Flip Mecum In New York Ch 13

Flip and Michael Ch 13

Michael's experiences in LA continues

Flip....

Michael called just as I entered the apartment. Fridays at the theatre are always difficult. For some reason, the audience seems more raucous and alive. We had three curtain calls, and the audience seemed really disturbed that BonTemps and Tammy did not come out to do another number—as they always do at their concerts. Then, as I left, the streets around the theatre were mobbed. That wasn't so unusual—except that now they were also following me. So, I had given up taxis, ubers and cars. It was about 15 uptown blocks north to the Montana from the Winter Garden and it was a balmy early summer night. An earlier rain had cleaned the streets and everything actually smelled good.

I propped the phone on the dresser as we talked and I stripped. Michael explained that he had just returned from dinner at the producer's place. His co-star Ross Harper and a friend of Paul Armstrong's had been there. Then he tried to outline what he knew about the schedule. It didn't seem that there would be a typical screen test, although there would be a short taping of him reading some lyrics—after the producer, the star and Ross had pronounced him fit for the part. The producer had already mentally signed him. He was going to meet Marylyn Sleep at lunch tomorrow—Saturday. And he had a one-on-one scheduled with Ross before the weekend was over. All three had vetoes on casting. So the screen test was just to please the director and to insure that Michael didn't have three heads, a speech impediment or some other disqualifying feature.

Michael was upbeat and ebullient. He was already sure he had the part. I told him that my agent was scheduling some tests for me as well. One of the biggest music producers was inquiring about a world tour—for me. They said they'd need almost a year to get me ready, to design and build a set and schedule in the big arenas. "Fuck, Michael. I didn't even think I could sing!"

"That's terrific." (He seemed to be distracted and was feigning interest. I could tell he was totally wrapped up in what he was experiencing. He always underrated my talents. Maybe I didn't go to acting school, but in terms of practical experience, my own easily equaled his.)

By this time I had stripped and moved the phone so it caught all of me stretched out on the bed. I could tell that Michael was still dressed—in clothes I didn't recognize. His hotel room looked more like a small house. But he quickly explained. "The hotel has a dozen cottages which are available to movie stars—and my producer secured one for my stay."

"Your producer? Are you that sure—he's already 'your' producer?"

"Armie assured me I had the part this afternoon."

"Who the fuck is Armie?"

"Paul Armstrong, the producer. He's fifty-something, married, uber-rich and uber-powerful." He was about to launch into more, but suddenly stopped. "Before I say anymore, Flip, I need to confess. He fucked me this afternoon. I'm sure you can imagine the circumstances. I had no choice."

"Michael, you've only been in LA for ten hours! Did he jump you? Or did you jump him?"

"You know better than that. Or you should. It wasn't like that at all. I was invited, really summoned, to his home for an early dinner—early because of my expected jet lag. Two other guys were there. The producer and his opponent were just off the court, hot and sweaty. So they headed for the pool. In less than an hour, all four of us were in the pool—naked. He propositioned me there and made it clear that I could go to the pool house with him or get on the next plane home. He's 50's for chrissakes! Dyed hair. Hell his head hair doesn't even match his pubes or his chest. He's got saddlebags. He's not a threat, Flip. It's just part of the program. We talked about this. I had to. So I owe you. And you get to punish me when I return."

"I presume that the others had left by then? Or was it an orgy?"

"Well, it seems that Ross and Jameson, Paul's friend, were otherwise engaged in the main house when he fucked me."

"So two guys left and you stayed in the pool with a naked 50-year old producer?"

"Yeah. And he fucked me, not the other way around."

"So Ross is gay too?"

"I think so. That's certainly a logical conclusion from what I saw. I'm beginning to think everyone here is bi—or at least acts like it. But, apparently he's got a rich wife—currently in France."

"And you see Marylyn tomorrow?"

"Yeah. And from what Paul said, I'm going to have to do her too to get the part."

"Well at least that dreamboat Ross is taken. I've seen his films. I wouldn't mind a run around the track with him anytime."

"I'm not so sure. He's kind of hairy and unkempt. They must clean him up for the films. I think he wants a piece of me too before he signs off his consent."

"Michael, are you making another porn film? I thought we had both decided we weren't going to be doing that anymore?"

"I think the major distinction between a porn flic and Hollywood movie is that in the case of the Hollywood movie, the fucking takes place off-screen before the filming begins."

"But, like we agreed, I made Paul wrap."

"Shit, you make it sound like I gave permission so long as he was wrapped."

"I think you did, Flip. I think you did."

"Fuck, Michael. You're going to owe me something colossal when you return to New York. I'll have to think about it. But, right now I want you naked. I need some eye-candy, boy. Right now. I need some reassurance. And I'm really not very sure at all about where this is all going."

"What about BonTemps? Is he someone you might like to play with while I'm away? I've always been a sucker for a slow Southern fuck, myself. And he's damn sexy."

"I'm pretty sure he's involved with someone, and maybe he's got Tammy on the side. Their dressing rooms are next door to each other—and there is an inter-connecting door. Either that, or he takes longer to do make-up than most guys. Besides, we're not going to play that game, Michael. You get to fuck if you need to; that doesn't give me any right to do so as well. We've got to talk more about this. We are not finished yet. And I'm certainly not going to make a play for BonTemps."

That closed the conversation, but not the connection. Michael stripped and stretched out on the ugly floral bedspread—apparently they were trying to make the "cottage" look "homey." He reached over to move the phone into close-up position.

"Shit, Michael. Is that a hickey on your ass?"

"Remember that we heard that the producer had seen some of my films? Well, he's got the porn flics and the rough cuts of Storm House. He's in love with my ass. So much so that I'm not even sure he could describe my face if I weren't standing in front of him. I've never met an ass-man like him before in my life. And I didn't enjoy it."

"Fuck you, Michael. I can see it in your eyes. He really plugged you didn't he? He must have really turned you on. Is he that much bigger and better than I am?"

"No, he's smaller—and much older." (it seemed like he was about to keep going, but he suddenly stopped. I guess he decided less was more in this case.) "It's only you, Flip. Only you. And I'm getting very nervous about this conversation."

"Well, that makes two of us, boy. I'm trying really hard not to get angry. But, dammit you better have a good telephone sex routine about now or the proverbial is going to hit the proverbial, and this new bedroom is going to look like hell. We talked about doing what you had to do to get the part. But, it looks like you've fallen into a pit of orgiastic actors. We don't have an open relationship, Michael. Remember that."

Meanwhile, Michael moved into his most seductive whispering voice. "I'm waiting, Flip." He was stroking; then he pulled up his legs and backed into the phone. "There's only one dick that has a lease on this space, Flip. Only one." Then he contracted his muscles and winked at me!

I furiously stroked and called out my orgasm, "I'm filling you up, Michael." He almost immediately shot jism. It lofted and landed on his camera lens, completely clouding the images. Then, it hit me. He had used the word "lease." So I shouted into the phone, "I'm not leasing; I own that ass and that hole. Don't give me that lease crap."

"Good night, Flip. But, I think there's good news. I'm pretty sure that I can fly home on Tuesday or Wednesday."

"If the rest of your time is like today, I'm not sure you should even bother returning. I'm going to change the locks. I don't know who you are anymore."

I had laughed and blown it all off as I ended the call, but, I felt betrayed, soiled and really upset. But, I was really tired, and even upset, I soon fell into a troubled sleep. And I woke thinking about our "agreement." In practice, it didn't seem quite so matter-of-fact as it had when Brent had described it a week or so ago. Maybe I'm just too old-fashioned. Fortunately, I got up early, had coffee and headed out for the lighting consultation. And the problems turned out to be so difficult that I had little time to think about us for the rest of the day. Those techs, all new, were in real trouble—and I owed them my best. So I worked right up to make-up time at my theatre.

And we didn't connect by Facetime that night. Michael's phone didn't answer my call placed around midnight, New York time. I assumed he was still at dinner. And I was totally exhausted. Tomorrow was going to be a bear.

Sunday is always the busiest day on the New York stage—two shows, both typically sold out. This was the last double-header for our young stars. Their audience was explosive and unpredictable. Broadway and rock concert audiences are very, very different. They were actually forced to sing a reprise after the curtain—a capella, since the orchestra's rules had them out of there within seconds of the last curtain. And so it was late Sunday when I returned to the coop and fell asleep before I could even dial Los Angeles. So we didn't talk on Sunday either.

Michael....

I had pretty much decided that Saturday was going to be a day that would seal my future in Hollywood. And, I was determined not to let it unfold around me, but to make it happen. I really wanted this part now. Last night's telephone call with Flip was not the best. I confessed, but he's really pissed. It's really hard conveying how difficult the world is by phone and how much I need to succeed. I'm going to get this over with and get back to New York. I stripped and slipped in, pulling a couple of pillows into me. It wasn't Flip, but..... I was sleeping minutes later.

*****

I had left a wake-up call at the front desk, but was surprised when just before the appointed time, there was a soft knock on the door. "Room service."

Fuck. I hadn't ordered room service. It must be a mistake. I pulled on the closest garment that I could reach—which turned out to be yesterday's jock that I'd left on the bed. It didn't cover much, but I wasn't letting anyone in. I yanked open the door, standing mostly behind it, ready to berate the server. Hell, he had even disregarded the "Do Not Disturb" sign I had posted.

Oh, shit. It was Croft. He was in a charcoal grey suit with a tie. Perfectly groomed and put together as usual. His body filled the entire doorway. He was massive. Behind him was a waiter, holding a tray laden with silver coffee carafe, a plate of pastries, napery etc. His giant smile beamed out, "Good morning, Mr. Archangel. Breakfast in bed, compliments of the house." He moved past me, and the waiter set the tray down on the small dinette table and began to arrange things on the table. Then he looked up at me and realized I was nearly naked—with bed hair and pillow-wrinkles on my face. That smile was as lascivious as any I've ever seen. "Can I help with anything? Really anything?" As his eyes dropped to the morning wood that was stretching the thin white jock so that you could count the veins on my shaft. I turned away, but he reached out and pulled me into his chest, and grabbed my dick through the thin nylon. He squeezed and precum stained the surface. Then, he whispered in my ear as his hard cock nestled in my cleft, "Don't fight it, Michael. You can have anything you want. I'm really very good at what I do—and who I do."

I backed off immediately. "That's enough, Croft. I need you to leave right now." He turned and left, but not before turning quickly at the closing door and licking his lips with sexual invitation. "I'll be back. I can tell when someone is looking. And you are definitely looking boy. I wouldn't want to be the guy you left back home. Remember, it's my job to make sure you are happy."

I called Michael, but there was no answer. So I txted him a good morning. It was mid-day on Saturday in New York. He probably was at the gym or shopping for food. I'd just have to hold it. Phone sex wasn't great, but it was better than nothing.

The car dropped me at Paul's mansion promptly at noon on Saturday. All was quiet. Marylyn was apparently always fashionably late. Paul met me and we moved out to the portico. Apparently all his meals were served out here. He pulled me into an embrace. His hands dropped instantly inside my slacks. "I can't get enough of this, Michael." But he was interrupted by a woman, presumably a servant, announcing the arrival of Ms. Sleep.

Greetings and air kisses were exchanged. Marylyn was not very subtle. She walked up to me and twirling a finger indicated that I should spin around. I did of course. "Yummy. I'm starved. But somehow we didn't think she was talking about the lunch. Paul, you can leave us now. I need to be alone with this young man. I presume you have some tennis pro waiting upstairs in your bedroom." Obviously she knew him and wasn't the slightest afraid to ask him to leave his own house.

"Enjoy your lunch, Marylyn, Michael. I'll be back around three. Sarah will get anything you want."

He left and we sat on shaded chaises by the pool. Sarah asked about drinks—and we both got Pellegrino with lemon. For the next fifteen minutes, Marylyn quizzed me. All the while, she sat rigidly staring at me, beautifully made-up, and with the characteristic hand and arm gestures that had made her famous. She was like a good cop/bad cop rolled into one. She was smart, quick and sharp. And it was clear she wanted me to do the talking—she was really testing me. Abruptly, she stopped.

"I'm glad that's out of the way. Your voice is okay—at least with the coach; she'll make sure it works well with mine. Now we only have to determine whether we're compatible in bed—you do know that there are several scenes shot in my bed?"

"I've read the script. And I assumed that there would be bed scenes. I didn't know whether you'd use a double."

"Oh my dear boy, I do all my own bed scenes. On camer and off! I don't need a double. And I'm not afraid of those ridiculous censors. Or the camera. I don't have an ounce of fat. But, I insist on testing every aspect of my supporting actor's equipment myself before we shoot. You've probably heard that I'm a perfectionist."

Lunch was called and we moved to the table. She picked at a salad and I ate very little. Her hand was on my arm much of the time as our conversation continued. Then it dropped to my thigh; then my cock.

"Let's head to the pool house. That's where I've auditioned many of my leading men." She rose and moved gracefully around the pool, and I followed like a good puppy-escort. It felt just like my old life. Flip had been right. This was much closer to my past than I had imagined. "It's time for you to perform, dear boy. You can start by removing my clothes. Watch the hair and makeup."

I carefully and slowly removed her blouse—she was bra-less (she didn't really need one) and wore bikini panties. So it didn't take long. Her skin was alabaster and flawless. She was nearly as light skinned as I was. And she was really skinny. I complimented her on her body, and she smiled, obviously accepting, but also expecting such words. She moved over to the chaise and stretched out. "Now it's your turn, dear boy. I've seen some of the flics you've made. I want a show."

So I slowly stripped, and, since I wasn't a dancer like Flip, I decided to pull some muscle man and exercise poses as I willed my cock to rise. This was going to take more acting than the movie, I thought. Except for the porn flics, erections are rarely required by the camera. Her eyes were glued on my crotch as she muttered, "I've seen bigger. But rarely prettier. We're going to have some fun, dear boy. Come here."

I'm not going into the all details. I'll make it brief. It's too embarrassing, even for a professional escort and porn film actor, to describe the scene. I started on my knees, my face buried into her. Then, she insisted on fisting my dick. So I had to move into a contorted and uncomfortable 69. She grabbed, squeezing it occasionally as she tried to milk me while my tongue serviced her. And she provided detailed instructions on how to do so! She never touched my balls. And my dick never touched her lips. Typical!

Then she tapped my ass and massaged it, complimenting me on how supple it was, "God, I wish I had an ass like this," and indicated it was time to do her. I wrapped, lubed her (she was still very dry, despite my service), and slowly inserted. "Oh no, big boy, I want it rough. Let's see if you can bring me off." I did, and she thanked me profusely. Nobody can fake that good an orgasm—even an A-list actress. And, as coached, I praised her technique (there was none) and how sexy she was (not).

And then with a sly smile, she rolled over, "Now the other side." Fuck, she wanted it in the ass! Once again, I did as I was told. Surprisingly, I was still hard. And she was tight, but welcoming. (I'll take Flip anytime.) She came again, this time with a earthquake-like shudder, but I didn't get to cum. As I pulled out, she whispered, "You'll do. Quite well, in fact, dear boy. Your trailer is going to be next to mine. We can banish Ross to the hinterlands. He's always high or drunk anyway and can't get it up."

Minutes later, she redressed. "See you on the set, boy. I'm looking forward to it." And she was gone. I've heard of cold transactional sex, but that took the Oscar.

Paul appeared a few seconds later. I guess he was snooping. "You've got her sign-off. Did you get off? Did she? Do you want me to do you before you leave?"

I started picking up clothes—which was my answer. Jameson arrived at that moment, wearing only board shorts which complimented his deep vee. He and Paul turned to go to the house. And within minutes of Marylyn's departure, Croft entered the guest house. Shit, was he everywhere? I was still nude—and his eyes focused first on my abs, then my still-chubbed dick. "Your car is waiting Mr. Archangel, unless you need a real man to relieve your tension first. I know Marylyn. I'm sure she left you hanging and hard and full."

I blew him off (not literally). I dressed quickly and was back at the Beaver by mid-afternoon. I tried Flip again, but again had to be content with a text. He didn't pick up. So I headed out to the pool—a luxury that we didn't have in Manhattan.

*******

Well, two down (so to speak) and one to go. Ross was due in a couple of hours. And before I had left the cottage, I had called room service tor ice service, mixers and Ketel One delivery at 5:45—as per his instructions. So I had a little time to myself. Fortunately, I dozed rather than thinking about what had happened and what this gig was really going to entail.

I fell asleep on the chaise, and of course, Croft came by to wake me—using a huge hand on my thigh to rouse me from a sound sleep. He pulled that broad, fake smile and announced that "Mr. Harper is waiting in your cottage, Mr. Archangel. I've set up the bar, and he has already helped himself. I'd get there pretty quickly if you want him coherent." I got up from the chaise and Croft draped my terry robe over my shoulders, and standing behind me, reached around to tie the sash, pushing his hard-on into my butt as he did so. Doesn't this guy understand? Can't he just go away? He was the most persistent suitor that I've ever had. But, fuck, he was gorgeous and huge. In another world?