Maybe you’ve heard of me. I’m a minor Tinseltown legend. I’m the kid who fucked the Big Star at one of Hollywood’s most prestigious boys-only pool parties—and got away with it.
You measure Hollywood life in off-and-on decades. It gets derailed for 10 years and spends the next 10 making up for lost time. The 60s were madness, no different than London and New York and, I guess, everywhere else: sex, drugs, and rock-‘n’-roll. (I know it’s a cliché; still, it sums it up.) The 70s were loose, but young Turks who spent the previous decade tripping on acid and fucking anything they tripped over proved they hadn’t partied their brains out by producing some of the greatest movies in American history. When the 80s kicked in, they were richer than Midas and no longer interested in making art. Ten years of non-stop work overloaded them with pent-up mischief. The 80s were all about release.
That’s when I showed up.
I wasn’t supposed to be there. I was a schoolteacher fresh out of a tony Midwestern college who took a long vacation in LA, thanks to a family friend who offered me his rickety bungalow at the wrong end of Malibu Beach. In two weeks’ time, I’d accepted a position at a tiny private academy and got sucked into one of many scenes orbiting the industry like tiny planets circling the universe’s brightest sun.
My crowd was mainly day-jobbers: attorneys, p.r. grunts, script editors, studio musicians, accountants, and so on, with a sprinkling of celebrity offspring tossed in. (Although star kids could be annoying as hell, their drug connections made them irreplaceable. In the 80s, coke ruled the day, and keeping them on hand guaranteed they’d show up with the finest grade of blow.)
Perks were handed out freely to my friends, who insisted I tag along. Off to this party and that opening, at first I felt extremely conspicuous. But my discomfort gradually dissipated, as I became something of a known entity—albeit a very minor one—spotted here and there.
That’s how it works with movie people. They’re always noticing, clocking new faces in the mix, judging whether or not you’re worth knowing by where and when you turn up. The more I got noticed the more chances were afforded me to get noticed. Not being “one of them” was my greatest asset; Hollywood insiders love nothing more than hanging with “real people.” So, in very short order, I found myself with people I had no business being around, in settings I had no business frequenting, doing things I had no business doing. I loved every minute of it.
And one of those minutes changed my life—not forever, not for a year. But it was so far beyond my expectations that I couldn’t believe it even while it was happening. It was a joyride that lasted a few months and though it eventually ran out of road, it left me with a lifelong friendship I cherish to this day.
The whole thing started with one of Hollywood’s longest-standing conventions, the Sunday boy brunch. The legend, as told by outsiders, totally eclipses the real thing for licentious cavorting and outlandish goings-on. To be sure, wickedness reigns supreme at these rituals, though it’s more of the spoken kind than wild abandon. What else besides malignant gossip and character assassination would you expect at a gathering of movie-biz queens?
One of the town’s preeminent doyennes, known as “Old Girl” outside his hearing, hosted and I attended at his personal request. He was a fussy little man afflicted with a grandiose air that dwarfed his surface sweetness. I went because he’d taken a liking to me and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by not showing. Yet even if I didn’t care about offending him, I would have gone, because his high rank in the queer hierarchy—a post he’d held since the big-studio days—inflated his friendly invitation into an imperial command.
He was old, old movie money, complete with the classic Bentley in the drive of his Venetian manor in the Beverly Hills flats. It appeared his decorator hadn’t touched a thing in years, giving one the feeling of wandering around a fastidiously preserved soundstage. The hallowed halls and over-groomed gardens abutting the imported-tile pool, bougainvillea-latticed patio, and serpentine lane roaming off to the tennis court put a damper on all thoughts of romping naughtiness. Everyone honored the customs: summer togs for brunch, scanty bathing suits and snug tennis whites afterward, and then peeling down to skin as the sun eased off and a long afternoon of drinking dulled inhibitions.
If anyone there was younger than I, I never saw him. Nor did I see exactly when Big Star arrived. Evidently he was nowhere near as straight as his movie persona and rumors about his shameless behavior at Hef’s place portrayed, because nobody (except me) batted an eye when he strode onto the patio, naked and unconcerned, his dick swinging, his hairy chest puffed up, and his narrow eyes roaming here and there to check out the scene.
I was hanging on the side of the pool, shallow end, chatting with an up-and-coming director. He turned to see who caught my eye. “It’s a real party now,” he said.
“What’s that mean?”
“All bets are off. He’s here for sex and he prefers having it front and center, with an audience. And you’ve got the edge, baby—if you’ve not already fucked him, that is.”
I was speechless.
“Have you?” he asked.
“Have I what?”
“Sampled his wares? If you haven’t, I’m guessing you will today, seeing how you’re the youngest chick in the coop.”
“Are you joking?” I was baffled.
“Hell, no. Aren’t you interested? It won’t go well for you if you’re not.”
“Sure, I’m interested. But not here. Can you imagine? I’d get crossed off half the invite lists in this town if I did that here.”
The director brushed his hand through my hair and nodded gently. “Oh, sweetie,” he sighed. “That’s why you’re here. That’s why he’s here. Old Girl likes a finale. And don’t waste a lot of time flirting, either. Most of us have early calls. If you drag it out, we’re gonna hate you when the wake-up service rings our phones.”
I’d been sighted. Big Star strolled my way, trademark smirk lighting up his face while he casually tugged his cock. My buddy hopped to his feet. “Time to freshen my drink.”
Big Star slid intos place. He propped himself on his elbows and heels, legs apart so he could look me in the eye. He rocked his feet side to side, as if saying hello with them. “Answer me this,” he said.
“Okay.”
“What’s a kid like you doing with all these lame-ass sissies and old farts?”
It was all I could do not to roll my eyes. “I was told you’d come looking for me,” I answered flatly.
“Well, you’re no fun.”
“You don’t know that,” I countered.
He grinned again. “No, I guess I don’t.” He looked away for a moment and said, “But you see, a lot of the fun is luring you into the game.” His eyes returned to mine. “And since you seem to know what's up, you just killed that part of it.”
“Stop acting,” I kidded. (He liked that.) “I know I look like it, but I’m hardly Little Nell from the Woods.”
“I’m not so sure,” he kidded back. “Besides, Little Nells turn me on. They make me think nasty thoughts.”
I didn’t respond, taking the moment to stare him down. He was one sexy mother, that’s for sure—a little too hairy for my tastes, but big in all the right places—big feet, hands, and a dick that was getting bigger; big dusty rose nipples beneath macaroni hair; meaty thighs, calves, and biceps; a lower lip my teeth itched to bite into. If I didn’t know he was a world-famous movie stud, if he were a mailman, insurance agent, or undertaker, I’d still leap at the chance to take all he’d give. My cock stiffened into a baton, its head nudging the slick tile on the pool’s wall.
Once my stare weakened, he wondered, “So, Little Nell, how should we play this?”
“You tell me,” I replied. “You’re the one with nasty ideas.”
He glanced around the pool. In a hushed voice, he said, “They’re settling in. If I hadn’t done this so many times, they’d creep me out.”
Suddenly I felt eyes all over me—all over us. “Where’s Old Girl?”
“On the other side, near the deep end,” he told me, “impatient as always.”
“And what are they gonna do? Beat off while they watch?”
He caressed my cheek with his left foot. His tender expression made my heart leap. “Oh, you are such a Little Nell.” When he started to remove his foot, I held it in place and lightly kissed the sole. “Kinky, too!” he chortled quietly. “No, Little Nell. That would be undignified. This isn’t some two-bit, Bourbon Street sex show, one of those backroom spectacles full of horny sailors blowing wads. They’re gonna make a movie of us in their heads for later use. Anyway, whipping it out while we… Well, that would disclose too much information, wouldn’t it?”
My head had already moved on. “I guess,” I answered absent-mindedly, then caught myself. I let go the foot. “Wait. What do you mean ‘information’?”
“Oh my God!” he laughed boisterously, quickly resuming his lower tone. “The guesswork would be over—who’s got the biggest dick, who shoots the farthest, the sounds and faces they make when they climax, all that shit. The talk would spread so fast everybody in town would hear every detail before their heads hit the pillow.”
“That’s why they talk about your dick? Because they’ve seen it?”
“They talked about my dick before they ever laid eyes on it. That’s why I enjoy this bullshit. It’s fun to shove it in their faces now and then—just to remind them I may not be a lady’s man, but I’m sure as hell a man’s man.”
We both chuckled, although mine dried up before his. “You’re fucking me just so you can say, ‘Fuck you,’ to them—something like that.”
“Hmmm,” he replied. “Ordinarily, I’d say yes, since that’s usually the case. Normally when I get in the car to come down here, I’m thinking, ‘Let me get go plow the shit out of some poor guy so the rest of 'em will regret everything they've said about me.’”
“Regret?”
“Yeah,” he answered with a mystified look. “You do know I started out as a serious actor.”
“Sure. Actor’s Studio, The Public Theater, Albee, Miller, the whole thing.”
“I got chops twice that of most so-called actors in this town. Then I got the big part, the Oscar part, playing the pussy hound, and tongues started wagging about what a great actor I was, what a brilliant job I did convincing the world I was a bull when I had nada in the shorts. Rumors flew. Men and women saying they’d seduced me, and how under-whelmed they were when I dropped trou. If you haven’t already figured it out, this town is nothing but a den of size queens! I got so pissed I pulled it out at a party. No lie. ‘Now are you satisfied?’ I howled. ‘And it’s not even hard!’ Some guy hit the floor and commenced to blow me. That really pissed me off. I kicked him over, yanked off his Gloria Vanderbilts, and screwed him stupid.”
“You raped him? In front of everybody?”
“Bitch screamed for mercy. I was a god the next day. And I don’t want these bitches ever to forget it.”
“Huh," I said. “Now I see where I fit into this tawdry little drama. I’m nothing but a prop to Old Girl and you’re using me to play forget-me-not. You two make a fella proud.”
His foot inched my way again, but I blocked it. “Let me finish,” he said. “So I got here, ready to do this and go home—probably never remember who I fucked. Most of these kids beg me for it before I get a sense of who they are and what they want, you know, what they dream about, and all that. Because I figure, what the hell, since they sort of got set up for this—“
“Sort of?”
“Fine. Since they got set up, the least I can do is see it’s worth their trouble. But half of ‘em don’t care. And that really cheapens it. It’s already cheap, and they make it even cheaper. I can tell you’re not like them, though. You’re cocky.”
“Something like that.”
“You deserve better than I could ever give you here.”
“I’d take that as a compliment, if I were 100% sure it wasn’t part of the game.”
“And there you have it,” Big Star said. “You prove my point.”
“So what do we do? Forget the whole thing just to piss them off? Get dressed, say goodnight, and drive off into the sunset?”
The grin reappeared. “Let’s throw these bitches a curve. They’re expecting the usual suck-and-fuck. Any minute now, I’m supposed to throw my legs over your shoulders and bury your head in my crotch. You’re supposed to chow down like it’s the last dick you’ll ever taste. And the joke will be on you because you won’t be able to handle it.”
True, I hadn’t seen him hard yet—his dick had ebbed and flowed the whole time we talked, but never got fully rigid. “How do you know I can’t handle it?”
“I’m not saying you can’t. I’m saying they don’t expect you will, because most can’t. So they’re looking forward to watching you gag and keep trying and keep gagging. For some reason they like that. After that goes on for a while, I’m supposed to order you out of the pool, put you face up on the ground, pin your ankles to your ears, and pound the living Jesus out of you. And when I’m finished, I yank off the rubber, send you to the cabaña shower, and head inside to shower myself. Lights up. Show’s over.”
“But you want to throw them a curve.”
“Yeah.” He waited a few seconds and said, “Finger-fuck me.”
“What?”
“Finger-fuck me. Shove a couple fingers up my ass and fuck it. That will scare the hell out of them.”
“Okay…”
“Aw, Little Nell, I know what you’re thinking. You’re saying, ‘What’s in it for me?’”
“Honestly, I hadn’t got to that yet. How does it end?”
“Of course,” he said. “Here’s what I haven’t told you. Nothing gets me off quicker than somebody playing with my ass. I’ve got a prostrate big as a football. You get in there and start working it, and I’ll spout a cum-stream so huge it will scar them for life! We’ll be done and outta here in no time.”
“Outta here where?”
“Wherever—your place, mine, a hotel. Who cares?”
“Oh boy,” I said sarcastically, “more fun for me. We go to the trouble of being alone and you’re already spent.”
“See?” he said with a gleam in his eye. “I’ve known you for ten minutes and already I can tell what your problem is.”
“Is that a fact?”
“You jump to too many conclusions. Let’s get this over with and I’ll show you there’s always more where that came from. You’ll see.”
Thus my pet name for Big Star, one I’ve called him ever since—the name he signs to Christmas cards he’s never failed to send: See-More.
It’s said instinct is all that separates born actors from trained seals. Big Star’s instinct confirmed he was the real thing. The instant our audience detected our scene wasn’t going to play like the rest its collective gasp sucked half the air from the sky. A quick scan of the patio revealed eyes flashing at one another, unsure of what they were going to see and, worse still, not sure they’d like it.
Although Big Star alluded to it, I wasn’t yet aware of the baggage this crowd shoved on him. Not until the weeks wore on and gossip about us refused to die—being true, after all—did I realize how twisted their lust for him was. They hated him because they couldn’t have him, and despised me because I could. In their sick little heads, these occasional performances were his way of letting them get as close as they’d ever get to having what they wanted. That was my first take, at least. But then it gradually dawned on me that many of them contorted the whole arrangement into Big Star’s love for them, his way of having them, a thing they’d never lower themselves to do.
Our brazen departure from standard procedure scared the shit out of one and all. Christ, who knew Hollywood was chock full of prudes? What we were doing bordered on bestiality to them, the kind of stuff that caused them to eject their porno cassettes and grab their toothbrushes. They couldn’t possibly conceive of such filth. (Those who could snubbed Sunday boy brunches, reserving their Sabbaths for members-only clubs in Silverlake, where the charade Big Star and I staged amounted to vanilla foreplay.) But I’ve got to hand it Big Star. He had the whole thing wired. He knew what buttons to push and when to push them. His outline was perfect. As we followed it step-by-step, I could sense the atmosphere shift from shock to repugnance to venomous resentment. If this was what pleased Big Star, these prim and proper gardenias knew they didn’t stand a chance.
Once we blocked the scene, Big Star kicked things off as he always had. He scooted closer to me, stopping when his butt touched the raised rim about an inch from the pool’s edge. He thrust out his legs above my shoulders. I grabbed them by their calves before they landed, shoving them back toward him. He toppled backwards, pretending I’d caught him off-guard. “What the hell—“
In the best stage whisper I could muster, I hissed, “Give me that ass!”
Murmurs erupted on cue. “What was that?” “I didn’t catch all of it—ass, something about ass.” “Oh my God!” “Did he?” “Yes, he did.” “Oh my God!” “What’s he doing?” “I don’t know, but it’s not good.” “Is he an idiot?”
Not one to be upstaged, Big Star snatched back the spotlight with an indiscreetly belligerent protest. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” But (as planned) I paid him no mind as I wedged both thumbs into his crack, prying it open to dive for treasure.
I grow as weary as the next guy of anatomical metaphors and trite depictions of sex acts. Yet what else do we have to convey the passion and intensity that can only be found while exploring another body? It transcends physiology to become a deeper discovery—a completion, perhaps, or at the very least a venture into a new realm. It’s a heady, unparalleled experience that defies comparison, which is why we can’t stop ourselves from searching for words, believing we’ll come close to describing what we find and feel. And we never do.
Should I forego the poetry to report the unadorned facts, they would read something like this: I ate Big Star’s ass for several minutes per plan.
First, I broadly licked its interior to acclimate my senses to its tastes, smells, and textures. I detected hints of acrid sharpness and a faintly sweet, almost overripe scent beneath a soapy bouquet of vanilla and fresh cloves. The thick hair covering Big Star’s rump thinned out as it neared the tiny gate at the bottom of its cave, alerting my touch to its shiny-smooth, taut flesh. A fresh ring of hair, notably longer and firmer than the rest encompassed the entry.
My tongue’s warmth and wetness steadily relaxed his muscular, modestly proportioned glutes, increasing each new foray’s access to the sphincter. As Big Star instinctively pulled his buttocks farther apart, my maneuvers grew more focused. I mapped his rectum’s pleats and gathers with my forefinger, gently tapping it to palpate the ring beneath, homing in on its soft spot. It enfolded my fingertip to the first joint with remarkable suction. While taking a moment to enjoy the delicate, pulsating contractions on my finger, I kissed and nibbled the firm orbs of Big Star’s ass. They flinched, almost bashfully, when my lips brushed their surface and they tensed with approving pleasure, as my pecks grew more extravagant, taking hungrier, deeper bites.
When my idle grazing reached Big Star’s left hand, I navigated around its arched thumb to land at the first knuckle. I bit down on it before chewing my way along the side of his index finger to roll my tongue over the nail’s rounded edge. He welded it to his middle finger and shoved them into my mouth.
The episode had got so ridiculously surreal so fast I’d not given much notice to Big Star’s hands. His fingers felt like planks pressing down my tongue. And they were sweet to me, not to the taste, but because—well, in the few moments we’d racked up planning and executing our little entertainment—he endeared himself to me. There was a big kid inside Big Star and I liked that most about him. We were being jerks at the adults’ expense.
“Finger-fuck me,” Big Star grunted through tightly clenched teeth. The audience gulped. He pulled his fingers from my mouth and felt around for some stray sunscreen. His hand landed on a tube of inexcusably expensive lotion from a Rodeo Drive boutique. He held it aloft above his cock and gave it a violent squeeze that popped the cap and wasted a thick load of white, coconut-scented batter all over his privates. I listened closely for someone to protest Big Star squandering such pricey product. But no one complained. The crowd was mesmerized.
I was mesmerized, too. It was as though every nerve ending in my fingers lit up and captured the changes occurring inside him. I could feel the rush of hot blood coursing into his dick, the tightening of his organs as they began to rally and swell at the command of his touch. Flaccid, Big Star’s cock was a thing of beauty: hefty and smooth, topped by a sandy pink lid that lay unabashed in a dense copse of dark hair. The thicket ran riot at the cock’s base and sprouted long, wild tendrils flocking his wickedly sumptuous balls. As Big Star summoned his piece to attention, he transformed it into a mighty weapon. Its proportions grew exaggerated and its steel stiffened. The amiably plush cap turned into a bullet nose, while the cock meat morphed into a cannon barrel. It was the Dick of Death and while I shuddered to think of the agony awaiting anyone on the wrong side of its trigger, I ached to know what it must feel like—to experience that mystical moment when torment gave way to ecstasy, when brutal invasion became blissful possession, when all of it would be exclusively mine by virtue of its piercing presence inside me.
But now was not the time for daydreaming. Big Star and I were in cahoots, mocking Old Girl and his silly courtiers. Whether or not I would ever know how it felt to be Big Star’s chosen vessel was anybody’s guess. The episode could end with a big bang, followed by an embarrassed fizzle and we’d never see one another again. This much I did recognize, though. If I fucked this nutty scenario up, there’d be no fucking in the future. Get through this first, I told myself, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll get to that.
Big Star’s fixation with his manhood amused me. He didn’t appear to see past the massive column slathered with sunscreen that squashed through his fingers as he massaged the shaft. Soon it was at its full, impressive height, head aimed at the sky. His hand slid slowly to its bottom, where he held it erect for all to admire, clamped between his thumb and two fingers with his pinky extended, as if he were holding one of those narrow cocktail tumblers you see movie gangsters sip from. I giggled silently to myself and then laughed out loud when I realized that he’d effectively turned his dick into a sundial. The shadow angled across his thigh. I traced it with my free index finger and said, “It’s almost five o’clock!”
“Shit!” Big Star said under his breath. “Let’s get this over with. I’ll set the pace. Go with me.”
He began with a calculated rhythm—a slow dance—up and down, down and up, up and down, with an occasional twirl over the head thrown in for flair. (When he sculpted his hand to swipe over the top of his dick, he slowed down slightly, creased his eyes half-shut and gave a sideways grin that seemed to say, “You boys will never get a crack at this.”) He played each stroke through with a corresponding flex of his sphincter, drawing my fingers inside him, releasing them momentarily and then pulling them back in. In no time, we were locked into a cadence and I started to feel the space beyond his hole move in time with us, too. His prostate rose and fell to graze my touch and with every pass, he groaned.
Each groan lasted longer and sounded deeper than earlier ones, and it got harder for me to tell whether Big Star was being real or putting on a show. I wanted it to be real. I wanted to believe I was satisfying him in a very special way—in a way I doubt many had. But I couldn’t be sure. And that suddenly became a colossal distraction I couldn’t shake.
“Work with me,” Big Star whispered emphatically. I snapped back and soon our groove was back—my fingers probing deeper in counterpoint to his downshift. The rhythm increased, becoming more and more hypnotic. With my free hand, I caressed his balls, kneaded his inner thighs, gamboled through the fur on his belly, and reached for the tight mounds of his lean chest. Big Star grabbed my wrist and pushed it away. “No time for that,” he said through quickened breath. “Later. I’m too close.”
Agitation seized his every fiber. He seemed to fall apart—to come totally unglued, disjointed. Then, as if by sheer willpower, he gathered himself up into a veritable force of nature. The balls of his heels landed on my chest with a bruising thud and he kicked my shoulders away. We came apart as I fell back into the water, so shocked at the interruption that I didn’t think to hold my breath. The chlorine seared my nostrils and burned my lungs. I burst out of the water, coughing and fighting for air, completely oblivious that Big Star was on his feet, pumping his fist as a feverish geyser rose through the corridors of his member.
“Fuck. You. All!” he howled. Heavy sprays of semen showered over me. One slashed across my face, eyebrow to jaw. I started to wipe it up, to lap up every drop. But I caught myself, realizing I would pollute its purity with the pool water. My tongue circled my lips and chin to taste as much as I could. It was strong. Bitter. Biting. Man’s milk. Alive. It was magnificent.
Without warning, I found myself trapped in a feeding frenzy. The evil clowns who’d been so smug during the show leapt into the pool, scooping up Big Star’s come and swilling it down, some of them sucking up wispy clouds directly from the water. They shoved me aside and one of them, diving to rescue a fast-sinking dollop, kicked me in the head. I lost touch with everything for a second or two. When I came around, all I could see was Big Star’s hand stretched toward me.
“Let’s go!” he shouted. He hoisted me onto the deck. “Let’s get the hell away from here.” He pushed me toward the patio doors leading into the house—headlong into Old Girl, who guarded the entrance like a Beefeater.
“You know the rules,” Old Girl said sternly, coolly, to Big Star. “The kid cleans up in the cabaña.”
“Not this time,” Big Star shot back. “The kid stays with me.”
He jogged right. Old Girl met him face-to-face. “You know the rules!”
“I said the kid stays with me. You don’t like that, call the cops.”
“You’ll regret this,” Old Girl hissed with such loathing my blood ran cold. “You’ll be sorry you did this.”
“Do I look sorry?” Big Star replied. He shoved past Old Girl, dragging me with him. Our wet feet slapped the granite tile as he steered us to a guest room with a lavish bath attached. A single fresh towel was laid out, along with a complement of brand new grooming supplies spread across the counter. A heavy white robe rested conspicuously over the back of a vanity chair.
I asked what the problem was, but Big Star silenced me by slamming me against the wall and filling my mouth with his tongue. He tasted of stale bourbon and slavish desire and he smelled of hot sun and rusty sweat. His cock, still firm, burrowed into my balls, setting off white stabs of pain. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Old Girl watching in horror as we dared to play out the real scene in the vanity mirror, in private.
I locked my ankles around Big Star’s waist and guided his cock toward my ass.
“You want that, Little Nell?” he panted.
“Yes.” My voice trembled. I’d forgotten his nickname for me. I didn’t like it then and assumed he’d finished with it by now. But as much as I didn’t care for it, I had to admit feeling like a Little Nell. All of me trembled.
“Let go,” he instructed, removing my legs. He stepped into the glass-enclosed shower—it was enormous, with a dozen jets positioned head-to-toe on opposing walls. While turning the faucets with the dexterity of a safecracker, testing the water’s force and temperature, he explained. “See, the punch line happens when the kid stumbles out of the cabaña looking for me. By then I’ve already rinsed off, jumped into my clothes, and I’m out the door, leaving the poor confused kid behind. That’s the icing on the cake for them. They get to say, ‘Oh don’t be stupid. He doesn’t want you!’ They’re a bunch of vicious schoolgirls.”
Big Star beckoned me into the shower. “But now the joke’s on them,” he told me with a triumphant smile. “Because I do want you. I want you so bad I can’t wait to have you.” He snatched my hard dick into his hand, smoothed over it, fondled my balls, and slid beneath me to tease my anus with his finger. “And I don’t think you want to wait, either. Do you?”
“No.” I dropped like a brick to my knees and took him in my mouth. The size of him made my experience useless. It was a new odyssey for me, a fresh frontier, as if I’d never sucked a dick in my life. In fact, it was exactly what every guy who loves dick dreams of when he looks at photos of horse-hung men—and exactly what he should expect when and if his dreams come true. I was overwhelmed and undone and extremely self-conscious about doing such a shabby job that all bets would be off.
But something fairly miraculous started happening even as I worried. My will to please trumped my fear of failure. Through no effort of my own, I seemed to open up to him—to find room to welcome all of him without any resistance. I liked how he felt in my mouth and throat, the vastness of him, the insistence of his size and waxing firmness.
I inwardly congratulated myself on my surprising agility and felt proud to serve him without any humiliating hiccups, when he launched me to my feet. The shower spilled over his face like summer rain, splattering off his eyelashes, washing over his impish expression, and running off his chin onto his chest.
“Ah, Little Nell, that takes a lot of practice,” he said, with an altogether charming cockiness in his tone.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” I replied.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he teased, before kissing me lightly on both eyes and my nose. “You just need more practice. We’ll have to see that you get plenty of it. Once we do that, you won’t be Little Nell anymore.”
“What will I be?”
“I don’t know,” Big Star said, staring at me with a far-off look in his eyes. “When it’s time to give you a new name, we’ll know what it is.” He paused, but I didn’t say anything. “Hang on” he said. He stepped out of the shower, leaving a train of puddles across the floor. Standing silently in the doorway, he listened for any conversation in the house.
“That bitch is up to something,” he told me when he returned. “I don’t what it is, but the old crone is out there scheming with the rest of them.”
“So let them,” I said defiantly.
Big Star spun me around and kissed his way down my back. He crouched down and opened my cheeks, lightly flicking his tongue against my hole. Then he shot up and pulled me against him, whispering so softly in my ear I could barely hear him over the shower’s slap and hiss. “I want to fuck you so bad—“
“But?”
“But right now I’d only be doing it to get back at Old Girl. That fucker would never recover from knowing I’d had you for myself, right here.”
“Then let’s do it. Let’s fix him good.”
“Yeah, but that’s not right for you. You deserve—we deserve—better than this.”
“So you’ll owe me,” I suggested. “Lucky for me.”
“You mean it?”
“Are you kidding? That asshole tried to make a fool out of me. If fucking me in his shower puts me on top… He should pay.”
“You’re a little scary. You know that?”
“Nobody plays me for cheap,” I said.
“Turn around,” Big Star said. He raised me off the floor so high that my dick nearly collided with his chin. Slowly he lowered me while positioning his cock for entry. “Don’t fight it,” he instructed. “Let gravity do the work.” He held me just tight enough for me to fall gently, taking his huge dick inside as I descended. It couldn’t believe how painless it was.
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
“Hold on,” he said quietly. His steps stuttered a bit as he grounded his footing for balance. His powerful manhood stirred my insides and I winced. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” I began to register a series of short thrusts within me. I became highly alert to his girth stretching my muscles wider and wider. The pain-pricks released radiating pleasure unlike any I’d ever known. As his charges gained depth and intensity, he talked in close, confidential tones that wrapped us in surprising intimacy.
“You do something to me, Little Nell. You take me back to when I was a hot piece in this filthy town. I laid more pipe in one afternoon than most guys do in a year. I fucked ‘em all and I fucked ‘em good. I ruined them, every damn one. I pounded their doors open and I proved I had what it takes to be there. You make me feel like that all over again. It’s like I’ve found something I lost and it feels so good to have it back.”
His voice trailed off into a round of grunts that accented every fresh slam. And then it stopped. He set me back on the floor. My legs felt as flimsy as toothpicks.
His voice sounded husky, garbled. “We gotta work fast, baby. Can I put you on all fours? Do you mind?”
Did I mind? I was in place before the question mark landed. Big Star bore down and plunged straight into me. This time it felt like he’d blown me to pieces. The scream flew before I could catch it.
“I’m sorry,” I said, thinking I’d done it now. “You think they heard?”
“I know they heard—and it’s driving them nuts!” Big Star crowed. “Should we stop?”
“No!”
“Fuck!” he shouted, followed by a rattling howl of laughter. “You are something else!”
In that instant, Big Star owned me. And I owned him. And we went at each other like we were light years away from Big Girl and his acolytes, millions of miles from Hollywood and scandal sheets and unfounded rumors and everything else that made amazing sex an impossibility in this phony paradise the rest of the world fantasized about. We were living the dream that this city advertised but never made real.
How long did we keep it up? I don’t know. Time evaporated in the steam that enveloped us. It could have been an hour. It was more likely no more than a minute or two. However long it was, it was enough for a lifetime.
“Oh my God, they really are fucking!” someone yelled. Through the misted glass the best we could see was a tall person at the far end of the bathroom. “They’re fucking like dogs!” he cried and fled, blasting his news while he ran.
“Here comes the circus, baby,” Big Star spat. “They’ll be too late,” he predicted, adding, “Suckers!”
He grabbed my hips and folded me into a narrow triangle. Standing overhead, he drilled back into me, driving down with brute force, pulverizing my gut with rapid-fire assaults. I held his ankles to stay moored to the floor. Then he unloaded, loosing hot streams of scalding heat that flowed through me, setting me on fire. I’d been so obsessed with Big Star’s cock inside me that I’d not paid any attention to my own. From nowhere it exploded, battering my chin and face and shoulder with sticky sperm.
Big Star chuckled and knelt swiftly to lick me clean. “Come on, let’s go!” He grabbed the towel and tossed the robe my way. “Use it to dry off.” Then he stepped into the bedroom and came back, scowling. “They didn’t bring my clothes inside!” he exclaimed. “Well, they can have ‘em.”
“What about my clothes?” I asked.
“They can have them, too.” He gathered the towel around his waist. “Put the robe on. We’re outta here!”
Just as Big Star promised, we left the bathroom to find a gaggle of eager spectators crowding into the guest room. Their faces fell when they saw us.
“Excuse us,” Big Star muttered. “Coming through! Coming through!”
The crowd parted. Old Girl stood in total shock at the end of the hall. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked indignantly.
“As far as we can get from this mud hole,” Big Star fired back.
“You know this is the end of you,” Old Girl said, with chilling matter-of-factness. “It’s nothing but dinner theater in Topeka after this.”
Big Star turned with such ferocity that we all expected him to lunge at his prissy host. “Let me tell you what I know, you crazy sonofabitch. I know you can fix it so I lose everything I’ve built in this town. But you need to know this. If I can lose everything on the word of a moldy queen like you, I’ve got nothing to lose. You open your mouth to one person—one script girl, one best boy—and I’ll let the whole world in on your little Sunday get-togethers. As far as I’m concerned, you’re already late for your grave. But one word out of you and I promise to do everything I can to put you there sooner than you expect.” He swung around and pointed to the rest of the group. “And the same goes for all of you. One word—one fucking word…”
I’ll say this: Beverly Hills looks and feels a whole lot nicer when you’re riding through town in a sun yellow convertible Porsche, wearing a stolen bathrobe, and sitting next to Big Star who’s got on nothing but a towel. Zipping toward Sunset, we laughed till we cried at the panicked valet trying to retrieve the car keys while it dawned on him that something very unseemly had been going on inside. The poor guy nearly fainted when he saw a half-dozen naked men chasing us, screaming at the valet not to give Big Star his keys. It was priceless.
We left my car behind and I didn’t care. It was an old beater not worth retrieving after Old Girl had it towed to the city pound.
Big Star turned right on Sunset. “I live the other way,” I told him. “In Malibu.”
“Yeah, we’re not going to Malibu,” he replied. “We’re going to the desert. I’ve got a great little place out there. It will be just you and me and the scorpions. We’re going to cut through the canyon, drop down to the 5, and we’ll be there in a couple hours.”
“What about clothes?”
Big Star reached over and caressed the back of my neck. “Oh, Little Nell. I don’t see us wearing clothes. We’re going gorilla—just two apes fucking each other’s brains out in the wild. You in?”
A question that needed no answer.
You measure Hollywood life in off-and-on decades. It gets derailed for 10 years and spends the next 10 making up for lost time. The 60s were madness, no different than London and New York and, I guess, everywhere else: sex, drugs, and rock-‘n’-roll. (I know it’s a cliché; still, it sums it up.) The 70s were loose, but young Turks who spent the previous decade tripping on acid and fucking anything they tripped over proved they hadn’t partied their brains out by producing some of the greatest movies in American history. When the 80s kicked in, they were richer than Midas and no longer interested in making art. Ten years of non-stop work overloaded them with pent-up mischief. The 80s were all about release.
That’s when I showed up.
I wasn’t supposed to be there. I was a schoolteacher fresh out of a tony Midwestern college who took a long vacation in LA, thanks to a family friend who offered me his rickety bungalow at the wrong end of Malibu Beach. In two weeks’ time, I’d accepted a position at a tiny private academy and got sucked into one of many scenes orbiting the industry like tiny planets circling the universe’s brightest sun.
My crowd was mainly day-jobbers: attorneys, p.r. grunts, script editors, studio musicians, accountants, and so on, with a sprinkling of celebrity offspring tossed in. (Although star kids could be annoying as hell, their drug connections made them irreplaceable. In the 80s, coke ruled the day, and keeping them on hand guaranteed they’d show up with the finest grade of blow.)
Perks were handed out freely to my friends, who insisted I tag along. Off to this party and that opening, at first I felt extremely conspicuous. But my discomfort gradually dissipated, as I became something of a known entity—albeit a very minor one—spotted here and there.
That’s how it works with movie people. They’re always noticing, clocking new faces in the mix, judging whether or not you’re worth knowing by where and when you turn up. The more I got noticed the more chances were afforded me to get noticed. Not being “one of them” was my greatest asset; Hollywood insiders love nothing more than hanging with “real people.” So, in very short order, I found myself with people I had no business being around, in settings I had no business frequenting, doing things I had no business doing. I loved every minute of it.
And one of those minutes changed my life—not forever, not for a year. But it was so far beyond my expectations that I couldn’t believe it even while it was happening. It was a joyride that lasted a few months and though it eventually ran out of road, it left me with a lifelong friendship I cherish to this day.
*****
The whole thing started with one of Hollywood’s longest-standing conventions, the Sunday boy brunch. The legend, as told by outsiders, totally eclipses the real thing for licentious cavorting and outlandish goings-on. To be sure, wickedness reigns supreme at these rituals, though it’s more of the spoken kind than wild abandon. What else besides malignant gossip and character assassination would you expect at a gathering of movie-biz queens?
One of the town’s preeminent doyennes, known as “Old Girl” outside his hearing, hosted and I attended at his personal request. He was a fussy little man afflicted with a grandiose air that dwarfed his surface sweetness. I went because he’d taken a liking to me and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by not showing. Yet even if I didn’t care about offending him, I would have gone, because his high rank in the queer hierarchy—a post he’d held since the big-studio days—inflated his friendly invitation into an imperial command.
He was old, old movie money, complete with the classic Bentley in the drive of his Venetian manor in the Beverly Hills flats. It appeared his decorator hadn’t touched a thing in years, giving one the feeling of wandering around a fastidiously preserved soundstage. The hallowed halls and over-groomed gardens abutting the imported-tile pool, bougainvillea-latticed patio, and serpentine lane roaming off to the tennis court put a damper on all thoughts of romping naughtiness. Everyone honored the customs: summer togs for brunch, scanty bathing suits and snug tennis whites afterward, and then peeling down to skin as the sun eased off and a long afternoon of drinking dulled inhibitions.
If anyone there was younger than I, I never saw him. Nor did I see exactly when Big Star arrived. Evidently he was nowhere near as straight as his movie persona and rumors about his shameless behavior at Hef’s place portrayed, because nobody (except me) batted an eye when he strode onto the patio, naked and unconcerned, his dick swinging, his hairy chest puffed up, and his narrow eyes roaming here and there to check out the scene.
I was hanging on the side of the pool, shallow end, chatting with an up-and-coming director. He turned to see who caught my eye. “It’s a real party now,” he said.
“What’s that mean?”
“All bets are off. He’s here for sex and he prefers having it front and center, with an audience. And you’ve got the edge, baby—if you’ve not already fucked him, that is.”
I was speechless.
“Have you?” he asked.
“Have I what?”
“Sampled his wares? If you haven’t, I’m guessing you will today, seeing how you’re the youngest chick in the coop.”
“Are you joking?” I was baffled.
“Hell, no. Aren’t you interested? It won’t go well for you if you’re not.”
“Sure, I’m interested. But not here. Can you imagine? I’d get crossed off half the invite lists in this town if I did that here.”
The director brushed his hand through my hair and nodded gently. “Oh, sweetie,” he sighed. “That’s why you’re here. That’s why he’s here. Old Girl likes a finale. And don’t waste a lot of time flirting, either. Most of us have early calls. If you drag it out, we’re gonna hate you when the wake-up service rings our phones.”
I’d been sighted. Big Star strolled my way, trademark smirk lighting up his face while he casually tugged his cock. My buddy hopped to his feet. “Time to freshen my drink.”
Big Star slid intos place. He propped himself on his elbows and heels, legs apart so he could look me in the eye. He rocked his feet side to side, as if saying hello with them. “Answer me this,” he said.
“Okay.”
“What’s a kid like you doing with all these lame-ass sissies and old farts?”
It was all I could do not to roll my eyes. “I was told you’d come looking for me,” I answered flatly.
“Well, you’re no fun.”
“You don’t know that,” I countered.
He grinned again. “No, I guess I don’t.” He looked away for a moment and said, “But you see, a lot of the fun is luring you into the game.” His eyes returned to mine. “And since you seem to know what's up, you just killed that part of it.”
“Stop acting,” I kidded. (He liked that.) “I know I look like it, but I’m hardly Little Nell from the Woods.”
“I’m not so sure,” he kidded back. “Besides, Little Nells turn me on. They make me think nasty thoughts.”
I didn’t respond, taking the moment to stare him down. He was one sexy mother, that’s for sure—a little too hairy for my tastes, but big in all the right places—big feet, hands, and a dick that was getting bigger; big dusty rose nipples beneath macaroni hair; meaty thighs, calves, and biceps; a lower lip my teeth itched to bite into. If I didn’t know he was a world-famous movie stud, if he were a mailman, insurance agent, or undertaker, I’d still leap at the chance to take all he’d give. My cock stiffened into a baton, its head nudging the slick tile on the pool’s wall.
Once my stare weakened, he wondered, “So, Little Nell, how should we play this?”
“You tell me,” I replied. “You’re the one with nasty ideas.”
He glanced around the pool. In a hushed voice, he said, “They’re settling in. If I hadn’t done this so many times, they’d creep me out.”
Suddenly I felt eyes all over me—all over us. “Where’s Old Girl?”
“On the other side, near the deep end,” he told me, “impatient as always.”
“And what are they gonna do? Beat off while they watch?”
He caressed my cheek with his left foot. His tender expression made my heart leap. “Oh, you are such a Little Nell.” When he started to remove his foot, I held it in place and lightly kissed the sole. “Kinky, too!” he chortled quietly. “No, Little Nell. That would be undignified. This isn’t some two-bit, Bourbon Street sex show, one of those backroom spectacles full of horny sailors blowing wads. They’re gonna make a movie of us in their heads for later use. Anyway, whipping it out while we… Well, that would disclose too much information, wouldn’t it?”
My head had already moved on. “I guess,” I answered absent-mindedly, then caught myself. I let go the foot. “Wait. What do you mean ‘information’?”
“Oh my God!” he laughed boisterously, quickly resuming his lower tone. “The guesswork would be over—who’s got the biggest dick, who shoots the farthest, the sounds and faces they make when they climax, all that shit. The talk would spread so fast everybody in town would hear every detail before their heads hit the pillow.”
“That’s why they talk about your dick? Because they’ve seen it?”
“They talked about my dick before they ever laid eyes on it. That’s why I enjoy this bullshit. It’s fun to shove it in their faces now and then—just to remind them I may not be a lady’s man, but I’m sure as hell a man’s man.”
We both chuckled, although mine dried up before his. “You’re fucking me just so you can say, ‘Fuck you,’ to them—something like that.”
“Hmmm,” he replied. “Ordinarily, I’d say yes, since that’s usually the case. Normally when I get in the car to come down here, I’m thinking, ‘Let me get go plow the shit out of some poor guy so the rest of 'em will regret everything they've said about me.’”
“Regret?”
“Yeah,” he answered with a mystified look. “You do know I started out as a serious actor.”
“Sure. Actor’s Studio, The Public Theater, Albee, Miller, the whole thing.”
“I got chops twice that of most so-called actors in this town. Then I got the big part, the Oscar part, playing the pussy hound, and tongues started wagging about what a great actor I was, what a brilliant job I did convincing the world I was a bull when I had nada in the shorts. Rumors flew. Men and women saying they’d seduced me, and how under-whelmed they were when I dropped trou. If you haven’t already figured it out, this town is nothing but a den of size queens! I got so pissed I pulled it out at a party. No lie. ‘Now are you satisfied?’ I howled. ‘And it’s not even hard!’ Some guy hit the floor and commenced to blow me. That really pissed me off. I kicked him over, yanked off his Gloria Vanderbilts, and screwed him stupid.”
“You raped him? In front of everybody?”
“Bitch screamed for mercy. I was a god the next day. And I don’t want these bitches ever to forget it.”
“Huh," I said. “Now I see where I fit into this tawdry little drama. I’m nothing but a prop to Old Girl and you’re using me to play forget-me-not. You two make a fella proud.”
His foot inched my way again, but I blocked it. “Let me finish,” he said. “So I got here, ready to do this and go home—probably never remember who I fucked. Most of these kids beg me for it before I get a sense of who they are and what they want, you know, what they dream about, and all that. Because I figure, what the hell, since they sort of got set up for this—“
“Sort of?”
“Fine. Since they got set up, the least I can do is see it’s worth their trouble. But half of ‘em don’t care. And that really cheapens it. It’s already cheap, and they make it even cheaper. I can tell you’re not like them, though. You’re cocky.”
“Something like that.”
“You deserve better than I could ever give you here.”
“I’d take that as a compliment, if I were 100% sure it wasn’t part of the game.”
“And there you have it,” Big Star said. “You prove my point.”
“So what do we do? Forget the whole thing just to piss them off? Get dressed, say goodnight, and drive off into the sunset?”
The grin reappeared. “Let’s throw these bitches a curve. They’re expecting the usual suck-and-fuck. Any minute now, I’m supposed to throw my legs over your shoulders and bury your head in my crotch. You’re supposed to chow down like it’s the last dick you’ll ever taste. And the joke will be on you because you won’t be able to handle it.”
True, I hadn’t seen him hard yet—his dick had ebbed and flowed the whole time we talked, but never got fully rigid. “How do you know I can’t handle it?”
“I’m not saying you can’t. I’m saying they don’t expect you will, because most can’t. So they’re looking forward to watching you gag and keep trying and keep gagging. For some reason they like that. After that goes on for a while, I’m supposed to order you out of the pool, put you face up on the ground, pin your ankles to your ears, and pound the living Jesus out of you. And when I’m finished, I yank off the rubber, send you to the cabaña shower, and head inside to shower myself. Lights up. Show’s over.”
“But you want to throw them a curve.”
“Yeah.” He waited a few seconds and said, “Finger-fuck me.”
“What?”
“Finger-fuck me. Shove a couple fingers up my ass and fuck it. That will scare the hell out of them.”
“Okay…”
“Aw, Little Nell, I know what you’re thinking. You’re saying, ‘What’s in it for me?’”
“Honestly, I hadn’t got to that yet. How does it end?”
“Of course,” he said. “Here’s what I haven’t told you. Nothing gets me off quicker than somebody playing with my ass. I’ve got a prostrate big as a football. You get in there and start working it, and I’ll spout a cum-stream so huge it will scar them for life! We’ll be done and outta here in no time.”
“Outta here where?”
“Wherever—your place, mine, a hotel. Who cares?”
“Oh boy,” I said sarcastically, “more fun for me. We go to the trouble of being alone and you’re already spent.”
“See?” he said with a gleam in his eye. “I’ve known you for ten minutes and already I can tell what your problem is.”
“Is that a fact?”
“You jump to too many conclusions. Let’s get this over with and I’ll show you there’s always more where that came from. You’ll see.”
Thus my pet name for Big Star, one I’ve called him ever since—the name he signs to Christmas cards he’s never failed to send: See-More.
*****
It’s said instinct is all that separates born actors from trained seals. Big Star’s instinct confirmed he was the real thing. The instant our audience detected our scene wasn’t going to play like the rest its collective gasp sucked half the air from the sky. A quick scan of the patio revealed eyes flashing at one another, unsure of what they were going to see and, worse still, not sure they’d like it.
Although Big Star alluded to it, I wasn’t yet aware of the baggage this crowd shoved on him. Not until the weeks wore on and gossip about us refused to die—being true, after all—did I realize how twisted their lust for him was. They hated him because they couldn’t have him, and despised me because I could. In their sick little heads, these occasional performances were his way of letting them get as close as they’d ever get to having what they wanted. That was my first take, at least. But then it gradually dawned on me that many of them contorted the whole arrangement into Big Star’s love for them, his way of having them, a thing they’d never lower themselves to do.
Our brazen departure from standard procedure scared the shit out of one and all. Christ, who knew Hollywood was chock full of prudes? What we were doing bordered on bestiality to them, the kind of stuff that caused them to eject their porno cassettes and grab their toothbrushes. They couldn’t possibly conceive of such filth. (Those who could snubbed Sunday boy brunches, reserving their Sabbaths for members-only clubs in Silverlake, where the charade Big Star and I staged amounted to vanilla foreplay.) But I’ve got to hand it Big Star. He had the whole thing wired. He knew what buttons to push and when to push them. His outline was perfect. As we followed it step-by-step, I could sense the atmosphere shift from shock to repugnance to venomous resentment. If this was what pleased Big Star, these prim and proper gardenias knew they didn’t stand a chance.
Once we blocked the scene, Big Star kicked things off as he always had. He scooted closer to me, stopping when his butt touched the raised rim about an inch from the pool’s edge. He thrust out his legs above my shoulders. I grabbed them by their calves before they landed, shoving them back toward him. He toppled backwards, pretending I’d caught him off-guard. “What the hell—“
In the best stage whisper I could muster, I hissed, “Give me that ass!”
Murmurs erupted on cue. “What was that?” “I didn’t catch all of it—ass, something about ass.” “Oh my God!” “Did he?” “Yes, he did.” “Oh my God!” “What’s he doing?” “I don’t know, but it’s not good.” “Is he an idiot?”
Not one to be upstaged, Big Star snatched back the spotlight with an indiscreetly belligerent protest. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” But (as planned) I paid him no mind as I wedged both thumbs into his crack, prying it open to dive for treasure.
I grow as weary as the next guy of anatomical metaphors and trite depictions of sex acts. Yet what else do we have to convey the passion and intensity that can only be found while exploring another body? It transcends physiology to become a deeper discovery—a completion, perhaps, or at the very least a venture into a new realm. It’s a heady, unparalleled experience that defies comparison, which is why we can’t stop ourselves from searching for words, believing we’ll come close to describing what we find and feel. And we never do.
Should I forego the poetry to report the unadorned facts, they would read something like this: I ate Big Star’s ass for several minutes per plan.
First, I broadly licked its interior to acclimate my senses to its tastes, smells, and textures. I detected hints of acrid sharpness and a faintly sweet, almost overripe scent beneath a soapy bouquet of vanilla and fresh cloves. The thick hair covering Big Star’s rump thinned out as it neared the tiny gate at the bottom of its cave, alerting my touch to its shiny-smooth, taut flesh. A fresh ring of hair, notably longer and firmer than the rest encompassed the entry.
My tongue’s warmth and wetness steadily relaxed his muscular, modestly proportioned glutes, increasing each new foray’s access to the sphincter. As Big Star instinctively pulled his buttocks farther apart, my maneuvers grew more focused. I mapped his rectum’s pleats and gathers with my forefinger, gently tapping it to palpate the ring beneath, homing in on its soft spot. It enfolded my fingertip to the first joint with remarkable suction. While taking a moment to enjoy the delicate, pulsating contractions on my finger, I kissed and nibbled the firm orbs of Big Star’s ass. They flinched, almost bashfully, when my lips brushed their surface and they tensed with approving pleasure, as my pecks grew more extravagant, taking hungrier, deeper bites.
When my idle grazing reached Big Star’s left hand, I navigated around its arched thumb to land at the first knuckle. I bit down on it before chewing my way along the side of his index finger to roll my tongue over the nail’s rounded edge. He welded it to his middle finger and shoved them into my mouth.
The episode had got so ridiculously surreal so fast I’d not given much notice to Big Star’s hands. His fingers felt like planks pressing down my tongue. And they were sweet to me, not to the taste, but because—well, in the few moments we’d racked up planning and executing our little entertainment—he endeared himself to me. There was a big kid inside Big Star and I liked that most about him. We were being jerks at the adults’ expense.
“Finger-fuck me,” Big Star grunted through tightly clenched teeth. The audience gulped. He pulled his fingers from my mouth and felt around for some stray sunscreen. His hand landed on a tube of inexcusably expensive lotion from a Rodeo Drive boutique. He held it aloft above his cock and gave it a violent squeeze that popped the cap and wasted a thick load of white, coconut-scented batter all over his privates. I listened closely for someone to protest Big Star squandering such pricey product. But no one complained. The crowd was mesmerized.
I was mesmerized, too. It was as though every nerve ending in my fingers lit up and captured the changes occurring inside him. I could feel the rush of hot blood coursing into his dick, the tightening of his organs as they began to rally and swell at the command of his touch. Flaccid, Big Star’s cock was a thing of beauty: hefty and smooth, topped by a sandy pink lid that lay unabashed in a dense copse of dark hair. The thicket ran riot at the cock’s base and sprouted long, wild tendrils flocking his wickedly sumptuous balls. As Big Star summoned his piece to attention, he transformed it into a mighty weapon. Its proportions grew exaggerated and its steel stiffened. The amiably plush cap turned into a bullet nose, while the cock meat morphed into a cannon barrel. It was the Dick of Death and while I shuddered to think of the agony awaiting anyone on the wrong side of its trigger, I ached to know what it must feel like—to experience that mystical moment when torment gave way to ecstasy, when brutal invasion became blissful possession, when all of it would be exclusively mine by virtue of its piercing presence inside me.
But now was not the time for daydreaming. Big Star and I were in cahoots, mocking Old Girl and his silly courtiers. Whether or not I would ever know how it felt to be Big Star’s chosen vessel was anybody’s guess. The episode could end with a big bang, followed by an embarrassed fizzle and we’d never see one another again. This much I did recognize, though. If I fucked this nutty scenario up, there’d be no fucking in the future. Get through this first, I told myself, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll get to that.
Big Star’s fixation with his manhood amused me. He didn’t appear to see past the massive column slathered with sunscreen that squashed through his fingers as he massaged the shaft. Soon it was at its full, impressive height, head aimed at the sky. His hand slid slowly to its bottom, where he held it erect for all to admire, clamped between his thumb and two fingers with his pinky extended, as if he were holding one of those narrow cocktail tumblers you see movie gangsters sip from. I giggled silently to myself and then laughed out loud when I realized that he’d effectively turned his dick into a sundial. The shadow angled across his thigh. I traced it with my free index finger and said, “It’s almost five o’clock!”
“Shit!” Big Star said under his breath. “Let’s get this over with. I’ll set the pace. Go with me.”
He began with a calculated rhythm—a slow dance—up and down, down and up, up and down, with an occasional twirl over the head thrown in for flair. (When he sculpted his hand to swipe over the top of his dick, he slowed down slightly, creased his eyes half-shut and gave a sideways grin that seemed to say, “You boys will never get a crack at this.”) He played each stroke through with a corresponding flex of his sphincter, drawing my fingers inside him, releasing them momentarily and then pulling them back in. In no time, we were locked into a cadence and I started to feel the space beyond his hole move in time with us, too. His prostate rose and fell to graze my touch and with every pass, he groaned.
Each groan lasted longer and sounded deeper than earlier ones, and it got harder for me to tell whether Big Star was being real or putting on a show. I wanted it to be real. I wanted to believe I was satisfying him in a very special way—in a way I doubt many had. But I couldn’t be sure. And that suddenly became a colossal distraction I couldn’t shake.
“Work with me,” Big Star whispered emphatically. I snapped back and soon our groove was back—my fingers probing deeper in counterpoint to his downshift. The rhythm increased, becoming more and more hypnotic. With my free hand, I caressed his balls, kneaded his inner thighs, gamboled through the fur on his belly, and reached for the tight mounds of his lean chest. Big Star grabbed my wrist and pushed it away. “No time for that,” he said through quickened breath. “Later. I’m too close.”
Agitation seized his every fiber. He seemed to fall apart—to come totally unglued, disjointed. Then, as if by sheer willpower, he gathered himself up into a veritable force of nature. The balls of his heels landed on my chest with a bruising thud and he kicked my shoulders away. We came apart as I fell back into the water, so shocked at the interruption that I didn’t think to hold my breath. The chlorine seared my nostrils and burned my lungs. I burst out of the water, coughing and fighting for air, completely oblivious that Big Star was on his feet, pumping his fist as a feverish geyser rose through the corridors of his member.
“Fuck. You. All!” he howled. Heavy sprays of semen showered over me. One slashed across my face, eyebrow to jaw. I started to wipe it up, to lap up every drop. But I caught myself, realizing I would pollute its purity with the pool water. My tongue circled my lips and chin to taste as much as I could. It was strong. Bitter. Biting. Man’s milk. Alive. It was magnificent.
Without warning, I found myself trapped in a feeding frenzy. The evil clowns who’d been so smug during the show leapt into the pool, scooping up Big Star’s come and swilling it down, some of them sucking up wispy clouds directly from the water. They shoved me aside and one of them, diving to rescue a fast-sinking dollop, kicked me in the head. I lost touch with everything for a second or two. When I came around, all I could see was Big Star’s hand stretched toward me.
“Let’s go!” he shouted. He hoisted me onto the deck. “Let’s get the hell away from here.” He pushed me toward the patio doors leading into the house—headlong into Old Girl, who guarded the entrance like a Beefeater.
“You know the rules,” Old Girl said sternly, coolly, to Big Star. “The kid cleans up in the cabaña.”
“Not this time,” Big Star shot back. “The kid stays with me.”
He jogged right. Old Girl met him face-to-face. “You know the rules!”
“I said the kid stays with me. You don’t like that, call the cops.”
“You’ll regret this,” Old Girl hissed with such loathing my blood ran cold. “You’ll be sorry you did this.”
“Do I look sorry?” Big Star replied. He shoved past Old Girl, dragging me with him. Our wet feet slapped the granite tile as he steered us to a guest room with a lavish bath attached. A single fresh towel was laid out, along with a complement of brand new grooming supplies spread across the counter. A heavy white robe rested conspicuously over the back of a vanity chair.
I asked what the problem was, but Big Star silenced me by slamming me against the wall and filling my mouth with his tongue. He tasted of stale bourbon and slavish desire and he smelled of hot sun and rusty sweat. His cock, still firm, burrowed into my balls, setting off white stabs of pain. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Old Girl watching in horror as we dared to play out the real scene in the vanity mirror, in private.
I locked my ankles around Big Star’s waist and guided his cock toward my ass.
“You want that, Little Nell?” he panted.
“Yes.” My voice trembled. I’d forgotten his nickname for me. I didn’t like it then and assumed he’d finished with it by now. But as much as I didn’t care for it, I had to admit feeling like a Little Nell. All of me trembled.
“Let go,” he instructed, removing my legs. He stepped into the glass-enclosed shower—it was enormous, with a dozen jets positioned head-to-toe on opposing walls. While turning the faucets with the dexterity of a safecracker, testing the water’s force and temperature, he explained. “See, the punch line happens when the kid stumbles out of the cabaña looking for me. By then I’ve already rinsed off, jumped into my clothes, and I’m out the door, leaving the poor confused kid behind. That’s the icing on the cake for them. They get to say, ‘Oh don’t be stupid. He doesn’t want you!’ They’re a bunch of vicious schoolgirls.”
Big Star beckoned me into the shower. “But now the joke’s on them,” he told me with a triumphant smile. “Because I do want you. I want you so bad I can’t wait to have you.” He snatched my hard dick into his hand, smoothed over it, fondled my balls, and slid beneath me to tease my anus with his finger. “And I don’t think you want to wait, either. Do you?”
“No.” I dropped like a brick to my knees and took him in my mouth. The size of him made my experience useless. It was a new odyssey for me, a fresh frontier, as if I’d never sucked a dick in my life. In fact, it was exactly what every guy who loves dick dreams of when he looks at photos of horse-hung men—and exactly what he should expect when and if his dreams come true. I was overwhelmed and undone and extremely self-conscious about doing such a shabby job that all bets would be off.
But something fairly miraculous started happening even as I worried. My will to please trumped my fear of failure. Through no effort of my own, I seemed to open up to him—to find room to welcome all of him without any resistance. I liked how he felt in my mouth and throat, the vastness of him, the insistence of his size and waxing firmness.
I inwardly congratulated myself on my surprising agility and felt proud to serve him without any humiliating hiccups, when he launched me to my feet. The shower spilled over his face like summer rain, splattering off his eyelashes, washing over his impish expression, and running off his chin onto his chest.
“Ah, Little Nell, that takes a lot of practice,” he said, with an altogether charming cockiness in his tone.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” I replied.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he teased, before kissing me lightly on both eyes and my nose. “You just need more practice. We’ll have to see that you get plenty of it. Once we do that, you won’t be Little Nell anymore.”
“What will I be?”
“I don’t know,” Big Star said, staring at me with a far-off look in his eyes. “When it’s time to give you a new name, we’ll know what it is.” He paused, but I didn’t say anything. “Hang on” he said. He stepped out of the shower, leaving a train of puddles across the floor. Standing silently in the doorway, he listened for any conversation in the house.
“That bitch is up to something,” he told me when he returned. “I don’t what it is, but the old crone is out there scheming with the rest of them.”
“So let them,” I said defiantly.
Big Star spun me around and kissed his way down my back. He crouched down and opened my cheeks, lightly flicking his tongue against my hole. Then he shot up and pulled me against him, whispering so softly in my ear I could barely hear him over the shower’s slap and hiss. “I want to fuck you so bad—“
“But?”
“But right now I’d only be doing it to get back at Old Girl. That fucker would never recover from knowing I’d had you for myself, right here.”
“Then let’s do it. Let’s fix him good.”
“Yeah, but that’s not right for you. You deserve—we deserve—better than this.”
“So you’ll owe me,” I suggested. “Lucky for me.”
“You mean it?”
“Are you kidding? That asshole tried to make a fool out of me. If fucking me in his shower puts me on top… He should pay.”
“You’re a little scary. You know that?”
“Nobody plays me for cheap,” I said.
“Turn around,” Big Star said. He raised me off the floor so high that my dick nearly collided with his chin. Slowly he lowered me while positioning his cock for entry. “Don’t fight it,” he instructed. “Let gravity do the work.” He held me just tight enough for me to fall gently, taking his huge dick inside as I descended. It couldn’t believe how painless it was.
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
“Hold on,” he said quietly. His steps stuttered a bit as he grounded his footing for balance. His powerful manhood stirred my insides and I winced. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” I began to register a series of short thrusts within me. I became highly alert to his girth stretching my muscles wider and wider. The pain-pricks released radiating pleasure unlike any I’d ever known. As his charges gained depth and intensity, he talked in close, confidential tones that wrapped us in surprising intimacy.
“You do something to me, Little Nell. You take me back to when I was a hot piece in this filthy town. I laid more pipe in one afternoon than most guys do in a year. I fucked ‘em all and I fucked ‘em good. I ruined them, every damn one. I pounded their doors open and I proved I had what it takes to be there. You make me feel like that all over again. It’s like I’ve found something I lost and it feels so good to have it back.”
His voice trailed off into a round of grunts that accented every fresh slam. And then it stopped. He set me back on the floor. My legs felt as flimsy as toothpicks.
His voice sounded husky, garbled. “We gotta work fast, baby. Can I put you on all fours? Do you mind?”
Did I mind? I was in place before the question mark landed. Big Star bore down and plunged straight into me. This time it felt like he’d blown me to pieces. The scream flew before I could catch it.
“I’m sorry,” I said, thinking I’d done it now. “You think they heard?”
“I know they heard—and it’s driving them nuts!” Big Star crowed. “Should we stop?”
“No!”
“Fuck!” he shouted, followed by a rattling howl of laughter. “You are something else!”
In that instant, Big Star owned me. And I owned him. And we went at each other like we were light years away from Big Girl and his acolytes, millions of miles from Hollywood and scandal sheets and unfounded rumors and everything else that made amazing sex an impossibility in this phony paradise the rest of the world fantasized about. We were living the dream that this city advertised but never made real.
How long did we keep it up? I don’t know. Time evaporated in the steam that enveloped us. It could have been an hour. It was more likely no more than a minute or two. However long it was, it was enough for a lifetime.
“Oh my God, they really are fucking!” someone yelled. Through the misted glass the best we could see was a tall person at the far end of the bathroom. “They’re fucking like dogs!” he cried and fled, blasting his news while he ran.
“Here comes the circus, baby,” Big Star spat. “They’ll be too late,” he predicted, adding, “Suckers!”
He grabbed my hips and folded me into a narrow triangle. Standing overhead, he drilled back into me, driving down with brute force, pulverizing my gut with rapid-fire assaults. I held his ankles to stay moored to the floor. Then he unloaded, loosing hot streams of scalding heat that flowed through me, setting me on fire. I’d been so obsessed with Big Star’s cock inside me that I’d not paid any attention to my own. From nowhere it exploded, battering my chin and face and shoulder with sticky sperm.
Big Star chuckled and knelt swiftly to lick me clean. “Come on, let’s go!” He grabbed the towel and tossed the robe my way. “Use it to dry off.” Then he stepped into the bedroom and came back, scowling. “They didn’t bring my clothes inside!” he exclaimed. “Well, they can have ‘em.”
“What about my clothes?” I asked.
“They can have them, too.” He gathered the towel around his waist. “Put the robe on. We’re outta here!”
Just as Big Star promised, we left the bathroom to find a gaggle of eager spectators crowding into the guest room. Their faces fell when they saw us.
“Excuse us,” Big Star muttered. “Coming through! Coming through!”
The crowd parted. Old Girl stood in total shock at the end of the hall. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked indignantly.
“As far as we can get from this mud hole,” Big Star fired back.
“You know this is the end of you,” Old Girl said, with chilling matter-of-factness. “It’s nothing but dinner theater in Topeka after this.”
Big Star turned with such ferocity that we all expected him to lunge at his prissy host. “Let me tell you what I know, you crazy sonofabitch. I know you can fix it so I lose everything I’ve built in this town. But you need to know this. If I can lose everything on the word of a moldy queen like you, I’ve got nothing to lose. You open your mouth to one person—one script girl, one best boy—and I’ll let the whole world in on your little Sunday get-togethers. As far as I’m concerned, you’re already late for your grave. But one word out of you and I promise to do everything I can to put you there sooner than you expect.” He swung around and pointed to the rest of the group. “And the same goes for all of you. One word—one fucking word…”
*****
I’ll say this: Beverly Hills looks and feels a whole lot nicer when you’re riding through town in a sun yellow convertible Porsche, wearing a stolen bathrobe, and sitting next to Big Star who’s got on nothing but a towel. Zipping toward Sunset, we laughed till we cried at the panicked valet trying to retrieve the car keys while it dawned on him that something very unseemly had been going on inside. The poor guy nearly fainted when he saw a half-dozen naked men chasing us, screaming at the valet not to give Big Star his keys. It was priceless.
We left my car behind and I didn’t care. It was an old beater not worth retrieving after Old Girl had it towed to the city pound.
Big Star turned right on Sunset. “I live the other way,” I told him. “In Malibu.”
“Yeah, we’re not going to Malibu,” he replied. “We’re going to the desert. I’ve got a great little place out there. It will be just you and me and the scorpions. We’re going to cut through the canyon, drop down to the 5, and we’ll be there in a couple hours.”
“What about clothes?”
Big Star reached over and caressed the back of my neck. “Oh, Little Nell. I don’t see us wearing clothes. We’re going gorilla—just two apes fucking each other’s brains out in the wild. You in?”
A question that needed no answer.
