Stranger at the Door

The Chippendale dancers had had a grueling evening of raucous New Year's Eve festivities at L.A.'s Catalina Club on Grand Avenue in South Park. The ladies, if you could call them ladies, nearly swarmed the stage to get at us for three fuckin' hours. It was one of my first gigs, having arrived in L.A. from Milwaukie at nineteen just over a month earlier, star struck and lucky to get a job on the male, take-nearly-all-of-it-off dance line rather than parking cars until my big break came in movies. I wasn't tall or exactly bulked out, but football, wrestling, and doing heavy lifting on a farm on a wholesome, milk-fed diet in the open-smile, blond, all-American environment of the upper Midwest had done me well—at least the ladies and some of the men in Los Angeles thought so.

The funny thing is that it did come, the break into movies, but not that night. That night I was dancing for my breakfast beside Elias, the big, muscular black god, thirteen years my elder and a far contrast to me in body color and style. The ladies seemed to love the contrast, though, and they cheered when they saw the two of us dancing together.

I'd been smitten with Elias myself. I'd come to L.A. to do more than make it into movies. I'd come to grow up—to make it with hunky, preferably black, men—to be submissive to them and lie, panting, underneath them. It had been a dream of mine through high school, but I'd yet to act on it. Elias took care of that.

Elias had been assigned to take care of me, to show me the ropes and merge me into the dance line at the Catalina Club, which was for the ladies. Elias did take care of me. We were attracted to each other from the beginning. I would have given myself, for my first time, to Elias before New Year's Eve. I was ripe for it and we'd kissed and felt each other up. I begged him to initiate me. But he told me to wait for it—for a special time and to make it count. I didn't know that "making it count" involved money and exhibitionism.

New Year's Eve, after midnight, and having hit the peak at the Catalina Club, we came off the stage carrying what we've shed in the cowboy scene and Elias pulled me aside, kissed me, cupped my basket, and said, "Tonight's the night. We're going over to Caligula, where it's still in full swing, and doing a special show, just you and me." He didn't really ask me if I wanted that. He already knew I was dying to be submissive to him.

Caligula was the men's club mate to the Catalina Club. The Catalina Club fronted on Grand Avenue; Caligula fronted on S. Olive Street, behind Grand Avenue. The club property ran through the block, fronting its ladies-client version on Grand and its gay male-client version on South Olive. Not all of the Chippendale dancers played both clubs—only the willing, for bigger pay, ones also performed at Caligula.

I hadn't done a show at Caligula before. I hadn't been fucked by a man before, either in private or on stage. That night I did my first show at Caligula, and that night Elias fucked the stuffing out of me for the first time—on stage. And the men loved watching us fuck.

We did it on an ottoman on a slowly revolving stage in the center of a show room at Caligula, which put the raucous and attention-grabbed male crowd close to the stage and able, while standing in one place, to watch at all angles the big, strapping, muscular thirty-two-year-old, experienced black bull, Elias, rip the virginity of the willing, but nonetheless not previously initiated, out of me, Mike Townsand, a relatively smaller, lither nineteen-year-old novice white boy fresh out of Milwaukie. He laid me on the ottoman--on my back, on my belly, on my side, on my knees, on my shoulders--and took me, stretching and punishing my virginal hole with that monster black shaft of his in several positions, while encouragement and money rained down on us from all around. I'd never made so much money in an hour before than—or since, for that matter, even though I now was getting speaking parts—not just "take your shirt off and stand in the background" parts in movies.

That was New Year's Eve, exactly ten years ago.

* * * *

I picked the extra champagne glass up from the coffee table, took it into the kitchen, and put it back in the cupboard. I looked at the bottle of Mums on ice in the wine bucket but didn't have the inclination to put that back in the refrigerator yet. Maybe I could do the whole bottle myself tonight while I pouted.

I wasn't surprised. In fact I'd really known for a couple of hours that Elias wasn't going to make it up to Big Bear for the weekend. It had been snowing all day in the mountains, and my vacation house was nearly the last one on Pine Trail, winding around the mountain a third of the way down from the ski lifts at the top of the San Bernardino National Forest resort at Big Bear Lake.

The house further in from mine, Ben Swift's A-frame, had a few lights on, but I'd seen the movie producer down in L.A. Thursday evening, at the movie studio, and he said he'd be in Las Vegas for the weekend. He must have loaned the house out. I hoped his guests wouldn't be disappointed about being snowed in. Of course, if they'd come to ski, they could wade their way up to the lifts and ski back down a short way to the house. I wondered if they knew that. I might go over and make sure they did—if I could get the gumption to go out in this snow myself. It was beginning to drift.

The house on the other side of mine, the more substantial log house the Lathems owned, had had lights on earlier too. I got more of a glow from that direction over the treetops than being able to see the actual house. It was a good bit lower than my house in elevation and on a nasty twisting and rising curve on the road that would be hard to navigate in this weather.

I went back to the living room and settled in to watch the DVD I'd pulled out to watch with Elias for old time's sake on this tenth anniversary night. I'd wrapped it for Elias to open, but I tore the wrappings off and put it in the machine. I had thought it would put us in the mood—or further into the mood; I think we'd already be in the mood—when Elias appeared, but now he wasn't coming. He'd called me and said he didn't think he could chance it unless he hopped on a snowplow and that he was needed at the club. He owned the Catalina and Caligula complex now—and the Chippendale dancer line playing there. I'd told him not to bother to try to come, hoping that he would bother, but he'd said he wouldn't.

So, there went the weekend. I didn't even know whether the electricity would hold up here on the mountain in snow like this. At least I had a lot of firewood in and this house had been built with fireplaces and double insulation that could provide for heat, as necessary.

I was deciding whether to go take a shower and dress more warmly after the DVD was finished when I heard the door chimes sound. In anticipation of Elias, I wasn't wearing anything under the Henley shirt and faded low-rise blue jeans I had on. I'd really planned on a sexually satisfying weekend starting with a quick striptease, which had once been Elias's and my specialty.

And maybe, I thought, as I clicked off the DVD and went out to the foyer to answer the door, Elias had hopped a snowplow after all and the weekend would be saved.

But that wasn't the case. When I turned on the front porch light, I saw that a stranger, bundled up in a parka and a floppy-eared hat, was standing out there, shivering in the cold, and blowing on his hands to warm them.

I opened the door.

"Excuse me," he said. "I'm looking for someplace I can make a call. My cell phone is dead and I've just gone off the road on a curve. Banged my car up pretty bad. I need to call AAA."

"On the curve?" I asked. "That would be in front of the Lathems' house. They should be home."

"I didn't see any lights in any house but yours. Sorry. I can go back and—"

"No, no," I said. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking straight." I probably wasn't thinking straight because I hadn't yet gotten past the "he's black and gorgeous" first impression. "You certainly can come in and make a call—assuming I still have phone service. The electricity is still on, so maybe the phone . . ."

Just then the lights flickered, though, so I reached out and tugged on the arm of his parka to let him know he could come in. "You'd best hurry in and try to make the call," I said, "And you may be out of luck on AAA for a while in these conditions. There's a landline phone over there on the kitchen wall, but you can use my cell phone, if you want. I have AAA dialed in. The cell phone is on the kitchen island over there."

"Thanks," he said, as he entered. He shook my hand as he slipped the parka off and was going by me. I was surprised to find that his hand was warm. I was also surprised to see that he was wearing a muscle T-shirt over tight jeans under the parka and was built solid and had a milk-chocolate, sultry look about him. He looked like one of the porn stars I'd just been watching in the DVD, which gave both my heart and my dick a twinge. "My name's Trevon," he said as he moved beyond me.

"I'm Mike," I said. "Can I get you something to drink while you're making your call?"

"If you have it, a beer would be nice, thanks," he said, as he picked up the cell phone and moved back into the corridor to the bedrooms to make his call.

As he passed the kitchen counter, he saw the wine bucket with the champagne bottle in it. "Ah, you were going to celebrate New Year's Eve alone?" he asked.

"Someone was coming, but can't now because of the snow. Would you like some champagne?"

"Thanks, no, if you have beer. I'm not high brow and don't like champagne all that much."

"I'll have to say I agree," I responded. "But it's New Year's Eve. The champagne is traditional, so I have it this one night of the year." Before I went into the kitchen area, I watched him slouch against the corridor wall, the small of his back against the wall and his legs stretched out before him into the corridor and spread a bit. I thought of it as a Marlon Brando stance. Although he was black, he reminded me a lot of Brando in his Streetcar days rather than his bloated afterlife. The man had that sensuous, pouty aura about him that Brando exuded in the sexy phase of his life.

I felt tingly inside. It obviously was from having been watching sex DVDs while waiting for Elias and anticipating what Elias and I would be doing tonight. But not doing now, I remembered, as I went into the kitchen and broke out a beer.

I took the champagne bottle back into the living room along with the beer, popped the cork, and poured some bubbly in my glass after putting his beer—Trevon, he had said his name was—on the coffee table. The big leather couch faced the TV. There were leather recliners set across from the couch and beside the TV credenza and, on second thought, I moved my glass to a side table beside one of these. I noticed the condom packets and bottle of lube I'd put on that table in anticipation of Elias coming and then coming--when he still was coming--but it would have been too obvious if I'd tried to move them to someplace less conspicuous. So I acted like they weren't there.

As I passed the opening to the bedroom corridor, I could hear him on the phone. He wasn't sounding too hopeful. I wasn't surprised by that, and my mind was already working on what could be done other than offering him a place to stay. But I couldn't think of any reason I shouldn't ask him to stay other than that he was a complete stranger and, despite that, I could feel I'd gone hard in comparing him to Marlon Brando. I had also gone hard for him because he was black and handsome and built—and, of course, I had checked out his crotch and he appeared to be built there too.

But was I set up for a house guest? Elias, of course, would have slept in my bed with me. The bed wasn't made in the guest room. I'd have to do that, and I couldn't remember if there were towels in the guest bath. But I was getting ahead of myself. Maybe AAA was on its way and he wanted to be on his way as well.

He could always sleep with me, I thought. I found myself looking at myself in the hall mirror and wondering if I was good enough for him. Had I aged too much. He loved a few years younger than I was. But, hell no, I was only twenty-nine, and I kept myself in Chippendale dancer shape. That made me laugh and chastise myself. Talk about getting ahead of yourself.

"It's no go on AAA for a while—not until tomorrow they said," Trevon said when he came back and put the cell phone on the kitchen island. "Guess I'll have to try to hoof it out to the main road. Is it better for me to go up or down? I didn't see much that might be open at the foot of the mountain. Is there a lodge up at the top?"

"Yes, there's a lodge up there, but it would be tough going on foot in this snow. And you have an open beer here. Come on in the living room and take a load off."

I don't know if I was planning even then for him to stay and fuck me, but all the signs pointed to that. I was keyed up for an Elias visitation—had even gotten a start on viewing the DVD—and this guy was a hunk in a tough guy Marlon Brando sort of way. His T-shirt was showing off a great set of pectorals with hard nipples standing out under the tight material, he had a mighty fine six pack, and his jeans were tight enough that I could see an impressive bulge and follow the line of a long cock. I was close to hyperventilating from the buildup of need.

And he was black—like Elias.

I wondered if he was straight. I had to say he didn't act one way or the other yet. Most of my friends were gay, though, and I like to think of a guy as gay or bi until proven otherwise--and usually was right--so I didn't often have to wonder about someone I met who I was interested in sexually.

But was I interested in Trevon sexually? I'm afraid that ship had sailed. I had been so keyed up for Elias and had just watched a very personal gay fuck video. Why wouldn't I be interested in a hunk black guy like Trevon sexually? Elias and I weren't exclusive; we just had history.

We chatted for a while. I told him I was from the upper Midwest and had been raised on a farm and of the movies I'd had bit parts in and that I was up here for the weekend to take in the skiing with a friend of mine, a business owner down in Los Angeles, but that the friend couldn't make it up here tonight. I didn't mention I'd been a Chippendale dancer for a couple of years when I first came to L.A.

"Your friend a man or a woman?" he asked.

"A man," I said without thinking of what inference he could get from that. But it was meaningful that he asked and was prepared to hear the friend was male.

"He white, black, Hispanic, or Oriental?"

"He's black," I answered before I considered how pointed that question was. I didn't add the "like you," though. I managed to stop myself before saying it. That didn't mean I didn't think it—or that I wasn't thinking "and built like you, and should be here, laying me out on the bed and laying me."

I tried finding out something about Trevon, in turn, that would help me categorize him, but other than saying he worked in construction, he didn't reveal much. He even deflected the conversation the couple of times I asked how his car came to be in a snow bank this far into a dead-end mountain road. Where did he think he was going? I probably should have pursued that more closely, but I found him disconcerting, sitting—more slouching—on the leather couch, with his legs spread and being all sultry and pouty, across from where I was sitting in the recliner.

The young Marlon Brando effect. I was in movies now. I tended to give movie characters and roles to everyone I met.

The conversation had come to an awkward halt a couple of times, with him saying he should get out in the snow, but accepting a second beer, and then him saying he should start trudging up to the lodge but not moving, so I got the message that he wasn't that anxious to get out in the snow.

God help me, but I wasn't anxious for him to leave either. And it wasn't hard the longer we talked and he didn't leave to figure he was playing me—taking me to the brink of begging him to stay. He must have known by now that I wanted him to fuck me. I wasn't too subtle when I was in heat, and I moved deeper in heat the longer he sat here in my living room.

I didn't care if he was playing me. It was part of what aroused me. At this point, if I had to beg him to stay, I would. My ass was twitching. I wanted it; I wanted him. If Elias couldn't be here, I wanted the black man who was here. It was New Year's Eve, dammit. It wasn't just drinking champagne that was traditional on New Year's Eve. Getting laid out and fucked good was in my New Year's Eve tradition too—a tradition that had begun with my first time ten years ago tonight--with Elias.

"It's still snowing," I said, looking out the floor-to-ceiling window that looked up the hill at Ben Swift's house, where the lights were all off now. "You won't get anywhere on foot tonight, and you'll need to be here for whenever AAA can get to your car. You'll have to spend the night here. I've got a guest room. Just let me go in and get sheets on the bed and make sure there are towels in the bath. I'll get you another beer while I'm up."

He didn't object to spending the night. He didn't object to having another beer either. He didn't say anything about sleeping in the guest room.

As I was leaving to go back to prepare the guest bedroom for him, he said, almost casually, "You know, now that you mention it, I've seen you in the your movies, I think. I think I've seen you in those--and somewhere else too. I just can't place you."

That stopped me in my tracks. There had been something familiar about him too. I still worked occasionally on the dance line at the clubs for Elias when he needed a fill-in. For some reason this guy was coming up in my mind in relationship to guys watching the show at Caligula.

"Maybe it's just seeing me in one of my recent movies," I said, carefully. "I've been getting speaking roles in the last couple of years" I'd also gotten an older A-level actor as a sugar daddy, but he'd died and left me this cabin. The more I thought about it, the more I placed this guy in the crowd at Caligula. I think he was one of the ones who always muscled his way up close to the stage.

What did Trevon know about me, I wondered. Was he playing me? I stopped at the kitchen counter and picked up my cell phone and checked the last call made on it. It was one of my calls, not a call to AAA. My mind was spinning as I went back to the bedrooms. What the fuck was going on here?

When I came back out, he'd rid himself of the T-shirt, had his legs spread and his feet on the coffee table. His fly was unzipped and a fat ole cock was standing straight up from the flared jeans. He'd turned the DVD on and was watching a sex scene and stroking his cock.

He'd moved the stack of condom packets and the bottle of lube over to the coffee table, within reach of the sofa.

We were going to do this.

"You know, you don't have to set up a guest room just for me," he said. "I could sleep in your bed with you. Or we could just sleep right here on the sofa. There's a fire here and a nice movie on the screen."

"There's a fireplace in the bedroom too, I said, nonsensically. And then, it registering that the DVD was running, I added, "Uh, I didn't mean for that to be on." My voice was slightly shaking. And then, when I'd recovered from the shock of him jumping ahead several scenes in us fucking, I said, "Maybe you should turn it off, and . . ."

"And stop beating off?" he asked, turning a sneery look at me.

"Yeah, I guess so. I didn't—"

"You didn't actually say you wanted me to stay and fuck you, but you do, don't you?" he said. "That's you in the video, isn't it? The one on the bottom?"