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A shirtless, muscular Colombian man with dark hair and a beard looks at the camera under red and blue lighting.

A naked Colombian man stands in a dimly lit room with red and blue light, being touched by two other men.

Close-up of David, a muscular man with a mustache, head tilted back and eyes closed as another man kisses his neck in red and blue light.

Three naked men pose together in a dimly lit room with blue and red lighting, one man showing a rose tattoo on his chest.

A naked, muscular Colombian man is seen from behind, his oiled back and buttocks illuminated by red and blue light.

Back view of a naked, muscular man with oil on his skin, lit with red and blue light while being held by another man.

Two naked men embrace in warm red and blue light, one man's hands gripping the other's ass and chest in a dimly lit room.

Two naked men embrace in a close-up shot, their muscular bodies slick with oil under red and blue studio lighting.

Two naked men embrace in low red and blue light, one man's hands gripping the other's waist and hip.

Three naked men embrace in a close-up shot with dramatic red and blue lighting, showing muscular bodies and skin in motion.

Three naked men embrace and play in a studio with dramatic red and blue lighting, their oiled bodies glistening.

Three naked men play in low red and blue light, with one man's hands gripping another's thigh and a man looking on with mouth open.

A naked, muscular man arches his back while another man sucks his cock in a dimly lit room with red and blue lighting.

A Colombian Hunk, My Boys, & the Frames We Didn’t Plan

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.