My friends say I’m a star fucker and I guess I am, kinda.  I mean you’re gonna brag about it anyway, why not brag about someone people can picture?  And it’s not like you haven’t wondered.  Everyone wonders “What’s he like in bed?”  Everyone wonders that about everyone but they especially want to know that about celebrities.  It doesn’t matter what they look like even, if they’re famous everyone wants to know.

You don’t give a damn about what Joe Ugly’s like in bed but Andy Warhol…  Andy Warhol’s fucking somebody and suddenly you’re interested.

They said I was just his type.  There’s a joke in there somewhere; Andy Warhol, type, graphic artist…  It’ll come to me.  Anyway I was at some party and his friends were there.  I know everyone, everyone cool, says they’re friends with Andy Warhol but this time it was true ‘cause they said I was his type and then they introduced me.

“Andy,” they said, “This is Chad and he loves your work.”  Though really I could care less about painting.  And he shakes my hand and he says,

“Oh, wow, a fan.”

He always says “wow.”  Everyone says that Andy says “wow” about everything and he said it about me.  But it was the way he said “wow.”  He could have said “wow” a thousand different ways and each one would have it’s own nuance, say it’s own thing.  And the way he said, “wow” about me showed that he was playing it cool but secretly he wanted me.  Besides, who cares what he said about me?  He was Andy Warhol.

“You should come to my factory.”  He said  “I’ve got some paintings I want you to help me with.”

Well I don’t know a thing about painting but I do know a thing or two about men and THAT was a come on in true artist style.  So, believe me honey, I was there.

It’s not like his art takes talent anyway.

So the next day he shows me his studio and asks me to pee on something, these sheets of metal.  He just wants me to pee on these things, says they’re his latest work and everyone can be an artist blah blah.  And I just say

“Whatever does it for you, Andy.” And whip it out.  It’s not like I haven’t peed in weirder places…  I think.  Anyway

“I want to film you.”  He says and I say

“Ok.  No one’s ever filmed me before.” And he just told me to stand there.  So I stand there.  And I look at him.  And I keep looking at him.  I’m looking at him like I wanna eat him, which… you know…  And I take my shirt off maybe get the ball rolling.

I think he was used to that camera making people self-conscious.  I think, instead, I made him self-conscious.  Like I could see him through that camera.  And I liked what I saw.

So he turns the camera off and he says

“So, you’re gay, right?”  And I’m thinking ‘finally’ but I just say

“Yeah, you?”  And he walks up to me and gets real close and he says, I swear to god, he says

“I think labels are for soup cans.”  And he kisses me.  But he doesn’t kiss me the way you would kiss me.  He kisses me like we’re still on camera.  Like it’s all a show.  And I’m thinking ‘Great. He’s one of THOSE boys.  Those fashionable fags who always end up married and couldn’t suck a cock if his life depended on it.’  But he does suck my cock and he does a pretty good job of it.  But it’s technical, performative, like his personality’s wearing a prophylactic.  His mouth is on my cock and he’s licking and sucking but it’s like he’s not actually touching me.  And I suck him off but he’s, like, static.  He doesn’t moan, he doesn’t move, he just thrusts his dick in my mouth.  And I really didn’t think he’d be bad in bed, you know?  Like, aren’t artists supposed to be great lovers because of, like, passion or insanity or something?

So he tells me to bend over and I am NOT a bottom.  So I tell him that.  I mean I’ve had my dick sucked by Andy Warhol, that’s good enough.  But he just says

“Oh, ok.”  And walks into his room.  So I follow him in and he closes the door and there’s this painting hanging on the back of the wall.  But it’s not like his other paintings.  It’s actually, you know, good, like a real painting.  The colors are rich and the paint is thick and sexy and it’s this painting of a fucking hot man.  I mean the whole painting is just dirty, raw, sex.

And I say

“Who did this?” and he looks all embarrassed and suddenly painfully shy and he says

“Oh.  Um, me.  I did it a long time ago but… nobody liked it.”

“I like it.”  I say and he says

“You’re the first.”

And we go to an actual bed and he lies on his back.  He hasn’t bottomed in a long time.  And I mean a long time.  It seemed like ages before I can actually get my dick in him, let alone move.

“Wait.”  He says “Oh, god, please wait just a second while I get used to it.”  And for the first time in the short time I’ve known him he doesn’t sound bored.  He doesn’t sound far away, he sounds like he’s here and very focused on one thing and one thing alone, which is my cock in his ass.

After a few minutes I start to move and he lets out this moan.  You wouldn’t believe this moan.  Like he’d had a gag in his mouth for thirty years and he’s making sound for the first time.  I thought he’d come already.  But he hadn’t and I kept going.  And he’s moaning and thrashing so hard that his wig comes off. And he just keeps begging me to fuck him harder and deeper and harder and deeper.  Till his cock explodes and he comes all over everything like a fucking Pollock painting.

So I finish off and I clean up and he’s still lying on the bed in, like, ecstasy.  And I say to him

“Wow, Andy, you really are a true blue faggot aren’t you?”

And he just looks at me.  For a long time he just looks at me.  Till I felt sort of self-conscious.  And he just pulled on his wig and told me to go.  He wasn’t angry or anything he just said it was time for me to go.  So I left and that was that.

That was my fifteen minutes of fame.

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