Elusive

I waited until we'd almost reached Miami's airport, but I couldn't leave it here. "What's wrong, Zack? You've been pouty for days. You know I need this break."

"Yes, I know. And I can't go, I know that. Once your scenes are in the can, my editing work begins," Zack responded. But he wasn't looking at me. It was as if he couldn't look at me. He just had withdrawn into his corner of the limo seat. I scooted across to his corner and wrapped one hand around his neck and drew his lips to mine. My other hand went to his basket, and I traced the length of him through his worn jeans.

He returned my kiss hungrily, as if there was no tomorrow, and then he abruptly closed it down and turned his head away, his face pointed to the palm trees lining the approach to the terminal beyond the smoked glass of the Lincoln's windows.

"Zack."

"Go. Go with the wind, Dane Dixon," he muttered. But it came out choked. I wasn't amused. The line was from one of my least-favorite movie gigs, although it had been a crowd pleaser. And neither he nor I were fond of that name. And I knew then that something was seriously wrong. He only used my movie name—made fun of my work like this—when he was mad, or moody, or sad.

"It's only for a week, Zack. I need this change. The schedule's just too hectic. Just a week and I'll be back."

"Yes, yes, of course you will be," he answered in a small, distant voice. "And I hope you find it, whatever it is."

I didn't want to leave it there, but we had arrived at the terminal, and the passenger door was open. I took Zack's hand, trying to draw him across the seat and out of the limo with me so we wouldn't leave it there. But he resisted, refusing to be drawn from his corner, and I could tell from the murmurs and exclamations from the curb that I had been seen and recognized.

And if there were cameras, I knew I couldn't draw Zack out of the car with me.

A hell of a place to leave it. And how did he know I wasn't planning on coming back to him?

* * *

I recognized what the driver the studio had sent to pick me up at the Acapulco airport had in mind the moment I caught sight of him when the first-class passengers were escorted off the plane. He was looking for faces only until he recognized mine and then his eyes went straight to my basket. It was a typical reaction; everyone who knew my movies wanted to have some sort of assurance that it was true. Well, he was a good-looking, sturdy muscle man, so I decided he might just get the tumble he was hoping for.

"This way, Mr. Dixon," he said almost reverently. "If you'll pick your bags out, I'll retrieve them. The limo is just outside the door to baggage claim. They didn't tell me where to take you, though."

"The Acapulco Las Palmes," I answered as we walked along the corridor. He wasn't Mexican. More Jamaican, I thought. Really nice build; bulging shoulder muscles; filled out the well-pressed black chauffeur's uniform really nicely.

"Of course," he answered, and he flashed me an all-white-teeth-parting-puffy-chocolate-lips smile that lit up the terminal. The Las Palmes was, of course, the premier gay hotel on the beach. If he'd ever wondered how much I was acting in my movies, this gave him some assurances.

"Clubs?" I asked as we neared the baggage claim carousels. "Appropriate clubs? They said my driver would have some brochures."

"Yes, sir. That must be the bundle of brochures they put in the back seat of the limo before I took off. And I'm at your disposal full time, sir. Whenever you are ready to go back out this evening, just ring the front desk."

We had reached the baggage claim just as the bell for the arrival of the luggage sounded and the carousel began to gin up.

"Thanks, umm—"

"Jomo. They all call me Jomo, sir."

"Thanks, Jomo," I said and gave him my best impression of a grateful smile. I turned toward the carousel to identify my bags, but I felt a tug on my arm, and I turned back to see that familiar look in Jomo's face.

"And when I said I'm at your disposal, sir, I meant I'm at your full disposal."

"Umm, thanks. That's very nice to hear, Jomo," I said. And it was, in fact, very good to hear. "Oh, there. That's one of mine coming down the chute now."

* * *

Jomo must have called ahead to the Las Palmes as we approached it, because the front staffers were at full attention when the limo pulled up to the front entrance. I hadn't really paid any attention, as my mind was engrossed in the brochures I had found on the car seat advertising the gay clubs in the city. I knew I wanted to let loose, to do the town without the bevy of handlers I had to endure in L.A. and Miami, but I couldn't quite decide where to start. I don't know why, but there always seemed to be something out there, something more than where I was at any given moment, that I was striving for.

But we were at the hotel now; I'd have to decide on the clubs to hit later. The door to the limo was opening and several grinning faces were staring in at me. None of them dwelled on my face, though. I could see all of the eyes snap to my crotch as I unfolded myself and stepped out onto the pavement. Well, this was what I got paid for. And I made damn sure my tailor knew that too. So, I gave them an eyeful.

Dozens of hands vied to carry my luggage into the hotel. I did like faces, though. And a variety of builds, but always something solid and well-muscled about them. From long practice, I made an instantaneous decision in favor of a small- but well-built young Hispanic with an angelic face and striking dark eyes above well-cut cheek bones. He had hung back, a little shy, but I got the impression that this was a pose he had learned to project to make himself distinctive. Slight, with a boyish figure, but when I looked at him and motioned to my luggage, he showed that he was strong as an ox.

I left Jomo looking hopeful with assurances that I'd need his services later and that I'd be calling him around 10 p.m., probably after a bath and shower and some supper, and I followed the tight-assed room boy to the bank of elevators.

The elevator went all the way to the top floor, while the room boy looked up at me with those bedroom eyes of his.

In the room, he opened and tested and pointed out everything he could think of, floating around the room, giving me his full "look at me" performance. When he couldn't think of anything else to demonstrate, he went to the door and turned back to me.

"Anything else you need, sir? Anything, anything at all that you want?"

And he was talking to my basket.

I walked over to him, a fair amount of cash visible in my hand.

When he reached out to get it, he looked up into my eyes again with "that" look.

"Yes, perhaps just one more thing," I said.

He smiled. He had put his hand in the one I was holding the money in, but neither one of us broke our grip. Then, with his other hand, he pushed the door to the corridor closed behind him and sank to his knees in front of me.

He unzipped me, and I thought he was going to swoon at what he found. But that didn't prevent from trying to swallow it whole.

He was gurgling and whimpering as he was bent over the foot of the bed and I was crouched closely behind him and stroking deeper and deeper into his channel. I had offered him an out when he had gotten the true measure of me, but, although he stuttered in reply, he insisted he was game and that he wanted to take it all. He had spread his legs wide when I first entered him, and he had cried out at the thickness and deepness of the invasion, but, once sheathed, I pushed his thighs in with mine and reveled in his tightness.

I rarely got partners of his size, and it was exhilarating to control a man in a boy's body, to overpower him so totally and to see such small, pert cheeks and a rosebud of a hole swallow what I had to drive inside him.

Yes, quite enjoyable. Very nice. But then, far from completion, my mind began to wander. He was panting and groaning and writhing under me, without a doubt getting the fuck of his life. Crying out that he was undone, crying out for more, for conquering of never-before reached depths, so beside himself that he was forgetting his well-learned English and was gurgling off into beleaguered, sputtering Spanish punctuated with sharp cries of the overfilled and fully transported.

But my mind was now elsewhere altogether. This was no longer something special to me, the ravishment of a luscious honey pot of a young man. Just never . . . quite . . . enough. The brochures of the clubs were fanned out on the bed beside one of the room boy's fists bunching up and knotting a large clump of the spread to the rhythm of the fuck. Putting my dick on well-practiced autopilot, I reached over for the brochures and fanned them out further. My mind wandered off on which of the clubs to start with and where to go from there.

* * *

The limo was idling at the curb not far from the door of the club named the Open House, my ultimate choice for starting out the evening. I was laying back in the deep cushions, my legs spread, my trousers unbuckled, unzipped, spread wide apart, and Jomo kneeling on the floor of the car between my knees, a trembling fist wrapped around the base of my cock and his lips straining to cover the girth of me. His chest was so bulky that I was straining to hold my legs out wide enough to accommodate him there between them on the floor of the back of the limo. He seemed determined to deep throat me, although I could have told him how likely that was.

His mouth was soft and experienced, his tongue knowing just how to caress the underside of my cock to the best effect. We were both sighing, and I felt a moan rise up from the center of me and escape to accompany the gurgling sound Jomo was making as he managed two more inches of me down the back of this throat. I lay my head back, closed my eyes, and placed my hands on this curly haired head to let the rhythm he was setting up with his mouth on my cock flow through me.

Ah, this was so nice, so soothing. It was heaven. Well, almost. Almost. Maybe.

My eyes slitted open and turned to the lit-up entrance into the Open House. A young man caught my eye as he looked around furtively and then slid almost sidewise into the club's entrance just as it looked like he was just walking by it. Young, blond, well groomed. He left the impression of someone who had heard about the underbelly of Acapulco and had flown down from Duluth. Maybe after long agonizing and struggling with himself. Clean cut, lithe, rather willowy, and with a dancer's gait. Someone who always wanted to and only now had built up the courage. But only courage enough to try it far from home, certainly not in Duluth.

I laughed, and thinking that it was because of what he was doing, Jomo lifted his head off my cock and looked up and laughed with me. He took it as a sign of approval, and I certainly didn't disabuse him of that impression. I did approve; I was enjoying it. But, I just seemed to be drifting away from it; letting it take its course; it was receding into the background.

The blond youth was in the foreground now. I had laughed because I was casting him in a role, just like I was making a movie. Filling in blanks that may not be there. But not knowing for sure was what was getting my juices going.

Jomo was quite surprised when I cut our little session off, pushed him gently away, and began to fasten up my pants. But I cajoled him by murmuring that he had gotten me hot for the visit to the club and that we could resume our private pleasure later, that I wanted to give him some time to think about my cock working its way into some orifice other than his mouth. Jomo both groaned and grinned at that thought and let me go easily enough.

I found the bar in the darkened Open House. The room was small and the dance floor was even smaller. I ordered a drink and leaned on the bar, looking around the room for the blond. I expected him either to be hiding in a corner, building up the courage to make a move, or so determined that he'd be out on the dance floor already, his legs spread and off the floor and naked local boys sandwiching him with their probing cocks.

But he was neither. He was at the end of the bar, sucking up to a middle-aged tourist, who had the deer-in-the-headlights look of a not-so-sure neophyte that I had projected onto my vision of the blond at the club door. The blond was braying like a donkey at a weak joke the sweating tourist had made, and I heard a sum of money mentioned that I thought the blond should consider insulting, but he didn't. That's when I put my half-finished drink down on the bar top and turned and headed for the door. Vision shattered.

* * *

In the back seat of the limo again, parked, idling again, not far from the entrance of the Club Picante. The windows were steaming up so that they now were almost as opaque from the inside as the outside. The hot breath was being supplied by Jomo. I was still fully clothed except for the spreading of my pants waistband and the hooking of the rim of my Calvin Kleins below my ball sac. The object Jomo was interest in was standing thick, and long, and proud straight up from my groin, reaching for the ceiling of the car.

Jomo was naked, though, facing me. I had wanted to see the ebony muscles rippling as he exerted himself. I wanted to test whether I could span his thin waist with my hands, although I couldn't because of the hard slab of stomach muscle, as finely formed as a Roman soldier's breastplate, that descended to the first fringe of curly black pubic hair. And then I wanted to run my hands up the hard side of his torso, feeling every rib until I reached his pits, and I wanted to see that I couldn't hope to span that bulging chest of his.

I worried his plumped-up nipples with my thumbs as he positioned himself over my pelvis, fisting my engorged cock in place with both hands, each encircling my phallus but not touching the other hand.

He worried his entrance with the bulb of my cock for some time, obviously worried at being able to take it in. But I knew it would go in. It was one of the miracles of nature. It always went in. It often looked like an impossible task with me, but it always went in.

He grunted and strained and encased me at last, managing a couple of inches of me. Using the leverage of his knees on the cushion beside my hips, he then labored at swallowing a couple of more inches into his channel, all along muttering about some sort of comparison of what he was taking, declaring that a horse just didn't do it justice but not knowing of any other animal in the kingdom as well hung.

I didn't even ask him if he wanted to continue. He was lost in lust and determination. He had told me that he had volunteered to be my driver just for this possibility.

More inches and I was beginning to get that old feeling of detachment again, of seeking more, something else. Of getting on with whatever was next. Listening for a director to yell "cut."

But Jomo was prime meat. I needed to try my best. I needed to feel fully satisfied, and there was nothing about Jomo's beautiful body, given so openly and freely for me, that should not be satisfying.

I took over the fuck. I told him sharply to lean his shoulders onto the top of the front seat and just to hold himself in place above me. He did so, and then, gathering up all of the strength in my hips that I could, I grabbed him with my hands at his waist and thrust my pelvis sharply and viciously up into his lower belly, driving hard and deep up inside him with the full length of my cock. Jomo cried out in pain and shock and almost collapsed.

"Hold, Jomo. Hold. Damn it. Hold there."

He was moaning and giving out little yip yip sounds, but I held, arched up against him, balls to balls and sword sheathed deep inside him, until I could feel his channel walls flex and begin to ripple. And then, mustering all of my strength, I started to pump up into him in long, gliding strokes, while he began to move with me. His head was revolving on his shoulders, and he was giving fully satisfied gurgling noises. I moved my hands back up to his nipples and twisted them hard as he bellowed and shot his load up my belly and unto the underside of my chin. I almost simultaneously creamed his insides as now he did collapse his massive body on top of mine.

It was only then that I realized that my thoughts had turned to whether or not this would be a take or whether we'd have to shoot the sequence again. My body had been fully with Jomo, but my mind had drifted again.

As Jomo lay against me, his bulging body gleaming with sweat in the light cast through the foggy windows from the nearby club entrance, my eyes caught a change in the light. Someone was entering the club, casting a shadow. Cocky strides. Leather jacket, arms cut off, straining across tanned tattooed arms and torso of the finest cut. Dark, self-assured. An obvious top. One that would be cruel and would take and then take again.

I wanted to fuck him. This was the "next"; this was what I'd come to Acapulco for. It just hit me in a flash

* * *

I was at the bar watching him at the pool table. He was good. But I was better. He didn't know that. I waited for him to demolish one of the local boys, and then I put my drink down and walked over to him.

"You're pretty good," I said.

"You look pretty good too," he said, with a sneer. His eyes traveled down me then, and I saw him hesitate, flinch. No longer that sure of himself, as his gaze reached my crotch.

"I meant your pool, but that to," I said. And then I went on. "But I'm better. Want to see?"

That had gotten him. "Big talk," he said. "For what stakes? A mouth that big should be willing to back it up."

"Fucking rights. Strip pool," I shot back, not wanting to give him much time to mull it over. "Winner take all."

His eyes went big in disbelief, but we had an instantaneous, salivating crowd now. He couldn't back down. If he did, he couldn't come in this club again.

I purposely lost the first couple of breaks, and I also purposely chose to strip off the trousers and briefs first. I wanted him to see what I would be fucking him with. And after that, he was lost. He trembled so badly on his cue striking that it was an easy win.

Several guys had to hold his arms down on the pool table with two others holding his legs spread. He was on his back on the table surface, and I had the barkeep hold a mirror up and someone lifted his head up by the hair so he could get a clear shot of me entering and entering and entering him. And then pulling back, nearly all of the way out, and then thrusting home again, in, in, in.

He was making a lot of noise for a tough guy. And it was quite obvious he had been an exclusive top to this point. But he could take any two guys here simultaneously after I was finished with him.

I was so sure, so sure when I was out in the limo and watching him enter the club that this was what I was seeking. The next step. What would satiate. But I wasn't more than half way through the fuck when the room seemed to go hazy, and the cheers of the salivating watchers grew hollow and distant. I found myself searching for the title of the movie this had been; when I had filmed this scene.

It wasn't all dim, though. There seemed to be shaft of light descending over to one corner. It illuminated a fine looking man, not young, but not too old. Obviously rich. Fine clothes, elegant hands and movement. Handsome, patrician features. Casually, calmly lighting up a cigarette. The match the source of the light that had caught my attention. He was watching, like the others. But he wasn't frenzied like the others. His eyes were assessing eyes. I'd gotten that look before too. How high did I value myself? What would it take to buy me?

He was smiling, obviously enjoying the scene, but somehow as detached from the immediate scene as I had become. The sensation of the two of us being the only ones in the room.