Once Is Not Enough

I knew who he was as soon as he sat at the bar and smiled expectantly at me. It was obvious that he was picking me out to serve him. There weren't that many successful and recognizable Japanese actors in Hollywood. Mike Mori was one of the stars of the long-running series, Hollywood Vice, the series having run long enough to put him into his early forties. Still he'd taken good care of himself and was still handsome and in good shape after all these years on the unforgiving television screen. He was tall for my concept of a Japanese man and broad of chest but slim of waist and hips. I could appreciate how much effort he had to put in to keep that figure past forty.

I knew him for more than being in a long-run television series. Even in high school I'd been star struck and knew I wanted to come out to Los Angeles from Indiana to make my way into movies. I had devoured everything Hollywood. He'd been in the press for more than his television work a couple of years back. A young actor he'd been dating had been found in a shallow grave in the desert out toward Las Vegas. He'd been strangled. Another body was found in a nearby grave, another victim of strangulation. He'd turned out to be a young male hooker from Los Angeles.

Photos of a grieving Mori, who had been outed as gay from that point, were the money shots for that case and took the case into the national news. As far as I knew, they'd never solved those murders. I remember that, when I saw photos of the victims in the newspaper, both glamour shots of hopefuls in Hollywood, I was struck with how much they both looked like me. We could have been brothers—the same coloring, curly blond hair, and facial features. And eyes looking toward the future, with hope, determination, and confidence.

It wasn't that surprising to see Mori here at the Blue Onion, on North Hollywood Avenue. This was a trendy gay bar for the actor set. I was here, delivering drinks, on a temporary shift, deferring the mixing of a real drink to a real bartender, mainly serving as delivery boy. I'd been out here in southern California for a year and, at twenty, I took what I could get in trying to keep up with my modeling and acting school tuitions and my share of the rent for a studio apartment. I shared the apartment with one of the instructors at the IMS Modeling Academy, Doug Daniels, who I also slept with from time to time when he wasn't courting some society cougar. He wanted to marry rich in the worst way. I wanted to get into movies in the worst way. Well, not the worst way. I'd been offered gay male porn movies, but I didn't want to go that route, and I wasn't that easy. Well, I have to laugh at that, I guess, considering that the porn movie offers came after a session in a porn movie producer's bed. I was an occasional-casual sex submissive, but more monthly than daily—and more because I got hungry for it than that I was trying to use it to get ahead.

Doug wasn't the best cocksman I'd ever had. He wasn't prepared to commit to one side over the other and he was in love with his own looks more than anything else in the world. But I supposed the same thing could be—and was—said about me. He usually just laid there on his back and I rode his cock in various positions. But he was better—safer—than taking a casual stud from off the street, and I sometimes wanted more than my own hand in getting my rocks off. I'll admit that sometimes I was in the mood for a berry-brown body covering me.

"Good Evening, Mr. Mori," I said to him as he bellied up to the bar. "May I get a drink for you?"

He smiled, flattered, as I intended him to be, that I recognized him and addressed him by name. And speaking of berry-brown bodies . . .

"Yes, thanks, ah—" He paused, looking at me expectantly.

"Billy. Billy Worth," I said. "What'll you have?"

"Billy Worth. William Worth. Yes, they should be able to keep your name for the movies," he said. He flashed me an all-white-teeth smile. They had to be Hollywood caps.

It was my turn to beam, even though he was using what was just a variation on a pickup line out here in Hollywood.

"You are going to be in movies, aren't you, Billy?" he said.

"Sure thing. I'm busting my balls with modeling and acting classes now. That's what I'm doing working a temporary shift here."

"Ah, so that's why I haven't seen you in here before?" he asked, continuing to give me vocal strokes. "I would have remembered someone as good looking as you are. I'll have a scotch, water, and rocks, please. I have to go light. An early filming call tomorrow. Have one yourself too, on me." He put a fifty-dollar bill on the bar top. He was traveling a well-used route on Hollywood pickup lines. That doesn't mean that it wasn't effective with me, however.

I turned, made his drink, which was within my zone of capability, and surreptitiously poured myself an iced tea, watering it down so that it was close to the color of the weak scotch rocks. He gave a little laugh when I returned to him with the drinks and handed him his.

"You don't have a real drink, do you?" he said.

"Sorry," I said, blushing, "we're not really supposed to drink on duty. And—"

"And you really need the money the drink costs more than you do the drink, right?" I hung my head, and he laughed again.

"And you're not really old enough to be drinking here in California, or serving it for that matter," he added.

I blushed. "Got me again. Please don't complain to the management. I'll lose my job. He knows, but he said I'd have to go if anyone calls him on it."

"I wouldn't dream of complaining, especially that you aren't old enough to drink, as long as you're old enough for other things—like serving in the military." He'd added that, with a wink, but we both knew what he really meant. I knew then that he was flirting with me—maybe even hitting on me. That flattered and aroused me. He was a TV star.

"Nineteen?" he asked.

"No. I'm twenty," I said.

"No matter. I've been there in this town myself. It doesn't matter. And keep the change. Where are you from, Billy?"

I told him. I was really down and Doug didn't listen to me. Mike Mori did. I told him about being a big fish, with my looks and acting ability and football prowess, in Kokomo, Indiana, and of coming out here to make my break—and being just another good-looking blond close to being broken. He listened to it all, and as he finished his drink, he said, "I wish I could stay around to talk longer, Billy. Hang in there, though. You've got the looks to make it in this town. You have a good speaking voice too. Don't underestimate how important that can be in this business." His voice was great, and I took that on as good advice. He then added the icing to the cake. "I'd like to see you again sometime—in more private circumstances, if you know what I mean."

A major television star wanted to see me again—privately.

He put his card, with his telephone number and address, out on the bar top. "Here, if you need anything or you want to . . . well, you know . . . call me. Is there a number I can call you at?"

A major television star was coming on to me—and one who still had the looks—the exotic looks of the Orient even. The thought of doing it with a Japanese guy floated through my mind, and I gave a little shudder of arousal. I heard Japanese guys had sensual moves.

I wrote my cell phone number on a bar napkin and gave it to him. He put it to his lips, smiled at me, folded it, and put it in his wallet. Then he slipped off the bar stool, turned, and left the bar. I forgot about him then. Usually when they want to get into your pants in this town, they make the move the first time they see you. I'd been in L.A. long enough to know it was a fast town.

Four days later, he called me on my cell phone. "How are you doing, Billy?" he asked.

"I'm getting by," I answered, guardedly. I was just barely getting by, though, and my tuition bill for the Scott Sedita Acting Studio classes was coming due in the next week.

"Say, I was talking with a friend who's directing a play at the Pasadena Actor's Studio," Mori said, "and he has a small part for a guy who can pass as an older teen and hasn't cast it yet. Not many lines, but he's getting antsy about filling the role. I mentioned that I knew someone who looked the part and was taking acting lessons. He's interested in talking with you. It's just twenty-five dollars a performance, but it's credits toward an Equity card and doesn't require one. You interested in taking down his number?"

I certainly was and did.

"I also was wondering, Billy. I'm going to a party Friday night, and I was wondering if you'd like to go along."

"Oh, sorry, Mr. Mori," I answered. "I'll be back at the Blue Onion doing a temporary shift that night."

"Well, sorry you aren't available. You give that director a call. And maybe I'll call you again on an evening you'll be available."

It hung there in the air. I could cut it off here if I wanted. This was a yes or no point. "Yes, I'd like that," I answered. "I'm really sorry I can't do it this Friday."

"Good," he answered, and I could tell he was pleased. It wasn't a no—at least not yet. We both knew he wanted to fuck me, and we both knew that this acting gig he sent my way was a "fuck for free" card if I got the part.

I did give the guy a call and I did get the gig at the Pasadena Studio Theater. The play didn't run long, but long enough to cover my acting courses tuition.

I owed Mr. Mori one, but I was afraid to call him. I wasn't sure about what he really wanted and where that could go. A straight fuck would be fine, but one never knows what kink these actors in Hollywood were in to, and him being Japanese just increased the question of that. Who knew what Japanese guys wanted to do in a fuck? I'd heard they could do special things—tie guys in knots and things. Some bondage. A friend had said you hadn't been totally fucked until you'd done it with an Asian.

* * * *

"I hear you got the part in Gibson's play."

"Oh, hi, Mr. Mori. Yes, I did. Thanks for that. Would you like a drink?"

"Yes, Billy, the same again please—a weak scotch rocks for me and an iced tea for you at the scotch rocks price." We both laughed. He put a hundred-dollar bill down on the bar top. It was Friday night at the Blue Onion.

"I thought you were going to a party tonight," I said when I came back with the drinks.

"You remembered," he said, clearly happy that I had. "It would have been dull . . . going alone," he added, giving me a "you know why" smile. Yep, he was determined to make me. I had mixed feelings about that. Sure, I was flattered, though.

I picked up the hundred-dollar bill. "I'll be back with the change in a few minutes," I said.

He took my hand that was holding the bill in one of his and said, "No need for change . . . if . . ."

"If what, Mr. Mori?"

"You know if what, Billy. Just a jack off. I'll do it all. We can stay on our feet. I know there are some storage rooms in back that are private. I know you're getting off your shift. I know you need the money. Just a jack off. You just have to stand there and come for my hand."

"Uh, Mr. Mori. I really don't . . . not here at work." It wasn't a no; it just seemed a bit crazy right here where I worked.

"I have a contact at the studio who is looking for a young guy to do a four-program stand-behind in the All Is Relative TV series, Billy. He's a good friend. I could put in a good word for you. That's all you'd need to get your Equity card. The path is open when you have an Equity card."

"But here, somewhere in the bar. We might be—"

"That's part of the thrill of it, Billy—that someone might see us. I actually get a little extra boost if someone is watching."

So, the Japanese guy did have his kinks. Whether he knew it or not, though, he was asking at a fortuitous time—for him.

Doug had told me that afternoon that he was getting married—he'd finally gotten one of his society cougars to propose and to move ahead in discussing favorable prenuptial agreements. I'd lose his share of the rent. I'd been stewing about where I was going to find money for a bigger rent bill all afternoon. There was nothing cheaper than what I already had. I held a hundred-dollar bill in my hand and there was a good possibility of more from a TV job. And Mori had already gotten me the gig with the Pasadena theater. And I needed an Equity card. I knew Mori wanted to fuck me—and he was a well-built, good-looking man. It was only a hand job, and it was his hand, not mine.

I turned and motioned to the bartender, Steve, that I was taking off a few minutes early. He looked at Mori and then me and waved me away. I saw Mori motioning to a guy looking at us from a table as we passed and the guy stood up. I didn't want to know any more about that.

Mike Mori jacked us off together in the semidarkness of a storage room in the back of the Blue Onion. I'd locked it when we entered the room, but Mori reached over me and unlocked it again, saying, "The thrill of possible exposure," and flashing me a smile. I shuddered, not thinking of it as a thrill, but being surprised that it was, in fact, an arousal boost.

There was a window in the door, letting a dim light into the room, but he had me backed up to a wall behind some big cardboard boxes that partially screened us from the door. Someone looking in the window could see movement at the edge of his vision. And that someone could enter the room and see us if he was curious enough. And someone did enter—the guy Mori had motioned to in the bar. He stood off to the side, leaning against a wall, and unzipped and stroked himself while he watched Mori Jacking me off. But he remained off to the side. Mori had me in such a state that I managed to forget the guy was there.

Mori was fully dressed other than his trousers and briefs being down around his knees. My jeans and briefs were puddled on the floor and my T-shirt front had been pulled up over and in back of my neck to expose my chest and belly. I think he would have liked to have me fully naked and him almost fully clothed, but he was too anxious to carry all of the way through with that. When he'd partially stripped and exposed me, he spent a couple of moments sucking on my nipples, and, moaning, I let him. When he came to sexiness, he had it.

He had one arm around my shoulders, his chest pressing into mine. He held my lips in a kiss. He was a great kisser, taking command and melting me into submissiveness. My body relaxed in his arms. My pelvis jutted forward from the wall and my legs were spread. His knees were between mine and he frotted our cocks together with his free hand, stroking them together. He was longer than I was; I was a bit thicker. He'd said he'd do all of the handling, but he'd taken one of my hands and made me feel the hardness and length of him and brushed my fingers through his black, silky pubic brush.

"I want you to know we're having sex," he had whispered. "When I want to fuck you totally, I want you to remember that you let me do you before."

He worked us in under ten minutes before we came, me first and then Mori.

"That was nice," he murmured when he was done. "I liked that."

I said nothing. But I was breathing heavily. I'd quickly gotten hard and had come for him. Neither one of us needed more evidence that I was gay and would do that for him than that. And I had responded to his kisses. I would go with a man. That was clear to us both. I had sucked my breath in when I got the measure of his cock. I had been moving my hips with the rhythm of his hand stroking. I'd been into the jackoff.

I looked across the room then. The other guy was gone.

I expected Mori to let me go then, but he didn't. One of his hands went to my buttocks. He squeezed one of my cheeks and stroked it with his fingers.

"Um, Mr. Mori," I whispered.

"Lift your knee to my hip," he murmured. "Give me access."

"Uh. Enough," I whispered.

"Never enough," he growled. "You want this."

Whimpering, I lifted my knee and hooked it on his hip. The fingers he'd been stroking my butt cheek with went to my hole. I moaned as he rimmed me with a finger and pressed it inside me, penetrating me to the knuckle and then further.

"Oh shit. Oh fuck," I moaned as he stroked my prostate with the tip of the finger. But I stayed with him. I didn't try to twist away from him. He had me and he knew he did. He took possession of my mouth with his again and I opened to his sensuous kiss. In and out; he was finger fucking my ass. I flinched as the second finger went inside me. I felt my channel muscles giving way, spreading open for him. He felt it too. He pulled off my mouth and gave a low, "now I've got you" laugh.

"Fuck, yes," I whimpered. Wanting more now. Wanting his long dick inside me.

A shadow passed across the window in the lighted corridor beyond the storage room and we both froze and then relaxed as, after pausing, the shadow moved on. I gave a low moan. He'd been right. The possibility of discovery had been highly arousing. Knowing that another man had come in with us and stroked himself off while watching us had been arousing. Mori laughed as he felt my sphincter grasp his finger and then blossom open for him.

"I want you to go upstairs with me," Mori murmured.

I knew there were rooms rented by the session upstairs at the Blue Onion. I hadn't known Mori knew that.

"I don't really do that, Mr. Mori," I said, my voice breathy. "Not here, not where I work. They'll know and take advantage of it."

"Your body tells me otherwise. Your body tells me you are aching for it, here or anywhere. I'll give you five hundred and I'll put the call into Horace at All Is Relative as soon as I get home from here."

"Not upstairs," I whimpered.

He misconstrued. "You want it here, on the floor? Because I'll do you right here if that's what you want. If you like it rough, I'll do you rough."

"I don't have a key to any of the rooms upstairs," I said.

"I do," he answered.

"I'm not a rent-boy, Mr. Mori. It would have to be just this once . . . because I need the money and because I'm grateful you've helped me get the acting role."

"You've been fucked before, though, haven't you, Billy? This wouldn't be a first time for you or a last, would it? Don't make such a big deal out of it."

"No, it wouldn't be the first time," I admitted.

"Let's go upstairs, Billy." He took my hand and led me out of the room. I docilely followed.

He fucked me on what wasn't much more than a cot. We both were naked. He was in good condition and would have been hanging low if he hadn't been in stiff erection. He seemed to be quite pleased with me in the buff, and he'd explored every curve and crevice of me before he'd laid me back on the cot. I lay on my back, my butt at the edge of the foot of the bed, my legs spread and bent and my heels dug into the edge of the mattress. He crouched between my spread legs and fucked me deep in a missionary. I nearly hyperventilated and writhed under him when he first entered me. He ran up into me to the hilt and held there, staring down into my eyes, capturing me totally, as, panting, I slowly opened completely to him with him holding steady, long and ramrod hard inside me. Eyes locked together, we both could feel my passage open for him as he held there, inside me.

There, holding inside me, deep, me panting hard, trembling almost uncontrollably, he whispered to me, "Am I hurting you? Can you take me?"

I was taking him. He was in to the hilt, and the muscles of my channel walls were rippling over his ramrod hard shaft. I got the impression, though, that he wanted to hurt me—maybe just a little.

"Fuck me. Fuck the hell out of me," I hissed through gritted teeth.

And then he did.

I had never been fucked by a man that long—or that patient to wait for my channel muscles to spread open for him. He must have been over eight inches. Everyone who had ever fucked me before was a boy. This was a man.