Ya Gotta Do Wha'cha Gotta Do Ch. 03

This is the third (and final) part of the story of a young Broadway actor. I suggest you look at Chs 01 and 02 before reading this one. All characters, places, and events—even if you think you know them--are figments of the imagination. Let me give a sincere shoutout to those brave men and women who are plagued with PTSD. This story is not meant to make little of your pain. Often the arts, particularly drama, bring attention to a serious social issue which can result in action. But, if this is an issue for you, I suggest you skip this one. All characters engaged in sexual activity are over 18, as should be any reader where local laws so require. AI was not used in the composition of this story. © 2023. All rights reserved. Brunosden

The first two weeks back in the City were filled with transition. I called my agent and told him that I was ready to go with the TV series, which already had a working title, "Storm House." He told me filming would begin in three weeks, just after the New Year. Several days of rehearsals were planned before Christmas, but he didn't have the details. He'd get the contract negotiated.

Then I moved. Fortunately, I had little clothing and less furniture. Brent's place was completely furnished anyway. Still, I had my sound equipment, recordings, musical DVDs, boxes of scripts, boxes of dramatic literature and my prized Espresso Supreme. It took about two days—and I did hire a couple of guys with a small truck to help do the actual move in the middle of the second week.

Toward the end of the second week, Angelo called. His name and picture appeared on the cell screen. I felt a little guilty that I hadn't contacted him sooner, so I let it go to voicemail. I wanted to compose myself before we talked. Later, I called him back and I invited him to lunch. I didn't want to talk about the last few weeks—and my recent decisions—by phone. This had to be in person. I wanted to see his reactions.

We met the next day—at our favorite deli near the Circle Theatre—only a few blocks from his apartment (and a few blocks from my old place). They served the best pastrami on pump in the city with a homemade mustard that would make the Dijonais jealous. It was one of my few off-diet indulgences.

He beat me to the deli and chose "our booth." He rose and hugged me tightly when I arrived. "Where have you been, stranger? We haven't been together for over a month—and we haven't even talked for a long time. You barely spent any time at the closing night party. Are you fuckin' avoiding me?"

"It's good to see you too, Angelo......After West Side Story closed, at least for me, I took my first break in more than two years—in fact my first vacation in years. I went to St. Martin and dropped out of society to rest, relax, and think about the future."

"I presume you've decided not to go on tour with WSS."

"Yeah. Two years playing one character is enough, I think."

"Well, I've got something to suggest."

"Before you do, let me bring you up to date. As of last week, I signed on to do Storm House, a drama-reality TV series. Filming starts January 3 and will take about three months. This will give me a very different experience—and some time to consider the potential for another live theatre role."

"And, you did all of this without talking with me?"

"You knew already that the tour troupe was not a likely choice. And you knew about the TV offer—in fact I told you the day after the screen test that they wanted me. The time in St. Martin gave me the chance to think about the pros and cons."

"How come you didn't invite me to St Martin?"

"I needed time to think—and I didn't need you telling me what to think. You've done a lot of that over the last two years."

"Well, we've done a lot more than talk over the last few years." He looked me in the eyes and feigned a lascivious grin. "I've molded you into the actor you are today. You're my creation and my fuckin' boy. You don't do fuckin' nothin' without me. So, let me start again. I do have a suggestion for you. A group of producers have convinced the estates of Rodgers and Hammerstein to permit yet another revival of Oklahoma! I'm directing. We begin auditions after the first of the year. We're still looking to book a theatre, but we do expect to be casting by February or March, with rehearsals starting in April. We plan a two or three city pre-Broadway try-out tour with an opening next September. Of course, everything is dependent on theatre availability. But, we've done the hard part—we've got the estate approval for the adaptation and the financial backing."

"How'd you like to be a cowboy, Kirk? I think you'd be perfect for the Gordon MacRae part—Curly. There's a love interest with a young beautiful farm girl. And dangerous elements—harsh weather and a farm hand rival for the girl, an ominous antagonist. I'm sure you've seen the play. It's a classic. Great music. Good dance. Lots of big production numbers. And your persona fits the Curly role perfectly—naïve, innocent, sincere, and of course, hunky. He has a few really romantic numbers. With your Tony, I think you have the cred to take on this role. What'ya think?"

"I'm stunned. I hadn't heard anything about the revival. It sounds great. But, I'm committed to Storm House—and that could change everyone's perception of me as a man and an actor. It's serious theatre, down and dark. I'm going to be playing an ex-Marine haunted by war--volatile and occasionally violent. I think I'm going to lose my innocence, maybe even my mind."

Angelo seemed a little pissed that I didn't jump into his lap, pull his cock out and start sucking as I said yes. Then he quickly moved into his sales pitch.

"Storm House probably won't even air until after Oklahoma! opens. So there won't be any fallout from the series until Oklahoma! is already on the stage. And I don't think that your TV filming schedule will interfere with our rehearsals. We probably won't even start until the beginning of April. He reached out to grab my arm as his leg split mine and his knee started to rub my inner thigh, moving to the crotch. Let's go to your place and talk a little more about this."

There it was. He was ready to pick up our relationship again. I was going to owe him, again. But, this was a chance of a lifetime—again. Brent would understand. I knew we would be doing very little talking at my place, or his place. "My place is a disaster right now. Let's go to yours." We paid the bill, stood and walked to the street to catch a cab to go the short distance to his apartment.

We reached Angelo's apartment on the third floor. (Of course one elevator was out of order and the other had been commandeered by a mover.) He opened the door, after unlocking all three locks, then pushed it open and stepped back to let me enter. It looked as it had several months before when we were last there—sparsely furnished and not very clean. Dirty clothes, mostly black, littered the rooms. Empty cans and pizza cartons filled the kitchen counter. He came up behind me, spun me around and pushed me into the wall, jammed his chest into mine, and took my mouth in his. His tongue invaded immediately as he reached around, gripped my butt, squeezed hard, and pulled me into his already stiff erection. I guess he was ready to re-establish his claim as payment for the Oklahoma! tip and recommendation. I expected that when we had lunch, but maybe not so soon. And he was as rough as ever.

He released, stepped back and unbuckled me, then him. He pushed my jeans down and reached in to fist my hardening cock. I knew the way to his bed, but he forcefully pulled me behind him, establishing full ownership of my dick by never releasing it from his fist. I finished undressing as he pushed me onto the mattress, chest down. This time (probably only the first of several that afternoon) was going to be quick, rough and brutal. He knew that I liked to top, but he also knew that when I bottomed, I wanted a macho fuck—hard and deep.

Angelo was definitely a total top, although he had allowed me to take him a few times at the beginning of the West Side Story. He pulled me up on my knees and pushed my shoulders hard to the sheets. He was directing, all right. He didn't even trust me to assume the sub position on my own. He fastened a leather collar around my balls and a smaller one around the base of my cock. Then, he wrapped and lubed, gave me only a few seconds of prep, and plunged. He knew what turned me on. His hands moved to my chest and pinched hard. And he had a set of new toys. Expertly, he attached the clips. Then he moved to my shaft and balls. It started as a fondle, but soon he was pulling and squeezing. He was punishing me with everything he had—toys, lips, rock hard cock, and skillful hands—as he continued to press his chest into my back. He bottomed, again and again, lurching his hips hard into me, scraping the prostate with each stroke. Each time, he murmured "fuck, that's good" "or so fuckin deep" or "give it up stud, I'm takin' what's mine" or just plan "fuck". He knew all about me and how to turn me on—and into his sub.

I continued to climb the orgasmic mountain. Then when he had me at the top, he made me look over the edge, held me there for what seemed like minutes, and then he pushed me over. "Fuckin' let it go, Kirk. You know it's fuckin' mine." I shot into his fist—a long hard squirt given the constrictions of the lether, contracted my ass muscles, and felt his hot, huge blast into the bulb. Angelo was the old Angelo—the one who took what he wanted after bestowing a small favor. He was definitely a transactional lover.

He remained on top as I collapsed into the bed. He held me tightly with legs and arms, and using his hips, he continued to stir the pot. He was still hard and remained inside. He was going to be ready for another round very soon. Finally, our breathing began to slow. "I've missed you Kirk. That was a great fuck—surely worthy of a Tony, or a Kirk. We'll see whether Curly does better. What have you been up to? I think you've been avoiding me."

I was probably not in the best position to talk. I was pinned, and he had just taken me hard as he always had. I was his sub. And I had let him, without even a single word. But, I needed to respond. He was waiting. I rolled back and onto my side as he cupped and held my balls (slipping a finger under the leather collar) to insure that I didn't back off too far. His semi was still poking my gut. He was not going to make this easy. Our heads were only a few inches apart.

"When West Side Story closed—at least for me—I went to St. Martin for a couple of weeks for rest and to think about the future. I wasn't alone. I'd met someone, and we've been having some fun. St. Martin was his idea. We spent a lot of time in bed. He has a coop in the Montana and no roommate. It's a big place. At the end of the trip, he invited me to sublet. So last week, I rented a piece of the coop and yesterday I moved. That's why my place is a disaster—it's being cleaned and repainted so I don't get stung at the end of the lease next week."

He looked in my eyes, but continued to hold me close to his chest, one hand holding my balls, the other on my ass cheek, with fingers deep in the crevice. He wasn't yielding any ground. I could see him planning his next comments.

"The Montana. Interesting. I know that building. In fact, I've been inside many times. Remember I told you that I had a mentor when I was a teen? He lived in there with his wife and two children, a boy and a girl, both younger than I. Once or twice, his son or his daughter attended a play or a musical with us. In fact, although the guy was careful to keep me away from his daughter, I guess he felt that it was okay for me to spend some time with his son. I think he was hoping his boy's experiences and ideas might rub off on me. His son was a great student and a good kid. I was just one step away from delinquency. Brent and I developed a close friendship although he was about five years younger than me. You could almost say we were step-bros. His Dad helped me get through CMU. He followed my career after graduation and really showed his confidence in me by investing in West Side Story. He died about a year ago. I haven't seen Brent in years—I was away at CMU before he graduated, and then he was away at school for a long time after I finished at CMU. I guess he's back in the city."

"Did you say Brent? As in Brent Phillips?"

"Yeah, do you know him?"

"He's my new landlord and apartment-mate. We went to St. Martin together."

"Are you two getting it on? Have you fucked him?"

"Yeah, we have."

"Oh shit. This is fuckin' bad. This is fuckin' incest. This is a fuckin' betrayal." He rolled away and stared at the ceiling, releasing my balls for the first time in an hour.

"What could you possibly mean? You've known for years that you are not my only partner. In fact, you arranged several of the dates that I've had with investors. I don't remember anyone who lived in the Montana. I've never asked about your other hooks—or relationships. We weren't exclusive—by your choice. Wait a minute. So did you fuck Brent? Did you fuck his Dad?"

"I'm telling you this is like incest. He's like my brother. I never fucked him. Not that I didn't want to. He had a cute little ass. But, he was too young and I didn't want to cross his father who had been so good to me for so many years. His father never tried anything with me. But, I would have given him anything he asked for—including my ass. I suspected Brent might be gay, but I don't fuckin' soil the sheets in my own bed."

"But, if you're fuckin' him now—and me, that is just too fuckin' weird."

"Angelo, I'm not going to turn down the apartment. I've already given notice on mine and moved. And I'm not going to stop enjoying my time with Brent. We've talked about a possible relationship, but we haven't reached that point. You know and he knows that as a young actor, I sometimes need to play with investors, other actors—even a director, if I'm going to make it on the Broadway stage, or show business in general."

"If, after all this time, this is too much for you, let's end this right now. I'm going to do the TV series. That will give me time to audition for other Broadway parts. I'd like to do Oklahoma!, but I can't build my entire life around dependence on you for roles. And I'm not always going to be your sexual punching bag. If I didn't like it rough—and if I didn't like you, I would have ended this a year ago. But, don't try to leverage that into control over me. I'm not ever going to be your permanent bottom or sub. I'm a natural top, and I think you know that. In fact, I think that's what helps to get you off—doing a macho top."

Angelo looked like I had hit him with a two by four. "I think I need some time to fuckin' think about all of this. But, I can't think when you're spread out in all your hunky nude glory in my bed with your fuckin' big dick hangin' just a few inches from me—and when I'm already hard again just thinking about your sweet ass. I'm gonna do you again. Then you're gonna fuckin' leave. We can talk again tomorrow or maybe later. I'm sure hoping this is not a good-bye fuck."

"On your back, Kirk. Grab those legs. Show me that fuckin' trophy ass."

I was ready to leave at that second. But, why end this situation on a negative note. Who knows when I might need him in the future? I could handle another round with him. In fact, I kind of hoped he'd pull out all the stops. I was feeling that I had betrayed him, or let him down. I needed to be punished. And he knew how to do that.

I centered in the bed and my hands went behind my knees. I pulled and rolled. I was already lubed and still open from his attack only a half hour ago. He wrapped, lubed himself, leaned over me, pushing me hard into a submissive folded position. Then he pushed and popped in. He stroked a few times, bottomed and rested his chest on mine. He bent over and took my mouth. He stiffened his legs, drew in his abs, and started doing push-ups into me. This time he had stamina and he kept me in that position for what seemed like a half hour. My thighs began to ache from the compressed position. My chute began to hurt from the constant pounding. My prostate was humming and sending out pleasure waves. My cock started to leak. So he pushed me up farther and the precum started falling on my lips. He had often made me taste my own cum. I loved it, particularly when he later used his tongue to taste what I had not swallowed. I could tell he was near. So I released my legs and wrapped his waist. And again, he blasted into the magnum. I followed, but this time he didn't try to stay in. He released me with a smile (maybe a grimace), but no kiss.

He got up, tapped my ass as a good-bye and headed for the shower. "I think you need to fucking leave now. I have some serious fucking thinking to do." (The sex was over. I could tell. He had found his "g's" again.)

"You're a great director, Angelo. And you're a pretty good top. I've known and appreciated both in you. I hope that we can continue to work together. But, if you need more, then I guess I need to move on. Thanks for everything, Angelo. I'll never forget the role you've played in my life." I left the leather cock rinks on the pillow and let myself out.

***********

Later that day, I related all of the details of my lunch and afternoon with Angelo. Brent listened quietly, but looked pretty serious and upset. "Of course, I've known Angelo for many years. My Dad invested in West Side Story to give Angelo a needed boost. It was his first big breakthrough gig as a Broadway director. And I can confirm that we never touched each other. Hell I was only 15 when he left for CMU. I know that we talked about your need to fuck around to make your career. But, with Angelo? Let me make this clear. He is not my bro. We haven't talked in years. I can handle anonymous hooks if you need them to make your life. But, I can't handle you doing it again with Angelo. That's not a hook. It's a relationship—and he's trying to turn you into his sub again. I'm not going to bed with someone else's sub."

"You got it, Brent. I promise. I won't touch Angelo again—nor let him touch me. Even if it means losing the part in Oklahoma!. We've got something special going."

But, we didn't sleep together that night. Brent needed time to process. And I guess he was trying to figure out what a long term relationship with me might be like. I was naturally at a loss, but I did understand. I slept, or at least tried to, in "my" room. He was gone before I got up the next morning.

The next day Angelo called. I didn't answer, but got the voicemail. "Sorry about the blast, yesterday. But, I guess we're about at the end of our relationship—if I can call it that. I still think you're good for Curly—but you're going to have to audition for it unless you're in my bed. And if another Kirk comes along, and we get it on, I'll definitely promote him over you. I need to be sexually attracted to the male leads I direct. And sexual attraction always needs regular fulfillment. I'm not going to walk around with an all day fucking hard-on directing you without any expectation of release. You know that. And I know that. Good luck, Kirk. See you around. I'll call when we get into the auditions—assuming I haven't already found my Curly. Maybe by then you might change your mind."

*********

The next few weeks were Christmas in New York—perhaps the best time of the year. Lights, a giant tree, Nutcracker at Lincoln Center, and the excitement of bonuses, ring-presenting proposals, and the change of the year with its possibility for personal re-invention. Great food and parties.

Brent had the coop decorated to the "nines" including a large real tree and hosted several cocktails for his clients and friends. I felt a little at odds—I had no friends to invite. I was his "arm-candy"—a role that I had never played before. I was a celebrity and was treated as one. But, he didn't make it clear that we were more than friends. I'm not sure Brent realized how many invitations I got—from his purported friends and colleagues. I got into it and played the entire season like a Hallmark Christmas special (though I was pretty sure Hallmark never does gay). We were dating, in possible-love, but not yet committed. There were lots of possibilities in that room. Several had given me their cards. Meanwhile, a few days after the "Angelo discussion," we were in bed together. And our fucking became love-making.