The Assignment

Part 2

Sitting in the water at the spa for guys only with the Bull twins, Brad and Someone or Mike and Bob, the twins, leave it there. We are having a bumpy trip on my own personal memory lane that seems to have hit high gear with a letter from my editor telling me, in so many heated, vulgar words, you've been fucked. Or, to put it another way, I'd been fired from a good job with an admired publication for no damn reason except the schmuck who ran the place didn't like me and didn't like me more when a story of mine was published to some acclaim. Tricked, it's the only way I can think of it, to do a story in California on pornography, it evolved that it was gay pornography, something I'd not been told. However, he now chose to believe I dumped my assignment, took up with a gay film maker and was on my way to closing down the magazine with a lurid, sleazy story, fully illustrated, about men fucking men. Of course, they couldn't have that so they let me go while I wasn't there, thousands of miles away.Distraught, as best I could recover scattered memory, Jack who owned the studio, brought me the news and I didn't take it well. It's at that point a haze over most everything comes in but....I apparently sucked dry the minibar in the hotel, passed out and, now, was being shepherded by the Bull twins through a series of restorative treatments that were, in limited ways, helping. Concerned about losing my job, Mike, or Bob, said, no worries, Jack hired you to be our head writer.

All I could think about was my resume, which was pretty much trashed at that point. Started off well enough with Columbia Journalism, some minor jobs and then, rang the bell as a feature writer for a prestigious nation wide magazine who had just fired me for, their words, attempting to sully their reputation etc. Fuck their reputation. But the cavalry had come over the hill and Jack the head of the run down porn studio, had hired me to be his head writer. Just where on my resume I might put that I didn't know, maybe after my date of death. There was another unanswered a question which I asked.

"What's the name of the studio?"

"Harde On Productions. With the final E in Hard." I almost sank beneath the waves. Acme, Show and Tell, Boys 'R Us or even Buoys Are Us would have been better, or so I thought. And then another spectre came to me. The first day when I'd been shown the distribution end, there were thousands of labels, boxes etc with the name on it. Why I didn't notice, I've no excuse. Or, if I did, at that point I had no connection with them so whatever they called themselves was fine by me; I was paid to write a story, which I was doing, and if they called themselves, "Ding Dong, Studios" that was their business, just another fact for me to include in a now vaporized article.

"Hey, Barney, how about a two finger prostate massage?"

I was too tired to resist and so....two fingers went up my ass and started to work. In fact, I did feel better. A little. Amazing when you're coming out of a deep, dark hangover how little sexual stimulation it takes to produce a result. Within minutes I was groaning, my body was one large spasm, my cock harder than my (former) editor's heart, my balls so drawn up, and ready to drain that I probably looked like a fashionable eunuch. Which may explain why I was screaming, "You muscle bound fag, stick Brad's head up there." Or something like that. A moment or two later I went limp as enough semen to repopulate a medium sized country erupted from a wildly waving schlong; We're talking power of the people here as, in a couple of places, white jets broke the already frothy surface. I'm not proud, I think I tried to lean forward and grab one with my tongue.

Hard as it was to conceive, the Bulls made exemplary Candy Stripers, caring, gentle, willing to do anything which included a lot more of"anything" than I wanted. I will admit that the prostate massage did feel good. Okay, very good but it was being done with a sort of whacked out intention. Also, after it was over I almost slipped beneath the waves thinking I could die a happy and drained man; For once in a rough sea, well, spa, I didn't think of the drowning sequences in "A Perfect Storm".

"Guys, uh, I'm getting water logged, could we...."

"Gotcha, only there's one more watery stop, but it's a quicky"

Some days ago my understanding of the word "quicky" was one thing but that was some days ago, now I wasn't sure what it might mean but I had confidence I discovered in these two guys, trusted them to do what was best. Although given my current surroundings, cast of people I could not have hoped to meet socially, "best" needed a new definition. And, of course, the two fingers up my ass.

Additional to everything else, my hunger had grown and I seemed to be permanently thirsty. I mentioned this to the guys who seemed to be aware that this was a problem but it, too, was part of the restorative program. They heaved themselves up from the water and, almost effortlessly, and painlessly, got me out as well. Without bothering to put me down we had the next "quicky" which proved to be a shower room when, if you turned the right dials, water came at you from all directions; Even the most energetic car wash couldn't have done as thorough a job. Mike, or maybe it was Bob, turned my modest foreskin back and held it over jet of water to make sure it was rinsed and about my tail...there was something like an old fashioned tractor seat, the metal kind, built over a modified toilet.I was put on that, a handle was turned and....apart from almost being blown from the seat by the strength of the spray, my innards were thoroughly watered and the effluvia, if there was any, dumped into the faux toilet; I wondered if bidets were widely known or accepted in California.

One of the Bulls took me in his arms, went down a short hall, pushed a door open with his foot, plunked me on a massage table, turned to the guy standing beside the table who said, "Jack called, I'll let you know when you can pick him up, get him fixed up best as I can." The door slammed and I was alone with a man, naked save for a jock strap a great tan, about six and a half feet tall who, like all the men I'd recently dealt with spent what I'll call a lot of time in the gym. A lot. On the walls, somewhat surprisingly, there were a number of certificates from very credible places guaranteeing his education in physical therapy, sports medicine, least I was, and excuse the expression, in good hands.

"First thing, got to get some hydration started, get your electrolytes balanced, nutrition..."as he did this he rolled a hospital style stand close to where my corpse was. On it were no less than six (6!)bags of whatever. Some looked like standard saline, others did not.First things first. I was rolled up in a warm towel, dried vigorously, rolled out of that towel, put in another, dried again and, finally, let out of that only to be draped with the sort of toweling a masseur would routinely use, the only slight difference was that all of me that was exposed were my eyes, nose and one arm.I'd been rubbed down or had a massage in the past but sensed....this one would be different. Previously, I'd been asked certain question, how did I stand deep tissue massage? Allergic to any oils? Latex?Prefer to keep my genitals covered? Instead of that he said,

"Hey there, bro, I'm Butch and you're here for the full treatment, Jack's treat." I wondered if I should be grateful or not.

"First thing, get you shot up with some two and two but I'm down stepping it a bit..." As he said that, he started a standard vein catherization line which came from the saline bottle equipped with a flow meter and a piggy back. I'll say this, he found my vein as easily as it had ever been done, saline was flowing, I could feel the slight chill, almost immediately. Once he satisfied himself I was safely locked in to my line, he produced a syringe which went in the piggy back.Within seconds I felt....something. "Versed and Fentanyl, standard pre-op injection to relax you." I could tell something was going on, I wasn't woozy-I'd already done that, but, as he said, I sensed a sort of relaxation that one doesn't usually sense; Apart from this not being pre op, I was grateful to have it.

Working quickly, obviously to get "the good stuff" in and starting repairs he hung another bag, this time slightly milky in color and started it in the piggy back. "Glucose with a hyper dose of every vitamin you can think of plus some good blasts of minerals, that sort of shit." He looked at me seriously. "I don't know your personal habits but...I gotta assume you drink a lot so this will help clean toxins from your liver." I thought about the line of bottles on the bureau in my bedroom....well, maybe I did drink a lot, at least currently and given my future, maybe drinking might be a good idea.Certainly more than the beer or two while watching a game.

"Want ya ta sleep for a few while things get running through you?" He was holding another syringe in his hand and, somehow, I felt this might not be a choice question; It wasn't.

After a while in dream land, during which I was fluffed by the Bull boys, Jack, Jeff, Jerry, Sam, even Al plus this guy not to mention a drop forge and a miking machine to get my daily two quarts I wandered back to find...thoughts of death were no longer with me.

"Hey there buddy! You got some colour back, your pulse and pressure are steadying, oxygen saturation's good...almost like a real human cept I doubt you feel like that." Not chancing my voice I made motions with my head that to some degree said "yes" but not all the way"Yes" just a little way. He smiled-and he had a truly great smile-removed everything that was covering me, inquired as to whether I was too warm, too cold...a shrugging of shoulders meant okay. (I thought longingly of all those years when I'd wasted time making, full, complete grammatically correct answers when all I'd needed to do was run a course of physical movements that completely convey my situation. A buddy of mine, attached to the Italian Consulate in New York, had taught me some further physical movements that went far beyond the social niceties, everything from the simple, "fuck you"to the highly complex, "You are a cuckold and it's your brother who did it." Try and take that one into court and quote it. Well, maybe court in Italy.

By now, and this sparkling, horrifying, gawd awful, edifying day one thing was sure, employed or not, I would never be the same Barney who pushed on a bell and fell in to sin. Actually, now, I'd participated in some very minor sin but then something came to me....while I was on the floor being fluffed, at Jack's orders, I seemed to remember a camera, some lights-okay, in my limited vision today they were just circling around, may have even been passing through but......I seemed to hear a voice say....."Jesus, Mother, Mary and Joseph, he just shot enough cream to ....." and there my memory failed me. I didn't really want to believe whose cream was under discussion but given what else I remembered, there really was no choice. The camera and lights, however, were another consideration; I felt it was a tad early in my newly found career as script writer for the sexually adventurous to concurrently make my cinematic debut. And, after all, what sort of pervert would get off watching a tall, good looking, vaguely young, Irish man get sucked off by seven people even as he screamed, alternately for more and to stop? In my mind an answer formed but I was able to avoid it.....

Butch picked up my leg, put it over his shoulder and with a touch you associate with commercials for baby powder, started to work on my massage. "Ya know, ya always work from the extremities toward the heart..." as if to prove it he did the masseurs version of "This little piggy...." and so forth. The sole of my foot, I was told, was a gold mine of nerve endings and he played it like a eyes were crossing with pleasure while, further down, One member of the South Irish Marching Band had risen to shake the Shillelagh in the air. I groaned and, for the first time, no pain was involved. In the back of my mind I had started to fear what would happen as he worked up, toward that place from whence the "money shot", well, shot but differed that until a later time. I anticipated it but just then Butch hit something on my sole that caused three of my five Lumbar vertebrae to relax so completely, I was flat on the table.

That terrific smile. Butch leaned over, never missing a fingering on my foot, took my cock in his mouth and, well, inhaled seems almost too weak a verb. Lets just say that, to that moment, and I'd had several mouths attached "down there", Butch's was...I don't know, every single fucking spout on the Trevi Fountain only in reverse. Did I moan? Well, fuck yes I did. Held his head, tried to move my body, tried to thrust up my very tired cock but he calmly just worked me down until I didn't just have a money shot, I knocked over the whole Brinks truck.

My white semen, the part he didn't swallow, eased out the side of his mouth and almost like a cobra following its prey, I reached up, coated my fingers and licked them clean. I'd never done it before, thought about it but-I'm hard pressed to mention this, since Al and Sam had moved in, letting Al have my spunk was sort of a treat for him. I don't know what Sam gave him but, after my contribution, I don't think Milk Bone would cut it. That's also probably why in winter when it was cold Sam was always banging on the radiator to "remind" the super that we needed heat. Well, he needed heat, I was wrapped up in Al's fur-all I needed were some hunting socks to stay warm all night. Based on that evidence, I'm guessing Sam didn't give Al much of anything-I usually fed him-he was rewarded on the same scale of affection as the lack of deeds done for Al. Again, as I lay there I thought about Al and teared up.Butch was very concerned first that he'd hurt me and then just what was wrong. Maybe he was used to men missing someone elses dog but he did what he could to calm me down or, to put it another way, he hit a spot, simultaneously on my fourth toe and my sole, that almost guaranteed instant calm. Al faded back and Butch faded in sensuously working on my calf with the clear indication that my thigh was next and then....we'd approach Lower Basin Street where God only knew what might happen.

It was as thorough and restorative a massage as I've ever had. Probably the bags of saline, glucose as well as vitamins and minerals went a long way but by the time he finished, working there from my head, I was perfectly happy to just stay there, grow older, while Butch did whatever he could do everyday. One last thing. "Okay, fella, gotta put you in to bake for a while and then we'll ice you and serve you to the party." With that, intense lights flicked on-he gave me a speech on the evils of tanning beds-put some small ovoid coverings over my eyes, slathered me in oil, splayed me out so that as much of me as was reachable was available. With the suggestion that I rest, reinforced by something from a syringe in the piggy back in my vein catherization, I did. At some point I must have been turned over for when I came to, well rested, I must say, I was wrapped in a blanket, a pillow under my head, my hand, per usual, on my cock.....just like waking up any morning. Except I was pretty sure it wasn't morning.

The bulls appeared, their normal, smiling, pleasant selves and were genuinely concerned as to how I might be, questions answered by Butch and all with a definite up tick. One more thing, another light coating of oil-I wouldn't have cared if he'd dipped me in 10-W-40- and I was ready to go. Almost.

"Guys, you know how it is around the office, naked, clad, makes no difference but, even though I don't know where we are, I'm betting I need to wear clothes, you're wearing clothes and when he leaves, I'll bet Butch wears clothes...."

They had a conspiratorial smile that did and did not give me a good feeling. One Bull had a bag, the other had a shoe box. Whatever ever it was, it was going to be covering, how much covering, I wondered but, hey, this was California, if it had six band aids and two cocktail napkins, I could figure something out. Not necessary. Good looking pair of cargo shorts, very short in the rise and cuffed, but good looking, a light weight campaign shirt with epaulets on the shoulders, some aviator specs and, in the box, a handsome pair of leather flip flops. Everyone, including me, actually, agreed I looked pretty fucking good, well, their word was "Studly" but their hearts were in the right place.

Suddenly I felt Butch grab me than begin to rub some oil in my hair. Didn't take him long to restore it to where it was when Jerry finished. For whatever reason, I was intensely grateful to these guys, in some ways they had saved my life and as I stood there, I knew what I had and wanted to to; One at a time, I hugged and kissed each one and mumbled my thanks. Their pats on my back could have loosened phlegm if I'd had pneumonia but we'd kept the brotherhood of sin perking along.

"Okay, where to?"

"The good parts over, back to work. Two scripts are needed....didn't think you could take some time off just cuz you tied one on? Fuck, I've done a three way two hours after chugging a bottle of Tequila. No one did anything for me, just told me to get fluffed and get laid."Business is business. I thought of a despicable boss, by whom I was no longer employed, who had vanquished a six double Martini lunch, fuck the olives or the onions or, for that, the bitters, walked in as casually vertical as usual, made a seven figure deal and, only then, leaned back had a snooze, wakened, ordered a pot of coffee plus five fingers of Brandy. Admirable I suppose but also an object lesson; At the end of the day he got up, pulled on his suit coat and fell flat on his face on his desk. Some kind soul got the rest of him up there, pulled off his shoes, found a blanket, a couch pillow and then, in the fading twilight's boom, removed his pants and fucked him. There were not only stills but a video-that was given to him as a holiday present in one of those idiot "gift exchanges" where you randomly select a name to whom you'll give a gift and another person, having drawn your name, lets you have it as well. Somewhat later, after hearing a good laugh in a viewing room, the word went out that he wanted copies and with the sound converted to Dolby.

This time the drive was easier to take, I could enjoy the trashier parts of the City of Angels we were in but, even with my limited knowledge of where things were, we were headed neither for the studio nor the hotel. If I'd learned nothing in the past days it was to shut up and see what happened next as, hard experience, whatever it was wasn't something I might have conceived. (I thought of Geneticist J.B.S Haldane's famous quote, "The universe is not only stranger than we imagine, it is stranger than we can imagine." Nothing in my life had ever disproved that and so I let the Bulls take me for a ride.)

I hadn't quite caught the meaning of "the long commute" but I was learning and what I was learning was that this was one of them. One of the Bulls said I looked great in my clothes (they did as well but I failed to mention it) and that the bit of sun tan, and tinge of burn, looked "bitchin'". Almost to himself he considered that,"Jack really did know how to do it.......". Well, probably although I wasn't quite sure what he'd done apart from getting my cock sucked, letting me get beyond shit faced drunk and then turning me over to number of professionals who had worked very hard to bring me back to life even though I figured that full, rich life, such as before I got canned by my former job and then drank the contents of a mini bar wasn't to be. Still, I was ahead of where I had been when I'd wakened in a cozily kitted out not seeing things as they are, not as they were or might be. I noticed that having left what had signs of being a garbage dump for Los Angeles County, we'd moved into a suburb of the upper sort.

Brad Bull pulled into a most attractive Mansard adaption that had on the three across driveway, a boat on a trailer, a large one, the sort you felt could sleep two or three guys comfortably for a day or more, access to three garages as well as a winding path toward the front door through what looked like a fairly faithful reconstruction of a portcullis. Brad pushed a button on what I'd thought was his cell phone and a door went up allowing him to pull into the garage, touch the button again followed by his saying, "Nobody even knows you're here." To myself I added, "...or cares". There were signs they were perfectly willing to pick me up and haul me wherever I was to go but I was feeling sufficiently recovered that giving my legs a try, and using one Bull to steady me, to go it alone. Okay, he did carry me up the eight steps from the garage and through the back door but only after I'd wavered.

Inside revealed what the outside suggested, a very fine home, which, from my limited vantage point in what I assumed was the laundry room, I could see very little save for the sort of kitchen that is referred to as"gourmet" and, my other line of sight, an attractive room, casual but beyond that...."Up we go" said a Bull as he pushed a button on the wall. Seconds later a door slid open and we were in an elevator-he pushed three. We stopped and, for all I knew, it might have been the third floor. The Bulls seemed to know the place so with one friendly hand on each shoulder they got me down the hallway, through double doors, into a foyer and, beyond that, a great bedroom, clearly one designed for a man, handsome, all the touches you think should be there had been touched. The bed was of no particular size other than enormous, nicely fitted out with a dozen pillow, good looking sheets that almost grabbed you to come sleep on them, a sort of duvet/quilt combination as well as a bench at the end where one might plop down after a hard day, pull off their boots, or shoes, or just sit and flop back knowing in a nanosecond you'd be comfortable;Fuck undressing.

The tour continued. I would have guessed it was a bathroom but depending on how you felt about it, could have been a locker room. Row of open showers, forty eight inch high vanity, two standing urinals, three rooms for toilets, a hot tub and another tub whose function was hard to discern, an eight foot tall open set of cabinets that was piled deep with towels plus, beside that, a bidet. Almost off handedly a Bull said, this's the can...and before I had time to explore-it was the sort of place one wanted to explore even if you had no use for more practical applications. As I was hauled out I thought I caught side of a partially opened door beyond which was a massage table.....and the foot plank of a barber's chair. It was a more complete facility than the locker room when I was in college.

"Okay, guy, here's your office." One of them pointed at the bed. Got all the sort of thing writers need-they seemed puzzled at what a writer might need-but pulled over the equivalent of an island in a kitchen on wheels save that this one had pencils, pads, two computers, some sort of pop up television, typewriter and-I wonder whose idea that had been?-a still packaged batch of Big Chief tables. (I idly wondered if, somewhere, I would find the deluxe box of crayolas, the one that had 54 colours plus silver, gold, copper and a sort of non-colour that I remembered was used for correcting colouring mistakes, such as when you went outside the line.)

"Uh, what am I supposed to write? Jack leave any ideas, suggestions, you know, what sort of script he'd like his head script writer to write?"They looked at me, I looked at them and, suddenly, a light shown in the East as one Bull reached into the rolling writer's platform and produced a carefully bound stack of eight DVDs. "Jack said to watch these and see if you had any ideas as to how to make them better.This is all rough so don't expect no fancy shit."-an assumption I'd already made. There was a pause while a sort of smile of pride played across his handsome, muscular face. "There's one of us.....maybe you'd like to begin with that....seein's how we're here we could show you up close what it looks like, kinda talk you through what we're doin'......"

It was as if his wish was some machine's command. Over the fire place descended a screen that could have easily wall papered a reasonably sized living room in a tract home. Only a few moments passed, as well as some buttons pushed before we were in a darkened room. They stripped, I joined them, hopped on the bed ready to enjoy their own, uh, handiwork, another button and the screen came to life with a dizzying camera angle which showed what I thought was the roof of"our" studio. Some background comment then it settled on the Bulls on the fake bed in the fake set with the real lava lamp beside it. We watched that and them for about twenty seconds-of which fifteen was more than adequate-and then a jump to another shot of the bulls, only half naked, making a sort of stand up love, again the eye jarring cut to their hands playing hand ball with each over, another jump, and both were on the bed-apparently it didn't come with sheets-naked again, or maybe still, making love or expressing a deep affection.

Suddenly the lights came on and both Bulls had an anxious sort of look, one that made me wonder if I was supposed to review what I'd just seen or, worse, comment on their performances. "Jack had all that re-shot, thought you wouldn't like it then we re-shot it and that's what's coming up. Thought we'd better explain that, you know, the change in scenery, shit like that."

Lights off, the screen comes on but this time there's a nice looking paneled door framing the two Bulls, fully clad, as if they'd just walked in.Even the short foyer they were in was....nice....and vaguely familiar. The camera pulled back as they sauntered into a good looking bedroom at which point my jaw dropped.

"Holy shit, that's my room at the hotel!!!!"

"Yeah, looks great don't it, better than that set we got." I looked at him to see if he showed any earmarks of being crazy. "I thought you seen what they was doing when you came out of the tub......?"

In some crevice of my mind I had vague, indistinct not quite memories of being in my room, desperately hung over and being told to move over as....something was going to be on the other side of the bed....and then I was gone and, I don't know, it never occurred to me to think about a hotel room. They are what they are, rented space from a corporation that you used for whatever your purposes and then left.No where in my years of staying in hotels had I ever seen them as a sort of little theatre. I tried to think, an almost painful thing to do.....

Not only was I confused but I was mad, an ugly drunk after the drunk part has gone. "Where the fuck am I, when is it....where are my watch..." and ran out of demands not because I didn't have them but because I couldn't remember them. One of the Bulls looked at the other.....

"He's kinda not up to date....." And to me, "Barney, you've been out for two days, it's Saturday evening, this is Jack's house, you're in his bed and we've been trying to help...."

How much sense did that make to you? Double it and you've got me. Then there was the yelping.....the hounds of hell no doubt but suddenly I was covered with a large furry animal whose licking was oddly familiar......My God, it was Al. In Jack's bedroom. In California.Okay, I started to cry again, well, bawl.

"See, every guy should have a got yours back." I was puzzled but too happy to ask any questions though, doubtless, I should have. Like, how did you get him and how did you get him here.I was diverted as Al wanted to renew one of this favourite activities and was under the covers looking for my dick, licking it and hoping for a treat. Through my tears of laughter and gratitude I tried to grab the Bulls and hug them but that was equivalent to trying to hug two side by side fire plugs, they knew my heart was in the right place.

Beyond having a dog romance with, some success, my cock, there was the little issue of the missing two days. I wrote them off, in my newly wild Irish way, to "The Drink" and just assumed a lot of what I felt was linear was actually my mind acting as the engine to the freight then jamming on the brakes which compressed all the cars/days together. Even though I remembered being on the table at the spa with Butch, I couldn't tell you how long.....I remembered his suggesting I take a nap, actually, he suggested I take several of them, but how long was a nap? One answer, at least one that had some fringes of time measurement was my sun tan and slight burn but, beyond that, waking up wrapped up and coming to; What I saw as very little time, could have been....hours.

"I gotta see this....I never saw it up close like this...." Both Bulls were fascinated by Al and my cock which he'd worked into a first class hard on and was now tonguing my balls as well as my tribute to him and my pleasure at seeing him. "Fuck, look at those teeth, I wouldn't want them near my dick....". Well, you weren't me and didn't know Al. What had them riveted was the sight of a grown man having his cock sucked by an animal that weighed in the area of 120 pounds and, in other applications, was trained to take men down and sink their teeth in them. Al, however, had learned that if he got too involved and clamped down, I swatted him, hard, and prevented him from getting what he wanted. He was a fast learner and was now laying on his side, one paw almost massaging my nuts while his tongue-long-was wrapped around a hard, fleshy tube in which he knew lay "the good stuff" but he'd have to work for it.

"Good doggy, good, I'll help you." I was at pre-moan so when one of the Bulls stuck his fingers up my ass to, once again, work over my prostate, didn't strike me as anything but great. If Jack had been around, even if he'd only had a camera in his phone, this would have been a feature length. One last slurp and I shot the moon. Al was so excited that after he'd finished me he looked around for more and found....a Bull. Naked and hard.

After it was all over, I'm amazed Al didn't burp, he blew me at least twice and the bulls, who were used to being able to produce one dog's food quite often more times....Okay, so it was almost bestiality of a sort but actually I knew several guys who in a drunken moment confessed that they let their fido do what Al was doing.

A few-time had lost any purpose-I woke up to find Jack's bed filled with me, Al, and the Bulls. On the screen, someone must have hit continuous loop, were the bulls endlessly fucking one another save for those moments when they sucked each other, rimmed each other, you know, standard fare. One thing I did notice, Al was hotter in California than in New York but then it wasn't cold and, regardless of the season, he had a fur coat. But glad to see him? Fuck yeah I was although....I did wonder how he'd been acquired but it came to me that I might be better off not knowing. Little doubt that I would know but not just then. My stirring brought Al to life and, well.....For someone who was not specifically in the porn industry a week previously, I'd done everything but or maybe I'd done everything and didn't know. I lay back on Jack's wonderful sheets and just enjoyed myself.....

This time, however, what Al wanted wasn't sex but out. God only know when last he'd been given a chance to take a leak but as he went to the door and arduously scratched the expensive finishes, clearly he wanted out and now wouldn't be a moment too soon. Having no idea how to even get off the third floor, how to get to outside and, if I could, if outside would have at least a tree and some grass I punched a Bull who came to almost immediately.

It was something of a hard explanation as I lacked a leash, a pooper scooper and, of course, any idea as to where he could go. Bull was immediately sympathetic and told me he'd been in a Shibari situation for eight hours and he knew what it was like to really want to go;Not knowing what a "Shibari Situation was, I tried to seem understanding, though puzzled. Before I could point out that he was a New York dog, would need a leash and the pooper scooper they were out the door, Al showing every sign of deep gratitude. Bull was naked but I'd gotten so used to that I failed to notice. Besides with every step down the trail to degradation I'd further accepted nudity as normalcy. Just then I was nude and thought nothing of it. Flopping back in bed I X'ed out worrying about it and returned to sleep.

It was actual dark the next time around, no forms of sex, whether on the screen or next to me were being performed; Indeed, except for Al, I was alone in the bed and even he seemed to have lost a taste for sex so, once again, it was a time to wonder. Sounds of something not to mention smells of food came to me as they did to Al. Not for nothing are dogs trained to "sniff out" whatever they're looking for.Having not planned on him, there were no preparations for food or water.....and water in several ways seemed a good idea; I knew where the can was so rolled out of the play pen and, followed by my faithful dog, headed that way. Considering I didn't believe there was solid food in me, my time astride Crane Standard's gift to the world was amazingly long. Al, no fool he, found another toilet and, literally, drank it dry. Apparently that wasn't quite enough as he jumped in a hot tub. What was I to do? This time his far famed nose had betrayed him-as it had me-this was a hot salt water tub. Felt good so we stayed there-had it been only a bit larger we could have done laps.

Leaning back, having found a jet that would do for my prostate what two fingers had done, I tried to get some perspective on, well, a lot of things. There's an old expression,
"Don't sweat the small stuff" which seemed a good maxim to follow. The difficulty trying to sort out what was small stuff and what was not. For example, how and who got Al? Depending on your level of paranoia about being charged with a felony for dog napping. Or, in my case, receiving a stolen dog. The hotel room? Nah, ditto the car. Apart from getting my clothes and a few other thing, my luggage and lap top for example, my time there would run out and whatever the "studio" did would take care of itself. Money, to date, hadn't been a problem, as everything had been paid for excepting the mini bar and a meal or two. That I had a job, of whatever sort, was at least consoling although, based on what I'd seen, a screen writer wasn't a pressing need but that was something to resolve or would be resolved. Obviously going back to New York was, just then, a poor idea. Somehow the thought of calling Sam to tell him that his dog was fine and with California wasn't a good one. In effect, no office to call although in the back of my mind it was hard to resist planning some sort of revenge.Oddly, the thing I missed and wanted just then was something the jet couldn't do and that was a couple of fingers up my tail. Getting to be a habit I suppose.

Getting the salt water out of Al was hard to do; Just rinsing him wasn't enough so we both lathered up, rinsed off, repeated the process and, finally, were salt free. Both of us dried, after he showered everything with his post water shaking, we were now ready for food.In one sense I missed the mini bar at the hotel; Apart from the liquor it had snacks that at least kept one's stomach from grumbling but would Al eat peanuts?

Back in the room there was the overwhelming smell of some sort of cook out. Finding a window I looked out to see a number of naked and marginally clad men lounging around a pool that appeared to be an inlet of the Pacific Ocean, liquor (I shuddered) beer etc and, most of all a buffet with an enormous brick cooker currently occupied by meat. It was overwhelming. Just as I got someone's attention and there seemed to be movement to come collect me, there was the sound of wood splintering and a happy barking as Al took out the door. Abandoning my perch, I chased after him, down a very long circular staircase, across a marble floor and through a pair of open French Doors. We had arrived.

I couldn't really blame him but....Al grabbed a ham or a lamb or a goose, hell I don't know, it was on the buffet table and carried it away as his catch of the day.

My entrance to the party was, even by Hollywood standards, riveting. A door opened, a naked man and a dog appeared, the dog, ravenous with hunger, snatched something edible and retired under an Oleander bush where his guttural noises indicated pleasure and a suggestion that this was not a good time to pet him. As to the naked man....he didn't even have sun glasses, his cock was only semi soft and he had no idea what was going on.

Jack, ever one of the most pleasant people I'd met, came up, put an arm around me, announced that Shakespeare had returned-there was a cheer-and welcomed me to his home. I wondered if this was a good moment to mention a flattened door? What I did wonder about was Jack's "outfit". I'd never seen half a jock and by that I mean, it only covered one side, not the whole way round. (I thought about Howard Hughes and his theoretical attempt to produce a cantilevered brassiere for Jane Russell.) "Bet your hungry." We sauntered-when naked, sauntering is best, keeps things from flopping about-to the buffet politely ignoring where my dog had trashed part of it. In one ear Jack suggested that I confine myself to light foods and, for restorative purposes, have a beer. The thought almost made me throw up in the Guacamole dip.

Socrates and the Hemlock, Barney and his beer....I wish there were some analogy but there isn't save that Socrates ended up dead and I was condemned to live. But....oddly, a few swallows in, I did feel better. Jack smiled knowingly-Jack knew a lot about which to smile knowingly it came to me-and led me around, pointing out people I'd met-even if I had no memory of it. Here and there were couples, singles, groups employing themselves in a sort of casual sex, the sort you have when you're not being photographed. Seeing someone, in a leather hammock-something I'd never seen as part of garden furniture-he left me to my own devices even if every device I could think of was being illustrated.

Jeff bounded over, gave me a hug and a kiss, told me he was glad to see me restored to health and offered to get me another beer; It was just then that I noticed I'd knocked down the first one like a frat boy before the big game. Perhaps it was there, looking at Jeff, happy, healthy and, by studio thought, almost too mature at 38, that I had an idea. Indeed looking around I could see an iceberg like division in age groups; Assuming Jack was mature, I was middle aged and many of the rest of the merrymakers and makers of each other would need a license check before anything else. Forgetting my own personal sexual preference, which increasingly seemed like German Shepherd, I tried to think about stories with only men. It was too soon to know all the various perversions, not to mention themes and variations, on sex men could do with each other but that was my cast. This wasn't a sit com, these were guys in front of me being men relating to each other sexually as well as just casually. Somewhere between an all guys tailgate party and the first blue movie you ever saw in the company of

I looked back at Jeff and could not avoid thinking that if he was"mature" then persons of both sexes were missing considerable action in assuming that their sexual life committed suicide at age thirty. Jeff, as well as Jack, the Bulls, Butch....were not kids, I would have said Butch and Jack were well into their forties but in terms of attraction, they seemed just about perfect. All around us were people illustrating what I was thinking, no consideration as to age, looks, just guys being guys enjoying themselves. How that could go on a screen, where the idea was to arouse not make comfortable, I wasn't sure but having no better idea, it was a starting point. That having been thought through, I turned to Jeff and did my best approximation of the man to man kiss that wasn't like one head of state greeting another head of state at the airport.

"Jesus, Barney, where did that come from? Maybe the beer was a bad idea..."

"Nope, that's my way of saying thank you and, by the way, have you heard the one about the nice boy who comes upon a situation and decides to consider some things?"

He looked puzzled.

"Jeff, you know all this stuff and considerably more than I do so I need some one to explain it...for example, those two guys, on the diving board, are they gymnasts?"

He looked, looked back at me and said that they were fucking-a part I realized-and doing it double cowgirl. Or maybe he said side saddle.Whatever it was, doing it on the diving board seemed a poor choice of places a fact I mentioned. Jeff laughed and said it was common practice to do something on the board, sort of like a runway at a fashion show, where everyone could see you. With the exception of Jeff and myself, their audience was not apparent.

"Maybe we could go some place and talk, you know, academic to academic? Some place where I could find some clothes? It's getting chilly...."

"California is never as warm as people want to believe it is. Try going to the beach in mid July and going for a swim; your cock and nuts will pull up and your nips will be harder than quarters." He looked around."Let me find Jack and ask if I could slip away with you for a bit...."

Why ask Jack? I was well beyond the age of consent and while a guest in Jack's-very nice-home, why did he need to be consulted? The answer was simple. Or it was supposed to seem simple, it just didn't to me.This was supposed to be a sort of welcome to the studio party in my honour, now that I'd joined it. Jack wanted me to meet the guys, not just the performers, but the camera guys, lighting people....significantly no mention was made of wardrobe; I thought about the "costume" department I'd seen and realized that what I'd seen was so much costuming as a tribute to nylon, spandex, lycra etcetera. No one piece was significantly larger than a happy meal which, in many ways, was an apt concept. I looked back at Jeff who, as usual, had his happy, handsome smile.

"Lets go over there, through those doors, it's warmer inside and you'll still be on display if Jack wants you to meet someone. I'll scout around and find you something to wear....warmth not display being the better choice,huh?" I smiled in appreciation and headed for the doors he indicated. Along the way, to be a "good guest" I paused to speak to people I'd theoretically met, was introduced to their boyfriends, was welcomed, was told snippets of projects they had in mind for them...I was discovering how necessary making sure you were known and recognized was. It was weird. Decades earlier there had been a book called "The Day of the Locust" about the studio system, it's venality, it's ego but mainly about how those at the top were to be curried. In a flash I realized that I was at the top of the heap at least at "Harde On". I was the new golden child, I was the protegee of the head of the studio, fuck, I was sleeping in his bed. What else was I other than a man to be patted, befriended, made to remember them...and that's when I tripped over a handsome couple blowing each other and fell into the swimming pool

Even the guys on the board stopped whatever they'd started doing to look.They weren't the only ones, I was knocked cold when Al, sensing his, uhm, meal ticket was in peril, reacted as he'd been taught to and came to my rescue, dove in and clonked me.

The party, at least my participation came to an end. To be fair, I didn't drown but an awfully lot of carefully applied skin makeup floated toward the deep end when people jumped and I went down and didn't immediate float back up.

It occurred to me that getting out of bed was proving to be a poor idea.When I came to I was back in Jack's bed surrounded by what looked like the hearty, half nude chorus boys from "South Pacific". Ever the concerned host, Jack was pressing a compress against me and there was an internal feeling that I was going to have a black eye. To the degree it was possible, I looked about, surveyed who was there and remembered...whoever was in that room with me was the upper echelon.They'd been admitted to the "Presence" by Jack. The Bulls, of course, Jeff and a few others but based on the number of party goers versus the numbers of concerned in the room, the division line was apparent.

The moment had come for me to take the coronet handed me by the king and start wielding my scepter. In other words, languidly put my hand on my crotch rolled on my side and, in remembrance of recent events and knowing what had made me feel better said, "Okay, who'd like to stick two fingers up my ass?"




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