Flip Mecum in New York Ch 12

Flip and Michael Ch 12

Part III

Michael goes to Hollywood

This story, its characters and places are entirely fictional despite any resemblance to the real world—whatever that is these days. All characters involved in sexual activity are over 18 (some quite a bit older than 18). © Brunosden 2024, All rights reserved.

Brief Recap of the First Two Parts....(feel free to skip the next few paragraphs if you're familiar with the story)

Flip is from South Texas. He's tall, dark (probably with Native American blood), with dark brown, almost black eyes and black hair (occasionally bleached). He has never lost the Texas look—jeans, boots, big rodeo-buckled belt, black cowboy hat and slightly bowed legs. His voice is deep and gravely, but curiously he has a natural and terrific baritone voice that is perfect for the entertainment industry. He's gay and escaped from a small intolerant town and an abusive father to Houston. While he was working as an apprentice electrician, awaiting his license and certification, he was discovered by the owner of the Peacock Club, a gay dance club.

Flip auditioned and was hired as a dancer-entertainer, and soon became the star of the weekend shows. The reasons were obvious: he had a terrific lightly muscled, cut body; he was horse hung and hooded; and, he was a willing "escort."

The owner of the club decided that he would begin to feature Flip in porn videos. That was another success. During filming, Flip met Michael.

Michael was a very different boy. He was from the urban Midwest. He was about six foot and nearly Albino in appearance: blond hair, pale blue eyes (that deepened into sea blue when aroused), and nearly hairless below his eyebrows. Michael had graduated from college in acting and sought his fortune in Los Angeles. He was discovered by a porn producer and tricked into making porn films. He was perfect for the directors who liked the contrast between a dark hung top and a pale bottom. Michael too had a porn-worthy dick—about eight, thin, cut with unusually large egg-shaped balls. He was quickly dubbed the "Archangel" by producers because of his pale innocent looks.

Michael fell into the web of drugs and was wrenched from it because he ran out of money. He was "sold" to the owner of the Peacock Club in Houston by the "drug debt enforcers"—where he met Flip.

Flip and Michael discovered a relationship outside of the club and the porn filming. They soon discover that the sex between them is even better than the staged porn of their videos—and they take turns topping. But their relationship is secret, as the owner of the Peacock Club "owns" both of them, and is beginning to groom Flip to be his domestic partner. Within a short time, they escaped to New York, before their situation was baked.

Flip quickly found a theatre electricians job (to support them) and Michael found his first acting role—Off-off-Broadway, then a second part in a comic historical romance play. Flip, by accident, is "discovered" and falls into a secondary role in a major Broadway musical (where he had been the lighting tech).

The star of the show, Kirk and his moneybags lover Brent, a producer and investment banker, "adopt" Flip and then Michael. Michael goes on to co-star in a TV reality drama about PTSD with Kirk.

Michael is once again "discovered" by a Hollywood producer and is called there to audition for a major movie. So, at the end of Part II, when Flip and Michael had just moved into an apartment at the Montana coop in New York (courtesy of Brent), Michael leaves for Hollywood—as Flip nears the six month point in his portrayal of Jud (a bad guy) in Oklahama!.

The story continues:

Michael....

We wrapped up the filming of Storm House late on a Friday. All of us were relieved that the difficult ordeal was over. I'm not sure I could do it again. I don't know how Kirk has managed to handle two consecutive seasons. Brent had thoughtfully arranged for us all to take a few days at his beach house in Southampton where Flip and I barely left the bedroom—except for a few long walks on the beach, one of which ended with a fuck while wrapped in a sleeping bag in the dunes in front of Brent's cottage. (Beach sex is MUCH less exciting than it looks—particularly with cold, sand flies and sand!)

I had a few more days in New York, but on Friday uber-ed out to JFK for the non-stop flight to LAX. My ticket had been arranged and txted to me earlier than week. It was first class! My guard was already up. Someone was trying to impress me.

Hours later, as I exited the terminal, a liveried driver was holding an I-pad with my name in large letters. He greeted me ("Mr. Archangel"!), grabbed my backpack and led me to a waiting limo. It was a stretch, with a full bar, and, I noted with dismay, several cups containing colorful capsules. I knew them all. And I didn't touch them. Did they already know my past? Did they assume I was still using? I knew already that I was out of my element—and my comfort zone. My agent had told me that they had had access to the rough footage from Storm House—even before it was edited for release. And so I guessed they also had copies of the two dozen or so porn videos that I had made in Los Angeles and Houston. They knew everything about me. And I knew almost nothing about them—other than that they were making a movie with two A-list stars, and they wanted me to audition for a supporting role. I had read the script.

(Author's note: the plot of the script in described in detail in Flip in New York Ch 10, published on Literotica.)

It was sexy and edgy—that of course is why I was interested, and presumably why they wanted me. There were bed scenes and some associated "tease" nudity. So many Hollywood stars, once they make it, refuse to show their bodies on the big screen—acting like they hadn't used them to get on the screen in the first place.

He dropped me at the Beaver Hills Hotel. The doorman and reception were ready with smiles and keys—to one of the bungalows by the pool. After reception a "manager" emerged from an office behind the desk, greeted me and said he would take me to my room. He was probably 6-6, and larger than life. He looked like he worked out three hours a day, spent two at a hairdresser, two on the beach at Malibu and was starring in movies (he was a superhero or maybe a giant villain, given his size). "Hotelling" was just his "hobby, or maybe his day-job." It was highly unlikely that he was the "manager".

He walked outside by the pool to a "cottage." As he did so, he recited the names of countless stars that had inhabited those rooms over the ages. He carefully placed my ancient back-pack on a luggage rack and started the spiel about the A-C controls, the mini-bar etc. By the end, I was expecting him to strip and spread out on the bed, ready to be taken. But, no, he left with the expected, "Call me if you need me, Mr. Archangel. For anything. Anytime. I'm Croft, at your service." I fumbled for a tip, but he pushed it away. "We don't tip managers in LA, Mr. Archangel. I'm not a bellman, I'm the hotel manager at your service. By the way, everything is taken care of. Everything. I've been told to make sure your stay is perfect."

What is this "Mr. Archangel" shit? Croft was about my age. But he was huge. A total alpha on steroids. His wide linebacker shoulders stretched his tailored sharkskin suit to the limit. He had a broad face, black hair and black facial hair—both expertly groomed. His nails, on enormous hands, were manicured. He looked like a super-sized proto-type for one of those larger-than-life Marvel super-heroes. But, somewhat uncongruously, he didn't speak like a thug; his English was very British.

He left with a broad smile, and, I noted, a hard-on in his tight pants. It was very obvious.(I'm pretty sure he had pulled that for my benefit. He made no attempt to conceal it. He obviously had a nice dick, actually a very nice dick—well down his inner thigh, and his pants were so tight (Saville row style), I could tell he was cut and that the surgeon had left a decent corona. I felt turned on and simultaneously dirty, and not just from the flight. So I immediately headed for the luxury of the shower. As I emerged, wrapped only in a towel, I heard a light tap on the door. Superman was back. He handed me a few envelopes, as he scanned my body and licked his lips with obvious interest. "I forgot to give you these. Your schedule. Your car will be at the reception circle at six. We've got a few hours to relax. They didn't lie about your body." (What the fuck did he mean by that? Who was "they" and why would they confide in him about my "body".) He obviously expected an invitation—or maybe some aggression from me, but I thanked him and closed the door. I had passed the first test. I hadn't taken the first bait. I wouldn't have to confess anything to Flip yet. But, my cock was definitely chubbing under the towel. Hollywood is so full of temptations—but remember, Michael, it's not Vegas, and what happens here doesn't stay here. Before going to the pool, I'd have to rub one out. I tried a call to engage Flip in telephone sex, but there was no answer. He had probably already left for the theatre.

I moved to the pool and sat on a towel-covered chaise—not under the sun but under an umbrella—I would never tan. I just burn and burn. I'm not even sure why I put on a swimsuit. I dozed for about an hour. Then without ever hitting the pool, I showered again and went to rummage through the backpack in the walk-in closet to dress. Surprise! Hanging there were a half dozen outfits, all obviously in my size, all with tags attached. Fuck, this was getting creepy. I chose several items—the least flashy and least sexy: a long-sleeved silk shirt in dark navy, tailored perfectly for my chest, white thin cotton slacks that weren't too tight but hugged my ass nicely, designer slip-on shoes without sox and Breitling sun-shades. I even had to cut the Rodeo Drive label from the glasses—the price was what I made in a week for Storm House. I hoped my outfit would be okay. The schedule had suggested "country club casual" for "early supper" at the producer's home in the Hills.

A quick look in the full length mirror (there were four in the cottage) convinced me that I was looking good—with one exception—I could clearly see my dick through the fabric of the pants. While that might be okay at a club, I wasn't sure it was quite right for my first meeting with the producer. So I quickly added a white silky jock which left a bulge, but not a display. I was told that the producer had fallen for my ass—and the jock and slacks helped. As I left, having the feeling that I was entering a Roman Coliseum of sorts—and I wasn't sure whether I was the gladiator, the lion or the slave, its food.

Flip...

Michael left early this morning for LA. I've got all day until I need to show for makeup and costuming. The coop already seemed empty. This was the first time since I arrived in New York that we were apart. I had carefully structured this first week to keep me very busy.

I had acting classes on three mornings, including today (Friday). So I dressed and got ready to leave. Brent had arranged for me to meet a designer that afternoon. I had explained that we didn't really have the money to furnish yet. But he had blown me off. "You've got to have a plan. Then you can add stuff as you can afford it. Otherwise, it's going to look like rooms full of attic cast-offs. The designer's initial fee is taken care of—it's a housewarming gift from Kirk and me."

The weekend was going to be free. But I had a matinee on Sunday and two evening performances. So I planned to spend Saturday at the gym before lunch with Kirk and Brent. I also had a meeting with my agent on Monday, our dark day, to discuss potential future roles. (At the present, I was content with the Jud role and didn't plan to leave it. But, the agent knew that I wasn't going to tour with the company, and the producers liked to "renew" the cast every two years or so—thus, I might be out of an acting job in less than a year. It was time to take a look at the possibilities and consider auditions for other roles.)

Michael's return was "open." The schedule was a little vague. The first takes were scheduled for Monday. Then again on Tuesday, with make-up and costumes. They had asked him to stay for at least Wednesday and Thursday in case additional takes or interviews were required. But why had they required that he appear on Friday—with a weekend before the work began. Their answer—we need you to get over jet lag—was lame, and we both knew it. We both assumed someone was going to expect something special before the first camera began its work.

We had had Facetime after his arrival in LA, and he did look tired after the flight. But the place in which they had stashed him for the week sure looked nice—although not so nice as our glorious new home. He knew nothing more, but he sure looked terrific sitting under that umbrella with only a skimpy Speedo! I didn't even think he owned one—or that he could swim. I had to run—I was due in make-up in 30 minutes, so we signed off—with a promise that we'd try a mutual stroking session on Saturday.

As I left, my cell chirped its familiar tune—of course from Oklahoma!. It was BTE. Could I do them a great favor and start out a lighting tech crew on Saturday—and maybe Monday. They knew I had "gone inactive" with the Jud role, but several of my former supervisors had suggested that I alone was capable of getting over a crisis in the lighting for a drama that was scheduled to go into dress rehearsals in the middle of the next week.

I was anxious to keep in good graces with the union. After all, one never knew how long it would be before I had a follow on job after Jud. Besides, they were going to pay me "outside contractor performance fees." I'd make almost $2K for two days work—and they knew that on Saturday, I needed to leave for my theatre at 5:30. Maybe I could surprise Michael with a couch when he returned from LA? So I accepted, knowing it would keep me busy—and it would keep my oar in the water.

The Friday show was routine—for me. But, once again we had a screaming audience attracted by BonTemps—the young country star from New Orleans (filling in for Kirk as Curly) and Tammy Wire, the young sensational rapper daughter of a famous pop singer (as Laurey). With them, the audience was so different—much more raucous and demonstrative than the middle-aged suburbanites who normally filled the place. There were only two more weeks to their run, and the tickets were impossible. So the crowds surrounded the theatre as they arrived and left. Once or twice, I was recognized trying to sneak by, and I was mobbed. Variety had already dubbed me the Dark Side. And, despite my refusal to dress the part, I already had a goth fan club.

In what had been the coup of the year, the New York City Tourist Bureau had convinced them to do a benefit for summer camp for disadvantaged New York kids in Central Park last Monday, our dark day. Over 100,000 had attended the "free outdoor concert"—but sponsors and "free-will offerings" had raised over a million for the children. They had invited me to join them on stage, and I actually did a duet with Tammy and a solo. That's why I was meeting with the agent. He had been deluged with requests for appearances, recording sessions and even a feeler for an international tour. If my stage career stalled, I could try my luck at pop—starting with a few music videos. Somehow they concluded the world was ready for a mash of country and Broadway. That's way over my paygrade, believe me. Fuck, I didn't have a music background and no training at all—until I had the voice coach with Oklahoma! (Michael, however, had told me repeatedly that when I was pounding him and when I ultimately came, I made the sweetest sounds he had ever heard. But that didn't count.)

Later I learned that my solo had reached Facebook and U-Tube. I had a million followers already and countless views on U-Tube. That was going to make it more difficult for me. My face and body were now in the public domain.

Michael...

The stretch dropped me at the columned portico of what looked like an ivy-covered stone courthouse—it was that big and that impressive. And the drive up after passing through the enormous gates was like a park filled with specimen trees and blooming flowers. This was definitely the OZ that I had dreamed of as a young guy.

As we arrived, a young unkempt, but in-shape, guy was getting out of a shiny black Porsche convertible and throwing the keys into a basket near the door. Curious place for keys. I guess I'd find out later.

I didn't recognize him at first, but when he walked over and took my hand, using my name in greeting, I knew him. He was Ross Harper, the Dustin Hoffman look-alike, who would play the artist in the movie. He was short—several inches shorter than my own six feet, but solid. He had a square face, a wide smile, mischievous eyes, a dark shock of hair (so like Flip's) and a very firm handshake. So this was one of the stars of "my" movie. He greeted me as though we were old friends, clapped me on the back, and his hand dropped down to feel my butt. It was apparently casual, but definitely deliberate. He was dressed in designer jeans, flip-flops and a tee (without any obvious logo). I knew immediately that stars could dress however the hell the wanted. One game was already on.

"Let's head in. Armie is anxious to see you in the flesh." He didn't introduce himself. Hollywood stars never do. They assume everyone knows them, and they're really not interested in anyone else.

Armie? The executive producer's name was Paul Armstrong. In the flesh? I would love to have been a fly on the wall when "Armie" and Ross had discussed me.

Paul met us in the foyer—a two story cavern floored in black and white marble tiles with the proverbial half-round grand staircase at the back. It was hung with a crystal chandelier that must have had a thousand lights. Under the stairs, we could see glass doors to a portico and beyond that an Olympic-sized pool—with the LA skyline in the smoggy distance. Paul was about 50, beginning to grey, but deeply tanned and in reasonable shape. He was wearing tennis whites—and the polo was tight over his guns and pecs. There was no gut. The legs were trim, runner's legs. He was sweaty, suggesting he had just come off the court. There was a decent bulge under the zipper. I noted a few lines around the eyes, but his face was otherwise smooth—and the smile suggested that no "work" had been done on his face—yet. Definitely a DILF!

Ross headed back to the pool bar as Paul introduced himself and informed me that he had seen everything that I had done. "Don't worry about the test. I already know you're perfect. And that badass director I've hired better agree or he's out. This is my picture, not his."

"I'd like to show you around, Michael. When we make the picture, I'm hoping you'll make use of that guesthouse." He pointed to a Georgian style out-building by the pool that looked bigger than many ordinary houses. "Mi casa es su casa, Miguel." (He wasn't Latino. In fact, he spoke with what I detected was a phony upper-class British accent; and the guesthouse was not in Mediterranean style. Welcome to LA.)

We briefly toured the main floor and then he took me up to the bedroom suites. His was palatial—obviously designed by or for a glamorous woman. My brows went up at the obvious femininity of the furnishings. "Yeah, Angeline is in France shopping for more country furniture. She'll be gone for a few more weeks. So, except for the staff, I'm alone in this big place." All during the tour, his (sweaty) beefy arm was around my shoulders, keeping me close. I could smell the musk, but mostly it was covered by an exotic perfume smell. Occasionally, his hand would drop down and hook into my belt. He was definitely playing up the rich Daddy role.