I stumbled out of Rock Hudson's trailer in the high desert town of Marfa, Texas, on the set of
Giant
and into the arms of Stewart Whitaker. The
Giant
production had started in Keswick, Virginia, supposedly represented as located in Maryland. Warner Brothers had licenses to film two movies in Central Virginia in 1956, and I was the heartthrob in the other movie, a Civil War epic called
Honor Above All Else,
which wrapped up filming while
Giant
was still being shot in Albemarle County.
Giant
was a hit;
Honor
wasn't. But I was riding high in those days and had caught the eye of Hudson. He assured me that the problem with
Honor
wasn't me—that I was superb in the film clips he had seen. I was flattered that he had looked at the film clips—that he took the time to pull me aside, place his hand on my arm, and assure me that I had been good in the film. Unfortunately, as films go sometimes go their stars as well, and my career peaked with
Honor.
The flattery given me in that trailer led to where such things sometimes lead in the presence of a major movie star.
Needing a drink badly after leaving the trailer, I went straight for the Fandango bar on Marfa's main street. Stewart Whitaker, the gossip column writer, was there, dark, handsome, muscular, and brash. With me still in a daze from my first experience with a man, he invited me to sit with him. I remarked that I'd just seen him in Virginia. Admitting that that was true, he'd said that he'd followed me to Texas from Virginia just as I had followed Hudson. Three drinks later, I'd staggered under his guidance to his hotel room, and he fucked me mercilessly with an eight-inch cock. As narcissistic as any movie person, he made sure that image was in my brain by measuring his erection for me during foreplay.
It had been nothing like that first time. Being invited into the trailer and offered a drink. Him standing there in a silk robe, a gorgeous man, an icon, holding a crystal glass of scotch out to me. Smiling down at me where I was sitting, nervous—honored but nervous—on the end of a studio couch. He had told me what he wanted from me. He told me in Virginia. And here, in Texas, I have come to his trailer. I have followed him to Texas and come to his trailer—just to say yes.
The sash of his robe coming loose and drifting to the trailer floor. The robe brushing open. Me gasping. Him solicitously, gently taking the glass of scotch out of my hand, saying I am trembling so badly it will spill. Don't be afraid, he whispers to me. Cupping my chin and looking deep into my eyes, waiting until I wanted it before lowering his lips to mine. I somehow become unbuttoned, unbuckled, unzipped during the kiss, my trousers and briefs sliding off my legs as I closed my eyes and savored the taste of scotch on his lips.
Going back on my elbows as his hands glide down my shuddering body—to my thighs, my inner thighs. Coaxing them open to him with slender, insistent fingers. His hand encircling me. The other at the back of my head, arching my head back with a tug in my hair. His face over mine, his eyes boring into mine, his throbbing staff at my entrance, my pelvis instinctively rolling up to receive him. Someone in the room is whimpering. Could it be me? I raise and spread my legs further, grasping the edge of the couch with the soles of my feet. I blot out the pain as he slowly enters me, enters me, enters me and holds, while, panting, I struggle to open fully to him. I pant harder as he starts to move, in, out, deeper, in, out. His hand pressing my torso down on the studio couch and remaining there, his face still over mine, as he moves deeper, slides faster, thrusts harder . . . All I can think of is what an honor this is—to give my virginity to a man—to this man— crying out at the warm flow of him when, inevitably, it comes.
Aiden dropped the wrench on the steel catwalk surrounding the Sea Isle lighthouse in Delaware Bay and shook his head to clear it. It was no good dwelling on what had gotten him here when the light needed to be fixed before dusk. He'd been working on it all day, and it was frustrating the hell out of him. There wasn't much room to work up here and it was hot as Hades. He was stripped down to his briefs to combat the heat. He was a muscular young man—still young. His movie career hadn't lasted for more than five years. Like Icarus, he had dared to soar too close to the sun. But he'd been at the top, blond movie star handsome, perfectly formed body, a combination that made the teenage girls scream and won him beefcake roles. He had never worn a shirt throughout any movie he'd been in.
He'd gone through all of the mechanical courses that went with lighthouse keeper when he'd chosen this as an escape, as a way to drop out of the world. Why couldn't he get this light going? And why was he drifting off into reliving a past that he couldn't change. A past that had ended for him nearly a year ago in the summer of 1958.
Aiden sighed, deciding that there was nothing for it but to unscrew the crystal cover and delve deeper into the mechanism of the light. But the cover hadn't been off since he'd arrived—and who knows for how long before that? The screw he started with seemed to be stripped. His mind wandered again as he worked on it.
Please go slow, I had begged when we were stretched out against each other on the bed in Stewart's room, naked, and he was stroking my cock. The size of his cock had frightened me silly. Why, you've been fucked before, haven't you? he asked. Not before this evening, I'd answered. He'd laughed and then had gone slow, stroking me and then sucking me and working my hole with lubed fingers and his mouth until I'd ejaculated. He'd coaxed my legs open then, lain on top of me between them, and I'd grunted and groaned—and would have cried out if he hadn't been covering my mouth with a hand—as he worked a cock inside me that was thicker and longer than I'd taken earlier in the evening. He started slow, as promised, but, getting excited, he rode me hard near the end. He gave me his cum in three blasts deep inside me. That, at least, had been the same as earlier in the evening. Afterward, I'd said I was headed back to L.A., and he said that, strangely enough, so was he—that perhaps we could fly out to the coast together. Once in L.A., he claimed two drawers in my dresser and a section of my closet and fucked me on the sly on a regular basis.
The screw wouldn't come off. In frustration, Aiden hit the iron base of the light with the wrench, and the light miraculous came on and started to revolve.
It was dark when he came out of the shower four flights down in the tower. It was too late to dress, so it again was just bikini briefs. It didn't matter. He was all alone out here—purposely. He did his evening calisthenics—he did them three times a day to keep in shape—fixed his dinner on the level below that of his bedroom, and sat in front of the fireplace of the living room in the addition at the base of the tower and whittled away at his wood while his stereo blasted mind-numbing—also purposely—classical music.
Wood whittling had been the pastime he'd taken up when turning to the solitary life of a lighthouse keeper. He whittled on wood. Sometimes he didn't even think about what he was whittling and let it take whatever shape it wanted. He was surprised and a bit disturbed by the piece he had completed and had polished up earlier today. He'd almost thrown it into the fire—almost. But he hadn't. He'd polished it until it glistened.
When he looked up from whittling, he saw that it was nearly midnight. He had to be up by 6:00. There was work to do—maintenance work on the lighthouse, maintenance never being finished, and there was the garden. He grew his own vegetables. Wouldn't his fan club be aghast at how he lived in isolation and grew much of his own food? If he had a fan club that cared. Stewart had taken care of that.
He went to bed, stripping off his briefs before climbing in bed. He closed his eyes, fondled himself for a few minutes and fell into full-fledged, writhing, sweaty masturbation.
Stewart and I are lapped, facing each other, my thighs on top of his, each embracing the other, his eight-inch dick inside me, on the bed in the master bedroom of my Beverly Hills mansion. He is miffed at me, saying that he waited in vain for the invitation to the premier of my latest movie,
Love in the Shadows.
He was holding me tight, refusing to fuck me, even though he already was inside me, and I was begging for it. I tried to reason with him. Rock had just been outed—by his own wife—in the June 1958 edition of the
Hollywood Reporter,
although the charge didn't seem to be taken seriously. I knew it would lead to a relentless witch hunt, though—that the rest of us would have to cool it. Stewart said we'd cool it then, and he started to pull out of me. Begging for the fuck, I'd agreed to put him on the premier guest list. He pushed me back on the bed then and fucked me hard, deep, and long, giving me all eight inches. My agent nixed the invitation, though, the next day.
His cock filled and stretched me when he fucked me. No one could work me like Stewart did. No one else did except in casual pickups in anonymous bars in anonymous towns I passed through, where the man wouldn't recognize me—where he was only interested in if I had a hole that would open for him and accommodate him. Even my movie star looks didn't mean anything in the darkness of a fleabag hotel room at night. All I was to these casual partners was a fast-opening hole and a cock hugging passage. None fucked me like Stewart did. Eight thick inches, fully possessing me, hitting all of the sensitive spots as it worked inside me. Stewart: handsome, muscular, hung, virile, vigorous, arousingly cruel, demanding, dominating. And, ultimately, vindictive.
Having shot his load toward the ceiling, Aiden groaned, turned over on his side, and drifted off to sleep, facing a day much like the day before and the day before that—unending monotony. But by his choice.
* * * *
"So, I found you. And in tip-top shape, I see. Playing the role of Robinson Caruso? I think we have quite enough movies on that theme already. It's only been five years since we were gifted with the Luis Buñuel version."
"Scott," Aiden said, surprised to see his former movie production colleague stepping out of a motorboat at the lighthouse pier. He would be surprised to see anyone other than the old geezer from the biweekly supply boat lash up to the lighthouse pier. He had been working in the vegetable garden and was instantly embarrassed that he was just wearing a pair of now dirt-splashed briefs. He hadn't looked in the mirror for days. Surely he had mastered the scruffy, unshaved look.
Scott Drayden was a movie scriptwriter, some four years older than Aiden was. He had worked on Aiden's earlier movies when they had both just been starting out in the business. They had hit it off and palled around with each other, each making an attempt to work each others' films after that. But Scott also had been one of the people in Hollywood who had turned his back on Aiden when, in July of 1958, Stewart Whitaker had written his blockbuster "Male Hollywood Stars I Have Slept With" exposé in the wake of the beginning of the Rock Hudson scandal. He hadn't named Hudson; he had featured Aiden Allen, though. Aiden's movie stock had dropped like a boulder, and, by mid August he had completely disappeared from not only Hollywood, but also the face of the earth.
Scott had disappeared from Aiden's presence even before that.
