With a Little Help

Gordon Marsh

He caught my attention because he was so young looking and because he looked familiar. I thought I recognized him from somewhere and that someone had told me something about him—something that interested me. It was right there. I knew I would think of it before they made an announcement on what was going on, why we'd been delayed here in Denver.

I'd first noticed him in the VIP lounge in New York, arresting my attention because he appeared to be quite young and traveling alone. I noticed him because he was beautiful, just what I liked—if he was legal. That was questionable. He was short and slim, blond and blue-eyed, handsome as the devil, and with a look of young innocence about him. I found myself hoping he was eighteen at least, even though I couldn't think there would be anything that would come of it even if he was. We were just both in the VIP lounge for a bit, probably headed in entirely different directions.

Maybe it was just because I'd had an escort in at my hotel the previous night—twenty, but small and blond and blue-eyed like this young man. I thought the escort, Jaimie he'd said his name was, but of course it wasn't, had slim hips, which had turned me on, but this guy in the VIP lounge did too, his tight jeans accentuating the narrowness. I'd fucked the escort hard, and he took it like the professional he was. I had the urge to fuck this young man too, and something at the back of my mind thought that was a possibility. I just couldn't isolate it, though.

I did figure it out, but not until I was on what was supposed to be a nonstop flight to Los Angeles and the blond hunk was on the flight too—in business class. I was in first class, but when I turned, I could see him back there being so suave and flirty with the stewardesses, and I kept working in my mind where I'd seen him and what I knew about him. It finally came to me. He was a commercial model, taking roles younger than he was. The ad executive who'd told me about him, Ray Stinger, pointed him out when we were sitting in a bar and an ad with the kid in it ran across the TV overhead. Stinger said the guy was nineteen and he'd told me more—that he was on the roster of a high-end escort agency catering to men. Stinger had engaged his services before and had been very satisfied.

We weren't supposed to land in Denver, but we did. When we landed there, we were told there would have to be a change in equipment and that there would be maybe a two-night, unscheduled layover in Denver, although they were trying to work it out and might get us in the air again in a couple of hours. The only explanation they would give was sudden "lack of equipment."

The beautiful young blond once again was in an airport VIP lounge with me. I was sitting across from him, and we exchanged a few smiles, but as the time went on without us getting back on a plane, he began to fidget and act worried. The rumor started moving across the lounge that the FAA had taken all Boeing 737 Max planes out of service because a couple had gone down with the same suspected design spec. Until then I hadn't realized—or cared—that that was what we had been scheduled to fly from New York to Los Angeles, but some of the other passengers said it was—that we'd just come off a 737. We were all going on our devices to discover that this was probably our problem and who knew when they'd marshal enough planes that weren't 737s to get us back up in the air.

Thinking ahead, I rose from my seat, went over near the snack bar, and made a call to my office in LA, laying out the problems, telling them to get me rebooked on an existing flight from Denver to LA that wasn't a 737, and, as an afterthought, telling them to book a second seat. I'd give them a name later or cancel. I was sure that someone else would be happy to snarf up the seat. They booked while I waited but could do no better than to get me on a flight the next day. They got me a room in the Denver Westin International right at the hotel. I poured two complimentary beers at the snack bar and went back to the seating area. Instead of sitting down, though, I stood in front of the young blond guy and handed him a beer.

"Here, I think you need this," I said.

"Thanks," he said, taking the beer.

"Mind if I sit by you?" I asked.

"No. Not at all. This wondering what's happening is driving me crazy."

"I could see it wasn't making you happy," I said. "You have to get to LA today?"

"Or by tomorrow afternoon," he answered. "I have appointments early the next morning. I thought getting there today would give me plenty of time."

"You're traveling alone?"

He got that I was questioning his age. He probably got that a lot. "I'm nearly twenty. And I work. I'm going out to LA to audition for a role in a TV show."

"Ah, that's where I've seen you before," I said. You've been in TV commercials, haven't you?

"Yes."

"I'm Gordon Marsh," I said. "Here's my card." When he saw that, he got a lot friendlier. I figured he would.

"I'm Alex Winstead," he said.

"I knew who you were. I just didn't remember your name. We have a mutual friend. Ray Stinger, the advertising executive."

Alex gave me a pointed look then. Giving him the connection obviated a lot of preparation—and, with luck, some seduction. We were at the edge of the room with no other couches facing us. I took my wallet out casually and fanned the slots open to show that I was loaded with cash. Then I took the liberty of putting a hand on his knee. He looked at it and at me, but he didn't shy away from the hand. I didn't leave it there—just long enough to make a statement.

"My mind's pretty occupied with this flight delay," he said. I wanted to believe that his tone was laced with regret—and maybe it was.

"You may not get to LA on time tomorrow," I said, and when he looked at me quizzically, I continued. "Apparently the whole Boeing 737 fleet has been grounded. They're going to be hard-pressed to come up with enough planes to get everyone where they need to go anytime soon. I wouldn't be surprised if the staff in the lounge here is starting to figure out how to give us the bad news."

"Shit," he said.

"Precisely. But I thought ahead, and I could give you a little bit of help, if you need it."

"A little help? What help?"

"I've got two seats on an early-morning flight into LA rescheduled on an airplane that isn't a 737 and a flight stranded passengers haven't discovered yet, and I only need one of the seats. My office could arrange to pass on the name of someone to take that extra seat. And I'm booked at a hotel here at the airport for tonight. You could stay with me."

"And sleep with you?" he asked. The reference to Ray Stinger and the glance in my wallet hadn't been lost. He could tell that I knew what he did for Ray Stinger.

"If it's important for you to get to those auditions tomorrow," I said, "and that is if you need a little help to get that done." I took out my wallet again and extracted ten fifties. "There would be extra too for satisfaction." I folded and handed the money to him.

Looking at the money, he said, "You seem to know the going rate."

"Yes, I do. I'm not a novice at this, Mr. Winstead."

After taking a brief look at me, he took the money.

"That's, of course, if I get a preview."

"A preview?" he asked.

"I'm going to the men's room. Follow me in a couple of minutes."

I fucked him in a toilet cubicle, Alex slouching on the toilet seat, his clothes folded and placed on the toilet tank, legs raised and spread, pressing into the sides of the cubical to keep them out of sight, and me crouching over him, between his legs, thrusting up inside him, my mouth covering his to keep the sound of sex from being heard by the other men coming and going in the men's room. I reveled in his slim hips, holding them between my hands, able to touch the tips of my fingers, while I fucked him.

He was an angel and a devil—young and sweet, tight and fresh, but he was a professional. He knew how to take a cock, and his passage opened quickly to me, the muscles of his channel walls pulling me deep inside him and rippling over my thrusting cock. I knew what he did for Alex Stinger to get the TV commercial spots. He was quite willing to do it for me too—for the benefits I was offering him.

I took him to the Westin, fed him supper, and fucked him half-way through the night in my hotel bed. He was a little whore in bed. One of the best blow jobs I'd ever had and then the first time I'd had a guy roll a condom on me with his mouth. We wrestled for a while on the bed until I got him on his back under me, and then he just dug the heels of his feet in, raised his tail, clutched my buttocks, digging his fingernails in, and cried out, "Screw me, daddy. Screw me to the bed. Fuck me hard!" So, I did.

Despite the luscious slimness of his hips and the tightness of the initial penetration, he opened right up and moved his hips with my thrusts. We made sweet music—and then again, and again after that. He made me feel young again. He didn't treat me like an old man triple his age, overweight, and wheezing. I fucked him hard and he went with me. He'd done this many times before on the casting couch and in the back of limousines, I'm sure. But he gave it to me like he couldn't get enough of it.

I got him to the plane on time—although we were delayed for two hours even on the next day—and made sure he'd kept my business card when we left the plane in LAX separately. He was a luscious little piece of ass—and I'd be reminiscing on those slim hips for days.

* * * *

Larry Lu

He wasn't at all what I was expecting, so I started off behind the eight ball and ended up in heaven. That might have had something to do with what came later, when he uncorked and I gave him a little help. I was standing in the crowd at LAX, wearing my limousine livery, which I'd grown past feeling self-conscious in, and holding up my arrivals sign. The patches on the sleeves identified me as being with the film studio and that still had cachet in this town. I could always pretend it was a costume for a movie if I was feeling too servile. Luckily, I was built, with good hair and great teeth—and an exotic enough Asian—some would say "inscrutable"—look to get a second glance from those I'd like a second glance from. So, I was wearing the livery well. The looks I was getting indicated I was looking just fine. Unfortunately, there weren't many lookers of the right gender and age walking around LAX arrivals.

I was looking out over the crowd when I heard the voice.

"I think that's me. Are you looking for Alex Winstead? I'm Alex Winstead."

I brought my eye level down and saw him, pointing at the sign I was holding that had "Alex Winstead" written on it. I recognized him almost immediately. And, surprise, surprise, he was the right gender and age bracket. This was going to be challenging. Behave yourself, I told myself.

I hadn't connected the name I had been given and that was printed on the sign I had been holding up with a face I'd seen on the TV screen. You don't get told names of people you've seen in a couple of TV commercials, and I'd seen this face and body before in TV commercials, which made sense of me being in the airport as his driver. He'd had a face and body in the TV commercials that made me remember him. He looked like he was just a kid, although I knew that could be deceiving, especially among actors. Did I mention being the right gender and age bracket? But, with my interest in late teens young men, maybe that was wishful thinking on my part. He did look like he was in his teens—and I had my experience, much to my peril, with young men pushing the edges. Luckily, this was LA and not Snob Hill in Boston.

"Oh, sorry. They just gave me a name," I said, embarrassed. "They didn't give me an . . . an . . ."

"Age," he said. "They didn't tell you I would be young?"

"No, they didn't. At least not young looking." A quick change of topic was in order if I didn't want to get myself into trouble. "Your flight is late. And they'd originally told me you'd be here yesterday. Come, let's go to baggage claim and pick up your bag. You have a bag, don't you?"

I was off balance. Not only had I failed to see him, but he was a gorgeous young man—blond and blue eyed and with a great body for a teenager—or I was taking him to be in his teens. A great body for a late teenager as far as I was concerned was short, but well-proportioned, with a trim torso and really, really narrow hips. That's what I wanted him to be—at least eighteen—of approachable age. And the narrow hips part was of utmost importance. It was my special fetish—the image of splitting the difference with . . . well, this wasn't the place to start going into that.

He was standing there, in place, speaking adult to me from a young man's body, as people parted the way to flow around us toward the baggage area. The talent agent, Gordon Marsh, had been on the same flight, and I could tell by the looks the young actor exchanged with Marsh as they pulled apart from coming out of the tunnel together that the two knew each other. I hoped my fantasizing hadn't caused me to miss any important information. I placed my hand on the small of his back to start guiding him in the direction we needed to walk, which was a thrill in itself. I wanted to arrange it so that I walked behind him far enough to check out his pert little buttocks on the move.

He didn't pull away from me. That was always a good sign.

"Yesterday's plane only made it as far as Denver," Alex was saying. "They took all of that kind of airplane—a Boeing 737, I think—out of the air, which left a shortage of planes. I had to stay there overnight. Then today's plane was late taking off."

I looked around before I started guiding him to baggage claim. "Is someone with you? You aren't traveling alone, are you?"

"Yes. All alone. Neither of my parents could pull away from their jobs in New York. I've been working for five years. They're used to me going to my auditions and shoots by myself now."

"For five years. Then you must be at least—"

"I'm almost twenty," he said. "I've mostly done commercials and some stage work. This is my first chance at film work out here in Hollywood."

Nineteen. Bingo. I must remember not to salivate, I thought. And alone, moving with such confidence. And you know what they say about success in getting roles and the casting couch. And when I touched him to guide him, he was comfortable with it. It could be . . . but again, I mustn't make assumptions.

"Well, you've come almost too late for your appointment at the studio," I said. "We'll have to push the speed limit, and I think we'd better go straight to the studio. I can take you to your hotel to check in after your audition." And, if you want, I can console you there if you don't get the part, I was thinking. Once again, though, I knew I must not let my fantasies get away from me.

"Thanks . . . Larry," he said, leaning forward to look at my nametag.

"Yes. Larry Lu, at your service," I answered. "Baggage claim is this way."

"What sort of name is Lu? You look Asian, but I haven't met any Asian like you as tall and built as you are."

He's already remarking on my build, which, indeed, is one of my better advertisements, I was thinking. Is he coming on to me? "The name's Chinese," I answered. "Hope that doesn't turn you off."

"Nope. It looks great on you."

"The Chinese have been on this coast and mixing it up with others since the gold rush. We get around to acquiring characteristics of a lot of different races. You'll see a lot of tall, muscled-up Asians out here. They come tall in northern China, where my ancestors come from."

"Great. Lead on, hunky Larry Lu," he said, giving me a sunny smile. God, he was gorgeous. Was the "hunky" an invitation to show interest? Try to remember your place, I told myself, as I palmed his lower back to guide him in the right direction. He looked up at me and smiled, making no effort to pull away from the hand. You put your hand on the small of a guy's back and he doesn't pull away, you've got yourself a gay guy.

"How old are you, Larry?" he asked.

"Twenty-eight, sir," I answered, the "sir" coming out by habit from how I related to most of the movie people the studio had me driving around. I was really thirty-two, but he didn't need to know that. A lot of young guys his age thought that anyone over thirty was too old to have sex with.

"And are you a movie star, Larry?" he asked, the smile staying in place.

"No, sir, I'm just driving for the studio." But then, I was doing that hoping to be discovered, yes. And I'd been in the background of a couple of movies because I was around and heard about the cattle calls for extras—I'd been exotic beach candy for some sand movies, as we called them—playing volleyball shirtless or beach running or weight lifting or something in the background. Once I opened a movie skateboarding along a boardwalk while the opening credits were running—my big scene. An unexpected Asian—especially a tall, built one—arrested the eye in the background of a movie. Sometimes that was what the director wanted.

I had been determined to be good California background stud material. Of course, I'd only made enough off the movie extra work to pay for the gym that helped me to maintain the physique that attracted the movie extra work. So, as long as I was on that gerbil wheel, I chauffeured for the stars and whoever else the studio wanted driven around LA. I drove young man on my own at night, usually picking them up at the gym.

"You

should

be in movies," he answered as we hightailed it to baggage claim.

Was that some sort of signaling, I wondered. Here in LA it could be that. Could he be advertising at nineteen? That wouldn't surprise me—the casting couch effect and all. Everyone out here on the West Coast was on the make, regardless of age—sexually as well as with career ambition. And there was a lot of male-male action. Truth be known, that was what had brought me here—that more than the possibility of getting into the movies. Well as much that as the possibility of getting into movies.

And as far as being Asian looking, a lot of young men liked the image of being done by a Chinaman.

"I do extra work in the movies," I answered.

"Cool," he said.

Does that mean you'll let me fuck you? I wondered. I didn't say it out loud, of course. He was the precious cargo and I was just the limo jockey.

* * * *

He wanted to sit up front in the limousine with me, and I appreciated the gesture, but I had to say, "Sorry, no can do it that way. Our rules are strict in driving the talent, and I would be reported at the studio gates if we did it that way. Just sit back and take in the sights." At the same time, I didn't want to put him off if he was signaling interest. I didn't want him to be lonely if he didn't want to be.

"You don't have to sit all the way in the back, if you don't want to, though. You can take one of the forward seats back there and we can talk; this isn't against the rules as long as I pay attention to the driving. I can tell you a little bit about the town as we drive, if you want. I don't have to close the partition window. And you could move further back when we get close to the studio. You ever been to LA before?"

"No, I haven't. I've lived on the East Coast all my life," he said, as I loaded his bag in the trunk of the Caddie.

"I'll see if I can work us over to Vine and then up to Hollywood Boulevard, and you will have gotten into the atmosphere of the place. We're late, but that's faster than taking the direct route."

When we loaded up, bless him, he didn't, as I had said he didn't have to do, go all the way to the back. He sat up near the front seat in a seat facing the rear and I didn't close the glass panels. He lay his arm across the back of his seat on the other side of the panel from the back of my seat, and he turned his head toward me, putting it close enough to me that he probably could have stuck his tongue in my ear if he had had a mind to do that. I wouldn't have minded if he'd done so. When we got going, I felt his fingertips pressing into the back of my neck.