Flip And Trey Ch 01

Flip and Trey Ch 01

Flip gets a new part and a new partner

This story is entirely fictional. All characters engaged in sexual activity are over 18. References to past or present Broadway musicals are co-incidental. Many of the characters is this series will be familiar to those who have read one or more of the Flip series or "Ya Gotta Do"....on Literotica But these stories are written to be stand-alone. There are four chapters in this part. All are written and ready to go. © 2024, Brunosden. All rights reserved.

The "whole cast" change for Oklahoma! is looming. The musical has now been running for almost two years. The original star Kirk Olsen had left for a couple of three month periods to do a TV film, but he had been replaced with "pop stars" each time. That kept us alive and "new." Now the producers have decided to completely recast after a final "goose" to the box office with short runs by two country stars, Lisa Turner and Jake Williams.

Kirk, my dear friend and star, is leaving the company for good to co-star in a Netflix made-for-TV movie series. It's a multi-generational story of successful immigration by Nordic peoples, a period piece, set in 19

th

century rural Minnesota.

The producers have asked me (I'm Flip Mecum by the way, who plays Jud.) to stay on through the complete recast, scheduled for early December—and after if I choose. But, I think it's time to leave. Two years is enough for any role, no matter how good. (It's now September 25 and the country stars begin their roles next weekend so I'll be leaving around Christmas.)

Then there'll be a new Jud, the villainous character that I have played and remade in the last year or so. I'm on my way to meet with my agent who seemed really excited about something. His office is in the Theatre District, just west of Broadway. I wondered if he had a firm proposal related to my potential entry into popular music, including an international tour, really created by You Tube. I've got nearly a million followers on Facebook now.

I'm Flip Mecum, born and raised, poor and isolated in small-town Texas. I ran away from an abusive situation and ended up in Houston where I had brief stints as a gay club dancer, escort and porn star, before I landed in New York. Another actor that I had met (and fallen for) in Houston and I had been living together in a coop we could barely afford at the Montana—before he was lured away to Hollywood. (I still live there, the nominal owner of the place.) We broke up about three months ago, and I hadn't heard from him since. I knew that he had completed his first film (including a week's filming in New York). He hadn't called, and I hadn't tried to reach him. I'm assuming we'll have nothing more to do with each other. I knew the film was not a box office smash, but he had gotten reasonably good reviews. So he was probably staying in LA to try again.

I've got the body of a porn star—I'm six foot, with swarthy clear skin covering a gym-built physique of photo-worthy muscles. I'm lean, so my abs and pecs really "punch" when appropriately lighted by a pro-photographer. I have dark eyes and black hair set in a chiseled face, and a hooded porn-sized dick. I had never intended an acting career (even the porn flics had been a fluke engineered by my pimp in Houston). But the proverbial lightning had struck more than a year ago—when I was elevated from "first chair" lighting tech at the Winter Garden to a supporting role as the villainous Jud in Oklahoma!. My day job is theatrical lighting engineer, and I'm damn good at it.

The original Jud was a one-dimensional, almost cartoonish all-bad guy. Criminal. Unkempt and unwashed. Slovenly dressed. Foul mouthed (and probably foul-smelling). Not really evil, just distasteful and anti-social. Someone you wouldn't want ever to meet—particularly in a dark street. That was expected of a villain in the innocent portrayals of America of the post-war era. But it was not me.

Slowly I had evolved the role—as I had moved from run of the mill go-go dancer to a Rhinestone Urban Cowboy at Peacock. First, I insisted on being well-dressed, clean, with perfect slicked hair and manscaped facial hair, not a scruffy Amish-type beard. I would have perfect manners and an alluring smile. If I was the evil force in the musical, I was the slick devil that was going to lead you into big time temptation! I was suave and smooth talking—even letting my slow, oily Southern drawl re-enter my personality. Lies and promises rolled off my lips like a seasoned politician. I was temptation with a capital "T". The kind of guy that every father keeps far from his daughter—usually with little success. (If only they knew: I was no threat. I'm gay. They should have been worried about their young college-aged sons!)

With daily workouts, I slowly bulked up. My shoulders broadened; my neck shortened; my pecs hardened; my abdominal pac deepened. I might be evil—but I was Superevil! Super-evil sexual temptation on a narrow-hipped stick!

Jud's personality began to morph also. He was no longer one-dimensional. He was a young man with a troubled past who had often been put down and persecuted. He had lost his family as a young boy and moved through various foster families and orphanages where he had to fight and connive to survive. Thus his personality (by the time of the musical) had changed to a calculating, careful, slick, badass tempter and liar. With a soft creamy center.

The audiences loved the subtlety of Jud—he had survived by wit and work. He wasn't a victim; he was a survivor. And society (Curly) was defeating him again, putting him down yet again while the female lead (Laurey) was playing around with him to tease and trap Curly.

He was modern. And many New Yorkers, on the make, not always scrupulous with CV or promises, began to identify with me, the anti-hero. Gone were the days when audiences always rooted for the guy in the white hat.

And I learned that I could dance, act and had a fairly decent baritone voice. I was near the crest of the Broadway success heap.

*****

I walked into Miller's office and was immediately ushered by his bosomy, sexy "assistant" to his private space. By then, I was one of his most important clients. He had asked for an urgent meeting—it couldn't wait until dark Monday. He wanted it yesterday. (I was fortunate that Miller was not the kind of casting agent who had me on his couch before we could talk. He was a seasoned pro and had become a good friend. I tended to respect his advice.)

Over the next few minutes he outlined a part that he wanted me to audition for. Broadway was now all about remakes, prequels and sequels. ALW had been persuaded to do the prequel to Phantom—essentially the story of how Erik Claudin got to be the Phantom. This is the story: He was a renowned international opera tenor (I knew immediately that was going to be a reach!), whose face and neck had been splashed with acid after a performance of Madama Butterfly by protesters challenging the patriarchal, militaristic stance of a major power. (Guess which one?) His face was completely disfigured and couldn't be restored by the greatest plastic surgeons of the time. (The musical is set in the 30's.) He goes into a depressive funk. His friends all leave him. Parts dry up. But a former student, an apprentice soprano adopts him and leads him back to life. She's a daughter figure, but he sees her as a romantic partner. He uses his wealth to purchase an opera house so that he can be near (and unseen by) his loves (Lydia, opera and opera houses—in that order). Phantom of the Opera, the hit Broadway musical, picks up from this point.

Phantom is the star. An opera virtuoso whose career is destroyed because of his ugliness—but whose voice remains. Ugly political extremism has again destroyed art, and the artist who creates it. The prequel is all about his trauma, his railing at the unfairness of a God who would give him a voice; then take away the chance to use it, his resurrection at the hands of Lydia—and then his crushing defeat as she begins to go on with her life—with another "normal" boy—another opera star. (Anyone who knows opera will attest that there are no "normal boys" who are good opera singers. They're all would-be divos.)

Only half of my face would ever be seen—the other half always covered in a mask. My bulk would give the robed character a sinister super-human dimension—not an evil super-hero, but a giant of a man, who had known success and dominance, dealing with trauma and rejection. And sexually repressed, not out of choice but out of circumstance.

Miller giddily announced the role was made for me. "This is the role that will make you a Broadway star, Flip." (Duh, based on the press, I thought I already was!) "No dance, but the flowing robes preferred by the Phantom would require your deft footwork and ostentatious movement." He even had a voice coach lined up. He was so excited that it wore off on me. So we scheduled the audition. Rehearsals would start in a few weeks—in New York. Then, he dropped the nuclear device, "By the way, Brent's producer syndicate has a majority of the ownership. He's the one who called me."

Brent was my neighbor, one of my best friends, my confidante, and my "almost landlord"—he had provided the funds to acquire the coop. He had helped me over Michael. And he was Kirk's guy. Probably my best, non-bedded friend in New York.

I had a show that night, and so I headed back to the Winter Garden to prepare. My head was in the sky with the possibilities, but I needed to center myself and move into my Jud persona before the curtain. Costuming and make-up always helped. So did sitting in a dressing room surrounded by the memorabilia of the role.

I knew it was bad luck to celebrate before I had even auditioned. But I needed to talk to someone. I knew that Brent would be anxiously awaiting Kirk's return later, so that was out. Even if he were free, I didn't want to prevail on our friendship to get the part. And so I txted Trey: "Cum by tonite, love? Meet me at the stage door?"

Trey (Andrew Jackson Maguire III) and I had become a pair in the last months. We had met on a lighting job at a particularly difficult point in my relationship with Michael. He was just what the doctor ordered: a young, handsome, simple, randy, hung Southern jock. (Actually, he was only a year younger than I.) He was in New York, escaping from an Alabama family who didn't know and wouldn't have approved that he was gay. He was a ginger—and gingers always pick me up when I'm down. Fiery red hair and pubes are so festive! And it's such fun to trace the dots (freckles) on a ginger ass, and try to visualize an image as your tongue turns it all dark! He had played athletics, had a nice muscular build and a drawl that had enough syrup to handle breakfast for most of Manhattan. And he was a gay virgin. At least until we spent some time together. I was his first—and as far as I know his last. How can any guy be so hard and so soft at the same time?

I hadn't asked him to move in....yet, at Brent's suggestion. Brent had cautioned me against a quick rebound romance—particularly with someone I barely knew. But, by now, Trey was spending three or four nights at my place every week. He was doing performance lighting tech at the Barrymore—and so our schedules meshed very nicely. And we were definitely getting closer.

Within seconds, there was a return txt: "Can't wait. I'll B there--"—followed by several suggestive emojis.

It looked like Kirk and I were both short-timers now. And the stage phenomenon kicked in: every actor wants his (her) last performances to be so good that they are "defining" and "memorable." Thus, the show was terrific, and we even got that rare New York standing ovation when we came out for curtain calls.

I changed and cleaned off the make-up and headed for the door. Trey was there with his now worn-out line, "Need a body-guard, Flip?" We embraced and started the uptown walk, both anticipating the pleasures just in front of us. Trey had finished before me and had showered at the theatre. He smelled clean and of the South—with the musky tones of fragrant blossoms past their prime, but still alluring to any nearby honeybee. My senses were peaked—and my stinger was hardening in my jeans! Every step brought me closer to having him in my bed and my cock in his sweet little ass.

We arrived at the Montana, and Carlos greeted us warmly. He was getting accustomed to the absence of Michael (whom he later told me he never really trusted) and the ever-presence of Trey. Trey and Carlos apparently had a thing going. They traded jokes and game scores like they were old friends. Both were soccer and baseball nuts. I had come to realize that everyone loved Trey. He was the perfect friend: always with the melting smiling, always with an apt compliment, always with a good word.

Trey had weathered my storm. My depression. My self-blame that I had injured Michael in some unseen way. That I had betrayed Michael by sleeping with Trey. He put up with my needs and consoled me with physical closeness that I had never before felt with anyone.

And he had done it in my bed. He became the best sex that I've ever had in my life. Pro or amateur! (Fuck, I say that about all my partners, at least while they're my partners. Just call me a hopeless romantic.)

At first, I was always the top. But, after a few weeks during which he had frequently taken me into his lap in consolation, I had urged him to take me. He was a vigorous and ardent lover. And from that day, he gave as much as he got. But tonight I had to top.

We entered and he immediately began to undress me, lingering over my hard pecs and aroused nipples as he unbuttoned my shirt. He leaned in to take my nipples between his teeth. He was a multi-tasker: he was also caressing my ass and then stroking my dick as he lowered my jeans. Then, when I was naked, he stood back and his eyes said it all. He was worshipping. And I soaked it up like that renowned paper towel.

I was not so patient. I nearly ripped his clothes from his body, grabbed his bubbled ass globes--hard, and knelt to take his shaft into my mouth as his pants fell to the floor.

I was excited to tell him my news. But we were both too aroused. He led me to the bedroom (it wasn't "ours" yet), pulled back the duvet and stretched out on his back. His arms went out immediately to draw me on top. And when I stretched out, his arms and legs immediately trapped me to him and squeezed me hard. I was breathless and rock hard. He released and I sat back to allow him to prepare for my taking. He drew his legs high, exposing his lightly red-fuzzed thighs and his glorious inviting pink-rimmed hole. Fuck, I'd love to have a picture of this in my dressing room. It would definitely induce my best performances!

I bent in and began to lick, and suck and eat. As he moaned in pleasure. "Do me Southern," he whispered. "I want it slow, syrupy and deep. Then you can ride hard." I sat back farther, and he rolled to his side. I stretched behind, pushed his upper thigh forward, and moved my hand to his mancunt to lube. His ass pushed back to meet me. He was hot, fucking hot. I could almost see the heat waves rising from his throbbing body. So I positioned behind him and placed my dickhead at the entrance, the hood having rolled down as I had hardened. I pushed lightly and he responded. I popped in, and immediately began the slow snaky slither inside. He gasped in pleasure as I reached his sensitive nut, and murmured sweet encouragement. All the while, I was caressing his supple body and pulling him close into me. I loved his heat. But, more than that, I loved the hardness of his body. Not an ounce of fat. This wasn't a boy. He was all man. Taking him was like winning the gold.

I continued the pressure and the rocking. Soon I touched down, feeling my balls on his freckled ass. I reached around to check his status—he was long and hard, and his pre-cum was leaking. I scooped some up, passed under his nose, then licked it from my fingers. Ambrosia! Honeysuckle! All the tastes and aromas of my youth. He actually made me feel new again. We were both perspiring even in the cool room. We were the heat of the organic, fertile South. Feeding on each other's lifeforce.

But the languorous pace of the Deep South was not to persist. He pushed his butt back into me, and I responded by burrowing hard and deep. And then we did it again. And again. We were both in fever. I was plunging and he was backing into me, squeezing me as I withdrew. His chute was alive and hot and moist, perfectly forming to my heavy cock. The perfect receptor for my seed. I rolled him farther forward and moved my chest onto his back. I stretched my legs and stiffened, pushing as deeply as ever into him. I throbbed with impatience. And the involuntary spasms started that were God's gift to man. His head turned and our lips connected. I pressed my chest harder into him and he rolled even more. And then I blasted, coating his inner walls with the milky paint of my seed—and my love. He spasmed over and over into my fist, filling it with his own essence. The aroma of cum, combined with our musk, rose and permeated the room. I pulled him into a deep spoon, dropped my chest onto his back and rested my head on his shoulder.

I guess my news could wait until tomorrow. Neither of us had a morning that needed anything more than each other. This evening was too perfect to spoil with news—however important.

*****

I knew all was well in the world when I woke the next morning. Trey had left me to sleep, showered and was puttering in the kitchen. I was stretched out on my back, arms and legs thrown out, filling the entire king, with the sheet wrapped haphazardly around, leaving me mostly naked. But, I could smell. It would be biscuits and gravy along with my favorite over-easy eggs.

I brushed, washed and brushed and headed to the kitchen which was on the other side of the living and dining rooms. He faced the range, stirring his gravy. What an image! He was apron-ed, but otherwise nude. His glorious ass was hanging in front of me, on display—and I was sure, "on offer." The delicate bow of the apron ties dangled provocatively in his cleft, swinging back and forth as he danced before the pan.

He dropped the spatula in the pan, turned and embraced. "You sure slept well—and long." Then he pecked me on the cheek and released and returned to the stove.

"How could I not with you in my arms? I nuzzled his neck and bit his ear lobe and my hands insinuated under the apron and grasped. He was soft and I was able to scoop both his shaft and sacs into my hand. They were treasure. So precious. So promising.

"No harassing the cook, dear boy. Din't yo Momma teach yall nuttin? Go sit at the table, if ya knows what's good for ya. I'll bring it in."

If I didn't know that he had graduated MCL from 'Bama in engineering, I'd guess he was a poor, barefoot plantation chil'. But I did know better. We often played the roles of ignorant, poor Southern boys—always ready to party, always ready to drink, always ready to fuck. But, we both knew it was play-acting. I was already a New Yorker, and he was fast becoming one. These domestic private moments were to cherish—before we each emerged into the aggressive life of any big city outside of this coop.

I moved obediently to our makeshift dining table—one of those formica-topped folding utility tables—and our four new wood chairs that I had found at Goodwill the previous Saturday. You should have seen Trey and me walking down Broadway balancing two each! They were heavy oak, carved in the Victorian style with vines, tendrils and gargoyles. They had hideous red velvet seats. They belonged in a haunted castle. My designer would be aghast. But hell, some of what we live with has to be fun or comfortable (or both) interspersed among the class modern pieces she had chosen for me (many of which I had yet to purchase).