by Zack
“Women stripping off men, ooh dear?” Aiden shook his head, and at that point Peter held out his other hand and indicated a doorway above which, in an artfully handwritten way, neon lettering announced the Cock Pit. So far, everything Gil had seen of Amsterdam appeared quaint and compact, so the Cock Pit’s interior came as a surprise; it was not massive but certainly of reasonable size. After the usual paying requirements and checking of coats, he and Mike followed the low-light signs that pointed to the “Theater,” and pushed through heavy drapes across the entrance after Peter and Aiden. Gil gazed around through the cigarette-hazed crepuscular light and perceived a series of concentric levels sinking gently to a stage at the center of the semi-circle of tables and chairs.
“Like a cabaret club,” Mike murmured. Most of the higher level tables at the back were occupied by of mixed couples and larger groups. As far as Gil could tell there were both older and younger couples as well as some all-male and all-female parties. In between the packed rows scantily clad waiters of both sexes flitted with laden drinks trays. One signaled Aiden and waved them to an empty table on the right side of the auditorium and in the front row. From there the four had a sideways view of the curved stage, which Gil estimated at somewhere between two and a half and three feet high, with steps running up at either end. A patch in the middle at the front glistened wetly. The backdrop was made up of voluminous dark drapes, and following the stage’s curve, a smaller bay of drapes billowed out from them at the center.
As they took their seats two young women wearing g-strings and breast tassles dragged a middle-aged man out from the seclusion of the back drapes. He was naked apart from a pair of standard white Y-fronts, a little overweight, coyly embarrassed from both expression and body language, but somehow defiant as though—as Gil guessed—he was on a dare. Raucous catcalls and wolf whistles broke out from a substantial mixed-gender group across the other side, who occupied four tables. Applause added to the noise.
“I can’t look, I’m embarrassed,” Gil muttered in Mike’s ear.
“So … don’t look.”
A lad wearing little other than a traditional waiter’s apron, served their drinks with admirable efficiency before turning away to reveal his neat ass under the apron ties.
“So, don’t look.” Mike nudged Gil. “Or at least not at the waiters.” He laughed lightly, squeezed Gil’s thigh and sipped at the glass. He wrinkled his nose. Neither of them had enquired as to what Peter had ordered. “Gin and tonic, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Genever,” Peter said, on hearing Mike.
Gil took a cautious sip. “S’okay,” he said dubiously.
He looked up. The women had led their victim to the front edge of the stage and, standing slightly behind him, began to run their hands up and down over his chest, hips, thighs, and lightly across the bulge in his underpants. He looked like a bug in amber under the warm spotlights which made his flesh stand out against the gloom of the auditorium. Gil returned Mike’s squeeze, but let his hand linger, scratching slightly on the inside of Mike’s thigh. The onstage action was arousing him, which he thought weird, under the circumstances. Nevertheless, his earlier averted eyes now fixed more and more on the obvious excitement of the man as the women pulled his Y-fronts down to show the audience his substantial cock jutting straight out before him. The catcalls and whoops increased in volume as one of the girls took him in hand and began a hard stroking.
“Christ, the Wicked Witch of the East and the Wicked Witch of the West—they’re really doing him live.” Mike said.
It occurred to Gil that his lover probably hadn’t seen a live jerk-off show before, and for once he felt worldly wise, remembering the porn stars on display at the Subway in Manhattan. He moved his hand up onto the shelf of Mike’s lap. Oh yes … he’s hard too.
Up on the stage the tableau was reaching a climax. One girl had the man’s nipples enfolded in her tweaking fingers and he rocked from the hips with the vigorous hand movements of the second girl. The auditorium also shook to the shouts of encouragement. Gil glanced around to see open holes in every face, men, women, young and old, all screaming. The man fountained to deafening applause. And then it was over. The women hustled the guy back out through the drapes, while two others also attired only in g-strings and nipple tassles, armed with a bowl and cloths, came out to quickly mop up the man’s spilled semen from the stage floor. Gil nodded to himself. It explained the wet patch he noticed before they sat down.
“Okay, okay, ladies, gentlemen, who’s next taker, hey?”
The M.C., mike in hand, stepped forward, speaking first in English, then in Dutch.
“Gentlemen for the ladies or … other gentlemen, come, you big men, to entertain. Heren voor de dames of... andere heren, kom, jij grote mannen, te vermaken”
Gil had a good grip on Mike’s cock. Mike leaned over. “Why don’t you have a go?” He gave Gil a wicked grin.
“Hah, no thanks. Anyway, Meneer Schmidt, you’re the exhibitionist. It’s a shame to keep all this just for me.” He squeezed the hard lump of bejeaned dick.
At that moment a disturbance two tables away from where they sat took everyone’s attention. A good looking boy in his early twenties stood up uncertainly, bullied by his friends. As soon as he did, two girls materialized from the sides of the stage and led him off before he could back out.
“He looks terrified,” Mike said.
“You wouldn’t be, would you?” Gil peered closely at Mike’s dark eyes, the glisten of stage lights catching the corner, and felt the waves of heat coming off him.
Mike turned to hold Gil’s eyes with an intensity that went to his own cock. “God, I’m fucking horny, and you, bastard, are not helping.”
Gil just grinned happily and squeezed some more, pleased to see the reaction his fingers were causing.
The middle-aged previous performer came out from behind the stage, respectably dressed, and hurried around behind them to join his group amid more loud shouting and back slapping. A moment later and the back curtains parted to reveal the young hunk held in the firm grip of his masturbators. He was already stark naked and visibly aroused.
“Now, that’s more like it,” Aiden approved with a friendly pat of Peter’s big shoulder. Peter looked across and winked at Mike and Gil. But if they expected a vital performance of youthful vigor, the audience was disappointed. Hard as he was, the situation just didn’t seem to get the guy off. When it seemed as though deflation might occur there came another outbreak of shouted encouragement and one of the other boys on the performer’s table stumbled forward, pushed from behind by his comrades and loud jeers of encouragement.
“Oh my God,” Mike breathed.
As though any hesitation would throw his stride, the boy took four steps to the front of the stage and, without having to stoop down, took his friend’s cock in his mouth and proceeded to suck him off. The two women aided the action with hands busy all over the young man.
“I’m not sure he really got him off,” Aiden said, as the participants disappeared to table and back-stage.
The M.C. reappeared, but before he even opened his mouth, Gil felt the rush as Mike stood. Aiden looked up in surprise and perhaps a touch of disapproval. “Oh, pet. Are you sure …?”
Gil’s instant rush of alarm crumbled into a confused mix of whoah, go for it! and concern.
The M.C. beamed and held out his arm. “Ahah! Ve haf the next performer, and, mmm, look at this one!”
Mike smiled down at Gil. “I’m banking on you, lover.”
Gil’s throat constricted. He gulped and nodded quickly. The harpies of the Styx swept Mike off behind the curtains. The lads at the next two tables started thumping the tops with their fists, waving at Gil, Aiden, and Peter, shouting and laughing. Gil’s dazed mind took in faces looming from the farther dark, excited, expectant, contemptuous, sneering, and admiring. This was very different from the Subway and the three jerk-off artists, the screaming Fire Island bunnies and students all desperate to be up cl
ose and dirty at the moment of professional orgasm. His legs felt leaden and his cock so rigid he thought it really would turn to wood. Peter’s small sideways smile seemed to sum it all up and he nodded agreement without questioning what Peter might really mean. Well, he’s a performer as well …
And there he was, the house lights which had risen in illumination level between performances, dimmed. The warm spots coalesced on the drapes as they parted and the women led Mike out, like a black-haired Achaean god. Gil actually sobbed at the sight, the squared planes of muscle, edges caught in the light, the steady step toward the stage front, those beautiful long legs, powerful thighs and calves, the flat stomach, heaving very slightly with a natural tension. And …
With a flourish, one of the women slipped Mike out of his briefs to a wondrous wave of clapping from the hot gathering as his cock bobbed free and proud. Gil heard a female voice shouting, “Ik wil je baby!” The young man who had only just returned to his mates from behind the stage, obviously recovered from his performance, pumped his fist enthusiastically in front of his outthrust crotch. He turned on the boy who had stepped up to help him out, now seated again, and shouted, “Sie sollten seinen Schwanz lutschen!” He turned to Gil’s table, and must have understood they were either from England or America. “I say, that’s a cock he should suck, hey?”
One of the women grasped Mike and began pumping him. He stared straight ahead, above the heads of the audience. Gil started when Peter tapped his arm and leaned close. “Mate, I’d get out there before someone else does.”
Gil’s legs wouldn’t move. He nodded at Peter and felt his stomach turn over. But his cock was still so, so hard and the buzzing in his ears drowned out the hubbub of the animated crowd chanting in unison, “Ruk, ruck, ruk!”
He placed a hand palm down on the table top and levered himself to his feet at the same instant Mike turned his head in Gil’s direction. Gil saw a movement deeper up the tiers of packed tables, another figure preparing to get down to the stage. Because of the trousers he instantly thought it was another man, and he staggered out into the open space to beat him. As he neared where the two women had Mike slightly cantilevered out over the edge of the stage, Gil realized a young woman was trying to pre-empt him, urged on by numerous hands pushing her.
And then he had his hands wrapped around Mike’s upper thighs, felt the girl battle him for supremacy, but she was giggling and he felt her hands grope him, grasp his raging hard-on, as he sank his lips around the bulbous head of Mike’s cock, the familiar shape, scent, taste, the unfamiliar hands jerking him. The auditorium rang with the tumult, urged him on, and his head furiously pounding in and out elicited a taste of Mike’s promise of more excitement to follow.
Even as he felt the first spurt, the woman masturbating the root of Mike’s dick pulled him free and spunk exploded up in the amber light. Golden strings of cum hung in the thick air before falling to coat Gil’s upturned face. His vision was narrowed only to Mike, towering above him, whose eyes held him in intense regard. He reached up furiously to snatch back his property from the Wicked Witch of the West and sighed as he sunk the cock length back between his lips in time to finish Mike off. Below, the wicked girl’s ministrations resulted in a wet burst like a dam giving way as he jizzed his pants.
Gil was only dimly aware of Mike being led away across the stage to uproarious applause. He didn’t look at the audience while he took the twenty odd stutter steps to the table where Aiden sat open-mouthed with smirking Peter. He fell back into his seat and shuffled uncomfortably, feeling sticky but somehow fulfilled in a way he hadn’t expected. Peter leaned close.
“Now that’s what I call audience participation.” He gave Aiden a furtive glance, saw he wasn’t really listening and quickly added, “I’d love a bit of hot jack action with you guys some time.”
Gil smiled and nodded, not really listening either. A few minutes later Mike returned from around the back and cockily bounced into his seat beside Gil.
“Michael Smith,” Aiden began with mock severity, “I demand a photo session with you now, with both of you in fact. My readers will demand it.”
“Hah! Aiden, you couldn’t afford us.” He leaned over, and kissed Gil full on the mouth. “Thanks …”
“You’re … er … welcome!” Gil sensed Mike wanted to say something else, but looked uncertain. He laid his head to one side. “What?”
Mike fixed his attention on the stage, where the Wicked Witches had their next victim working to a state of advanced arousal. “I’ve a problem … with Nathan.”
“And?”
“He … he wants to come home with me some nights.”
Gil let this sink in while howls of encouragement flowed around him. “I thought you said he was locked up tighter than a royal virgin.”
Mike shuffled on his seat uncomfortably. “He can arrange it with his driver and one of the minders, so he says. It would only be for an hour, like. Then he’d be off home.”
“You wanna fuck him?”
Mike said nothing, but he fingered his ear stud.
Realization hit Gil. “You already have, haven’t you?”
“Do you mind?”
Gil shrugged. “Why should I mind? I thought we always said it was okay, being horny for others and all, so long as …”
Mike nodded. “I know.” He patted his forehead, his crotch, and laid the hand over his heart. “The kid needs help, Gil. It’s my job—”
Gil’s laugh came out as a bark. “Shit, Mike, don’t please go justifying it like that!”
Mike dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Sorry. I didn’t quite mean it like that. Anyway, knowing that randy little git, he’ll probably be all over you as well.”
“Huh, I’m not sure how I feel about getting groped by a world famous pop singer.” Gil brightened, just as the man on the stage fountained. “Still, I guess I could earn a fortune with my ‘kiss and tell’ story.”
The look of horror on Mike’s face creased Gil up. “I’m kidding, buddy, just kidding.” But a chill of premonition ran through him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Checking Out the Yank
“What can you do with these?” Mike puffed his round cheeks out and gave the model maker his best boyish smile. The man peered carefully at the blocks of Plasticine.
“Hmm, they look like good impressions. The Yale might be a bit rough, but we’ll give it a go. You can always bring it back if it needs a bit of rubbing off.”
Mike thought that unlikely, but said nothing. “How much … mates’ rates?”
The modeler looked up with a smile. “Ooh, let’s say a quid each?”
“What the hell is an oggle when it’s at home?” Gil, head sideways parallel with the floor, stared at small strips of brown 16mm magnetic film hanging from a cross rack of pins above a circular trim bin. The various lengths of film were labeled with white chinagraph to designate the sound effect recorded on them. He had identified several easily from their names—long-putt, number-one-wood, medium applause, and so on, but this one mystified him.
“It’s the sound of the golf ball dropping into the cup: oggle-oggle-oggle,” Nola imitated. “Note there are several types, depending on how cleanly the ball drops in.”
Gil was happy in the cutting rooms. He got on well with two of the three cutters, as the editors preferred to title themselves, and the third simply avoided him. Something to do with a prejudice against Americans. Gil had heard him muttering something to the effect that all Americans were deluded in thinking they’d won the war, that they’d come over here and stolen the women with cheap chocolate and nylons. The youngest of the three had nudged Gil, dipped his head and winked. “Take no notice of the old fart.” And Jasper, the editor Gil assisted, reckoned the “old guy couldn’t cut his way out of a paper bag. It’s something to do with a working relationship with the series producer that goes way back,” he said.
After three days of filing and finding trimmed pieces of film Gil’s task had switched to creati
ng the sound track for the first of program of the series to go to the dubbing theater by laying in sound effects to heighten what live sound had been originally recorded out on the golf course. Using a multi-track Pic-sync, this involved making up as many as six reels of film, using blank white film into which, at the exact moment, he stitched in a particular sound effect on magnetic film to match the picture action. Many of the effects overlapped, which is why so many individual tracks were required. The live sound of the audience was often too weak to register, so he boosted it with an appropriate applause effect which had been specially recorded. One effect that the live recordings could never register was the sound of the golf ball dropping into the hole, even though the cameraman had zoomed into a big close up so that the audience would expect to hear it; hence the oggle.
Gil hummed happily to himself: Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner, that I love London so … Knowing where he was working, Jim had dropped in yesterday—much to the general wariness of everyone in the cutting rooms who were paid up Union members but working on a non-Union-approved production—to let Gil know that his script for Falcon Fury had been accepted by the producer. “You’ll be getting something in the post in a day or so. Well done! But don’t be too disappointed if it gets heavily amended and credited to someone else,” he added. “These things happen, but at least you’ll get the payment for it.”
Yup, Gil was happy. He intended using his lunch break to speed across the West End to sign up a membership at the Burlington Health Club. Time to get in some early morning work-outs again. It was okay for Mike, he could use the Pinewood facilities to tone up.
Gil’s first up-close impression of the celebrated teen-star was not favorable. He had gotten in first and just turned on the television to check the six o’clock news when he heard the front door open. The thud of heavy boots on the apartment’s parquet floors preceded the sitting room door flying open. Gil glanced up in some alarm at the thuggish figure who glared at him from the doorway.
“Wha …!”