With a Little Help

Yeah, he wanted me.

As I drove, I pointed out the landmarks, and we each included little explorations of each other's lives, and, more important, each other's preferences and experience. We danced around the gay question, but close enough to it for both of us to understand what team we each were on. I was wearing an earring in my right ear, which in some circles—and in mine—declared gay, which is why I did it. I don't know if it was the same with him, though. I never lost the thought that he might be interested. He said more than once that he'd never met an Asian guy as big and muscular as me before but that it didn't put him off that I was—that it was more intriguing, as he put it.

"Are all of the Chinese guys in this town hunky like you?"

Again the "maybe he's signaling" thing. "Well, you'll see a whole hell of a lot of them out here in California," I said. "You can decide for yourself how good they look."

"I think I'd like to get acquainted with them one by one—and to learn more about them," he said, touching my shoulder from the seat behind me. Just the touchy-feely kind or was he signaling? And if that wasn't a come-on line, I didn't know what was. Either the kid was really naïve, or he was experienced, even at his young age—and a player. The casting couch effect?

"I'd be happy to take you on an Asian guy crawl, if you'd like—if you can break away from the studio some night." He didn't respond to that, so I changed the subject. "Who are you supposed to see at the studio today?"

"A producer on a new TV show they're putting together called, at least now, 'On Point'—junior high school basketball teams. His name is, let me see . . ." He rummaged around in a back pack ". . . Sam Anderson."

Oh, lord, I thought. Into the fire, speaking of casting couches. "Well, good luck with that," I said. When he came out of that guy's office, I'd probably know the most extreme of what the guy was interested in and what he'd do for it. I knew I was being jaded, but this was the land of "roll over and open your legs to get ahead." All the attention was going to producers and directors doing it with starlets, but there were ones doing it with young guys trying to break into the movies too. I don't know if it was the same way in New York City, but those were the playing rules out here. And Sam Anderson. Well, shit.

"That isn't the only audition you're on for, is it?" I asked. "They have you on the transportation roster for a couple of more days."

"No, I'm auditioning for a sitcom too—a comedy about a blended family. I'd really rather have that role, but I'm trying out for anything I can get while I'm out here."

"Who do you audition with for that show?"

"Someone by the name of Brandon Chapman," he said, consulting the documents he had.

"He's not so bad." He'd fuck you in a moment too, I thought. But he isn't as nasty about it as Anderson could get. Anderson used restraints and left marks.

"So, you're driving me while I'm in Los Angeles?" the kid asked.

"As far as I know," I answered. "Maybe and maybe not. I'm on duty tomorrow, but the transportation office hands out the assignments on a daily as-needed basis." I'd love driving you into tomorrow, kid, was what I was thinking. But it wasn't what I said. I'd sure like it if we got to a point where I could say that, though—drive you and drive you hard; split the difference between your slim hips and drive you hard.

He had that hand on my shoulder. He let a finger trace my carotid artery. It drifted up to that earring in my right earlobe. After that was when it settled at the back of my neck.

"Are you flirting with me?" I asked, to get it out into the open.

"Maybe. Do you mind?"

"Not in the least."

"And, if I could find the time, I'd love doing that Asian guy crawl with you. I wouldn't need to see any more Asian guys as we crawled, either."

"Just so I know, I said. Here we are, at the studio. It's an hour later than your call time, but there wasn't anything we could do about that. You had a change of flights. Someone will meet us at reception. Come back there after your audition is over and reception will track me down to take you to your hotel. If you don't need me to take you to the hotel, I'll take your bag there and they'll have it at the desk when you check in." If we were going to get it on, he'd have to make the move. He was the talent and was a barely legal one.

"Why wouldn't I need you to drive me to the hotel?"

I didn't want to tell him that if Anderson was seriously considering him for a part in a TV show, the young man probably was going to be dined, tied up, and fucked by Anderson as a condition for getting the part and that Anderson would drop him off at the hotel later—in well-used condition. This kid was a fast one. I was betting he'd let Anderson do it.

"These auditions can be complicated," I answered. "You may not get out until late." It was the best I could do in the way of an exclamation. If he was going to work out here, he was going to have to learn the rhythms of life out here—on his own.

Everything worked fine on check in—for a few minutes. Then it fell apart. I hadn't made it into the drivers' lounge until I saw Sam Anderson coming out of the elevator and his driver coming out of the lounge. Alex Winstead had been taken up in the elevators less than ten minutes before. Anderson had two young guys with him, who I recognized as Jacob Reines, a studio child actor, who'd appeared in a few sitcoms already, and Zach Peters, a breakout girl's heartthrob singer who was trying to branch out in the entertainment industry. The young men, both eighteen or nineteen, were clinging to Anderson's arm as they bustled out of the building and into a limo. I knew from scuttlebutt around the studio—and because I was in the market for nineteen-year-old young men myself—that both Reines and Peters blew and took cock to gain advantage. It seemed quite evident that the auditioning for the TV show had been narrowed to two candidates who were going to continue auditioning in Anderson's bed.

A few minutes later, a dejected Alex came down in the elevator. He looked down in the mouth. Obviously, I was up for another drive and no break.

"That didn't take long," I said as Alex approached me.

"No audition. I was too late. They told me the producer had filled the role. Can they do that—bring me all the way out here and, because of bad plane connections, not even audition me? They're the ones who provided the plane tickets."

I didn't think Anderson had totally made up his mind yet who was going to get the role, but I couldn't disagree that it wasn't going to be Alex. I reached out and touched his arm. He didn't shirk away. "Yeah, they have all the say in who gets cast. You have another crack at it tomorrow, though. You're probably lucky in not being auditioned by Anderson."

"Why?" Alex asked, his face looking at his shoe tops.

"There's a story on him. He's really demanding of the young men he casts—young men your age, if you know what I mean."

"You mean you don't get the job if you don't let him fuck you?"

"Something like that, yes."

"That's nothing new to me," Alex said. "I don't think anything's different in Los Angeles than in New York in that way."

"And you were prepared to . . .?"

"I do what I have to do," Alex said, defiantly, looking up at me. There were tears in his eyes but a challenging look on his face.

So that was that. Maybe I could push it, though. "And you only do it when you have to to get ahead?"

"I do it when I want to do it," he answered, still defiant, still looking at me directly.

Eureka . . . maybe. I looked down again at those narrow, narrow hips.

"Do you want me to drive you right to the hotel and let you off?" I asked, rubbing his arm a bit with my hand. "Or would you like to see some of the area first? We could get some beer and sandwiches or something and go someplace where we could look out over the city."

"I heard you can drive up to the Hollywood sign," Alex said.

"Sure, I can take you up there."

"Let's go up to the sign now—and maybe the hotel later. But I'm just nineteen. I don't know about the beer."

"Do you drink beer at home, Alex?"

"Sure." He hadn't forgotten that he'd had beer in the VIP lounge in Denver. That smooth operator who knew Ray Stinger and who used his connections to get in Alex's pants.

"It seems that you don't feel restricted about a lot of things. I'll stop and get some beer."

"That's fine with me," Alex answered.

"Is that all that's fine with you, Alex?" I was really fishing hard now, but my body was sending out signals that I really, really wanted a piece of this young man and he wasn't sending out signals to the contrary.

"No, it's not," he answered, with that level stare at me. "Asian men who are tall and muscular are fine with me too."

* * * *

"Do you want to go all the way up to the Hollywood sign or just to where we can see it?" I was up into the Hollywood Hills and it was time to choose an approach higher into the hilly parkland in the direction of Forest Hills Memorial Park cemetery. For a brief minute I thought of driving him into the cemetery and laying him on a raised grave, but there were too many people in that cemetery all the time, and I was on dangerous ground here. He had to declare if we were going to do what I hoped we were going to do. Not that I wouldn't be on dangerous ground anyway. Studio flunkeys who laid the talent were quickly fired. It was irrelevant that he wasn't studio talent yet. He hadn't made it to an audition yet. Of course, the danger was a good third of the arousal—the other two thirds were those slim hips of his and the image of splitting the difference. I made the judgment that it was worth the risk of being fired.

"What's the difference between the possible roads?" he asked from the seat on the other side of the glass partition. He was sniffling, and I think he was having trouble holding it together, having come all the way out here from the East Coast, arriving just a bit late, and missing his first chance at a TV role. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to be thinking about laying the young man. I didn't want to be blamed for spiking him when he wasn't in control of himself.

"They both go up through the Hollywood Hills, but one, going up North Beachwood and working our way up to Mulholland Highway will take us up to the sign and a maintenance facility above that. The other, less traveled, way is to go up Canyon Drive. That turns into Brush Canyon Trail, which is a dirt road this limo probably doesn't want to try, although that road goes up to the sign. But where the asphalt ends is an abandoned camp ground with a real good view of the sign."

"An abandoned camp ground. No people?" he asked.

"Probably not. Even if there are, there are drive offs with a view where the Caddie will fit without being seen."

"Canyon Drive, then, please," Alex said.

My spirits soared and I felt myself go hard. "Stop for beer first?" I ventured.

"Stop for beer first," he said.

I fucked him in the back of the limo, on the floor between the two facing seats. There was plenty of room. He initiated it. I wouldn't have done it otherwise, honest—at least not there, that way.

"There's a blanket in the trunk," I said. "We can take it and the beer out on the rock cropping over there and you can see the sign just up the hill over there." I'd backed the limo into a fire-trail road at the far end of the abandoned campground off Canyon Drive.

"I can see it out the back window from here," Alex said. "Just bring the beer into the back, and let's sit here." He was in the back-facing seat. "I just want to sit and get mellow."

I took the beer into the back. He beckoned me into the seat beside him. I popped two cans. "You didn't open the beer if anyone asks," I said. "You never know what makes a difference in a state as crazy as California, and there's no reason for both of us to get into trouble."

"I think I want to get into trouble. Hold me a minute," he murmured, looking oh so sad. "I'm still bummed about coming all the way out here and not getting anywhere."

I put an arm around him and pulled him into my side. He put a hand on the inside of my thigh, high up, which I pretended not to notice. "You've still got another audition tomorrow. And you said you preferred that role anyway."

"But what if—?"

"We'll get you to that audition. You'll do great. You'll get the role."

"You think so?" he asked, it coming out nearly in a sob. The kid was only nineteen, and he was out here all by himself. Of course he'd be worried about something like this.

Maybe all he needed as a little help. I'd have to see what I could do about that. His hand had gone higher on my thigh. His thumb was on my dick outside the material of my black trousers. Of course I was hard. I wondered if he knew he was touching my dick and it was hard. But of course he knew. This kid was a player. I put a hand on his thigh and he took it with his hand and moved it to his crotch. He didn't feel like anything special, but then, it wasn't his cock I was interested in. At the same time, he reached up with his other hand, cupped the back of my head, and brought my mouth down to his.

So much for drinking beer for a while.

As we kissed, he unzipped me and freed my cock, which he proceeded to stroke, taking his lips off mine to say, "Shit, you're huge." I was returning the favor. He was hard too, if nothing as big as I was.

"You sure about this? You want to stop?" I asked. "You're what? Only nineteen."

"Do you care?"

"Not really. Truth be told, I like it better that you're young."

"I like it better than you're Chinese . . . and muscled . . . and hung," he said. "I've never been fucked by a muscular, hung Chinaman. Are all Chinamen as hung as you are?"

"Are you planning to be fucked by all Chinamen?"

"Maybe. Starting with you."

He slipped down to kneel between my thighs and sucked me off. I lay back in the seat, staring out through the back window at the Hollywood sign and sighing my approval of his technique. He took my cream on his cheek. He'd hold his own with any of the other young men and women on the casting couches out here.

We drank beer and cuddled while I recovered. Then Alex made clear he wanted more—and more intimate. He stripped, went down on all fours on the floor between the backseats, gave me a provocative look, and said, "Fuck me, big boy. Screw me, Larry."

So, I did. Not before I played with him a bit, though. Naked now myself, I hovered over him, running my hands all over his luscious little body, finding and fondling the curves and crevices of his smooth, supple late-teenager's body, while he murmured, "Fuck me, stud. Screw me, daddy" over and over again. As I ran my hands over him, I kept returning to his initially pert little hole with my fingers, penetrating him and opening him up. He opened up fast. The narrowness of his hips fascinated me—that's what I always looked for in a nineteen-year-old lay.

Could the tips of my fingers meet when I gripped his hips? Yes, they could. As I touched the tips of my fingers, I squeezed his pert little buttocks open with the heels of my hands, fully exposing the hole, which dilated open for me. This was one well-used young man. I was big but he'd be able to take me without much preparation. It would be tight at first, but that's how I liked them—tight, with the sensation of them reluctantly stretching for me—eventually taking all of me and lying there, skewered, and docile, looking at me with "yes, take it all" big cow eyes.

Well, this young man was about to be used again, and I didn't sense any reluctance. I pulled a hand away only long enough to pick up a half-full can of beer and pour a stream down between his butt cheeks, as he murmured, "Yes, yes. Do it." The rest I poured on my erection. My hands went back to gripping his slim hips. I crouched over him as he knelt on all fours. "Yes, now," he whimpered.

"You have to say it explicitly. You have to say, 'Put your dick in me and fuck me, Larry.'"

"Put your dick in me and fuck me, Larry," he cried out, straightening his legs, raising his tail up like a foot racer just before the gun goes off. He gave me a good angle. Gripping his hips tightly, I centered my cock, penetrated, and held briefly for him to open to me as he moaned and panted hard. And then I thrust up and fucked him to another ejaculation. He held steady for me, taking it like a whore, panting and emitting words of encouragement—"Shit!" "Oh, fuck!" "Screw me good!"—going with me, thrusting back as I thrust forward, as I gripped his slim hips and plowed him.

When we got going good, I covered him close from above, riding him high, like a race horse jockey, him holding solid like a bitch in heat being serviced, me gripping his boyish pecs and thrumming his nipples with my thumbs, latching onto the hollow of his throat with my teeth. He cried out, "Give me your Chinese cum. Inside me." So, that's what I did, pumping three strong wads of cum inside him in waves as he held and twitched, held and twitched. One of my hands went under and fisted his little cock, and he came for me with a long sigh.

Nothing like supple, resilient, experienced nineteen-year-old male pussy.

He took it very well. When I pushed him over onto his back, still hovering over him, two of my fingers up his ass, still working him, and he lay there docile and purring, he whispered "My first Chinaman."

"Did I—?"

"You did just fine," he murmured.

So, I fucked him again.

When I drove him back to his hotel, the Loews Hollywood Hotel, on North Highland Avenue, above Hollywood Boulevard, he invited me up.

"You want me to come up to your room?" I asked.

"I want it again."

So, I gave him the dick again in his room, on his bed. I put him on his back, grabbed his ankles, and split and raised his legs. I pushed my knees under his tight little buttocks, thrust up inside him, and fucked the hell out of him. He didn't want me to be gentle with him and I wasn't.

"Love that Chinese cum!" he cried out at climax.

Good, I thought, because there's a whole lot of that out here in LA.

Afterward, he went into the bathroom and I reached for the phone. A little bit of help. That's what was called for here. I made a couple of calls. Just a little bit of help. Then I got up, dressed, and left. I didn't think I'd survive another round with this delicious kid. I sure hope he'd get the part and was going to be back out in Hollywood for a while—needing a driver. That was another nice thing about spiking nineteen-year-olds visiting Los Angeles from far away. They were at your mercy for transportation.

* * * *

I wondered what Alex thought the next morning when I wasn't the one who picked him up for the audition with Brandon Chapman. I hoped he didn't think I was avoiding him. It was all for his good, although I didn't stay around the evening before to tell him what I did—in case it didn't work out.

I got Frieda, one of the other drivers, to take Alex to the audition. I had further designs on him, so I didn't hook him up with one of the other male drivers. He was a real firecracker, that little Alex was. I knew he'd do well at the audition. Chapman liked experienced kids, but he, like I, liked them with slim hips and at eighteen or nineteen. Alex would give him a terrific ride.

I wasn't the one who was taking him to that audition, because I'd found in my telephoning around while I was in the guy's bed and he was in the john that Jacob Reines got the part in the high school basketball show. So, Jacob was out of the competition for today's audition for the blended family sitcom. But that left Zach Peters, who I found out was auditioning today.

So, I was giving Alex a little help. He was on his own to ride Chapman well enough to get the part. But Zach Peters, unfortunately, wasn't going to make the audition. I managed to wrangle the assignment as his driver. I got lost taking a shortcut up Canyon Drive to see if we could find the Hollywood sign before the audition. I'd been told he was really easy, which turned out to be true. I did him in a doggie. And then I did him again—because he wanted me to. Before we knew it, it was getting dark. He missed his audition. What a pity that was.