Boys of Two Cities Read online

  A finger waved in Gil’s hole and he pushed his cock through. Immediately he felt a hand take hold of him and rub his foreskin up and down. And then came that wonderful warm, wet sensation of a mouth closing over him. It was weird, face pressed up to an unyielding wall, unable to see anything but feeling everything in a disembodied way. Oddly, it was a turn-on.

  He began gently to fuck his hips against the wall and sensed the increased interest from the other side. Tommy, his eyes firmly fixed on Gil’s, gave continual vent to long sighs as he raised up on his toes to slide his stomach up and down the wall, pushing his ass in hard as he did so.

  The wall turnover was rapid, and Gil understood that because this was such anonymous sex, no one lingered very long before reaching orgasm, and his own payoff was building fast. Judging by his pelvic gyrations, so was Tommy’s. “Greedy, greedy bastard,” he moaned. “Oh, fuck, I can’t hold it…”

  Whoever was servicing Gil also sensed his nearness and doubled the speed and friction of the suck. “Oh, oh, oh…” Gil slid his hands high up above his head and discovered a rail up there for the purpose. He gripped it tightly so as to force his cock in as deep as the hole would allow.

  “I’m cumming,” Tommy grated out, gazing at Gil as though he held the secret to life.

  Both of them banged away at the wall. Tommy looked feverish as he began to shoot. His eyes sucked in the life force from Gil, enjoying the boy’s evident orgasm almost as much as his own. Gil’s balls released the first urgent jerk of jizz into the clenching mouth on the other side. He gasped as the main flood came, and stared back at Tommy through half-closed eyes. Sounds of sucking and gulping emerged from the hole and Gil could feel the other guy’s tongue lapping at his cock head, then falling down around his throbbing shaft to finish him off.

  “Whew!” Tommy stood back, hands hanging limply at his sides. “How was it?”

  Open mouthed, Gil flopped against the wall, then pushed himself upright. He gave Tommy a pleased grin. The other reached out to take hold of his slippery cock and gave it a squeeze.

  “You wanna stay right here while I go inside and find that hole?”

  Gil laughed. “I’m whacked.” He tucked himself back in and buttoned up while Tommy did the same.

  “Or would you rather I throw you in one of those slings out there?”

  “Are you kidding! I don’t want some guy’s fist up there.”

  “I was more thinking of fucking you.”

  “No. Thanks, it’s been good, but I reckon I’d better find a ride back home.”

  Tommy gave him a look of mock distress, but relented and guided him back out into the club toward the exit. “Hey, if you ever wanna hang out again, you can get me here.” And he handed Gil a scrap of paper.

  In the dim light Gil examined it with amusement. “You have these made out ready for all the guys you’re into?”

  Tommy kissed him on the cheek. “Only for the really sweet ones. I mean it; look me up sometime.”

  A rush of affection came over him, and Gil returned the chaste kiss. He hadn’t even had sex with the guy…well, beside him, but Tommy had done a lot to raise his low spirits. For the time being.

  In the cab he peered at his watch, surprised to make out in the street lights that it was already almost two in the morning. Had he been out that long? His thoughts meandered. Two here in California would be ten in the morning in London, a Saturday—no, already Sunday. He wondered what Mike would be doing: at work if the crew was doing overtime; just getting up; making morning love to Trevor, the boy who had supplanted him in Mike’s affections…?

  Gil sighed. The ache that never went away, which the night out had displaced all too briefly, was back in full force. Without Mike, his glorious Mike, what was he?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Shepperton Buggery

  The wintry garden offered no comfort. Mike Smith gazed out at the bare trees and straggly side planting without really seeing anything. Tears coursed down his cheeks unchecked, but he paid them no heed. They had become almost constant companions since Gil left. At the most inconvenient times he would feel the dam about to burst and had to struggle to contain it. But alone at home he gave free rein to his utter misery. Without Gil, what was left of life? Even worse was the way it had all happened. The events of a month ago in New York kept returning like some damned stuck record. Those few days of unblighted happiness before they got down to making the short movie of Subway Club, the reason for their being in New York. That terrible hour in the club’s basement when Rosen’s thugs grabbed him.

  James Rosen, producer, movie mogul, drug dealer, boy fucker, complete and utter bastard, leaning over him in the chair he was tied to—

  “Here’s the deal. I forgive you. You come back to my loving arms, in London, in Rome, or over here in the good ol US of A, wherever I say, whenever I say. Okay? And you get well looked after. You, in return, grateful boy that you are, say goodbye to Gilly-boy and send him packing. I don’t give a shit what excuse you make up. Just get rid of him.”

  “There’s no way I’ll ever give him up.”

  “You just don’t geddit, do you? If you don’t play fair with me, Mikey-baby, I can and will have him squashed… killed…snuffed out. And trust me. I will. Do as I want, he goes free.”

  “You’re bluffing—”

  “Remember that little runty Italian kid, the stagehand…was it Angelo? You can check with Rome when you get back to London. It was a tragic accident. Poor little shit got killed by a runaway truck…”

  “Bastard!”

  “So, that’s the deal. You wanna refuse me…I wash my hands of you. But your little Gil is dead meat walking. Not for long, though.”

  Mike sobbed openly at the terrible memory and at his craven response.

  “All right, you win, James. Just give me this. I won’t say anything, but let me take Gil back to London, clear up a few things, and then…I’ll send him away.”

  And so it was. A month later and Gil was gone, poor bewildered, innocent Gil, thinking that his lover had thrown him over for another boy. And poor Trevor, who had so liked Gil, having to play the part. Mike and Trevor still avoided each other whenever happenstance brought them into the same space.

  Gil was gone. And like probing an aching tooth, Mike berated himself that he didn’t even have a contact address or number for him. It had never really arisen. Yes, Gil made one or two phone calls to his folks in California, but given the cost and the hassle of going through the international operator to book a call, it was only once or twice. Mike had never noted the number and he had never, ever thought that there might come a day when he would need an address in America. So callow. So assuming that life would roll goldenly on. So stupid to forget that James Rosen never let anything go without his having first destroyed it.

  Thoughts of Trevor brought Mike out of his near trance. It was Sunday. He wasn’t on call at Borehamwood studios, where he had just started as a third assistant director with the second unit getting some pick-up shots for some dreary movie about something or other. Who cared? It was only a few days’ worth of work, but something to get by on. He bet Trevor would make his usual visit to the Safeway store on the King’s Road for the week’s shop, and then repair to the gay-friendly pub opposite with his boyfriend Dave. It was time to mend bridges. He felt the need of support from someone—the only person he could talk to about this disaster.

  A half hour’s ride from Finchley Road Underground station, the nearest to his ground-floor flat in Aberdare Gardens, got Mike to Sloane Square. The cold breeze up on King’s Road bit through his jeans, and he hunched down inside the fleece-lined leather jacket. The short-cut “bum-freezer” showed off his ass to its pert best, but did nothing to keep it warm.

  The long street was low on traffic, even for a weekend, but the sidewalks on either side were moderately busy. He dodged at a fast pace between window shoppers to the Safeway store and pushed through the swing doors. Inside, Sunday shoppers filled the place, mostly young, refle
cting the transient nature of the district’s inhabitants: college students, boutique workers, and just plain loafers on their way from one bed-sit accommodation to another.

  He spotted Trevor through a gap between islands. No boyfriend, though. Trevor saw Mike at the same moment and froze awkwardly. Mike went over to the boy, composing an appealing countenance. “Trev…”

  Trevor responded in his typical fashion, with silence and a quizzical stare of his cat-like green eyes.

  “Trev, I need to talk to you about—”

  “I can’t.” He gave a guilty glance up and down the supermarket. “Not with Dave around. Can’t talk about it.”

  Mike pursed his lips in frustration. “Look, I know how you must feel, and I’m sorry, but I’m desperate. I have to…” He ran out of words and slapped his hands on the sides of his legs.

  Trevor gave another reconnoitering look around and saw his boyfriend peering into freezer cabinets farther down the next aisle. He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Okay. Meet me in the pub over the road in, say, ten minutes. I’ll make something up for Dave to go and do. That’ll give us twenty minutes or so.”

  Mike dipped his head gratefully. “See you.” He turned and walked back to the fruit counters to buy two Cape Golden Delicious apples, his favorite. At least one treat for Sunday.

  Trevor was only a few minutes behind him. Mike had bought two half pints of beer for them and found a table well away from the early lunchtime pub trade gathering around the bar.

  “Have you heard from Gil?” Trevor settled down on a seat and took a quick swig from his glass.

  Mike shook his head. “I wouldn’t, would I? Not after what I did.”

  Trevor’s lazy eyes lifted to look squarely at him and the miserable aspect Mike knew he presented. “You look a wreck.”

  Mike managed a thin bleak smile. “Thanks. And you? You’ve been avoiding me.”

  Trevor’s disconcertingly unblinking gaze examined Mike. “I know we had a bit of a thing many months back, but that never gave you the right to use me the way you—” he waved Mike’s reaction down. “I know why, for Gil and all. But…well, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to cut you dead, I was just a bit sick with myself.”

  Mike nodded sad agreement.

  A lop-sided twitch of a smile crossed Trevor’s lips. “So what did you want?”

  “Just to clear the air…and, I haven’t got anyone else I can talk to about it,” Mike answered, looking anywhere but at those penetratingly bosky eyes. “Anyone who knows the truth.” His usually cherubically amused face was a mask of pain. “I suppose I needed someone’s shoulder to cry on, so I’m here putting more on you, Trev. Sorry.”

  “What you need is some real work. Get your mind off things for a bit. I know it hurts now, but it will get easier. Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s a terrible cliché, but that’s because it’s true. You’ve got contacts. How about Jim at the Union?”

  “Huh. I’m not going to get much of a long-term job with that bastard Rosen on my back, unless it’s one he arranges. God knows why he doesn’t fuck off back to the States, although I know why—he’s got too many angles over here at the moment.”

  “So go ask him.”

  Mike didn’t answer.

  “Has he called you yet?”

  Mike shook his head. “Not since before Christmas. He’s been watching me, though.” Trevor’s eyes widened. “He is. Not in person, but I’ve seen one or two of his sidekicks hanging about near home. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “So beat him to it. Go see him and ask for a decent job. Play the good boy and maybe he’ll leave you alone finally. From what you told me, that’s all he really wants, to know his little puppy is back on the leash. He’s bound to get bored soon enough. Then you’ll be free. You can go and chase down Gil.”

  Mike scratched the top of his ear. “I dunno. Maybe you’re right. I hate the thought—”

  “You can’t avoid him, mate. Best to deal with it head on.” Trevor was alarmed to see moisture gather along Mike’s lower eyelashes.

  “Even if that happens, he loses interest in me, how in hell am I going to find Gil? I’ve no address, phone, or anything. It just never came up. How do I find ‘Gil Graham, Los Angeles’?”

  “Gotta be a way. Always a way, if it matters so much.” Unless he was screwing, Trevor wasn’t a very touchy-feely person, so he surprised Mike when he leaned across the table, took his hand, and squeezed it. “You’ll find a way. I’ve never seen two blokes so much in love before. It’s eating you up. So deal with Rosen and then go find Gil.”

  Mike lowered his gaze to the tabletop and nodded his head. His spare fingers traced a shape in the condensation from his beer glass. “I’ll try.” He looked up again. “Thanks for listening, even for a few minutes. I’d better go. Dave’ll be along soon and he’ll wonder what I’m doing here with you.” He stood up to take his glass back to the bar. “See you, Trev.”

  A Cheshire Cat smile spread slowly. “Not if I see you first.”

  With most traffic headed inbound to the city, the sixteen-mile trip from central London had been quick. Mike pushed “Horny,” his father’s Alfa Romeo Giulietta, as fast as he dared along the A316, anything to keep his mind off what lay ahead. In spite of several films in production at Shepperton Studios, he found plenty of space in the multistory car park.

  The information board in the main reception area showed what was happening when and where. From it, Mike found that the Rosen-Mitchener movie he and Gil and had worked on in Rome—now apparently titled Fascist Spring—was in the final throes of post-production. A week-sheet indicated foley and ADR recording in progress in Theater 6 and production offices on the second floor in the central block.

  Mike signed himself in with the woman on reception, noting his time of arrival (10:30am) and date (Tuesday, March 3, 1981). He hesitated to put down James Rosen as the person he was visiting, and then scribbled the name anyway. He leaned forward for the woman to pin a visitor’s badge on his jacket lapel and thanked her when she gave him directions to the office block.

  Fascist Spring occupied a suite of rooms, but the outer office was surprisingly quiet, just two girls clattering away on IBM golfball typewriters. He stuck his head around the door and coughed politely. The nearest girl looked up and removed her Dictaphone earpieces. “Can I help?”

  The accent was unmistakable.

  “Sheila! Haven’t you gone back to the States?”

  The normally friendly production secretary from Rome looked at him as though he were an idiot. “As you see, I’m obviously right here.” She relented. “Mr. Mitchener wanted me to stay on to help with post-production, James Rosen agreed, and I couldn’t refuse a stint in London.”

  “Oh, that’s great.”

  Sheila peered at him. “You look a bit ill, honey. Are you okay?”

  “It’s nothing. Just getting over a bad cold. I’m better now. Actually, I’m looking for James.”

  Sheila went all arch-officious. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Er, no, but I’m sure he’ll want to see me…Mike Smith,” he grinned, playing along.

  He wasn’t sure, but he thought he detected a knowing smirk, just for a second, from the other girl.

  Sheila sniffed and consulted a diary. “Well, you’re supposed to make an appointment…oh well, Mike, he hasn’t got anything important on his schedule right now. Make your way over to Theater 6.” She told him how to find the building. “Go in quietly!” she shouted at his retreating back. He threw a kiss over his shoulder.

  The heavy soundproofed door opened with a soft sucking noise as the rubber edges parted, and Mike slipped into the dim interior. Ahead sat the wide mixing desk, with three dubbing editors seated behind it facing the wide screen on the far wall. The desk hid from view anyone else in the theater seated in front and below it.

  Mike hovered, watching a loop of film run through over and again. He quickly realized from the female voice issuing from the giant speakers beside the screen
and a woman highlighted in a small recording booth to one side, that they were revoicing the actress Emmanuelle Lai (born Ester Bunt in Peoria, Illinois), whose natural voice was nasal and screechy. A disembodied voice from beyond the desk called out satisfaction, and everyone relaxed.

  Mike picked up courage and walked down the theater’s gentle rake to the left of the mixers and found several people seated in comfortable armchairs facing the screen. He instantly recognized the movie’s director, Kennith Mitchener, and the familiar shape of James Rosen’s head next to him. As he came level with the row of seats, Rosen glanced over and saw him standing there uncertainly. His chin lifted slightly, then he rose from the seat and came over.

  “What a delightful surprise,” he growled. But the American man’s face remained expressionless.

  “James.”

  “I was gonna call you any day.” He half turned to the seated figures. “I’ll leave you to it, Kennith. Seems to be going fine now she’s in that wretched actress’s speech rhythm.” He wrapped an arm around Mike’s shoulder and propelled him back up toward the exit.

  Minutes later, they were ensconced in Rosen’s luxury rooms in the adjacent hotel that served the elite working at the studio.

  “Take off the coat, make yourself at home, and let me get a look at that body of yours.”

  Mike draped his jacket over a chair and pulled off the sweater he wore under it, leaving a tightly fitted white T-shirt.

  Rosen appraised him for a moment, then ran the back of a hand over his pecs and abs, outlined under the thin cotton. “Still working out?”

  “Not so much recently.”

  “What happened to that damned silly silver stud you always wore in your ear?”

  “I lost it,” he lied. Gil used to spend minutes simply nibbling at it, and he’d removed it for the first time since getting his left ear pierced when he knew he had to get rid of his lover to satisfy Rosen.

  There were many who said James Rosen resembled the actor Jack Nicholson. His was a broad mouth that would have been described as generous if it weren’t usually drawn tight in a threatening grimace when displeased. Low-set eyelids gave him a brooding appearance and they could exude menace in a flash. His wide-spaced eyes sat under thick eyebrows that rose into a thinner sardonic arch away from the nose. Well-barbered dark hair receded at the temples so that his widow’s peak reminded Mike of a vampire. Not far wrong, either. Rosen’s voracious appetites were well understood among those who knew him better.