hands moved down my body and tore my sweats open. My dick, still wet with his spit and my cum, flopped out. It felt huge, much bigger than it ought to, and he grabbed it in his hand and started to stroke and caress me.
I heard more ripping sounds, and realized it was him. His body was literally ripping its way out of its own clothing. The back of his tanktop peeled apart, sending a rend down the center as his back bulged and swelled. He pulled his mouth from my nipple and applied it to my lips, shoving his tongue inside my mouth and I swooned and found my prick throbbing and growing in his talented grip.
I was stripped naked by him in my living room and in moments he had joined me, though I don’t remember how or when he managed to rip himself free of his own garments. It was as if he had managed to grow larger in the space of seconds, so large that his body ripped its way through his clothing and now we stood there in my house, and I saw him in his full glory for the first time.
I was awe-struck. His cock was not yet hard, at least judging by its appearance, but it was easily a foot long and frighteningly thick. Fat veins throbbed all over the shaft and the head was pushing itself free of a wealth of foreskin, dripping honey on my carpet. “Slick it up,” he commanded, and he didn’t have to ask me twice.
I grabbed on and attacked his cock with my mouth, slathering my tongue all over it, swallowing the helmet inside my mouth, sucking and licking and stroking every thick inch of his hot, hard meat. He was groaning and sighing and clearly enjoying my manipulations when I felt his huge hands on my shoulders and I looked up into those bright, clear eyes and knew it was time.
I didn’t think twice. I wanted him inside me. I didn’t care if he ripped me in two. I wanted him pumping my ass until his cannon was shoving a hot fountain of cream into my guts. I played my tongue over his fat cock head and lay back on the carpet in my living room as he grabbed my ankles and physically lifted my ass toward his raging red hard-on.
He was a glorious monster of muscle and sex. His mohawk brushed my 8-foot ceiling. His shoulders stretched wider than my doorway. His chest pushed out so far from his body that I could imagine losing both my hands between his pecs. His belly was an 8-pack of cobblestones that swelled and receded with each breath. He spat against my rosy hole as he held my lags wide and moved his hips forward to position the drooling tip of his massive throbbing hard-on against my ass. I felt the heat of him there, and I closed my eyes and gulped in air and prepared myself for his intrusion.
“Fuck,” he said quietly, “you’re beautiful.”
Then he entered me and a shock of pain and heat erupted between my legs like nothing I’d ever felt before. He was not gentle, by any means, and he pushed himself inside in one thrust, burying his foot-long pole in my ass as if we had been designed that way—his cock and my hole. The pain was like a bright light, like the afterburn of a flashbulb in my eyes that shocked and then faded, and then he started pistoning his hips and thrusting himself in and out of me and the pain cascaded into glorious pleasure.
So big. So huge. So much prick shoving against me. I could feel every inch as he fucked my ass, and he found the center of my sexual pleasure and nudged and rocked and pushed against it over and over. I began to shake with pleasure as he fucked me, I had never felt anything so pure and complete. He was a god of sex, the pure source of pleasure, and I wanted this to go on and on and on.
He kept groaning and sighing and whispering, “Fuck, so good,” as he pushed inside me. My cock plumped to erection again and I could feel a fat load of cream building for release. I don’t know how long we fucked. It might have been minutes or it might have been hours. I sank into the oblivion of pure bliss. I felt myself cum and felt the warm wetness of my load splash and linger on my body and then I was cumming again. I swear I was cumming another load, and then another, and he kept fucking me and groaning and whispering, “So good, fuck, so good.”
When he said, “I’m gonna cum,” I opened my eyes and looked at him. He seemed even bigger to me now. Was he on his knees? Was his chest that massive? Big as a barrel? Were his arms so huge? The pendant on his chest was alight, not reflecting but broadcasting its own white glow against his skin. It bounced as he fucked me, and its glow grew bright and diminished as he pushed his cock inside and pulled it out again, throbbing in time to his thrusts. “I’m gonna cum,” he said again, soft and low.
“Cum inside me,” I begged. I was coated in my own cream. My cock was still hard and my balls ached and I knew I was going to cum, too.
“Gonna cum,” he said, and he looked at my face, our eyes met, and he smiled. “Here it comes.”
He pushed deep, deep inside and threw his head back. The pendent on his chest grew too intense to look at and shot out bright shards of blue-white light. His cock swelled in my ass, I could feel him grow suddenly huge, and my guts warmed with the wealth of his load. I came, then, too. My cock shot a fat fountain that splattered onto my mouth and neck and chest.
He shouted a feral sound as he came. Still gripping my ankles, he pushed inside and shoved out his wealth of hot, creamy seed. It felt as if he was unleashing buckets of cum inside me, and I wondered if my belly would start to swell with his unending flood. I could feel him cumming inside me, or that’s what I thought I was feeling. A warmth and a feeling of movement and power, but I soon discovered that something else was happening.
He was looking down at me as he came and he was smiling and that pendant was glowing and he said, “Welcome, friend,” or something like that and I felt this surge of power and sex and suddenly everything hurt, again. I felt that same shock of pain as if he were entering me for the first time, but now it was everywhere. My whole body was bathed in a jolt of hot white pain, and I wanted to scream or shout but my jaw clenched and my hands balled into fists and the pain grew hotter and hotter and I thought I would explode or melt.
And then it stopped, and pleasure took over.
Fuck, it felt good. Everything felt good. I heard him say, “So good, fuck, so good,” and I wanted to say, “Fuck yeah! Fuck yeah, this feels good!” but I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t speak.
And I felt him moving over me, his immense form looming above me and then his skin was warm against mine, his chest pressed against me, the feeling of his breathing in time to mine, his weight pressing down on me, his scent surrounding me. His huge cock was still inside my ass, we were still joined with each other like lock and key, and he moved atop my body and moved his hands over my naked flesh and moved his lips to my mouth and he was making love to me, his fat, gorgeous prick lodged inside me, his rough hands moving across my naked body, and everything felt good, everything felt perfect.
And there was heat against my chest. Something warm and cold at the same time was pushing into the flesh of my chest. He was kissing me and fucking me and cumming inside me and I wrapped my arms across his back and pulled him close. “Welcome,” he whispered. His breath felt good against my ear. He licked it, he kissed my cheek, he kissed my mouth, he pushed himself up and I looked at his handsome face and the crown of blackness across his head and his eyes were scanning across my face and my neck and my shoulders and he pushed himself deep inside and I felt another warm gush and a flood of pleasure erupted all over and he smiled and he looked down toward my chest and he fucked me and came again and I sighed and shook and groaned with bliss.
“Welcome, friend.” He kissed my mouth. “Welcome to the Mohawk Nation.”
Being a grip on a gay porn shoot is a whole lot less interesting than it sounds. And to be honest, I’m not a grip so much as an everything man, getting coffee and lube, making sure the little blue pills are readily available, pretty much doing everything except yelling “Make it look like you’re enjoying this!” at the actors.
Porn shoots are a lot less sexy when you’re on set. I probably don’t need to tell you that, but I feel it’s kind of necessary in order to make the story I’m going to relate a bit more… interesting. Not that it needs to be more interesting, you understand, it’s pretty fucking amazing on its own merits, but I probably should set the scene here so you’ll fully appreciate everything that I tell you later on. And believe me, you’ll want to stick around for that.
As long as we’re divulging, I should also add that I’m not even gay. Or, I guess, not exclusively gay. Sex isn’t the black and white world I was lead to believe it was. I mean, I’m an open-minded guy and I can appreciate a sexy body no matter which sex happens to be wearing it, right? I mean, you guys, I’m gonna assume, are probably gay as all get out. Super gay or something, which is fine, whatever. I’m just not. And I get accused of chickening out or something all the fucking time. Like, “How can you like having sex with men and then say you’re not gay?” And my standard reply is, “I’m not entirely gay and I’m not entirely straight, either. I like having sex, period. I like fucking a girl or fucking a guy. I like having my dick sucked no matter who’s down there sucking. I like kissing guys and girls and I like having my butt played with occasionally so I don’t know what that makes me and I don’t really care.”
Wow. Sorry. Didn’t mean to come off all judgmental, there, but it gets kind of old, y’know? Girlfriends accusing me of being gay, boyfriends saying I’m not gay enough. One day I’ll find someone who understands me—or maybe I won’t. All I know is, I’m having a lot of fun right now so fuck ‘em if they can’t accept me, right?
Anyway, all that shit doesn’t have much to do with my story, anyway, but I thought I’d let you understand my point of view when it comes to the dudes of the Mohawk Nation calendars. Which is what and who I’m going to be talking about, here, so maybe you should go take a gander at one of the calendars over at amazon.com or, better yet, take a drive over to Barnes and Noble or Borders or even that little gay bookstore in your local ghetto because if no one else is carrying these things, they’re sure to have a stack of them—if they’re not sold out. And it’ll be worth your time, I promise you. No matter what your particular fetish happens to be, leather or denim, cops or cowboys, butts or hairy chests, hell they even have a foot calendar out now! I mean, these dudes really understand their demographic, and no one looks better hanging up on your wall than a ‘Hawk.
Anyway, let’s assume you’re already familiar with these dudes and their frozen pictures. They haven’t exactly hit mainstream, yet, but they’re certainly not ‘under the radar’ anymore, either. Kind of like Tom of Finland, y’know? I mean, you mention the Mohawk Nation at any gay bar or club, and everything kind of stops and that’s all any dude there wants to talk about, suddenly. But you’re not going to catch them parading around on Oprah or having a feature story on CNN, y’know what I’m saying? These dudes are still niche enough to be cool, and hot enough to be noticed. They’re this year’s Chippendales or International Male, only the target market isn’t exactly a secret.
So what with the success of the calendars and the books, where’s the videos, everyone keeps asking? Where are the hot ‘Hawk on ‘Hawk poolside porn shoots? It’s pretty obvious that these fellows have the necessary bearing (no pun intended) and even more obvious that they own the necessary equipment and are ready, willing and able to show it off, so why aren’t my local porn shops stocked with “‘Hawks on Patrol” or “Hot ‘Hawks” or “Harry Potter and the ‘Hawk up My Ass” or something?
Well, now we come to the heart of my tale. I can tell you where they are, and why they aren’t on your porn shelf or downloadable off Rapidshare right now—it’s because there aren’t any.
See, I’m not just a porn set go-getter, I’m also a mainstream film dude, but in the current financial climate getting those gigs is a bit of a challenge. It really is ‘who you know’ and who I know, partly because of my own sexual predilections, happen to be the sort of people pointing their cameras at two people fucking. So it was that I found myself on the set of Chi Chi LaRue’s “Hawks!” this week and how you find yourself sitting there reading these words. But this film won’t ever be released because… but I’m getting ahead of myself.
This wasn’t the first time a Mohawk Nation film had been planned, but there had been some complications that kept earlier attempts from succeeding. Nobody would say what those complications were, but I had my own suspicions—that those failures were due to some of the usual crap that goes into a fuck film when they try to create an aura of ‘believability’ around something that should be as natural as, well, fucking.
You know what I mean. The set up. The so-called plot. The flimsy bit of ‘acting’ and ‘dialog’ that happens at the beginning of these things where the characters are defined as being, I don’t know, horny cowboys or long distance truckers or first-time fist fuckers who happen upon a dungeon in the basement of their neighbor’s house. Some weird excuse for a plot that’s supposed to set up all the sex that happens later. Dude finds another hot dude cleaning his pool. Dude one is all, “Oh, he’s hot, but I can’t let him know I’m attracted to him at all, even though I’m all leering at him and rubbing my naughty parts under my teeny tiny swim suit.” Dude two is all, “Wow, that guy is hot and he’s rubbing his cock. I wonder if he’s hot for me? Maybe I should bend over like this and show him my hot ass and then accidentally give him a blow job.”
Or something like that.
Me, I think the less your brain is in there complicating things and the more you let your body do the talking, the better it is for all concerned. It’s not that I want to fuck a dumb dude more than a smart dude—smart’s got nothing to do with it. But when you’re in there good and deep, and then you start thinking about your TiVo and if you remembered to record House this week, or that deadline you’ve got pending, or a million other things that get in the way of the dirty deed, you’re just messing up what should be a simple, filthy act for everyone to relax and enjoy. Then your dick’s gonna start doing all the thinking and in this case, when you’re both naked, horny, hot and ready—it’s about fucking time your dick did all the thinking.
Okay, enough with the sermons. But, you know, there’s a reason Tequila exists! For fuck’s sake!
And I mean that literally.
So they kept trying it with the ‘Hawks, right? But a funny thing kept happening on the set. And it became pretty fucking clear why all those photo shoots only show one of these Mohawk Nation guys instead of two of them together.
“The problem,” it was whispered, “is that they can’t act their way out of a paper bag.”
“No,” it was countered, “the problem is that all the steroids they’re obviously popping means that their balls are the size of peanuts.”
“No,” someone else would gossip, “the problem is that their pictures are so airbrushed that the hi-def cameras are showing off exactly how unglamorous they really are.”
Friends, I was there at the first attempt, and I can tell you that all those excuses are bullshit. The problem wasn’t that these dudes couldn’t act, because how much acting, exactly, is involved in your average fuckfest? Secondly, their balls could never be described as peanut-sized. If anything, seeing the pair on one of these dudes up close and personal would make you doubt they were actual and for-real because they’re so fucking big! And if their photos were airbrushed at all, it must have been to add blemishes and imperfections because I can tell you from first-hand experience that the Mohawk Nation tribe members I’ve met are exactly as handsome and built and beautiful as those calendars portray.
If anything, they’re even better looking in person.
No, the reason why no one had succeeded in capturing the sheer, unfiltered, ungodly, inhuman sexual power and physical beauty of these guys was quite simply because any time you got two of them together in the same room… well, let me start at the beginning before I jump to the end.
Porn shoots aren’t usually very big productions. Typically, you either shoot at a studio in L.A. or San Francisco, or you rent someone’s property in Palm Springs or the valley, you bring in a couple of cameras (if you’re lucky, and one if you’re not) and a sound guy and someone who can set up the lighting, then you spend a few boring days watching two hot naked dudes who probably just met pretend that they’re really into each other, when at the same time they have a crew of other dudes hanging around them with all these distractions, while another dude is yelling at them how they should be abusing each other anally. Honestly, it’s not very fun and not very sexy. Wish I could tell you different, but there it is.
I was pretty psyched about being on the set of the first Mohawk porn shoot, though. I was really curious about these guys and had my own favorite. We all have our personal tastes when it comes to who and what turns us on, and for me it’s a built dude with a hairy chest, dark hair, blue eyes and a smile that lights up his whole face. Mr. June was that dude in fucking spades, and he was going to be in the movie. And there would be another of these Mohawk Nation dudes, along with two seasoned professionals, coming to the shoot when all was said and done.
Frankly I wouldn’t have kicked a single one of them out of my bed, right?
I’m not bad looking, if I do say so myself. Kind of on the thin side, but I keep fit. Not a gym queen by any means—probably, all the sex helps me stay in shape more than anything else. I get—and give—quite a workout between the sheets. I keep the head cleanly shaved, because I like the feel of hands on my scalp, wear a little goatee, have a nice sized cock on the thick side, a few piercings here and there, some for show and some for pleasure, and a creamy white bubble butt that loves to get fucked.
Yeah, I’m a slut, I freely admit that. I like sex! No, I love sex! I love everything about it. And I think it should be fun and freaky and make you feel good and make your partners feel good and at the end of it you should feel satisfied and happy and content and not guilty or sorry or bad. How is that wrong, I ask you?
I wanted to be all cool about it, so I didn’t act like I was excited at all. Didn’t even ask anyone which of the ‘Hawks would be showing up, but my ‘in’ to the production (a regular fuck buddy, if I am being totally honest) told me specifically that Mr. June—the original Mr. June—was one of them, knowing my admiration for that man’s particular image.
If you haven’t seen it yet, let me enlighten you. This particular image is in black and white. We’re apparently at some construction site, because there’s a piece of heavy equipment (nudge, nudge, wink, wink) and a chain link fence in the immediate vicinity. Perched at the open door of the crane or bulldozer or whatever it is, is our man for June. He wears the tightest fitting jeans on the planet and a pair of work boots, the kind made of beige colored leather with the ankle collar and the brass eyelets—not that I notice those kinds of details, you understand. Under one arm, his hard hat is pressed to the side of his otherwise naked body. And what a body it is!
Muscle? You better believe he’s got muscle, and friend it is fucking everywhere. It’s like he was built from the ground up out of nothing but manly brawn, manly fur and anything else that comes in the manly construction set. He seems a bit sweaty from his shirtless destruction of whatever building was lucky enough to have him swinging his big wrecking ball at it, and the thick rug of fur spread across his huge fucking pecs sparkles with beads of salty man sweat.
He is looking not at the camera, but at some fixed point above it—into the future, perhaps, or at the object of his obvious lust. I say ‘obvious’ because remember those jeans I mentioned? Well, whoever the wardrobe genius was who gave them to him knew what he was doing, because one of the biggest, fattest, juiciest looking pricks in the world is overtly pressing itself against the well-worn denim, and every detail of it has been somehow lovingly outlined. The dude—or one of his chums—must have been buffing those jeans along the prominent bulge of his manhood for hours to make sure that every vein, every bulge, every sweet inch of it is so prominently displayed that the dude might as well be naked.
His helmet is positioned nearly at his right hip, and the swollen basket pushes all that meat forward with authority. It’s obscene, really, how good his cock looks behind his pants. And there’s not an ounce of fat on his thickly muscled form. You can even see the moist pit of his furry muscular arm, because the photographer just knew—he just knew that I like nothing better than sticking my nose in another man’s stinking pit and snorting his essence. Fuck, it is a hot photo, and I have splooged more jizz than a stallion on a stud farm to that image of Mr. June, so you better believe I arrived bright and early for the shoot.
You may be asking yourself how I knew that the dude had blue eyes, and the truth was that I didn’t, but I imagined that he did. As I said, he wasn’t looking at the camera and it was a black and white picture, but his eyes were bright and alight and the effect of that against the dark fur of his form and that fucking sexy Mohawk atop his skull drove me fucking batshit. He was absolutely perfect, in my mind. And I wanted to meet him.
And by ‘meet’ I mean ‘fuck.’
The crew was there and so were the two professional porn stars brought in to show the new guy the tricks of the trade. Admittedly, these were very hot porn stars. I won’t tell you their names, because maybe they don’t want it known what happened that day—reputations are important, after all, especially in the porn trade—but let’s just say that one is from France and a definite muscle stud, and the other is a slim Czech hottie with a horse-sized cock, but neither is particularly shy about parading their assets around for everyone to see.
We were all going about our various set-up routines, shooting the shit, setting the lights, doing sound checks and the two actors were getting, uh, ready for the camera when this sound echoes through the studio like two boulders having sex.
It’s him. The ‘Hawk. Mr. Fucking June. He had cleared his throat for attention and somehow managed to get everyone in the room to stop whatever it was they were doing and give it to him, because my friend, Mr. June was all that and a bag of fucking chips!
Oh, man, did he ever surpass my expectations. He was standing at the threshold near the entrance to the set. It was a bit dark over there, but his towering form was like some kind of sexual beacon. You couldn’t not look at him. He walked forward and said, “Hi,” as simply as that, like this sort of thing happened every fucking day, like some sex god walked into a room and made everyone start popping boners and salivating and forget their own names as he tried introducing himself around.
He was fucking huge, for one thing. Easily over six feet tall, and built like the proverbial brick shithouse. I mean, everything bulged on this guy’s bod. That calendar picture didn’t even begin to do him justice. I watched him walk from man to man, offering his hand in greeting, and fucking every one of them had their jaw on the floor and a hard-on raging in their pants. How could you not? I don’t care if you’re gay or straight or somewhere in-between like me, this guy was something… special. You could practically—no—literally feel the sexual heat he gave off.
He was wearing those jeans. I shit you not. Those fucking jeans and they fucking fit him like a fucking glove. He had on a white T-shirt that seemed a touch too small for him, though I’m not sure anyone makes a T-shirt in size fucking awesome. Chest, shoulders, arms, everything was testing the limits of that lucky shirt.
He moved with a predatory grace, like a panther summing up the display of meat for his dinner. His eyes moved over the bodies of every man he encountered, and that smile never left his lips. He had to know what kind of effect he was having, he had to!
Suddenly it was my turn. I watched him approach. As he released the cameraman’s hand, his eyes shifted to me and I knew I had all of his attention. I could feel him examining me, like his gaze was made of fire as it traveled over my body. My prick was already throbbing but now it grew rock-hard.
His eyes were blue. So deeply blue. Like the sky. Like the sea. Like jewels.
He moved toward me and offered his hand and said something, but there was a kind of roaring in my ears and I couldn’t hear him. I watched his lips move, the play of his tongue on his white teeth, the dimples on his cheeks, the way the creases on his forehead deepened when he smiled. His Mohawk was larger, now, taller than in his calendar picture. The sides of his head were shaved perfectly clean, and even his ears looked sexy.
I took his hand in mine and he squeezed gently. I think I came a little. My balls seized up and I was suddenly very hot and then very cold and the roaring stopped as he bent toward me. “You’re fucking hot,” he said softly. His voice was a low growl. I could feel the heat of his huge body bathing mine. “Let’s fuck later,” he said, squeezing my hand again. He may have even licked my ear, but I was so dazed and horny that he could have licked my whole body and I wouldn’t have known it.
Then he was off to the next person to greet, and I was left standing there with a raging hard-on and a pair of cum-stained Y-fronts and the echo of his words in my head.
You’re fucking hot.
Let’s fuck later.
This small example illustrates another possible reason why no ‘Hawk-Porn had made it out of the studio. The minute a member of their tribe shows up—the fucking second they walk in the room—every other man becomes a walking hard-on and the thought of getting anything at all done kind of flies out the window.
Mr. June, on his own, was bad enough. We couldn’t concentrate. We couldn’t communicate. He wasn’t even naked, yet, and already every dude in that room was ready to drop trou and start servicing the guy. And things only got worse from there.
A ‘Hawk in his clothes is one thing, but a naked ‘Hawk is something else altogether. That’s when you realize why they keep their skivvies on in those calendar pictures. A fully exposed tribe member of the Mohawk Nation is something beyond mere masculine beauty. I’m sure that seeing one of these men naked on your wall would keep you rubbing yourself raw for hours. Having one right there, in person, is almost unbearable.
Someone finally got their shit together, some assistant or tech, and they managed to find their voice and ask Mr. June to unclothe himself so we could adjust the lights to show off his skin to its best effect. Some dudes have been abusing a few illicit drugs for one reason or another, and we need to compensate. It should’ve been clear to anyone within a stone’s throw of Mr. June that this man’s skin was perfection. Clear, smooth, silken and beautiful. Still, it’s a job and somebody’s got to do it, right?
I’d seen him shirtless, sure. We all had. I knew what was under that T-shirt. Hell, I’d practically burned his picture into my brain. So when he stripped that off and pulled it over his head, revealing that amazing collection of perfect brawn and luscious fur, my Mr. Stiffy was already in overdrive. It was when the dude started to unzip his jeans and pull the crotch open that my world began to spin in an entirely new direction and everything started to unwind.
The dude owned…. okay, let me just pause for a second and try to get my shit together. I mean, just thinking about that…. just imaging his…. just the thought… the memory… oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.
Sorry. Sorry about that. Okay. Let me… okay. The dude, Mr. June, he starts to peel himself out of those jeans, right? And everyone is, like, holding their breath or something. Pin drop time, y’know? Because, like I said, those jeans did an awfully good job of revealing what was hidden inside them. And, sure, when you see something like that you wonder if it’s real. Because how could it be? That’s a fucking huge cock on a fucking huge man! Gotta be a prop or some artful image manipulation or something, right?
His big meaty hands reach down and undo the button on his jeans. He’s all cool as shit, right? Taking it slow, he’s got to know we’re all getting off on this but he’s so casual about it, so calm. He’s not stripping. This isn’t a show. He’s just taking off his clothes. He’s standing right there, that huge man, that handsome face, that tall sexy Mohawk on his head like an announcement of his Alpha status among the pack of us wolves, and he pops open the top button and there’s like this shared intake of breath. This is it. We all know it. We all want to see it. And here it comes.
So he pulls his jeans open and the zipper fucking undoes itself—I mean, it’s like the poor thing was doing all it could to contain him and now, finally unburdened, it fucking peeled itself apart from the sheer size go his equipment. And now we can all see the full bushy curls of his pubes, no way this dude trims anything, he’s so fucking furry and it’s clear he loves it, so his pants are now pulled open but that fucking huge prick, it’s lodged along his thigh, making its own fold in the denim, a fat tube snaking sideways from the fat bulge between his legs, and the fucking head is flaring out near his hip and he starts—slowly—he starts to peel those skin-tight jeans down his body.
Now I wish I was behind him. Just for a second. Y’know? I want to see his ass. You fucking know he has a furry ass, and a furry crack, and two round, perfect, muscular globes of butt meat all sweaty and salty and lickable. I want to see his butt revealed in all its glory, the most gorgeous ass in the world.
But I have a prime spot up front! I mean, I can see everything! And he’s smiling and looking at us—at me—as he strips the jeans off his hips and pushes them down his body, off his butt, and then he pushes his bear paw into his jeans and grabs onto the fat shaft of his meat and starts tugging out inch after thick, glorious, amazing inch of cock.
Friend, it is huge! It is awesome! It is the biggest fucking prick I have ever seen, and remember that I work with porn stars! But this thing… this cock… this massive shank of meat puts any other prick I’ve ever encountered to utter shame.
It flops out. No, ‘flop’ males it sound less impressive than it was. It surges out. It charges out. It makes its presence known with force and magnificence. It needs its own musical accompaniment, this thing does. It requires a whole fucking soundtrack, just this moment, the magical reveal, the money shot.
The plump and abundant head is cowled in a tight collar of foreskin. Its pink tip pushes forward, the lips of the mouth look like they’re forming a kiss, and the shape of his helmet, the luscious mushroom cap of his plum, dangles at the end of what has to be a full foot of prick that, released from its cage, seems to be swelling even larger. The shaft is massive, a veiny snake of epic proportions arching forward and down, an inviting shank of delicious meat waiting to be worshiped. I can imagine my hands around his prick, squeezing against its obvious firmness, feeling its heat and weight in my grip. I want to charge forward and take hold of it and pull it fully inside my mouth and suck on its abundance. I want to make him feel my tongue as I plunge it beneath that tight cowl of skin and taste his salted honey discharge.
He growls again, or moans or something, an obviously pleasureable sound from his throat, and he pets the inches of his cock with the back of his hand before digging in and pulling out two hen’s egg-sized balls hanging low in a hairy sack you just want to suck on until he cums all over your face. Fuck! I mean, fuck! It’s the most gorgeous, lip-smacking, gargantuan and sexy set of cock and balls any of us has ever seen.
He bends down to pull his jeans off his thickly muscled legs and then straightens, now fully naked and revealed in all his magnificence. It’s nearly unbelievable, the man’s utter beauty and perfection. But he’s standing right there. He’s fucking standing there, and if I take two steps forward he’d be in my arms. I could put my hands all over his furry chest, dig my fingers into that forest of dark curls, pluck the fat nipples mounted so invitingly at the lower edge of each huge globe of muscular perfection mounted on his chest. He is breathing slowly, his arms at his sides. I watch the eight-pack of perfectly assembled abs marching up his belly swell and recede. The flaring arrows of his Apollo’s belt point unerringly toward the fat, long, lickable prick and its mouth-filling head. The muscles of his legs flare outward like thick cables. Even his feet are beautiful. Fuck, even his toes are amazing.
Once he was naked, something changed in the room. I could feel it. There was a physical alteration of the environment. And it wasn’t just the fact that a nude dude was suddenly there—the two porn guys had been naked practically from the get-go, and the set was hardly charged with sexual stimulation. But the change was tactile. It was like the heat was turned up. It was the feeling of warm air blowing across your skin, or a tongue at your asshole, or breath on your neck. It was moist and warm and thick and powerful. The energy changed completely, and everyone could feel it.
The two porn stars are jerking off. A couple other dudes spontaneously cum in their pants. I am doing everything I can to maintain—maybe my own bisexuality is keeping me from exploding with warm cream, I don’t know, but the room is now so sexually charged that an orgy of extraordinary passion is on the edge of commencing.
And that’s when the second ‘Hawk appeared.
I recognized him, too. Of course, not at first, because I was too busy having my mind blown by the vision of the musclebound naked man with the mammoth, mouthwatering cock six feet in front of me. He was standing on the set, so he was well-lit, and the overtly lustful stares of the cast and crew was making his enormity start to swell and rise. It was clear he enjoyed this kind of attention, and maybe he wasn’t aware that the other ‘Hawk had joined us.
The new ‘Hawk was Mr. May, an Irish god walking the earth with a flaming red Mohawk perched on his ivory noggin, wide as a man’s hand and thick with curls. Unlike Mr. June, Mr. May’s Mohawk didn’t stop at his neck, it flowed down his wide, tapered, muscular back in a heavy cascade, like a warm waterfall over massive boulders. He had piercing green eyes, a goatee around his full, luscious lips and a full-muscled body covered in smooth, creamy skin. A treasure trail of the same strawberry blonde curls, small and tight this time, started at his smiling navel and traveled south, erupting into another thick bush of pubic fur crowning another huge hunk of meat that he was already hauling out of his knee-length basketball shorts. His shirt had been stripped off and dropped to the studio floor, and in seconds he had stripped himself free of his clothes entirely, revealing a body every bit as huge, powerful, impressive and sexy as his tribal friend.
I heard Mr. May’s voice quite distinctly this time, without the distracting roaring of blood in my ears. It was deep and resonant, almost musical, but his words sounded alien to me, and I didn’t understand them fully.
The sound of that voice managed to pry my attention from the elephant in the room—or more precisely, the elephant’s trunk—and I looked toward him. My heart flipped in my chest and my tongue went dry and my brain started departing for someplace else because this, the two of them, together—it was too much to take.
He was speaking to the other ‘Hawk, for his attention was riveted on the huge naked furry figure. His naked form was every bit as magnificent and ungodly in its beauty as Mr. June’s. He was light to his tribe-mate’s shadow. He was dawn to the other man’s midnight. His body was glowing, there, even at the edge of the light. He was radiant and stunning, and his cock—another massive leviathan of perfect masculine power—was visibly throbbing and swelling and arching forward, drooling a silver string from its mouth.
He was so beautiful. Mr. June was a hirsute masculine tower, all hard bulges and angles. His face was almost severely chiseled in its masculine aspects, and his blue eyes smoldered behind the dark lashes with overt and abundant lust. Mr. May, by contrast, had an almost angelic and unearthly beauty about him. Just as thickly developed as his counterpart—with a broad and massive chest, heavy, powerful arms and legs packed with incredible brawn—and every inch as tall of stature and broad of shoulder, but his body had a sort of grace and magnificence of form that the other man made up for in overt size and brutal strength. The swell of one muscle on the Irishman’s body melted into its neighbor, they didn’t contend for space under his silky white flesh. His eyes were loving, passionate, soft. His mouth—his smile—was compassionate and sensual, rather than lascivious and raunchy. He was ardent, while Mr. June was horny. He was eager and excited, while his brother was horny and hot-blooded.
They were twins of the same father, but each a contrast of the other.
I looked back at Mr. June. The man before me, whose body was showing definite signs of arousal even though he was not in any way visibly pleasuring himself, turned his head to the side. His Mohawk was high and proud and a smile touched his lips, and he answered his brother’s words with a response that sounded equally foreign, and not in any language I was familiar with.
Almost as soon as those words had left Mr. June’s lips, his own dick was suddenly at full throttle. It was amazing and weird and erotic and shocking. The thing just rose up all at once, thick and shiny, throbbing and swelling and lengthening all in one sudden growth spurt. It practically slapped him in the face, rising to erection so quickly. The head pushed free and its ridge flared wide and the shaft bulged with veins and turned red and it was huge, twelve or fourteen or sixteen inches high and thick as a baby’s arm and the head was wet and shiny, because something was coming out of its eye, something fluid and clear running down its length, and a smell reached my nostrils, a raw scent, a feral scent, the smell of cum and ass and sweat and sex.
There was a bright blue-white lightning bolt in the room with us, just for a moment. Like a camera’s flash or an exploding klieg overhead. It was blinding and shocking and exciting, and it was gone nearly as quickly as it appeared. It made my skin tingle and my balls throb and my dick swell and my hair stand on end. After it had disappeared, and my vision was temporarily blinded, it felt like something had supercharged my already amplified libido and filled my head with the overwhelming power and urgency of the moment of orgasm—the fullness and fulfillment of sex.
And then there was the sound of tearing cloth and something crashing to the ground and movement all around me and the room was hot, very hot, and someone’s hand was on my ass, their fingers slipping between my cheeks, exploring my wet hole, pushing inside me, and someone’s mouth was on my lips, their tongue was pushing inside my mouth, and my hand was gripping a hot, hard prick and sliding along its length and teasing it’s tip with my thumb and a tongue replaced the fingers at my hole and I opened for it and felt it squirm and shove its hot welcome wetness inside me and someone pinched and twisted my nipple and the kiss, the kiss was deep and true, and the room was hot, very hot, and there was a cock at my lips, a giant cock, wet and warm and hard, pushing inside my mouth, and I welcomed it, and sucked on it, and a sudden surge of salty cream splashed everywhere, and I sucked and swallowed and hungered for more and all at once, we were all naked and fucking and kissing and ripping at clothing and licking asses and sucking dicks and pinching nipples and chewing butt cheeks and hands and mouths and tongues and cocks and on and on and on.
That’s all I remember of the rest of that day. Sex, sex and more sex. Hot, limitless, passionate, no-holds-barred sex. I can’t even tell you whether either of the ‘Hawks and I did anything. It’s like this dream I had or a memory of something that I didn’t fully experience. Maybe we were all drugged. Maybe the secret of those guys is that they laced the coffee with Spanish Fly or something. All I know is that once the two of those handsome, muscular, and incredibly sexy gentlemen locked eyes, the place was a cauldron of sexual activity.
No one cared who they were with or whose dick was inside whose ass or who they were blowing or who was blowing them. So much cum was flying around that it was like a hot, creamy thunderstorm in there.
Again, that’s my memory of it. When I woke up, or recovered, or whatever, I was still on that set. Hours had passed and we were all naked, tangled up in each other’s arms and legs, still vibrating from the intensity of our orgiastic release.
There was no sign of Mr. May or Mr. June. There were remnants of ripped clothing everywhere, and we were all sticky with cum and the whole place smelled like a locker room. Someone started to laugh and then someone else joined in. We felt good. We felt whole, and satisfied, and fucking, I don’t know… male. Hyper masculine. Having a cock was a great thing. Having balls, having muscle, it was all great and we all felt it and we all loved it.
Even without the benefit of those two handsome gentlemen, we started up again! I was kissing the man next to me. Someone grabbed my dick and started giving me one hell of a blow job. I was pushing my hips, fucking his face, someone else was plugging his ass, making him moan on my joint and sending shivers down my spine, while someone else was behind that guy licking his hole, and someone else was fucking the ass of the guy rimming the guy fucking the guy sucking my dick while I was kissing the other guy getting his cock sucked by the guy getting his ass licked by the guy getting his hole fucked.
I made quite a few friends that day, and none of us quite knew what to make of it, but we all agreed that we should do it again, and very soon. But as far as the film was concerned, we never rolled video and not a second of any of that hot action had been recorded. As far as I know, no one has been able to get a ‘Hawk on film doing what they do best. But I’m here to tell you, when you look at their pictures, when you’re jerking off to a calendar or fantasizing about Mr. June while fucking your boyfriend… the Mohawk Nation is out there, and they’re exactly as amazing and gorgeous and sexy as you think they are.
But who are they, really? I still don’t know.