Ya Gotta Do Wha'cha Gotta Do

This is an original story in three chapters. All are written and will appear regularly, space permitting. Although I have used the character names of some of the cast of West Side Story and have mentioned at least one of the theatres where it was revived a few years ago, no specific correspondence with any person or place is intended. This is entirely fiction. All characters engaged in sexual acts are over 18, as should be any reader where local law so requires. The story is focused on the young star, Kirk Olsen, all told in his voice. There is no romantic sex in this chapter, just a few hooks. So "bare" with me. © 2023. All rights reserved--Brunosden

Dad was driving me to Byrd where I would be a third year transfer student in their world famous performing arts program. It was the weekend before Labor Day and the weather was great—cool and dry. The color had not come to the trees yet, but summer in the Northeast was coming to an end.

I had graduated three years ago from Fairfield-Jefferson High, a public high school in Fairfield County, Connecticut with a good reputation and the opportunity to complete many college level courses before graduation. I had taken a "gap" year and worked two full time jobs, saving thousands while living at home and auditioning for the local rep company—getting roles in most of the productions. Then I had gone to the local community college, majoring in communications, while working part time. So I had about five semester of work under my belt and an Associate degree. Finally, I had to follow my dream—an acting career built on the Byrd curriculum and with Byrd credentials. I applied, furnished several videos of my acting roles, and was accepted as a transfer, with a partial tuition scholarship.

Byrd, located in a sleepy little burg on the Hudson River, about 80 miles north of the City, had become famous for educating all of the important people necessary for Broadway—serious drama, comedies, and musicals. Many famous Broadway hits had been born at Bard or "worked on" at Byrd. And of course, many Byrd alums were now on Broadway or in regional theatres—as actors, producers, directors, and tech support. It even had a new state of the art performing arts center—duplicating many of the technical breakthroughs being used on Broadway.

I absolutely had the acting bug. It was all I ever wanted. I had had it since I was five—putting on one-boy shows for parents and friends, acting in high school productions, and even doing three summers of "stock" at the Olde Lyme Shoreside Playhouse (where I waited tables morning, noon, and dark nights at the playhouse). I lived in mostly one room rented flats in tenements, often sharing kitchen and bath. This last summer, I had been cast in leading roles. I think I've got a good voice, although it needs professional coaching. I can dance, but again my routines need to be polished, and I must learn modern choreography cues. When a dance director says 3, followed by 2 and then a reverse 4, I need to be able to do those steps instantly without further explanation.

I've been told that I've got a good body. One director even called me a magnificent hunk of a man, shortly after my 19

th

birthday. (I was pretty naïve. But, I loved the compliment. He took me to his motel room bed that night ostensibly for some personal direction. It certainly was personal. He seduced me pretty easily, and fucked my ass until I could barely walk. But, I did get the part. And I did learn that my sexual preferences tended toward men, particularly dominant types.) Spending hours in the gym, I had developed a hard chest, tight abs, slim hips, and a tight muscled butt. That and running kept me really cut--my fat below 7%. Reciprocal grooming sessions with my best friend David, a fellow would-be actor, had produced a nicely smooth torso, a sculpted hair style that looked breezy and casual, trimmed eyebrows, and well-tended pubes (the latter typically not necessary for the stage, unless a gay director or casting agent required a full-body inspection before deciding on filling a role). We also fooled around a bit, experimenting with male sexual possibilities. So I knew I was bi, maybe gay.

I'm six foot—tall enough for leading roles, but not so tall as to be objectionable to typically shorter female leads or the many male leads who are height-challenged. I'm the quintessential All-American boy—blond, blue-eyed, athletic, projecting confidence (while often tentative and terrified inside), sincerity (I'm really quite good at projecting sincerity which is another name for eagerness) and innocence (well, two out of three isn't so bad—but my innocent act does come off as coy and charming).

Byrd was going to provide me the essentials for a modern acting career—and the credentials that would open doors and auditions.

We arrived on campus, registered and were directed to an unloading spot assigned to my dorm. The old brick building had character, but fortunately it had been completely modernized with new baths, air-conditioning, and even a few study rooms on the entrance level. It was one of the co-ed dorms—every other floor in this case. My room was on the second floor, overlooking a large green with the Hudson in the far distance. It was a double and shared a small bath with the adjoining double—two sinks, one shower, a closet WC. My roommate, whom I knew only by name and home town (Allen Page from Springfield, IL), had not yet arrived, but Allen was also a transfer. He was a musician. By exchanged emails, we had allocated responsibilities for LED, micro, game station, fridge, and coffee pot.

Dad helped me move stuff up, all of which was piled next to one of the two long-single beds. I wasn't planning to claim territory until my roommate arrived. He was expected soon. Farewells were said. Dad added the familiar (and corny), "Break a leg, son. We're proud of you." He was leaving, when Allen arrived. Introductions were made and Dad was off, hoping to make the three hour drive home before dark. We began to scope out the room, recognizing that some adjustments would need to be made for Allen's electric keyboard. We decided to bunk the beds; so we removed the bedding and lifted. Allen would take the top—small compensation for making room for the instrument. The rest of our stuff fit more or less easily into the chests and closet. Neither of us had much to store. The new bath had built in space for a micro and a coffee maker—which I had brought. The LED was installed over the keyboard. We were soon moved in.

Before dinner we compared notes and similar backgrounds: middle class parents, public school, various working gigs since we were 16, left-brain oriented toward music, dance and theatre. We were about the same height, although Allen claimed to have two left feet when it came to dance and I had probably spent considerably more time at the gym. Allen spent enough time gazing at my body that I almost started to wonder if my fly was open, whether I had soiled myself—or whether Allen was gay.

In contrast to my "blond-clean-cut-ness", Allen's hair was dark and long; his hands were large and his fingers were extremely long. Neither of us had dated much. Neither had a steady girl friend back home. But, neither of us really opened up much about personal life. We were both a little cautious. More would come later after a minimal bonding had occurred. Allen was a math whiz, sort of a genius, while I was into literature (principally dramatic literature) and could quote from numerous classic plays from the past. I was in love with the musical theatre—one of Allen's goals (really any paid music gig from symphony to coffee house trio). Finally, Allen noted that he would be allocated rehearsal space in the music building and that use of the keyboard would only be with headphones. "And I won't be practicing tap in the room either." We got up from the lower bunk, ready for dinner, feeling that our initial conversation had been successful. So off we went.

Back at the room, I announced that I was going to shower since the guys in the neighboring double had yet to arrive. I kicked off my sneakers and removed my jeans and polo. I was, of course, commando. I reached into my laundry bag, still filled with clean stuff, and pulled out a towel and walked into the bath. Allen started to look away, but couldn't help staring. Yes, I'm hung, really hung, just over 8, a shower with considerable girth and my ass was hard and nicely muscled. And I had no body hair. Nudity was not an issue for me. I hoped that was ok with Allen. Actors are accustomed to rapid costume changes, often in semi-public areas and grow immune to modesty. In fact, I was somewhat of an exhibitionist—almost a required talent for an actor. It seemed that Allen was okay with that. He had played some sports and was no stranger to gang-showers and locker rooms. Allen was gay, although in the closet and not experienced—something I suspected, but confirmed only a few days later. Allen was pleased that his roommate was so "presentable". He assumed that I too—being an aspiring actor and completely buff--was gay.

When I emerged, wrapped in a towel, Allen stripped and headed in. I was a little surprised. My roommate was a gorilla. His head was covered with long dark strands and curly black hairs stuck out over the placket in his polo. But this was truly amazing. He had hair, long black hair, everywhere, some curly, some straight. So much that his bush almost hid very thick fireplug dick. I joked, "I guess you've heard that Byrd winters are long and cold." Allen smiled and stroked his hand through his chest mane and pointedly scratched and stroked his dick, pulling it out of the hairy mass, showing its above average length. At that moment I knew he was gay. But the hair!

"You, on the other hand, are going to freeze your ass off, Kirk. You better grow some hair back on that monster or it'll freeze off."

The routine was set. Jokes, casual nudity, nothing too serious—and probably a shared assumption that both of us were gay, but probably not into each other.

Class schedules had been posted. Neither of us expected to spend much time in the room—between classes, workshops, rehearsals, and practice, but hoped that an easy friendship would develop. Neither was looking for a lifelong friendship, but hoped that an easy camaraderie would make dorm life painless. Levity would be the norm. Nothing was going to be serious. If we had issues, we'd voice them—probably couched in a sarcastic insult.

*********

Byrd professors were known for loading up the academic demands immediately. Within three weeks, everyone was over-loaded and struggling to keep up. Fortunately, my community college had been underfunded—and therefore offered only the basics. I had met almost all of the non-dramatic requirements of the curriculum. I loaded up on theatre, performance, music, and dance. During week one, auditions had been held for the first theatrical production of the semester, "Chicago." I won a role, actually two, as a dancing jailhouse inmate and a dancehall lothario. Neither had a speaking part and only one had an ensemble song, accompanied by dance. Neither would showcase my body or my voice. Allen made the orchestra, playing his second instrument, a xylophone (and sometime percussionist). He also was assigned to one of the piano-meisters and began regular practices and rehearsals.

Then, only six weeks into the semester, the proverbial lightning struck. I got a phone call from a guy I had worked with at the playhouse more than a year ago—a would-be Broadway director who kept food on the table with stints at summer playhouses and moonlighting as a bartender. From the summer stock, he knew that I would be at Byrd, and he had found me easily—my cell number hadn't changed. He had hit the jackpot, as assistant director and casting director for a new revival of West Side Story at The Circle in the Square Theatre on 50th Street—Broadway!! Would I come down to Manhattan the next day to audition?

I knew Angelo pretty well. He was older than I, but he was a little vague about his exact age. I liked his style of directing and recognized he was an up and comer. And, of course, we had "fooled around" a bit in Olde Lyme, often spending nights in his bed. I immediately recognized that this was likely a booty call, but no one can resist the opportunity to audition for Broadway, even if it's a long shot. "I'll be there. I'll text the train schedule as soon as I know." Then I told Allen that I was going to the City for the next day, but didn't add any details. Fortunately, Tuesdays were my lightest class days—although I would be blowing off one practice. I quickly texted the acting coach that I had an emergency that required me to go the New York for one day. I promised to make the time up at his convenience. He wasn't pleased, but didn't have much choice—I wasn't asking, I was informing.

******

By early afternoon of the next day, I had found the rehearsal stages in the bowels of the Marriott Marquis Tower and the underground space that surrounded it. This was typical rehearsal space for shows that were not yet ready to move to the Broadway stage. Recent development and theatre closings in Manhattan had made stage space precious. Therefore, rehearsals until only a week or so before previews began were typically held in space nearby. I met Angelo in his "office"—a cramped, windowless space, probably meant to be a closet, with a small table for a desk, an electronic keyboard, and two chairs—one comfortable for reading scripts, the other utilitarian.

As usual, Angelo was dressed entirely in black: a plain tight black tee, too-small, threadbare black jeans, and black leather shoes with incongruous white soles. Angelo was tall, about 6-3, with shaggy black hair and a café au lait complexion. He was gaunt, yet handsome—with that hungry predator look. He was probably about 33 and had been raised in Spanish Harlem. He knew the streets very well. Perhaps his Puerto Rican heritage had won him this job about the difficult Puerto Rican experience in the City. He had lived it and understood the emotions. He was a New Yorker, born and bred in the barrio.

But when he was 16, he was introduced to a mentor through his school counselor, a financial executive with a New York investment bank, part of a city-wide mentoring program. The guy turned out to be a theatre buff—and took Angelo to Off Broadway shows all the time. The guy had guided him to a high school diploma and entrance into the drama program at Carnegie Mellon in Pittsburgh. And the mentor had never hit on him. His life had been saved.

Angelo rose from behind his "desk" and came around to face me, stepping well into my space. He didn't really have much choice; the office was really small. With his finger, he motioned for me to spin. "Nice. My recollection from last summer was not mistaken. I think you're going to be perfect. You've continued to work out, I see. You're as buff as I remembered. Let me explain. You're auditioning for Tony, one of the leads. The part requires extra-ordinary All-American good looks. You need to exude innocent white-boy sex appeal, and you can't seem to be too experienced—or jaded. You'll need to sing. You'll need to dance. And you'll need to act. This is a top-line full scale production. I think you might be able to handle it."

Angelo paused for a moment and smiled. "And you'll need to move in with me. I'm going to be working you as hard as I can." (Did I detect a double entendre?) "I need to give you two years of experience in three weeks. We open November 10. The run will be at least six months, possibly years." Angelo looked sidewise at me and his smile immediately conveyed that I was also auditioning for Angelo's next partner. He might be promising two years of acting experience and barrio knowhow, but he was also planning to take large and frequent payments from my body.

I thought for about ten seconds. I was bi, tending toward gay, vers—and not afraid of my body, but I had had little experience—beyond a few weeks in Angelo's arms the previous summer and some casual experiments with other acting colleagues (method acting practice to find our sexual persona?). The times with Angelo had been more than a year ago. Other than that, everything was a casual hook, without any attempt at relationship. I am definitely straight-acting; my voice is deep; I dress college preppy, not aspiring actor or goth; I always act wholly masculine. I don't even have a tat.

Angelo had been a demanding lover, obviously older than me, and far more experienced. I understood the proposition. He didn't need to spell it out. Giving my body to Angelo was a small price, a very small price, for a shot at stardom. This was a chance of a lifetime. "You got my ass, buddy. I'm your boy."

"Just the words I wanted to hear. I presume you know the plot of West Side Story—and you probably know the music. The dance routines are vital. And in this production, Tony doesn't get to sit out the tough dance numbers—he gets to lead them—on the street and in the gym. You'll have a dance coach and a voice coach."

"Do you have an agent? I presume you're AE because of the summer stock."

"I am AE, but don't have an agent."

"Then, we'll get you one. You've got the part. Call the school. Tell them you're withdrawing for the semester. Maybe the year, if this is the hit we expect. We open November 10. You've got less than a month to get up to speed before previews. Now, let's do it."

"Wait a minute. What the hell happened? I know these roles don't get filled at the last minute."

"We've been in rehearsals since June. Last week, the lead, cast early in the summer, got a TV series offer and exercised his right to withdraw. He fucking left me with my dick in my hand and no lead. His understudy is not up to the role, in my opinion—and he's happily married to an actress—so he would not be available for the grooming that would be required. Then, I thought of you."

"Now it's time to show your gratitude and prove to me that I wasn't wrong to bring you down here. I want everything you've got. I want total commitment. I want complete cooperation and obedience."

Of course, I expected exactly this—and it wasn't going to be a chore. I loved it. I understood completely. He wanted my body, with no strings attached. I looked around. There was no "casting couch." So, I moved up to Angelo and unbuckled and unbuttoned the jeans, kicking the door shut with my foot. I hooked my fingers in the waistband and pulled down as I dropped to my knees. Angelo long hard dick caught in the elastic and then sprung up. He was as long as I remembered. His cock was uncut, thick and much darker than the surrounding skin, a deep brown. He was completely shaved. Veins popped and seemed to be struts uplifting the impressive head. My actions had released his musk into the air. I breathed it in deeply. It was an aroma I knew and loved. I took the head into my mouth and used my tongue to retract the hood, then teased the slit with my tip.

My hands reached under the tee and began to roll his big hot balls. Angelo took my hands and placed them on his pecs so I began to worry the nibs which were already eraser thick.. "These stay here." Then he reached down to push my face deeper into his erection. He rocked and I swallowed more and more. I sucked and swirled, giving him as much tongue as I could, given how he filled me. Soon I felt the head in my throat; he held it there, nearly suffocating me; then he pumped a few more times, and spewed his cream, torrents of it. Of course, I swallowed it all, remembering the salty toffee taste; then backed off a bit to breathe. I was as hard as ever, but I hadn't cum. He wasn't going to let me either.

"That's not your first, nor your last taste of PR spunk during this gig, boy. You're mine now, chico—body and soul. I'm gonna make you an honorary barrio-boy before we open. You get to cum only when I say so. I want you hungry and aroused all the time. I wanna see it in your eyes. You're gonna sit through a rehearsal this afternoon. Then we'll head to my place. Your rehearsals of the play start tomorrow. Your fuckin' rehearsals with me start tonight. By tomorrow you'll need a pad to absorb what leaks from your ass. I'd use a dildo plug, but it would probably make you dance funny."