Easy Sundays Ch. 04: Los Angeles

"I'm on assignment. You wouldn't know the movie producer Cory Kadowski and be able to point him out, would you?"

"Shit. Kadowski's an ogre. What do you have to do for him and why?"

"I have to lay down for him. You know that novel I was working on? It's been published and the movie rights deal is making the rounds here. Kadowski is a stumbling block. My agent says I have to fuck him to get the manuscript moving up the ladder again."

"He's a monster, I hear—Kadowski. A real Frankenstein and a bull to boot. And sadistic, I hear. You probably want to stay clear of him."

"I can't, I'm afraid. I need the money from a movie deal. Is he here?"

"Yes. He's over there talking to that shitty agent, Aaron Trimble. The fat guy in the baggy blue trunks."

"Fuck," Gene said when he looked over there. "You're right. He's a whale. And you're right about Trimble being a shitty agent too. He's the agent handling my movie deal."

"Listen," Manny said, "if it's money you need and you don't want to do it with Kadowski or be controlled by Trimble, maybe I can help you."

"You? How?"

"You asked what I'm doing out here. The porn films took off and I have a very lucrative Internet site now. You were good in the films—very popular. You need money, you can make a lot of money in porn fast. So, if you're nice to me, I'd be happy to take you on and set you up in a film fast. I'd pay you for it just as fast."

"We'll see how this other deal goes," Gene said. But he wasn't a dummy. He hadn't done too well so far by burning bridges or not keeping options open. "How nice?" he asked.

"Those bushes are still over there, and you make me horny as hell," Manny said, with a smile

Manny doggie fucked him in the bushes—and they weren't alone or the only ones fucking in the bushes by the pool. Gene didn't have to think of him as having gone to fat. He was as strong as ever and he had the same expert cock. He came in behind Gene, had the young man bend over and grab his ankles, and Manny grabbed Gene's hips between his hands, mounted and penetrated him, and took him swiftly and deep. Gene was yawning open from having just done a double, so he had no trouble with Manny's shaft and enjoyed the filmmaker's cocking technique.

When they emerged from the bushes, Kadowski and Trimble were still in conversation across the pool. Trimble saw Gene and waved him over. Before he left, Manny said, "Good luck. Offer's open. You're honey to the bees. You still have the same e-mail address as in New York?"

"Yes," Gene answered.

"So, I'll contact you to establish a connection."

"We'll see," said Gene as he gave a deep sigh, fought for a smile he could give for the fat ogre watching him from across the pool, and did the long walk.

"This is Mr. Kadowski," Trimble said as Gene reached them. Gene gave the mountain of a man a wan smile and resisted jumping away from him when he put a flipper—a hand—on Gene's forearm.

Just then a serving guy passed by them carrying a silver tray with an array of bright-colored pills on it.

"Mood aids, anyone?" the server asked, and fluttered his eyelashes at Aaron Trimble. He instantly identified Gene as another bottom, and he avoided looking at Kadowski. Trimble looked like a good top to him.

"I'll take a blue one and a green one," Gene squeaked, already regretting having agreed to let the movie producer lay him.

"Then you can show me what's inside the house," Kadowski said. "Cliff Danner told me we had the use of a room in there."

"Sure," Gene said, popping the pills in his mouth and downing them with the beer he took from Trimble's hand.

* * * *

After the first fuck, Kadowski moved on to more personal pleasures with Gene. He found the restraints tucked under the mattress of the bed in the guest bedroom they'd been lent. In fact, while Gene was engaged in a panting recovery from the reverse cowboy ride Kadowski had taken him on, the movie producer had gone looking for the restraints. So, Danner must have told him they were there for his use.

He spread-eagled Gene on his belly on the bed, stretching his arms and legs up and out, restrained to the corners of the bed. Then he stuffed pillows under Gene's belly, raising the young man's buttocks to complete vulnerability and access to him. He crouched over Gene's buttocks, grabbing the young man's waist between his hands, and laughed at the cry and jerk Gene gave when he thrust inside Gene's ass. And then he rode him and fucked him, rode him and fucked him, rode him and fucked him. Half way through the ride, he leaned over far enough to take Gene's throat in a two-handed choke hold and finished the fuck combining breath play with pelvis thrusts.

The movie producer might have been a gross, fat pig, but he was strong, virile, and long-lasting. He knew what he wanted and he took it.

Gene was left trussed up, panting and moaning, while Kadowski went for a shower. When he returned, he unbound the young man. But he didn't do so until he had pulled his bathing suit back on and was ready to leave.

He didn't say "thank you" or "good job" or anything like that. Right before leaving—leaving the party altogether and roaring away in the back of his black Bentley salon car—he did say, "I've read most of your novel. It's suitable for filming. Have your agent drop by my office on Tuesday morning."

That was the last Gene ever heard from Cory Kadowski.

Gene lay there, recovering, beyond the filtering away of the party guests from the pool below. At length, all was quiet and the sounds of the cars departing from the front motor court died down. Cliff Danner entered the room.

"Aaron Trimble has gone back to L.A.," he said. "He'll return for you tomorrow." He then came over to the bed and, to the sound of Gene's groans, picked the young man up, slung him over his shoulder, padded to the master bedroom, dumped Gene on the master bed, and fucked him some more in a missionary and then a doggie and then . . .

* * * *

The naked hunk was sitting in the driver's seat of the classic white 1974 Corvette Stingray convertible, his legs out of the car. The driver's door was open and his right leg was hung over the top of that, the window down. His left leg, the heel of his foot pressed into the grass was stretched out straight. His right arm was bent over the top of the windshield. The fingers of his left hand were buried in Gene Worth's wind-ruffled hair.

The Stingray was parked on the top of a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Jagged rocks heaved up out of the restless surf in the cove below, highlighting the rugged terrain of the California coast. No civilization was in sight.

Gene, naked, knelt on the grass between the hunk's spread legs, giving the hunk a blow job.

The scene faded out and then back in to Gene spread-eagled over the trunk of the Corvette, his legs crouched in the limited space behind the driver's and passenger's seats, his chest pressed into the trunk of the car, and his arms stretched out, his hands reaching for the car's taillights on either side. The hunk was standing in the well of the car behind the seats and hovering over Gene's back. His right hand was buried in Gene's hair, pulling Gene's head back brutally and arching the young man's back. His left hand was grasping Gene's waist. He was fucking Gene's ass in long strokes with a long, thick cock. The cock thrusts, with the view over the sea behind the tableau of the two beautiful men fucking, were clearly visible from the perspective of the land side of the car.

Manny Rodriguez had two other cameramen with him on the photo shoot, and they videoed the action from every angle they could without getting themselves or their shadows into any of the frames. Manny had told the hunk, a guy with classic California beach bum looks picked up on Malibu Beach who did occasional films for him, and Gene generally what he wanted in the movie. It wasn't anything new really. It started with Gene hitchhiking and being picked up by the hunk in his Corvette. There were meaningful looks between the two in the car and then they went immediately to the blow job scene on the cliff top and the fuck. The last scene was the only thing new. That was a shot of Gene driving the Corvette down the coastal road and the hunk nowhere in sight.

Maybe some of the viewers would be left wondering what the story on that was. Whether after being mastered and ravished, the Gene character somehow came out on top with the nice sports car. But the main thing was that both men were gorgeous and they looked good fucking. That's what the viewers would be paying for.

This was the second movie Gene had done for Manny, each on successive Sundays. When Aaron Trimble had gone to Cory Kadowski's office the Tuesday after Cliff Danner's pool party, he was told that Kadowski had flown out to London on Monday and would get in touch with Trimble for the next time Gene could "consult" with him on the movie deal.

Gene gave up at that point. After this movie he'd have the travel money he needed.

For now, though, they were wrapping up this movie. Gene already knew that after the film was in the can Manny would take him to some sleazy hotel nearby and bang the hell of him and not return him to Aaron Trimble until Monday morning.

"Can't help it, baby," Manny would say. "You're like honey to the bees. And you're so easy."

"Only on Sunday, Manny," Gene would say. They'd been here before.

But it was Sunday. Sunday in Los Angeles.

* * * *

It wasn't a Sunday. It was a Tuesday. Gene Worth had been back in New York City for nearly a week. Manny hadn't given up his apartment—the one Gene had lived in with him—because it was rent controlled and Manny didn't know whether or how long he'd be staying out in California. He'd given the key to Gene. Gene had spent the week becoming reacclimated to the city and wondering why he'd ever left New York to begin with.

He hadn't gone out for easy sex on Sunday. He'd stayed in and written on his new novel. He'd made great progress on that, he thought. He already was getting pushy e-mails from his publisher, Kenton Blackburn, in Chicago about receiving a prospectus on what Gene was writing. None of the e-mails had hinted of sex, though, and Gene surmised that whatever sexual relationship he'd had with Blackburn now was over. That was a bit sad, but the professional relationship still was there. Perhaps, Gene thought, he was maturing to not having to have a submissive relationship involved in every professional relationship he had with a man.

For some reason that made him think of Josh Steinem, the fashion designer and literary journal publisher who lived in the five-story brownstone on 39th Street. He kept thinking that that was one man he could have a balanced sexual and professional relationship with. That man had treated him right. And perhaps he'd thought about Josh because of Saturday, when he had gone to Central Park aching for sex—he was highly sexed; there was nothing he could do about that or wanted to change about that—and had taken a man back to the apartment and had been treated as well as Josh had treated him.

His name was Tray. He was black, and tall and slim and well-muscled and wore his hair in long, black dreadlocks. He was a sidewalk poet and, for all Gene knew, homeless. Gene had heard him reciting poetry at the side of a path in the park, standing there with a hat turned in front of him and giving a bright white-toothed smile to everyone who dropped coins in his hat in passing. Gene had heard him from afar and been drawn to the rich baritone and mesmerizing cadence of his words as he recited his strong beat and clever rhyming poetry of an heroic rescue at sea by brave and gloriously described coastal patrol members of the Jersey shore in the previous century.

This theme closely paralleled the setting and background of the new novel Gene was working on, so he sat in a bench on the other side of the poet and listened to him, letting the words roll over him, and, unconsciously perhaps, taking bits and pieces of what he was hearing and letting them insert themselves in what he was forming in his mind to write. It is very likely that the poet Tray provided the inspiration that made Gene's writing the next day so fluid and so enriching to the building theme of the novel.

The two men eyed each other, and at some point Tray was speaking directly to Gene and reaching into the young man's soul. The attraction was unmistakable and unavoidable. Tray was quite obviously a sensual man and Gene had come to the park seeking sexual release. Tray looked directly into Gene's eyes and one of his hands dropped to his crotch and he fondled himself invitingly. Gene rose from his bench, walked across the path, dropped a fifty-dollar bill in Tray's hat, and stood up and waited.

"You want me to go with you somewhere?" the black man asked.

"Yes," Gene answered.

"I give cock. Do you take cock?"

"Yes," Gene answered.

It was the first time he'd ever paid a man for sex. It was worth every penny of what he paid for it, he thought.

Tray was a bull, as Gene had assumed he would be. They lay on the bed in Manny's apartment, Tray stretched out on top of Gene, and they kissed and fondled each other and ran their hands over each other's bodies in a mutual total exploration of the other. Tray, in full exhilarating erection, was able to hold himself in check until the heat of Gene's need built up to the point of sobbing and begging for the cock. Even then, Gene had to take the cock in hand, Tray lying between his spread legs, guide it to his hole, and raise his pelvis to it.

Tray's thrust was slow and deep. Gene groaned deeply, raised his arms over his head to grasp the top rung of the headboard, and arched his back. He moaned and panted as Tray slow pumped him up the scale of arousal and need into the clouds of ecstasy. While Tray was fucking him, he was reciting poetry—a poem with a heavy beat that matched the timing of his thrusts, his cock bottoming out at the rhyming ends of lines. Gene hadn't been moved like this during sex since Josh Steinem had fucked him before Gene had gone to Kenton Blackburn's bed in Chicago. It was only now that Gene realized that this was the quality of sex that he ached for.

The next day he remained in the apartment, writing feverishly, trying to ensure that he captured all of the passion that the black poet had fucked into him before it evaporated.

And that evening, exhausted, he thought. He thought of Tray, the fucking poet, but as he sat and thought, the image of Josh Steinem slowly intruded into his mind to take over his musings.

So, on Tuesday afternoon, he was standing in front of the five-story brownstone on 39th Street and watching Josh Steinem through the display window of the menswear shop pinning together pieces of a tuxedo on a worktable as shop assistants and a tailor bustled around him seeing to the needs of a few male customers.

As he looked he noticed a "help wanted" sign in the window and, soon after that, Josh looked up and out of the window, saw Gene standing there, and smiled. It was as if it had just been yesterday that they had last met—and maybe, Gene fancifully thought, just maybe it had been as recently as Saturday. Just maybe the spirit of Josh had been inside the body of the black bull poet, Tray.

Gene entered the shop, turned and took the "help wanted" sign out of the window, and then turned again and walked over to where Josh was perched on a stool behind the worktable.

"You have a job opening here?"

"Not for you," Josh said.

Gene hesitated. He hadn't thought of the possibility of rejection. That scenario hadn't entered his mind. He was on the edge of crushed.

But Josh saved him. "The opening is for a custodian. If you come to work here, you'll have to work as a model and you'll have to work on the literary journal that publishes upstairs. And you'll have even more challenging work upstairs in my apartment. It will be exhausting work."

"It sounds like exactly what I'm looking for," Gene said.

"You'd have to live in. The job would use you full time, 24/7."

"The job's beginning to sound even better," Gene said.

"There will be an audition. I know you've auditioned before, but I would want to be refreshed about your skills . . . your considerable skills, if I recall rightly."

"Should I make an appointment?"

"You can go upstairs and wait for me. I have a bit more to do here. I think you can find your way."

And Gene did find his way.

Later that afternoon, he lay, exhausted, on his belly, on Josh's bed, his arm dangling over the side of the bed and his eyes watching Josh, standing naked in the doorway to his bathroom and drying off after his shower. They had fucked twice and Josh had taken his time doing it.

Gene's thoughts went to what he wanted in a man. He couldn't think why Josh didn't have it all. Could he think of this as "it"? Of course he could, if for no other reason than that this wasn't an easy Sunday. This was Tuesday. And he'd been taken to the top, repeatedly, and over the top twice.

His cellphone went off. He reached over, took it off the nightstand, looked at the text message, and laughed. Then he tapped in an answer, put the cellphone back on the nightstand, and reclined back into the pillows on the bed.

"Something amusing?" Josh asked.

"My California agent sold the movie rights to my first novel at last—he took it to another studio from the one we were trying, without much success. He wants me to come out to L.A. to sign the contracts."

"So, you off for California again?" Josh asked. He couldn't keep the disappointment out of his voice.

"Not on your life. I'm just starting a dream job here. I told him to find an agent to handle my end of the signing here in New York or to forget it. That's if, of course, I passed the job audition here. Did I?"

"What do you think?"

"Well, it sure went well for me. What about for you?"

"I can't be sure. I think the audition should continue. Of course, it will mean I've got to take another shower because I'm going to be getting all hot and bothered again."

Both men were smiling as Josh walked back to the bed, walking carefully to avoid the two spent condoms he'd tossed on the floor, while fully determined to add to that collection.

- FINI -