Urban Delights Read online

  Urban Delights

  A Sensual Sojourn in America

  by

  Emeric Varady

  Translated from the Hungarian

  by

  Sandor Vass

  Copyright © 2018 Emeric Varady

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except for the use of brief excerpts in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published by: Emeric Varady

  Cover design by: SelfPubBookCovers/ BeeJavier

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: In Which I Receive an Offer I Can’t Refuse

  Chapter Two: Hungarians Abroad! Sandor and I Travel to Florida

  Chapter Three: My American Porn Debut

  Chapter Four: We Could Get Used to This!

  Chapter Five: Rented by the Hour

  Chapter Six: The Porn Star’s Protégé

  Chapter Seven: On the Down Low

  Chapter Eight: The Rousing Conclusion to My First American Porn Stint

  Chapter Nine: Wrapping it Up

  Also by Emeric Varady

  Chapter One: In Which I Receive an Offer I Can’t Refuse

  This is the story of how I visited the United States, for the first time. I’ve gone back there, several times, and I’ve always enjoyed myself. But this first trip was special. One reason why it stood out was because I didn’t plan it, myself, in advance. It just was sort of sprung on me, out of the blue.

  Maybe if I hadn’t been so damn chilled that night, I might not have succumbed to temptation. Who knows?

  It was a cold, rainy autumn evening in Budapest. I was holed up, snug and warm, in my apartment. I’d gone to the gym earlier that day, and I’d put in a long, hard workout. I’d come home, where I’d divested myself of my bulky outdoor gear, including my wet, snowy boots. Now, with my muscles aching, safely installed at home, I had no desire to leave my apartment’s comfort. No desire to go out on the town, cruise the city’s gay clubs and bars, and try to find somebody with whom to hook up. I wasn’t even tempted to call one of my fuck buddies and invite him to come to my place, for some hot sex. No, I was actually looking forward to spending a quiet night alone, listening to music, reading a book. And going to bed, in due course, also alone. I could already picture myself snuggled nude under the covers, drifting off to sleep, clasped in the arms of Morpheus. Morpheus may not be an ideal sex partner, but he’s the perfect bedmate, otherwise.

  With the rain, which was now mixed with sleet, rattling loudly against the windowpanes, I congratulated myself on my decision to stay holed up comfortably at home.

  Then my cell phone rang. Picking it up, I didn’t recognize the caller’s number.

  “Jó estét, kinek van?” [“Good evening, who’s there?”] I asked.

  “I’m trying to get hold of Emeric Varady,” a man’s voice said, in English.

  “This is he,” I replied, in the same language. “Who’s calling?”

  “This is Brash Baja.”

  Now, for the benefit of those of my readers who aren’t aficionados of gay porn, I had better explain right away who Brash Baja was. That wasn’t his real name, of course. But it was the one by which he was well known, far and wide.

  Brash was part Mexican, which added a touch of exoticism to his good looks, and explained why he’d chosen “Baja” as his porn surname—from Baja California, the peninsula where he came from. As for “Brash”—that suited his personality. He was a bold, outgoing type, and there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do, sexually speaking, either on camera or behind the scenes in his personal life.

  He was a true porn star, internationally famous. He’d been in the business for two decades, starting out as a pretty young twink, just of legal age, and then developing gradually, in the course of one sexually explicit video after another, into a pumped-up, muscular young hunk. Then Brash made an equally smooth and barely perceptible transition, to a mature, hard-bodied, macho stud. Now, he was in his forties, and still gorgeous. He had begun to specialize in “hot daddy” roles, typically portraying the older man who seduces a younger guy. Brash had, recently, made a whole series of videos in which he impersonated oversexed stepfathers who seduced their stepsons, uncles who molested their nephews, and fathers—naughty fathers who had carnal relations with their gay sons’ schoolmates and boyfriends. Or, shockingly, with their very own sons! All this, of course, was just playacting—a fact betrayed by the way the young actors portraying the “nephews” or “sons” often bore no resemblance to Brash. Of course, the viewer could always assume they were adopted—if the consumer of the porn interrupted his frenzied masturbation long enough to concern himself with such fine points.

  But I digress.

  “Ah—when you say ‘Brash Baja’—do you mean the Brash Baja, the porn star?” I asked, all skepticism.

  “Well, I don’t know about the ‘star’ part of it,” the caller said, modestly. “But my name is Brash Baja, and I have done quite a lot of porn. So have you, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.” I was suddenly cautious, afraid to say too much. I was sure that one of my friends was on the other end of the line, playing a prank on me. I reviewed the possible suspects in my mind, one by one. It wasn’t my buddy Sandor Vass—I knew his voice. I was having trouble coming up with other candidates who could not only speak English fluently, but who could fake an American accent so convincingly. The guy claiming to be the American porn star had a hint of a lazy Southern US drawl.

  “Ah, tell me, Mr. Baja—where are you calling from?” I asked.

  “The United States, of course. Florida, to be exact. I live here, now.”

  “What time is it there?” I glanced at my wristwatch. It was a few minutes before 9:00 PM.

  “Well, I checked, so I know it’s nine in the evening there where you are, in Hungary. I didn’t want to try to get hold of you too late at night. Here, it’s three in the afternoon.”

  I’d hoped he’d hesitate, betraying the fact that he wasn’t calling from Florida, but from right there in Hungary. But 3:00 PM, on the eastern seaboard of the United States, sounded about right. “What’s the weather like there?” I inquired, by way of a further test.

  “Hot and dry, of course. Not as humid as it can be here, sometimes. Eighty-five degrees was the high today, so far! I’ve just come back home from the beach. I had a great time, swimming and sunbathing. Anyway, the reason I’m calling is—I’m branching out. Starting to get into producing and directing, as well as performing, like a lot of guys in the industry, you know? It’s a good way of extending your shelf life, after you get to a certain age. Not that you have to worry about that, just yet.”

  “Well, I’m still young, but I know that nobody can work in porn—in front of the camera—indefinitely,” I said, to keep the conversation going. “Unless he wants to make the transition to hot daddy status, eventually.”

  “Yeah, I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time before specializing in those p
arts will be the smart career move for me, if it hasn’t happened already.” Brash agreed. “The studios are already pairing me with guys who are young enough to be my sons—if I fucked women, and if I had sons! There’s even a niche market for old geezer porn—not I want to move on to that! Listen, Emeric—may I call you Emeric?”

  “Of course you may.”

  “And you, call me Brash. I want us to be friends. I’ve seen a lot of your videos. Hot stuff, man! You’ve never done any porn shoots here in the States, have you?”

  “No. Only here in Europe.”

  “Then I want you to come here and work for me. I want to be the one who sponsors your American debut. I’ve already made two videos for the company we’ve just started, me and a few investors. We’ve started out small, sure, testing the waters, but our first two ventures are selling well, making a profit. We want you to star in the third one. We’ll fly you here, you can stay with two of the investors—they’re a couple, two married guys, and they have a really nice house. You’ll be in every scene of the video, you’ll get top billing, and it’ll be advertised as a vehicle for you. We’ll pay you the going rate—and all of your expenses, while you’re here in Florida. We can work out all those details later. My people will talk to your people, like they say, and finalize things. You’re a professional. So am I. I’m sure we can do business together, and make it mutually profitable. All I want from you right now, buddy, is a ‘handshake,’ so to speak, over the phone. Tell me you’re interested, tell me you’ll do it. Everything else—that, we can work out later. Come on, stud, what do you say?”

  “Are you really Brash Baja?” I asked.

  “Huh? Sure. Who do you think I am?”

  “One of my buddies here in Budapest, playing a joke on me.”

  “Oh, your friends must be a barrel of laughs, and have a lot of free time on their hands. I’m for real. How can I prove it to you?”

  “Get on your computer, and I’ll get on mine. Let’s webcam, and see each other’s faces, while we talk.”

  “No problem.”

  Soon, we’d put our phones aside, and we were conversing while viewing each other “live” on our laptops’ screens. Brash was seated at a desk, with a bookcase visible behind him. The shelves were filled not only with books, but with potted houseplants, a profusion of lush indoor greenery. Brash’s powerfully muscled torso was encased in a tight-fitting yellow T-shirt, which displayed his big rounded shoulders, his massive chest, and his bulging arm muscles. His naturally somewhat dark complexion was enhanced by a tan, which the bright yellow of his shirt emphasized. He wore an expensive-looking wristwatch on his left wrist, and a bracelet made up of heavy gold links on his right wrist. His hair was tousled. There was no mistaking that handsome, somewhat arrogant, face of his—all bright eyes and pouty lips. It was him, all right! In the flesh! That flesh which had been showcased in countless porn videos, inspiring gay men worldwide—myself included—to jerk themselves off to orgasm while watching Brash amuse himself with other naked men!

  “Satisfied, dude?” he asked me, wryly. “Or do I have to stand up and drop my pants, and show you my dick and my ass, before you recognize me?”

  “Ah, I wouldn’t be averse to seeing that,” I admitted. “But even with your clothes on, I can tell it’s you. I stand corrected. Sorry I was skeptical.”

  “No problem. Sometimes weirdos try to contact me, so I understand your need for caution, dude. You’re looking damn good,” he told me. “Large and in charge.”

  “So are you,” I responded. I was a bit in awe, at interacting with such a famous—or rather, infamous and notorious!—porn icon.

  “I’ve been hitting the weights in the gym, hard,” he said. “Got to keep the body in shape. You must know what that’s like.”

  “I do.”

  “Let’s do business,” Brash coaxed me. “Let’s work together. I think it’d be fun.”

  “This video you’re planning—?”

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  “Will you be in it? As an actor?”

  Brash grinned. “Yeah, I might be persuaded to appear in one sequence, partnering you. What do you think? Does that sound good? The two of us, getting it on together, sucking and fucking? My dick up your ass, or yours in mine, buddy. Or we can flip-flop and screw the hell out of each other. Whichever way you prefer.”

  “That sounds great. It’s what just may sway me.”

  “I’m no pretty, dumb young twink, new to the business,” Brash declared, bluntly. “I’ve racked up a few miles, along the way. I still flatter myself that I’ve got what it takes, though.”

  “Oh, you definitely do,” I assured him.

  We talked at some length that night. After that first conversation of ours, I did some research on the internet. Brash seemed to be on the level. His new studio, located in Florida, had indeed released two videos. Brash appeared in both productions, his name and reputation no doubt ensuring sales, but he’d surrounded himself with unknown guys, fresh-faced, hard-bodied young studs who were new to the sex industry. Brash, admirably, had made an effort to be racially and ethnically diverse, in his search for talent. The two videos featured black guys, Hispanic guys, and Asian guys. If anything, he was discriminating against blond-haired, blue-eyed twinks! Well, those pretty bitches had been mainstays of the gay porn industry for so long, that it was time for them to step aside and give other guys a chance.

  Performing with a real American star such as Brash would be a coup for me, taking my porn career to a whole new high level.

  I thought about it. But not for long. I conferred with my European agent. But he, too, thought that my doing a porn shoot in the States would be a good career move.

  The upshot was, I agreed to work for Brash and his studio which he was starting to get going. My current contract with one of Hungary’s porn studios wasn’t exclusive—it allowed me to do as much freelancing as I cared to. My agent took care of the negotiations, and he made all the arrangements. But, inevitably, Brash and I stayed in close contact, during this period.

  I began looking forward to my visit to Florida. Brash lived on the eastern coast of the peninsula, north of Miami, and his studio conducted its operations nearby. This would be work, of course, another porn gig—but everything suggested that I might be able to squeeze in some purely selfish, hedonistic pleasure during my stay.

  It occurred to me that I ought to take along a traveling companion. I’d already confided in my buddy, Sandor Vass. I never kept anything from him. I told him all about my burgeoning acquaintance with Brash and this upcoming American gig.

  “You’ve got a lot of vacation time banked at your job,” I reminded Sandor. “Use some of it, for God’s sake. Come on this trip to America with me.”

  “I’d love to, Emeric, but—”

  “What?”

  “They want you, not me. I’d be an imposition. A fifth wheel.”

  “Nonsense. I’ll make it clear that I’m paying your way. They’ve said I can stay with these two married rich guys, the ones who’ve invested their money in the studio, at their house. If they don’t want to accommodate you there, too—which I find hard to believe, what’s the big deal?—then I’ll put you up in a hotel. Or I can always say you’re my ‘manager,’ and I don’t go anywhere or do anything without you. So they can take us both, as a package deal, or they can leave it. We’re still negotiating, hammering out the details. I haven’t signed a contract yet.”

  Rather to my surprise, the Americans were very easy to deal with—very compliant.

  For example, my host couple—they’d be delighted, they assured me, to have Sandor stay with them, as well. He and I could share the guest bedroom. The studio would even pay Sandor’s air fare, round trip, well as mine. That was how eager these guys were to obtain my services! Maybe I’d underestimated just how much of an international reputation I’d racked up, as one of Hungary’s more notorious porn whores! Okay, I admit it. Somewhere along the way, Sandor became my “personal assistant,”
without whose presence and support, I insisted, I couldn’t fuck. That was a laugh, but what the hell? A free trip was a free trip, and the hardworking Sandor deserved a treat.

  I had several nice phone conversations with Brash’s business partners, the married couple who’d be putting Sandor and me up. Their names were Beauregard, who liked to be called just plain Bo for short, and Trent. They were a charming couple of guys, true Southern gentlemen. The video shoot would take place at their house, which would provide “sets” and backgrounds, at no expense to Brash. They seemed concerned that Sandor and I would find it comfortable.

  “We’re a few miles from the beach, so we have to drive to get there,” Bo said, apologetically. “But we do have a pool. And a hot tub. And Trent is a good cook. He promises he’ll feed you guys well.”

  “It all sounds great,” I assured him.

  “You Hungarian guys—you like paprika in everything, don’t you?” Bo asked me, naïvely.

  “Ah—not necessarily,” I said. “I’m looking forward to sampling some typical American food, actually.”

  “You and your buddy Sandor aren’t the kind of muscle men who eat nothing but pasta without sauce, raw tuna, and hard-boiled eggs, are you?”

  “We’re willing to set our diets aside, for one week, and indulge in more adventurous fare.”

  “Oh, good. Trent will pull out some of his favorite recipes. You’ll see. Everything he makes is tasty, and filling. You boys just bring your appetites.”

  That sounded promising!

  With the contract finalized, everything was set.

  At the risk of sounding mercenary—I wasn’t willing to put my career as an escort entirely on whole, during my absence from Budapest. I now had the porn video’s shooting schedule, dates and times. I’d be making my contributions—my sperm deposits, so to speak!—spread out over several days.

  I got on my website, and I posted a note the effect that I’d be in Florida for the period in question. On the calendar on which my clients could book my services, I blocked off the times when I now knew I’d be busy shooting porn. But I left a couple of slots, which wouldn’t conflict with the video schedule, open, and I invited any interested men on the other side of the Atlantic to hire me then. I’ll be in Florida on these dates and times, I announced, with whorish abandon, ready and eager to hook up with any Florida guys who want to pay for my services. I can’t wait to connect with some of you generous American men! God, what a mercenary slut I was!