Danny's Choice Ch. 02: His Story

* * * *

Sergei honored the new rules with a sour expression on his face and a tendency to criticize my positions more than he did any of the other dancers, even while we both knew I was the best male dancer in the troupe. When he didn't think I heard him, he was telling the other male dancers to look at my form and follow it. He had no real choice but to honor the rules, though. Keith Winston was less cooperative, and I had to use guile and persistence to keep his hands off me until Jerome and Buford—quite probably at the command of Even Yellen—took Keith off to the depths of the backstage area one day and he returned with a black eye from supposedly having tripped over a coil of thick roping in the dark.

The arrangement with Yellen was fine, for a year and a half. He could fuck nasty and had a fetish for bondage, but his demands in terms of frequency weren't particularly heavy. He certainly didn't leave me gasping for air and my channel twitching like Buford and Jerome did. And their monthly servicing was something I always looked forward to. The acting and vocal lessons he arranged for me—and paid for—were great and those alone justified the freedom of choice I had to turn over to him. I felt the lessons were strengthening my portfolio a hundredfold. But what they didn't do was help me to step up out of the dance troupe into acting roles on stage.

I found this curious. I should be getting speaking and singing parts now. I had it all. There were few three-talent young men not yet twenty in the business. With Evan Yellen's backing, I should be getting better roles.

I increasingly became suspicious, though, that it was because of Yellen that I wasn't getting better roles—that he was making sure I didn't so that he could keep me under his thumb. Despite this growing suspicion, I'd grown complacent. I was making enough money to move out of the rooming house and into a small apartment—a tiny apartment, one smaller than Keith Winston's and in a not-so-great neighborhood. Evan had made suggestions from time to time that I could move to his house. But it was out on Long Island. The commute would have killed me. And, besides, I was having this sinking feeling that I was doing just that—sinking into oblivion underneath Evan's thrusting and controlling body.

The breaking point didn't come until 1949, in the form of Todd Means. Todd reminded me a lot of myself when I was sixteen—although he was seventeen when he came to New York City, grabbing for the brass ring. He was young, naïve, small of stature, prettier than handsome, sultry sexy without meaning to be, and a good dancer. Not as good as I am—or even was when I was sixteen—certainly. But a good enough dancer to be in a troupe on stage.

The revelation came during the dance team auditions for South Pacific. Kiss Me Kate was still running, but I could see that the end of its stay on Broadway was coming. I needed to line something else up. South Pacific, which was to open in April in the Majestic Theater, was having great reviews from those actors and dancers looking ahead in the Broadway season and trying to snag the last casting call fills.

There were two spots open for male dancers who could sing as well. I wanted one of those spots. I went to Evan for help in getting it, but he shrugged and said that South Pacific was going to be a blockbuster show. He thought I was good enough and would say so if asked, but the casting decisions would be close hold. "No favoritism in this one, I think," he had said. "It might be more advantageous for you for me not to speak out at all. You have talent to carry you now."

Todd was auditioning early in the set; me later. He had auditioned and had looked good. His dancing was great, but his singing sounded only passable to me. I was just about to go into my own audition when I looked down into the hall, and there, in the aisle, about where the light from the stage sank into the dark of the back of the hall, stood Evan Yellen. And standing next to him, talking to him—was Todd.

After my audition I saw that Evan no longer was in the auditorium. I told myself that he had come to see my audition, which I thought was terrific. I think the casting staff thought it was very good too.

I got one of the spots. But Todd got the other spot. I thought at least three of the other guys gave stronger auditions then he did.

When I congratulated him, he thanked me, but innocently said, "I think the producer gave me a lot of help."

The producer of South Pacific, I asked, outrage starting to bubble up inside me in response to Evan's claim that there was no "in" campaigning attached to this casting.

"No, another producer. Mr. Yellen. Evan Yellen. He has agreed to help me."

I looked at him, thunderstruck. He was seventeen. He was almost identical to what I was at sixteen. There was only one reason in my mind that Evan Yellen would be taking the young man under his wing.

I went directly to Yellen's office and confronted him on the matter. "You got Todd Means the spot in South Pacific, didn't you?—after telling me there was no favoritism."

"You got the other spot, didn't you?"

"Yes, but I earned mine. I was the best one at the auditions."

"Humility was never your strong point, was it, Danny?"

"Fuck humility, Evan. You contracted with Means, didn't you? You're going to pop his cherry when he hits eighteen, aren't you?"

"My arrangement with you, Danny, doesn't include you passing on who I fuck and who I don't."

"Well, fuck you," I screamed, as I headed for the door.

"I've never asked anyone else to live with me, Danny," he called out as I passed through the door. "Just you."

I fumed in a bar for a couple of hours, until well after darkness had fallen. I should have been exuberant—I got the part in South Pacific. Not a speaking part, but a part including singing on top of the dance, and in another major musical. It was going to be a blockbuster. Everyone said so.

So, why did I feel so used and betrayed? Yellen was right. I never demanded the loyalty from him that I had agreed to give to him.

I drank one—or probably two—too many shots of bourbon and, in the late evening, found myself at Keith Winston's apartment door. He answered in just a robe, having been ready for bed. I took him to bed, laid him flat on his back, mounted his hips, slid down his pole, and rode him like a cowboy, swinging my arms and yodeling—the whole nine yards. He was startled, but he raised no objection.

When I was finished with my performance and dropped down beside him in exhaustion, he asked, "Does this mean you are finished with Evan Yellen?"

"I don't know what it means, Mr. Winston. I do know it means I have trouble holding my liquor."

"You can call me Keith," he said with a smile. "I think first names are proper after the fifth fuck. Of course, that's the first time you fucked me rather than me fucking you. Tell me. There's something wrong, isn't there?"

"There's nothing fuckin' wrong," I answered belligerently, and then I shot off the bed and into the bathroom. I went into the shower, without even closing the bathroom door, and turned the water on, full bore. I sank onto the floor of the shower under the pelting stream of water, rolled up into a ball, and started sobbing.

He came and stood, leaning against the frame, of the bathroom door. I glanced his way. So sexy for a man his age. He still could be a high-fashion male model. And, in fact, he did do sexy billboard work for men's clothes.

He stepped into the shower, pulled me up, and faced me to the wall. He was close behind me, kissing me on the neck and cooing into my ear, telling me everything was going to be fine. Running his hands up and down my body; palming my belly and pulling my pelvis out from the wall, my buttocks jutting out; and his free hand running into my crevice; pulling my butt cheeks apart; entering my ass, still open and lubed with his cum, with his middle finger; finding my prostate. Making me moan. Making me come against the tiled wall.

I raised my arms up the slippery tiles of the shower, pressed my cheek to the wall, and whimpered a, "Fuck me. Fuck me. Make me forget."

The entry of his cock was slow, sensual, bringing peace. He slow pumped me while palming my pecs and whispering endearments in my ear.

"Fuck me hard," I moaned. "I don't want to feel anything else but your cock working me hard."

Complying, Keith pulled out and turned me. I climbed his hips and threw my arms around his neck. I kissed him hard, biting his lip, sucking on his tongue, while he cupped my buttocks and spread them and thrust cruelly up into me as deep as he could, the thrust rubbing my back up and down the wet and soapy shower wall.

When he'd ejaculated, he let me slip down to the floor, and I took his cock in my mouth and cleaned it. He turned and left me on the floor of the shower—where he'd found me—when I released his shaft from my mouth.

When I had composed myself and dried off, I padded out to the room. He was standing at the window, back in his robe, and looking out on the city.

"In many ways, this city is the finest place to be on earth," he said, in an "almost absently" voice. "But it can eat a person up. It can be so cruel."

He turned and looked at me. "Is the city being cruel to you now, Danny?"

"I guess," I answered, not looking at him, standing there, naked, and looking down at the floor.

"You are so beautiful. I can't think of the city being cruel to you, Danny. It's all I can do not to rush over there and crush you, to try to meld you into me as close as possible."

I didn't respond.

"It's not the city being cruel to you, is it? It's Evan Yellen."

"Yes," I answered in a small voice.

"Because of Todd Means?"

I looked up sharply then. "What do you know about Todd Means?"

"I know he has a contract with Yellen—just as you did. He has to remain celibate until he's eighteen and then he has to give his virginity to Yellen."

"How do you know this? Have you tried to fuck Means?"

"Yes, of course I have, and that's when he told me of the arrangement. You found out, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"He's not the only one in the last year and a half, Danny. I'll bet Yellen notches his belt with a virgin every other month—all built on contracts to help their careers. And he may have helped your career, Danny, but only up to a point. I bet I'm right on that. He can't have you become too much of a success—probably not as much of a success as your talent and training justify."

I said nothing, trying hard not to cry. Why in the shit did I care what Yellen did? Stability, I guess. He was my rock—or my pile of sand, I guess.

"Stay with me, Danny. You have so much talent. I have a movie role budding out in Hollywood. Stay with me. I'll take you to Hollywood when I go. We'll get you into movies out there. You'll be a star. Tell me that you'll stay with me."

Better than that, I showed him. I walked over to the bed, laid down with my butt on the edge, and raised and spread my legs. I watched him cross the room, a movement framed by my raised and spread legs. How many men had I done this for now?—raised and spread my legs. He shucked his robe as he walked. A beautiful body regardless of his age. His cock already proudly erect.

I turned my head toward the window, watching the city lights at night. He grasped my wrists, raising my arms over my head, slid inside me as I arched my back, and began to pump.

* * * *

Another year and a half. Thankfully the South Pacific run was a long one, because there was nothing else coming my way. Even the audition calls had dried up. I credited that to Evan Yellen, to vengeance.

Keith was a dud. He kept talking about his movie role in Hollywood and saying we were on the cusp of going out there—so I didn't need to worry about work and new roles on stage.

I became his maid and cook—and a hole to fuck every night. Sure, he was romantic about it and all, but he wasn't Jerome and Buford. He didn't have a big black cock. He didn't share me with others. There was a bit of variety, but it was all lovemaking. I needed a good rough fuck occasionally. I needed to be passed around as Yellen sometimes did. Even Evan gave me rough fucks—let me know I'd been fucked.

The apartment was much too small. It began to constrict on us. We fought. He told me we couldn't afford a bigger apartment—that I wasn't making enough, wasn't chipping in my part. I wasn't moving up the ladder. I scolded him about his promise to take me to Hollywood, to make me a movie star. He said "soon." I screamed that he had no balls, that his cock didn't satisfy me. That there were black stud stagehands in the theater who could satisfy me better than he could.

He stormed out of the apartment. But I knew he'd be back. It was his apartment. I packed the few things I had and left before he returned.

* * * *

"So, you want to come back to me."

I was sitting across the desk from Evan Yellen in his Empire State Building office.

"If you want me back. I'll even move into your Long Island home, if that's what you want."

"If you did that, I'd want you to stay there, to take care of me. To give up your stage career."

"I don't know. I guess. My so-called career isn't going anywhere."

"I would want you to stay away from Keith Winston. I knew he wasn't good for you. Too much a gentleman. No fire and a mean streak. You need to be manhandled and fucked hard regularly."

"I just feel so defeated."

"I'll keep you from that. I've never asked anyone to live with me before. You're the one. I'll be good to you—in more ways than one. We were meant to be together."

"Yeah, I suppose."

"You be good to me until the end and you'll be set up. You're still young. There's time, time to make it in the business, with the right backing, including financial backing."

"I don't understand. What do you mean 'to the end'?"

He gave me a hard look. "You don't want to know. But I knew you'd come back to me. I was prepared for it."

"Oh, yeah, how?"

"Jerome and Buford. They no longer work in the theater. They're gardeners now. I hired them to work at the estate out on Long Island. If . . . no, when . . . you come out there to live and take care of me, they'll tend your garden whenever you want it. It's like I said years ago. You love big black cock. You know it and I know it. Now, go over to the couch, please. Strip off and bend over the couch."

He was reaching into this drawer for the wrist and ankle restraints he liked to use.

I stood, turned, and started working my belt buckle as I moved to the studio couch. I couldn't help it, my channel muscles were twitching in anticipation of a good old rough bondage fuck.

* * * *

This is the story of my life to age twenty-six, of the opportunities I had and the choices I made. I know I never could write it up to be published; Writing isn't my forte. I'm an acting, song, and dance man, although what I'd really like to happen to what I've written would be for it to be made into a classy-production art film, something to push the envelope in Hollywood.

Since I left New York, I've learned a lot about Hollywood, including the underbelly part of it where there are so many gay men in the business, all playing the game of putting gay subtext into movies that only they and their friends will understand. I would like this to become a whole film of that. I know it never will, though. It's about producers and casting couches and hard bargains for young men's tails—often for virgin tail. Producers aren't going to let this get on film. The best I think I could do if I could get someone to rewrite it for me is to get it into print, with my own money, if necessary.

What I've put in my journal is what happened to me; I wound up back with Evan. I survived it, although, within four years Evan was dead, taken by a series of strokes. He knew he had serious health problems when he made that last deal with me. I have to say, though, that he was good on his promise. We were good together for those four years. I even continued with the acting and singing lessons. Inherited everything of Evan's, including Jerome and Buford. Went to Hollywood on my own, and with my talent and financial backing—and willingness to open my legs on the casting couch—I made it to near the top. That wasn't unusual, I don't think. I think that's the story of lots of movie stars—you'll have to trust me on that.

I did see Keith Winston occasionally out there, but we kept our distance. How did he make it out there, to Hollywood? His anticipated call for a movie role in Hollywood came the week after we split up.