by Zack
Praise for
Boys of Vice City
“A delightfully homoerotic story of love and lust… Lovers of homoerotic storytelling will want to add this book to their library.”
Amazon review
“The secret of the book’s success is that Gil is genuinely innocent as well as insatiably horny, his charm is captivating and the adventures arousing. A classic.”
Amazon review
“An entertaining story graphically conveying a young man’s enthusiasm for gay sex… enhanced by beautiful illustrations by Zack. The sense of sexual heat is palpable. While there is plenty of gung-ho sex throughout, there is also a friendship that brings things to a nice conclusion. Don’t look here for angst, look here for a keen appreciation of the body’s pleasures. Something worth celebrating, in my opinion.”
Author Brandon Fox
Contents
Joining the High-Flyers
A Night in Paradise
A Transfer Job
Bad Times, Good Times
Losing His Head
Disco Inferno
Fall of the Roman Empire
Getting Splattered
Taste the Big Apple
Bath Time
The Deal
Turned Upside Down…
…And Inside Out
CHAPTER ONE
Joining the High-Flyers
In spite of the late hour—almost one o’clock in the morning—young Mike Benson remained fully alert. Santorini’s was almost empty and the traffic on Burbank’s San Fernando Boulevard had died to a trickle, but Mike didn’t want to leave just yet. His eyes were firmly glued to the face of the older man seated opposite him at the small restaurant table. He still felt a sense of unreality at having been dined by the hugely successful producer-director Gil Graham, and treated to a stream of fascinating anecdotes about Gil’s life and career in movies and television. That career started when Mr. Graham was twenty—two years older than Mike was now—but not in Hollywood. Gil regaled him with tales of his sex adventures in Rome in 1980. Perhaps he suspected—or hoped—that Mike shared his liking for man-on-man sex and that the many anecdotes would elicit a reaction he might interpret as sexual interest. In truth, Mike wasn’t certain of his own inclinations.
As a trainee floor assistant at RKW studios, Mike had hoped for some tips on how to get ahead, but Gil seemed to be offering a lot more than helpful hints. There was no denying that even in his early fifties, Gil Graham was a fit-looking, handsome guy. If bed was a conclusion to the evening, he wasn’t going to refuse it… and the looks Gil kept giving him strongly suggested a physical interest well beyond giving him a helping hand up the movie ladder.
Perhaps it was his name that generated the interest—it was clear from everything Gil related that the person who had captured his heart back in those hot summer days in Rome was another Mike. As Gil waved down a yawning server to get the check, Mike plucked up the courage to finally ask the question that had been bugging him for some time.
“Can I ask you… what happened to your Mike Smith, you know, the English guy, after Rome?”
Gil lifted his eyebrows as he considered how to answer a question so obviously freighted with memories.
“That’s a long story.” He breathed out a long quiet sigh, looking down at the table. For a terrible moment Mike thought he’d overstepped the mark and Mr. Graham wouldn’t answer him. Then he flicked his eyes up, regarded Mike from under pale brows, and smiled evenly. “But if you’re really interested, come back to my place. I have a suite at the Amarano. Have a nightcap with me, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Mike nodded in a manner he hoped kept the eagerness from his expression as they both got up from the table.
“Let’s grab a cab,” Gil said. “Okay… where to start? Well, I guess on the plane out of Rome…”
~ ~ ~
The coast of Lazio dropped away below as the British Airways Trident climbed and banked to head out over the Tyrrhenian Sea toward the distant coast of France.
Mike Smith asked, “Will you be going back?”
Gil Graham dragged his eyes away from view outside the small window. “Well, I never really saw much of Rome proper, and anyway I have to, don’t I? Little Angelo swore he’d die, simply die, if I didn’t return, and I’ve still got a date with Paolo—at full rates.”
“What, being unfaithful already?”
Gil placed his hand over Mike’s arm. “No.”
Barely out of their teens, the two young men relaxed, comfortable in each other’s presence and their shared experiences. Well, Gil thought, not all shared.
He glanced across at his English friend, his Mike Smith, whose eyes were just closing. For the hundredth time Gil admired the shape of his boyish face under carefully disordered locks of black hair; the long eyelashes now hiding the bright greeny-brown eyes that always twinkled, always seemed amused; the neat mouth, now in repose, which had a ready grin or outright wide smile for just about everyone.
A pale fawn-colored T-shirt pulled tightly at the gym-trained muscles of Mike’s chest and flat stomach, tucked loosely into the freshly laundered khaki safari shorts he favored, the ones with cuffs. They bunched up in crisp folds at the front, advertising what lay beneath—not surprising when Gil thought of those huge balls. The long, powerful, lightly downed legs stretched out as far under the seat in front as they could go. Although they were the same age, Gil looked the younger, with his heart-shaped head and mop of blond hair (which needed a trim) covering half his ears, and falling into his twinkling gray eyes, which too readily expressed his emotions, and ranged in a trice from a look of pure innocence to sly naughtiness.
What he had in common with Mike was a finely toned body, shorter by an inch in stature and not as broad at the shoulders, which tapered neatly to his slender waist. Long, graceful legs narrowed below his thighs, which protruded from the ragged hem of his jeans, cut off just below the crotch.
Gil laid his head back and reflected on his adventures in the weeks he had been in Rome: his first job in movies, working as a gofer on a Kennith Mitchener-helmed production, and that bastard American producer James Rosen, who regarded Mike as Rosen’s pet—or, as Mike put it, “his fuck-piece.”
They were glad to get away. Gil shuddered inwardly at the recollection of what that bastard Rosen had planned for him after having him split off from Mike and delivered, bound and ready to Fantini, a fat greasy Italian movie mogul with a taste for torturing young boys. At the head of a band of Italian hustlers and the stagehand Angelo, Mike engineered a rescue raid and thwarted Fantini’s designs for Gil. This badly damaged Rosen’s vital business relations with the Italian. For that, and for the punch Mike had landed on Rosen in front of a crowd of Rome’s luminaries, the producer vowed revenge.
Gil hoped Mike was right about jobs for them in Britain’s film business. It didn’t look like he would have much of a future back in the States now, with a powerful man like Rosen on the warpath, full of resentment.
He recalled shooting the breeze with Mike in a quiet moment on set when the movie they were working on was the subject of discussion. This had been some days before the appalling events of the Fantini party.
Gil complained that it really was just soft-core pornography dressed as a serious action adventure. “True,” Mike replied, “but the man’s films make good box office returns—that’s what makes him a power in Hollywood. Don’t forget, the last four made their negative cost back in the first three weeks on show.”
“You know him better’n me. What worries you so much?”
“Success
has gone to his head. He thinks he can do whatever he likes. James Rosen is an egomaniac.”
Gil heard: “eggo-maniac,” and laughed. “In America, that would be someone who really loves toaster waffles.”
Mike shrugged. “You say ‘tomayto,’ I say ‘tomahto.’ There’s plenty in England that say it like you, but I had to learn Latin at school for a few years, and that’s how I was taught to pronounce it. Whatever. Rosen is a self-centered, self-absorbed monster with a dictator complex, who thinks everyone he pays a check to is his puppet. Trouble is, some of us are fuck-puppets as well. Keep out of his way when he arrives in Rome.”
Unfortunately, Gil had not managed to do that. Still, in every other respect Rome had been an… interesting time. He recalled his first gay experience, which had not a pleasurable one all things considered, with the Italian customs man at Rome’s main airport. And then the romps with the American camera guys Jeff and Harry; the sex orgies with little Angelo and another of the Italian stagehands and a group of farmboys on the beach when the crew went filming on location in Campania; the first time he got paid for sex in a hustler bar and the second time as an “escort” to a Swiss businessman. But above all, the amazing sex with Mike. Gil had started out as straight, but Rome had bent him around its substantial finger, and Mike had completed the metamorphosis.
He ran a hand through the silky wave of his hair, while the other gently snuggled against an incipient erection. He nudged Mike.
“Huh?”
“You been on one of these types of plane before?”
Mike shrugged lazily and nodded. “I think it’s the same as the one I flew out on the way out with the sound crew.” The movie’s audio recording technicians had been hired on from London. He gave Gil a puzzled glance. “Why?”
“How big are the toilets?”
“Okay…” Mike narrowed his eyes questioningly. “You need me to hold your hand while you take a leak?”
Gil looked sheepish, and then ducked his chin, indicating the growing bulge in his cut-off Levi’s.
Mike gave a sniff, choking off a laugh. “Can’t it wait until we get to London?”
“Don’t think so…”
Mike twisted and glanced over the seat back. “One’s free. You go first.”
Gil slid out of his seat, keeping one hand in front to hide his stiffening hard-on, and sidled down the aisle between the three-two seat configuration. Given the late afternoon takeoff and the heat of the day back in Rome, most of the passengers were napping. He slipped into the confined toilet space and pushed the double-hinged door almost closed. Hmm, cramped but not too bad.
A moment later the door waggled open and Mike slid lithely through the narrow gap, snapping the lock behind him. He reached out with his free hand to cup Gil’s evident boner. “Whatcha wanna do?” He grinned and leaned forward, curled his other hand around to cup the nape of Gil’s neck, and pulled him into a lip-crushing kiss.
“Fuck you,” Gil burbled between their tongues.
“Was that a suggestion or a ‘bugger off’?”
For an answer, Gil reached down and unfastened Mike’s belt, unbuttoned the top, and unzipped the fly in one swift motion. Using both questing hands, he slipped under the waistband of his friend’s briefs and freed those big balls and the stiffening cock.
He forced Mike to swivel around in the enclosed space and lean against the aircraft’s side as he wrenched down the short pants and briefs to expose rounded ass cheeks. Then he ripped his own fly wide open.
“Spread.”
Mike chuckled but obeyed, at least as far as the confines of the cubicle allowed. He twisted his head back and forced it sideways for another kiss as Gil thrust his fervid eight-inch cock into the crack. The kissing paused a moment for Gil to spit copiously on his hand and lubricate the head of his cock and Mike’s waiting pucker, and then back in. Gil bent to take the lobe of Mike’s left ear between his teeth, teasing at the small silver stud he always wore.
Mike gave a low moan of pleasure as Gil pushed hard into him, echoing his own deep-throated grunt of effort. And then the fuck was well into its swing, Gil hammering away urgently, Mike pushing his ass backward to meet each thrust. Gil was getting off on the unusual location and the sneaky thought at the back of his mind that some seventy dozing passengers only feet away were missing out on the experience. He sensed Mike felt the same.
“God, that feels so good,” Mike breathed, straining his head again to meet Gil’s panting lips.
“Yeah, oh yeah… you’re so nice and tight today… and… fuck I’m gonna cum already… any second. You ready for it?”
Mike just jutted his ass back as far as he could in reply, while he risked taking one supporting hand down to stroke himself.
“Mmmm… jeez, here we go…” Gil gasped and let fly. Jizz after jizz shot into Mike. “Oh shit, shit,” he hissed in extremis. “Oh fuck, I love you.”
They waited there some moments, Gil deep inside Mike and leaning heavily against his back. He swayed in sympathy with some clear-air turbulence that rocked the aircraft. Then Mike pushed away from the wall.
“Quick. Sit on the bowl,” he commanded urgently.
The two boys squirmed past each other, with Mike almost forcing Gil down on the closed seat as he continued stroking hard. Gil just had a second to look at Mike’s massive balls, almost bouncing in their excitement, and the well lubed, generous cock head before it rammed home into his waiting mouth.
The delicious taste of his lover’s pre-cum flavored his own saliva. Not a second too soon. Mike groaned and began to blow his load. Gil slid his lips along the vibrating shaft as jet followed jet of hot cum. Gil let it flow both over and under his tongue, appreciating the distinct tastes from the top and underneath. He gulped deeply, taking the last drops like a rare wine.
There was a sharp bang on the door. “Hey, how long’re you going to be in there!”
“Oh shit!” Gil hurriedly buttoned his cut-offs.
Mike grinned, put on his fake Yankee accent, and whispered, “It’s okay, balling buddy, I know that voice.” And then in louder British tones, “Just a mo.”
“Mike? Is that you?”
“Yep, be out in a sec. It’s Alan, one of the sound crew,” he added to Gil as he ran the zipper up his pants’ fly.
“You got the runs or… something?” came back the voice, muffled through the door’s thickness.
The last word died as Mike shoved the door open.
“Well, well, well…” Alan peered curiously around Mike’s shoulder which otherwise blocked his view and a leer spread across his face. “I see. We’ve joined the eight-mile-high club, have we?” The English sound recordist grinned.
Gil couldn’t see his friend’s face, but he could tell from the light rejoinder that he too was grinning broadly.
“Jealous, Al?”
Gil was sheltered behind Mike’s broad shoulders, embarrassment welling, but he caught Alan’s slow lascivious wink as he peered in.
“You bet, Mikey-boy.” He stepped back to let Mike out. As Gil followed, Alan laid a hand lightly on his shoulder and leaned in close to whisper. “I’ll introduce you to a cute guy I know works in one of the sound transfer departments in London. He’ll be right up your alley, if you know what I mean… and if you let him.”
Gil pursed his lips in a sort of smile and just nodded a curt thanks. He had turned to follow Mike when he heard Alan exclaim, “Phew! Smells like teen sex in here…”
Fortunately, under the whining jet engines his words were lost to the adjacent passengers, who were mostly asleep.
“Better now?” Mike asked as Gil settled next to him in his aisle-side seat.
“Hmm, yeah. That’ll keep me going for an hour or so.”
Mike laughed brightly, his face still a touch
flushed from the flying fuck, and reached out awkwardly in the cramped seats to ruffle Gil’s hair. “You never made out with Al?”
“No. I’d have told you. Should I have? I mean for an old guy he’s not that bad-looking…”
“Blimey, Gil, he’s not out of his twenties yet!”
“You?”
Mike squinched his lips together suggestively. “His big thing’s rimming, and trust me, he’s bloody good at it. Get you off without your even touching yourself.”
Gil opened his eyes wide in what he hoped was a neutral expression. They fell silent for a while. And then Gil asked, “Changing the subject, what happens when we reach London? I mean, I don’t know that much about you, Mikey-boy,” imitating Alan. “Like, where do you live? Where am I going to get a place? I don’t know anything about England, except you live somewhere in London and that you love letting old guys eat your ass out.”
Mike pointedly ignored the last and pondered the question a moment. “I dunno, really. I didn’t think much about it after the dash to get away from Rosen’s sticky grasp.” He looked sideways at Gil and smiled. “Except I wanted to be with you.”
“So?”
“Okay. Well, I live with my parents in Swiss Cottage, when I’m not on a location job or anything. Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” he added hurriedly on seeing Gil’s doubtful expression. “We won’t have to stay there with them, at least not long, if that’s what’s worrying you. I know this guy, a journalist, who has a ground-floor flat a few houses away from my parents, and when I left for Rome he was looking to move out in a while. Maybe we can take over the rent from him.”
“What’s Swiss Cottage and what’s a ‘flat’?”
“It’s a small part of London, northwest of the center; and a flat, my bestest mate, is an apartment to you.”
“Oh. Right. And this journalist guy will just conveniently move out to let us in?”
“Leave it to me. You won’t mind camping out on my bedroom floor for a few days in the meantime?”
