Boys of Two Cities Page 10

  “Darling! Prompt as usual.”

  It amused Mike that Aiden held one cigarette between his fingers, while another smoked itself away in the overflowing ashtray. “Where are the stars?”

  Aiden waved a combusting hand airily. “Any time now. You know what these puppy dogs are like. One’s a skin-head I photographed last week.” He said it like that, with a slight pause between skin and head. “And the other you might remember from that Roman night at Paradise. The piece of beefcake.”

  “The black guy, Winston, wasn’t it, or…Peter?”

  Aiden gave a nervous chuckle. “Not Winston, lovely man though he is, but the mud is very dark and he wouldn’t show up well.”

  “Mud?”

  “Come and have a gander.”

  Aiden led Mike through to the studio where a massive piece of heavy-duty black plastic had been stretched out in a square. In its center sat a low mound of a gleaming greeny-gray substance.

  Mike stopped at the edge, hooked his hands in his jeans back pockets and bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. He put on a Blofeld imitation. “Very interesting, Meesterr Bond!”

  “Health spa mud, dear. They can wrestle, fuck, and get a beauty treatment all at the same time. There’s another barrel over there to throw in once the action hots up. What do you think?”

  “They know what they’re in for?” Mike laughed.

  “They’ll love it. Trust a white woman. Now, can you cope with the cameras?’

  “Both of them?” Mike looked doubtful.

  “I thought you could set one up as a general wide shot and leave it to itself, and then move around with the other. God knows what the editing will look like, but I have someone who claims to know how to do ‘dub-edits,’ whatever they are when they’re at home.”

  A shuffle of feet in the hallway outside the studio area announced the arrival of the two stars. Mike immediately recognized the muscle boy Peter who had literally brought the house down at the Paradise Roman theme night. By comparison, his co-star was a slight lad with shaven head, but obviously very fit. In spite of his thuggish skinhead appearance, the boy had a soft, vulnerable face entirely at odds with his tough act. There was something familiar about him, but Mike couldn’t put his finger on it.

  Peter cocked his head at Mike in greeting, and immediately began to strip off his street clothes. “You expect us to get it on in that?” he said wryly, pointing at the gloop.

  “I’m sure you’ll cope, sweetheart. Put these on to start with, dear.” Aiden held out stylish swim wear to them. “You too—oh, this is Dylan,” he addressed Mike, who nodded.

  The boy screwed his eyes and held his head on one side. “’Ave we met? I seen you somewhere.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” And yet he thought the boy might be right, except he didn’t know any skins.

  Dylan pulled off his Dr. Martens and began removing his jeans, which were so torn in several places they barely held together. He had no underwear on, and his long thin cock flopped loosely between his legs. He donned the swim wear unhappily and remarked gruffly that it looked so new and fashionable.

  “Don’t fuss, darling, it won’t show up much once you’re in the mud.” And with that parting shot, Aiden disappeared into the control room to set up the U-Matics.

  At first neither wrestler was comfortable, either with the mud or each other, but gradually they began to enjoy rolling around in the stuff and the clinches grew hotter. The swim wear didn’t last long. Peter was grappling with Dylan, having brought him down (standing was near impossible), when he thrust his hand down inside the boy’s trunks and a second later the rip echoed around the studio.

  “You’ve fuckin torn ’em!”

  Mike zoomed in close and saw that Dylan, no matter his annoyance, was getting stiff. There followed a gloppy whirl of flailing limbs as Dylan pulled Peter’s scant covering off him to reveal what had already been apparent for some minutes. At Paradise, Peter had always been partly clothed, so Mike got his first proper look at his already jacked up dick—well, as much as the glutinous mud allowed.

  Over the next hour the boys rolled, squelched, squished, mock fucked—“I don’t want this one too hard core,” Aiden said—and basically earned a healthy skin tone for their efforts. At one point Mike feared he was going to get dragged in, which a part of his mind suggested he would enjoy, but Aiden quickly put a stop to their antics. “Dears! That camera is worth a year of your wages.”

  Peter went to take a shower first. It stood off to one side of the hallway leading into the kitchen area in a generous-sized alcove that doubled as a model’s changing room. Aiden and Mike were slumped on two of the mismatched seats around the cramped kitchen table. Aiden, who didn’t drink much alcohol, made tea for everyone while Peter sluiced himself off, chattering from the open shower stall. From where he sat Mike could just see the occasional flash of a raised foot.

  Dylan waited on another bit of plastic Aiden had laid out in the hallway to protect the floor covering, quietly dripping green goo. “No tracking mud over my clean kitchen floor,” Aiden had said archly. The boy looked like something dragged out of a swamp in a horror film, but it did not disguise the lithe strength in a body that at the same time looked fragile. Suddenly, he looked up knowingly at Mike.

  “I know where it was.”

  “Huh?”

  “The Heath. You were with a Yank guy, fair-haired.”

  Then it came back to Mike. “You…had hair then.”

  “Shaved it off, didn’t I. It’s the new thing around the clubs, none of that poncy clone stuff.”

  Mike smirked. “You’re a throw-back.”

  “Yeah? We call it post-modern punk,” he came back sulkily.

  Mike noted that his vocabulary was also at odds with the tough-kid act.

  “We ’ad a good time, didn’t we?”

  Mike nodded thoughtfully, eyeing Dylan anew. “I remember. We did.”

  Peter emerged, dripping, towel-wrapped, and stepped with a daintiness surprising for a body builder around glutinous Dylan and the muddy pool that had gathered at his feet on the plastic.

  “Tea, darling?”

  “Ta,” said Pete, reaching out to take the mug from Aiden.

  A few minutes later a cleaned up Dylan climbed back into his tatty jeans, slipped his feet naked into his hefty Dr. Martens, and tugged a worn out and none too clean denim jacket over his bare shoulders. He sat next to Mike and grinned.

  “You up for going to Paradise after?”

  Mike wasn’t really. On the other hand, the long night ahead alone in the flat was not appealing either.

  Dylan saw his reluctance. “I ain’t got the dosh to get in.”

  As an inducement, it wasn’t up there with “I’ll give you a good time,” but it made Mike grin. “Okay,” he said softly.

  Once they were inside the club, Dylan bumped into another couple of skinheads, equally slight of build, one totally punk rocker with his stylish razor blade earrings and tattered denims held together with safety-pins, and topped by the slightest of Mohican brushes on his otherwise bald head. The three lads looked about five years out of date, but there was no second-guessing what turned on the Paradise queens. Mike sensed that it was probably the last he would see of Dylan, but after a deal of guffawing, showing off, and bawdy banter, the group split and he came back to Mike’s side.

  “Do you want a beer, or something?”

  Dylan’s perpetual scowl brightened. “Beer. Cheers. I’ll wait ’ere.”

  Mike stood at the bar, waiting his turn, when he received a light slap on his bum. “Hiya Mike. Long time no see.”

  He leaned sideways and smiled at the busboy Duncan. “Well, if it isn’t the Angel of Paradise. How’s it going, Dunc?”

  Duncan shrugged his shoulders from side to side. “Same, same. Och, I ‘ve nae seen you in here for an age. Where you been?”

  Mike noted that the boy’s Glasgow accent had faded somewhat. “Oh, just here and there. Haven’t felt m
uch like clubbing recently.”

  Duncan reached past to pick up a couple of empties from the counter and placed them on his tray. “And that gorgeous Yank o yeers?”

  Mike wrinkled his nose. “He, er, left. Gone back to the States.”

  “Och, there’s a shame.” He winked at Mike. “If ye’re in need o comp’ny, let me know.” He squeezed Mike’s ass cheek with his free hand and sashayed off along the bar toward the tables.

  Five minutes later Mike returned to Dylan bearing a tall glass of lager for the skinhead and a gin and tonic for himself. Dylan had avoided the crowded dance area and found one of the blue sofas scattered haphazardly in the quieter area to one side of the long bar. He got up as Mike handed him the glass. “Cheers,” he repeated.

  As Mike sat down on the low sofa, Dylan perched himself on its wide back, his Dr. Martens planted one carelessly on the seat close to Mike, the other spread forward on the arm. He swiveled around a bit and hitched the glass. “Cheers,” he chanted again before taking a big swig of the amber liquid.

  Mike raised his glass and drank. Slumped in the hollow of the sofa, Mike got a view up between his companion’s legs. He could see that the tears in the denim gaped wide open, revealing a glimpse of inner thigh and the boy’s cock and balls. Dylan caught him looking. He shifted a bit and jiggled his legs. His cock dropped down through the gap. The invitation was clear. Mike took a quick survey of the area, but everyone in sight seemed preoccupied with cruising. He reached up and stroked the silky smooth flesh, gently tweaking the long foreskin. He remembered sucking it on Hampstead Heath.

  Above him, Dylan purred happily, and began to stiffen. He opened his legs wider, pushing the leg on the sofa cushion back behind Mike’s back, offering better access. Mike shuffled sideways, deeper into the fork formed by Dylan’s trunk. The boy reached down cheekily and pushed his dick over toward Mike. Placing his gin and tonic carefully on the floor, Mike leaned in and started licking the hardening cock. Dylan gave his head an impatient pat on the top, and Mike swallowed him down, playing his tongue over the retreating foreskin until he had the fully erect glans exposed. Above him, Dylan rocked to and fro on his perch.

  Just as Mike was getting into a rhythm, they were disturbed by the return of Dylan’s skinhead friends, who stood threateningly over them. Mike stopped and looked up.

  “Don’t mind us, mate,” one of them said gruffly “Keep goin.”

  After a moment’s alarm, the peculiar situation began to arouse him. Aware of their gaze, Mike returned to his sucking, also knowing that they were hiding what was happening from any curious onlooker. For his part, Dylan leaned back as far as he dared to give his mates a good view.

  “’E suck well?” Mike heard one ask.”

  “Mmmm,” Dylan answered. “You oughta try. I had him up at the Heath some time back.”

  Mike thought that was hardly a fair summary of what had taken place, but said nothing, carried on blowing the boy, fondling his balls with one hand while supporting himself with the other on Dylan’s thigh raised on the sofa arm.

  One of the skinheads—he had no idea which—placed a rough hand on the back of his head and urged him to speed up. “Cor, I bet that feels good, Dyl.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “You gonna cum?”

  “Mmmmmm.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  Mike felt the increasing vibration of Dylan’s legs, jigging up and down on the sofa and the armrest. The hand on his head pressed down insistently, rubbing and shoving. Dylan began to pre-cum. Mike speeded up his action, opening wide to go down on the cock and then clamping tight to pull up.

  “Fuck, that’s lovely…” Dylan moaned.

  “You cumming?”

  “Yes, yes, yesss… ah fuck…”

  Mike took the blossom of hot jism, but backed off enough for the other two to see the next spurt, before closing his mouth over Dylan and finishing him off with a hard mouth fuck.

  As Mike sat back, the boy who had been holding his head stepped up close, fumbling with his fly. He took a rapid twist of the head left and right to see if anyone was watching, then grabbed Mike again behind the head and thrust his drooling cock right in. Mike gagged, recovered and only managed one lip massage before the overheated skinhead kicked off, grunting each gush of cum into the trapped mouth. The boy was so worked up, it took only seconds, and he pulled back, hastily tucking himself in, glancing around the bar area.

  Dylan grinned down at him blithely. “Didn’t I tell yer it’d be worth getting me in the club?”

  Mike grinned back nastily. “And what about your other mate?”

  The third boy grabbed his cock through his loose jeans and waved the tent pole about. Then he laughed. “Nah, I’m savin it up for someone else. Sorry, chum. ’Nother time maybe.”

  The sofa lurched as Dylan swung down, finishing his lager as he did so. He plopped the glass down in the corner of the cushions, patted Mike on the shoulder, and said, “Thanks, that was tree-mendous. See you up the Heath sometime…?”

  And with that, the three walked off into the crowd lining the dance floor. The one who had refused a blowjob uncoiled the belt from his slim waist and used it to thrash Dylan’s ass, to cheers from the thickening crowd of dancers. They were off for a high old time and Mike was on his own.

  He sat for a while, contemplating the flashing disco lighting, remembering the last visit to Paradise…with Gil. It seemed strangely perverse to exacerbate the nagging misery of Gil’s absence, but after the last nightmare unbidden fantasies often sprang into full daydreams of Gil copping off with an endless stream of good-looking guys in California. He even fantasized the name of the kid Gil had sex with, and had whacked off to it, imagining he was there too, looking on helplessly, desperately torn by arousal and jealously at the same time…

  CHAPTER TEN

  California Dream Boy

  Daniel “Danny” Moore was not Gil’s type. For a start, he was not black-haired. Okay, they were about the same age and, as far as he could tell under the casual clothes worn to work, of a similar physique, but his artfully brushed up golden hair ruled him out. With his pleasant disposition, peachy cheeks, beautifully shaped ears, smiling mouth revealing sparkling white, even teeth, thin nose, and squared off eyebrows, he resembled a blond version of Mike. Not broad in the shoulders, though, which sloped away from his elegant neck. And sneaky glances indicated a good looking package tucked under the fat, studded black belt he wore on his faded, almost gray hipster jeans.

  On second thoughts, he would do fine. Having decided that, just thinking of Danny got Gil hard in his pants.

  Danny was a trainee with the production office, so Gil only saw him on a few occasions during shooting, but he made a point of giving a friendly smile whenever their paths crossed.

  Danny’s surprisingly low tenor voice was accompanied by a much softer accent than the native Los Angeleno, betraying the fact that he hailed from farther north. A break in filming caused by an unexpected rain shower threw him together with Gil as they took shelter beneath the overpass adjacent to the day’s filming. “Hello,” Danny opened, extending a wet arm. “You’re Gil, aren’t you?”

  Gil shook the proffered hand briefly, nodding his head. Close up, the uneven light emphasized Danny’s prominent cheekbones. Gil was charmed.

  “I’m Daniel, but call me Danny; all my friends back home do. I’ve seen you about the place, but never had the time to talk. Blimey, it’s really lashing down,” he observed.

  Gil looked out at the downpour. “Won’t last long. They’ll have to wait for the sidewalk to dry out before restarting, though.”

  Danny parted his generous mouth in a shy smile. “Are you local or, like so many around here, a runaway to Tinsel Town?”

  “Local. You?”

  “San Francisco, well, Richmond actually. I got a room with a family, not far off. They’re nice, but it gets a bit lonely.”

  Gil seized on the opening. “You haven’t any friends to go out
with?”

  “Not really. I’ve only been here a few weeks, mostly working, so no one to go out with at nights or weekends.”

  “You don’t strike me as the shy type.”

  Danny shrugged. “Depends who I’m with. At college my friends used to call me a hell-raiser. But it wasn’t really true,” he added hurriedly.

  “So are you doing anything special this coming Saturday, or are you working?”

  The boy gave Gil an expectant look. “No, and no. Got something in mind?”

  There was nothing in Danny’s appearance or attitude that suggested he might be gay, but Gil felt optimistic. Nothing gained without trying. But he was not the sort to make any move without some hint, some encouragement. Damn, how to find out? It was Gil’s turn to shrug his shoulders in an easy come, easy go manner. “If you like, we could go to Venice. Have you been?”

  “Not as yet. Is it fun?”

  Gil said brightly, “It’s just Venice Beach, with the weirdest mix of types. After, if you want, I could show you some of the Strip. There are some good bars and places to eat. I guess you haven’t had the time to get over that way either?”

  “Nope, but I read a lot about it.”

  Gil detected a note of interest, prurient curiosity; or maybe he simply wishfully imagined it.

  Danny peered out through the line of drips falling from overhead and carelessly ran a hand up his T-shirt, rucking it up enough to show a tight set of abdominals with a well defined V running down the center into the low-set hipsters. Gil wondered whether the gesture was casually artless or connected to that suggestion of curiosity. The rain abated as rapidly as it had started.

  Danny agreed to meet on Saturday mid-morning. Gil scribbled out his address on a scrap of production notepaper and Danny insisted that he would drive over to pick him up when he heard that Gil was still looking for an affordable set of wheels. Then they parted with bright smiles and waves of the hand.