With a Little Help

Then tonight, if Alex is celebrating, maybe he'd like me to come to his hotel room. I'll bet he does a really good cowboy.

* * * *

Brandon Chapman

He was a cocky little thing. I liked that about Alex Winstead. He'd fit real well into the character of Wade in the sitcom I was casting. Still, there were sponsors pushing for the young rock star, Zach Peters, and I had to admit that Peters not only did the cocky walk but would be a gold mine for publicity for the show. I opened the audition leaning toward Peters—and leaning hard in the direction. Auditioning Winstead was more as a favor to my friend Ray Stinger back in New York. Ray had said I'd want to do this kid. I was thinking that maybe there was a way of leading him on long enough so that I could do him and still pick Peter—and maybe do him too. Well, no, definitely do him too.

The decision was pretty much taken out of my hands, though, in two ways. The first way was that Zack Peters skipped the audition. He didn't show. I put it off for a half hour, coming out every ten minutes to the outer office checking on whether he'd arrived, and he hadn't. The Winstead kid was there, though, patiently waiting in the reception room and looking oh so young and oh so sexy.

I'd really settled on Peters already, but I felt lucky that I had such an acceptable backup possibility.

Eventually, I gave up waiting. I couldn't take all day at this. I called the Winstead kid into my office and that's when the decision was pulled right out of my hands. First off, he was terrific in the audition. He's a natural-born actor—both funny and poignant, just what the role needed. And he could play the high school freshman role. I kept looking at his folder to make sure it said he was nineteen. Another two months and he'd be twenty.

Beyond the younger role playing, he was driving me nuts with his smaller, perfectly formed body—and the blondness, the blue eyes, the shy, yet vulnerable and sensual smile. He didn't question me when I asked him to strip down to his briefs and turn this way and that for me. I said he'd be playing basketball a lot and I'd have to get an idea how he'd look dressed down in "skins." His portfolio indicated that he was, in fact, a good basketball player. That was one thing we weren't sure of with Peters, and we were going on faith that Peters could be taught to be convincing on screen.

He saw his effect on me as I watched him—beautiful slim body; such narrow hips—posing and turning for me in only his briefs. No doubt he'd heard about me and my fetish for young men in his age bracket. Ray Stinger, who was pushing the kid at me, would have told him that. Ray Stinger would have enjoyed having him to be interested in promoting the guy's career. That was fine with me. It cut right to the chase. I slouched down in my chair, pulled out from behind my desk, going hard, and using every restraint I could not to touch myself. He went right for getting the role—and got it. He took the situation and me in hand.

I knew as soon as he'd gone over to the door and turned the lock that he was going to let me fuck him. He'd seen as soon as he'd come into my office that I had a couch blocked from sight from the door by a bookcase. He knew about the casting couch concept. Ray Stinger had told me that Alex knew everything there was to know about the casting couch.

After locking the door, Alex was on his knees between my spread thighs, unzipping me, taking me out, taking me in hand, licking up on side and down the other. Patting me on this cheek, and then taking me inside his mouth and taking me to heaven with a soft, talented mouth.

When I felt him pull off me and opened my eyes, he was across the room, on the couch. He'd slipped his briefs off and was lying on his back on the couch, pert little ass at the edge, and holding his legs up and spread.

I was on him in seconds, kneeling between his thighs, eating his puckered hole out, gripping his narrow hips between my hands, spreading his butt cheeks. Then I was rising over him, splitting the difference between his hip bones, penetrating him . . . fucking the hell out of him, while he whimpered, "Yes, fuck me, daddy. Screw the shit out of me."

He asked for it; he got it. He also got the part in the sitcom.

* * * *

Gordon Marsh

I happened to be standing at the window, with no appointments or calls to make for another hour, when I saw him arrive. He was in a TV studio car, and the Asian pimp I sometimes used to procure young men for me, Larry Lu, handed him out of the limo. The kid was a real rock star for how fast he seemed to be moving up. I had to assume he had done well in one of the auditions he'd told me about or he wouldn't be chauffeured around in a studio car. Kinda fun Larry was driving him, though.

I did wonder for a few minutes if he was coming to see me. This building was crawling with talent agents. The studio might have already fixed him up with someone else in the business.

But then I heard him at the desk in reception, just outside the door to my office.

"Yes, can I help you?" I heard Audrie ask.

"I'd like to see Mr. Marsh, please," the young guy answered.

"You are a client of his?" she asked. She knew damn well he wasn't—yet—but she had this song and dance she went through with everyone who showed up at the office blind.

"No, I'm not . . . but—"

"I'm afraid he's busy now and it would be five or six weeks before you could have an appointment. Would you—?"

"He gave me his business card. Said I could come see him anytime I had work to represent. He said to come to him if I needed a little help. See, it says here on the back of the card, 'See me when you have a part.' I have a part in a sitcom on TV now—if I can get an agent to represent me."

I let both of them out of their misery. I stepped up to the door into the reception room and opened it. "There you are, Alex. I lost track of you in the LA airport when we landed the other day. You say the audition you were coming to town to have went well? This is Alex Winstead, Audrie. Could you open a file on him, while he and I talk in my office about contracts? Tomorrow's fine for you to do that; it's too late today. Just take down the name now. And hold my calls, please. In fact, take off early, if you like. Turn the phones off and just go. Come on in my office, Alex."

Audrie didn't ask question. She knew what this routine meant.

"I hope you might be interested in being my talent agent, Mr. Marsh," Alex said, as he walked over to the door. "The studio said it would send me to an agent, but I remember you telling me in Denver that that is sort of a racket—getting an agent recommended by the studio. With what you wrote on your card . . . and all . . . I thought maybe you would represent me."

"Of course I'm interested in representing you," I said, thinking that if he passed an audition this quickly maybe I'd be interested in agenting him as well as what else I was interested in doing with him.

After he was through the door and I saw that Audrie, who was a smart cookie, was standing and putting on her sweater, I ushered him across my office to where there was a couch, and before I followed him, I closed and locked the door to reception.

Both Alex and I knew why I had done that. So did Larry, sitting downstairs in the studio limousine and most likely whistling. I'd have to find out how much of this was with his little bit of help and would reward him appropriately.