Making of a Porn Star

The archaeologist in charge was named Costas Nikolides. He had gotten his doctorate in England and his was a name I had heard before. He was an imposing man, with a booming but velvety baritone voice and charming mix of Greek and English accent. He had a commanding presence and the physique of a Zeus—a thick, but muscular body that brought “powerful” to mind rather than “fat.” He wasn’t tall but he was a handsome man, always giving the impression that he was moving with purpose and determination. He had the dark, olive-toned skin of the Mediterranean man and black hair, which lightly covered his body in tight, curly swirls. He liked to work bare-chested, wearing low-riding khaki cargo shorts, a bush hat, and construction boots with thick, white socks.

Although his team at Mesa Verde was a hodge-podge of Europeans and Americans of all ages and both sexes, all of whom were in awe of him and treated him almost as a god, he had two right-hand men he’d brought with him from Cyprus. They both were young. One was a Greek Cypriot named Xantos Michaledis, who was maybe in his late twenties and was gaunt and sinewy. He was handsome in a foxy or hawkish sort of way, but he was quiet, hanging on every wish and order of Nikolides. He was the ultimate gofer and “would die for” Costas appendage. I was told that his family went back to the time when Genoa ruled the island and that he was of Jewish Italian descent, long having, by necessity, dropped the Jewish for Greek Orthodox.

The other assistant was a big, black man, central African by descent, Benji Ougala, and I never quite figured out how he had hooked up with Costas, although it evidently was connected to his talent as a photographer. He always—except sometimes when he was fucking someone—had a video camera or still camera in his hands, recording whatever Nikolides pointed to. He was big, strong, and muscular. Like Nikolides and Michaledis, he worked on the dig in just shorts, bush hat and construction boots. His body was nearly overdeveloped muscular, hairless, and gleamed ebony in the sun. He probably was closer to forty than thirty and he was always smiling—not necessarily a friendly smile; more of an “I could eat you alive and I just might” smile. I stayed out of his way as much as possible for as long as possible—but then, once he’s fucked me I couldn’t get enough of him.