Flip Mecum in New York Ch 14

Flip does some contract work to fill the time

This is an original fictional story. All characters portrayed in sexual activity are over 18. © Brunosden 2024. All rights reserved.

Flip....

(Saturday) I had worked all day at the theatre arranging and rearranging lights. One of the directors told me that I easily did the work of three men—because I knew what I was doing and because I understood directions. He also complimented my leadership and mentoring skills.

After a quick shower, I had prepared for and done a performance—another special night for our child wonder stars. I'm home, exhausted and ready to turn in. I expected that Michael was still out "entertaining" so I sent a "Good night, love." I had two performances tomorrow. So I knew that I would have time only for a quick gym visit in the morning. But, I really needed a workout. And I was becoming more and more concerned about the lack of communication with Michael. It's funny—when we're together, it's okay if we don't talk a lot, but when we're apart I need to hear his voice and see him on Facetime.

I slept in Sunday—until 9 and headed for the gym after reading Michael's brief text. His announcement and brief "review" of his afternoon in bed with Marylyn didn't surprise me. And, it didn't upset me. I think I knew him well enough that she was not a threat to us. Just another rung on his ladder to success.

For a Sunday, the gym was crowded, but they were mostly "Sunday warriors"—those who workout once or twice a week and were mostly cruising. So I was constantly resetting weights. And I was constantly aware that other guests were watching my every move. I was becoming a celebrity even though I tried to maintain anonymity in day to daylife. I did notice that one of the techs that I'd spent the previous day with was there. He wasn't in designer gym wear. In fact, he looked rather ordinary in sweat shorts and old sneakers. I noted that he was wearing a 'Bama tee that announced his support of the Crimson Tide and probable Deep South origins. He greeted me when I arrived and thanked me for the leadership and good will that I had demonstrated the previous day. Then he asked If I had a partner, and whether we could spot each other. I readily agreed. I loved the slow drawl. And he appeared to be in shape. Maybe he'd encourage me to reach for more.

Ninety minutes later, both exhausted, we headed for the showers. Trey was a nice guy, with a decent build, about my age. He had flaming red hair, deep green eyes and a double-dimpled smile that made me think of home. I had enjoyed the workout more than usual, even though we were mostly silent, anticipating needs as we progressed through the free weights, spotting each other. And, as we parted outside the gym, Trey remarked that he was looking forward to working with me again on Monday. I guess I had agreed to Monday—or at least the BTE thought I had. So, while it was on my mind, I called my agent and postponed our meeting to discuss a rock tour or a follow-on musical.

Brent, Kirk and I met for quick salads—at their place. It was early summer in the City and two to three hour brunches were in swingat the restaurants. I had a 12:30 report for make up before the afternoon curtain. Kirk was rejoining Oklahoma! next Saturday night so he and Brent had an "empty" afternoon to look forward to. I had decided to call Michael between the two shows when I had a few hours to myself. This Sunday was the last matinee for BonTemps and Tammy—since they were leaving the company after Friday night's show. And, of course, we expected near riot conditions. The producers had even hired extra security and alerted NYPD.

Over lunch, I mentioned that I was doing some tech free-lance work as a favor. I casually talked about the possibility for a rock tour—perhaps after making a few music videos. And that Michael had said that he was probably coming back to New York on Thursday. We didn't know when filming would start, but he was pretty confident that he had the part.

Both listened carefully, but didn't comment. Nor did they ask anything about the terms of his departure or our calls since he arrived in LA. I was obviously concerned, but didn't want to unload my fears on these two friends. But, as I was leaving for the theatre, Brent walked me to the door. "We are here for you, Flip. Don't cut us out. Funny things happen to people in La-La Land." We bro-hugged and I left, deciding once again to walk to the theatre.

As I neared the theatre, the crowds were immense. I did my best to look incognito and was successful until the last few feet when someone, watching the stage door made the recognition. Then I spent the next ten minutes signing books and photos—until I protested that I was late. They actually applauded as I entered the theatre.

The show went long—with three encores and numerous interruptions during the performance, and I only had a couple of hours to prepare for the evening show. I called Michael from my dressing room. He answered from the pool—wearing those Speedos again. We had a short chat, but he seemed distracted. The circumstances were not right for video sex. But, it was good to see him relaxed and enjoying the LA lifestyle. I asked about the schedule, but he said that things were up in the air. He explained that Ross had taken ill, and that he needed his sign-off before he left to ensure he had the part. He'd call me as soon as he had definitive plans. Somehow, I knew he wasn't telling me everything. It was like the beginning when he didn't mention the drugs until after we were moving along in our relationship. I assumed it was because he was no longer so certain that he had the part. But who knows?

******

I got up early Monday, put on "work clothes" and headed for the Barrymore where we were doing the lighting. I wasn't late, but the team was waiting when I arrived. I charted out the day's work and assigned pieces to each of the crew. We would work in teams; Trey was going to be my partner.

Unlike Saturday, the work went well and the guys seemed to have picked up a year's experience in one day. (Later Trey told me it was because of my teaching expertise.) We broke for a quick lunch, and finished by 7. I offered beers to the team and we headed for an Irish pub that was just down the street.

Being Monday and in the dark theatre district, the pub was empty. So we commandeered a booth. After a few, Murray and Chris, who lived in Jersey, left for home. Trey and I continued talking for a few minutes. I was mesmerized by his deep Alabama drawl—which reminded me of my own that I had carefully overcome. Then, I invited him to dinner. He accepted quickly. I had learned he was living with a sister on the West Side, off Broadway, while he tried to establish himself. That explained his use of the gym which was near his place and my coop. So I suggested we grab take-out and head to the coop.

We walked and talked. I learned he was from a large family out of Mobile. Trey is an old Southern way of nicknaming a III—and he was indeed Andrew Jackson Maguire III. His father had been Andy and until he was a teenager he had been Jack—until classmates began to tease him as "Jack-off." Then he had adopted the Trey his mother had preferred. He had played high school football, and, in the family tradition, had gone off to Tuscaloosa. He made varsity and did well—but not well enough to earn a draft to the NFL. That was not something he wanted anyway. He had majored in Elec Eng, an unusual one for a first string linebacker. But, "Daddy" owned a large electrical equipment manufacturing company, and that is where he was ultimately going to end up. The BTE stint was to gain some "practical experience."

The whole story didn't sound really right. But, I let him talk on. As we waited for the order to be filled at the Vietnamese restaurant, I gave him the abbreviated version of my life—including casual disclosure that I was gay. With that disclosure, the breath seemed to leave his body. I felt I had gone too far, too soon. He was a jock and a Southerner. He wouldn't want to be seen with me—let alone go alone to my apartment. He was probably a homophobe.

He went silent. I could actually see the gears turning behind his deep green eyes. I grabbed the order and led the way to my place. He was completely silent in those last few blocks. When we entered, he had still not said a word. But, I could tell he was exploding inside.

I motioned him to our threadbare sofa-bed, the only furniture in the living room, and came back with two Chinese beers. He took a big swig. Then his story gushed out, seemingly without punctuation—as though he was afraid that if he stopped, he'd explode. It was very un-Southern. Very raw and very fast.

Given my background, I could have written it: he's gay, the oldest son of an old Southern homophobic family, still living on a plantation just outside the city limits of Mobile, although the plantation was now the center of a large golf and tennis club—and no cotton is grown. He's known since a young teenager, but steadfastly denied it, punishing himself with sports, exercise and failed relationships with females. He was in New York to escape his father—who did not know or suspect. He was sure he'd be disowned if anyone guessed. But, he wasn't sure how long he could live the lie. He knew what was expected of his future, but he wasn't willing to commit, and was stalling in New York.

Then he calmed down a bit, and I gave him the sanitized version of my bio (leaving out any reference to Peacock). As I finished, he broke up again and started to sob. "Why can't the world accept us for what God made us?" The question none of us can answer—at least not yet. During our conversation, he had moved closer and his head was now in my lap as I rubbed his shoulders and murmured words of consolation. "You'll make it, Trey. I have. So anyone can. I'm happy and content. Sure there are bumps, but this City has been good to me." He looked up into my face with wide tear-filled eyes. They were really incongruous in this big strapping football jock. But they made his eyes shine like emeralds in water.

"I'm not so sure. I'm so alone. So sad. I've got nothing but pain. Nothing to live for. I've been looking for months."

"Maybe you're trying too hard. Let him find you. Fuck, you'd be a prize for any guy looking."

We sat together for a long time. It was late and dark. We talked about home and family, the good parts. We were both nostalgic for the ways of the South. But, I assured him it was better to be accepted somewhere--even if it was a little faster and a little colder. Finally, he began to relax into me as my arms continued to soothe first his pecs, then his gut, and finally inside his waistband. He was rock hard. Then he reached up around me and he drew his lips to mine. We kissed, a deep soul-exchanging kiss. He relaxed back—which gave me the opportunity to suggest we eat—and have another beer. This was getting way too intimate. He needed comfort, but I was thinking that I wasn't the one who should be providing it.

We did eat, but he didn't drink anymore. He was obviously not accustomed, and he was already a little tipsy. By then, I was concerned about his safety. I was ready to call an Uber, but he frowned and asked whether he could stretch out on the sofa. He didn't want to be alone—and his sister was probably at her boyfriend's place for the night. I couldn't turn him down. I had been there—more than once. And he was so beautiful in his pitiful dependence. I kept bouncing back and forth: he wasn't a little pitiable boy, he was a big hefty jock; and he was trouble—for me.

I agreed to his request, but suggested the sofa-bed would not be comfortable. He wouldn't get any sleep. "I have a king. You're going to sleep with me. You'll be safe here. I'm not into rape."

We headed in. I pointed to the shower and when he emerged, I had set out old sweats which would serve as night clothes. He changed in front of me, not at all shy. I guess it was the experience from the football lockers and the gym. His body was beautiful—creamy pink, with a light covering of blonde-red fur on his pecs and his pubes. Way more than light muscles—he still had that powerful football body. And a nice thick dick, about 4 inches flaccid and with a hood that almost covered the glans. It arched majestically over the balls and swayed from side to side as he walked. He actually took my breath away. So I turned and moved in to the bath and showered.

He was working the next morning, but I was free until the evening performance. I'd see what I could do for him then. Meanwhile, I jerked off in the shower to reduce my tension.

When I got out of the shower, he was already asleep—on Michael's pillow and under the single duvet. I turned out the lights, pulled on a tee, my only night wear, and slipped in.

I woke early, really as the sun rose, and hours before either of us had to be up. During the night we had drifted together. He was deep in my security spoon. He was warm, the surface of his unblemished skin has so soft over the hardened muscles, and the curly red locks were still shampoo-sweet. My arm was over his side, resting on his gut, pulling him into me. And my hard dick was buried between his legs. Oh, fuck. What have I done? At that moment he too seemed to awake, and after a quick realization of his position, pushed his soft ass into my gut and pulled my hand down to his rigid cock.

"Is this okay, Flip? I'd be obliged if you'd show me how this is done."

"Never had sex with a man before?"

"No, never. But, I've seen some porn, and it always looks so easy and so nice. But I've never touched a man, or had one touch me. Yours is the first hand on my dick other than my own."

"Well, it takes a bit of prep. And sometimes it hurts the first few times, but the ultimate pleasure is worth it." I was automatically stroking his shaft. What the fuck was I saying....doing? I'm involved with Michael. And this boy is so innocent and so scared. I can't do this. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Then he pulled down the sweat shorts and squirmed back into my heat, crowding my dick into his ass cleft. He felt so good. My reflexes kicked in. I started bucking into his ass. But, that good angel on my shoulder (actually on the ring on my finger) reminded me this was wrong. Then I remembered. Michael had told me to do this. I had a couple of free passes to do anything I wanted. What better way to use them than to help a young man by showing him the path to his own gay identity? Hell, I was going to be sainted for this! This was a sign! My hand was already on his hard dick. His ass was pressing into my gut. And my cock was already playing with his balls. I snuggled in and began to stroke his shaft with purpose. I got purrs and murmurs of appreciation in response. God, I loved having someone in my bed. Particularly a nice muscled Southern boy with a decent sized dick.

I flipped him around, pulled him into an embrace and a kiss, tasting new toothpaste. (Fuck, he had already been up and had planned this. Maybe, he wasn't so naïve after all!) My cock crashed into his abs and my hands reached around to massage his supple globes. They were perfect. They fit nicely into my palms. They were soft and warm, but rock hard just under the thin layer of fat. The hip indentations were perfect hand-holds. It was a perfect muscled bubble.

I rolled back, pulling him on top of me. He dove in for another kiss, and our tongues began to duel. I parted my legs and he dropped in. Then I captured him and really started to work on his ass. I could tell he was already close. First timers don't have much staying power—assuming his story about being a virgin was true. But, hell, I was a pro. I was going to give him the experience of his life. I reached over to the side table and extracted the lube. An index finger started to caress his rim. He moaned and squirmed, raising his ass into my hand. This boy was hot, really hot and ready.

After I few minutes of his writhing on top, I pushed him back onto his side. He threw his right leg forward and lofted his ass toward me. He knew the Southern position—with side entry, slow and sloppy penetration under a slowly moving ceiling fan, just throwing enough breeze to keep the sweat in check. Sultry, sensuous, and slithering. My fingers reached out and began to push into his opening. He was unbelievably tight, but warm and soft. I worked slowly, lubing over and over. First one, then two, then a gentle massage of the love nut. When I touched it he nearly flew out of the bed. "What the fuck did you do to me, Flip? I didn't even know that I had such sensitivity there."

"That's the center of your gay sexuality, Trey. Let me give you a bit of advice: Anybody that you allow to stroke that walnut will have you eating his cum before your time together is over. It happens every time. Guard it like a Southern belle saves her virginity for her beau."

"Do it again, Flip. I want to feel it again." I poked again while squeezing it with my thumb on his taint as I held him tight to me so he couln't jerk away. "Oh, fuck! I think you're going to push me over the edge. That's sooo good."

"Not yet, boy. Not yet. You haven't even entered the main event." My hand moved from his ass to his shaft and I squeezed tightly, bringing him back to earth. My body then moved over him and my cockhead rested at his entrance. I applied a gentle pressure. "Push out boy, Make believe you're trying to push me out." He did and ironically, it opened him enough that I popped in. He swore again, but said nothing about me stopping.

I lubed my dick again and all around the rim and began the gentle rock that got me a fraction of an inch with each stroke. I knew that my hood enhanced corona had reached the prostate when he gasped. "Right there, Flip. Right there. Fuck. I can't believe how good that feels." He turned his face, and we again deep-kissed.

I was getting too close to prolong this lesson. So I pushed harder and soon bottomed. My balls bounced on his asscheeks as he shouted at the feel of my pubes. I froze, although I could still feel the throbbing of my cock. "Fuck. I've taken all of you, Flip. I'm not a virgin anymore."

I began a relentless withdrawal and penetration, giving plenty of attention to his love nut—as his chute expanded to accommodate my girth. The precum was now flowing and I felt his shaft—which had doubled in size in erection—begin to spasm. I knew it was over. I released his dick and started pounding and seconds later he erupted into a full body anal experience. Then I filled him with my cream, a nice big hot load and rolled on top, pinning him to the mattress and plugging my jism inside.

At that second, I realized I hadn't wrapped. But, fuck, he's a virgin. Well, he was.

After a long time, he stretched a bit. That was my signal to release and let him up. He turned toward me and kissed me long and hard. That was terrific, Flip. I'm glad that I chose an experienced porn star for my first."

I was enjoying the compliment—and really enjoying having such a young, strong athlete in my arms. Then, it hit me! Did he just say porn star? That wasn't even remotely part of my bio. But, I decided to let it go. He was probably exaggerating because I was his first. He had seen my body and my dick—and I had brought him to his first gay orgasm.

Trey....

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. I think I've just invented a double entendre: get it? Cum in my end? Oh well. You had to be there.

Until yesterday I was near the end of my rope. I had moved to New York to find gay sex. But until yesterday, the opportunity had eluded me. Some were too old. Some were too rough—covered in leather. Some were just plain ugly. Last Saturday when Flip appeared at the Barrymore to show us how to set up the iights, I was bowled over by him. He was a magnificent man. The black cowboy hat, the rodeo buckle and the threadbare tight jeans just about had me creaming in my pants. Just the kind of tall dark cowboy that I wanted as my first. He looked like a twin Dirk Spear, my favorite porn star, but Flip was dark and Dirk was blonde—even his pubes. Dirk was a little younger and not as bulked up. But they were close enough to attract my interest. Particularly the cock size and the hood. We were obviously almost the same age, 22, but he seemed so much more mature and sophisticated. And maybe a little bad boy, dangerous.