Flip Mecum in New York Ch 10

Flip In New York Ch 10

Michael gets a Hollywood invitation

This story is entirely fictional. Any reference to real persons, places, plays, theatres is co-incidental. All characters described in a sexual activity or discussion are over 18. © 2024 Brunosden. All rights reserved.

Michael....

Storm House turned out to be the most demanding and all-consuming role that I'd ever play. I was young and green when I got the chance. But, years later, I realized how critical that experience was in forming my acting career as well as me as a person. It was a TV reality drama, more or less, a story that looked like it was unfolding before the viewer. But of course, we had the general outlines of a script. And we had all been drilled with the details of our character. It was perfect for me--I had been trained to live my parts, to be my characters. But, when the character is severely troubled, occasionally suicidal, typically down, the character took over my normal personality.

Flip was a life-saver. I knew he was really involved with Oklahoma! and reveling in his role. But, he sensed the personal difficulties that I was experiencing with the underlying story of SH. He stepped up and became the mature side or our relationship. He didn't push me to talk. Somehow he sensed that talking would be a re-living of one of the most difficult things that I had ever known. He was there. Always. When I got home from filming, although he was at the theatre, he had left dinner. Occasionally there were love notes or flowers. Once he even left music, with a little note, "Play me" like Alice in Wonderland. And later he would be in our bed. He stopped demanding nightly sex, and when we did, somehow he was softer--not his dick which remained hard and long and huge. But as a person. I'm pretty sure this is what love is all about.

Somehow he knew that athletic, pounding sex was not what I needed late at night. I had already been sleeping for hours when he got home. He became my "security lover." I could grip him tightly as he slowly stimulated me to a very nice draining orgasm. Then, I'd sleep in his arms.

I'd wake the next morning, still in his arms. By then, I was ready to tease a bit. So I would slowly move out of his embrace as he rolled onto his back. Then, I'd bend down and take his soft flesh inside my mouth. I could often still taste his cum from the previous night. It had that strange musky taste of an expensive truffle. It gives flavor and meaning to even a simple dish. His cock would stiffen as I rolled my tongue around under his hood, lapping up his collected juices, and his hips responded by pushing upward into me-- as his eyes slowly opened.

He was so cute awakening. Like a bear cub (not a good image--he didn't have a hair on his chest!--maybe a panther) arising from a long winter's nap. He had never been fast to awaken. His eyes would open slowly. His hands would reach down to weave through my hair. He'd murmur something about its soft golden waves and what a pleasant dream he had been having. Then he'd groan in appreciation as he realized how hard I had already made him. We'd hug and cuddle. And then, I would take him--missionary this time. I wanted to feel those lips on mine and see the depths of those dark eyes. I'd draw up his legs and roll his butt. Then it was my lips to his rim. He was warm and moist from the sleep. And the cleft exuded the aromas of fantastic manhood. I knew he loved this part, so I prolonged the torture, flicking my tongue around the rim, licking up to his taint, then curling and pushing in. Finally, I'd slowly stroke my way inside as his legs and arms surrounded me and pulled me tight to his chest, his hands always grasping my cheeks--the cheeks he consistently called his favorite part of me.

Our orgasms were perfect and nearly simultaneous. We had really perfected that. And I didn't need to use my hands or stroke. Almost every one was a deep anal, body orgasm. He would sometimes even shake uncontrollably as he came.

I would fall away onto the pillow, realizing I only had minutes to shower and leave for the studio. But, we'd talk for a few minutes. This was a magic time. Then, I would leave him to the rest of his beauty sleep. We were definitely getting there. In a little over six months, our love had matured. We were still young and definitely still over-sexed, but we had learned to manage ourselves. Somehow, in our case, we knew 1 plus 1 was way more than 2. We were ready to take on the world--together.

Little did we know that morning as I softly closed the door and left that the world was about to take us on as well. Later that day, I received a phone call. My agent called me on the set. A producer from Paramount in LA had contacted him. They wanted me to do a screen test for a potential role in a movie. They knew about and had screened the rough takes from Storm House, even before its TV release. They liked the role I was doing, but later I learned that someone else had liked the way I looked. But, they wanted me to fly out to LA for the test the week after SH taping finished. The agent had the script. And he told me it was a potential breakthrough chance. The star was Marylyn Sleep, an A-list actress with an Oscar and several nominations. Her presence in the film would insure box office appeal. But he refused to tell me anything about the role. "You'll see when you read the script. I'm having it delivered to your apartment. It'll be there when you get home this afternoon."

We finished early that day. All the takes worked well--and since it was a reality drama, the director was inclined to accept a good first take, rather than risk a more rehearsed second. In reality TV the unexpected and spontaneity are prized above all else. And this required that all of the actors have a definite level of extemporaneous possibility--we didn't study the script, except to place ourselves carefully in the setting and aware of the issues that were likely to arise. That resulted in occasional flashes of nudity (as ass, a steam-filled frontal nude, or a shadowed swing of a dick--which the director hoped would survive the censors. It probably would, Storm House was for Netflix where censorship was very permitting.

A package was delivered Friday afternoon by special messenger. The return indicated it was from my agent, the promised script. Flip had left a note on top that we had lunch with Brent and Kirk tomorrow, Saturday. They had something they wanted us to see. So we were eating at their place. Curiously, Kirk had mentioned anything. But, Flip had also left a nice bottle of Cab and some mini-pizzas. I was anxious to read the script. So I poured and micro-ed, tour open the envelope and sat in our only easy chair to get my first look.

It was a little different from most stage scripts that I had seen and very different from Storm House which, being "realism" was directed mostly ad lib. There was a great deal more direction from the author on scene, setting, camera placement, panning and close-ups etc. And much less dialogue than one expects on stage. Most of the character action was mentioned (including phrases like, "A speaks out of extreme anger"), and often required directorial discretion during filming. A lot of the story was going to be told with action and facial expressions.

But, the plot was quite clear and really simple with a curious twist at the close (Spoiler non-alert: I'm not going to blow here. You'll have to read on). Marylyn was clearly the star. She plays a late 40s-50-something dominating Irish American mother and the wife of a major producer. She's toned, well-dressed and always made-up and coiffed. She knows her husband has an apartment and frequently uses it with starlets, male and female. That frees her, in her mind, to do the same. As the movie opens (in the morning in her bedroom), she has a boyfriend, probably 20 years younger--definitely a Hollywood hunky, boy-toy.

Her son (Aidan) had just finished his MFA at UCLA and is looking for a gallery to give him his first show. He is described in the introduction as "black Irish"--dark hair, brows and eyes, but a milky complexion. Slim and slight--what they now describe as "metrosexual androgyny"). It also indicates that his name, which means "Little Fire" in Gaelic, accurately describes his demeanor. His work was also fiery. The oils are violent and challenging, "mixing blood, body parts, humor! and horror"--according to the playwright. (I couldn't wait to see the paintings they had commissioned for that purpose. Maybe he was pastiching Dali but with a little more realistic gore.)

The plot is simple and formulaic (again, until the last scenes). Marylyn is anxious to see her son succeed and settle down "with a nice Irish boy." She is investing in a B-list New York gallery to get him access and a SoHo studio to keep him there. But, more than that, she wants him out of her guest house/studio since he's super-critical of the young guys she dates and typically brings home. It's really not protective of his father. Their relationship is not great. Rather, he seems to be embarrassed by his mother's attempt at keeping her youth. He's even attempted to seduce a few of her boys, successfully. So she wants him in New York. Yesterday, if not sooner. The whole set-up was a modern rif on "The Graduate." I wondered who the Dustin Hoffman character was. But Sleep could do a credible Joan Bancroft, particularly after her role in "Devil."

Marylyn spends most of the morning dressing to visit her husband on the set. She arrives just before lunch, determined to spoil any tryst that he might have planned for that period. She meets me (an actor on the set) filming while she waits for her husband. Her ostensible purpose is to discuss the New York gallery investment "they are making." But typically, this is where she picks up her toys, promising to intervene with her husband as required to further a career.

(The industry would call this an "incest flic" since it's about the film industry--it's shot in her luxurious home, an art gallery and on the set of her husband's latest movie.)

In the scene being shot when Marylyn arrives (the movie within a movie), my character has a stand-in role for the co-star. (Actually, it's really not stand-in. It's lay down. My character is a body double for the co-star who will not appear nude--even parts of him, in bed or otherwise. It's probably because he has a small dick and a fat ass, or he's too lazy to work out.) The camera picks up a few tantalizing glimpses of my nakedness in bed.

(Actually, I later learn that the producer had seen me--really my ass--and he wanted my bare ass walking toward her bathroom one morning in his movie--and presumably on his casting couch later. So once again my squat-built ass came through for me. He had seen a porn flic and had used his significant insider resources to track me down.)

Outside the cameras (in the movie), I am having an affair with the husband. Marylyn seduces my character (at least in part to steal me from her husband) and brings me home to her bed, after she banishes Peter (a Russian dancer who looks more like a body-builder). She obviously likes blondes. Aiden (ahh, the Dustin Hoffman look-alike), spots me and decides to give Mommy some competition. He is both an ambidextrous painter and a bi-lover.

My character is fairly complex. I'm straight and hetero when she brings me home--at least as hetero as possible given that my profession is to maintain my buff to play body double roles where nudity is required and A-list actors refuse to appear naked. After a few days of daily trysts in Mommy's daytime bed, her son begins the seduction. Ultimately, he tricks me into his studio and bed. I'm supposed to model as he paints, and therefore I'm wondering when he's going to start separating my body parts. Then he blackmails me into having sex "or I'll tell Mommy, and you'll be out on your ass. There is no way that she'll allow a penniless actor whom she has already fucked, pick up with me. You're not even Irish."

Mommy finds out that Aiden and I are doing more than model and paint in the backyard studio. She banishes me. Daddy is pissed that he hadn't gotten to fuck me yet. Neither Aiden nor I know that she suspects anything. But, I know by near the end that I've fucked or been fucked by all three. And then there is a great final scene. You'll have to see it to learn the denouement. It's really quite cute.

It's not a bad role. I'm really the principal co-star with an A-list actress. And Aiden is likely to be a top star as well. They are going for an "R"; so while there'll be a lot of nudity; none of it will be full-frontal. And I do start as convincingly hetero--although by the credits, I'd be more accurately described as bi.

Most filming will be in LA, but the art gallery that will "show" Aiden's work is in New York. Marylyn takes me with her as her "assistant" when we go to set up and witness the opening. So the film crew and action will be bi-coastal. The art gallery and her hotel scenes with me will be shot in New York. Of course, we had no idea when that might be. Films are not shot sequentially, which is awfully difficult for a method actor like me. It is scheduled for about three months of rehearsal and filming--before at least six months of editing and promo. And then two weeks are scheduled for re-takes which no one wants, but always happen. In typical Hollywood style, they'll have 30 or more hours of takes on tape for a less-than-two-hour movie. So we will film after Storm House taping is done for Season II, into the summer. And I'll be able to look for some "legitimate" acting on the stage in New York for the fall openings.

All in all, it's a good part. I think it's going to pay quite well. And it's my first Hollywood break--even though it casts me in a sexually ambiguous role. It's not a bit part. And the cast is definitely promising.

Flip....

I received a really interesting call today from Brent. He and I had been talking almost daily and had become good friends. Although he hadn't been one of the original producers of Oklahoma!, one of his friends needed to cash out and Brent came in. Often our conversation shared the problems of our two boyfriends, both experiencing the intensity of the second season of SH. On more than one occasion, Kirk had remarked to Brent that the writers had found a way to make the experience even more compelling for the second season--but he didn't explain any details.

The call from Brent was business. The coop under theirs, somewhat smaller (only two bedrooms), was going on the market in a few days. The owner had disclosed the potential sale to Brent at cocktails the previous night. Coops in the Montana were a prize, usually the object of bid wars prior to sale. Brent had "reserved" it for us if we were interested--and assured us the coop board would approve us--or else.

I had always been the financial guru for us. On any given day, I knew the balance in our savings and what we could afford as of that day. I had been relentlessly looking for something for us--so far without success and without Michael's cooperation. He really didn't seem to care. And that troubled me. I concluded we could afford to live in an apartment at the Montana, but that we probably couldn't afford to buy it. I wanted to move, but it was a dream, I knew. In the entertainment industry, residence at the Montana was a trophy, a symbol of success.

Tomorrow was Saturday--no taping for Michael, and I didn't need to show at the Winter Garden until six. So I had arranged for us to have lunch with Kirk and Brent--and see the apartment.

Our routine was about to be challenged again. But, this time, there were two lives and two careers to consider. And perhaps more importantly, the most important relationship that either of us had ever had. And I hadn't heard anything about the Hollywood screen test.

Michael....

When Flip got home, I'd fallen asleep on the chair with the finished script in my lap. He woke me gently, and since I'm now awake and tomorrow is not a "school day," Flip is going to do his best to keep me awake for awhile. I was at first sleepy and groggy, but he changed that pretty quickly.

We showered together. Or rather he showered; then used his very talented fingers and tongue to insure that every inch of me was "clean." It had been weeks since we've had this luxury. Flip pulled me back into his chest and proceeded to massage my front like it was it own. Then, he spun me around and embraced me long and tight. My arms went around his neck; his went down to my butt where his fingers were soon "cleaning" my cleft and rim. Then as he reached in and found my nut, my teeth bit down on his shoulder, clearly leaving a mark. He yelped, but continued to press deeper. He was a man on a mission and not to be distracted.

He lifted me, my legs went around his waist, and his angry cock was poised at my entrance. I could feel the hood rolling back and the pressure of the head. That feeling is one of the sexiest that a gay may ever experiences. Only his big strong hands holding my cheeks prevented me from falling onto his pole. He moved forward and pushed me against the shower wall. Then, he started to release. The head popped in. Fuck, he was big--and talented. His hands moved my ass in a swirl so his dick would widen the passage. Then he released a bit more which deepened his penetration. Our tongues dueled as he bottomed and bounced. My sleepy state was a thing of the past. I wanted him to do me hard and long as he had so often in the past. "Let's take this to the bed, Flip. In this position, I have almost no control, and I want this one to be really good for both of us." So we disengaged, quickly dried and headed for the bed.

But, he had a surprise--another one. He opened a bottle of fragrant massage oil and began to rub every inch of my back, calves, thighs--and of course my butt. It was a spicy mix of ginger and sandalwood. Very Asian. Soon my heat had vaporized some of the oil and we were both bathed in the exotic aroma of an Eastern brothel. He knew that aroma always turned me on, and simultaneously made me soft and pliable in his hands. I was just seconds from hypnosis. I remember thinking that he wanted something, before I drifted into the la-la land of bliss. He probably wanted more than my ass--which he could have taken easily without the oil. When he rested his body on mine and cocooned me with his legs and arms, the aroma intensified. I was his, and would agree to anything. Just don't stop.

I felt the pressure of his body on mine lighten a bit. Then I felt the head of his cock slipping past the sphincter. What was this boy eating? How was he exercising? He was bigger than I've ever felt him. He was huge and hard. He stretched and filled as he stroked ever so slowly in the chute. With every thrust, he pushed hard on my prostate and it in turn lit me up like Broadway. And my spine tingled with the nervous electricity that was generated from that spot. I felt the fluid moving from my balls to the shaft and cried out, "Flip, I'm cumming."

"Not yet, Angel. Not yet." His fingers immediately circled my shaft and squeezed tight as his palm lifted my balls and the heel of his hand pressed hard on the taint, blocking passage. And he went totally silent and inert. He wanted to hold me at the pinnacle. And, boy did he! Everything blurred. Everything disappeared. Except that intense pleasurable pressure at the base of my penis. He moved again, brushing the prostate again. It was too much. I whispered, "Please," and of course he knew exactly what I was asking.

He plunged twice more, pounding the nut each time. Then he fondled the balls and his fingers released. And I felt my cream begin to flow. Suddenly, he flipped onto his back, pulling my back to his chest, staying deep inside, but using his hand to loft my shaft above us. It was then that I felt his release, and my own shot high above us--a fountain of luxurious cream, filled with life and love. It rose a foot or more before falling on my chest. And his filled my chute to overflowing as he expanded, pounded and pumped over and over.