Tricks Of The Trade

by Ben Tyler

  If Mitch Wood, for example, could have been a fly on the wall, watching Bart and Rusty fuss over each other during dinner, he would have lost his grip and fallen to a welcome death in a hot bowl of cream of cauliflower soup. Mitch would have declared the relationship disgusting. The two were like Chip and Dale. Or Alphonse and Gaston.

  “Would you care for another roll, Bart?”

  “Thank you, Rusty. May I refill your wineglass?”

  “Thank you, dear. You have perfect timing.”

  “Doesn’t the Chilean sea bass sound interesting this evening?”

  “That’s exactly what I was going to order.”

  “Shall we share a Caesar?”

  “Good suggestion. Yes, let’s do.”

  “And our waiter’s an absolute doll. He’s so attentive.”

  “That’s because he has the privilege of serving you, Mr. Sexy.”

  “That’s sweet. But he’s so enamored of you, dear. That tie you’re wearing really picks up the green in your eyes. No doubt he’s the same color because he’s so envious of me being with you.”

  “Stop the insanity!” Mitch would have screamed—like Susan Powter on a major hypoglycemic flip-out. “This is not NBC! You two are not Frasier and Niles Crane!” Then Mitch would collapse into a seizure or stroke, unable to withstand the torture of listening to one more cloying word of sweet talk. Jonathan and Jennifer Hart couldn’t come close to these love lunatics. Nor could John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John in Grease or Tracy and Hepburn at the beginning of Adam’s Rib. But Bart and Rusty were having the time of their respective lives.

  The salad and Chilean bass, which was exquisitely prepared and beautifully presented, was followed by Rusty and Bart sharing a tiramisù. They concluded the meal with peppermint tea. Then Bart decided to tell Rusty about the call he’d received from Rod just before their meeting.

  “I told you all about this guy,” Bart explained. “He was the only man I ever really thought I loved—until I met you. But he had other plans. Now he’s calling asking for my help. I’m not sure what to do.”

  “First of all, if it helps, I know he doesn’t mean the same thing to you anymore,” Rusty said. “The fact that you were once important to each other should still count for something.”

  “Even after he broke my heart?”

  “It’s no longer broken, is it?”

  “Not a crack. Not a chip.”

  “Sometimes what appears to be the worst thing that can happen to a person turns out to be the best,” Rusty said, referring to the fact that if Rod hadn’t left Bart, the two of them would probably never have gotten together.

  “I like to believe I still would have found you someway, somehow,” Bart said.

  Rusty patted Bart’s hand. “Hon. Always be honest with yourself. I think you want to help Rod but you’re afraid of how it might affect our relationship. Am I right?”

  Bart thought for a moment. “I’d never do anything to jeopardize our relationship. Believe me.”

  “I know that. And I feel exactly the same way about you. Nothing you could ever do would make me change my opinion of you.”

  Bart frowned. “I should at least call Rod back and find out how I might be able to help him. Is that what you’re advising? He did sound awfully sad and desperate.”

  “I’ve never understood contentious breakups,” Rusty said. “When my only other lover came to me and asked what would be my response to him sleeping with a new guy he’d met, I told him, ‘If two people can’t be happy together, why continue a charade?’ My wish was just that we both be happy people. And we were, only not with each other.”

  Rusty paused, becoming more thoughtful. “What Rod put you through was devastating. But it’s in the past. It’s not healthy to keep feelings of anger. Release them. Throw them away. Call Rod and ask if he needs help, from either of us. We’re a couple. It goes without saying, but if I can be of any service, I trust you’ll let me know.”

  There was not a doubt in Bart’s mind that Rusty’s true nature was simply goodness.

  By the end of their passionate lovemaking at Bart’s apartment, it became a fait accompli that Bart would call Rod and meet with him again. Whatever Bart could do to help his old lover, Rusty would provide support.

  Rusty was not in the least troubled by, or suspicious of, any amount of attention Bart might pay to Rod. Nor was he concerned about how he measured up sexually next to Rod, who, Bart had confessed, was the hottest lover he’d ever previously known. The only thing that mattered to Rusty was the feel and scent of Bart’s smooth skin against his own hard, muscled body, the seal of their lips locked together, and the taste of Bart’s delicious tongue, the way his penis filled Rusty’s hungry mouth. Rusty knew there was no competition for Bart’s affection. They both recognized their mutual devotion with the same clarity as they knew the specific spots on each other’s bodies that caused the other to tense up in erotic pleasure and moan aloud, “Oh, yeah! Oh, God! Yes! I love you!”

  The first time they made love, Bart was terrified he might accidentally call out Rod’s name during a vulnerable moment of passion. He needn’t have worried. From the moment he and Rusty kissed, Rusty proved to be such a virile distraction that Bart was completely absorbed in every moment of their time together. He frequently thought of that first night. Their lust was so intense, he could easily recall the precise details: arriving at Rusty’s home, entering the house to the lilting sounds of Ella Fitzgerald wafting from the stereo, dogs circling his legs, wanting to be petted, votive candles burning in a dozen different locations of the living room, the intense, loving look in Rusty’s green eyes.

  After formal introductions to the “family” and receiving a glass of merlot, from which Bart took two small sips, the men stood facing each other for a long moment, staring at each other and uncontrollably smiling. Their eyes spoke volumes about their lust. Their hearts beat as rapidly as their pants expanded. Zealousness overwhelmed them. Bart placed his wineglass down on the coffee table without looking just as Rusty reached out and gently brought Bart’s face slowly to meet his own. Their heads were slightly tilted as their lips made contact. Their mouths opened wide to receive each other’s tongues. Bart took the lead, unbuttoning Rusty’s shirt. Placing his hands on Rusty’s warm, bare chest for the first time made him forget ever having been with Rod.

  Rusty eased Bart down the hallway to the master bedroom suite. They separated only long enough for each to undress and turn down the bedcovers. Then they caressed each other on the cold sheets, wrestling until one thing led to another and Rusty was deep inside of Bart. They repeated their loving before finally, hours later, falling asleep—Bart with his back pressed tightly against Rusty’s strong chest, wrapped in his well-muscled arms.

  Now, a month later, the more Bart thought about Rusty, day in and day out, the more he realized he was in love with a for-real angel. As jaded as Bart had become over the years, he was still sometimes afraid. He feared having to repeat the pain caused by his first lover. He was afraid that so-called love might become a cycle of initial ecstasy followed by inevitable suffering. Bart didn’t want to endure the nearly unendurable, soul-consuming grief that accompanied that devastating first breakup or the more recent one with Rod.

  Others with whom he had had sex did not have “love” attached to the proposition the way it did with his first full-out love and with Rod. When those other affairs ended, there was nothing lost. Just mild emptiness, like a twenty-four-hour flu, that lasted only a short time.

  Still, awakening in the morning after a perfectly peaceful night’s sleep in the arms of his beautiful Rusty, Bart would hear in his head the lyric to an old Rodgers and Hart song, “He Was Too Good to Me.” The words echoed in Bart’s head. A more casual listener would hear the trite phrase that if something or someone seemed too good to be true, they probably were. But on a less obvious level—using the very same words but with a different inflection—the lyric took on a new meaning. Rusty may have appeared at first too go
od to be true. But he was true. He proved himself over and over. Offering to help Bart’s ex, if he needed help, was just another way of Rusty’s demonstrating that his devotion went above and beyond any ordinary man’s.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The security guard at the studio gate checked his computer list for drive-on passes and located “Dominguez, Rod.” He peeled off a temporary parking sticker, reached in through Rod’s unrolled car window, and attached it to the inside of the windshield. “Know where you’re going, Mr. Dominguez?” the guard asked, looking straight into Rod’s dark eyes and illogically getting a hard-on.

  Some of the most beautiful men on television and in feature films passed through this gate day in and day out. There was no justifiable reason for the guard to respond to Rod the way he did. Not only was he inured to the magnificence of the Hollywood’s hottest; he wasn’t even interested in the cast of the only gay-themed daytime drama, Shirts and Skins, all of whom winked at him as they drove to work each day, he wasn’t even interested in them. They rarely failed to register more than a smile from the guard. So why was this guy who was going to see senior publicist Bart Cain so utterly distracting?

  Rod, completely aware of his impact on the guard, feigned innocence and asked if the guard would mind personally showing him to the publicity building. “I can’t leave my post,” the guard said, quickly trying to figure out a plan to get away with Rod for a short time. “Tell you what. Park your car. Come back to the kiosk. I’ll see if I can get someone to take over for me.”

  “That’d be cool, dude,” Rod said with a smile that made the guard’s stomach ache. A line of cars was impatiently waiting for Rod to move forward.

  After exchanging a last lustful look into each other’s eyes, Rod moved on. It took him a few minutes to find a vacant parking space in the jammed lot. By the time he walked back to the main gate, the guard, in his studio uniform of white shirt, gray slacks, black shoes and necktie with the classic SS logo, was waiting to escort Rod to the publicity building.

  “What time’s your appointment with Mr. Cain?” the guard asked, his heart racing a mile a minute. With a hand in his pocket, he tried to surreptitiously adjust his erect cock so the head would rest up near his waist rather than bulge out so obviously at his fly. None of this was lost on Rod, who was a keen observer, especially when he was the center of attention.

  “Lunch at one o’clock.”

  “It’s only twelve-thirty. How about a little sightseeing tour first? I’ve got the keys to all the soundstages. By the way, my name’s Rich.”

  “Rich. Isn’t this where they film that sitcom Totally Kewl with Jared Sumner?”

  “Hot, isn’t he,” Rich said about the blond star of the hit show. “Yeah, that’s stage 21. They’re on hiatus. Wanna take a look around there.”

  “I’m all yours, Rich.”

  Rich was so turned on, he found himself leaking into his white briefs. The stage wasn’t very far away. A huge beige-colored structure, it looked large enough to be an aircraft hangar. They entered through a side door with a large placard that stated in bold red letters: CLOSED SET!

  Rod was overwhelmed by the enormity of the space. It was cold inside, completely silent except for the sound of their footsteps as they walked through the various sets of the living room and kitchen of the famous New York apartment that was immediately familiar to Rod from having watched the show a few times.

  Rich led Rod into the bedroom set. “This is where, each week, Jared’s character tries in vain to get his latest girlfriend to take off her clothes.”

  It was a running gag in the show. It was especially stupid because no one in their right mind on the planet—girl or boy, for that matter—would not go to bed with Jared, whose adolescent sexiness made him one of the hottest young men on prime time.

  Rod looked around for any sign that they might not be alone. “It’s a pretty big stage. Wanna see something else that’s pretty big?”

  Rich’s breathing became harder. Rod reached out and took Rich’s hand and pulled it to his crotch. Rich was caught off guard by the massive contents of Rod’s basket.

  “Shit” was all that Rich was able to manage. Then, as he rubbed his hand up and down Rod’s package, which only made the contents grow larger, he finally said, “It’s a real bed,” meaning the furniture in the room wasn’t just Hollywood make-believe.

  “I’m ready for the rest of the tour,” Rod said as he reached out for Rich’s necktie and began to loosen it. Rich finished the job as Rod unbuttoned the security guy’s white shirt. He then pulled his own black T-shirt over his head.

  Rich was speechless at the sight of Rod’s dark skin and muscled body.

  Knowing he didn’t have any time to waste, he ripped open the buttons of Rod’s 501s and fell to his knees to worship the serpent that was released from inside the cave of denim. As Rich’s lips closed around Rod’s shaft, he raised his arms and placed his hands on Rod’s chest and stomach. He blindly felt for Rod’s nipples and squeezed them between his thumbs and index fingers as he simultaneously devoured the meat sliding in and out of his mouth and halfway down his throat.

  “I’m gonna dry-fuck your sexy ass,” Rod commanded.

  “Mmmm” was all the anxious agreement that Rich could emit with his mouth full. He then pulled himself free from the feast and untied his regulation security man’s shoes. He clumsily kicked them off and stepped out of his pants. Crawling onto the bed and lying on his back, he watched as Rod removed his jeans—no underpants—and joined him on the bed. Rich was looking up at God when he saw Rod. In the heat of the moment, he didn’t give a damn about condoms or AIDS or anything other than having Rod inside of him. Rod was happy to oblige and simply spat onto Rich’s asshole to give it a bit of lubricant. He moistened his own dick before tearing into Rich, who cried out from pleasure and pain. There was an echo in the huge shell of a building. But the hollow structure was so well insulated, no one on the outside would have heard if a bomb detonated.

  Rich took his own cock in his hands and before a half a minute was up, he unloaded his reservoir.

  “Sorry I was so fast, man. Hey, I’ve changed my mind,” Rich said. “Don’t come inside of me.” The moment his own pleasure had been fulfilled, the fear of AIDS slammed into his head. “Do it on top of me instead. I wanna see it,” he said, trying to justify his change of attitude.

  Rod obliged. He took his weapon out of the sheath of Rich’s ass and quickly came on the thick hair that covered Rich’s muscular chest.

  Resting for a moment to catch their breaths, Rich finally looked at his wristwatch. “Christ. Break time’s over.” He stood up, used the bedsheet to clean himself off, and began dressing.

  “And I’ve got to get to my meeting with Bart. Just point me in the right direction.”

  As Rod and Rich tucked in their clothes and left the soundstage, they returned to the glaring light of the early afternoon. Rod said he planned to be back on the lot frequently for meetings with Bart. “Now that we know each other so well, can you dispense with the formality of Mr. Cain having to call in for a pass every time I come through the gate?”

  “As long as I’m on duty, which is every weekday from nine until six, I’ll just wave you through,” Rich said. “Get here before your meetings. We can do repeat episodes on the set of Totally Kewl. Might even get Jared to join us when he’s back for the season. He’s into it. Trust me. He’s nothing like his TV character. The things I could tell would have every teenage girl in America committing suicide. He bags men by the six-pack. Even the studio’s CEO Rotenberg.”

  “So the stories are true. About Rotenberg, I mean. I kinda had him figured out. And I’m not too surprised about Jared, either. So, I’ll be seeing you around.” He left the next meeting indefinite. He really had no intention or interest in fucking the security guard again. This had just been another of Rod’s ploys. Now he could get on the studio lot whenever he wanted. Without a visitor’s pass.

  Rod found his way to the public
ity building and checked in with the receptionist on the first floor. Audrey, as her name badge announced, become cross-eyed when she saw Rod. He had the same effect on women as he did on men.

  “Hi. I’m Rod Dominguez. I have an appointment with Bart Cain.” He smiled at Audrey as she went through the automatic motions of calling Bart’s office to announce the visitor.

  “I just get his voice mail, Mr. Dominguez,” Audrey finally said with a shrug to indicate she didn’t know what else to do.

  “Just Rod, please.”

  “Rod,” she repeated as uncomfortably as one whom Miss Ross had granted dispensation to address her as Diana the Diva. “Mr. Cain must be away for a moment. We’re not supposed to do this, but since you have an appointment, why don’t you just go on up and wait. He’s in room 1027. Get off the elevator, turn to your left, and go straight down the hall. There’s a big poster of Devil Girl from Mars just outside his office. Can’t miss it.”

  “You’re so lovely, Audrey. Thanks for being so sweet and helpful.”

  Rod moved away from the reception desk toward the elevator. When the car door opened, Rod stepped inside and turned to face the lobby. He waved to Audrey, who was leaking between her legs as much as Rich had.

  She, too, was used to handsome actors and wanna-be stars, but Rod was in a class by himself. Her heart was still pounding when Bart entered the building’s lobby.

  “Oh, Mr. Cain,” Audrey called out as he passed by the reception station. “There’s a Mr. Dominguez waiting in your office.”

  Bart thanked her and pushed the button for the elevator. He arrived on the tenth floor just in time to see Rod peering into his office. Cheets had disappeared. She took every opportunity when Bart was in a meeting or away for any length of time to run off to God only knew where.