Danny's Choice Ch. 02: His Story

Danny's Story

I guess if I were asked when the turning point of my life was—or at least the initial one—I'd have to say it was when I was sixteen and the Broadway producer, Evan Yellen, called me down from the dance auditions for the musical Finian's Rainbow. The show had a quartet of male dancers, but one got too near the footlights in a rehearsal, fell off the stage, and broke his leg. They needed a fourth on short notice, and I was auditioning for the spot.

I should have gotten the job, I think. I was the best dancer there. I had been well trained from the time I could walk. I think the only reason I didn't get it was because I was only sixteen at the time—and because I didn't have a backer. My mother had gotten me a few spots, but not in anything like a Broadway musical. My mother was a dancer too—a showgirl at New York's Tropicana Club, which featured Latin music. She wasn't Latin, but my father was—a Cuban conga drummer who had been in high demand before the Tropicana Club opened and had helped my mother learn that music.

My father was dead when the Tropicana opened in 1945, but my mother was a good enough dancer to score a job there—largely, I think because of the club owners' respect for my father. He had been killed at the Anzio beach landing in Italy the year before the club opened.

Having been born in 1930, I was too young to go to World War II. I'm not sure my mother would have let me, in any event. She might have dressed me as a girl, as some mothers did to try to keep their sons from being taken in the army. I could have passed, I'm told, as I'm small and lithe, move like the dancer I am, and have sometimes been described more as pretty or beautiful than manly or handsome. I might have wanted to enlist, though, if I'd been old enough in time, because my mother was the classic stage mother, and there were times I would have liked to escape her clutches. But I was never given the opportunity to consider being anything but a dancer on stage.

When I hit sixteen, all of that changed. My mother was a war widow, and the soldiers who had survived were coming home. She was barely thirty-two, was favored with great bone structure, and used every trick in the book to look ten years younger. She was largely successful and landed a returning hard-bodied, sexually experienced soldier from a well-to-do, if not knock-down rich, New York family, who saw her on stage at the Tropicana and pursued her. The problem—beyond the man being possessive and short tempered as a result of having grown up quickly in the midst of fighting—was that he was the age my mother looked like—twenty-three. He wasn't about to be seen with a sixteen-year-old stepson. So I had to go.

My mother, who couldn't pass up the opportunity to land a hard-bodied, sexually experienced, well-to-do man nine years her junior this close to when she'd be too old to be limber enough to do the Salsa, turned on a dime. She went from stage mother to waving-good-bye mother in the time it took her to maneuver Manny down the aisle. I, of course, hadn't been invited to see that happen.

It's not that my mother entirely abandoned me; it's mostly that she wore dark glasses and kept her eyes darting around to check for watchers whenever we met at a café in secret. And, of course, she didn't tell Manny she still was in touch with me. She did what she could for me, though, with suggestions and references, as she could, and some cash here and there to help me with my rooming house bill. Unfortunately, she didn't know anyone high enough in the casting world to help me get a good Broadway musical gig.

It wasn't that unusual for guys my age to be out on their own and working in that era. So many young men had been killed in the war that there was a demand for workers, even if they were a bit young, and the theater world had long been open to younger actors, dancers, and stagehands. These young men just needed a little support to be able to hack it financially.

That's where Evan Yellen came in.

I had done my audition and was standing in the line of others who had done so—they made us watch the auditions of our competition, which is why I was sure I was the best dancer that day. One of the stage hands came to me in line and whispered that Mr. Yellen wanted to see me down in the theater seats. He said the name reverently, which helped me decide to follow him—that and, not knowing who Mr. Yellen was, I thought maybe he was the casting director.

Mr. Yellen turned out to be a tall, well-built man in his fifties. Very elegant looking as far as my peasant eyes could see and well dressed. What I remember most from that first meeting were his hands—his long, expressive fingers. The biggest reason I remember them is that he was a toucher, and I felt his hands on me as we talked. Not anywhere intimate, but really friendly regardless.

"I saw you dance up there," he said when I reached him. He was standing in the aisle at the edge of where the lights from the stage extended into the auditorium. The audience area was in the dark. This was an audition. Only the stage needed to be lit—and the first couple of rows, where the casting people sat. He wasn't sitting there, or paying attention to the guy dancing now, so I concluded that he couldn't help me get the spot.

"You are very good. The best I've seen up there today."

"Thank you," I said. I was waiting for him to tell me who the hell he was and how much clout he had around here, but I guessed he must be important, because he seemed to expect me to know who he was.

"You won't get the part, though, you know?"

Like I hadn't gotten all of the other Broadway musical parts I'd auditioned for, I thought. Of course not. But I can't stop trying. "Why not, If I'm the best dancer up there?"

"For starters, how old are you? Thirteen? Fourteen?"

"I'm sixteen," I responded. I caught myself but too late. If he'd guessed sixteen, I would have told him eighteen.

"Still too young. The pity is that I see that you're ready, that the two extra years won't make you much better, because there's not much better you need to get."

"Thank you," I answered. But how does that help me, I wondered. Still, the compliment was nice. I was a little worried that he had his hand on my forearm, though. So far, I'd been pretty good at side-stepping the passes men were making at me. It was a real predatory jungle here in the New York theater district.

"Broadway is a dangerous place for young men under eighteen who look as good as you," he said.

I did a double take. Had he read my mind just now?

"Producers don't want any more trouble to avoid on the age issue then necessary, so they just avoid it. You might not get good dancing spots on Broadway until you're eighteen. Maybe you don't want to hold out that long. Also, you won't get this spot because it's already taken."

"Already taken? Then why—?"

"They're just being careful, going through the motions, for appearances. For the unions and such. The dancer who will get the job is the third young man from the left in the line up there. He's twenty-one, which erases the age headache, and he's been fucked by the producer of Finian's Rainbow. Oh, I'm sorry. Did I disturb you with my bluntness or crass language?"

"No, sir. I know what being fucked means," I said through clinched teeth. And I knew what being fucked meant. This wasn't the first time I'd lost a spot to an inferior dancer who was being fucked by someone important. I was used to being fucked in another way by that. "But you said that I might not get good dancing spots on Broadway until I was eighteen, not that I could never hope too."

"It would be possible that you could get to the Broadway musical stage sooner—if you had a patron."

He still had a hand on my forearm, but now he had his other arm around my shoulder too. I was beginning to get the drift here. He wanted to fuck me. I'd fended this off already a couple of times, but I was getting tired of waiting until there'd be no complications. I didn't mind the getting fucked part, I didn't think. I had known I was gay for several years. And I knew that I was attracted to strong men who would work me. I just hadn't done it yet. I'd developed no interest in topping other men. But everyone I talked to told me to hold out until I was eighteen. Otherwise it could get very messy.

"You think that guy third from the left is going to get the spot—because the producer is fucking him?"

"I know he will. I know both the producer and him personally. I know the decision is made. I know the dancer extremely well."

"Extremely well? Meaning?"

"I was the first one to fuck him. I saw him when he was seventeen. I was the first one to fuck him—when he turned eighteen. He's going to get this spot in part because of a deal he made with me."

"Are you a Broadway producer too?" I asked.

"Yes, I am."

"And you're saying you want to fuck me? That you might get me a Broadway musical spot if I let you fuck me?"

"Has anyone been there before?"

"No. I've never been with a man."

"Would you be willing to go with a man sometime in the future?"

"That's the plan, yes."

"Well, then, yes, I want to fuck you, and I'll help you get dancing spots in Broadway musicals if you let me be the first one to do so. But I don't want to do it now—I'll help you now—but it would be on a contracted contingency. If you held off until you were eighteen and gave me your virginity and then gave me privileges as I wanted them, I will help you get on Broadway. If you signed the contract, though, and didn't remain a virgin until I fucked you, you'd have to pay a penalty—an amount that you'd have to work very hard to come up with. Am I being too blunt for you?"

"No," I answered, honestly. "It's refreshing to have someone be upfront on what they're offering. Not to mention that it's refreshing to be pitched by a man who is willing to give something in return."

He obviously felt sure of himself. The arm on my shoulder had dropped to my waist, and, in the next half minute went to cupping and slightly squeezing one of my butt cheeks. I was in the usual dancer's practice costume, a leotard, so there wasn't much mystery to him how well-rounded and firm my butt cheeks were. I was a seasoned dancer. Everything about me was firm.

"So, are you interested?"

"I don't know. I'll have to think about it. It's sort of a crazy offer, I'll have to tell you."

"I assure you that I can fuck you very expertly."

"It isn't that . . . it's just something to consider seriously."

"Are you perhaps remembering that you aren't a virgin? That your dance teacher screwed you when you were fourteen?"

"No, it's nothing like that," I answered. He showed his approval by squeezing my butt again.

"Here's my card, then. Give me a call. I can have the papers drawn up and you can come in and sign them."

And fuck me on the spot on your casting couch? I wondered. I looked at the card. It said "Evan Yellen, esq." and under that was "Broadway Producer." I ran my fingers over the print, half suspecting that the dude had cards in all sorts of professions, but I could tell expensive printing when I saw it.

The casting director was on stage and was about to address the line of dancers. I hotfooted it back up there in time to hear him say they'd made their decision.

"We have decided we want Aaron Feingold for the spot in the Finian's Rainbow men's dance quartet."

Feingold was the third guy from the left in the line. I turned and looked out into the dimly lit auditorium, but Yellen was gone.

After I'd had some time to stop seething, I went to a pay phone and called Yellen. He wasn't in the office yet, but I left a message agreeing to his contract. I had a failed audition the next day again, and he sent a car for me there. He got me in as a dancer in the opening of the Broadway musical Brigadoon later that year and in Kiss Me, Kate the next year, when I was seventeen.

A week after my eighteenth birthday, he sent a car for me again and I went to his office half way up the Empire State Building.

"I understand you had a birthday last week, Danny."

"Yes, sir, I did."

"Are you still a virgin?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you remember that we have a contract?"

"Yes, sir."

"Will you please step over to that studio couch over there, strip off your trousers and your briefs, and go down on the couch on all fours—in the position of the dog? You do know what the bottom position of the dog is, don't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you do know that I'm going to fuck you now?"

"Yes, sir."

* * * *

"Just settle down and stop pushing at me, Danny. I'm in now."

He wasn't in as far as he was going to get, I was soon to learn. The pain was excruciating, not least because it was so strange compared to anything I'd experienced before. But I'd been assured that it would lessen and that, eventually, I usually wouldn't notice it much at all—not compared with the pleasure it would be giving me. And there was some of that already—pleasure. The expectation of it; the "it's finally happening" of it.

"Stop pushing on me. I'm in. You're fucked already. Got your cherry. No reason to fight it. Open to me and enjoy it. You're a dancer. Dance on the cock."

I was on all fours on the studio couch in his office—the proverbial casting couch—and he was standing behind me, between my calves that jutted out over the end of the couch. I had twisted around and swung an arm behind me, the palm of my hand extending through his open and separated dress shirt and pushing at his muscular, hairy chest. I was bearing the weight of my twisted torso on a fist buried in the surface of the couch. He was crouched behind me, his hands gripping my hips, his dick inside me. Only a few inches, it turned out. He was going to be much deeper than that soon.

I know I was giving him a wild look. The look in his eyes was one of determination and of being a bit perturbed. I know I was crying out something, but I was trying my best that it not be a demand for him to stop. He wasn't raping me. I'd agreed to it—I'd agreed to it months earlier, in fact. It's just that now it was happening, it was overwhelming.

"Oh, for Christ sake," he growled. And I felt the hands leave my hips and he was twisting around to the nearby chair that he'd hung his coat over. The hands came back with a long, cashmere neck scarf, which he whipped over my head; pulling my wrists together, causing me to collapse my chest on the surface of the couch—my tail still in the air, still skewered by his dick—and tying my wrists together with it.

"That'll keep them out of the way," he muttered. The hands went back to my hips, grabbing, pinching. And that's when I discovered he'd lied about already being in—and already having been fucked, for that matter. All of my sensations went to my ass channel, which his dick was penetrating more deeply. God, it was big.

"You're going to split me!" I hadn't meant to cry out, but I hadn't been able to keep it in.

Soothing shushing. "It will take it; I won't split you. Open to me; you'll be fine."

"There, in to the root," I heard him whisper in my ear through heavy breathing. "When you learn to open to it faster, there won't be this pain." And indeed, now that he was all in and had stopped pushing at me—and I began to relax, knowing that I wasn't resisting anything that hadn't already happened—the pain was a bit less. "Turn your head, look into the mirror over there. Here, I'll turn your ass a bit. Look at what's inside you. You can take it. You have taken it."

I moaned at the sight of how thick the root of his dick looked to be as reflected in the mirror, where just the base of it was visible in my hole. And my hole. Who would have known it would open that wide? I didn't find his "help" in showing that to me in the mirror reassuring. Well, not immediately, but there was a little thrill at having taken all of that. And that's as big as his dick would get—surely. But maybe it would get bigger while he fucked? I moaned again.

And the pain. When the hell does the pain lessen, I wondered as I moaned and groaned and voiced every variation of "ouch" and "oh, shit" that bubbled up to my lips. "Ouch" didn't express a fourth of the pain, though.

"So sweet, and fresh. I've wanted to do this for months. And so tight. I'm the first one, right? Tell me I'm the first one. I paid to be first."

"Yes," I answered through shallow pants and clinched teeth. "You're the first one."

He was. Would I be doing this if he didn't have something I wanted badly? I wanted a speaking part in the Broadway play he was producing to go on stage in 1964.

"Good boy." His hands were off my hips and gliding over my torso, patting and pinching. "Sleek young body—if I hadn't seen your birth certificate myself, I'd—"

My groan covered what he was saying. Not only had a hand found and encased my dick, but I also felt movement in the throbbing dick inside me—or at least I thought the dick was throbbing; I knew my channel walls were throbbing from the alien invasion. He was beginning to move the dick inside me. Drawing back, pushing in, drawing back, pushing in farther than he'd reached before.

"Take it, take it, take it." Each thrust punctuated with a command.

"Oh, shit, Oh Fuck! That hurts like hell!" All senses returning to my ass channel. What he'd done before tying my wrists together wasn't being fucked. This was being fucked! Pumping me as I writhed under him. His grip on one of my pecs and on my dick vice-like now. The grip eased and he was stroking me with his hand to the rhythm of his dick stroking my channel.

I shot out onto the nice red vinyl of his studio couch. "Good, good, come for me. Good," he growled. He let loose of my dick and lifted his hairy chest off my back. He had been holding me close and covering me.

Standing behind me now gave him more thrust leverage. He was pumping me hard and deep. I felt a hand running into the curls on my head, gripping my hair, jerking my head back toward him, arching my torso back in a tight bow.

And fucking, fucking, fucking. I was groaning and moaning to match his grunts and crying out who knows what. At that stage it must have been variations of "too much" and "please stop." But he didn't stop right away; he was too taken up with enjoying the ass of a young dancer-would-be-actor being fucked for the first time.

He did start to calm down and slow down after a short while, and he lowered his chest on my back again, tickling my shoulder blades with the coarse, salt-and-pepper hair swirling on his chest, and whispered, "Sorry, you're just so sweet. Have trouble remembering it's your first time—and that you're eighteen. But I paid for this and you want even more from me. Say that I paid for this."

"You paid for this," I said, with a gasp. "But It hurts, it hurts," I whined softly. The reminder helped me focus. He'd paid for this and hadn't taken the privilege until I wanted more. He wasn't raping me.

"It's going to hurt the first couple of times. But it will get good for you. Just bear with me—and work on relaxing, opening. I know, maybe this would be better."

He was pulling out of me—such a relief—and carrying me over to an overstuffed chair in a dimly lit corner of his office half way up the Empire State Building. He sat in the chair and pulled me down into his lap. He started to pull my shirt up and off my back, encountered my bound wrists and took the time to unbind them and then rebind them with the scarf once I'd been stripped of the shirt. I was naked except for my socks, and he was still fully dressed except for his shirt gaping wide open and his dick jutting up out of his open fly. Somehow the discrepancy made me feel doubly vulnerable and this whole situation seem sordid.

I'm not being raped; I'm not being raped, I chanted in my mind. I want something he can give me badly enough to do this.