Insert Here

by Connie Bailey

  Insert Here JOHNGARROS,known to his fans as Spanish Joe Vega for his dark good looks, arrived for work on Monday morning with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. He’d been planning a week-long getaway in Provincetown during the off-season. But there was a new Jason Forrester movie premiering this week, which effectively canceled any plans Spanish might have had.

  “How’s it hangin’?” Scrink the makeup guy asked as he powdered the upper curves of Spanish’s excellent bubble butt.

  “Due south,” Spanish answered absently. “That will change once the cameras come on,” Scrink said confidently. “That’s why you get the big bucks.”

  “Yeah, instant hard-on, just add….” Spanish’s voice trailed off.

  “Just add ass,” Scrink finished the sentence for the film’s star.

  “Works for me.” “All done,” Scrink said. “Wardrobe’s waiting for you.”

  “Wardrobe.” Spanish Joe chuckled. “Wonder what hat I’m wearing today?”

  Scrink laughed along. For the roles Spanish played, the only costume required was an air of confidence, and he never had to worry about how his face looked in close-ups. His cock got most of the screen time, and that suited him all the way down to the ground… which is about how far his cock hung. Spanish wasn’t overly proud of his sizable endowment, but it certainly was an asset in his line of work. He didn’t only make porn films; most of his income derived from being a body double for Jason Forrester, not that Jason knew anything about it. Spanish impersonated Forrester in snippets of X-rated action that were spliced into the star’s films for sale on the black market.

  “There’s my star!” Irwin Speltz, popular porn director turned super-successful inserts provider, gave Spanish a bear hug. He brought with him the scents of cigar smoke, whorish perfume, and red wine.

  “Isn’t it a little early, Win?” Spanish said as he pulled away.

  “Time is an artificial construct, and our leading lady was feeling a little… anxious.” Speltz winked. “I had to relieve some of her tension.”

  “I wondered why you smell like you’ve been dipped in slut sauce.”

  “Why so harsh? I thought you liked Amanda.”

  “I’ve never worked with her.” Spanish paused. “Love the name, though. Amanda Bang is classic. Just wish she didn’t have a rep as a fullblown diva.”

  “Are you jealous of her perks?” Speltz winked again. “Nope. I just wish she’d leave that kind of behavior to gay men who know how to do it right.”

  “She’s a dead ringer body double for Meghan Parsons, who—last time I checked—was still America’s sweetheart. And the costar of Jason’s new movie.”

  “So I get the pleasure of working with her.” “Once more into the breach.” Speltz cackled. “Listen, bubie, I don’t know how a faygeleh like

  you gets it up for a woman, and I don’t care. All I care is that you keep making me richer.” “Doing my best, boss. Any idea when I get paid again?”

  “You need money? I’ll give you money, but no checks for another thirty days. Fawn says the bank is giving her fits over the—and I quote— excessive sums of Thai currency being wire transferred into the company account. We’ve been getting wire transfers from Thailand, not to mention Indonesia, Japan, and most of the rest of Asia, for over five years, and the bank still gets its panties in a wad every time.”

  Spanish stopped trying to picture a bank in panties and changed the subject back. “I need a couple thousand for bills and whatnot.”

  “No prob. I’ll have it for you by the end of shooting today.”

  “Thanks, Win. It’s not that you don’t pay me enough, God knows, but I can’t believe how fast it slips through my fingers.”

  “As long as you got the bod that matches Forrester’s, you’re worth every penny. Let me see what I can do about raising your rates.”

  “You’re a better agent than my real one.”

  “You should fire that farkakte agent of yours. He doesn’t do anything but poke people on Facebook all day and collect twelve percent of your earnings.”

  “He’s making contacts.”

  “For what? Who you gonna work for but me?” “Hm, that’s a good point. But he does get me into some pretty good parties.”

  “Putz. He gets into the parties by using your name.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Trust me on this one. In our little niche of the movie biz, you’re as big a star as Jason Forrester.” Speltz pulled out his phone and looked at the time. “So you ready to make magic? I figure the crew’s had time to get the lighting done.”

  “I’m ready when you need me to be ready.” “That’s why I love you, sweetheart.” The director slapped his star’s butt as Spanish walked

  toward the set. “Will you look at that tuchus? I’m not gay, but I am an ass man and that is one fine caboose.”

  “Only one other like it,” Scrink said as he stopped on his way to the set. Speltz chuckled. “I should do a porno where a perfect ass has an evil twin.”

  “That’s the first truly amusing idea I’ve heard from you,” Scrink said.

  “Watch it, Fluffy. There’s lots of people would love to have your job.”

  “You seem to have mistaken me for someone else, someone who gives a rat’s ass about anything you say.”

  “Keep skating, schmuck, and meanwhile the ice is getting thinner.”

  “What ice would that be? Are you speaking of the diamond bracelet you just gave Mrs. Speltz? By the way….” Scrink cocked his head to a puzzled angle. “What was the occasion?”

  “I don’t need an occasion to buy a gift for the woman I love.”

  “Would that be the wife in whose name you put almost all your assets to avoid taxes?”

  “You nosy little pisher!”

  “You bragged about it at your birthday party three years ago.” “You’d just better not be hinting about blackmailing me.”

  “Please. Do I look triflin’ to you? You can fuck all the Barbies for all I care. And if you’ll excuse me, I need to go groom one right now.” “Don’t talk about Amanda like she’s a dog.”

  “Bitch,” Scrink corrected as he moved away from Speltz.

  “I still don’t like your attitude,” Speltz said as he followed Scrink.

  “But Fawn—I mean Mrs. Speltz—loves the way I do her makeup, and since, financially speaking, she has you by the balls, I’m just going to ignore you, okay?” Scrink said sweetly.

  “It’s about damn time!” Amanda Bang pointed at Scrink. “I can’t believe you kept me waiting under these lights. It’s boiling hot.”

  “You could’ve moved a few feet to your left,” Scrink said as he opened his cosmetics toolbox.

  Amanda ignored the comment. “Look, I’m supposed to be a French farm girl, so don’t make me look like a whore.”

  “I’m a makeup artist, not the Second Coming.”

  Amanda frowned and Speltz sidestepped away, pretending a sudden need to talk with Spanish. Going to the bedroom set that had been copied from a print of Jason Forrester’s latest release, he gestured to Spanish and patted the mattress of the brass bed.

  “What’s up?” Spanish said, using an emery board to scratch his scalp under the blond surfer dude wig.

  “Just checking to see if my ducks are in a row. You watched the clip you were sent?” “Don’t insult me.” “Just want to make sure. If you’re compelled to shout something out during the hump, remember to use that hick accent Forrester is butchering in that boring, piece of crap film.”

  “I liked it.” “What are you? Brain dead? It was a snoozeburger. Some party-hearty dude inherits a wine farm in France and, big surprise, falls in love with a local snooty chick. Bor… ing.”

  “Because nothing blew up and nobody fucked?”

>   “Exactly. Oy, here comes Amanda. Magic time!” Spanish shook his head as Speltz hurried to his place behind the camera’s line of sight. It was none of his business that the director screwed all his leading ladies, but he wished Speltz had just an ounce more grace about it. As Speltz’s latest conquest sashayed over to the set, fluffing her short, sandy-blonde hair, Spanish greeted her with a smile, determined to be professional and pleasant. Just because Amanda indulged in spoiled-brat dramatics didn’t mean he had to. And just because Fawn Speltz was a friend didn’t mean he had to hate Amanda. After all, Win was the one who was doing the cheating.

  “What do you say, doll?” Spanish said to Amanda. “Want to show these bitches how it’s done?”

  “You bet, stud. I had a little matinee to take the edge off, so you can dive right in and do that voodoo that you do so well.” “Since yours is the only face the camera will be seeing, I’ll do my best to give you motivation.” Unlike Amanda, Spanish’s resemblance to the star he was impersonating did not extend above the neck, so his face wouldn’t be appearing on screen.

  “Why do you have to be gay?” she said. “You’d be the perfect third husband.”

  “Being gay doesn’t keep me from getting married.”

  “Yeah, but I’d know you were faking it in the bedroom.” Amanda grinned. Spanish gave thanks that his costar’s pissy mood had done a one-eighty and threw himself into his work. After some three plus hours, Speltz was satisfied with his stars’ athletic performance and too horny to keep filming. The director slipped Spanish a fat envelope and left with his hand down Amanda’s shirt. And so it went for the next three days, just business as usual with Spanish arriving on time at the rented house to fuck Amanda for a few hours before heading home. The same routine each day—with the exception of the two thousand dollars—until filming was done for a while and Spanish could finally take his vacation.

  SPANISHreturned from Provincetown tanned and relaxed and ready to go back to work. As soon as he walked into his small home in Venice Beach, he plugged in his battery-dead phone and made a call.

  “Hi, MJ. What’s shakin’?” he said when his agent answered.

  “Hey, Spanish! Are you back? Tell me you’re back.”

  “I’m back.” “Suh-weet! I couldn’t get you the entire time you were gone.”

  “Turned off my phone. I told you I was—”

  “Yeah, yeah, listen, you’re about to fall in love with me, so try not to make too much noise if you aren’t in private.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You know the private party that Zeller Owens throws every year?”

  “Of course.” Everyone in Spanish’s line of

  work had heard of the legendary, semi-mythical

  bash put on by the billionaire film producer. The

  story went that Owens was gay, a not so well kept

  secret, and that Hollywood’s closeted homosexual elite attended the so-called Pink and Black Ball to cut loose in a place where they were confident no one would gossip about it later. Of course it was absurd to think that in twelve years no one had ever talked, so Spanish was understandably skeptical. “Did someone finally post pictures online with some shots of the Loch Ness Monster sucking Bigfoot off?”

  “No.” MJ paused. “The party is tonight and you’re invited.”

  “No fucking way.”

  “Fucking way, man. Get handsome. A car will be at your door at eight p.m.” “Crap, it’s almost seven!”

  “Don’t sweat it, hot stuff. Just wear one of your skin-tight white T-shirts and a pair of skintight jeans. Nobody dresses up. They dress to score. That’s the whole point.”

  “Got it. Will I see you there?”

  “Not if I’m lucky.” MJ snickered. “I hope to be sequestered with the tasty young contract lawyer currently trussed to the rolling chair opposite me. Maybe I’ll just tie a rope to the chair and bring him to the party like this.”

  “How do you get into these situations?”

  “Careful planning.” MJ attempted an evil laugh. “That and my enormous, throbbing manhood. What can I say? Everybody wants the big bamboo.”

  “You’re severely demented.”

  “As I recall, it was that very quality that attracted you to me.”

  “Yeah, but I thought I was getting a one-night stand, not an employee.” “Could you not use the E word? I like to think that we work together.”

  “If you say so. Personally, I think your job is just an excuse to continue your club kid lifestyle.”

  “You’re only right. So go shower and put on something less comfortable and enjoy the party.”

  “Will do. Bye.” Spanish tossed the phone on the bed and went into the bathroom. He looked at his reflection in the mirror over the counter, rubbed his three days’ worth of scruff, and decided not to bother shaving. The whiskers were just long enough to signify style rather than laziness—about the same length as his close-cropped hair—and a lot of guys found that look sexy.

  After a shower, Spanish put on a snug white T-shirt and a pair of black jeans that hugged his round ass and made his long legs look even longer. He dabbed on a judicious amount of cologne, replaced the plain gold stud in his ear with a diamond, and fastened a thin silver chain with a tiny cross around his neck. Perching his most expensive sunglasses atop his head, he slipped his driver’s license and cash card into his pockets and checked the lines of his outfit in the bedroom’s full-length mirror. He gave himself the once-over and decided he was doable.

  In the kitchen, Spanish poured a shot of tequila and tossed it back. As he set the glass down, his building’s concierge called to let him know there was a car downstairs. He slipped into the pair of checkered Vans he’d left by the door and went out to see what the night held for him.

  THEparty was everything Spanish had imagined it would be. Mostly male guests in every style of dress known to man cavorted through a palatial mansion and spilled out over the landscaped, welllit grounds. Booze and recreational pharmaceuticals were served up side by side at the dozen or so open bars scattered about the premises. Nor had the host stinted on snacks; buffet tables lined the inside walls and formed perimeters around the patios. There was music, which varied from room to room, and dancing for those in the mood. All around Spanish, men were swaying together to the beat, be it swing, salsa, or a show tune. He’d been to lots of parties where dancing had led to some pretty blatant, uninhibited displays of affection, but this one had them all beat in terms of shamelessness and sheer numbers. Everywhere he looked, men were kissing, fondling, enjoying leisurely sixty-nines on the sofas, and forming daisy chains on the staircases. He managed to struggle free of the quicksand of an orgy in and around the hot tub and headed for the poolside seafood buffet. As he was perusing the goodies, someone spoke from his right.

  “Can you believe the size of these shrimp?” Spanish turned and saw Jason Forrester standing next to him. “Uh, yeah, they’re really… big.”

  “Seriously, man. These are the biggest damn shrimp I ever saw.”

  “Yeah,” Spanish said. “They should call them something else.” “What?” Jason’s handsome face wore a cute look of canine bafflement.

  “Well, you know, ’cause shrimp means small.”

  “Oh, right.” Jason chuckled. “Good one.” He glanced aside at Spanish. “You’re no shrimp,” he said. “You’re as tall as me, and you look like you weigh about the same.”

  “Six two, one eighty-eight.”

  “You look like you get to the gym a couple of times a week.”

  “Same goes for you.” Spanish paused. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to be cool, but you’re Jason fucking Forrester.”

  “Even with the mustache and the baseball cap, you recognized me?”

  “I’m a fan. I’d know you under a full beard and a Santa hat.”

  “Guess I can’t deny it, then. What’s your name?” “Span—” Spanish caught himself before giving his screen name to Jason. “John Garros.”

  “Cool.
John’s one of my favorite names.” Jason smiled. “Easy to remember.”

  Spanish returned the smile. “Cool. And hey, listen, if you don’t want to be Jason Forrester tonight, I won’t give you away.”

  “Nah, it was a silly idea.” Jason carefully peeled off the ginger mustache and dropped it in the Yankees cap. “I mean, if I’m going to this party, why bother wearing a disguise, right?”

  “It does seem kind of redundant.”

  “Yeah.” Jason mouthed the word “redundant.” “You’re an actor, right?”

  “I dabble. Nothing serious, you know? I figure I’ll scrape a living off my looks for a few years so I can live the Hollywood life, and then I’ll get a real job.”

  “That’s your plan, huh?”

  “That’s my plan. Of course, my idea of a real job is rubbing sunblock on Hank Mitchell.” “Mmm, that would be a dream job. He’s not gay, though.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, all that ultra-macho posturing in his action movies has to mean something.”

  “It means he’s overcompensating for a certain lack below the belt.”

  “Oh. Shame.” Spanish cleared his throat. “At the risk of scaring you off, does the fact that you’re here mean you’re—”

  “I like gettin’ it on with dudes. If that makes me gay, then I’m gay.”

  “I like that line. I’ll have to remember it.”

  Jason’s face took on the confused doggy look again, and Spanish decided that the mega-star was really a rather sweet and down-to-earth guy with a marked lack of guile. It was a pleasant surprise to find that the man he’d lusted after from afar wasn’t a stuck-up, entitled jerk.

  Jason’s next change of expression clearly signaled that he’d decided Spanish wasn’t making fun of him, and he smiled. It was easy to see how he’d become a popular actor. Every thought and emotion showed on his nonthreateningly handsome face.

  “No charge, man,” Jason said. “You horny?” “I’m as horny as the brass section of a Dixieland marching band.”

  “Good, ’cause I could do you right here on these Godzilla shrimp.”

  “I think the ice would kill the mood.” Jason chuckled. “Come on. Zeller’s letting me crash in his cabana.”