Channeling Tennessee Williams

"Yes, I knew that."

"Which isn't unusual for the theater. Most creative men in the theater are queer. I think most talented and creative men are queer. Don't you agree?"

"It seems so," Kevin answered. He wasn't just being agreeable. He'd gotten the impression that gay men predominated in the theater as well.

"So, it's hunky-dory, advantageous even, to be queer in the theatre world."

Glad we got that established, Kevin thought, but he said nothing.

"Yes," Cohen continued, "Williams was nineteen when he let a man pop his ass cherry—when he first went with a man—a man from the theater. That's your age, isn't it? Nineteen?"

"Yes, sir."

Cohen snorted. "Hunter fucked the shit out of Williams while he was giving him acting lessons—and while he was young. Sorry, am I shocking you?"

"No, you're not," Kevin said.

"And you, Kevin? You're nineteen. Have you been with a man yet?"

"Yes, sir." No time for hesitancy.

"And Arthur is interested in you because he's fucking you? He fucked Williams and he's fucked you too?"

Kevin didn't answer, but that, in itself, was answer enough. The hand on the young man's thigh went higher. Cohen's thumb was rubbing against where he could see Kevin's cock was thickening under the material of the trousers at his crotch. Cohen wasn't surprised, though. Kevin's agent had already said that Cohen could hump him if he agreed to help him move up in the stage world.

"Williams got his writing inspiration on his own after Iowa," Cohen continued. "You're playing Tom in The Glass Menagerie, aren't you?"

"Yes." And Cohen knew he was; he'd been to two of the performances. He'd sent Kevin flowers. Everyone in the cast, including Kevin, was impressed. Some went right for the jugular.

"Why that randy old man," one guy had said. "He's doing the Georgia O'Keeffe on you."

"The Georgia O'Keeffe?" Kevin had asked.

"Yes, she painted cunt flowers—flowers that represented cunts. Cohen is telling you he wants to hump you. He wants to fill your boy cunt."

"And you know this because . . .?" Kevin has asked.

"Because he sent me flowers until I let him fuck me," the guy said, laughed, and walked away.

The other cast members weren't quite as impressed with Kevin, though. He was grabbing the limelight. All of the theater critics were agreeing that The Glass Menagerie was more about Tom than Laura and that Kevin's exceptional performance was what had brought that out.

"What job did Tom in the play have?" Cohen aske. "Did you pick up on that?"

One of his closing lines of the play occurred to Kevin. "Not long after that I was fired for writing a poem on the lid of a shoe box." He was a shoe salesman, he answered.

"Bingo. The play's autobiographical. Williams was supported by no one but himself after he completed college and until people like me saw his talent and started sponsoring him. He sold shoes at one point. And did you catch the hints of homosexual yearnings in Tom's monologues?"

"Yes," Kevin answered.

The producer gave Kevin a smile and continued. "He went from being a bellhop in a New Orleans hotel, to a teletypist in Jacksonville, to waitering in a Greenwich Village nightclub, to the stint in a shoe store. All the time he was gaining experience and writing. Not that that was the only kind of experience he was gathering. He had boyfriends, and men like me gave him valuable experience. You can be luckier. I think you have as much talent as Williams has. You could get some of the same experience and inspiration he did—right here on this couch. I can make life easier for you. Your agent tells me that you will—"

"Yes," Kevin murmured. He could have asked Cohen if he'd sent Williams a bunch of Georgia O'Keeffe flowers, but he was tired of the chase. Let's just get to it, he thought wearily.

Kevin hadn't completely given up on Hunter, but the knowledge—and evidence—that Tennessee Williams had had to struggle on his own after college and before his talent was recognized and nurtured, and by more than just one man, told Kevin he had to broaden his approach. He couldn't count on Hunter for everything.

It wasn't like Kevin hadn't done this before—given it to men like Hunter and Cohen and Sandro, or that Kevin didn't enjoy being covered by men.

As Cohen watched, his eyes going big and his smile broadening, Kevin turned more sideways on the sofa, unbuckled and unzipped his trousers, and started pulling them and his briefs down his legs. As the stripping revealed flesh, Cohen let his hands run down Kevin's legs and then back up to the center of the boy.

"Such nice legs," the man murmured. "Did you know that was one of Williams's gifts. He had really nice legs. And he could put them up and hold them in a V for a long time. He was a beautiful young man when he was your age."

Kevin was going hard, giving the man a thrill. With a sigh, Kevin lay back in the corner of the sofa as the man took control of his cock with his hands and slow stroked him. Leaning over, Cohen took Kevin's shaft in his mouth, and the next couple of moments were devoted to the man sucking and playing with the cock with his tongue and Kevin holding Cohen's head and playing with the fringe of salt-and-pepper hair circling a bald spot.

After a few minutes, Kevin whispered, "Could you turn off the lights, please? I prefer it in the dark."

"You're going to let me—?"

"Yes, of course."

Kevin didn't usually prefer it in the dark, but Cohen was a gnarly troll in comparison to Hunter and Sandro. Kevin was an actor. He could do passion and willing surrender on demand—but, for Cohen, it would more easily be done in the dark.

When Cohen returned, Kevin was lying on the couch, his legs bent and spread, and his back against the sofa arm. Cohen had stripped off his trousers and briefs en route. He was holding an erection. Kevin had known that the man had been in erection during most of their conversation.

"Can you put your legs up in a V for me?" Cohen asked in a husky voice. "Yes, like that. very nice." There was the inevitable moment of the last visual check for the "yes" signal as Cohen slit open the condom packet, crowned himself, and lubed up.

"Fuck me, Daddy," Kevin murmured, as Cohen came down on the sofa between Kevin's legs. Kevin lowered his legs, hooking his knees on the man's hips, and rolled up and raised his pelvis to give the man a good entry angle. He reached down to enclose his hands around the erection. The man was longer and thicker than Kevin had thought he'd be. The young man guided the man's cock into position and then began to pant and moan, much of it genuine, as the producer penetrated him and began the dance of the fuck.

Kevin didn't lay down for men without knowing it was his inclination and enjoying being worshipped and used this way. He was learning to walk in the shattered glass without getting cut.