Ya Gotta Do Wha'cha Gotta Do Ch. 01

The afternoon was a whirlwind: a three and half hour rehearsal, calls to Byrd and my folks, a quick introduction to an agent, meetings with the voice coach, the dancing coach, and my new trainer to schedule the next days, and then a short walk to Angelo's apartment, a block from the river, only a few blocks west of the hotel. As we walked in, Angelo dropped the pizza box on the kitchen counter. "This is the last one of these you'll see for months. That trainer is gonna fuckin' control your diet. You'll have a naked torso for several scenes and one bed scene which we intend to stage with only underwear. That body has got to be mouth-watering. It's gonna be so cut that a mere embrace will seem like a contact with a fuckin' dangerous weapon. Now strip. I want to see what we're working with—and what I'm having for dessert tonight."

I stripped, humming a slow sexy chant, and slowly turned, giving Angelo a full view. I raised my arms in a bicep popping pose, placed them behind my neck, sucked in my gut, and bumped out my hips, waving my weapon at the bull. My cock swung, then began to rise and harden. I turned, bent over and spread my ass cheeks. I knew I looked good. In fact, I thought I might already be over-the-top magnificent. And I had all the moves of a professional Chip stripper.

Angelo was pleased—if the tent in his jeans was any indication. "I don't think that is in the choreography for WSS, but you can fuckin' practice that here anytime. Jerome Robbins might not approve, but I do. You can shower in there. Clean yourself up for me. I'm going to take possession of my property and plant that ass."

I walked into the small bedroom, taking in that there was only one small bed. Adjacent was an even smaller bath—no joint showers here, I thought. But the water was hot, the body wash was nicely scented, and all the tools I needed to clean out were carefully displayed on a high glass shelf. Angelo had done this before. When I came out, Angelo was nude and took my place briefly in the shower. I went to the bed, pulled down the coverlet, placed a towel under and stretched out. (I guessed we were sleeping together on that bed later.) As Angelo emerged from the shower, I once again noted the dark street scars on his upper arms and shoulders. He had been in more than one rumble. Angelo cut the image of a street fighter, but he was in shape—his macho was more earned than acted. His cut muscles glistened with moisture; his hips were unbelievably narrow, his waist similarly small—so the dick looked huge as it hung languidly over the heavy set of balls. Angelo was the embodiment of the Latin big-dicked, macho stud.

"On your knees. Shoulders on the mattress. Barrio studs prefer to plow asses doggie style. Push that butt up nice and high. Scoot down toward the edge. I'm going to fuck you standing." I complied quickly, demonstrating that I take stage direction well and wondering if the easy camaraderie (and flip/flop action) that we had enjoyed in Olde Lyme would be possible in New York when he was effectively my employer and boss.

I understood the power dynamics. And I was beginning to understand the New York tendency to pepper ordinary conversation and commands with sexual innuendo and four letter words. It looked like I was going to be a 100% sub. But, I was going to let Angelo call all the shots until I got the feel for the total situation. If he needed to be the stud, I was okay with being his slut.

Angelo walked up behind me, slapped my thighs apart, reached for the tube and began to open my ass-cunt. Just fingers. No tongue. "Fuckin' A. This cunt is tight." Angelo seemed to be excited by the prospect of the fuck, but maybe was concerned that he not seem the least effeminate, needy or compassionate. This might be part of his macho persona. Angelo wrapped, tapped, and his head was in. He paused for a minute to permit me to get acquainted again with his enormous weapon. Angelo reached under and stroked me to a renewed hard erection. Then he pushed again and reached the prostate. "There it is. Your fuckin' pleasure button. I'm gonna tap that until you beg me to let you cum." He poked it a few times before sliding farther into the chute. I couldn't remain silent. I moaned in pleasure, reveling at being filled so completely. Soon Angelo had bottomed and his balls were banging on mine. He was taking me hard, pulling out and ramming back in, using almost violent hip thrusts while his hands captured and squeezed my shaft and balls. Then he gripped by balls and held them with his, massaging the soft skin.

"God, Angelo. That's good. You're the man. Give it to me."

I was alive with pleasure. It had been a long time since my dick had felt anything but my own hand. And even longer since my ass had been filled with anything but a toy. I was squirming, moaning, hissing, pushing back into Angelo. I was definitely into the fuck and enjoying every second. It seemed that he also felt the pleasure. I wasn't going to be a passive receptacle; I was going to be active—a full-blown rent-boy whore. I squeezed Angelo's cock as he withdrew and pushed back into him when he plowed forward. He pistoned for a long time—I had emptied him with the blow only a few hours before. He shouted out a series of obscenities as he squeezed my cock harder with his fist and forced me back into his gut, going deeper and deeper. I could feel Angelo was about to tip. He shouted out, "Fuck, yes, Kirk, I'm going to fill that tight hole with the next generation of Angelitos. Open up that ass. Take it stud. Give it the fuckin' up." The strokes became harder and longer.

He threw his arms out onto the bed on either side of my gut, and rested all his weight on my back, forcing my shoulders hard into the mattress. He sucked low on my neck, careful to leave his brand below the collar. Then he stiffened his legs, placing all his weight on the point of contact. He was unbelievably deep, pushing into my innermost gut—perhaps even into my throat! He reached down and renewed his grip on my genitals. I collapsed under the weight and Angelo followed as he exploded into the magnum. I felt the heat and spasms and I too let loose into the towel, realizing that his hands were still wrapped around my shaft and balls, milking every last drop—telling me he was in control of everything, even my orgasm. "Fuck yes. I needed that."

Angelo rolled off and lay beside me on the small bed. "You are just as good as I remembered. You look vanilla, but the sex is all fuckin' chunky monkey. Now, clean us up, boy. We need to get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be ball-bustin'."

********

I had been in rehearsals before. In fact, many times and most recently where I had a major role. But, this was another world. I was almost two months behind the rest of the cast. The company was huge. The production was enormous. While there are plenty of intimate two or three person scenes with solos and duets, many of the production numbers involved dozens of dancers—one nearly fifty. And although recorded music and a single piano provided most accompaniment for rehearsals, the show would have a full orchestra.

Angelo had introduced me to the cast the previous day, so the real work was to begin. We left the condo early, catching a street vendor bagel (my last for some time) and coffee on the way.

My first two hours were with the voice coach—and during that time, we ran through all of my numbers—three times. In all, I would be singing for more than 30 minutes during the performance. Twice a week I would have two performances. This was incredibly taxing on a voice. After the first week of coaching, I would "graduate" to a body mike—that unique piece of costuming that molded a remote mike to an actor's head. It had revolutionized Broadway—permitting leads to sing a lot without destroying their vocal cords. Fortunately I knew most of the lyrics and polished all of them before the end of the first session.

Then at 10, the troupe gathered to rehearse the dance numbers where the Sharks and the Jets would be in counterpoint—and the largest gathering of dancers would be present on stage. I was pulled to a side stage and worked through every number with a coach. Then, for the last two run-throughs, I joined the entire cast. I was just okay. This was going to require a lot of work. But, I loved the choreography. It did homage to Robbins, but was new and fresh—and it didn't just mimic the current regular routines of so many of the revival shows at that time: there were many unique, almost classical routines, modernized with the driving beat of the WSS score. I was going to work hard to master and perfect these motions. This would be a chance to show off my gym-rat body.

After a short break for lunch, I met with the diet and training coach. She gave me a rigid diet and worked through an exercise routine—two different sets, on alternate days, with only Sunday off. The producers wanted an extremely muscled and cut Tony. And to emphasize his masculine physique, I would have two long routines, shirtless—and of course the necessary bed-scene with Maria. In contrast to the original production, Tony was not a preppy boy-next-door, but a sex god, an Adonis, giving the production a definite R-feel. Maria was as much attracted to his physical looks as he was to hers. Two young beautiful lovers, reveling in discovery, star-crossed, but in total love--and teenage lust. While the original story had been deliberately vague as to whether Maria and Tony had slept together, there was no question now. They were already lovers. The ending might be sad, but the sexy lead-up would have the audience regretting that they didn't have a chance to bed Maria—or Tony.

Then it was a 45 minute massage—I thought it would be my only break for the day. But the massage was "sports"—not Thai or deep tissue—so I was pulled hard around the table by an enormous therapist who left me breathless, but he did manage to release my muscles and relieve my cramps. At the end, the therapist spread the first of several tanning agents—to determine which would be the best makeup for Tony—not off color, not Puerto Rican, but lightly tanned All-American. The light color was necessary to emphasize the cut eight pac and deep V in the stage lighting while still permitting contrast with the darker Latino Sharks.

Two more hours on the dance stage followed.

Finally, in late afternoon, several scenes were rehearsed—my first meeting with Maria, my long "father-son" conversation with Doc, my first encounter with Bernardo, Maria's older brother. Maria was, as expected, a Latina madonna, young (but a little older than me, I thought), beautiful, with enormous dark eyes and long raven hair. Her body was slight, but she did have the hint of womanly curves and palm-sized tits. (Definitely a straight boy's wet dream.) Doc was a grisly 20 year veteran of Broadway and instantly understood the director's intentions. Bernardo was tall, dark, and definitely dangerous—almost a clone of Angelo; perhaps they were twins. There was very little dialogue. Everything was sung. The acting coach stopped us frequently, repositioned us on the stage and vis a vis each other, and used his own face to emphasize the emotions that we needed to exhibit as we sang or moved.

We finally finished at six. Angelo met me in the lockers. I had already showered (I knew how small the condo shower was), but I must have looked totally spent. The lockers were deserted. They weren't the state of the art dressing rooms of the Circle, just rehearsal studio make-dos—and so most of the cast had left to shower at a gym or at home. "I'm going to go easy on you tonight. We do this again tomorrow." So we returned to the condo.

The dietician had delivered meals for me—some liquid, mostly vegan, but with lots of protein. This would be repeated every two days. Preparation was explained in detail but was relatively simple. Angelo would be sure to enforce the regimen. He was creating the god Tony that would replace the hunk Kirk. He repeatedly referred to me as "guapo"—barrio speak for hunk.

We turned in early after Angelo showered. He climbed into the bed, pulled me into his spoon and began a long, slow fingering of my ass as he toyed with my shaft and balls. Soon, I was open, hard and ready. I pushed back and Angelo slipped his long dark spear in. He pumped a few times to bring me to the edge, then he froze. He held me there for a few minutes, stroking me lightly, moving his dick in my chute, and ringing the base of my penis. He was a master at edging. I was begging for release. Finally he fisted my erect phallus hard, stroked, and shot. He pulled back, removed the condom, and pulled me back into him. He still had not let me cum. Then he slowly stroked my shaft, feeling my tension, but holding me there. "This is the kind of control I want you to have on stage. I wanna see you about to explode, but keeping the lid on." Finally, after maybe ten minutes of this torture, he let me cum as his still hard dick rested between my legs. Angelo possessively placed his leg over mine and cupped my balls and dick, smoothing my cum over the surfaces. He was establishing possession of a beautiful man that would be recreated into a young star, the idol of every teen, male and female, in America. He was more than a director—and a lover—he was my very own creator-god.

The next morning the routine at the theatre was repeated—with one exception: a meeting with the agent-lawyer to review and sign the contracts. The pay during rehearsal was minimum wage. The producers could terminate without cause during the rehearsals. The producers would pick up all the extra coaching bills and the special diet. Otherwise my expenses (very high in New York) were mine. After the opening, my salary would go to $500 per performance (about $4000 per week). If the show went the full cycle at the Circle (a year), the salary would increase by 50% for the final six months. I would be given the first option to sign on for additional performances at the Circle (or the next theatre if the production moved after its run at the Circle) or for touring road shows. I signed over all recording royalties, royalties for the use of my image in advertising and on merchandise—but only for the first run. Any subsequent contract would provide me with compensation that was at least as generous as the first deal, but more importantly, a share in royalties forever.

I was amazed. The agent had done a great job. This was very generous for a new talent. I suspected that Angelo had been "soft" in the negotiations. After all he was spending the producers' money, not his own. And I was keeping him rigidly hard most of the time when his balls were not completely drained.

By Saturday, I was almost in the swing. I knew the songs, the moves and the dances, making only a few errors here and there. It was time to strive for a level of perfection that I demanded of myself—even if the director didn't, yet. On Sunday, my only day off, I planned to take the train to Byrd to collect some clothes and personal items—and endow Allen with the appliances. But, Angelo surprised me. Late Saturday afternoon, when rehearsals ended, Angelo met me in the locker—as had become our routine. He had rented a car. We were going to drive up the Hudson, spend the night at a spa, and then pack my stuff into the rental before the Sunday return to Manhattan.

The drive was easy. Saturday had no rush hour, and it was not a vacation weekend. Fall color had already faded. No one was interested in the lakes—cold now, but not so pretty as they would be after the first snow. We arrived at Hudson River Resort and Spa around eight. We registered, and Angelo ordered room service dinner for himself—he had brought my prescribed meals. The room was luxurious with a king bed, a jetted tub for two, and a large separate glass-enclosed shower. Although short, it had been an intense whirlwind week. The luxury of the spa looked wonderful. I couldn't believe that only a week ago, I was a transfer student at Byrd. Now I was at the cusp of a shot at stardom in an iconic role on Broadway. And I owed it all to Angelo. He didn't plan to let me forget it.

Angelo had taken me every night, often more than once, and occasionally he had been a little rough—although cautious not to injure my performance capabilities the next day. He was definitely establishing a pattern—of intimacy and possession. I was his "chico" (or sometimes "chichito" or "guapo") in every way possible. He had re-christened me as his. He fed me. He coached me. He slept with me. And he used my body any way he wanted. I might consider myself to be a macho hunk with a horse cock, but to Angelo, I was his willing slut-sub. My ass and my mouth were his, anytime he wanted them—in dressing rooms at the rehearsal studio, in his bed, and once in the director's booth where he had called me to demonstrate a lap dance. He seemed to really get off in topping the macho lead at will.

Thus, as Angelo finished his dinner and I swallowed the last of my protein drink, I stripped and went to the shower. I knew what was expected.

I was surprised when Angelo followed me into the shower. He then proceeded to carefully scrub me, caressing with a softness which was quite uncharacteristic. He handed me the soap and turned to face the beige marble wall. He stretched out his arms above his head and spread his legs, in a sub position, presenting his muscled ass to me. I approached, touched my chest to Angelo's back, and began to scrub—his hairless chest, his scars, his arms, his neck, his abs, and then, skipping the genitals, I bent down and completed the soapy massage of the thighs and calves, using the time to push my tongue into Angelo's crevice, drawing it down, and then up as I stood. When I stood, I was erect and my cock slipped between his legs and up into his low hanging balls. Through all of this, he was whispering words of sexual encouragement—mostly with four letters and with increasing urgency. I stroked his shaft a few times, rolling down the hood. Angelo turned. So I used my soapy hands to stroke our erections together into rigid hardness as I nipped Angelo's shoulder, just above one of the scars. Angelo turned his head and our lips met. We kissed, then Angelo grabbed the back of my head and took me hard into his mouth while stroking my ass cheeks softly. Angelo was not the raging macho dom. He was much more like the playmate that I had enjoyed in Olde Lyme. Reluctantly, we broke apart, stepped out and toweled each other.

"I'm gonna to fuck you tonight, Kirk. But I'm going to let you do me too. I'm glad that I brought you to this party—and this show. You haven't let me down." I was pleased, but obviously a little surprised. Angelo had been treating me like a sub—and I was responding as expected of an aspiring young actor being given a lifetime break. But he knew that I was typically a top, or perhaps a once-in-a-while vers. I had decided I would survive Angelo—at least until the show opened, and I was well-ensconced in the lead. But, then I intended to end it or at least reduce the frequency. Maybe Angelo realized this. Maybe Angelo wanted a longer term relationship, perhaps at least the run of the musical. Or, if you were into conspiracy theories, maybe Angelo had been told to lighten up (He was a good director. Maybe he realized it himself.)—Tony was being emasculated in real life, but was playing a role on stage where he needed to come on as totally hetero, totally macho. Bernardo was my antagonist. I needed to dominate him on stage. But he was nearly Angelo's twin. How could I be Angelo's sub at night, but Bernardo's dom on stage? I'm a method actor—I get into the soul of my part. I tend to live my current part every minute of every day. Something was going to have to give.

I realized I might never work out the puzzles or the motives for Angelo's change of heart, but I was pleased that the experiences I had enjoyed with him in Olde Lyme were coming back. Yes!! And getting into Angelo's ass was going to make getting into Tony's head so much easier.