Ya Gotta Do Wha'cha Gotta Do Ch. 03

I had convinced Brent that I was not going to sell my soul for a part—even the lead in the next great revival. I was through with Angelo. We were getting much more comfortable with each other. And I'm pretty sure he trusted me not to let him down. I wouldn't. What we had was way too good. But, he still knew deep down that I'd go to bed with a guy who could do something special for my career—and ask forgiveness later. That might be okay for a good friend with benefits, but we were obviously beyond that. We were exclusive and living together—and I think we were falling for each other.

"Meet the cast" and preliminary informal rehearsals for Storm House were scheduled. I was immediately attracted to the other actors—five, muscular, Marine-types--like me. It was going to be a pleasure working with these guys. But, we were all guarded and careful—which the TV part, of course, demanded. I was convinced that, although the script required archetypal hetero-macho marines, the surface image was just that—a thin crust. Inside all of us were sensitive, emotional, frightened and vulnerable men—vulnerable to change and experiment and our own inner demons and nightmares. This reality series was going to be very interesting—and perhaps totally different from what the producers had envisioned, but the director had his own ideas. Later it turned out that three of the six first "patients" were homosexual (including me), but one other guy was really still in the closet, and I was not broadcasting my sexual preferences. We were definitely going to go with screwed-up, hetero personas. That's what the producers wanted.

There was no open sexuality in any of the rehearsals (or the later filming)—but there was a definite undercurrent of sexual "availability." For ratings reasons, all of us were bare-chested and often in underwear only, as the story unfolded. The house, conveniently, had a gym, and many scenes were shot there—with two or three of us in spandex shorts or jocks and little else. All of us had quite respectable equipment filling those briefs and jocks. Not every bedroom (we each had our own) had a bath—so there were many hall scenes of guys in towels, jocks or underwear moving from bed to shower. Some suggested that this was just a vehicle for exhibiting the bodies and baskets of six incredibly fit models. They may not have been completely inaccurate in their accusations, and it wasn't going to hurt the ratings either. Meanwhile six guys were spending ten hours a day, walking around with little on, emoting, and trying to appear sympathetic to others in pain. Emotions were raw. The tension was palpable. And I'm sure that many of us experienced the relief of that tension by masturbation in private during these days. Certainly, I did.

This was not going to be a house of homophobic macho men; it was going to be a house of vulnerable, caring guys who had been through hell. We wanted the comfort of others who had traveled or were traveling the same path—and had emerged, even if broken. That comfort didn't need to include sex—although the possibility hung ripe in the air. And it didn't involve women partners. In several beer-drinking sessions after rehearsals, when we gathered together, we became brothers-in-turmoil and pain.

It was perhaps the longest, most intense "method acting" period of my life. We were into the trauma of the characters we played. Each of us had experienced similar challenges to our very being—although none so dramatic as the characters we played. How did we survive? And how could we help our characters survive? A potentially X-rated reality show-parade of semi-naked ex-marines with a phony script became, almost overnight, a search for purpose and understanding among a group of young wounded men in therapy. I was immediately reminded of a Viet-Nam era play, the Altman-directed Streamers. It was deeply cerebral and philosophic—although incredibly profane. I found copies and distributed them.

After several weeks, I became convinced that the idea was going to work, maybe big time. It was reality TV. It was dramatic. It was sexy. It was engaging. The characters were believable, handsome, the best America had, and the audience would be invested and pulling for their recovery. And, it had triple audience appeal: cult liberal anti-war pacifists, gays, and hungry young women looking for that elusive sensitive, yet virile, husband. Now, if we only could capture the critics—and maybe some sponsors.

After New Years, when our relationship was again on solid ground, I asked Brent to attend a few of the rehearsals. He was absolutely blown away by the emotion, the connection of the wounded men-actors, and the potential. Later he did remark that he was a little envious of the guys I was spending my days with. But the remark was accusatory; it was just envious. Few get to live life so vividly. But this life was pain.

There had been some issues among the producers and the writers—we were giving the writers (and the director) all they wanted and maybe more. The producers had bought a risqué serialized skin flick—a quasi-Chippendale show in a New York townhouse; what they were getting was a deep, gut-wrenching drama about the human condition, scarred by war and atrocity. The writers and director felt this was possibly the best reality TV they had ever imagined. But, we were scaring the producers. This might be too black, too cult, too sexy, too everything! They might lose money if the networks rejected the series for its rawness or if potential commercial sponsors balked at the emotional downer. This was definitely not the "feel good" stuff before, after and during which you advertised cars, toothpaste or cocoa puffs.

Brent stepped up. He bought the entire concept—and the production. He wanted authentic portrayals of wounded macho men, challenged by trauma, attuned to their role in life—and their masculinity—and what it meant to themselves and to their future relationships. Brent became the perfect angel: with deep pockets, vision, willingness to take a chance—but he had a mature appreciation for the potential of the performing arts to change us all. It turned out that his Dad had taken him to the Altman play—even though it was X-rated for nudity and language. He remembered it to this day. He had a strong anti-war idealism. And this series would play right into that.

The first season of filming ended in late March. There were 24 powerful episodes of men dealing with weakness and feeling—sometimes with violence, sometimes with confessions, sometimes with visible feeling—even tears. Now the question was whether someone would buy it. And, if they did, would they want additional seasons?

Brent and I had many nights together during this time. A few were difficult—particularly after he realized that I was working every day in a highly charged environment with five other guys with semi-nude beautiful bodies—and that some of them were gay or bi. My sexuality was in constant stimulus. My psyche was in an uproar. I had grown into my part, and felt deeply the guilt and the fear of modern combat where civilians, even children, were just as likely to be hurt as other combatants. The human mind is not equipped to deal with such incredible brutality—unless of course you are a certified sociopath. And so in self-defense, the mind closes down, until it explodes in nightmare or anxiety. On those nights, Brent was my therapist—and curiously many of those nights were when he topped and spooned me, comforting me with his body. But, most of our nights were wonderful. Brent turned out to be the perfect "room-mate" and friend.

Many evenings I would return late, exhausted mentally and physically. He would motion me to the sofa, hand me a drink and sit beside me. Soon, he would stretch out, head in my lap. My jeans were slipped down and he took me into his moist, warm mouth. I quickly responded. Then he would get up, remove the rest of our clothing and sit in my lap, placing our chests and lips together as he slid down my cock. We would rest like this for a while, synchronizing our breathing, until my tension began to ebb. Then he would begin the assault on my dick, using me to punch his prostate with each drop, but never releasing my lips. We would explode together. Then, I would stand and lift. His legs went around my waist and my hands went to his cute little ass, as I marched us to the rain shower. This was his form of real therapy—after my full day filming televised therapy.

Of course we also had regular sex. Normally, he let me top. He was magnificent—light in every way except one. He was the lightly muscled, light skinned, blond haired bottom of my wildest imagination. But he was a tiger bottom. Never did I feel that he was someone I could take for granted.

Occasionally, he would flip us and ride me cowboy—urging me to a rodeo performance of bucking. Other times, he would squirm below me, drawing me deeper into his being. He was always active. As I was ready to unload, I would suddenly discover that his index finger was massaging my prostate sending little shocks of pleasure up my spine. When I was trigger happy, his fingers would press on my taint or circle my shaft to bring me down—only to extend our intimacy. Relationship was transforming into love.

On the night he told me he had bought Storm House, we spent the entire early evening in bed. I wanted to thank him—with a powerful, lust-filled explosion into his gut. But he had other ideas. He was taking a page from Angelo's playbook. He now owned Storm House—and me. He was effectively my boss. And he wanted to play the dom. So I went along. "When I bottom, Brent, I like it rough."

Without another word, he positioned me on my knees and shoulders at the edge of the bed. He lubed quickly. Then he spanked each cheek—not perfunctorily, but hard and many times. I was burning with pain—and arousal. Then he grabbed some of the coco lotion that we had brought back from St. Martin and massaged my ass, trailing fingers, then a tongue down my cleft. He pulled my cheeks apart. I thought he was going in for a feast. But no, in one push he rammed and bottomed. I saw stars. But, he wasn't done. Repeatedly, he drew back and plunged down, getting deeper each time, stretching me more each time. He plunged again, bottomed, and his hands, which had been steadying my hips, went to squeeze by nipples, then to grab and squeeze my balls. I was ready to pop. But he wanted a few more minutes of my torture. He circled the base of my shaft and tightened, hard, stopping my ejaculation. He held that position, bent down and sucked my neck—obviously leaving evidence of his attack. Finally, he released and began to pump my shaft furiously as he emptied into me. I shot, hard and big. I collapsed and he fell on top, possessing me with arms and legs. My tiger had captured his prey. I was his. I was a goner.

Much later of course, we learned that the series did sell and it was both a critical and financial success. But, we wouldn't know that for months. Meanwhile, I was just about out of work and looking. Brent forced me to continue the acting lessons and the appearances at the acting studio exercises. This kept me sane. I was still working at my profession—honing my skills for the future.

**********

Oklahoma! went into auditions in late March. Angelo didn't call, but word travels fast on Broadway. My agent arranged for me to try out. He also arranged for three other auditions—all for serious dramas, without dance or music. I did them all, and I thought that I had done pretty well.

Angelo, as expected, had a new protégé. He could easily have been my twin brother, except that he was about two inches shorter. (He made up for it with lifts.) And perhaps a few years younger. I guessed that Angelo liked that look in his subs, and he was reaching younger and younger. But, the guy, although obviously talented, had almost no Broadway experience. The producers were going to play a big role in cast selection. This was an expensive revival. It couldn't flounder because of inexperience—or with unknown actors in the leads.

In a real coup, they had attracted Britney Space to play the role of Laurey—Britney had been topping the pop charts for over a year and had garnered several Grammys. She had classic American girl good looks—long blond hair, large blue eyes (actually grey, enhanced with contacts), a nice figure set on long sexy legs. She could sing. She could dance—her music videos had shown this. Just the kind of young woman that would boil Curly's blood—and Jud's as well—setting up a very nice triangle.

I had specifically asked Brent NOT to invest in Oklahoma! I did not want to set up a conflict between him and Angelo—particularly not over me. He had followed my wishes, but he had friends who were angels, and they respected his judgment which had unfailingly returned big time to his father and to Brent himself.

At the end, the producers prevailed. I was cast as Curly. Angelo, the director, was not happy, but he really couldn't show it. He was going to make things very difficult for me. His new partner, Michael Clausen, was signed on as my understudy. He was expensive for an understudy, but Angelo had convinced the producers that if Storm House was a TV hit, I would be asking for a three month leave from Oklahoma! after the first six months of the run to film the next season. He needed someone to step in if I stepped out. I wish I had his confidence.

Fortunately, however, as a Christmas present, Brent had hired an acting coach. He was actually a distant relative of one of the great Broadway and Hollywood directors of the past. Billy, Jr. was on the set of Storm House once or twice a week. We had coaching sessions on other days. He was definitely giving me the foundation that I had never had the time to study at Byrd. I asked if he would stay on with Oklahoma!, and he agreed. I would have the personal directorial attention that Angelo might not provide. And the producers, at Brent's suggestion, had even asked Billy to assist Angelo. It was another blockbuster production that required an enormous cast of backstage talent.

As it turned out, although Angelo was tough, he was a pro—and he wanted this to be the best revival ever. He wasn't going to allow his personal issues with me to destroy his chance for a Tony for directing a revival (something he hadn't gotten for West Side Story because he was only an "assistant"). He rode me all the time. (He was probably riding Michael most nights as well, but in a very different way.) But, it molded me—and with my own coach reassuring me that I was once again growing into the role and redefining it as mine, I began to enjoy the endless rehearsals.

We opened in Boston in June for a four week (sell-out) run. A few changes were made, and we moved to Los Angeles for a similar run in late July-early August. Finally, the Winter Garden Theatre was ours. The set designers moved in—and a few days later we held our first rehearsals there. Within a week, we would have critic previews with a planned grand opening in mid-September. Coincidentally, the opening night was the anniversary of my first date with Brent. Although he would attend the post-opening party, we agreed to postpone our celebration to my first dark night—the following Monday.

The reviews were in. Opening night was a complete success. Advance ticket sales meant at least a two year run. I was set. Perhaps there would be another Tony award. But, two successful Broadway leading roles with the possibility of a "serious actor" review in the Storm House reviews, meant that I would be a fixture on Broadway, with a possibility of TV appearances, another series, or even a feature film, for so long as I wanted. All I had to do was keep my sanity, maintain my body and voice, and enjoy.

All I needed now was someone to share it with—and I even had good feelings about my long term relationship with Brent.

We did celebrate our anniversary—with a private, catered dinner at the coop. My image now was well-known in New York social circles. We wouldn't have any privacy in restaurants or clubs for a long time—so we had to make that time for ourselves. So we had decided against a lavish restaurant meal.

It was my day off and I decided to do nothing—of course, except for the mandatory time in the gym. So, I supervised the dinner prep and the table setting before the professional crew left. I set the candles, iced the champagne, organized the music, and changed into short sweats and a tee before Brent got home. (We had decided to go informal.) Just after six, I heard the large mahogany door close heavily on its massive brass hinges. Then, I heard the chain slip into place. Brent wasn't planning on going anywhere that night—nor was he expecting any visitors. He walked into the great room, dressed impeccably as usual in a three piece, dropped his leather case, and took me immediately into his arms. "Let me change and shower. It'll only take a few."

When he returned, he was in my favorite robe of his—soft terry, but short, very short, so short that the curves of his cheeks peeked out in back—and his ass was on full display when he bent over. I handed him a glass of La Grande Dame, and, as we toasted each other, I slipped my free hand into his ass cheek and pulled him to me. We would share that first taste. We drew together and our lips touched.

I was on fire. I had been anticipating this all day. "Let's take this to the bedroom. You're the appetizer tonight, Brent. And you can have me for dessert, if you wish." He set down the glass next to mine and I slipped the robe from his shoulders. He stood before me, perfect: muscled, but soft and glowing from the shower, erect, aroused, and receptive. And so, as I slipped out of the tee and the shorts, we walked to the room which had now become "ours." I was feeling romantic as I think he was too. That meant slow, careful, missionary or spoon-moving-to-side-entry, so lips and eyes could play a role. Brent moved to the bed. I had placed a few candles on the dresser which scented the room with the coco that we had already begun to associate with our first "honeymoon" in St. Martin. That, together with the heady musk of our mutual attraction filled the dimly lit chamber. Everything was perfect.

He lay down, facing up at me. I climbed on top and attacked his face. My hands reveled in his newly-grown, short curls as I pulled him deep into my lips. His hands were everywhere. Stroking my back, squeezing my ass, probing my cleft, even circling the rim. I finally rolled to the right, pushed his left leg forward and massaged a handful of lube onto his taint, rim, and deep inside his cavity. He was moaning and writhing in pleasure. I reached over and nipped his earlobes as my hands slowly caressed his throat.

Then I pulled him into a spoon and began to tease his nipples. They hardened immediately. My cock was at the entrance, just knocking at the gate. He moved his ass back and pulled me in hungrily as I thrust my hips forward. Then my hands dropped from his chest to his shaft. I started to slowly stroke it. He too had been anticipating tonight. He was hard, very hard, and his balls were swollen with potential. So we quietly and slowly moved in and out, giving and taking pleasure with each cycle. But the end was not to be quiet or slow. We reached the peak together, shouted and squeezed, and released our essences into fist and chute. Then, we just froze, enjoying the intimate connection. I willed my erection to stiffness. I wanted to keep the union for as long as possible. I would be content to be inside him forever, claiming him as mine as he did me.

After awhile when I finally slipped out—and released his cock from the death grip in which I had held it, I rolled back and grabbed a little blue shopping bag from the table. I handed it to Brent. Happy Anniversary, lover. He opened the bag, then the box inside. It was, as expected, a ring. "Brent, will you be mine? We can marry if that is what you want. But, I don't ever want anyone but you."