Gordon Marsh
He caught my attention because he was so young looking and because he looked familiar. I thought I recognized him from somewhere and that someone had told me something about him—something that interested me. It was right there. I knew I would think of it before they made an announcement on what was going on, why we’d been delayed here in Denver.
I’d first noticed him in the VIP lounge in New York, arresting my attention because he appeared to be quite young and traveling alone. I noticed him because he was beautiful, just what I liked—if he was legal. That was questionable. He was short and slim, blond and blue-eyed, handsome as the devil, and with a look of young innocence about him. I found myself hoping he was eighteen at least, even though I couldn’t think there would be anything that would come of it even if he was. We were just both in the VIP lounge for a bit, probably headed in entirely different directions.
Maybe it was just because I’d had an escort in at my hotel the previous night—twenty, but small and blond and blue-eyed like this young man. I thought the escort, Jaimie he’d said his name was, but of course it wasn’t, had slim hips, which had turned me on, but this guy in the VIP lounge did too, his tight jeans accentuating the narrowness. I’d fucked the escort hard, and he took it like the professional he was. I had the urge to fuck this young man too, and something at the back of my mind thought that was a possibility. I just couldn’t isolate it, though.
I did figure it out, but not until I was on what was supposed to be a nonstop flight to Los Angeles and the blond hunk was on the flight too—in business class. I was in first class, but when I turned, I could see him back there being so suave and flirty with the stewardesses, and I kept working in my mind where I’d seen him and what I knew about him. It finally came to me. He was a commercial model, taking roles younger than he was. The ad executive who’d told me about him, Ray Stinger, pointed him out when we were sitting in a bar and an ad with the kid in it ran across the TV overhead. Stinger said the guy was nineteen and he’d told me more—that he was on the roster of a high-end escort agency catering to men. Stinger had engaged his services before and had been very satisfied.
We weren’t supposed to land in Denver, but we did. When we landed there, we were told there would have to be a change in equipment and that there would be maybe a two-night, unscheduled layover in Denver, although they were trying to work it out and might get us in the air again in a couple of hours. The only explanation they would give was sudden “lack of equipment.”
The beautiful young blond once again was in an airport VIP lounge with me. I was sitting across from him, and we exchanged a few smiles, but as the time went on without us getting back on a plane, he began to fidget and act worried. The rumor started moving across the lounge that the FAA had taken all Boeing 737 Max planes out of service because a couple had gone down with the same suspected design spec. Until then I hadn’t realized—or cared—that that was what we had been scheduled to fly from New York to Los Angeles, but some of the other passengers said it was—that we’d just come off a 737. We were all going on our devices to discover that this was probably our problem and who knew when they’d marshal enough planes that weren’t 737s to get us back up in the air.
Thinking ahead, I rose from my seat, went over near the snack bar, and made a call to my office in LA, laying out the problems, telling them to get me rebooked on an existing flight from Denver to LA that wasn’t a 737, and, as an afterthought, telling them to book a second seat. I’d give them a name later or cancel. I was sure that someone else would be happy to snarf up the seat. They booked while I waited but could do no better than to get me on a flight the next day. They got me a room in the Denver Westin International right at the hotel. I poured two complimentary beers at the snack bar and went back to the seating area. Instead of sitting down, though, I stood in front of the young blond guy and handed him a beer.
“Here, I think you need this,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the beer.
“Mind if I sit by you?” I asked.
“No. Not at all. This wondering what’s happening is driving me crazy.”
“I could see it wasn’t making you happy,” I said. “You have to get to LA today?”
“Or by tomorrow afternoon,” he answered. “I have appointments early the next morning. I thought getting there today would give me plenty of time.”
“You’re traveling alone?”
He got that I was questioning his age. He probably got that a lot. “I’m nearly twenty. And I work. I’m going out to LA to audition for a role in a TV show.”
“Ah, that’s where I’ve seen you before,” I said. You’ve been in TV commercials, haven’t you?
“Yes.”
“I’m Gordon Marsh,” I said. “Here’s my card.” When he saw that, he got a lot friendlier. I figured he would.
“I’m Alex Winstead,” he said.
“I knew who you were. I just didn’t remember your name. We have a mutual friend. Ray Stinger, the advertising executive.”
Alex gave me a pointed look then. Giving him the connection obviated a lot of preparation—and, with luck, some seduction. We were at the edge of the room with no other couches facing us. I took my wallet out casually and fanned the slots open to show that I was loaded with cash. Then I took the liberty of putting a hand on his knee. He looked at it and at me, but he didn’t shy away from the hand. I didn’t leave it there—just long enough to make a statement.
“My mind’s pretty occupied with this flight delay,” he said. I wanted to believe that his tone was laced with regret—and maybe it was.
“You may not get to LA on time tomorrow,” I said, and when he looked at me quizzically, I continued. “Apparently the whole Boeing 737 fleet has been grounded. They’re going to be hard-pressed to come up with enough planes to get everyone where they need to go anytime soon. I wouldn’t be surprised if the staff in the lounge here is starting to figure out how to give us the bad news.”
“Shit,” he said.
“Precisely. But I thought ahead, and I could give you a little bit of help, if you need it.”
“A little help? What help?”
“I’ve got two seats on an early-morning flight into LA rescheduled on an airplane that isn’t a 737 and a flight stranded passengers haven’t discovered yet, and I only need one of the seats. My office could arrange to pass on the name of someone to take that extra seat. And I’m booked at a hotel here at the airport for tonight. You could stay with me.”
“And sleep with you?” he asked. The reference to Ray Stinger and the glance in my wallet hadn’t been lost. He could tell that I knew what he did for Ray Stinger.
“If it’s important for you to get to those auditions tomorrow,” I said, “and that is if you need a little help to get that done.” I took out my wallet again and extracted ten fifties. “There would be extra too for satisfaction.” I folded and handed the money to him.
Looking at the money, he said, “You seem to know the going rate.”
“Yes, I do. I’m not a novice at this, Mr. Winstead.”
After taking a brief look at me, he took the money.
“That’s, of course, if I get a preview.”
“A preview?” he asked.
“I’m going to the men’s room. Follow me in a couple of minutes.”
I fucked him in a toilet cubicle, Alex slouching on the toilet seat, his clothes folded and placed on the toilet tank, legs raised and spread, pressing into the sides of the cubical to keep them out of sight, and me crouching over him, between his legs, thrusting up inside him, my mouth covering his to keep the sound of sex from being heard by the other men coming and going in the men’s room. I reveled in his slim hips, holding them between my hands, able to touch the tips of my fingers, while I fucked him.
He was an angel and a devil—young and sweet, tight and fresh, but he was a professional. He knew how to take a cock, and his passage opened quickly to me, the muscles of his channel walls pulling me deep inside him and rippling over my thrusting cock. I knew what he did for Alex Stinger to get the TV commercial spots. He was quite willing to do it for me too—for the benefits I was offering him.
I took him to the Westin, fed him supper, and fucked him half-way through the night in my hotel bed. He was a little whore in bed. One of the best blow jobs I’d ever had and then the first time I’d had a guy roll a condom on me with his mouth. We wrestled for a while on the bed until I got him on his back under me, and then he just dug the heels of his feet in, raised his tail, clutched my buttocks, digging his fingernails in, and cried out, “Screw me, daddy. Screw me to the bed. Fuck me hard!” So, I did.
Despite the luscious slimness of his hips and the tightness of the initial penetration, he opened right up and moved his hips with my thrusts. We made sweet music—and then again, and again after that. He made me feel young again. He didn’t treat me like an old man triple his age, overweight, and wheezing. I fucked him hard and he went with me. He’d done this many times before on the casting couch and in the back of limousines, I’m sure. But he gave it to me like he couldn’t get enough of it.
I got him to the plane on time—although we were delayed for two hours even on the next day—and made sure he’d kept my business card when we left the plane in LAX separately. He was a luscious little piece of ass—and I’d be reminiscing on those slim hips for days.
Larry Lu
He wasn’t at all what I was expecting, so I started off behind the eight ball and ended up in heaven. That might have had something to do with what came later, when he uncorked and I gave him a little help. I was standing in the crowd at LAX, wearing my limousine livery, which I’d grown past feeling self-conscious in, and holding up my arrivals sign. The patches on the sleeves identified me as being with the film studio and that still had cachet in this town. I could always pretend it was a costume for a movie if I was feeling too servile. Luckily, I was built, with good hair and great teeth—and an exotic enough Asian—some would say “inscrutable”—look to get a second glance from those I’d like a second glance from. So, I was wearing the livery well. The looks I was getting indicated I was looking just fine. Unfortunately, there weren’t many lookers of the right gender and age walking around LAX arrivals.
I was looking out over the crowd when I heard the voice.
“I think that’s me. Are you looking for Alex Winstead? I’m Alex Winstead.”
I brought my eye level down and saw him, pointing at the sign I was holding that had “Alex Winstead” written on it. I recognized him almost immediately. And, surprise, surprise, he was the right gender and age bracket. This was going to be challenging. Behave yourself, I told myself.
I hadn’t connected the name I had been given and that was printed on the sign I had been holding up with a face I’d seen on the TV screen. You don’t get told names of people you’ve seen in a couple of TV commercials, and I’d seen this face and body before in TV commercials, which made sense of me being in the airport as his driver. He’d had a face and body in the TV commercials that made me remember him. He looked like he was just a kid, although I knew that could be deceiving, especially among actors. Did I mention being the right gender and age bracket? But, with my interest in late teens young men, maybe that was wishful thinking on my part. He did look like he was in his teens—and I had my experience, much to my peril, with young men pushing the edges. Luckily, this was LA and not Snob Hill in Boston.
“Oh, sorry. They just gave me a name,” I said, embarrassed. “They didn’t give me an . . . an . . .”
“Age,” he said. “They didn’t tell you I would be young?”
“No, they didn’t. At least not young looking.” A quick change of topic was in order if I didn’t want to get myself into trouble. “Your flight is late. And they’d originally told me you’d be here yesterday. Come, let’s go to baggage claim and pick up your bag. You have a bag, don’t you?”
I was off balance. Not only had I failed to see him, but he was a gorgeous young man—blond and blue eyed and with a great body for a teenager—or I was taking him to be in his teens. A great body for a late teenager as far as I was concerned was short, but well-proportioned, with a trim torso and really, really narrow hips. That’s what I wanted him to be—at least eighteen—of approachable age. And the narrow hips part was of utmost importance. It was my special fetish—the image of splitting the difference with . . . well, this wasn’t the place to start going into that.
He was standing there, in place, speaking adult to me from a young man’s body, as people parted the way to flow around us toward the baggage area. The talent agent, Gordon Marsh, had been on the same flight, and I could tell by the looks the young actor exchanged with Marsh as they pulled apart from coming out of the tunnel together that the two knew each other. I hoped my fantasizing hadn’t caused me to miss any important information. I placed my hand on the small of his back to start guiding him in the direction we needed to walk, which was a thrill in itself. I wanted to arrange it so that I walked behind him far enough to check out his pert little buttocks on the move.
He didn’t pull away from me. That was always a good sign.
“Yesterday’s plane only made it as far as Denver,” Alex was saying. “They took all of that kind of airplane—a Boeing 737, I think—out of the air, which left a shortage of planes. I had to stay there overnight. Then today’s plane was late taking off.”
I looked around before I started guiding him to baggage claim. “Is someone with you? You aren’t traveling alone, are you?”
“Yes. All alone. Neither of my parents could pull away from their jobs in New York. I’ve been working for five years. They’re used to me going to my auditions and shoots by myself now.”
“For five years. Then you must be at least—”
“I’m almost twenty,” he said. “I’ve mostly done commercials and some stage work. This is my first chance at film work out here in Hollywood.”
Nineteen. Bingo. I must remember not to salivate, I thought. And alone, moving with such confidence. And you know what they say about success in getting roles and the casting couch. And when I touched him to guide him, he was comfortable with it. It could be . . . but again, I mustn’t make assumptions.
“Well, you’ve come almost too late for your appointment at the studio,” I said. “We’ll have to push the speed limit, and I think we’d better go straight to the studio. I can take you to your hotel to check in after your audition.” And, if you want, I can console you there if you don’t get the part, I was thinking. Once again, though, I knew I must not let my fantasies get away from me.
“Thanks . . . Larry,” he said, leaning forward to look at my nametag.
“Yes. Larry Lu, at your service,” I answered. “Baggage claim is this way.”
“What sort of name is Lu? You look Asian, but I haven’t met any Asian like you as tall and built as you are.”
He’s already remarking on my build, which, indeed, is one of my better advertisements, I was thinking. Is he coming on to me? “The name’s Chinese,” I answered. “Hope that doesn’t turn you off.”
“Nope. It looks great on you.”
“The Chinese have been on this coast and mixing it up with others since the gold rush. We get around to acquiring characteristics of a lot of different races. You’ll see a lot of tall, muscled-up Asians out here. They come tall in northern China, where my ancestors come from.”
“Great. Lead on, hunky Larry Lu,” he said, giving me a sunny smile. God, he was gorgeous. Was the “hunky” an invitation to show interest? Try to remember your place, I told myself, as I palmed his lower back to guide him in the right direction. He looked up at me and smiled, making no effort to pull away from the hand. You put your hand on the small of a guy’s back and he doesn’t pull away, you’ve got yourself a gay guy.
“How old are you, Larry?” he asked.
“Twenty-eight, sir,” I answered, the “sir” coming out by habit from how I related to most of the movie people the studio had me driving around. I was really thirty-two, but he didn’t need to know that. A lot of young guys his age thought that anyone over thirty was too old to have sex with.
“And are you a movie star, Larry?” he asked, the smile staying in place.
“No, sir, I’m just driving for the studio.” But then, I was doing that hoping to be discovered, yes. And I’d been in the background of a couple of movies because I was around and heard about the cattle calls for extras—I’d been exotic beach candy for some sand movies, as we called them—playing volleyball shirtless or beach running or weight lifting or something in the background. Once I opened a movie skateboarding along a boardwalk while the opening credits were running—my big scene. An unexpected Asian—especially a tall, built one—arrested the eye in the background of a movie. Sometimes that was what the director wanted.
I had been determined to be good California background stud material. Of course, I’d only made enough off the movie extra work to pay for the gym that helped me to maintain the physique that attracted the movie extra work. So, as long as I was on that gerbil wheel, I chauffeured for the stars and whoever else the studio wanted driven around LA. I drove young man on my own at night, usually picking them up at the gym.
“You should be in movies,” he answered as we hightailed it to baggage claim.
Was that some sort of signaling, I wondered. Here in LA it could be that. Could he be advertising at nineteen? That wouldn’t surprise me—the casting couch effect and all. Everyone out here on the West Coast was on the make, regardless of age—sexually as well as with career ambition. And there was a lot of male-male action. Truth be known, that was what had brought me here—that more than the possibility of getting into the movies. Well as much that as the possibility of getting into movies.
And as far as being Asian looking, a lot of young men liked the image of being done by a Chinaman.
“I do extra work in the movies,” I answered.
“Cool,” he said.
Does that mean you’ll let me fuck you? I wondered. I didn’t say it out loud, of course. He was the precious cargo and I was just the limo jockey.
* * * *
He wanted to sit up front in the limousine with me, and I appreciated the gesture, but I had to say, “Sorry, no can do it that way. Our rules are strict in driving the talent, and I would be reported at the studio gates if we did it that way. Just sit back and take in the sights.” At the same time, I didn’t want to put him off if he was signaling interest. I didn’t want him to be lonely if he didn’t want to be.
“You don’t have to sit all the way in the back, if you don’t want to, though. You can take one of the forward seats back there and we can talk; this isn’t against the rules as long as I pay attention to the driving. I can tell you a little bit about the town as we drive, if you want. I don’t have to close the partition window. And you could move further back when we get close to the studio. You ever been to LA before?”
“No, I haven’t. I’ve lived on the East Coast all my life,” he said, as I loaded his bag in the trunk of the Caddie.
“I’ll see if I can work us over to Vine and then up to Hollywood Boulevard, and you will have gotten into the atmosphere of the place. We’re late, but that’s faster than taking the direct route.”
When we loaded up, bless him, he didn’t, as I had said he didn’t have to do, go all the way to the back. He sat up near the front seat in a seat facing the rear and I didn’t close the glass panels. He lay his arm across the back of his seat on the other side of the panel from the back of my seat, and he turned his head toward me, putting it close enough to me that he probably could have stuck his tongue in my ear if he had had a mind to do that. I wouldn’t have minded if he’d done so. When we got going, I felt his fingertips pressing into the back of my neck.
Yeah, he wanted me.
As I drove, I pointed out the landmarks, and we each included little explorations of each other’s lives, and, more important, each other’s preferences and experience. We danced around the gay question, but close enough to it for both of us to understand what team we each were on. I was wearing an earring in my right ear, which in some circles—and in mine—declared gay, which is why I did it. I don’t know if it was the same with him, though. I never lost the thought that he might be interested. He said more than once that he’d never met an Asian guy as big and muscular as me before but that it didn’t put him off that I was—that it was more intriguing, as he put it.
“Are all of the Chinese guys in this town hunky like you?”
Again the “maybe he’s signaling” thing. “Well, you’ll see a whole hell of a lot of them out here in California,” I said. “You can decide for yourself how good they look.”
“I think I’d like to get acquainted with them one by one—and to learn more about them,” he said, touching my shoulder from the seat behind me. Just the touchy-feely kind or was he signaling? And if that wasn’t a come-on line, I didn’t know what was. Either the kid was really naïve, or he was experienced, even at his young age—and a player. The casting couch effect?
“I’d be happy to take you on an Asian guy crawl, if you’d like—if you can break away from the studio some night.” He didn’t respond to that, so I changed the subject. “Who are you supposed to see at the studio today?”
“A producer on a new TV show they’re putting together called, at least now, ‘On Point’—junior high school basketball teams. His name is, let me see . . .” He rummaged around in a back pack “. . . Sam Anderson.”
Oh, lord, I thought. Into the fire, speaking of casting couches. “Well, good luck with that,” I said. When he came out of that guy’s office, I’d probably know the most extreme of what the guy was interested in and what he’d do for it. I knew I was being jaded, but this was the land of “roll over and open your legs to get ahead.” All the attention was going to producers and directors doing it with starlets, but there were ones doing it with young guys trying to break into the movies too. I don’t know if it was the same way in New York City, but those were the playing rules out here. And Sam Anderson. Well, shit.
“That isn’t the only audition you’re on for, is it?” I asked. “They have you on the transportation roster for a couple of more days.”
“No, I’m auditioning for a sitcom too—a comedy about a blended family. I’d really rather have that role, but I’m trying out for anything I can get while I’m out here.”
“Who do you audition with for that show?”
“Someone by the name of Brandon Chapman,” he said, consulting the documents he had.
“He’s not so bad.” He’d fuck you in a moment too, I thought. But he isn’t as nasty about it as Anderson could get. Anderson used restraints and left marks.
“So, you’re driving me while I’m in Los Angeles?” the kid asked.
“As far as I know,” I answered. “Maybe and maybe not. I’m on duty tomorrow, but the transportation office hands out the assignments on a daily as-needed basis.” I’d love driving you into tomorrow, kid, was what I was thinking. But it wasn’t what I said. I’d sure like it if we got to a point where I could say that, though—drive you and drive you hard; split the difference between your slim hips and drive you hard.
He had that hand on my shoulder. He let a finger trace my carotid artery. It drifted up to that earring in my right earlobe. After that was when it settled at the back of my neck.
“Are you flirting with me?” I asked, to get it out into the open.
“Maybe. Do you mind?”
“Not in the least.”
“And, if I could find the time, I’d love doing that Asian guy crawl with you. I wouldn’t need to see any more Asian guys as we crawled, either.”
“Just so I know, I said. Here we are, at the studio. It’s an hour later than your call time, but there wasn’t anything we could do about that. You had a change of flights. Someone will meet us at reception. Come back there after your audition is over and reception will track me down to take you to your hotel. If you don’t need me to take you to the hotel, I’ll take your bag there and they’ll have it at the desk when you check in.” If we were going to get it on, he’d have to make the move. He was the talent and was a barely legal one.
“Why wouldn’t I need you to drive me to the hotel?”
I didn’t want to tell him that if Anderson was seriously considering him for a part in a TV show, the young man probably was going to be dined, tied up, and fucked by Anderson as a condition for getting the part and that Anderson would drop him off at the hotel later—in well-used condition. This kid was a fast one. I was betting he’d let Anderson do it.
“These auditions can be complicated,” I answered. “You may not get out until late.” It was the best I could do in the way of an exclamation. If he was going to work out here, he was going to have to learn the rhythms of life out here—on his own.
Everything worked fine on check in—for a few minutes. Then it fell apart. I hadn’t made it into the drivers’ lounge until I saw Sam Anderson coming out of the elevator and his driver coming out of the lounge. Alex Winstead had been taken up in the elevators less than ten minutes before. Anderson had two young guys with him, who I recognized as Jacob Reines, a studio child actor, who’d appeared in a few sitcoms already, and Zach Peters, a breakout girl’s heartthrob singer who was trying to branch out in the entertainment industry. The young men, both eighteen or nineteen, were clinging to Anderson’s arm as they bustled out of the building and into a limo. I knew from scuttlebutt around the studio—and because I was in the market for nineteen-year-old young men myself—that both Reines and Peters blew and took cock to gain advantage. It seemed quite evident that the auditioning for the TV show had been narrowed to two candidates who were going to continue auditioning in Anderson’s bed.
A few minutes later, a dejected Alex came down in the elevator. He looked down in the mouth. Obviously, I was up for another drive and no break.
“That didn’t take long,” I said as Alex approached me.
“No audition. I was too late. They told me the producer had filled the role. Can they do that—bring me all the way out here and, because of bad plane connections, not even audition me? They’re the ones who provided the plane tickets.”
I didn’t think Anderson had totally made up his mind yet who was going to get the role, but I couldn’t disagree that it wasn’t going to be Alex. I reached out and touched his arm. He didn’t shirk away. “Yeah, they have all the say in who gets cast. You have another crack at it tomorrow, though. You’re probably lucky in not being auditioned by Anderson.”
“Why?” Alex asked, his face looking at his shoe tops.
“There’s a story on him. He’s really demanding of the young men he casts—young men your age, if you know what I mean.”
“You mean you don’t get the job if you don’t let him fuck you?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“That’s nothing new to me,” Alex said. “I don’t think anything’s different in Los Angeles than in New York in that way.”
“And you were prepared to . . . ?”
“I do what I have to do,” Alex said, defiantly, looking up at me. There were tears in his eyes but a challenging look on his face.
So that was that. Maybe I could push it, though. “And you only do it when you have to to get ahead?”
“I do it when I want to do it,” he answered, still defiant, still looking at me directly.
Eureka . . . maybe. I looked down again at those narrow, narrow hips.
“Do you want me to drive you right to the hotel and let you off?” I asked, rubbing his arm a bit with my hand. “Or would you like to see some of the area first? We could get some beer and sandwiches or something and go someplace where we could look out over the city.”
“I heard you can drive up to the Hollywood sign,” Alex said.
“Sure, I can take you up there.”
“Let’s go up to the sign now—and maybe the hotel later. But I’m just nineteen. I don’t know about the beer.”
“Do you drink beer at home, Alex?”
“Sure.” He hadn’t forgotten that he’d had beer in the VIP lounge in Denver. That smooth operator who knew Ray Stinger and who used his connections to get in Alex’s pants.
“It seems that you don’t feel restricted about a lot of things. I’ll stop and get some beer.”
“That’s fine with me,” Alex answered.
“Is that all that’s fine with you, Alex?” I was really fishing hard now, but my body was sending out signals that I really, really wanted a piece of this young man and he wasn’t sending out signals to the contrary.
“No, it’s not,” he answered, with that level stare at me. “Asian men who are tall and muscular are fine with me too.”
* * * *
“Do you want to go all the way up to the Hollywood sign or just to where we can see it?” I was up into the Hollywood Hills and it was time to choose an approach higher into the hilly parkland in the direction of Forest Hills Memorial Park cemetery. For a brief minute I thought of driving him into the cemetery and laying him on a raised grave, but there were too many people in that cemetery all the time, and I was on dangerous ground here. He had to declare if we were going to do what I hoped we were going to do. Not that I wouldn’t be on dangerous ground anyway. Studio flunkeys who laid the talent were quickly fired. It was irrelevant that he wasn’t studio talent yet. He hadn’t made it to an audition yet. Of course, the danger was a good third of the arousal—the other two thirds were those slim hips of his and the image of splitting the difference. I made the judgment that it was worth the risk of being fired.
“What’s the difference between the possible roads?” he asked from the seat on the other side of the glass partition. He was sniffling, and I think he was having trouble holding it together, having come all the way out here from the East Coast, arriving just a bit late, and missing his first chance at a TV role. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to be thinking about laying the young man. I didn’t want to be blamed for spiking him when he wasn’t in control of himself.
“They both go up through the Hollywood Hills, but one, going up North Beachwood and working our way up to Mulholland Highway will take us up to the sign and a maintenance facility above that. The other, less traveled, way is to go up Canyon Drive. That turns into Brush Canyon Trail, which is a dirt road this limo probably doesn’t want to try, although that road goes up to the sign. But where the asphalt ends is an abandoned camp ground with a real good view of the sign.”
“An abandoned camp ground. No people?” he asked.
“Probably not. Even if there are, there are drive offs with a view where the Caddie will fit without being seen.”
“Canyon Drive, then, please,” Alex said.
My spirits soared and I felt myself go hard. “Stop for beer first?” I ventured.
“Stop for beer first,” he said.
I fucked him in the back of the limo, on the floor between the two facing seats. There was plenty of room. He initiated it. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise, honest—at least not there, that way.
“There’s a blanket in the trunk,” I said. “We can take it and the beer out on the rock cropping over there and you can see the sign just up the hill over there.” I’d backed the limo into a fire-trail road at the far end of the abandoned campground off Canyon Drive.
“I can see it out the back window from here,” Alex said. “Just bring the beer into the back, and let’s sit here.” He was in the back-facing seat. “I just want to sit and get mellow.”
I took the beer into the back. He beckoned me into the seat beside him. I popped two cans. “You didn’t open the beer if anyone asks,” I said. “You never know what makes a difference in a state as crazy as California, and there’s no reason for both of us to get into trouble.”
“I think I want to get into trouble. Hold me a minute,” he murmured, looking oh so sad. “I’m still bummed about coming all the way out here and not getting anywhere.”
I put an arm around him and pulled him into my side. He put a hand on the inside of my thigh, high up, which I pretended not to notice. “You’ve still got another audition tomorrow. And you said you preferred that role anyway.”
“But what if—?”
“We’ll get you to that audition. You’ll do great. You’ll get the role.”
“You think so?” he asked, it coming out nearly in a sob. The kid was only nineteen, and he was out here all by himself. Of course he’d be worried about something like this.
Maybe all he needed as a little help. I’d have to see what I could do about that. His hand had gone higher on my thigh. His thumb was on my dick outside the material of my black trousers. Of course I was hard. I wondered if he knew he was touching my dick and it was hard. But of course he knew. This kid was a player. I put a hand on his thigh and he took it with his hand and moved it to his crotch. He didn’t feel like anything special, but then, it wasn’t his cock I was interested in. At the same time, he reached up with his other hand, cupped the back of my head, and brought my mouth down to his.
So much for drinking beer for a while.
As we kissed, he unzipped me and freed my cock, which he proceeded to stroke, taking his lips off mine to say, “Shit, you’re huge.” I was returning the favor. He was hard too, if nothing as big as I was.
“You sure about this? You want to stop?” I asked. “You’re what? Only nineteen.”
“Do you care?”
“Not really. Truth be told, I like it better that you’re young.”
“I like it better than you’re Chinese . . . and muscled . . . and hung,” he said. “I’ve never been fucked by a muscular, hung Chinaman. Are all Chinamen as hung as you are?”
“Are you planning to be fucked by all Chinamen?”
“Maybe. Starting with you.”
He slipped down to kneel between my thighs and sucked me off. I lay back in the seat, staring out through the back window at the Hollywood sign and sighing my approval of his technique. He took my cream on his cheek. He’d hold his own with any of the other young men and women on the casting couches out here.
We drank beer and cuddled while I recovered. Then Alex made clear he wanted more—and more intimate. He stripped, went down on all fours on the floor between the backseats, gave me a provocative look, and said, “Fuck me, big boy. Screw me, Larry.”
So, I did. Not before I played with him a bit, though. Naked now myself, I hovered over him, running my hands all over his luscious little body, finding and fondling the curves and crevices of his smooth, supple late-teenager’s body, while he murmured, “Fuck me, stud. Screw me, daddy” over and over again. As I ran my hands over him, I kept returning to his initially pert little hole with my fingers, penetrating him and opening him up. He opened up fast. The narrowness of his hips fascinated me—that’s what I always looked for in a nineteen-year-old lay.
Could the tips of my fingers meet when I gripped his hips? Yes, they could. As I touched the tips of my fingers, I squeezed his pert little buttocks open with the heels of my hands, fully exposing the hole, which dilated open for me. This was one well-used young man. I was big but he’d be able to take me without much preparation. It would be tight at first, but that’s how I liked them—tight, with the sensation of them reluctantly stretching for me—eventually taking all of me and lying there, skewered, and docile, looking at me with “yes, take it all” big cow eyes.
Well, this young man was about to be used again, and I didn’t sense any reluctance. I pulled a hand away only long enough to pick up a half-full can of beer and pour a stream down between his butt cheeks, as he murmured, “Yes, yes. Do it.” The rest I poured on my erection. My hands went back to gripping his slim hips. I crouched over him as he knelt on all fours. “Yes, now,” he whimpered.
“You have to say it explicitly. You have to say, ‘Put your dick in me and fuck me, Larry.’”
“Put your dick in me and fuck me, Larry,” he cried out, straightening his legs, raising his tail up like a foot racer just before the gun goes off. He gave me a good angle. Gripping his hips tightly, I centered my cock, penetrated, and held briefly for him to open to me as he moaned and panted hard. And then I thrust up and fucked him to another ejaculation. He held steady for me, taking it like a whore, panting and emitting words of encouragement—“Shit!” “Oh, fuck!” “Screw me good!”—going with me, thrusting back as I thrust forward, as I gripped his slim hips and plowed him.
When we got going good, I covered him close from above, riding him high, like a race horse jockey, him holding solid like a bitch in heat being serviced, me gripping his boyish pecs and thrumming his nipples with my thumbs, latching onto the hollow of his throat with my teeth. He cried out, “Give me your Chinese cum. Inside me.” So, that’s what I did, pumping three strong wads of cum inside him in waves as he held and twitched, held and twitched. One of my hands went under and fisted his little cock, and he came for me with a long sigh.
Nothing like supple, resilient, experienced nineteen-year-old male pussy.
He took it very well. When I pushed him over onto his back, still hovering over him, two of my fingers up his ass, still working him, and he lay there docile and purring, he whispered “My first Chinaman.”
“Did I—?”
“You did just fine,” he murmured.
So, I fucked him again.
When I drove him back to his hotel, the Loews Hollywood Hotel, on North Highland Avenue, above Hollywood Boulevard, he invited me up.
“You want me to come up to your room?” I asked.
“I want it again.”
So, I gave him the dick again in his room, on his bed. I put him on his back, grabbed his ankles, and split and raised his legs. I pushed my knees under his tight little buttocks, thrust up inside him, and fucked the hell out of him. He didn’t want me to be gentle with him and I wasn’t.
“Love that Chinese cum!” he cried out at climax.
Good, I thought, because there’s a whole lot of that out here in LA.
Afterward, he went into the bathroom and I reached for the phone. A little bit of help. That’s what was called for here. I made a couple of calls. Just a little bit of help. Then I got up, dressed, and left. I didn’t think I’d survive another round with this delicious kid. I sure hope he’d get the part and was going to be back out in Hollywood for a while—needing a driver. That was another nice thing about spiking nineteen-year-olds visiting Los Angeles from far away. They were at your mercy for transportation.
* * * *
I wondered what Alex thought the next morning when I wasn’t the one who picked him up for the audition with Brandon Chapman. I hoped he didn’t think I was avoiding him. It was all for his good, although I didn’t stay around the evening before to tell him what I did—in case it didn’t work out.
I got Frieda, one of the other drivers, to take Alex to the audition. I had further designs on him, so I didn’t hook him up with one of the other male drivers. He was a real firecracker, that little Alex was. I knew he’d do well at the audition. Chapman liked experienced kids, but he, like I, liked them with slim hips and at eighteen or nineteen. Alex would give him a terrific ride.
I wasn’t the one who was taking him to that audition, because I’d found in my telephoning around while I was in the guy’s bed and he was in the john that Jacob Reines got the part in the high school basketball show. So, Jacob was out of the competition for today’s audition for the blended family sitcom. But that left Zach Peters, who I found out was auditioning today.
So, I was giving Alex a little help. He was on his own to ride Chapman well enough to get the part. But Zach Peters, unfortunately, wasn’t going to make the audition. I managed to wrangle the assignment as his driver. I got lost taking a shortcut up Canyon Drive to see if we could find the Hollywood sign before the audition. I’d been told he was really easy, which turned out to be true. I did him in a doggie. And then I did him again—because he wanted me to. Before we knew it, it was getting dark. He missed his audition. What a pity that was.
Then tonight, if Alex is celebrating, maybe he’d like me to come to his hotel room. I’ll bet he does a really good cowboy.
Brandon Chapman
He was a cocky little thing. I liked that about Alex Winstead. He’d fit real well into the character of Wade in the sitcom I was casting. Still, there were sponsors pushing for the young rock star, Zach Peters, and I had to admit that Peters not only did the cocky walk but would be a gold mine for publicity for the show. I opened the audition leaning toward Peters—and leaning hard in the direction. Auditioning Winstead was more as a favor to my friend Ray Stinger back in New York. Ray had said I’d want to do this kid. I was thinking that maybe there was a way of leading him on long enough so that I could do him and still pick Peter—and maybe do him too. Well, no, definitely do him too.
The decision was pretty much taken out of my hands, though, in two ways. The first way was that Zack Peters skipped the audition. He didn’t show. I put it off for a half hour, coming out every ten minutes to the outer office checking on whether he’d arrived, and he hadn’t. The Winstead kid was there, though, patiently waiting in the reception room and looking oh so young and oh so sexy.
I’d really settled on Peters already, but I felt lucky that I had such an acceptable backup possibility.
Eventually, I gave up waiting. I couldn’t take all day at this. I called the Winstead kid into my office and that’s when the decision was pulled right out of my hands. First off, he was terrific in the audition. He’s a natural-born actor—both funny and poignant, just what the role needed. And he could play the high school freshman role. I kept looking at his folder to make sure it said he was nineteen. Another two months and he’d be twenty.
Beyond the younger role playing, he was driving me nuts with his smaller, perfectly formed body—and the blondness, the blue eyes, the shy, yet vulnerable and sensual smile. He didn’t question me when I asked him to strip down to his briefs and turn this way and that for me. I said he’d be playing basketball a lot and I’d have to get an idea how he’d look dressed down in “skins.” His portfolio indicated that he was, in fact, a good basketball player. That was one thing we weren’t sure of with Peters, and we were going on faith that Peters could be taught to be convincing on screen.
He saw his effect on me as I watched him—beautiful slim body; such narrow hips—posing and turning for me in only his briefs. No doubt he’d heard about me and my fetish for young men in his age bracket. Ray Stinger, who was pushing the kid at me, would have told him that. Ray Stinger would have enjoyed having him to be interested in promoting the guy’s career. That was fine with me. It cut right to the chase. I slouched down in my chair, pulled out from behind my desk, going hard, and using every restraint I could not to touch myself. He went right for getting the role—and got it. He took the situation and me in hand.
I knew as soon as he’d gone over to the door and turned the lock that he was going to let me fuck him. He’d seen as soon as he’d come into my office that I had a couch blocked from sight from the door by a bookcase. He knew about the casting couch concept. Ray Stinger had told me that Alex knew everything there was to know about the casting couch.
After locking the door, Alex was on his knees between my spread thighs, unzipping me, taking me out, taking me in hand, licking up on side and down the other. Patting me on this cheek, and then taking me inside his mouth and taking me to heaven with a soft, talented mouth.
When I felt him pull off me and opened my eyes, he was across the room, on the couch. He’d slipped his briefs off and was lying on his back on the couch, pert little ass at the edge, and holding his legs up and spread.
I was on him in seconds, kneeling between his thighs, eating his puckered hole out, gripping his narrow hips between my hands, spreading his butt cheeks. Then I was rising over him, splitting the difference between his hip bones, penetrating him . . . fucking the hell out of him, while he whimpered, “Yes, fuck me, daddy. Screw the shit out of me.”
He asked for it; he got it. He also got the part in the sitcom.
Gordon Marsh
I happened to be standing at the window, with no appointments or calls to make for another hour, when I saw him arrive. He was in a TV studio car, and the Asian pimp I sometimes used to procure young men for me, Larry Lu, handed him out of the limo. The kid was a real rock star for how fast he seemed to be moving up. I had to assume he had done well in one of the auditions he’d told me about or he wouldn’t be chauffeured around in a studio car. Kinda fun Larry was driving him, though.
I did wonder for a few minutes if he was coming to see me. This building was crawling with talent agents. The studio might have already fixed him up with someone else in the business.
But then I heard him at the desk in reception, just outside the door to my office.
“Yes, can I help you?” I heard Audrie ask.
“I’d like to see Mr. Marsh, please,” the young guy answered.
“You are a client of his?” she asked. She knew damn well he wasn’t—yet—but she had this song and dance she went through with everyone who showed up at the office blind.
“No, I’m not . . . but—”
“I’m afraid he’s busy now and it would be five or six weeks before you could have an appointment. Would you—?”
“He gave me his business card. Said I could come see him anytime I had work to represent. He said to come to him if I needed a little help. See, it says here on the back of the card, ‘See me when you have a part.’ I have a part in a sitcom on TV now—if I can get an agent to represent me.”
I let both of them out of their misery. I stepped up to the door into the reception room and opened it. “There you are, Alex. I lost track of you in the LA airport when we landed the other day. You say the audition you were coming to town to have went well? This is Alex Winstead, Audrie. Could you open a file on him, while he and I talk in my office about contracts? Tomorrow’s fine for you to do that; it’s too late today. Just take down the name now. And hold my calls, please. In fact, take off early, if you like. Turn the phones off and just go. Come on in my office, Alex.”
Audrie didn’t ask question. She knew what this routine meant.
“I hope you might be interested in being my talent agent, Mr. Marsh,” Alex said, as he walked over to the door. “The studio said it would send me to an agent, but I remember you telling me in Denver that that is sort of a racket—getting an agent recommended by the studio. With what you wrote on your card . . . and all . . . I thought maybe you would represent me.”
“Of course I’m interested in representing you,” I said, thinking that if he passed an audition this quickly maybe I’d be interested in agenting him as well as what else I was interested in doing with him.
After he was through the door and I saw that Audrie, who was a smart cookie, was standing and putting on her sweater, I ushered him across my office to where there was a couch, and before I followed him, I closed and locked the door to reception.
Both Alex and I knew why I had done that. So did Larry, sitting downstairs in the studio limousine and most likely whistling. I’d have to find out how much of this was with his little bit of help and would reward him appropriately.
