Director's Couch

I often did things backwards in life. The old Hollywood adage goes that many a starlet—and we can add many a leading man, now that the cat is out of the closet on that—got their film career break by the audition they did on the director's or producer's couch. In my case, however, I got the part before the director had me taking direction under him on his couch.

I had been a child actor on stage and in a few movies before I went off to the university, having chosen to study international relations rather than drama or film making after a less-than-sterling screen test and a somewhat pessimistic assessment of my chances in Hollywood. I did get into male modeling while I was in college, though, and this double backed to a few minor roles on stage and bad movies as the young stud next door. When I got involved in flying supersonic spy jets as a sidestep from a war I didn't really agree with or want to see up front and in person, I was shipped off to Bangkok, Thailand. With that remote posting, I assumed that the film road not taken was now a dead-end to me.

As luck would have it, though, I found it even easier to fall into stage and screen roles when I arrived in Southeast Asia. Many movies were being filmed there, and casting directors relied on local actors for minor or background roles rather than facing the expense of bringing big casts in from the States. Thus it was that shortly before my first tour in Thailand was over, I found myself in some background crowd scenes and minor script editing work on the film, The Deerhunter. I had no idea at the time that this would be an Academy Award contender, or I would have fought my way to the front of set. However, I still must have performed my tasks on the movie reasonably well, because the casting director of that asked me if I'd be interested in taking some time off and being in Hawaii for a couple of weeks and work as an extra in a popular Hawaii-based police detective television show.

Hmmm, the question whether I would like a couple of expense-paid weeks in Hawaii working on a TV production. Not much of a question, right? And this fit right in with my schedule to be transferred back to the States for a short tour in preparation to what would be an even shorter tour flying SR71s out of Okinawa.

So, a few weeks later, in a prolonged stopover in Hawaii en route to a particularly snowy and slushy winter in Washington, D.C., I found myself as tiny swimsuited eye candy at beach bar background scenery for a couple of episodes of a Hawaii police detective show. I might have had a line or two in one of the episodes, but I can't really remember if I did.

This, after already having been cast in a TV production, was where my path crossed with the director destined to couch me under his personal and intense direction. He was a British director who specialized in sophisticated, sparkling-dialogued—and highly successful—spy and amateur detective stories both previously and subsequently to the tropical island interlude; he had been brought in to give the Hawaii show a needed kick in the butt to a more elevated viewer share. He was a handsome, charismatic figure—a good fifteen years older than me—with a spiffy English accent and a quick mind and tongue. He had left his wife back in the UK, and my wife had gone ahead to our Washington assignment. He liked to party and I liked to party, and the whole cast of the television show worked by day and partied at night.

Early in my stint on the television show, as may have been inevitable, I got half plastered at one of the cast's blowouts, and the director took me back to his hotel suite and banged me all night long.

He gave me fair warning, of course. He gave me the eye at the party, and I was flattered. And as we were going up in the elevator to his room—with me too far gone on bourbon and cokes to have any idea what we were even doing in his hotel—he was blunt and straightforward in his approach.

"There's no place you need to be tonight, is there?" he asked.

"Umm, no, I don't think so," I responded. I couldn't really be sure if I had promised to be someplace else. I'd already hooked up with one of the lighting guys and been fucked by him in some brush off the set on a Hawaiian beach, but I had too much of a buzz on to remember whether I'd agreed to wind up with him tonight or not. But this was the director—The Director—and if he wanted me to be here tonight, I was going to be here tonight.

"Good," he said when I had responded, "because, if you don't mind, I am going to fuck that scrumptious body of yours all night." I, of course, don't remember his exact words, but he had something sexy and seductive to say about my body in that defenses-melting British accent of his—and I did have a really fine body, so I naturally didn't think his request—or more of a statement of intent—was either unusual or off-putting.

I have no idea what answer I gave him, but it didn't stop us from arriving at his door, and once the door was closed behind us, from him pushing me to my knees and presenting a very nice cock against my lips for attention and preparation. I didn't normally do a lot of cocksucking, but this was The Director—and he'd asked very politely if he could do me.

He had been a gymnast and then a stunt man before directing stunts and then full productions, and I was to quickly find that he also fast on the reload. So, I got had in a lot of very interesting positions that first night.

When he'd hardened up, he just pushed me to the floor on my belly, tore my clothes off, and ate out my ass until I was writhing on his carpet. I cried out appreciatively when he entered me from behind with his hardened piece, and I remember slithering across the carpet toward the balcony doors for no particular reason, propelled by a thrusting cock and searching hands. He was laughing and telling me how nice and tight my ass was. I was almost to the glass doors and could see the waves crashing against the Honolulu hotel coast beach, with a full moon shimmering above, when he unloaded his first spouting of cream inside me.

With almost no rest from that, he hauled me up to the foot of the bed and laid me down there, on my side, my right hip on the end of the bed and my left leg bent up at the knee on the bed, and my right one suspended awkwardly out beyond the bed. He was covering me with his lean, sinewy body and was kissing my lips and nipples and burying his nose and tongue in my armpits. He lifted my left leg with a hand then and skewered me again with a long, but not particularly thick cock. His cock head kissed the walls of my ass canal as he plowed up into me, and I moaned at this second, quick-thrusting fucking. He stroked me endlessly this time, turning me this way and that way, making full use of his extraordinary flexibility, and giving every square inch of my ass canal walls and the rim and prostate caressing attention. I came this time, stroking myself as he was stroking inside me—and he came as well in a second great profusion of semen. I had never thought of English men being this virile, vigorous, and full of jizzim.

He held me there on the bed, panting and exhausted, for I don't know how long. But there was a band of purple and orange at the horizon off the Honolulu beach when he half guided and half carried me out onto the balcony and lowered me into a chaise lounge. He set me down on the small of my back, with a pillow behind me for support and lifted my legs and spread them wide on top of the short arms of the chaise. Then, straddling the bed of the chaise with his strong, muscled legs, facing me, he docked and jerked our cocks together until they were both hard again and then he lifted my buttocks with the long, elegant fingers of his strong hands and moved his pelvis into mine, running his long cock up into me again in a long, gliding motion. I threw my head back and held my breath as his cock snaked up my canal and let my breath out in a cry of welcome and ecstasy as his reddish pubic hairs nestled against my tender butt cheeks. He held there for the longest time, bringing his mouth to mine for a deep kiss, and then he stroked in and out of me, climaxing to his third prodigious ejaculation of the night, while I watched the sun rise over the Pacific over the bobbing head that was sucking so delightedly on my nipples.

The Director must have been pleased with my performance that night in his hotel suite, because I moved in with him the next day for the rest of the program shoot. Then over the next couple of years, while I was living in Washington, D.C., he had me come out to L.A. for work a few other popular American detective and amateur sleuth program series. I was established by then as an editor, including screen editing, so I wasn't always in front of the cameras. Sometimes when I was on the set I'd be roomed with him for some hot nights of vigorous fucking and sometimes he just had me to his trailer for nooners—and sometimes both. He made full use of his gymnastic past in our sessions on his dressing room couch, taking me repeatedly in some of the most inventive and hot positions I'd known before or experienced since.

We drifted apart when I was once more assigned to Thailand and no longer could fly into L.A. on short notice for work as an extra or script editor, but he helped make my "sometimes" film career memorable, exhausting, and a butt aching.