Ya Gotta Do Wha'cha Gotta Do Ch. 01

I moved to the enormous bed and positioned myself. Angelo climbed on, reached under and stroked my massive dick and cupped my hot, swollen balls. He knew I was bigger than he was. So every time he fucked me, he'd first handle my genitals, taking possession—squeezing, fondling, cupping--, before taking me. I think maybe he needed that to stroke his ego, before he stroked me. Then he pushed me onto my back, and spread himself completely over. I opened my legs and Angelo slipped in, our genitals making intimate contact. He propped himself on his arms and reached down to rub our shafts together. Then he took my lips. Angelo was changed. He was a lover, not exactly gentle, but nevertheless a lover, not a dom—although that did not change his frequent use of his habitual street language.

We kissed for a long time. Then, Angelo rose on his knees and pushed my legs up, rolling my ass and its target into ramming position. First came the tongue, licking the rim, then probing deeper and deeper. (This was he first time he had eaten me.) I gasped in response. I was already high, physically and emotionally. I loved being eaten, one of the greatest pleasures of gay life. In fact, I loved all of this. Angelo reached under the pillow and grabbed the tube. He coated his fingers and shot lube into the opening. I was not a newbie. Two fingers, then three were quickly sawing, scraping the prostate with each stroke. My cock went rigid and its hood drew back, revealing a deep purple-red head leaking a nearly clear fluid. Angelo knew how to milk. He continued to stroke the nut. This was paradise. I was soaking and dripping. I almost wanted to moo.

Finally, Angelo wrapped, lubed himself and positioned. He probed a few times, then plunged. Quickly he bottomed; his balls smacked my ass; and, Angelo began the relentless stroking. It took only seconds, I was ready to blow. He reached down, rolled the hood back, and stroked the sensitive head. I was edged beyond anything I'd ever felt before. Angelo stiffened, pushed hard on my thighs, and exploded inside. I felt the heat and the spasms as I too poured cum over his chest, neck and mouth. Angelo released, but before he could roll off, I used my powerful legs to wrap his waist and pull him deep in. I wanted to feel Angelo's withdrawal—slowly, as he had relished the quick entry. Angelo smiled and began to lick the cum from my face and neck. The act had been totally different from what I had experienced the last few days. It was so much better. I had been used, but the experience was somehow more satisfying. I wonder if he realized that I would be his sub easily if he treated me like this. He was addictive.

We dozed for awhile, but I was anxious to re-establish our old style—a flop always followed a flip. I opened my eyes to see Angelo studying my uncovered nudity. "You are the most beautiful hunk of a man that I've ever seen. You're gonna be a fuckin' star, Kirk, my fuckin' star."

"Well, star-maker, how about if you do a bit of riding?" I positioned myself in the center of the bed as Angelo attacked my cock and brought it to its full upright position.

"This pole is so hard, I'm gonna feel like a fuckin' carousel horse with a pole stuck up my ass, not a fuckin' cowboy."

"But, we're both going for a spin. Whatever image turns you on, stud. Now wrap me and get that ass in position. I'm coming up and in." Soon Angelo was indeed riding and I was using my powerful legs to buck Angelo up and down. I could see the lust in his eyes—and the pleasure each time I whacked his prostate. Each time, I did, he shouted, "Fuck, yeah, punch that nut." Angelo was tall, dark, shaggy—and scarred. He did look like a dangerous desperado—or maybe a champion bronc rider at the rodeo. I didn't last long. The bucking had been accomplished by tensing my thighs and abs—which made it hard to hold back an orgasm (even if my second of the night), since the tension coincidentally pushed along my ejaculation readiness. Exertion prevented holding back. I could feel the spunk climbing up my dick. I stretched; pushed Angelo well into the air; and, then I blasted. Angelo shot, almost simultaneously, covering my chest with cum, and then he fell forward to massage the spunk into my smooth chest, pinching each nipple in turn as he did so. Arms intertwined and lips sucked lips. Breathing returned to normal. I slipped out. And Angelo slipped off.

"Fuck. We need another fuckin' shower."

*******

The next day, my stuff was quickly loaded into the rental after I briefly introduced Allen to Angelo. "Come see me when you're ready to start playing in the theatre."

Rehearsals continued at a furious pace—often going for ten hours each day. Clearly the director of the revival wanted perfection in his adaptation. In the next-to-last week, costumed and in street clothes, I spent the better part of day with the photographers—head shots, poses, alone and with other cast members—often in poses that were more sensuous than any that the stage would allow--for the promotional materials, with copies for my head book and portfolio.

We moved to the Circle where weekend crews had installed the sets within hours after the last performances of the previous show. We had a week of rehearsals and previews. Opening night was only ten days away. And Angelo and I had moved into a mutually-satisfactory relationship. He did return to most of his macho style when we returned to New York, but he did let me fuck him occasionally. And, I continued to grow into the role I was born for. Even the cast started calling me Tony—all the time.

It was opening night. The buzz was tremendous. Critics, who had come to see the previews, ready to destroy a revival which attempted to adapt the greatness that was Lennie Bernstein, were converted, and were gushing in their praise. West Side Story was a hit. I was profiled in the Times, the Village Voice, Variety and even several of the entertainment mags. Tony was a star. And, I was Tony. My scenes with Maria were very convincing. Every eye in the house was tearful—even the macho financial execs who had commandeered so many of the valuable preview and opening night tickets. And I projected coming-of-age masculinity in my relationships with my friends in the Jets and my enemies in the Sharks. But, Tony was not one of them. I was above the fray and the gritty street politics of knife and gun—apparently because Maria had seduced me with her beauty and her love that transcended race—and brought me to manhood, perhaps even divinity. There was no doubt we had consummated our love. Our scenes were so good that everyone assumed we were getting it on in real life. And my hetero-cred sky-rocketed.

The dance routines were legendary. And at the end of each as the cast accepted audience applause, Tony projected exhausted, uber-maleness—not the violent, vengeful image of a mongrel attack dog, but deep power held in check by the mature, strong, reasoning masculinity of a "real man." I was strong. I was handsome. I was sensitive. I was vulnerable. I was real. The appeal was magnetic. Every member of the female audience, young and old, was in love. So apparently were many of the men, young and old.

In the end, the musical played for years. I starred for almost two years, and in that time, it was repeatedly said that I was Tony, that no one else could ever again play that role. I remained in a good relationship with Angelo—although I did move to my own apartment a month or so after the opening night. We were not exclusive, just really good friends, with benefits. He always managed to lure me to his bed at least once a week. I tried a few other hook-ups (including an unexpected night with Luis—the actor playing Bernardo)—but it was just too weird—fucking two guys who could be twins, one definitely a dom; the other, a sub.

About two months before the end of the run, a young man, dressed in a three piece, but apparently well-built and obviously attractive, began to visit some of the rehearsals. Executive producers, angels, in Broadway-speak, the money behind a production, are often given carte blanche to attend rehearsals. But, he appeared very young, perhaps a little too young to be a producer. I stared at him a few times and did at least one number each time he was in the audience looking straight into his eyes. I was curious. My stares were invitations. I was ready to get to know an apparently innocent young good-looking blond. He was definitely my type. Maybe stardom would give me some benefits other than a star on my door and a good income. I knew it had given me the confidence to take what I wanted. He got the hint. Later he visited the dressing room.

He introduced himself as Brent Phillips. Brent was indeed one of the producers. He was only 26 and an investment banker (Wharton MBA). His father had been into Broadway stage productions for years, but had died six months before. Thus, Brent had inherited the investment in the WSS production. He invited me to dinner—and I decided to accept, provided we could dine late after a performance. Thus began a friendship and a relationship.

Toward the end of the run, when we had been together on and off for about a month and half, he asked if I'd like to go with him to his family's place on St. Martin—perhaps after the run--for a couple of weeks. I had been with him several times to his apartment, and I knew we were compatible. Actually quite a bit more than compatible—we were terrific together. We had gotten it on in capital letters. He was responsive and receptive in a way that I had not yet experienced on Broadway—he didn't seem to have an agenda, other than enjoying me. So I accepted. I needed a break before taking the next steps in my career—and maybe my life.

Then, after a few weeks beach holiday—in St. Martin, on the French side at La Samanna Resort and Villas, I returned to New York. My first call was from Angelo. "Let's get together. I've missed you. I want to discuss my future."

"I've got another part you need to consider. I think you'd be perfect. They're reviving Oklahoma!. Do you think you might consider being a cowboy?"

"I've never been on a horse in my life—and for me Pittsburgh is the West. But, with you Angelo, any position works for me." I joked, "Certainly, I can learn to ride—a horse if I must. But, there are a few other offers. We need to talk."

But, I'm getting ahead of the story....

BD