Arena Stage

The little fucker had turned me down. I knew there wasn't anything ultimate or final about it, but I knew he wanted me. What a tease, I thought, as we parted ways outside the theater, he to go onto the

Boxoffice

to be there if Masters wanted anything when he and Lenny arrived at the boat, me to get something to eat and maybe add to the old nest egg.

Adding to the escape fund was what I'd programmed for this evening. It's just that Sean Singleton, Masters's assistant, was such a nice little piece, I thought I'd just do it for pleasure for a change. But he turned me down. Didn't make me want him any less, though.

I left him there on the grass embankment above the yacht basin and walked over to the Gangplank restaurant for something to eat before I went to work—went to work for myself rather than Handelsman. I wasn't too happy with Lenny at the moment. I didn't like the way he looked at that Masters guy. I didn't have enough escape money shuffled together yet for him to be looking at the Masters guy like that.

After taking care of the hunger pangs, I walked the six blocks, up toward the Capitol Building. But not all the way there; just to the edge of the Southwest Freeway, where, in the shadow of that elevated faster route out of town, I saw the signs for the Bachelor Pad. I'd been told about this place when we were still up in New York. I had friends back there who knew I was trying to work my way from here to someplace else, and they told me the Bachelor Pad was a good place to pick up some quick major cash.

The place didn't seem to know what it wanted to be. I walked in and I had two choices—well, maybe three—there was a staircase in the hall going up as well. As far as I knew, they had something going on up there too. To my right was a plush bar area. Very high tone; wouldn't be out of place in a Manhattan hotel. And to the left was a smoke-filled pool hall. The characters of the evening had pared themselves off by natural selection. Three-piece suits and Martini glasses in the bar. This contrasted with T-shirts with cigarette packs rolled up in sleeves and dirty long hair in the pool hall. I had my choice of soft elevator music and muted, intense conversations or the beat of a nervous drum and raucous cussing and intense crotch grabbing.

I wanted an extra paycheck, not a break of the balls with down-home boys, so I turned to the right.

I was underdressed, but what I lacked in that, I made up for in stage presence. That's something I learned from Handelsman—how to enter a room and own it from the first step inside. Within seconds, nobody noticed I was just a hulking, out-of-place black guy in a black turtleneck and trousers. I was suddenly the most interesting guy in the room. I sauntered over to the bar and ordered a beer.

"No, the bottle will be fine," I said. Part of owning the room is making it move to you.

I hunched over the bar and took a look see around at the guys in the booths and at the populated end of the bar. I was looking for two things—who would move first and who looked like the richest mark. It was a good-luck evening for me; both came in the same package.

"Care if I sit?" he asked, and before the phrase was completed, he'd already slid into the stool beside me.

"Nope," I answered. I looked at him in the mirror behind the liquor shelves. Forties maybe. Pinstriped suit. Worked out a bit, but losing that battle—not too badly yet. Manicured nails. I'd already noticed that—that and the obvious tailored cut of the fine-cloth suit—which had helped me put him at the top of the list. A nice smile and a sensuous mouth. He looked like he knew how to use that.

"Meeting someone?"

"Not that I know of," I answered. Then I decided to cut to the chase. I was still thinking of that blond dancer back at the boat. Sean. I'd said I'd give him another opportunity at nine. It was after eight now. "Maybe it's you. If conditions are right," I said. Giving him a good smile back.

"I'd like that," he muttered under his breath. And I could tell he would; he was already breathing hard and his answer had come out in a bit of a stutter.

"A hundred bucks," I said.

He hesitated. He wanted to think about it, but probably didn't want to leave that impression. So, he motioned the barman over and had his Martini replaced. The barman used the best gin. That might have been a mistake. I was originally thinking of $100 as a starting price. Now I knew it could be the only price.

"Well, I . . ."

"A hundred bucks," I repeated.

"There's the room and all . . ."

"This place has got an alley, doesn't it?" I said. I'd actually discovered that this excited them.

"Well, I . . ." His voice was wavering. He looked confused and was wearing a sloppy grin. He reached down and adjusted something, taking pressure off his basket, something going on down there. He was hooked.

I made him go down on his knees in the muck in the alley while he was sucking me off in the shadows next to a trash bin that should have been emptied last month sometime. Then I stood him against the slimy brick wall with his chest and cheek pressed to the bricks and his pelvis cantilevered out while I gave him a hundred bucks worth of cocking. He didn't complain about any of it.

Afterward I decided against going back into the bar. This was about what I'd figured on making to add to the escape kitty tonight, and I'd assumed I'd have to make more than one trip to the alley. But I got it in one. There seemed to be a whole lot more money in Washington, D.C., than there was in New York these days.

It was 8:45 and I knew I could make it back to the boat easily by 9:00. I walked slow and took a roundabout route, though, because I didn't want to be punctual and let the little fucker think I was panting after him. But if I thought about it too hard, I might have to admit to myself that I probably was panting after him. I hadn't been turned down like that since before I could remember. It made him intriguing. His loyalty to Masters sort of impressed me too, even though it was misplaced.

I saw him sitting there on the park bench at the top of the grassy incline, looking down into the lights of the yacht basin. His shoulders were hunched forward so that he looked like he'd imploded, collapsed inside himself. He still looked cute, and oh so fuckable. Maybe even more so now than before.

Before what? I asked myself. But I knew. I'd known before I left him at the Arena Stage door. He had no idea about Masters and Handelsman. That was clear. Seeing what I knew he was going to see if he stuck around the

Boxoffice

couldn't help but educate him real quick.

I walked over and stood by the bench. "You OK?"

Sean turned and looked up at me. He had tears in his eyes and it looked like he'd gained ten years in world knowledge and the entire globe on his back since I'd last seen him. I sat down beside him on the bench and pivoted toward him. "What are you doing up here? Isn't it warmer down on the ship?" I knew the answer; I just wanted to start him talking. And I wanted him to talk to me, confide everything to me, and leave this bench with me. And beg me to fuck him. So I could do it and then put thoughts of him behind me.

"I . . . I couldn't."

"They're fucking, aren't they?" I asked. It was getting chilly out here. We needed to goose this along.

That loosened him up, and he began to tell me he'd seen Masters fucking Lenny in Lenny's "special" cabin. Even though I knew it, it still hit me hard when I heard it confirmed. And it made me mad, too.

Then I thought I could cut my ire by really putting the moves on this little guy. I did that, pulling out of him that he was a dancer and that Masters had put the kibosh on that, but Sean was practicing again because they were strapped for cash and Sean thought he'd have to carry more of the income load. I didn't like the sound of that. Handelsman wasn't strapped for cash. I could just see Masters muscling in on him to ride that gravy train. And then where would I be? Handelsman was my gravy train. I started adding up the current balance of my escape money in my mind.

And that's when Sean got under my skin. I'd been too cocky and had told me too much about the nature of my relationship with Handelsman and, probably because he felt wounded himself, the little fucker started razzing me about being Lenny's kept boy. It being the truth still wasn't what I wanted to hear from a little piece of fluff I wanted to get my cock into.

So, it ended up with me backing off from him and escaping—down the grassy incline and across the quay and up the gangplank onto the

Boxoffice

's fan tail.

If I'd seen Masters in the salon, I probably wouldn't have entered, but I already was in when I heard him greet me. Quite jovial, quite satisfied with himself. Just like a guy who'd just gotten his rocks off, which undoubtedly fit here.

He was standing behind the bar in the salon, stirring up a couple of drinks. He was naked, as I could tell from seeing the backend of him in the mirror behind the bar. He was in very, very good shape for an old geezer.

"Drink?" he asked.

"No thanks, I'm driving," I answered. Wrong crack, though.

"Yes, Lenny tells me you have quite a driver," he said. "Care to join us?"

"You're not done?" I asked. I mean he looked in great shape, but, god, the man was in his fifties. How much stamina could he have? But then he walked from behind the bar, and I saw the pecker and set of nuts on him—he was still at least at half staff—and I took a deep breath. It was obvious he wasn't finished for the night. And it was equally obvious that he had championship equipment. That little faker, I thought of the cute little blond sitting up on the bench. He loved cock after all. We would have to be able to take Masters's AAA-size pecker.

"If you want us, we'll be just across the wall," Masters said. And then, still smiling, he turned and strutted down the corridor.

It wasn't long before I heard Lenny moaning and groaning and crying out for the fuck. I couldn't tell if he seemed more excited than when I fucked him, but even having to try to compare was an insult—and a threat.

I sat and nursed a beer. And then another. And the noises didn't stop. What sort of superman was this Masters guy anyway, I thought. And I was beginning to have respect for him—at least for him as a fucking machine. And I couldn't help but have a twitch in my crotch. There had been a time when I'd died for cock like that too. Not for some time. But maybe it was like riding a bicycle.

I got up off the bar stool and strolled slowly into and down the corridor until I was standing at the doorway to the owner's cabin. They didn't even have the sensitivity to shut the door.

Lenny was on his side on the bed, facing me, his hip propped up on a pillow, a look of ecstasy on his face that made me more than a bit envious—and jealous and threatened all at once. His upward leg was being held straight up by Masters, who was on his knees on the bed behind Lenny's butt and stroking Lenny's ass hard with his cock. Lenny was pulling on his own cock, and his eyes were slitted like he didn't see me in the doorway, which he probably didn't. He was moaning softly like a wind-up doll that was wearing down but just had a few more sounds to grind out.

Masters did see me and smiled big.

"Decided to join us?" he asked. His tone was mocking, self-assured. And if it hadn't been for that, I might have been drawn into the room. I had to give it to Masters. I could command a room when I entered it—but not like Masters could command a room. He was a bright light, a regular torch. I could understand how everyone around him felt like a moth. Because that was exactly how I felt. I'd taken cock in my rocky road to where I was now. But I hadn't taken cock since Lenny offered me a job—and a bed. But here I was speculating, wondering how it would be to take Masters's cock.

I did actually take one step in the room, and I had my hand on my basket. But then Masters laughed. A self-complaisant victory laugh. And that did it. I turned and left the room and crossed the corridor and entered one of the guest cabins and slammed the door shut behind me and shot the lock.

Masters laughed again. And I couldn't help but compare the assurance behind his laugh to my own thoughts that I could have Sean Singleton's ass eventually—the self-assuredness that it wasn't an if but a when and that there was time enough to wait for it. And, much to my horror and chagrin, I couldn't see a bit of difference between the two.

I laid down on the bunk in the guest cabin and pulled a pillow over my head and waited for the moaning to stop so I could sleep. It wasn't that long afterward that I heard Masters leaving. I rose and went over to the cabin window and watched him slowly walk up the glassy incline to where Sean Singleton still was sitting, waiting for him, in the chilly night.

I half expected to see something dramatic out there, but I was disappointed in that. As Masters approached the bench, Singleton merely stood until Masters had swept by, not missing a step. And then Singleton dropped in step four paces behind his master and they crossed the road. I lost sight of them as they moved around the octagonal building that was the original Arena Stage hall.

I went back to the bunk and went into an exhausted sleep almost immediately. I was awakened shortly afterward by Lenny pounding on the cabin door.

"Is that where you are, Gil?" he called out. "Come to bed. He's gone. It's lonely over here."

I went back to the pillow-over-the-head stance. How Lenny could want me back in his bed tonight after the pounding he'd taken from Masters was beyond me. And he needed to be punished anyway. I needed to make some sort of statement before this got out of hand. Or did I? I began to add together all of the stashes I had hidden around. The money Lenny didn't know I was accumulating, because Lenny had no idea I was doing business on the side, that I was trying to pull together escape money. To escape Lenny and this demeaning life.

All went quiet. I couldn't go to sleep again, though, tired as I was. I wanted to punish Lenny. I wanted to hurt him, to let him know that he couldn't just push me aside like that just for old time's sake. And worse, that he couldn't make it so obvious that he liked that old buzzard's cocking as much as he liked mine.

Punish him. Make him hurt.

In the end there was really only one way to do that. I got up off the bunk, stripped down, and worked my cock up hard—making it easy by imagining taking that cute little ass on Masters's assistant, Sean—a double victory: conquering the nice little blond piece and cuckolding Masters at the same time. When I was ready, I unlocked the cabin door and pulled it open. I quietly crossed the corridor and entered the owner's cabin.

Lenny was asleep, on his belly, naked and on top of the sheets. Snoring up a storm.

I swiftly moved up on the bed and got his hips between my knees and thrust my cock deep inside his now-gaping channel and rode him hard, intent on punishing him for embarrassing me and bringing that maddening Creighton Masters into our lives and conflicting me as he did. And getting madder by the moment—because Lenny was letting me know that he was thoroughly enjoying the fucking.