Elevator Man 1

I had sniffed the plumber guy out myself and he had seemed interested, but I was a pretty good judge of men and I didn't think that two resolved tops would work out. I was still mulling whether I had misjudged him when my instincts were confirmed.

I'd been warned that this movie guy was crazy before I started out from Eureka to Trinidad, but just the motoring itself along Scenic Drive up the northern California coast was worth a little weird at the other end. To work in Los Angeles and live on the rugged coast above San Francisco didn't sound all that stupid to me if you had the means and opportunity to do it, but when I reached where my directions stopped just south of Trinidad Head and looked up, I was beginning to understand what they said.

A mailbox and parking pad for maybe six cars right on the inland side of Scenic Drive where it hugged the coastline close and a little path leading to steel piers and a winding staircase that led my eyes up and up and up gave me a real shock when my gaze was brought to what looked like a disk-shape alien spacecraft right out of one of those science fiction horror flicks reflecting the sun's rays off curved metallic walls.

Not all that inappropriate for a perpetual child movie star who had wound up as a director of B movies, and, if the tabloids were even half right, a lush, coke head, and pants chaser of insatiable appetites. But still? A space ship hovering in the clouds high above the northern California coast? For starters, it must have cost him a mint, and people were flocking away from the expensive northern California coast, not to it. And, I mean, the view would be great, of course, but, gawd, look at all of those steps you'd have to climb to it. It must have five stories up the sheer side of a cliff to the underside of the thing.

But that's where I came in. One of those steel piers, the thickest one, contained an elevator. And I was the elevator man.

I parked beside a panel van with the name of a Trinidad plumbing company on the side and walked up the path to the thickest pier. I sighed in resignation when I saw that the elevator cage wasn't at ground level. It would be no use trying to summon it down from the house, because if it was in working order yet, I wouldn't be here. I was here to activate it for the first time, make sure it was running smoothly, and show the new owner how to operate it.

I hoped the new owner was electronically inclined. Otherwise, I sure wouldn't want to be stuck out in the boonies like this and trapped inside an elevator I couldn't get open. I wouldn't say anything to him about this, of course; you don't sell many home elevators that way. But I'd certainly try to make sure he understood how to operate it and what to do if it malfunctioned.

I took a look at that winding staircase, huffed and puffed a couple of times to fill my lungs, and started the five-story climb. I wouldn't have to go to the gym this evening. I took pride in my body; it was part of what sold me at pool hall and movie house. So, I worked out three times a week—pretty hard. I might make the gym tonight, but I probably wouldn't need much leg work after this climb.

Ricky Drake himself, the child star-turned bad movie director, met me at the double front door. The ID was unmistakable, even though the heavy makeup he had slathered on his face gave me a turn. It didn't convince me a bit, however. He couldn't have been more than five foot four and had the perpetual boyish look that kept him fed with teen roles until he was pushing thirty. He was pushing somewhere a lot further down the road now, though, and the wrinkles were showing. A little weird to see the age on what still wanted to be a boy. He'd kept the fat off his body, which was a good thing.

After lifting his eyebrows when he greeted me at the door and giving me that hooded-eyed smile I knew so well and was willing to satisfy for a price, he floated down the hall toward the center of the circular house in a little more of a swish than I preferred. Still, if the price was right . . .

"I've come to test out the elevator and make sure you know how to use it and what to do if it breaks down," I called out to his retreating back.

Other than saying "Yum," at the door he hadn't spoken; he'd just turned and walked back toward the center of the house. He was wearing powder blue cotton sleeping shorts with a matching robe, open and flapping about him as he sauntered away. And barefoot. It was 11:00 AM. I wondered if I had awakened him. I could imagine that these crazy movie folks weren't morning people.

"That's good, honey," he said in a high, boyish voice, "but there are a couple of e-mails I have to answer right away. I'm showing you to the kitchen, where you can get a beer out of the fridge and cool down that fine bod of yours from the climb up the stairs."

He led me into a light-filled, circular kitchen at the very heart of the disk. It had sort of an atrium feel to it from a full circle of clerestory windows around the ceiling, which extended above the surround structure.

But that's not what arrested my attention really. My eyes latched onto the guy who was kneeling down in front of open cabinet doors at the sink, on the balls of his feet, comfortably balanced on his haunches. Tight jeans, muscle T, showing tufts of dark hair at his pits, which I liked. He looked around as I entered the kitchen and flashed me a welcoming smile. God was he luscious. Hispanic, all dark beauty and fine form. Instant interest from both of us. And almost as instantly I sensed another exclusive top. Oh, well.

I got that beer out of the refrigerator and leaned back against the counter and watched the plumber work his magic on applying the finishing touches on pipes and faucets inside that cabinet. Off and on, he'd turn his face to me and show that smile. He obviously wasn't as aware as I was that we were both pegs—or maybe he was just more hopeful that I was interested in some slot work. No chance of that, though.

It wasn't long before Drake sashayed back into the kitchen and beckoned me back toward the front foyer and the top of the elevator shaft. The cage was there.

"Wanna ride while I go over the controls and show you a few things?" I asked as the door to the cage opened?

"Yes, I'd love for you to give me a ride and . . . show me a few things," Drake answered, and then that inviting smile. "There's something I wouldn't mind being shown right now, as a matter of fact." He'd drawn close to me and was touching my thigh with his fingers. But I brushed past him and entered the cage. He followed and stood against the side wall, a little smirk on his face. Used to getting what he wanted, as soon as he wanted it. The bane of child stars.

I'd been here a thousand times. I don't know why, but guys like Drake just got direct with me fast. Like they couldn't wait or didn't have the patience to go through the foreplay.

"Let's get your elevator working," I answered. "Maybe more later. But anything beyond the company clock . . . well, I've got expenses and lots of things I could be doing with my own time." I had learned that I could be direct too, that there was no use wasting time spinning wheels. I didn't find him all that attractive for a free ride—on the margin of too old and a little freaky, trapped in that boy-man's body and trying to stay on the boy side with that heavy makeup.

"And I've got plenty of money and time," he answered, with that smirk.

For a good half hour, we rode up and down on the elevator and I showed him everything there was to using the controls. He used the excuse of following my instructions closely to come into my body closely. He had his hands everywhere, not just on the buttons and switches as I showed them to him. He copped a good feel of my basket, but I just ignored it while he was doing this. Let him assess the goods, I thought. They were good enough if his money was good enough.

But, God, it wasn't just the makeup. He was wearing perfume, even if it did have some male designer's name on it, It was still perfume. If this is what they did down in Los Angeles, I was just as glad that I was up here in Eureka. Good honest male sweat and the musk of man sex, they were fine with me. But perfume? Geez, give me a break.

"You see this switch here?" I said near the end of our session. "This is important, now. If you'll look behind the panel, you'll see it's attached to a cable going up there and attaching up there. This model of elevator is known for that cable becoming dislodged and stopping the elevator wherever it is right then. Doesn't mean the cage will fall; it just will freeze. So, if you get stuck dead, check out that cable first. Often all you need do is reattach it. And, if I were you, I wouldn't get on the elevator at all without a cell phone handy. You never know what might get fucked up." The company would skin me alive if I went any farther in scaring customers with remote homes about being trapped in an elevator. But I thought I needed to at least make them as cautious as possible.

"OK, I think I've got that," he said.

I brought the cage back up to the space craft level and reached over to push the button to open the doors, but he covered my hand with his. And I noticed he was trembling. I looked over at him. His nipples were popping out and the front of his sleeping shorts was tented. He was ripe.

"About getting fucked up," he murmured. His other hand came up, A fifty was palmed in that hand.

A fifty. Mr. big spender.

"I don't know, guy," I answered vaguely, looking pointedly at the fifty. "I've gotta test out this elevator some more and its getting late. I don' know. Makeup and perfume . . . I just don't know."

I obviously pushed his buttons, because he gave me a venomous look, punched the "open door" button hard and flounced out of the elevator, headed toward the center of the house in flapping powder-blue cotton robe.

I mulled and mellowed as I put the elevator through its purring paces for a good twenty minutes without finding anything remotely troublesome with how it was working. I'd let old guys suck me off at the pool hall for twenty. Fifty would get me a good meal on my way back to Eureka. And the boast of doing a Hollywood director, no matter how weird or queeny he was, would have some boast value down at the movie house.

I made my decision—not having any better offers on the table and obviously not being a matched set with that hunky Hispanic plumber I'd rather be poking—and walked back into the house after finishing the elevator jiggling and test ride. I'd left the clipboard in the kitchen and I'd have to get Drake to sign off on the call sheet on that anyway.

And maybe there'd be another look at the plumber. Just maybe my assessment hadn't been right.

But, when I got to the kitchen, I could see that my assessment had been spot on. Both the plumber and Drake were starkers and Drake was up on his butt on the kitchen counter, his legs spread wide and folded and his heels dug into the edge of the counter, giving him leverage to move his hips back and forth against the plumber's groin. The plumber was standing between Drake's legs. He had the heels of both of his hands plastered to the doors of the overhead shelves. Drake was holding the plumber's waist at both sides with his small, boy's hands.

Drake was giving little yipping sounds, and the plumber was doing real good with his plumbing. He had a nice circular movement to his pelvis that indicated that Drake was getting wall-to-wall servicing inside his channel. The plumber turned his eyes to me, and he flashed me that brilliant, welcoming smile. I got the impression he would have enjoyed me joining in the fun, and I did stay and watch for a while, fascinated with the plumber's technique and wondering if he had length to go along with the width of what I could see at the root of his buried and rapid-stroking cock.

But then I looked down at his feet, where his jeans lay. On top of those, next to a split and empty Trojan packet, was a bill—a fifty—my fifty. Then Drake decided for me.

"Your clipboard is there on the table, if that's what you've come for," which he hardly got out before his cried out, "Oh, God, yes. There, like that . . . just like that. Again. Oh, God!"

I leaned over to the table and picked the clipboard up. He'd already signed for the elevator inspection. So, I obviously was finished here.

I took the elevator back down to the car park. Let him wait to summon for it to come back up.

I didn't think much more about what had happened. After two more stops for lift inspections closer to Eureka, I ate at a carryout on the outskirts of the town that night and was cruised by a nervous middle-aged accountant type, who propositioned me tentatively, but who was willing to part with $60 to get fucked doggy style in the back of my van. He had wanted to pay less, but it was a matter of pride for me to get something better than Drake had offered—or that the Hispanic was willing to go for on the rebound.

And then I thought that was that and let it clear out of my mind. But that wasn't that. Three weeks later, I got an emergency dispatch call while I was doing regular inspection of the elevators at a hospital north of Eureka. And I found myself parked on the apron off Scenic Drive and in the shadow of the alien space ship house again.

Drake had called in that he was trapped in the elevator inside the shaft, below the residence level, and he couldn't get out. Nothing in the elevator was working, he'd reported. At least he had been listening when I told him to have a cell phone with him when he used it. Pretty strange, I thought. The elevator had been working a charm just three weeks ago, and this model was quite reliable other than that loose cable quirk. And I'd shown him what to do about that.

I went to the shaft at ground level and used my special tool to get the doors open. Peering inside and training my flashlight up the shaft, I saw that the cage was way up there, near the top. A tromp up that staircase again. I sighed, but there was no alternative, so I mounted the stairs.

Luckily I found the front door unlocked. Drake probably felt there was no reason to lock it. What burglar was fool enough to climb five flights of stairs at the edge of busy Scenic Drive just to toss an alien space ship?

Once inside the foyer, I turned to the elevator shaft and opened the doors there with my tools. The cage was just below the living level. A little hop and I was on the roof of it, and just a turn of a latch and lifting of a hatch and I was looking down at Drake, inside the cage, sitting on his butt on a thin mattress he'd dragged into the elevator, his back against the back wall of the cage.

Drake was looking back up at me with a silly grin on his face. A face without makeup. He was naked, and as soon as he saw me, he lifted both of his hands up, showing me what he was holding. In one hand he held two hundred-dollar bills. In the other, he held three Trojan packets.

He was lubing his gaping hole as I came down into the cage and stripped down, and he sucked me big while I stood over him and leaned into him, my weight balanced on hands against the bronze back wall of the cage in which I could see my reflection and enjoy the pleasure he was giving me in stereo by watching the reflection of my face in the bronze. Then I pulled his small, seemingly weightless body up off the mat with hands on his waist and thrust inside him to the tune of his boyish cries, pushing his back up and down on the bronzed wall with the strength of my cock stroking up into him, while he hooked his thighs over my hips and arched his back in abandoned pleasure.

I fucked him for an hour and then he laid me on my back and fucked himself on my tool for another hour. He'd learned positions I'd never even imagined were physically possible, and he showed me that lack of size and age had no relationship to the quality of stamina. He showed me such a good time that I almost felt I shouldn't take the $200—almost.

When I was near exhaustion, responsibility started to lean on me heavily, and I moved out from underneath him with a grunt and started to raise up on my knees.

"I want you to stay the night," he said in a dreamy voice. "I want to fuck in my bed—in the shower, on the floor. Another $200?"

"Well, first we'll need to get this elevator going," I said to the little bunny, as I struggled toward an upright position, every muscle of my body overworked and sore.

"Oh, no problem," Drake said in that perky little voice of his, and he bounced up onto his feet. He moved to the control panel and opened it.

"You see this loose cable here?" he asked. "A real hunk of a an elevator man told me that all you have to do is stick it back in place and the elevator's fixed."