Boys of Disco City

by Zack

  He came up behind a short, stocky guy in his mid-twenties wearing butt-hugging military camouflage pants. The numerous button-down pockets only accentuated the curves of his ass. With one hand he rucked up his khaki-colored T-shirt so he could tweak his own nipple, but the shirt’s absence lower down also revealed a tantalizing glimpse of his crack. His other hand he’d extended over the trench to grip the top of a head.

  Gil could easily see over his shoulder at the mustachioed man below who worked hard on Military’s thick shaft. Military looked back at Gil and gave a teeth-bared grin. “Oh fuck, man, can you hold me up? My knees are about to give way…”

  Gil nodded once and slipped his arms under the other’s armpits, grasping his tits under the shirt and settling his irrepressible dick comfortably into the cleft of the camouflaged ass. Military sagged back into him gratefully, and Gil grunted with the effort of taking his near dead weight. When his head fell back on Gil’s shoulder, Gil tucked his chin down hard on the other’s shoulder blade and was treated to the sight of his companion’s cock slamming in and out of Mustache’s greedy mouth below.

  The guy’s bucking was getting Gil off beautifully and he made no protest when Gil removed one hand to slip the back of the camouflage pants down, tugged at his own fly, and without wasting a second, shoved his cock right up the tight ass.

  Military twisted his head and began tongue lashing Gil’s mouth, which parted to let the man in. Through his gurgling he squeezed out words into Gil’s mouth. “Oh fuck… you beautiful… guy… where the… fuck did… you come from… aaah… I’m gonna cum… aaarrgh… fuck me harder…”

  Gil rammed in harder and faster, his movements now driving Military’s glistening cock into the other guy’s mouth. Then, squeezing with every muscle in his body against Military, Gil began to come off. From the corner of his almost closed eye, he watched as Military’s jizz spurted from between the sphincter of Mustache’s mouth and his cock from the orgasmic force. Military sagged even heavier in Gil’s supporting arms as he drove his seed into the mouth below. He and Gil swirled their tongues around each other’s. Gil pumped ass until there was no more to give.

  Worn out with holding the other up, Gil staggered back, and they both fell out of the line onto the mattresses, Military’s substantial cock bouncing in the air. He chortled with pleasure and, as he pulled his pants up, rubbed Gil’s belly. “Oh man, that was the best blowjob ever, thanks to you. See ya around…” He got to his feet and disappeared into the crowd with a backward wave.

  Gil lay there for a minute, catching his breath as he buttoned up his jeans, letting the ebb and flow of cruising men part their way either side of his prone form.

  * * *

  “Have you seen Mike?”

  Rod glanced up from labeling a film can. “Not for a bit. He said he was going off to get some general sound effects and a mix tape from the DJ, but that was…” He checked his watch. “Ah, that was about half an hour ago.”

  Gil pointed at a desk in the far corner. “Then what’s the Nagra doing there?”

  Rod looked round, then back at Gil. “I don’t know. He must’ve come back and dropped it off before doing something else.”

  Gil found a chair and sat down to wait. He didn’t feel up to going back out into the maelstrom of the club. His mind wandered idly, eventually settling on Mike and his relationship with him. He recalled the first few tender moments in Rome when they were briefly alone, hidden behind some stage flats, away from the bustle of the Cinecittà sound stage…

  Gil was slowly enjoying the texture of Mike’s flat, hard stomach. He had slipped his hands up under the T-shirt and could feel the fine down of hair matted together with a light sheen of perspiration. Gil looked up dreamily and saw Mike’s eyes still on him, glinting brightly from the reflected studio lights outside. Mike lifted a hand up to Gil and smoothed some loose strands of blond hair from his forehead, and the boyish gesture filled Gil with a great sense of longing. Mike pressed closer to him and laid Gil’s head on his shoulder. Their embrace became more passionate and Gil began nibbling at Mike’s ear lobe. “God, I thought you were beautiful when I first saw you in the foyer that day,” Mike whispered.

  Gil wasn’t great at externalizing his feelings. What came to mind was that he felt comfortable with Mike; but that wasn’t the right word. It was half-hearted, wussy. It did not describe the electric bolt in the chest he got whenever he walked into one of the crowded pubs on Dean Street and finally spotted Mike amid the throng, a burst of relief and ineffable warmth; nor the panic that shook him when Mike wasn’t to be seen, maybe because a friend had waylaid him and dragged him off to the Golden Lion, or up the road to The Crown and Two Chairmen, or around the corner to The Coach and Horses. It came nowhere near describing the transcendent ecstasy of coming home late and finding Mike waiting for him, or the way they tore each other’s clothes off seconds after getting through the front door, to writhe on the hard living room floor because they couldn’t make it to the bedroom.

  Now a bloom of unease growing from the hollow sensation in his stomach swelled into that panic of separation. Another twenty minutes had passed, and still no sign of Mike’s lovable, bubbly face, a sight that had become dearer to him than anything he could think of. After what he reckoned to be an hour and a half since Rod had last seen him, Gil got up and went to Dietrich’s offices along the hallway. No one in there had seen Mike either, or around the club.

  He went disconsolately back to their office and accosted Rod, who had just come back with what he cheerily reported was a wrap for him. “You’re right. It has been quite a while,” he agreed with Gil.

  “What in hell could’ve happened?”

  “Reckoned a touch of gangster tactics would get you to concentrate on the seriousness of your situation, Mikey-baby.”

  Mike licked at the blood leaking from the corner of his mouth where the thug had struck him a backhander. He was strapped to a metal chair in a featureless room somewhere in Subway’s deepest basement. The dull thud of disco came through the cement roof. The scowling heavy who had struck him stood behind the chair, close enough that Mike could feel and smell his garlicky breath; another stood against the closed metal door. And three feet along, James Rosen lounged against the wall, although the constant twisting of his fingers indicated a pent up tension.

  “So here’s the deal, Mikey-baby. No one hits out at James Rosen in public and thinks he can get away with it.”

  Still shaky from the roughing-up, Mike flicked sweaty hair from his eye in irritation. “I couldn’t let you do what you and Fantini planned for Gil.” He sounded stronger than he felt.

  “Don’t be so fuckin naive. The little shit wasn’t gonna suffer much. And you went and lashed out at me, the guy who picked you up outta the London gutters and got you a job in movies. And worse, you took off with him. None of my boys don’t ever leave me… until I say so,” he ground out. He glared darkly at his captive from under bunched brows.

  “You mean until you give ’em the push.”

  “That’s right, Mikey. You’re a fast tute. In Rome you were mine, my property, and I never gave you permission to go fuckin around with any other, specially not that Californian shithead you call a boyfriend.”

  Rosen gave out a long theatrical sigh, and pushed off the wall to stand over Mike.

  “Now, listen real hard. I’m only goin to say this once. It’s a real life-changin moment for you… Here’s the deal. Totally against my principles, and from the very bottom of my heart—I forgive you…” He reached out and cupped Mike’s chin, jerked his head up. “You come back to my loving arms, in London, in Rome, or over here in the good ol U.S. 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.”


  Mike snarled through gritted teeth. “You’re fucking kidding! I’m free of you, and there’s no way I’ll ever give him up.”

  Rosen leaned forward, nose to nose with Mike. “Heroic, but dumb, baby. You’ll never be free of me. All the generosity… all the affection and help I lavished on you, and all you do is spit in my face, two-time me—and think you can walk scott free! Well, the joke’s on you…”

  Rosen jerked his hand away from Mike’s jaw viciously. He went back to the wall.

  “You just don’t geddit, do you? What I offered… it’s only a teensy weensy part of the deal.”

  Mike shuddered in trepidation. He struggled to keep calm, to believe this wasn’t really happening. Rosen prowled the room, made him wait, then came back to kneel beside the chair. With strangely tender care, he took out a clean handkerchief and dabbed at the blood coating the corner of Mike’s mouth. Mike recoiled from the touch, but was unable to avoid it.

  “The other bit—if you don’t play fair with me—is that I can easily ruin young Mr. Gil Graham, just like that.” He snapped his thumb and forefinger. He leaned in closer to whisper in Mike’s ear. “More to the point, Mikey-baby, and listen good. I can and will have him squashed… killed… snuffed out. And trust me, I really, really will… But, do as I want, and he goes free. Lives to suck another day.”

  “You’re bluffing—”

  “There you go again. Don’t kid yourself. You know I’m not.”

  Rosen got back to his feet. Mike’s head slumped onto his heaving chest. “You might want to hear something, baby… and learn. I don’t like to brag, but—” Rosen leaned over him. “You might remember that runty little Italian kid, the stagehand… was it Angelo? The one who phoned around and got a posse together to ‘rescue’ your Gil friend. Well, he dissed Mr. Fantini, and since I owe the wop faggot some favors, I did him one. You can check with Rome, Mikey-baby, when you get back to London.” Rosen composed his face into a grave expression of condolence, with steepled eyebrows. “It was a tragic, tragic accident. You know what those Eyetie drivers can be like. Poor little shit got smeared by a runaway truck… he’s probably being fucked by angels as we speak…”

  Dear Angel! The boy’s big sad eyes, the cheeky, the bubbly friendliness… how could anyone—

  Mike lifted his head in horror and fury. He narrowed his eyes into a blaze of disbelieving anger, but staring into Rosen’s only inches away, he took in their cold glitter and saw the awful truth there.

  “Bastard!”

  Rosen remained unmoved. “You know, it’s a sad fact but runaway trucks happen a lot… and just about everywhere in the world.” He gave Mike’s nipple a slow, vicious twist. “And you know, Mikey-baby, I got connections pretty much everywhere.” He straightened up. “So, finally got it? That’s the deal. You wanna refuse me”—he shrugged nonchalantly—“you can go fuck yourself. I wash my hands of you. But you’ll know your friend is dead meat walking. Not for long, either. All because of you…”

  Mike sank back again, staring at the dusty floor as he struggled to come to terms with the unthinkable, impossible. But he really did know Rosen, and wished to hell he didn’t, had never known him.

  “All right,” he finally muttered. “You win.” He looked up at the producer, defeat clear in his teary gaze.

  “Just one more thing. You don’t tell him nothin, okay. He’s never to know why you’re through with him. That’s his punishment… and yours.”

  “So what do I say?”

  Rosen shrugged. “Not my problem, Mikey-baby. Tell him you can’t stand the sight of him anymore, something, anything. Do I give a fuck?”

  Inexpressible despair wracked Mike. He choked on every labored breath, “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.”

  “For fuckin ever.”

  Mike nodded slowly, barely managed a whisper. “Forever.”

  Rosen gazed coldly at his huddled form, then strolled back to his position against the wall and folded his arms. He continued to stare thoughtfully, as though searching to see if he could detect any rebellion, any slightest hint that Mike was not broken. After a minute’s concentration, he seemed satisfied. He straightened up and raised an arm at the thug behind Mike. “Let him go.” The heavy quickly released Mike’s bonds. “Now, get outta here, and wait for my call in London. Soon. And remember, this ain’t a movie, no ‘good wins over bad’ in this one.”

  As Mike stumbled out along the passageway booming with overhead disco, the tears started from his eyes. He had to stop at the foot of the stairway leading up to the club level to lean against the wall, head in his arms. He felt as though he were someone else to whom this had happened and if only he could get a grip on himself the past twenty minutes would never have been.

  Emotion wracked him, his stomach aching on empty, and the world suddenly seemed a bleak place. After a minute he shook himself, wiped away the caking blood, and began deep breathing to get himself under control. Whatever happened, he couldn’t—daren’t—let Gil see or know anything.

  * * *

  “Where the hell’ve you been?” Gil almost shouted in an unusually piercing voice.

  Mike thought a second, and then pulled a face. “Uh, I got picked up by this gorgeous guy along the gallery who wanted a session with me in the backroom, and it took a lot of persuading to shake him off without hurting his feelings. You weren’t worried, were you?”

  “Oh no, I’ve been sitting here darning socks.”

  Mike threw his arms around his lover and hugged him tight. Only he could see his vacant eyes over Gil’s shoulder reflected in the glass of the door, as he fought back another threat of tears.

  Gil relented, hugged Mike back, fondled the hair at the nape of his neck. “Don’t ever leave me again,” he husked. He stood back and gaped. “What happened to your face!”

  Mike instinctively lifted a hand to touch the spot on his lips, looked at the faint smear of red on his finger tips. “Oh, it’s nothing.” He gave a bright laugh. “I was coming back along the gallery and this stupid queen looking the wrong way bashed into me with her waving arm, and the bitch had a leather band with studs on it. Caught me in the mush with one. Terribly apologetic and all…”

  Gil leaned into Mike and tenderly kissed the wound. “It looks very bruised, though. I’m sure Dan’s got something in his bathroom cabinet to put on it.”

  At that point, Rod came in on the moving scene and gave a warning cough. He was followed by Damien Foot. “Are we all done here?” He turned to Rod.

  “Yes, Gil got everything back in the locked office for the rental people to collect tomorrow,” Rod said. “And the film cans are all labeled and ready in Mr. Dietrich’s office for him to take care of.”

  “Well, if you guys are fit, I’m about ready for my bed. They’ll be going on out there until well into tomorrow—no, today’s morning.”

  Mike only wished for the oblivion of sleep, which probably wouldn’t come, and was glad that Gil agreed and said he’d had enough as well.

  Rod sounded a note of disappointment. “Um, I heard that the Mineshaft is a fun place to visit for our last night.”

  Damien snorted derision. “Fun! Well, I guess if you’re into piss and shit.”

  Rod deflated instantly. “Ah, well maybe not then.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Turned Upside Down…

  Gil thought Mike unusually subdued on the return night flight, but when he taxed him on it, Mike shrugged it off as being worn out by the short, hectic trip. Soon after take off he fell asleep. His head lolled onto Gil’s shoulder. Gil dozed fitfully until the dawn slowly turned the black outside to a milky pale pink.

  After the luggage claim and customs, the Gatwick concourse buzzed wi
th dreadful news. John Lennon lay dead in New York of an assassin’s bullet, shot outside the Dakota apartment building. The gray, eighth day of December felt even gloomier as the four rode the train to Victoria Station.

  Life picked up over the next few days. Mike put on a brave face, grinned, gurned, and laughed, and made ferociously passionate love to Gil at every opportunity as though he couldn’t get enough of him. Nevertheless, Gil sensed some change in his friend. It was too undefined to comment on, so he said nothing.

  On a couple of nights they went to meet Trevor in the Nellie Dean, and then later snuck up to the cutting rooms to see how the boxing movie was coming along. Trevor did a deal with a friend next door at the mixing theater, where they combined a music track with dubbed “grunts and groans” provided by two of Aiden’s enthusiastic employees amid gales of laughter at the results.

  Through Jim, the Union secretary, they hired one of Wardour Street’s medium-sized preview theaters for an hour one evening. On the appointed day, between eighty to a hundred of London’s invited gay circuit packed the place with standing room only for many. Gil and Mike, standing at the back, felt proud of the viewing, and cringed at every error that only they could see. The audience, in raucous and enthusiastic mood, applauded a lot, particularly at Steve’s staggering money shot at the end. As the house lights came up, Gil spotted Steve down at the front. He was with Aiden’s small entourage, looking red-faced with embarrassment at the praise being heaped on him by the departing crowd.

  Gil descended the low steps of the auditorium. “Congratulations!” He punched Steve’s nearest bicep lightly.

  “Oh, don’t,” an abashed Steve mumbled.

  “Can’t have damaged your business opportunities, though.”

  Hearing Gil, Aiden turned with a beaming smile. “Darling, well done! I’m sure we’ll have good sales when it’s all put onto VHS. These video sales are really picking up, and hopefully every little good pouf will be getting a player from Santa this Christmas.”