Flip Mecum in New York Ch 09

And of course I wondered whether Flip had fucked Angelo to get the Jud part.

Things have really gone upside down in the last few weeks. You've probably guessed the remake of Tom Jones was not a roaring success. It was called a "an appetizing jewel of comedy in an otherwise dull and serious year." (That's how we describe a flop.) We closed after only two months when the box office collapsed. Fortunately, I got good reviews and some exposure in the New York entertainment press. My agent at last was having some success in setting up auditions.

But Flip had fallen into a wonderful spot by accident. He went from lighting tech to villain-supporting-star in just 48 hours. And then, on the six month anniversary of the play after he had been Jud for only a few weeks, he was made a permanent part of the cast with a long contract.

And he was responsible for my getting a chance at Storm House, last year's hit TV drama-realism show. We're now in rehearsals. The other characters and the director are all hunks. Fuck, we're all marines! But, there's no evident sexuality among the cast. The material and the costuming (really I'm back to Dreamers--my typical "costume" is a jock or trunks, maybe with a Semper Fi tee) are over the top filled with sexual innuendo, but there is no crossing of the line--during filming or after, as far as I can tell. The other actors are pumped, intense and hunky, and either hetero or secret. So I'm horned all the time. But, once again, I'm getting home (7-ish) when Flip has already left for the theatre.

We've "flipped" the old days. Now he wakes me and screws the shit of me after midnight on his return. And I get to be the slow passionate one in the morning before I leave for makeup and the set. And I'm exhausted. With little sleep, the mandatory gym to keep my body pumped for the camera and the anxiety of the new acting medium, I am tired all the time.

I'm not sure what happened last night. But, I awakened groggily around midnight from a really erotic dream to find him sucking hard on my rock hard dick. Just as I opened my eyes in acknowledgement, he released, pushed me over and had fingers (was it three already?) in my ass. There was no mistaking his intent. He was stroking hard, punching the prostate with every thrust. "Jud" was taking my ass like it was his to use as he wished. Well, in a way, I guess it was.

My sleepy response soon turned. Even in the dark, I could visualize his dark hard body on top of mine. He was hot and we were already sweaty. The aroma of testosterone permeated our small space. He was hard and big and planted full inside. Fuck, every time he did it, I marveled at his size. No matter when, that feeling of throbbing fullness is really special. And that night, Flip was adventurous. He rolled back onto the bed, drawing me on top, my back to his chest. He wanted me to crab--or maybe ride. I sat up quickly and felt his cockhead bottoming as the thickness crowded my prostate. Fuck, he was big! Then his hands were on my ass, massaging, lifting and dropping me back onto his pole. Each drop was a sensuous punch to my nut. My ass was dropping, but my arousal was peaking. By then I was awake enough that I pulled back my legs and began to really ride. One hand grabbed his hot swollen balls while a finger pushed hard on his taint. He went wild. His feet planted on the mattress and lifted me high. He started bucking and moaning with pleasure. His cock had turned me into his fuckin puppet. He was Jud again.

Suddenly, I threw up my legs and swiveled--without losing his penetration. But doing so meant that he pounded my prostate in the process. I bent into him and our mouths joined. And as they did, I felt his legs stiffen as he raised us both off the mattress, his muscle contractions and the spurt of his first shot of cum. Then another. And another. As mine spilled onto his chest. He pulled me close and my cum slid between us as his began to leak onto my thigh. He stayed hard and deep, occasionally spasming in the after-shocks of a terrific fuck.

"Fuck, Flip. What set you off tonight? No, I don't need to know. Just do it again some time."

I fell asleep on his chest, my head locked into his shoulder, dreaming about how good he was. And how good we were.

He could confess to Brent if that was going to help us get through these initial weeks of trial. I wanted what Brent and Kirk had--with Flip. We were going to make this work. And I was going to tell him about the director of Dreamers in the morning. I needed to clear the underbrush from our past so we could build a sturdy house in the present.

Morning came and Flip was sleeping peacefully. It had been a hard night for us both. I'd tell him later. My confession would keep. Or maybe it wasn't such a good idea after all.

*****

Flip.....

Storm House turned out to be the most emotionally draining experience that Michael had ever had in his life. And what drained him, drained me. We were now both acting several hours each day. My character was villainous, but the entire Oklahoma! story was exhilarating--and innocent. It celebrated the history of the American experience: individualism, hard-work and binary relationships. It was clear and pure, even if a bit mostalgic fiction in the Twenty=first century.

Michael's, on the other hand, was a total downer. There is nothing uplifting about a man destroyed by the ever-present re-visualization of the worst of war--the civilian casualties and the loss of a close friend. He was at the bitter edge of life. Constant nightmares. He was hanging on by a thread, and the reassurances of fellow combatants and therapists. In the first episode, Bo is admitted to the group house in lieu of institutionalization. He was unsure that this was the kind of experience he wanted. He was "on trial" for his freedom.

Michael took it badly. He was a "method" actor, trained to "live" his character 24/7, to get into his character's head. Moreover, his youth had been middle class, and his college experience had been wonderful. He had no foundation for what he was experiencing. Other than a a bad drug experience in LA and some difficult times with Marty in Houston (neither of which could be dismissed easily), he had had a "normal" life. Nothing had prepared him for the emotional roller-coaster of PTSD therapy, much of which was "face the reality" and overcome it. Marines particularly were often urged to "suck it up" and march on.

Through all of this, Michael leaned on Kirk. They were brothers. They even looked like they had had the same ancestors. Kirk had been through the first season. And he wasn't quite so emotional. But, in many ways Michael transferred his affections and his dependence to Kirk. If it had been anyone else, I would have despaired for our future. This had all the makings of a love affair. Dependence. Physical attraction. A "senior" partner. And lots of time together.

I tried to understand and be supportive. And, of course, my go-to method for doing so was with sex. I stopped the spontaneous, rough taking. And I stopped asking him to pound harder, go deeper. I realized that I was really asking him to hurt me. And I couldn't do that. Since my first introduction to sex as play, really exciting adult play, I had moved slowly toward the delivery and expectation of a little pain, as the necessary partner of pleasure. For me, with my Sunday-school upbringing, what I was doing was sin. And that required punishment. For me, a little pain enhanced my pleasure. And I assumed my partner felt the same way.

Fortunately for us, Kirk confided in Brent, and Brent spoke often with me. I knew Kirk was not a threat. But, I wanted to be a part of this intense experience. And I wanted to be Michael's healer. His "go to" therapist.

I realized Michael needed something very different during this difficult time. He needed to be held, to be stroked, to be assured he was a good, loving and loved partner. Fuck, when I was younger, I wouldn't even have realized this need in my partner. Let alone be able to deal with his actual needs.

And so our relationship changed in subtle ways. And I think I was the one making most of the changes, coached a little by Brent who had been through season I with Kirk.

In the mornings, before he left for the filming, we would cuddle. I would hold him tight. Our lips would touch. Sometimes, I would slowly stroke him to climax while caressing his balls. Then, when he came, I would pull him in and whisper words of comfort, even humming a few of the melancholy phrases from the musical. Sometimes he would just hold my dick, tightening as he came, like a security baton. He would kiss me lightly, in thanks. He even, once or twice, pleaded me not to leave him. That was not going to happen. Then, he would rise to shower, comforted and refreshed, not aroused and tensed up. Once or twice, I knew he hovered over my apparently sleeping body, staring into my face, before he quietly left our apartment.

I stopped waking him when I returned late at night. It took him too long to regain sleep--even if we drained each other in passionate intercourse. I would stretch out beside him, facing him, trying to will myself to relaxation before sleep. But, occasionally he would automatically roll into my arms and share his warmth. Then, he would flip and murmur. "I need you to fuck me, Flip. Fuck me hard. I'm not a good person. I need you to punish me." I knew not to respond with what he had asked.

Instead, I would push him over and press my chest into his back, pulling him hard into me. I would tease his nipples to hardness as I planted loving kisses on his neck under his ears, knowing that would bring up his passion. Soon he was rigid. My fingers would enter him slowly, lubing carefully. My index and middle fingers would gently stroke his love spot, as though I were soothing a kitten. He would sigh in resignation, automatically contracting his butt muscles, tightening his grip on me and holding me inside. When I couldn't take it anymore, I would pull the fingers out and position my head at his entrance.

Like magic, his gates would open. He was slippery and I would slide in, scraping his love nut as I passed it by. I could feel his gasp in my gut as I bottomed. He would push even harder back into me. He wanted all of me inside. Maybe he thought having me there would protect me from danger. Maybe not. I would respond by drawing in my gut and stiffening my legs to achieve even greater penetration.

Then, we would rest in that position, the only motion being the throb in my shaft and the increasingly rapid beating of his heart. My own heart speeded up as we synchronized our breathing and hearts. I could feel the turmoil in my balls and deep in my gut. My first reaction was to push hard and explode. But, I restrained it and held back, relishing the heat of him, the need of him. Minutes later, I would reach over and fist his cock and stroke us both to a climax, the kind of climax that two lovers can alone share. It was long and beautiful. At the end, we were drenched in sweat and cum. And the aroma of our essence would blend as we both knocked quietly on dreamland's door. Maybe His dreams would be more pleasant. Mine turned pleasantly zen. We were at peace.

In a curious way, Michael's portrayal of Bo was growing him up. It was cleansing him. And the therapy of Storm House was healing him and making him a better guy. It had opened him up and torn him to the core. He needed me. I was his healing force. And in an even more mysterious way, Michael's need was maturing me. I was his crutch, his caretaker--absolutely not his dom or his Daddy. Having someone lean on you either breaks you or strengthens you. For me, fortunately, it was the latter. In those weeks there was no question that our relationship grew more serious and deeper.

We were growing together. I was beginning to see in us what I had seen in Kirk and Brent. We were now really lovers. Love requires dependence, openness to being loved and helped. Not always, but once in a while. When we were younger and both striving to make it in the entertainment industry, our tendencies had been to think of self first. In just a few weeks that had totally reversed. I knew it had for me. And I thought it had for Michael.

Michael survived the trauma of Storm House. During that time, I had talked often with Brent. Kirk had experienced the same feeling while he was filming. Storm House was certainly draining its actors. They deserved the critical acclaim that it earned them. But, more than surviving, SH changed Michael. He matured--in four months, he became a real actor. He already had several offers for Broadway, TV and even a feeler for a Hollywood movie. He was certainly a more complex, more interesting and more compassionate person. And I'm pretty sure we we're now absolutely a couple.

TBC BD