I Miss the Guys I Could Relate To
When I look at Chad Hunt, I’m not always looking at his dick. At least not at first. I’m looking at the years of industry experience and personal relationships that folded his brow into that mild expression of knowing exhaustion, and I’m thinking about his tumultuous contract with Michael Lucas, and all the turmoil that must have come out of working in that environment.
Michael Brandon, for me, starts with what I’ve heard about him crying on-set about the beauty of sex, and ends with what I’ve read about his devastating drug problems, related incarcerations, and the boyfriend who stuck with him through all that. I think about the video empire he could have pretty much owned, and I think about all that gorgeous sadness in his perfect blue eyes — the kind that comes from being in control enough to know you’re not in control.
Spike’s meteoric rise under Chi Chi Larue in the ’90s and subsequent decline into obscurity — the way he pops back up from time to time trying to promote his paintings, which I’ve still never seen, and would like to.
Nobody is even quite sure if Chad Douglas is dead or not, which speaks volumes.
I used to take it for granted that the most preferable and seasoned top was a man of at least meagerly advancing years, with some experience on his face and something menacing swinging between his legs.
The recent influx of blank-faced boy wonders with 10-inch cocks from parts of Europe I’ve never previously heard of is a little disorienting.
The contrast between Chad Hunt saying something like, “Open that little hole and show me how hungry it is. Do you thing you can you take all this dick?” and someone five years younger than me saying “Máte pocit, že uvnitř zadek” subtitled ten seconds late with “Oh! Do you feel it inside the butt?” is a not a contrast that I take lightly.
It started with the Bel Ami boys, back in the ’90s. They were stunning anomalies, with bodies of men, and handsome faces like our homegrown stars, but they were younger — just over the legal barrier at the time of casting, and their dicks were in league with cocks we’d worshiped on American stars for years. I was a fan of those movies, and I still re-watch titles like Lucky Lukas and An American in Prague. Bel Ami had a knack for recording the antics of their stars in a warm and favorable tone which alleviated most of the cultural divide I’m lately so aware of.
But in the early ’00s Bel Ami started spinning out niche titles with a special size-obsession focus in the ‘XXL’ series, and before long, other companies were nosing in on the action and casting technically less-handsome boys for quick, low-budget compilations on the sole merit of their massive dicks.
Our ruggedly built thirty-something American studs tried to muscle up and compete, but all the momentum was coming out of Prague and Czechoslovakia. “Uncut” was already the new craze, and ten was the new eight.
Entire primary and secondary markets sprung up for the production and distribution of DVDs with splashy neon-colored box art and titles that barely made sense, featuring boys that might as well have not been credited because they’d never appear with the same name again. Their faces shone off the shelves with a strange combination of joy and bewilderment. Their dicks were colossal.
The problem with the new paradigm is that no matter how gorgeous and massive a dick is, a large portion of sexual chemistry is being able to relate to your partner though a shared cultural experience, and some small sense of connection through an understanding of their background.
Knowing you share context with your partner is what allows for the competitive atmosphere that makes dominance and submission work. Being able to think, “he knows more than me, he’s stronger, and he’s going to fuck the hell out of me” is a very powerful thing. So is “he’s way better at sports, but he whines like a bitch when I bend him over.” Without being able to lay the ground work for a sense of competition, it’s no fun fantasizing about a fuck.
Case in point, Karel Grosse has a legendary cock, and I love to see him use it, but I have no clue what makes him tick. I imagine that if I were ever lucky enough to share a mattress with him, everything from the smell of the pillows to the sound of the livestock in the street would scream unfamiliarity. We’d probably use some kind of bird fat for lube. Later we’d be called to dinner and join his extended family. We would pass around tiny little plates of diagonally sliced brown eggs with jelly and talk with limited shared vocabulary about motorsports. We’d all be uncomfortable, and at some point his dad would storm away from the table to start messing with some kind of ancient machinery in the basement, grumbling about radishes. I’d try to slink into the streets quietly, only to discover that I’d misplaced my passport.
By contrast, a night with Chad Hunt sounds great. Michael Brandon — I think I could handle him, even if he went missing at some point, or got entangled with unsavory business arrangements in a motel parking lot. The guy is sensitive and burdened, after all, so we’d have lots to talk about. I’d take Spike on a gallery walk and secretly judge him for his florid and sugar-saturated espresso order. That kind of thing is cute.
I prefer my guys with issues, depth of character, and a shared knowledge of what makes a Big Mac good. There’s something so carefully orchestrated and produced about these mega-endowed half-as-old European counterparts — I won’t call it exploitation, but I don’t know what they’re in it for, besides the money, and sometimes that’s hard for me to get off on.
Against the tide of a market that seems to be pushing for younger-and-younger-looking guys with bigger-and-bigger-looking dicks, I’d like to provide a voice that says, give me something I can grab onto. Give me age, character, and presence. Give me issues. I’ll forgo the endless sea of European boys who’s names change with each new studio in favor of stability and a new era of mega-stars. Go ahead and give me that big cock too, though.
