Danny's Choice

Danny’s Story

I guess if I were asked when the turning point of my life was--or at least the initial one--I’d have to say it was when I was sixteen and the Broadway producer, Evan Yellen, called me down from the dance auditions for the musical Finian’s Rainbow. The show had a quartet of male dancers, but one got too near the footlights in a rehearsal, fell off the stage, and broke his leg. They needed a fourth on short notice, and I was auditioning for the spot.

I should have gotten the job, I think. I was the best dancer there. I had been well trained from the time I could walk. I think the only reason I didn’t get it was because I was only sixteen at the time--and because I didn’t have a backer. My mother had gotten me a few spots, but not in anything like a Broadway musical. My mother was a dancer too--a showgirl at New York’s Tropicana Club, which featured Latin music. She wasn’t Latin, but my father was--a Cuban conga drummer who had been in high demand before the Tropicana Club opened and had helped my mother learn that music.

My father was dead when the Tropicana opened in 1945, but my mother was a good enough dancer to score a job there--largely, I think because of the club owners’ respect for my father. He had been killed at the Anzio beach landing in Italy the year before the club opened.

Having been born in 1930, I was too young to go to World War II. I’m not sure my mother would have let me, in any event. She might have dressed me as a girl, as some mothers did to try to keep their sons from being taken in the army. I could have passed, I’m told, as I’m small and lithe, move like the dancer I am, and have sometimes been described more as pretty or beautiful than manly or handsome. I might have wanted to enlist, though, if I’d been old enough in time, because my mother was the classic stage mother, and there were times I would have liked to escape her clutches. But I was never given the opportunity to consider being anything but a dancer on stage.

When I hit sixteen, all of that changed. My mother was a war widow, and the soldiers who had survived were coming home. She was barely thirty-two, was favored with great bone structure, and used every trick in the book to look ten years younger. She was largely successful and landed a returning hard-bodied, sexually experienced soldier from a well-to-do, if not knock-down rich, New York family, who saw her on stage at the Tropicana and pursued her. The problem--beyond the man being possessive and short tempered as a result of having grown up quickly in the midst of fighting--was that he was the age my mother looked like--twenty-three. He wasn’t about to be seen with a sixteen-year-old stepson. So I had to go.

My mother, who couldn’t pass up the opportunity to land a hard-bodied, sexually experienced, well-to-do man nine years her junior this close to when she’d be too old to be limber enough to do the Salsa, turned on a dime. She went from stage mother to waving-good-bye mother in the time it took her to maneuver Manny down the aisle. I, of course, hadn’t been invited to see that happen.

It’s not that my mother entirely abandoned me; it’s mostly that she wore dark glasses and kept her eyes darting around to check for watchers whenever we met at a café in secret. And, of course, she didn’t tell Manny she still was in touch with me. She did what she could for me, though, with suggestions and references, as she could, and some cash here and there to help me with my rooming house bill. Unfortunately, she didn’t know anyone high enough in the casting world to help me get a good Broadway musical gig.

It wasn’t that unusual for guys my age to be out on their own and working in that era. So many young men had been killed in the war that there was a demand for workers, even if they were a bit young, and the theater world had long been open to younger actors, dancers, and stagehands. These young men just needed a little support to be able to hack it financially.

That’s where Evan Yellen came in.

I had done my audition and was standing in the line of others who had done so--they made us watch the auditions of our competition, which is why I was sure I was the best dancer that day. One of the stage hands came to me in line and whispered that Mr. Yellen wanted to see me down in the theater seats. He said the name reverently, which helped me decide to follow him--that and, not knowing who Mr. Yellen was, I thought maybe he was the casting director.

Mr. Yellen turned out to be a tall, well-built man in his fifties. Very elegant looking as far as my peasant eyes could see and well dressed. What I remember most from that first meeting were his hands--his long, expressive fingers. The biggest reason I remember them is that he was a toucher, and I felt his hands on me as we talked. Not anywhere intimate, but really friendly regardless.

“I saw you dance up there,” he said when I reached him. He was standing in the aisle at the edge of where the lights from the stage extended into the auditorium. The audience area was in the dark. This was an audition. Only the stage needed to be lit--and the first couple of rows, where the casting people sat. He wasn’t sitting there, or paying attention to the guy dancing now, so I concluded that he couldn’t help me get the spot.

“You are very good. The best I’ve seen up there today.”

“Thank you,” I said. I was waiting for him to tell me who the hell he was and how much clout he had around here, but I guessed he must be important, because he seemed to expect me to know who he was.

“You won’t get the part, though, you know?”

Like I hadn’t gotten all of the other Broadway musical parts I’d auditioned for, I thought. Of course not. But I can’t stop trying. “Why not, If I’m the best dancer up there?”

“For starters, how old are you? Thirteen? Fourteen?”

“I’m sixteen,” I responded. I caught myself but too late. If he’d guessed sixteen, I would have told him eighteen.

“Still too young. The pity is that I see that you’re ready, that the two extra years won’t make you much better, because there’s not much better you need to get.”

“Thank you,” I answered. But how does that help me, I wondered. Still, the compliment was nice. I was a little worried that he had his hand on my forearm, though. So far, I’d been pretty good at side-stepping the passes men were making at me. It was a real predatory jungle here in the New York theater district.

“Broadway is a dangerous place for young men under eighteen who look as good as you,” he said.

I did a double take. Had he read my mind just now?

“Producers don’t want any more trouble to avoid on the age issue then necessary, so they just avoid it. You might not get good dancing spots on Broadway until you’re eighteen. Maybe you don’t want to hold out that long. Also, you won’t get this spot because it’s already taken.”

“Already taken? Then why--?”

“They’re just being careful, going through the motions, for appearances. For the unions and such. The dancer who will get the job is the third young man from the left in the line up there. He’s twenty-one, which erases the age headache, and he’s been fucked by the producer of Finian’s Rainbow. Oh, I’m sorry. Did I disturb you with my bluntness or crass language?”

“No, sir. I know what being fucked means,” I said through clinched teeth. And I knew what being fucked meant. This wasn’t the first time I’d lost a spot to an inferior dancer who was being fucked by someone important. I was used to being fucked in another way by that. “But you said that I might not get good dancing spots on Broadway until I was eighteen, not that I could never hope too.”

“It would be possible that you could get to the Broadway musical stage sooner--if you had a patron.”

He still had a hand on my forearm, but now he had his other arm around my shoulder too. I was beginning to get the drift here. He wanted to fuck me. I’d fended this off already a couple of times, but I was getting tired of waiting until there’d be no complications. I didn’t mind the getting fucked part, I didn’t think. I had known I was gay for several years. And I knew that I was attracted to strong men who would work me. I just hadn’t done it yet. I’d developed no interest in topping other men. But everyone I talked to told me to hold out until I was eighteen. Otherwise it could get very messy.

“You think that guy third from the left is going to get the spot--because the producer is fucking him?”

“I know he will. I know both the producer and him personally. I know the decision is made. I know the dancer extremely well.”

“Extremely well? Meaning?”

“I was the first one to fuck him. I saw him when he was seventeen. I was the first one to fuck him--when he turned eighteen. He’s going to get this spot in part because of a deal he made with me.”

“Are you a Broadway producer too?” I asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“And you’re saying you want to fuck me? That you might get me a Broadway musical spot if I let you fuck me?”

“Has anyone been there before?”

“No. I’ve never been with a man.”

“Would you be willing to go with a man sometime in the future?”

“That’s the plan, yes.”

“Well, then, yes, I want to fuck you, and I’ll help you get dancing spots in Broadway musicals if you let me be the first one to do so. But I don’t want to do it now--I’ll help you now--but it would be on a contracted contingency. If you held off until you were eighteen and gave me your virginity and then gave me privileges as I wanted them, I will help you get on Broadway. If you signed the contract, though, and didn’t remain a virgin until I fucked you, you’d have to pay a penalty--an amount that you’d have to work very hard to come up with. Am I being too blunt for you?”

“No,” I answered, honestly. “It’s refreshing to have someone be upfront on what they’re offering. Not to mention that it’s refreshing to be pitched by a man who is willing to give something in return.”

He obviously felt sure of himself. The arm on my shoulder had dropped to my waist, and, in the next half minute went to cupping and slightly squeezing one of my butt cheeks. I was in the usual dancer’s practice costume, a leotard, so there wasn’t much mystery to him how well-rounded and firm my butt cheeks were. I was a seasoned dancer. Everything about me was firm.

“So, are you interested?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. It’s sort of a crazy offer, I’ll have to tell you.”

“I assure you that I can fuck you very expertly.”

“It isn’t that . . . it’s just something to consider seriously.”

“Are you perhaps remembering that you aren’t a virgin? That your dance teacher screwed you when you were fourteen?”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” I answered. He showed his approval by squeezing my butt again.

“Here’s my card, then. Give me a call. I can have the papers drawn up and you can come in and sign them.”

And fuck me on the spot on your casting couch? I wondered. I looked at the card. It said “Evan Yellen, esq.” and under that was “Broadway Producer.” I ran my fingers over the print, half suspecting that the dude had cards in all sorts of professions, but I could tell expensive printing when I saw it.

The casting director was on stage and was about to address the line of dancers. I hotfooted it back up there in time to hear him say they’d made their decision.

“We have decided we want Aaron Feingold for the spot in the Finian’s Rainbow men’s dance quartet.”

Feingold was the third guy from the left in the line. I turned and looked out into the dimly lit auditorium, but Yellen was gone.

After I’d had some time to stop seething, I went to a pay phone and called Yellen. He wasn’t in the office yet, but I left a message agreeing to his contract. I had a failed audition the next day again, and he sent a car for me there. He got me in as a dancer in the opening of the Broadway musical Brigadoon later that year and in Kiss Me, Kate the next year, when I was seventeen.

A week after my eighteenth birthday, he sent a car for me again and I went to his office half way up the Empire State Building.

“I understand you had a birthday last week, Danny.”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“Are you still a virgin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you remember that we have a contract?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you please step over to that studio couch over there, strip off your trousers and your briefs, and go down on the couch on all fours--in the position of the dog? You do know what the bottom position of the dog is, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you do know that I’m going to fuck you now?”

“Yes, sir.”

* * * *

“Just settle down and stop pushing at me, Danny. I’m in now.”

He wasn’t in as far as he was going to get, I was soon to learn. The pain was excruciating, not least because it was so strange compared to anything I’d experienced before. But I’d been assured that it would lessen and that, eventually, I usually wouldn’t notice it much at all--not compared with the pleasure it would be giving me. And there was some of that already--pleasure. The expectation of it; the “it’s finally happening” of it.

“Stop pushing on me. I’m in. You’re fucked already. Got your cherry. No reason to fight it. Open to me and enjoy it. You’re a dancer. Dance on the cock.”

I was on all fours on the studio couch in his office--the proverbial casting couch--and he was standing behind me, between my calves that jutted out over the end of the couch. I had twisted around and swung an arm behind me, the palm of my hand extending through his open and separated dress shirt and pushing at his muscular, hairy chest. I was bearing the weight of my twisted torso on a fist buried in the surface of the couch. He was crouched behind me, his hands gripping my hips, his dick inside me. Only a few inches, it turned out. He was going to be much deeper than that soon.

I know I was giving him a wild look. The look in his eyes was one of determination and of being a bit perturbed. I know I was crying out something, but I was trying my best that it not be a demand for him to stop. He wasn’t raping me. I’d agreed to it--I’d agreed to it months earlier, in fact. It’s just that now it was happening, it was overwhelming.

“Oh, for Christ sake,” he growled. And I felt the hands leave my hips and he was twisting around to the nearby chair that he’d hung his coat over. The hands came back with a long, cashmere neck scarf, which he whipped over my head; pulling my wrists together, causing me to collapse my chest on the surface of the couch--my tail still in the air, still skewered by his dick--and tying my wrists together with it.

“That’ll keep them out of the way,” he muttered. The hands went back to my hips, grabbing, pinching. And that’s when I discovered he’d lied about already being in--and already having been fucked, for that matter. All of my sensations went to my ass channel, which his dick was penetrating more deeply. God, it was big.

“You’re going to split me!” I hadn’t meant to cry out, but I hadn’t been able to keep it in.

Soothing shushing. “It will take it; I won’t split you. Open to me; you’ll be fine.”

“There, in to the root,” I heard him whisper in my ear through heavy breathing. “When you learn to open to it faster, there won’t be this pain.” And indeed, now that he was all in and had stopped pushing at me--and I began to relax, knowing that I wasn’t resisting anything that hadn’t already happened--the pain was a bit less. “Turn your head, look into the mirror over there. Here, I’ll turn your ass a bit. Look at what’s inside you. You can take it. You have taken it.”

I moaned at the sight of how thick the root of his dick looked to be as reflected in the mirror, where just the base of it was visible in my hole. And my hole. Who would have known it would open that wide? I didn’t find his “help” in showing that to me in the mirror reassuring. Well, not immediately, but there was a little thrill at having taken all of that. And that’s as big as his dick would get--surely. But maybe it would get bigger while he fucked? I moaned again.

And the pain. When the hell does the pain lessen, I wondered as I moaned and groaned and voiced every variation of “ouch” and “oh, shit” that bubbled up to my lips. “Ouch” didn’t express a fourth of the pain, though.

“So sweet, and fresh. I’ve wanted to do this for months. And so tight. I’m the first one, right? Tell me I’m the first one. I paid to be first.”

“Yes,” I answered through shallow pants and clinched teeth. “You’re the first one.”

He was. Would I be doing this if he didn’t have something I wanted badly? I wanted a speaking part in the Broadway play he was producing to go on stage in 1964.

“Good boy.” His hands were off my hips and gliding over my torso, patting and pinching. “Sleek young body--if I hadn’t seen your birth certificate myself, I’d--”

My groan covered what he was saying. Not only had a hand found and encased my dick, but I also felt movement in the throbbing dick inside me--or at least I thought the dick was throbbing; I knew my channel walls were throbbing from the alien invasion. He was beginning to move the dick inside me. Drawing back, pushing in, drawing back, pushing in farther than he’d reached before.

“Take it, take it, take it.” Each thrust punctuated with a command.

“Oh, shit, Oh Fuck! That hurts like hell!” All senses returning to my ass channel. What he’d done before tying my wrists together wasn’t being fucked. This was being fucked! Pumping me as I writhed under him. His grip on one of my pecs and on my dick vice-like now. The grip eased and he was stroking me with his hand to the rhythm of his dick stroking my channel.

I shot out onto the nice red vinyl of his studio couch. “Good, good, come for me. Good,” he growled. He let loose of my dick and lifted his hairy chest off my back. He had been holding me close and covering me.

Standing behind me now gave him more thrust leverage. He was pumping me hard and deep. I felt a hand running into the curls on my head, gripping my hair, jerking my head back toward him, arching my torso back in a tight bow.

And fucking, fucking, fucking. I was groaning and moaning to match his grunts and crying out who knows what. At that stage it must have been variations of “too much” and “please stop.” But he didn’t stop right away; he was too taken up with enjoying the ass of a young dancer-would-be-actor being fucked for the first time.

He did start to calm down and slow down after a short while, and he lowered his chest on my back again, tickling my shoulder blades with the coarse, salt-and-pepper hair swirling on his chest, and whispered, “Sorry, you’re just so sweet. Have trouble remembering it’s your first time--and that you’re eighteen. But I paid for this and you want even more from me. Say that I paid for this.”

“You paid for this,” I said, with a gasp. “But It hurts, it hurts,” I whined softly. The reminder helped me focus. He’d paid for this and hadn’t taken the privilege until I wanted more. He wasn’t raping me.

“It’s going to hurt the first couple of times. But it will get good for you. Just bear with me--and work on relaxing, opening. I know, maybe this would be better.”

He was pulling out of me--such a relief--and carrying me over to an overstuffed chair in a dimly lit corner of his office half way up the Empire State Building. He sat in the chair and pulled me down into his lap. He started to pull my shirt up and off my back, encountered my bound wrists and took the time to unbind them and then rebind them with the scarf once I’d been stripped of the shirt. I was naked except for my socks, and he was still fully dressed except for his shirt gaping wide open and his dick jutting up out of his open fly. Somehow the discrepancy made me feel doubly vulnerable and this whole situation seem sordid.

I’m not being raped; I’m not being raped, I chanted in my mind. I want something he can give me badly enough to do this.

His fumbling with my shirt and the binding was a pause I probably didn’t need. The fear of the first taking and what might yet be coming flowed back in.

Once my wrists were rebound, my arms went over his head, my wrists lodged behind his neck. “Run your legs up the back of the chair on either side of me,” he commanded. “You’re a dancer; you can do it.”

When I’d done that, he lifted and spread my buttocks and speared my now-more-open ass entrance with the bulb of his dick. I panted hard as he pulled me down on the shaft, whispering all the time, “Breathe, breathe, relax, open to me, baby. You’re doing fine. Oh sweet Jesus you are so nice. And I fucked you first.”

I fought hard to relax, to open to him, discovering how I could do more of that, how I could relax my channel muscles and start letting the tension flow out of me. He was right. I had nothing to protect. I was fucked now. I had agreed to it.

He began to lift my torso and pull it back down, his shaft moving up and down inside me again. It was better than before. Still painful, but I was becoming more resigned to it, more aroused by what it was we were doing. Now even that I was naked and he was clothed was making me feel sexy.

“There, good. Better for you?”

“Yes,” I answered in a small, labored voice. He continued for a while and I could hear his breathing becoming more ragged. If he’d just blow. There must be relief from this if he’d just fire his wad.

“Kiss my nips,” I heard him say, and I pulled my face into his hairy chest and kissed one of his nipples after brushing the hair aside with my tongue. “Yes, lick them. The other one too.” His shirt front was wide open, his muscular, hairy chest pushing out at me. “Bite them lightly. Oh, fuck. Yes, yes.” They were engorged, hard. I felt him shudder. And maybe ejaculate? No, maybe not. Would I be able to tell when he had?

I lost contact with the nipples and was arching my back and crying out to the ceiling because he was slamming me up and down on his dick with the hands gripping my waist in response to my having fired up his arousal by following his commands.

This didn’t last for long, though. He slowed down and dipped his face to my chest and did the same with my nipples that he had commanded me to do to his. “Perfection,” he murmured. “Young, sleek body. Dancer’s body. Just the right hard muscling. Nips are hard too. You like this.”

And I did like it. For the first time, I was whispering, “Yes, yes, like that,” and moaning a moan of pleasure. And I felt my ass muscles relax even more. He no longer was too taxing for me down there. He moved his face up to mine and took my mouth in a deep kiss. I sighed behind the possession and, involuntarily, my channel was coming to a life of its own, caressing the shaft inside it, my pelvis beginning to move, almost imperceptibly. Rising and falling on the dick, sliding up and down on it, caressing it. So this is what those I’d asked about sex meant on how glorious it could be to be fucked.

He broke from the kiss and gave a low laugh. “Yes, you want it now, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes,” I whispered. And I did want it.

“Fuck yourself. Move your feet down to where the arms of the chair meet the back. Use those feet for leverage. Fuck yourself on the cock.”

I did so, and unless my sensations were deceiving me, he was going harder inside me, and throbbing harder too. So, he could get bigger during the fuck. And with my controlling the stroking, the pain was less, the pleasure more. More throbbing slide along undulating walls, as the fear and tension drained from the core of my body and I opened more to fit the shaft better.

We were both calling out variations of “Yes, yes, fuck me.” I gave him my load again up his belly and heard him laugh and mutter something like “Oh to be young again.” I kept sliding up and down on the shaft, pumping my knees and pushing off on the crease where the chair arms met its back, getting better at it and being more in tune with it with each stroke. He growled a “Got you interested now, don’t I?” in a strangled voice, went rigid, and cried out a final, “Oh, Fuck!” I felt the entirely new, and not unpleasant, sensation of being creamed by his cum high up inside me.

Yes, I would know when he dropped his load inside me. And when I thought the spurt had ended, another one came. And then another one. He resumed the stroking, and the slide was looser, aided by the added lubricant. I experienced a flash of arousal. “Yes! Fuck me, fuck me. Harder, deeper.”

But as if I now was too much into the coupling, he was slowing down, his dick losing its hardness--just when I could have been lifted to a new level of want. “No, no,” I whined.

He laughed. “There will be more.”

We held there, forehead to forehead, our eyes locked, while, panting shallowly, we cooled down. At length, he asked in a low voice, “So, it was good for you in the end, wasn’t it? You can take it now? You want it, right? Because we’re going to do this again.”

“Now?” I asked in mixed fear and anticipation.

“In a bit. But soon. I promise. You get over these first couple of fucks and you’ll want it bad and will have it good, very good.”

“Yes, I want it again,” I answered in a small voice. I wanted what I’d come for and been prepared to take this for, but I wasn’t lying. I wanted him to fuck me again. I’d gotten over a barrier I’d worried about for months. I wanted it again, until I was comfortable with it--and then I wanted it again and again. He’d creamed me. Now I could really say I’d been fucked by a man. And now I’d have another skill to help me get what I wanted from men in power.

“Your choice, Danny. You want the part in the play or not? This, whenever I want it, if you do.”

“Yes, I want the part.”

His hands pulled my arms above my head, and he untied my wrists and let my arms fall to my sides. I became aware that I was near exhaustion. Letting my arms dangle at my sides, I arched my torso back, away from his chest, and let my head drop back. I could feel him going flaccid inside me. I no longer feared this dick of his. I wanted to feel it hard inside me again.

“Beautiful dancer’s body,” he murmured, and I felt his mouth return to one of my nipples. And then the other. Sucking.

“Fuck me. Please fuck me again,” I whimpered.

“We’ll get back to that. Now, go down on your knees between my thighs. Clean my cock with your mouth. Then start showing me how fast you can learn to give a great blow job.”

* * * *

After an experience such as Evan Yellen gave me for a first taking--and the second and third before he let me out of his office--it would be reasonable to think that I shrank away from having sex with a man, but I wantonly went in the other direction. Within the next three days I’d been fucked by four men and had made my next late evening appointment to be with Yellen in his office. I would never have thought I could be so wildly after it and wanton, but I eventually learned I had help getting there and that it was all part of a big plan by Yellen to maneuver me to where he wanted me.

Of course he wasn’t responsible for me wanting a lot of sex once that barrier had been crossed. He frequently told me later, though, that he had gauged me for one who would want it constantly, which was no small part of him being interested in me.

The first man was Sergei, the gnarled, but highly toned Prussian-strict dance master for the staging of Kiss Me, Kate. The dancers were practicing constantly to remain limber for the performances. We had our own dance studio, with floors that matched the somewhat springy and cantilevered surface of the raked stage itself and, all along one wall, a full-length mirror and a barre, the thick, wooden railing at chair-top height that dancers stretched out their legs on.

Sergei was an imposing and fearsome dance master. He no longer could dance himself. He nearly was crippled in his early sixties from too many years of springing off his knees and straining his muscles to the limit. As we practiced and did our stretches, he moved around the room, his cane tapping on the floor to tell us where he was if he wasn’t barking out insults and commands to this dancer or that, which was most of the time. He was a tall man, and strongly built, his body on the thickish side, although one would be taxed to find fat on him. He still drove himself as mercilessly as he did his dancers.

I knew he fucked his dancers when he could--or whenever he demanded it; dancers felt too lucky to be under his tutelage to deny him sex--both men and women. I heard him remark more than once in my hearing that “to dance for me, I demand total control, and there is one sure way of showing that.” He had sniffed around me and I’d been surprised that he hadn’t demanded I give him his due as the dance master, but I had learned back when I’d been dancing in Kiss Me, Kate that there was a bubble around me. It was like everyone knew of my “saving it” contract with Evan Yellen and were just waiting for the fruit to drop off the tree, floating around me, giving me looks, talking in double entendres, but not reaching out to lay a hand on me.

Sergei had been like the rest, but I could tell that it was a strain for him. And, truth be known, if he had demanded sex from me, even though I was only seventeen when I started dancing in Kiss Me, Kate, I would have given it to him--just like other dancers wanting to work under him--if I didn’t have the protection of Yellen’s deal. I was not unaware, then, that my loss of virginity might well have come sooner than Yellen snatched it from me.

The day after Yellen had taken my virginity, though, it was like the restrictions had lifted for Sergei and other men. The men on the set who had previously teased me and flirted with me from afar were up closer, touching me and giving me sultry and lusty looks. Sergei was more direct.

We were doing our stretches on the barre after the evening’s performance of Kiss Me, Kate and before dispersing. Sergei was moving behind us and barking orders, the last for the whole troupe being, “That is it for the night, boys and girls. You may go now . . . quietly . . . but for you, Danny. I wish to see you stretch that leg out further on the barre before you go.”

Even as the last of the dancers was filing out he had come in close behind me, one hand on my lower belly and the other gliding down my left leg, which was raised and lying on the bar.

“The underside of your knee isn’t touching the bar, Danny. That won’t do. Why are you having trouble extending fully tonight? Are you stiff?”

Yes, I am stiff and ache all over, I wanted to scream. I have, just yesterday, been fucked hard--for the first time, and the second and third time, as well. My whole body is screaming from the experience. And, speaking of stiff, you randy old man, I can feel the stiffness of your dick at my back.

Just as the rest of us, Sergei, his leg muscles bulging and well defined, wore a skin-tight leotard in dance practice. Unlike the rest of us he wore no cup under it. He wanted his dancers to know he had a thick, if not overlong, cock--and that there was a thick Prince Albert ring in the head of it.

“Yes, I’m a little stiff tonight,” I answered and then winced, as he put pressure on my knee, forcing the leg flatter on the barre.

“And yet there is something more fluid in your movements tonight, a maturity I haven’t seen in you before. Like you have crossed some barbican in your life. Like you have finally let a man fuck you.” From that moment, I understood that he knew Yellen had fucked me.

He was holding me close, breathing heavily in my ear. I looked into the mirror and saw his ruggedly featured Russian face looking into my face, a bit of a sneer and determination in his countenance. “That is it, isn’t it? You have let a man fuck you. Evan Yellen has called in his contract on you, hasn’t he?”

“Oh, god. How did you--?”

“Don’t speak,” he barked at me. “I will speak.” I shrank into him and watched, in the mirror, his tongue rim my ear and then move inside the passage and flick. I moaned and the muscles of my body tensed.

“Relax, little one,” he cooed in my ear. “I am going to fuck you now too. You know that I fuck all of my dancers, and now it seems I can fuck you too. Yellen has had you first, but there are always other firsts. Yellen doesn’t have a thick ring in his cock, does he?”

I moaned again, and my muscles, which had been calming down, clutched again.

“I said relax,” he barked. “It is done. I will fuck you now. No use fighting it.” Although this normally would make me further tighten up, it didn’t. I surrendered and, in doing so, was able to relax my muscles. “Da, very good,” he whispered in my ear.

I both heard and felt the splitting of the seam of my leotard at the crack of my buttocks, and of Sergei’s large, strong hand ripping the material away until it was in tatters lower on the thighs. I heard the waistband of my cup snap, and that fell to the floor. His hand was roughly grabbing and squeezing my balls and the base of my cock, which was engorging for him. I was panting hard. The hand that had been pressing down on the knee of the leg I still had on the barre moved to my throat and he held my head, face into the mirror, making me watch the lustful expression on his face as he ravished me.

His cock was free and beating against the small of my back as he roughly stroked my cock, making me groan--and making me come quickly in his hand. He laughed and moved his hand to behind me, smearing the cum around and into my hole, pushing it inside me with a long, thick, strong finger. Fucking me with his finger, nearly as big, I felt, as Yellen’s cock had been. I writhed under his grip, but had very little capability of doing so--certainly not of escaping from him. He found my prostate and worked that, hardening me up again and producing another, weaker, discharge of cum, which was transferred to my hole, although with several gobs of Sergei’s spit.

Then, while maintaining his throat hold on me, he moved the cock head to my hole. The PA was so thick, as was his cock, that I couldn’t see how he was going to get it in. But, strangely enough, I wanted him to get it in. And remembering the previous evening with Yellen and how much easier it was when I learned to release my entrance muscles and slacken my channel, I did so now.

“Open to me,” he was commanding. “Ah, da, da. Very good. You want me to fuck you don’t you?”

“Yes, fuck me!” I cried out, wanting to arch my back, but only being able to do so slightly in his tight embrace, as, preceded by the thick PA, he moved up inside me, held ever so slightly to allow me time to open more to him, and then started pumping.

The rest was as before as he built up to a release and gave me his cum--except that the rubbing of that PA on my channel walls was definitely another first for me. A glorious first.

After he had finished and was holding there, giving us both a chance to cool down before releasing me, I looked in the mirror to see one of the black stagehands I’d been watching admiringly, Jerome, standing in the doorway to the dance studio, bare-chested as the stagehands often were after hours when adjusting and repairing sets. His hand was on his crotch.

Jerome didn’t let me leave the building. It was like “open season” was plastered across my forehead--and, of course, I later found out it was.

He was there near the stage door when I was dressed and ready to leave. And he wasn’t alone. Buford was there too. Jerome was a young black, maybe four years older than I was. Buford was older, maybe early forties. Both were magnificent specimens, though, showing beefy torsos with bulging muscles. I’d watched them for months, being aroused by them, but not knowing, until after I was initiated the previous day, just how arousing they were. Plus, here in the post-WWII era there was the definite divide between the two races, with a good bit of fear on both sides. My wet dreams of the previous night were not of Evan Yellen, I now realized--they were of two magnificent blacks who had been teasing me with innuendo for some time.

Each taking a forearm, they hustled me into the stage workers’ workroom just off the wings of the backstage. Buford pushed me over to a wooden work counter, cleared the space with a swing of his beefy arm, hoisted me onto my back on the counter and started scrabbling at my belt buckle.

I heard the door to the room slam and the lock turn, and then Jerome was there too.

I didn’t have time to think. I don’t know what I would have thought if I had had the time. This was all new to me. I was opening up--fast--to a life I’d thought about--dreamed about--for years. I’m sure that normally I’d have been well into the fuck scene by now. That had been arrested by Yellen’s “hold off” contract. Now it seemed I was making up for lost time. And if I’d had time to think about it I’m not sure I would have thought anything in terms of “stop.”

Many had been the nights, I now realized, I’d gone home from the theater and masturbated to the memory of watching the hunky Jerome and Buford--and other stage hands--working on repairing the sets after a performance, bare-chested and flexing their huge muscles. All those times I thought it was just a general image of hulky men doing not fully understood things with me--to me--that aroused me. After the previous night I now knew what a man would and could do with and to me, and my thoughts were turning to more specific men who could do this. Jerome and Buford were high on that list. Therefore, my resistance already was low.

With a moan I laid back on the work bench as Buford stripped off my trousers and briefs and Jerome pulled my T-shirt over my head.

All of the tension and reluctance and any sense of guilt or of resistance--or, for that matter, not wanting what they both seemed determined to do, I released them of all uncertainty or fear of my response. I parted my legs and rolled my buttocks up, toward the hulking Buford. I’d just been fucked by the dance master. I already was in the groove. My channel was open and squishy with cum.

“Yes, yes, fuck me, you big strapping studs. Fuck me hard, both of you. I’ve wanted you both to do that for months,” I cried out.

Their faces split with big grins, they proceeded to do just that.

Naked now, on the small of my back at the edge of a counter, I was stiff-arming the palm of one hand into the surface of the wooden counter to prop my torso up and my hand was cupping the back of the neck of the older of the black stagehands, Buford, bare-chested, the fly of his work pants unzipped, his ebony torso heavily muscled and glistening with sweat. Buford, in turn, was fisting my left ankle, holding the limber dancer’s leg up his torso with the ankle on his shoulder. I had gasped at the size of his cock--not just the look of it, but the feel of it when it was only partially in. Buford was concentrating hard with a fist around the root of the beast, to get the shaft deeper in my channel. Huffing and puffing, I was concentrating hard on making my channel walls yield to him. Sergei had just been in there; I hadn’t closed up yet. But Buford wasn’t Sergei. He was Sergei and a half.

Jerome, the younger stagehand, was standing on the other side of me, holding my other leg up and spread wide. Jerome’s work trousers fly was open and the pants were flared wide at the waist and riding very low on the young man’s bulbous buttocks. His torso was even more muscular than Buford’s was and the cock, jutting out of his groin in an upward curve, that he was holding in his hand and stroking was longer and much thicker, if that was humanly possible, than Buford’s.

Only half in, Buford muttered “Fuckin’ shit, he’s wide open.”

“Told ya so,” Jerome responded. “Saw Sergei screwin’ ’em. Screwin’ ’em real good.”

“No use wastin’ time then.” Buford rolled me up on one hip, turned to the side between my wide-stretched thighs, took his hand away from the root of his half-lodged cock, grabbed me by the waist, and slammed the cock home to the root. I cried out to the ceiling, my hand fell away from the back of Buford’s neck, and I propped my torso up on both elbows so that I could look down to see how much of him was in me.

All of it, my mind screamed. On, my god, now I’m fucked.

I arched my back, both my flexible spine and my head. Buford’s head dipped down to my chest and his teeth latched onto a nipple. Buford started pumping, sliding in and out through the cum Sergei had already deposited there. I roared my surrender to the cock to the blank brick wall behind the workbench while the big black pumped me slow and deep. I knew in that instant that having a big black, no matter his age, working my channel with a giant cock was Nirvana.

The cock head came to the surface of my hole, Buford jerked and grunted, and his white cum creamed my crack and dribbled down my thighs. The cock went back in for several more strokes, and then the older stagehand was relinquishing position to the younger one.

Buford dropped back a couple of steps and Jerome moved into position, taking my legs and running them up his muscular chest.

“Hey, forgot to ask. This OK with you? Seen the way you been lookin’ at me and Buford for a while, and word is out you’re free game now.”

A little late to ask was what flashed through my mind, but my moaned reply was, “Fuck me. Fuck me now.”

Slipping down from my elbows as the young black stud pulled me to him with strong hands on my waist, I lay prone and shuddered in anticipation on the countertop, an arm thrown over my face, and moaning deeply. The bigger, thicker cock slid in through the added lubricant Buford’s prodigious cum had provided. Still, I had to concentrate to open my channel further to the cock. Good thing the younger followed the older--and the older followed Sergei, I mused. What next? A telephone pole?

The big black set his muscular legs, encircled my slim waist with his bulging arms, and started pistoning my channel hard and fast in long, strong, deep strokes.

My body was bouncing up and down on the table with the strength of the thrusts. My arms went over my head, grabbing for anything that would steady me against the assault. My eyes were slitted and had, I knew, a wild aspect to them I’d never felt before. I looked over at Buford, waiting and watching, stroking his hard cock. I hiccupped and groaned at the realization that he wasn’t finished with me.

And, indeed, he wasn’t. When Jerome had given me his hot, full load--or, rather, loads--he stepped away from me, and Buford moved right back in. I arched my back and cried out as he thrust hard and deep, leaned over me with fists pressed into the workbench top on either side of my waist, set his legs for leverage, and, moving up to the balls of his feet, started giving it to me again in hard, deep strokes.

Laying there, panting, exhausted, but a silly grin on my face, I watched the glistening torso of Buford pull away, his hot cum running down my thighs, and the even more cut pecs of Jerome coming into my dull-eyed view. Lifting me and holding me in front of him as he sat on the counter and pulled me onto his lap, onto his cock. Lacing his legs in mine, encircling my waist with a strong arm. Lying back on the counter and taking me back with him, his feet rising to the edge of the counter, spread wide, raising and spreading my feet too--and rolling my buttocks up.

Buford appeared before me again.

“You had two at once before?” he asked.

I don’t know how he could have interpreted my deep groan as a “yes,” but they proceeded anyway.

Grabbing my ankles and raising and spreading my legs, taking them away from being entwined in Jerome’s legs, he leaned into me with his forehead touching mine, his eyes boring into mine, his hard cock slowly working its way inside me, on top of Jerome’s already-buried cock, my mouth slack in a silent scream, my eyes watering. The throbbing cock, pressed to another throbbing cock, slid through buckets of cum into my channel. Deep.

I could say I was conditioned now. I loved every cruel stroke of it from the hot black muscle studs. I also realized that sometimes in my fantasies, I had been doubled by two black studs.

* * * *

“You missed the matinee. Are you ill?”

“No, I’m fine. Just very tired this morning. But that’s what alternate dancers are made for. It’s the first performance I’ve missed. One of them will be thrilled. And I’m here for the evening performance.” If it sounded like I was being defensive, I was. I was attracted to this man too, and didn’t want him to know why I’d missed the matinee.

It was the day after the black stud stagehands had had their way with me in the stage workroom--or, rather, much later in the same day, as they had fucked me into the new day. They were both working nearby when one of the leads in the musical, Keith Winston, came up to talk to me. Keith had sought me out often in the last year, hovering around me, but, like all of the rest, respecting the barrier Even Yellen had established until I was eighteen. Buford and Jerome worked efficiently, but their eyes often strayed to me, confident, knowing, proud. I knew that anytime I stayed late at the theater I could have some black stud excitement.

“Well, that’s good. You’re looking good, I must say. Exceptionally good.” He had a hand on my shoulder. He’d never touched me before.

I admit that he was looking good too. I was looking at all men with an assessing eye I hadn’t been in touch with before Evan Yellen fucked my virginity out of me. Just two days ago, I told myself. Winston, a good half foot taller than I was, looked down into my face. His expression was inscrutable. But he was an actor; he could do that.

I could have picked Winston out in a line of actors as one who played a leading role. He’d always looked like the leading man, tall, well-built, elegantly thin, expensively dressed, and with those killer blue eyes, flashy white teeth, beach tan, and curly auburn hair. Mr. Self-Confidence himself. And he’d been one to buzz around me. But until now he hadn’t laid a hand on me. Until now. As he talked in a low voice to me as we stood together at the edge of the flying curtains between the wings and the stage, where the director was talking through a couple of changes in the script with actors, for a scene Winston wasn’t in, I felt the hand that had been on my shoulder stretch out to where he had the arm loosely around my shoulder.

“Seeing as how you are well, I wondered if you might like to have a drink with me tonight after the performance.”

I knew for sure then. Evan Yellen had let the word out. He had lifted the restrictions. I don’t know how he knew that I was horny as hell. And maybe he didn’t. Maybe he just didn’t enjoy me and had dropped both his interest and his shielding protection.

The drink--two drinks, actually, both strong--were at Winston’s studio apartment in Manhattan. The one-room apartment wasn’t large, but it was in a tony building that must have set him back a good many bucks. One wall was all window, looking out over a fascinating cityscape from a dazzling height. A large bed dominated the room, but there also was a sofa and a couple of club chairs facing the city view and backed by an efficient kitchen counter, an island with stools, and on the other side of the entrance hall from the kitchen alcove, a well-appointed bathroom.

I had barely finished my second drink, when, sitting close to me on the sofa with an arm around my shoulders, he turned my face to his for a kiss. I showed no hint of reluctance. In fact, I felt none. I knew what he wanted, and I was horny for it. He paused in the kisses long enough to pull my T-shirt over my head. He already had his shirt unbuttoned and spread, to show a finely developed chest. I’m sure his chest hairs had been trimmed for effect, the light matting swirling around his nipples and then cascading down his sternum and flat belly to disappear mysteriously under the waistband of his trousers. The effect was very nice.

The leaning kiss lingered as he slowly laid me down on the surface of the sofa with him on top of me. He was feasting on my nipples as I felt my belt buckle being undone, and my jeans being worked down my thighs. I heard the gasp when he discovered I wasn’t wearing anything under the jeans. He’d slipped my socks off too. Our shoes had been left at the door, his on top of mine, which both amused and aroused me when he’d done that--I’m sure he was unthinkingly projecting ahead to his “plan.” He had been nervously touching me--including brushes of my basket--and moving his hand away as if stung during the taxi drive to his apartment from the theater. He seemed to be forgetting that I wasn’t some male whore he’d picked up while cruising. I had known better than he did that he was going to fuck me.

He coaxed my left leg up and between his left hip and the back of the sofa. He sat up off my torso then and looked down into my eyes, checking. Could he proceed or not?

He could . . . and did. He lifted my left leg and licked and kissed up it, bending the knee and sucking on my toes. Naked, engorging, I panted and moaned below him.

Another searching look. Yes, fine. This time I told him as well. “Yes.”

He looked slightly surprised. All of this time of dancing around me, and here I was, saying yes to what he wanted to do to me. No reluctance. Although older, he was a hunk and a half. A real change from the black studs--and from Sergei and Yellen, for that matter--but worth the experience. Smooth and steamy at the same time. And hard. While he’d licked up my leg, he’d unzipped himself and taken his cock out. Not unusually thick or long by any means, but hard, standing right up from his trimmed bush. Wanting to be inside me. Me wanting it inside me too. his fly was spread enough for me to see that he had trimmed his pubes in a V pointing to the goods. Auburn and curly. I wasn’t surprised how well groomed he was. He’d even shaved his balls.

“Can I jack you?” He whispered. “And then will you jack me?”

“You can do anything you want to me, as long as I can make tomorrow’s performance,” I answered. My mind flipped back to the previous night. As glorious as it was, the black stagehands had worked me over so much that I hadn’t made the next performance.

He shuddered. “Oh, shit. Oh, fuckin’ shit,” he murmured, all signs of his Yale accent gone.

Leaving my leg raised between his shoulder and the back of the sofa, he lowered his face to my nipples and slowly worked his mouth down my torso, across my belly, into my shaved groin, opening up over my cock, and sinking on it. Raising up and sinking again. And again. I groaned, moving my left arm over my head and clutching the roll of the sofa arm on the reverse side. My other hand went to the back of his head. My right leg was draped over the front of the sofa, my foot extending to the floor. I dug the heel of that foot into the plush carpeting and used the leverage of that to move my pelvis so that I was face fucking him. He opened his mouth in a big O to let me fuck it loosely.

I warned him I was coming, but he didn’t seem to care. When I did come, he took it in his mouth, moved up my body and gave me a cummy kiss. He continued moving, though, pulling my body up so that I was sitting, sideways, with my back to the arm of the sofa.

My turn.

His cock was at my face. Somehow he’d lost his trousers in the maneuver, but his shirt was still on his back, spread open. I opened my mouth to him, first, though, taking his balls into my mouth, sucking them, rolling them, distending them from his crotch--just to hear his deep moaning. I then ran my lips down the shaft of his cock and palmed his tight, rounded buttocks, while he face fucked me.

He didn’t come then, though. He withdrew after a few minutes of sucking, reached for my right ankle and raised and spread my leg out over the carpet in front of the sofa, let his cock glide down my torso while he stuffed sofa pillows under the small of my back, rolling my buttocks up to the angle he wanted, and slid right into me--slowly, savoring the rippling of my channel muscles to pull him in and my tremble and long sigh. After the session I’d had with the big blacks, I hadn’t closed up much. Plus, I was getting a quick course in how to control my sphincter and channel muscles.

His pumping continued to be slow to the end, waiting for my shudder when the bulb was just inside the entrance and then groaning with me during the long, slow slide back into the hilt. I let my nails scrape down his back to his buttocks on the slide in and then back up to under his shoulder blades on the long withdrawal. When he was finished inside me, he lay on top of me, while we both slowly recovered our breathing.

“That was so nice,” he murmured. “You have such a great body. And you’re a natural at it. And three days ago you were--”

“A virgin, yes. You’re great for your age too,” I whispered, realizing only too late what an insult that would be to an actor approaching the other side of the hilltop from his prime. But he took it well. I knew then that he wasn’t finished with me. And I was right.

“Not too old to have it up, fucking you, in ten more minutes,” he responded, a hint of laughter in his voice, telling me both that he forgave me and that he wanted me again. “Do you like it harder or like that?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Can you spend the night?” The question was given tentatively, hopefully.

“If you want.” Another first. Something more than “bang bang, thank you, boy; now get dressed and get out of here,” which, more or less, Evan Yellen had said that first time. This man was a lover. My first one.

“I guess,” I answered, looking over at the big bed that dominated the small studio apartment. I wondered how many other young men he’d asked this. But right now that didn’t matter to me.

“You wouldn’t get much sleep, I’m afraid.”

“That’s OK.” It was more than OK. I’d already reached for his cock, feeling it rise in my hand, feeling my channel walls shimmering. They wanted company again. I was becoming such a slut for it.

He rose from the sofa and lifted me up and held me to his breast. I hooked my knees on his hips and encircled his neck with my arms.

He laid me down in a heap on the bed. “Do you know the doggie position?” he asked.

“Yes, but are you--?”

“Yes, I don’t really need ten minutes this early in a fuck. I’m more than ready.”

This early in a fuck, I thought with a moan, as I went onto all fours.

“What, you think I’m too old to fuck all night? Don’t count on it.”

He climbed up onto the bed, hunched over my hips, grabbed my waist between his hands, and slid into me.

Yes, he was fully hard again.

Putting his lips to my ear, he whispered, “You are so sweet. I’m going to be so good to you. We’ll make sweet music together . . . all night long.”

And, starting a slow, deep pump, he did just that. My first fully attentive lover.

* * * *

“So, did you enjoy Sergei and the two stagehands, Jerome and Buford?”

I looked up and across the desk sharply. Evan Yellen’s face was showing a smirk.

“You knew. You probably even put them up to it.” But he’d only named three. So, he must not know about Keith Winston. Should I tell him--throw that in his face? Not a chance.

“When I consider continuing with a young man--past that first time--I want them quickly seasoned. I can’t think of anything more seasoning than big black cock to toughen up a new convert. I sensed in you a hunger for cock. Am I right?”

I didn’t answer. I looked away from him to the window, where birds were flying by. We were in Evan’s office half way up the Empire State Building.

“Yes, I think I’m right. I’m told you seemed particularly to like the black cock. Did you like the black cock?”

“Yes,” I answered in a low voice.

“Discovered you really, really like big black cock, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I repeated.

“And learning real fast too. They doubled you, I’ve been told. True?”

“Yes.” What did it matter. My gaze turned to his wall of scripts. Still not making eye contact.

“And you loved it. I read you for being a real hungry bottom.”

He waited for me to answer that, but I didn’t. Yes, I loved it. Taxed me to the limit. Made me so I could hardly walk back to the rooming house. Kept me in bed through the matinee the next day. But, yes, goddamn it, I loved it.

“If you stay with me, of course, all of that has to stop--except for what I tell you you can have.”

“Stay with you?” I turned my eyes to him then.

“Yes. Why do you think I had you come here today? Why do you think I’ve let you know that I’ve had men toughen you up and teach you fast how to give yourself to a man. I’ve got another proposition.”

“A proposition?”

“Yes. It’s really quite simple. You continue being available to me whenever I want you and I’ll continue to get you spots in Broadway musical dancing ensembles and perhaps a small speaking role here and there. But I call the shots on who else can fuck you. There will, of course, be the occasional investor. But not unless I tell you you can.”

“And if I--?”

“If you don’t take the deal, it’s so long and good luck from here. You are better able now to get your own parts by working for them on your back than you were before you met me, so it’s still better than before you met me. But I won’t lift a finger for you.”

He had led me into a trap. My main question was whether I cared. I had sort of thought he’d continue fucking me anyway. I didn’t know that he’d baldly state the conditions. But I’d told him years ago that I liked that about him.

“I can sweeten the pot. You’ve said before you wanted to be an actor too, not just a dancer. And I know you have a decent singing voice. While you’re with me I’ll pay for acting and voice lessons and make sure you get the best teachers.”

I thought about that. “Can I think about it?” I asked.

“For an hour and fifteen minutes,” he said.

“Why that amount of time?”

“Because I can sweeten the deal further. One of my ‘OK, you can have him’ stipulations will be the two black guys, Jerome and Buford. You can have them once a month while you’re with me. Yes, I paid them to fuck you the other night.”

“Uh,” I said, flabbergasted and unable to think of anything better to say.

“And this can be the first month. They are outside, in reception. I have a meeting to go to for an hour. This will be a freebee while you think about it, but when I’m back, I want a decision.”

He rose from the desk and shortly after he left the office, Jerome and Buford strutted in, all smiles. They were stripping their clothes as they advanced on me. They sandwiched me between them, standing and rocking back and forth, but only long enough for me to be stripped of my clothes and all of us to get hard.

Jerome sat on the edge of the studio couch, pulling me onto his lap and cock. Gripping my waist he bounced me up and down on his cock until we were both heated up real well. Then he was lying back on the couch, taking me with him, lacing his legs in mine and pulling my legs up and spread. Rolling my pelvis up. And Buford was working his knees in between our thighs.

I looked into the mirror across from the couch, seeing my tanned legs, but distinctly white in contrast to them, sticking up and out from the center, being held at the ankles by ebony hands, my hands palming muscular ebony shoulder blades, four beefy black legs between my thighs, two running down, leveraging off the floor as Jerome fucked up to me. The other two crouched between those legs running up to bulbous buttocks a slim waist and flaring up to the broad back, the butt cheeks constricting and expanding and thrusting forward and back. Me knowing they were driving another hard cock--Buford’s--up into me. I shuddered and shot my load for the first time in that hour--but only for the first time.

* * * *

Sergei honored the new rules with a sour expression on his face and a tendency to criticize my positions more than he did any of the other dancers, even while we both knew I was the best male dancer in the troupe. When he didn’t think I heard him, he was telling the other male dancers to look at my form and follow it. He had no real choice but to honor the rules, though. Keith Winston was less cooperative, and I had to use guile and persistence to keep his hands off me until Jerome and Buford--quite probably at the command of Even Yellen--took Keith off to the depths of the backstage area one day and he returned with a black eye from supposedly having tripped over a coil of thick roping in the dark.

The arrangement with Yellen was fine, for a year and a half. He could fuck nasty and had a fetish for bondage, but his demands in terms of frequency weren’t particularly heavy. He certainly didn’t leave me gasping for air and my channel twitching like Buford and Jerome did. And their monthly servicing was something I always looked forward to. The acting and vocal lessons he arranged for me--and paid for--were great and those alone justified the freedom of choice I had to turn over to him. I felt the lessons were strengthening my portfolio a hundredfold. But what they didn’t do was help me to step up out of the dance troupe into acting roles on stage.

I found this curious. I should be getting speaking and singing parts now. I had it all. There were few three-talent young men not yet twenty in the business. With Evan Yellen’s backing, I should be getting better roles.

I increasingly became suspicious, though, that it was because of Yellen that I wasn’t getting better roles--that he was making sure I didn’t so that he could keep me under his thumb. Despite this growing suspicion, I’d grown complacent. I was making enough money to move out of the rooming house and into a small apartment--a tiny apartment, one smaller than Keith Winston’s and in a not-so-great neighborhood. Evan had made suggestions from time to time that I could move to his house. But it was out on Long Island. The commute would have killed me. And, besides, I was having this sinking feeling that I was doing just that--sinking into oblivion underneath Evan’s thrusting and controlling body.

The breaking point didn’t come until 1949, in the form of Todd Means. Todd reminded me a lot of myself when I was sixteen--although he was seventeen when he came to New York City, grabbing for the brass ring. He was young, naïve, small of stature, prettier than handsome, sultry sexy without meaning to be, and a good dancer. Not as good as I am--or even was when I was sixteen--certainly. But a good enough dancer to be in a troupe on stage.

The revelation came during the dance team auditions for South Pacific. Kiss Me Kate was still running, but I could see that the end of its stay on Broadway was coming. I needed to line something else up. South Pacific, which was to open in April in the Majestic Theater, was having great reviews from those actors and dancers looking ahead in the Broadway season and trying to snag the last casting call fills.

There were two spots open for male dancers who could sing as well. I wanted one of those spots. I went to Evan for help in getting it, but he shrugged and said that South Pacific was going to be a blockbuster show. He thought I was good enough and would say so if asked, but the casting decisions would be close hold. “No favoritism in this one, I think,” he had said. “It might be more advantageous for you for me not to speak out at all. You have talent to carry you now.”

Todd was auditioning early in the set; me later. He had auditioned and had looked good. His dancing was great, but his singing sounded only passable to me. I was just about to go into my own audition when I looked down into the hall, and there, in the aisle, about where the light from the stage sank into the dark of the back of the hall, stood Evan Yellen. And standing next to him, talking to him--was Todd.

After my audition I saw that Evan no longer was in the auditorium. I told myself that he had come to see my audition, which I thought was terrific. I think the casting staff thought it was very good too.

I got one of the spots. But Todd got the other spot. I thought at least three of the other guys gave stronger auditions then he did.

When I congratulated him, he thanked me, but innocently said, “I think the producer gave me a lot of help.”

The producer of South Pacific, I asked, outrage starting to bubble up inside me in response to Evan’s claim that there was no “in” campaigning attached to this casting.

“No, another producer. Mr. Yellen. Evan Yellen. He has agreed to help me.”

I looked at him, thunderstruck. He was seventeen. He was almost identical to what I was at sixteen. There was only one reason in my mind that Evan Yellen would be taking the young man under his wing.

I went directly to Yellen’s office and confronted him on the matter. “You got Todd Means the spot in South Pacific, didn’t you?--after telling me there was no favoritism.”

“You got the other spot, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but I earned mine. I was the best one at the auditions.”

“Humility was never your strong point, was it, Danny?”

“Fuck humility, Evan. You contracted with Means, didn’t you? You’re going to pop his cherry when he hits eighteen, aren’t you?”

“My arrangement with you, Danny, doesn’t include you passing on who I fuck and who I don’t.”

“Well, fuck you,” I screamed, as I headed for the door.

“I’ve never asked anyone else to live with me, Danny,” he called out as I passed through the door. “Just you.”

I fumed in a bar for a couple of hours, until well after darkness had fallen. I should have been exuberant--I got the part in South Pacific. Not a speaking part, but a part including singing on top of the dance, and in another major musical. It was going to be a blockbuster. Everyone said so.

So, why did I feel so used and betrayed? Yellen was right. I never demanded the loyalty from him that I had agreed to give to him.

I drank one--or probably two--too many shots of bourbon and, in the late evening, found myself at Keith Winston’s apartment door. He answered in just a robe, having been ready for bed. I took him to bed, laid him flat on his back, mounted his hips, slid down his pole, and rode him like a cowboy, swinging my arms and yodeling--the whole nine yards. He was startled, but he raised no objection.

When I was finished with my performance and dropped down beside him in exhaustion, he asked, “Does this mean you are finished with Evan Yellen?”

“I don’t know what it means, Mr. Winston. I do know it means I have trouble holding my liquor.”

“You can call me Keith,” he said with a smile. “I think first names are proper after the fifth fuck. Of course, that’s the first time you fucked me rather than me fucking you. Tell me. There’s something wrong, isn’t there?”

“There’s nothing fuckin’ wrong,” I answered belligerently, and then I shot off the bed and into the bathroom. I went into the shower, without even closing the bathroom door, and turned the water on, full bore. I sank onto the floor of the shower under the pelting stream of water, rolled up into a ball, and started sobbing.

He came and stood, leaning against the frame, of the bathroom door. I glanced his way. So sexy for a man his age. He still could be a high-fashion male model. And, in fact, he did do sexy billboard work for men’s clothes.

He stepped into the shower, pulled me up, and faced me to the wall. He was close behind me, kissing me on the neck and cooing into my ear, telling me everything was going to be fine. Running his hands up and down my body; palming my belly and pulling my pelvis out from the wall, my buttocks jutting out; and his free hand running into my crevice; pulling my butt cheeks apart; entering my ass, still open and lubed with his cum, with his middle finger; finding my prostate. Making me moan. Making me come against the tiled wall.

I raised my arms up the slippery tiles of the shower, pressed my cheek to the wall, and whimpered a, “Fuck me. Fuck me. Make me forget.”

The entry of his cock was slow, sensual, bringing peace. He slow pumped me while palming my pecs and whispering endearments in my ear.

“Fuck me hard,” I moaned. “I don’t want to feel anything else but your cock working me hard.”

Complying, Keith pulled out and turned me. I climbed his hips and threw my arms around his neck. I kissed him hard, biting his lip, sucking on his tongue, while he cupped my buttocks and spread them and thrust cruelly up into me as deep as he could, the thrust rubbing my back up and down the wet and soapy shower wall.

When he’d ejaculated, he let me slip down to the floor, and I took his cock in my mouth and cleaned it. He turned and left me on the floor of the shower--where he’d found me--when I released his shaft from my mouth.

When I had composed myself and dried off, I padded out to the room. He was standing at the window, back in his robe, and looking out on the city.

“In many ways, this city is the finest place to be on earth,” he said, in an “almost absently” voice. “But it can eat a person up. It can be so cruel.”

He turned and looked at me. “Is the city being cruel to you now, Danny?”

“I guess,” I answered, not looking at him, standing there, naked, and looking down at the floor.

“You are so beautiful. I can’t think of the city being cruel to you, Danny. It’s all I can do not to rush over there and crush you, to try to meld you into me as close as possible.”

I didn’t respond.

“It’s not the city being cruel to you, is it? It’s Evan Yellen.”

“Yes,” I answered in a small voice.

“Because of Todd Means?”

I looked up sharply then. “What do you know about Todd Means?”

“I know he has a contract with Yellen--just as you did. He has to remain celibate until he’s eighteen and then he has to give his virginity to Yellen.”

“How do you know this? Have you tried to fuck Means?”

“Yes, of course I have, and that’s when he told me of the arrangement. You found out, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“He’s not the only one in the last year and a half, Danny. I’ll bet Yellen notches his belt with a virgin every other month--all built on contracts to help their careers. And he may have helped your career, Danny, but only up to a point. I bet I’m right on that. He can’t have you become too much of a success--probably not as much of a success as your talent and training justify.”

I said nothing, trying hard not to cry. Why in the shit did I care what Yellen did? Stability, I guess. He was my rock--or my pile of sand, I guess.

“Stay with me, Danny. You have so much talent. I have a movie role budding out in Hollywood. Stay with me. I’ll take you to Hollywood when I go. We’ll get you into movies out there. You’ll be a star. Tell me that you’ll stay with me.”

Better than that, I showed him. I walked over to the bed, laid down with my butt on the edge, and raised and spread my legs. I watched him cross the room, a movement framed by my raised and spread legs. How many men had I done this for now?--raised and spread my legs. He shucked his robe as he walked. A beautiful body regardless of his age. His cock already proudly erect.

I turned my head toward the window, watching the city lights at night. He grasped my wrists, raising my arms over my head, slid inside me as I arched my back, and began to pump.

* * * *

Another year and a half. Thankfully the South Pacific run was a long one, because there was nothing else coming my way. Even the audition calls had dried up. I credited that to Evan Yellen, to vengeance.

Keith was a dud. He kept talking about his movie role in Hollywood and saying we were on the cusp of going out there--so I didn’t need to worry about work and new roles on stage.

I became his maid and cook--and a hole to fuck every night. Sure, he was romantic about it and all, but he wasn’t Jerome and Buford. He didn’t have a big black cock. He didn’t share me with others. There was a bit of variety, but it was all lovemaking. I needed a good rough fuck occasionally. I needed to be passed around as Yellen sometimes did. Even Evan gave me rough fucks--let me know I’d been fucked.

The apartment was much too small. It began to constrict on us. We fought. He told me we couldn’t afford a bigger apartment--that I wasn’t making enough, wasn’t chipping in my part. I wasn’t moving up the ladder. I scolded him about his promise to take me to Hollywood, to make me a movie star. He said “soon.” I screamed that he had no balls, that his cock didn’t satisfy me. That there were black stud stagehands in the theater who could satisfy me better than he could.

He stormed out of the apartment. But I knew he’d be back. It was his apartment. I packed the few things I had and left before he returned.

* * * *

“So, you want to come back to me.”

I was sitting across the desk from Evan Yellen in his Empire State Building office.

“If you want me back. I’ll even move into your Long Island home, if that’s what you want.”

“If you did that, I’d want you to stay there, to take care of me. To give up your stage career.”

“I don’t know. I guess. My so-called career isn’t going anywhere.”

“I would want you to stay away from Keith Winston. I knew he wasn’t good for you. Too much a gentleman. No fire and a mean streak. You need to be manhandled and fucked hard regularly.”

“I just feel so defeated.”

“I’ll keep you from that. I’ve never asked anyone to live with me before. You’re the one. I’ll be good to you--in more ways than one. We were meant to be together.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“You be good to me until the end and you’ll be set up. You’re still young. There’s time, time to make it in the business, with the right backing, including financial backing.”

“I don’t understand. What do you mean ‘to the end’?”

He gave me a hard look. “You don’t want to know. But I knew you’d come back to me. I was prepared for it.”

“Oh, yeah, how?”

“Jerome and Buford. They no longer work in the theater. They’re gardeners now. I hired them to work at the estate out on Long Island. If . . . no, when . . . you come out there to live and take care of me, they’ll tend your garden whenever you want it. It’s like I said years ago. You love big black cock. You know it and I know it. Now, go over to the couch, please. Strip off and bend over the couch.”

He was reaching into this drawer for the wrist and ankle restraints he liked to use.

I stood, turned, and started working my belt buckle as I moved to the studio couch. I couldn’t help it, my channel muscles were twitching in anticipation of a good old rough bondage fuck.

* * * *

This is the story of my life to age twenty-six, of the opportunities I had and the choices I made. I know I never could write it up to be published; Writing isn’t my forte. I’m an acting, song, and dance man, although what I’d really like to happen to what I’ve written would be for it to be made into a classy-production art film, something to push the envelope in Hollywood.

Since I left New York, I’ve learned a lot about Hollywood, including the underbelly part of it where there are so many gay men in the business, all playing the game of putting gay subtext into movies that only they and their friends will understand. I would like this to become a whole film of that. I know it never will, though. It’s about producers and casting couches and hard bargains for young men’s tails--often for virgin tail. Producers aren’t going to let this get on film. The best I think I could do if I could get someone to rewrite it for me is to get it into print, with my own money, if necessary.

What I’ve put in my journal is what happened to me; I wound up back with Evan. I survived it, although, within four years Evan was dead, taken by a series of strokes. He knew he had serious health problems when he made that last deal with me. I have to say, though, that he was good on his promise. We were good together for those four years. I even continued with the acting and singing lessons. Inherited everything of Evan’s, including Jerome and Buford. Went to Hollywood on my own, and with my talent and financial backing--and willingness to open my legs on the casting couch--I made it to near the top. That wasn’t unusual, I don’t think. I think that’s the story of lots of movie stars--you’ll have to trust me on that.

I did see Keith Winston occasionally out there, but we kept our distance. How did he make it out there, to Hollywood? His anticipated call for a movie role in Hollywood came the week after we split up.