Tricks Of The Trade

by Ben Tyler

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “No. I was just trying to find my glasses so I could check my calendar for today.” He was lying. Jim had no plans. Sunday was usually the day a draft of the next week’s script was messengered to the house. But now that The Grass Is Always Greener was history, he had the day completely free. “Ah, would it be convenient for you to stop by around four? Teatime?”

  “Sure, that works for me,” Rod said. “I’ll be at your place at four.”

  “Great. See you then.”

  “Ah, thanks again for the cool party.”

  Jim hung up, a satisfied smile on his face. Then Jim cleaned himself off with a couple of tissues from a box by his bed.

  Chapter Eleven

  By three that afternoon, Rod still wasn’t sure what to wear to his rendezvous with Jim. For the first time in his life he wasn’t certain what he was selling—his body or his “intellectual property,” as Bart had called his work. He vacillated between his most provocative outfit—jeans and a tank top—or a more conservative look—jeans and a Ricky Martin–style pullover crew neck.

  Thoughts of what Bart had said about Jim’s motives kept resurfacing. What if Jim really was only interested in Rod for his body and not for his talent? Or maybe he was interested in both? Or maybe interest in his body could lead to interest in his work? People were willing to go out of their way to help sexy people. Bart himself had been proof of that.

  In the end, Rod decided on the jeans (sans belt and underwear), his work boots, a tight-fitting, white muscle-revealing tank top that was specially tailored to reveal the contours of his body, and a Shell service-station mechanic’s shirt, unbuttoned. The gas-station shirt was left over from a customer whose fantasy was to be lubed with black axle grease and fucked by a grimy, sweaty service-station attendant.

  After years of putting out for hundreds of different men, Rod thought he knew Jim’s type pretty well. If Rod’s intuition was correct, Jim would want to inhale the musky scent of perspiration mixed with semen. Therefore, before leaving, Rod did two hundred push-ups and one thousand stomach crunches. Then he beat off and slathered his discharge all over his body and into the hairs in his armpits. It was a man’s smell, one that turned a lot of guys on. Rod knew this. He was just playing it safe in case Bart had been right about an ulterior motive for getting Rod up to Jim’s house. However, Rod was confident that if this was the case, he could still wrap ol’ Jim Fallon around his cock and get him to do something about making a movie from his script.

  At three-thirty, behind the wheel of his dull, green Dodge Dart, Rod was trying to remember the exact location of Jim’s place. He knew the general vicinity, and he set out driving up Crescent Heights, which became Laurel Canyon. He followed the serpentine road all the way up to its crest. At Mulholland Drive he made a sharp right onto Woodrow Wilson. This was the tricky part. Most of the houses along here were gated and set far back from the street, secluded from the main road. Rod didn’t recall the address, but he remembered that the tall gates to Jim’s place were adorned with his monogram—JF—set inside a wrought-iron star.

  After driving along slowly and having to pull over several times on the narrow street to let other cars pass by, there it was: the vaguely familiar, long, steep driveway. The gates were closed when he arrived. A buzzer and intercom box stood at car-window height. Rod rolled his window down and pushed the white button on the box. He noticed brown-and-white plastic owls perched on the stone walls on which the gates were attached. He’d seen these things before. They were really disguised security cameras. The owls’ eyes were telephoto lenses.

  “Come on up,” a voice crackled through the intercom. The tall gates opened to allow his car to move up the hill.

  Once again, impressed with the lighted water fountain on a patch of green grass in the middle of the circular drive, Rod was happy to see that there was no security man waiting with a walkie-talkie and a clipboard list of invited guests on which his name might not appear. Rod parked by the front entrance, picked up his five scripts, which he’d brought along in case Jim was interested in reading them, checked himself in the rearview mirror, and climbed out of his practically worthless car.

  Before Rod could reach the steps and ring the bell, Jim opened the double doors, like a dowager welcoming guests. “So nice to see you again,” Jim said, extending his hand and shaking Rod’s. The handshake lasted a fraction of a moment too long as Jim’s heart raced at the sight of Rod in clothes that advertised his physical endowments and planted the unmistakable suggestion of sex.

  “Please come in,” said Jim, who was wearing 501s and an expensive black silk shirt unbuttoned far enough to reveal a smattering of graying hair on his chest.

  As Rod entered the inner sanctum of Jim Fallon’s lair, he noticed that the Casablanca lilies were just as abundant as they were the night before. The house had been so thoroughly cleaned by the maids and catering staff, it was impossible to notice any remnants from a lavish party that had been held on the premises just a few hours ago. But there again was the staggering view of the city. This time it wasn’t quite dusk, and the view was a pale gray rather than brilliant Christmas-like sparkling lights that had been so impressive the night before. Still, Rod nearly gasped again at the panorama of Los Angeles over the precipice of the hillside.

  “Let’s go into the library,” Jim suggested, leading the way.

  Rod had not been in this room last night. They entered through twelve-foot-tall French doors molded with appliqués of fleurs-de-lis in the center of each door panel. Inside, the room was two stories high, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A narrow stairway leading to a gallery ran the length of one wall. Hanging over the mantel of a huge fireplace on the opposite wall was an oil painting of Jim dressed in a tweed jacket and seated in a wing chair, one leg draped over the other, a golden retriever resting at his feet.

  Jim noticed Rod’s close examination of the portrait. “The affectation of a wanna-be baronial master,” he said as if apologizing for the pretense.

  The chair on the canvas was identical to the one in which Jim suggested Rod take a seat. Looking around at the grandeur of the room, Rod noticed shelf after shelf of hardcover books, some bound in leather, others with their colorful paper dust jackets. There was also an array of awards. On opposite ends of the fireplace mantel, bookending numerous other shiny trophies, were two Emmy statuettes. “What’s the Grammy for?” Rod asked, impressed that he was seeing an actual Grammy in somebody’s own home, not in a museum or just clutched in Carlos Santana’s hands on television.

  “Blow Me.”

  “Can’t I get a drink first?”

  “No. Blow Me. That was my first comedy CD.”

  Rod turned red. “God. I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be. Blow Me went platinum. It’s a line I made famous on the show. Like ‘Bite me,’ only more outrageous, because the network was trying to keep up with the cutting edge of Fox and HBO series. I was supposed to record a sequel.”

  “Blow Me, Harder?” Rod suggested sarcastically.

  “You’re joking, but that was to be the actual title.” Jim smiled. “You’re a clever guy. Now, with all that’s happened in my personal and professional life, the record company has canceled the contract. We’re suing, of course. We had a deal. I don’t remember the Rolling Stones getting dumped by their label when they came out with Sticky Fingers way back in the seventies. You’re probably too young to remember, but the album cover was a pair of jeans—with a real zipper, for Christ sake! Tell me that’s not spelling everything out completely.”

  Jim uncorked a bottle of merlot and removed two Bordeaux glasses from a glass shelf behind the bar. “What do you make of all the fuss? Do you believe all the tabloids? Do you think I’m a total perv?”

  Jim set the bottle down to breathe for a moment as he opened a panel in the wall that revealed switches and dimmers. He pushed a button, and flames came to life in the fireplace. He pushed another button, and the recessed lighti
ng in the ceiling illuminated the room. A pink spot directly hit Jim’s portrait. Another knob filled the room with soft classical music.

  Jim poured the wine and handed Rod a glass. He sat down beside him in an identical leather-upholstered wing chair.

  Rod said, “First of all, not only do I not believe what I read—except in the Star, which is always right—I don’t believe what people tell me. Everybody has a hidden agenda. I only believe what I see with my own eyes. And I trust my intuition. Also, whatever you do in the privacy of your own home is your business. You may be a sick, kinky son-of-a-bitch dog—oh, not you personally, Jim; I didn’t mean that—but I don’t believe anyone has the right to judge anybody else who’s a sick, kinky son-of-a-bitch dog.”

  Jim smiled again. “I don’t think I’m kinky…well maybe by Dr. Laura Schlesinger’s standards, but who wouldn’t be. I’m no more a dog than any other sexual being—gay or straight. We all have our needs. It’s not fair that audiences think I’m just the character I play on the series. People are so ignorant. There’s so much more to who Jim Fallon is!”

  “I know exactly what you’re saying,” Rod agreed. “People look at me and immediately think I’m hot and dangerous. Which I am. But that’s not all there is to me. I’ll bet that not a soul who meets me for the first time doesn’t think my brain is in my pants. I think most people would be shocked to discover that I’m a writer. As a matter of fact, the script you read was over at Sterling for coverage. The story guy gave it an Excellent and said, ‘Don’t let this one get away.’”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Jim said. He was trying hard to look directly into Rod’s eyes and not give himself away by absorbing the fullness of his guest’s sumptuous body.

  Jim took a long pull on his glass of wine. “I had no idea a studio had been approached. Michael didn’t tell me that.”

  “Michael’s an asshole. He didn’t submit it; another friend of mine did, although Michael will probably try to take credit. (A friend, Rod thought for a fraction of an instant. That’s what Bart had been to him.) In fact, he didn’t even tell me that he was giving you the script to read. I gave it to him six months ago. He’s never mentioned it to me.” Rod sipped his wine. “He’s a slick one. I don’t know why you stay with him. You could do so much better.”

  “Michael discovered me. I believe in being loyal.”

  Rod finished his glass of wine and handed it back to Jim in a manner that said, Fill ’er up again. Jim nodded, taking the glass and thinking the afternoon (which was now evening) was going very well indeed. He had planned to come across as sympathetic, get Rod drunk, reveal just enough about his sexual fantasies, and then see what happened. So far, so good.

  He returned presently with a refill of the merlot. “Let’s move over to the couch. It’s more comfortable than these damned chairs that my decorator insisted I buy.” Jim indicated the twin sofas facing each other beside the fireplace. A glass-topped coffee table separated the sofas.

  Rod moved as directed and placed the five scripts he had been holding on top of the table. “Oh, good, more material for me to read,” Jim said, looking at the stack of screenplays, each with a different-color cover and three brass brads holding the pages together. “Tell me a bit about yourself, Rod. How long have you been writing? What have you sold? Do you have to wait tables like so many other actors and writers in this town? God I’m glad I never had to do that!”

  Rod gave Jim the most superficial details. “Always been a writer. No sales yet, but there’s a lot of interest. (He lied.) As for steady work, I tend bar.” He added, “Michael’s a frequent customer. You should ask him for the lowdown. I’m not very much at ease talking about myself.”

  “Oh, you writers. You’re so introspective. You have the perfect career. You can be creative, yet maintain your anonymity. Being a star like me is very, very difficult.” Jim assumed a wistful, affected tone of world-weariness. “I can’t leave the house without paparazzi stalking me. And forget traveling regularly scheduled commercial airlines. Oprah has the right idea. Wish I could afford a jet like hers.” Jim paused. “By the way, did anybody see you come to the gate?” He was suddenly panicked. “I should have warned you.”

  “No one that I was aware of.”

  “They’re sneaky bastards, those photographers. They could be a mile away and with a telephoto get you down to the last detail of your tattoo. I imagine you do have a tattoo somewhere, don’t you?”

  Rod smirked. Then he stood up and took of his grease-monkey shirt. Not only was his muscular body revealed through the diaphanous material of his athletic shirt, but a tattoo crucifix decorated one shoulder, while an ornate gang insignia adorned his huge right biceps muscle.

  “You’re one hot stud, Mr. Dominguez,” Jim said, his pants filling up with an uncontrollable erection. “You must have a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend?”

  “Neither one.”

  “Who was the guy you brought to the party?”

  “Just some dude. We broke up last night.” A twinge of regret flashed past Rod’s mind as he referred to Bart as “Just some dude.”

  “Oh? I’m sorry to hear that.” Jim didn’t bother sounding sincere. “You guys looked great together.”

  “He was jealous. I don’t like that.”

  “I don’t blame him.”

  “Of you.”

  Jim snorted. “That’s absurd. I’m flattered, but I’m hardly someone that anyone on the planet should be jealous of. I’m persona non grata, not just in this town but in every American household. My Q-rating’s a disaster. If I ever get a chance to make another television series, it will be a miracle. I’ll probably be relegated to a Saturday-morning sitcom like Saved by the Bell or some such network refuse in roles that they used to call ‘the funny uncle.’ And that’s if I’m lucky.”

  Jim paused, then asked, intrigued, “Why was he jealous?”

  Rod pondered the question for a moment, wondering how much he should reveal and how much he should embellish. He decided to go for a combination of the two. “Bart—that was the guy’s name—didn’t think my writing was any good, and he said you couldn’t possibly want to discuss anything with me other than sex.” For another split second Rod felt ashamed for lying about Bart, who had been nothing but completely supportive of his work.

  Jim looked appalled at the very idea that he was thought to have had a hidden agenda for getting Rod up to his house. “You were right to dump him. You need someone who understands your creative nature. You’re a brilliant writer. Someone has to appreciate your assets. Although, if you don’t mind my saying so, I’ll bet everybody is after your assets.”

  “Including you, Jim?”

  “Listen,” Jim said in a tone that read like a confession, “I need a job, and I thought you might have something that Michael could pitch to the studios. Then, when I found out you had written a terrific screenplay, one that I loved and thought was brilliant for me, I simply wanted to meet you and discuss possibilities. Sex was the furthest thing from my mind, I assure you. Until…”

  Ah, Rod thought, here it comes. The old man is making his play. What do I do? I don’t want to jeopardize his enthusiasm for the project or have him blackball me to Michael or the studios if I rebuff him. Let’s just see where he’s going.

  Jim went on. “When you walked in here looking…well, you can’t help it, but looking like something out of a casting call for leading men in a hot daytime drama, only better…Naturally I couldn’t help but have only a quick fleeting fantasy. Just for a teensy instant. It’s elemental. You know what you look like, so you have to agree. But I’ve regained my composure. I don’t want anything to interfere with the possibility of our working together.”

  Rod was still standing. With a sleight of hand that would have made David Copperfield envious, he had unbuttoned the fly on his jeans and pulled out his cock. “Would this be an interference?”

  Jim swallowed hard, mesmerized. He dragged his covetous eyes off Rod’s long, thick member only for a moment to g
lance up at Rod’s bulging tank top, tattoos, and goateed face. Then back to Rod’s appendage.

  “Seen one, you obviously haven’t seen ’em all,” Jim sputtered. “Would you mind if I—touch it?”

  “I’d prefer you suck it. Think of it as a People’s Choice Award. This is the choice of a lot of people.”

  Jim swallowed his glass of wine with one long pull. He slipped off the couch to the floor, onto his knees, and licked his lips.

  Sinuously, he slithered his tongue from the helmet-shaped dome of Rod’s penis, down the long red-and-blue veined shaft. Then he finally stood up and took Rod by the hand, leading the way to the stairway and up to the second-floor bedrooms.

  By the time they entered Jim’s lavishly appointed bedroom they were both stripped naked.

  Fuck, Rod thought when they entered the well-lit room and he saw Jim completely nude. Jim’s body was falling apart. He was already showing major signs of a pot gut. He obviously didn’t work out. His butt was falling—if he ever actually had one in the first place—and it had a rash of pimples on both cheeks.

  Shit, Rod said to himself, this is going to be work. I’d better as hell get something in return for plugging this old fart.

  Rod had had to work himself up countless times with some of the trolls who answered his instant E-mail messages, but the stakes were higher this time. It wasn’t rent money or saving toward a new computer printer for which he was fucking. It was to obtain Jim’s help with getting the script sold and made into a movie. Therefore, Rod knew he had to give the performance of his life and act as though Jim were the biggest turn-on in the world. The actor’s ego demanded it. Rod’s future rested on how much confidence he could instill in Jim, who, from the language he was now using, was exactly the sick, perverted dog he claimed he wasn’t.

  Having seen Jim’s infamous tape, Rod pretty much knew what it was that this guy liked. He immediately took control, dominating the scene as the gang bangers on the video had done. Rod was tough but not rough. He grabbed a necktie that was neatly folded on the back of a chair and lashed Jim’s wrists to the iron slats of his bedpost.