I’d seen David Jurado long before I ever shot him—Colombian, all muscle and mischief, a gogo dancer in the London gay scene who makes you forget your drink exists. When he finally came down to Brighton, I knew the session wouldn’t be just about the photos. Some shoots are clinical. This one was a thrilling freefall.
I occassionally invite my boys over to help—call them spotboys, fluffers, whatever. They don’t need much guidance, they are quick to assist, adjust, join in. As he started oiling David up, hands slow, deliberate, lingering just a beat too long on his shoulders, his ass. David on impulse teased them like he would many men in the clubs. If anything, he arched into it. And I let it happen. Some moments you don’t direct; you just watch, camera ready, waiting for the perfect frames to catch.
Then it did.
Fingers became mouths. His tongue traced David’s spine till it was right against his hole, teasing in, until David’s breath hitched—that sharp, quiet sound of someone trying not to break character. Too late. The shot was already changing. The air got thicker. The oil got slicker. And suddenly, there was no pretending anymore and David wanted more.
Ofcourse I joined in. Hands sliding where the light hit best, gripping, guiding, smearing the lines between posing and playing. David took it all—the teasing, the tension, my assistant’s lips grazed his neck while I framed the shot. And when I finally stepped back to look at the results? That last frame said it all: David on his knees, lips parted, thick semen dripping down his chin.
You can guess how it got there.
There’s more. There’s always more. But for now, sit with that image. Hold onto it. And stay tuned—because David’s not done with Brighton yet.
(Full set dropping soon for members.)
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