Easy Come, Easy Go

We went downstairs to the lobby bar during the interval. We got separated there, and I saw her off talking with a young male movie actor, Craig Somebodyorother, who I recognized from minor, "the boyfriend," roles in various movies. So, this evening had something to do with movie awards, I surmised. I roamed, engaging in light, brief chitchat myself with faces that indicated that they probably should know who I was and decided to be friendly--briefly, but admiringly so, I was happy to observe--in case they did want it known they knew me. As I wandered, I noticed a tall, trim, distinguished-looking man following me with his eyes. He was maybe in his forties, very well put together, handsome, and he must have been someone important, because when he wasn't looking at me, he was engaged in conversation with groups of people who sought him out. He was just standing in place and people were coming to him.

Sometimes you knew who wanted to be a hookup from just this--him or her following you around the room with their eyes. I was in the business of knowing when that was happening. It was happening here. When he knew I was looking at him when he was looking at me, I saw him smile and nod his head toward the stairs leading back up to the balcony.

I went up the stairs. I was two-thirds of the way up when I knew that he was on the stairs, coming up behind me, too. There were just the four boxes for seating in the balcony, but there were men's and women's rooms there. I was alone in the upper lobby when I ascended to that point. I went into the men's room. He followed. No one else was in the room--or approaching it, as far as I could tell.

We did the ritual of standing at the urinals, side by side, flashing our goods, pretending to take a piss while looking down at the other guy's cock. I was still hard from an "almost" under Susan's stroking in the balcony before the lights went up for the intermission. He was in erection too--and he was hung. I was cut; he wasn't.

I sat on the toilet in a cubicle, my pocket stuffed with the wad of cash he'd handed me, clutching his hips, as, still fully clothed, but his cock still hard and exposed, he leaned over me, palms against the wall behind the toilet, and I gave him head. Then it was me, standing in a crouch, hips jutting out beyond the toilet bowl, shoulder blades pressed to the wall behind the toilet, cupping his head in my hands, as he, on his knees, gave me head.

In the end, I was still in that position, but he had stood and, taller than I was, he was crouched over me. He was holding both of our cocks in one of his hands, frotting them. He had a white handkerchief in the other, signaling that he would catch whatever transpired with that--that we both could leave here with our tux unsullied. Our faces were close together, but we didn't kiss. He was watching me intently, clearly wanting to show his dominance. I was quite willing to be submissive to him. He was a man of obvious command--and there was that wad of cash in my pocket.

I gave a little moan when I realized he was going to dock the cocks, which he did, making the glans kiss, and then pulling his foreskin over my bulb. Holding the cocks together like this, he stroked them, making the bulbs kiss, mingling their precum. Mesmerized by him and what he was doing, I just let my arms dangle at my sides, my hips jutted out into his hand, and let him stroke us, his handkerchief ready to receive and cover our mutual releases, which it did, to a shared ejaculation.

He left me there, in the cubicle, back pressed to the wall, pelvis jutting out beyond the toilet bowl. As he was leaving and before the door to the cubicle swung shut, I saw him dump the soiled handkerchief in a trash bin, wash his hands in the basin, and pause before the mirror behind the sinks to adjust his bow tie. He was cool as a cucumber. Our gazes merged through the reflection of the mirror, he gave me a little, satisfied smile, and then he was gone.

There was no hanky-panky in the balcony box with Susan during the second half of the program. The lights were up, there was live action on the stage, and she seemed interested in what was transpiring on stage. It was some sort of awards segment--connected with the film shorts we'd already seen, I surmised. I was a little chagrined with myself for not knowing what was happening here. I was in Hollywood, going to acting school, already having taken care of learning dance, scared of pinning down the singing part, and preparing, I thought, for a film career. I should have been more in tune with what was going on here.

What went on was a double surprise. First, the Craig Somebodyorother Susan was so closely engaged in talking to during the interval was part of a group called up to the stage and given awards. Beyond that, the docking man from the men's room was called up with another group.

At the end of the program, Susan turned to me and said, "Go out on the street and find Tonya and the Bentley and have her bring it around. I have to talk to someone."

And then she left me. So, it's a Bentley, I thought. The silver boat has a name. I did as she asked. When Tonya managed to take her turn to pull the Bentley up in front of the theater, with me in the passenger seat, the door to the back was opened by a man in a tuxedo. Susan entered the backseat, followed by the man in the tuxedo... Craig Somebodyorother.

"We'll drop you off, if it's somewhere nearby," Tonya turned and said to me. Her expression was one of "don't make a fuss. You were paid for." I caught the warning and took the hint--very well, I thought and very quickly, considering the sudden shock of it. I had been wondering about--and looking forward to--the wild night the three of us would have at Loews Hollywood Hotel. It seemed not, especially as, while we were pulling away from the curb, Susan already had the young movie actor's cock out and they were kissing.

"It's not far. Just over on North McCadden Place, near Hollywood High School," I said.

It wasn't, in fact, far away, but it was far enough that Susan was straddling the guy's lap and was bouncing her ass channel on his cock before we got there.

"Come around to the trunk," Tonya said when we'd come to a stop in front of my almost-tenement apartment house. When I met her there, I understood this abrupt parting wasn't an impromptu move. She opened the trunk and handed me the leather toiletries case and a bag with both my cruising clothes and my "today's shopping" clothes in it. The spoils of the engagement. My tip, I guess.

"Where should I send the tux?" I asked.

"Keep it. She wants you to have it," Tonya said. "It was custom fit for you anyway." And then, almost as an afterthought, she said, "This is how it goes. She likes you. You did great." Then she went up on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against mine before she got back in the Bentley and drove off. Susan and Craig hadn't even noticed I was gone. While I was retrieving my stuff, the big boat of a car had been gently rocking on its springs and I'd seen Susan's blonde head rising and falling in the backseat through the back window.

Oh, well, I thought, as I stood on the sidewalk watching the Bentley glide back up toward Hollywood Boulevard, easy come, easy go.

Later I discovered the tip had been better than just a new tux and a "going shopping" ensemble. Five hundred-dollar bills had been slipped into the pocket of the tux. Quite a good day and a half take considering that Ed would have a big slice of what he'd charged for my services to give me as well.

* * * *

We were dancing on the stage and I noticed that Erik was zeroing in on a patron in the front row. That, of course, piqued my interest and my competitive spirit. Imagine my surprise when I looked down into the audience at the Highland Nightclub while we were dancing our last show on a Saturday night and found Mr. Mature but Handsome Docking Buddy, from the balcony men's room at Grauman's Chinese Theater, sitting there, looking oh so cool, in command, and interested--in Erik.

I couldn't give this one to Erik, of course, so I turned on the afterburners, taking Mr. Docker's attention from Erik to me. He looked surprised when his attention latched onto me, and I like to think that he'd seen Erik first, thought it was me, and didn't look beyond Erik until I interjected myself. I worked hard at it, but by the end of the dance, it was me he was watching.

And afterward, it was he, identified as Elliot Carrier, a movie producer, who prompted Ed Ellis to visit me in the dressing room and inform me I'd been engaged in a "multiple" until Monday morning. A multiple meant that I'd have to lay down for more than one, and it usually was employed for bachelorette or bachelor parties.

Whatever. I was just happy to meet up with Mr. Docker again and maybe to be taken by him to completion this time. He was older, but he was intriguing and sexy as hell. And I was being told he was a movie producer--I'd seen him get an award for it without knowing precisely what for--and I was a would-be movie actor.

When Carrier came into the dressing room to collect me--and, I'm pleased to say, to cause Erik to scowl--he asked a strange question.

"This gentleman here," he gestured to Ed, who was no gentleman, and the tone of Carrier's voice indicated that he, who had just been in negotiations with the man over my body, understood that fully, "tells me you are an expert tennis player."

Before I could answer, Ed interjected, "He was on the University of Florida tennis team the year it almost won the national championship."

That surprised me--that Ed had looked into my past enough to know that I'd attended, if not finished at Florida, and that I played competitive tennis. I'd have to ask him what else he knew about my past. I'd left Florida at the end of my sophomore year, having been laid by most of the faculty of both the theater arts and physical education departments, male and female alike, having degree in hand to prove I was good at it, and having been encouraged to acquire the bug of thinking I could make it in the movies in L.A.

Carrier didn't mention tennis further as he drove us straight up from Hollywood and Highland into the Hollywood Hills in a sleek red Maserati GT Convertible. His house was sleek and rich-looking too, hidden at the top of a ridge behind a long driveway and electronically opening gates. I didn't have much of a chance to see the downstairs before discovering that he had a bedroom that went on for miles, a four-poster bed that made a little whooshing sound when it rocked back and forth, a cock to die for--which I already knew--a powerhouse backswing, and a fuck that went on forever.

He took me first missionary style, my arms stretched over my head, wrists restrained by leads secured at the posts at the headboard, my legs spread and bent, feet flat on the mattress, and Carrier's knees pushed in under my buttocks, lifting my pelvis and giving him straight, deep access in his thrusts inside me. He fucked me vigorously and intensely the first time, as if he'd been thinking about it and obsessing over it since he hadn't fucked me the other night in the men's room at Grauman's Chinese theater. I didn't mind. I'd been regretting he hadn't fucked me then too.

For a second fuck, he reversed the restraints on my wrists, and he lay on his back on the bed, with me straddling his pelvis, hovering over him, as he held my waist between his hands, my arms stretched out and secured, and me using the leverage of my knees to rise and fall on his cock. The restraints weren't needed, but he thought they'd be a nice touch, and I didn't disagree.

An even nicer touch appeared at the door to the bedroom. Susan--Carrier's wife, it turned out--entered in just red spike heels and a phallus harness. She climbed up behind me, thrust up inside me on top of her husband's cock, and I was being double spiked by the team of Elliot and Susan Carrier.

It became clear that Elliot Carrier had known where to find me in the Chippendales revue line at the Highland Nightclub because Susan had told him where I'd come from--and that I could easily be had.

I was easily had by them both--repeatedly--into the dawn's early light.

Over breakfast, Elliot told me that I'd be playing tennis later that afternoon, but it would be best if I got some rest before that--and dressed for tennis, if I had the duds, and provocatively so if I could manage that. I could, if I could get back to my apartment to get to my wardrobe. Ed had been right that I was good at tennis. I played often and well and I had the wardrobe for it. It didn't escape me, though, that Susan had outfitted me for the roles I was to play for her but her husband didn't. I knew who the spender of the family was.

"Tonya will drive you back to your apartment," Susan said.

"And pick you up at 3:30 this afternoon again," Elliot added. "We're playing doubles at 4:00."

Tonya did take me back to my apartment, but I didn't get much sleep. Delon was out on an assignment of his own, so Tonya and I fucked, me folding myself in her curves in a missionary, inserting myself deep in her, and kneading and feasting on her pendulous breasts. She didn't mind, and to my query on whether Susan would mind, she said, "Susan assumed. It's part of the perks of my job, if not yours."

It was perfectly fine in the job I was doing with the Carriers too.

Tonya didn't have to come back for me at 3:30 in the afternoon. She already was here, with me. She helped me pick out my tennis togs, making sure they were form fitting and that the line of my cock could be seen. I asked her why this was necessary, but she just hummed, like she knew something I didn't--and she probably did.

She drove me back up into the Hollywood Hills and to the Mulholland Tennis Club on Crest View Drive. I'd played here before with a private pickup and I knew they had guestrooms in the clubhouse, with bathtubs that held more than one. The woman had been named Sylvia, she'd been a tennis pro from thirty years earlier, she was still fit in her early fifties, she had thighs of steel, and she was a cleanliness nut. She nearly consumed me in the tub, encased my thighs with hers and not giving me up until she'd gotten the very last drop of my cum deposited deep inside her.

The tennis was men's doubles, with Carrier and me against a dumpy talent agent and an aging matinee idol, who wasn't doing so bad in keeping himself in shape. It was well known that he was gay and kept young lovers, and I presumed that I was there to play tennis and to service him for some professional scheme of Carrier's. I was right, but it was a little more complicated than that.

Off the top, Carrier had said that, if Garry Gare and his agent won a two-of-three match, Carrier would let them fuck me and would let Gare out of his contract for a movie Carrier was producing. They seemed impressed with me, especially since after all that tennis togs selection Tonya and I had done, I was told to play skins, and even more so when they were told I was a Chippendales dancer. If we won, Gare would take the salary offered without his usual cut of the box office profits.

"And young Brad here?" Gare asked.

Carrier laughed. "If you lose, you can still fuck him--as a good-will gesture--but Harvey here can't." The talent agent scowled. He also subsequently worked harder than Gare did to win the match.

"We outmatch them, I'm sure," I whispered, as I walked with Carrier to the side where we were to begin.

"I want them to win," Carrier whispered back. "Make it look good--and we can take the first set, but lose to them."

"Lose to them?" I asked, confused. "You'll lose the star of your movie."

"I want to lose him. I don't want him in the movie. I have someone else lined up for the part. But I don't want to screw my relationship with him. I need him and his agent to think they won what they wanted."

So, we lost to them. I made it close and I cried inside how many times I had to whiff the ball to keep it close, but we lost to them and I got fucked in one of the guest rooms in the Mulholland Tennis Club's clubhouse. I danced for them first to affirm that I was a Chippendales dancer.

The agent was a piece of cake. He was obese for the job and not anywhere close to in shape. He just bent me over the bed and, wheezing, took me from behind, shooting off almost before he could get his dick inside me.

The movie star was something else altogether. He was in shape for his age, experienced in topping a young man, very interested in topping me, and professional in spiking men. He had me in a club chair, crouching over me, with my legs draped over the arms, and on the bed in a much more vigorous doggy than his agent had managed, and in the tub, with thighs of steel, encasing my thighs, and holding me captive, him inside me, until he'd given me every drop of cum he had left.

Later, after they'd gone, Carrier fucked me again. Then Tonya took me back to my apartment. Delon still wasn't there, so I fucked Tonya again. And that was that. No tip from Carrier this time, confirming that his wife was the big spender in the family--well, no tip, unless the Carriers thought Tonya's cunt and big tits constituted a tip for me.

But, my cut of what Ed Ellis would have charged would be hefty enough. As for the rest, easy come, easy go.

I did get a private phone number for Garry Gare--and I did later use it. He did help me get onto the sand in the background of a beach party film, and that was my start in the business.

* * * *

A week later and there had been no recalls from the Carriers. So, it was, indeed, easy come, easy go, I decided. No contact from Tonya either. Oh, well, this was Hollywood. I'd already gotten a call back from Garry Gare, so there was a lead there.

Imagine my surprise, then, when, as we started the last show on Saturday night and were out there humping the boards to a near full house, I saw them there, in the middle of the front row--Susan and Elliot Carrier. I danced my little heart out for them.

I waited for a while in the dressing room until all of the other guys were gone. Erik, giving me the same scowl he'd been giving me for a week, was the last to leave before me. I waited for Ed Ellis to come in. He did. There was a tall, heavy--but with muscles more than fat--guy standing in the doorway. He was maybe in his late forties and maybe had been a professional boxer at one time. He looked like he could--and would like to--take someone apart.

"This is Mr. Jackson, Brad," Ed said. "He'll be taking you for a spin tonight?"

A spin? Like a cycle in a washing machine? I wondered. It looked like the "someone" he'd take apart tonight would be me. My eyes dropped to his basket. Oh, Christ almighty it was going to be a rough night--but a glorious rough night.

As we were moving toward the stage door, I saw that Erik was ahead of me on leaving, standing right at the door. Susan Carrier was on one side of him and Elliot Carrier on the other. They both had arms entwining Erik's. Beyond the open stage door, out in the alley, sat a silver Bentley, with Tonya at the wheel.

Oh, well. Easy come, easy go.