by Zack
The day turned out to be mostly one of waiting around while the effects team set up plate background shots to be later matted into the foreground action. Mike’s task was to oversee the work and ensure it matched the director’s notes. In between shots, Gil went back and forth to the production office, carrying and filing a stream of camera notes for the laboratory work.
In the lunch break, they repaired to the big canteen and Mike formally introduced Gil to Roderick—“call me Rod”—the camera operator on the second unit. He was a pleasant man, quite tall, wiry of body, and with a shock of unruly red hair, a lightly freckled face, and a ready smile that undermined his professional grumbling.
Gil thought him in his late twenties, but Rod’s was the sort of face that he couldn’t tell. He was also, as Mike had informed him, as bent “as a clockwork orange.” Gil interpreted this as meaning another Friend of Dorothy, though he could detect no sign of that.
As the conversation flowed over plates of what the menu described as Shepherds’ Pie, which appeared to Gil to be a soggy kind of meatloaf with mashed potatoes on top, he decided Rod was one of those types who didn’t much care one way or the other.
Rod launched into the subject of an up-and-coming project he was involved with. “I dunno if you guys would be interested, but I’ve been hired by that big club… the one by the Odeon on Leicester Square—Paradise?—to film some big event they’re putting on soon. You know it?”
“Oh, yes,” Mike said, placing the emphasis on the last word.
“Just a small team, me on camera, and I need a kind of director, probably to keep the crowds away from the lens as much as anything and handle the sound recording. Not that we’ll be able to do much in the way of synch sound, but with all the noise synching it up later won’t much matter, and we can always add any effects we want in the editing. But I can’t be behind the viewfinder and watch out for good shots and angles, so would you like to do that for me, Mike?”
Without waiting for an answer, the loquacious Rod rushed on, addressing Gil. “And I’ll need a camera assistant to get any releases signed—if they’re even needed. I guess most of those dancing queens will die to get on film—and change film magazines. Mind, that will probably only be a couple of times. They don’t want more’n twenty finished minutes. Can you do that?”
“Er—”
“Sure he can,” Mike broke in. “We’d be pleased to help out.”
“It won’t pay much.”
Mike shrugged it off.
Rod turned on Gil again. “Have you ever handled an Arriflex camera, the Arri 16 BL to be precise?”
Gil considered his answer carefully. “Sure, a couple of times. We had one on the course I did back home.”
“Can you empty out and reload a magazine using a change bag?”
Gil nodded. “Yeah, we got tested on that. I reckon I can remember how to do that.”
Rod smiled happily. “You’ll be up against time in horrendous conditions, I’ve no doubt.”
“I can do it,” Gil insisted in between chewing on a gristly chunk of unrecognizable meat.
Mike said, “How did you get involved in this?”
“Oh, it’s some Roman-themed night, y’know—togas, or maybe more tunics, legionaries, swords and sandals, slave auctions, that kind of thing. And there are two big set pieces—a gladiatorial fight to the death and a collapsing temple at the very end. Big stuff. It’s in association with one of the gay photo-mags that Aiden Parnell guy publishes, and I know him slightly. Anyway, the guy who did the fight scenes for the last film I worked on was engaged to train up the hunks doing the fight and he suggested me when the Paradise management decided to make a record of it. On top of that, they’re hiring a ton load of props, like columns and drapes, from here.”
Gil gave up on the last quarter of his meal. “When’s it happening?”
Rod pulled out a well-worn Filofax and flipped through some leaves. “Two weeks next Saturday.”
“Count us in,” Mike said.
Rod left them to finish up their coffees. Mike swallowed the last of his and then sighed. “Better get back to it, I s’pose.”
As the boys walked down the long hallway connecting the canteen to the production offices, they rounded a corner and ran into two men coming the other way. Gil blanched. Oh fuck! Mike stopped dead in his tracks.
“Well, well,” came the American drawl, “if it isn’t the two li’l love birds.”
“Sheee-it,” Mike breathed. “Hello, James.”
Rosen glared back. Gil recognized his companion as one of the thugs who had yanked him from the swimming pool at Fantini’s party in Rome that dreadful night. The guy gave him a nasty smile.
“What are you two fellatin faggots doin here?”
“What are you doing here?” Mike retorted. “I thought you were at Shepperton.”
“We are, we are, Mikey-baby,” Rosen replied in a dangerously soothing tone, like the snake in Jungle Book. “I’m here checking out the facilities for a possible new production.” His fake smile faded suddenly. “But I must say, the stink in here just got a lot worse.” He stepped up close until his nose was almost pressed against Mike’s, who struggled to avoid flinching. “If you know what’s good for you, you punk, you’ll haul ass outta here soon as you can, and take… that”—he stabbed a finger at Gil—“with you.”
Mike snorted. “You’ve no power over me any more, James, so back off.”
Rosen did so, straightening his jacket lapels as he did, snapping a hand over the pocket as though cleaning it of some dirt. “You don’t think so, eh. Well, we’ll see. I wipe out shit like you all the while… as you well know.” He raised a thumb in the direction of the thug. “There are more ways to deal with your kind than a word in the ears of the powers who hire over here. Know what I mean?”
The thickset minder nodded slightly. His oily threatening smile widened.
“Fuck off, James,” Mike snapped out, and brushed past the American producer. Gil glowered at Rosen, raised a middle finger at the thug, and went after his friend.
A guffaw of laughter followed them echoingly down the hallway. Gil, inflamed with anger, whipped around, cupped hands to his mouth, and yelled out. “Fuckin Faggot!”
The laughter just redoubled.
They wrapped in the late afternoon and drove back into London. Both boys were quiet on the journey, which was slowed by the Sunday traffic heading home from wherever everyone had been for the warm autumn day out. Neither would admit it, but the unexpected meeting with James Rosen had shaken them. Gil could see it in Mike’s unusually pinched look.
“He can’t do anything,” Mike finally muttered, as he turned off the A40 toward Swiss Cottage.
Apart from ruminating over Rosen’s threats, Gil was still battling with being driven on the wrong side of the road and wondering whether he would cope if he ever had to take the wheel. On the other hand, he had to admit that the road markings and direction signs were much clearer than anything he had experienced in and around Los Angeles.
“He’s dangerous, though, ain’t he?”
“I think I’m happier with the thought of physical action than trying to shit us up with film production companies.” Mike sighed heavily. “I dunno. Let’s just see.” Then he brightened up in typical fashion. “I know. We need a diversion. A treat. Something to take our minds off that stupid turd-bastard.”
“Oh yeah, what?” Gil said suspiciously.
“We need… Hampstead Heath. That’s what we need. Tonight.”
“Is that like Primrose Hill? I went up there a week or so ago.”
“No, no, no. The action up there’s not up to much, if at all. No, the Heath’s much better. I’ll show you.”
Mike pulled Horny into a space between two other parked vehicles halfw
ay up a narrow road Gil saw was named Lower Terrace. The drive up the steep hill from Aberdare Gardens had taken barely five minutes. As they got out and Mike locked Horny he said, “Now we walk the rest of the way. It’s not far.”
The lane curved around a walled property on the left and tree-lined verges on the other, gently climbing the last of the hill. The warmth of the day still lingered in the early night air and both boys wore 501s and shirts, but no jackets.
After two minutes they emerged into a wide, open space where several small roads met around a body of water.
“This is Whitestone Pond. The main part of Hampstead Heath’s over that way.” He waved his right arm vaguely in that direction. In the orange glow of London’s street lighting Gil could only make out more trees on the other side of the pond, with a break where a path wound off downhill.
“And the West Heath is straight ahead.” Mike glanced both ways along the narrow road in front of them and crossed over to an open field. They followed a dirt path worn by years of walkers, which began to descend toward a wall of dense trees.
Within seconds, they were swallowed up in the dark between the thickets. Only the occasional glint of a sodium lamp from the street above flickered through the leaves. The path steepened and Gil had to catch himself on Mike’s shoulder in front of him as he stumbled over a dip or a tree root.
“Where the hell are we going?” he hissed. It seemed unwise to raise a voice here in this stygian wilderness of bushes and overhanging boughs.
Mike gave a quiet laugh and whispered back. “Not that far.”
Eventually, the path leveled out and came to an intersection with another crossing it. Mike veered right onto the new track, which widened out so both boys could walk side by side. For a moment they were in a triangular-shaped clearing palely illuminated by the city’s light reflecting from the fairweather cloud overhead.
Then they plunged back into the black, swallowed up into the maw formed by the large overhanging trees. Gil realized his vision had improved as he adjusted to the night. A faint flicker of movement ahead registered, but he thought his eyes were playing tricks; then a sudden flare of a match or a lighter, and he saw a face briefly lit up in its glow.
They were now deep in the throat of the forest. The nervous excitement made Gil’s mouth go dry. He was suddenly aware that ghostly figures inhabited the spaces between the tree trunks on either side of the track, standing, silently watching. Mike caught his arm and pulled Gil close, leaning his head in. “There’s usually a bit of action on the go just a bit ahead. Ah-hah, up there.”
Gil strained his perception and caught more movement a few yards farther on. One, then two, then three figures flitted silently out of the wood one after the other and crossed the path ahead to disappear among the trees on the other side.
When they reached the spot Mike turned off and climbed a worn sloping track that quickly leveled off. Gil followed and saw they were in a small clearing. It heaved with guys. Some stood like sentinels, watching. Others massed more actively around something that had their attention. The atmosphere reeked of lust, yearning, and a curious low-level feeling of menace. Mike pushed into the edge of one bunch and made space for Gil to follow.
Up against a tree, hemmed in by the watchers, a fair-haired man with his pants around his ankles was getting blown by someone kneeling on the leaf mold. A third guy leaned up against Fairhair, gently jacking himself as he fondled the other’s ass. The silence was surreal, almost reverential, although Gil detected faint whispers from the packed voyeurs.
He looked down to see the man next to him pulling on his hard cock. “They’re gonna fuck ’im,” he murmured to no one in particular.
Gil felt Mike rub a hand against his fly and his fingers massage the growing erection. Another body pressed up promiscuously behind, and leaned into him to get a better look over his shoulder. Gil began to melt into the lusty atmosphere and thrust his crotch hard against Mike’s groping hand.
Against the tree, the third guy turned the center of attraction around to lean up against the trunk. Fairhair spread his legs as far as the restraining jeans would allow and thrust his ass out as the cocksucker turned rimmer and began eating the offered asshole with ardent vigor. There came a swelling, yet still muted, growl of appreciation from the congregation.
At that moment Gil felt the guy hard up against his back slide both hands around his waist and go straight for his front. Mike didn’t give way and there were three hands working to unfasten his fly buttons. Mike had insisted they wear no underwear, so as soon as three buttons popped, Gil’s cock became available and he no longer knew which hand was doing what to him.
Mike turned and started kissing him, encompassing his shoulders with both arms. The other pair of hands unfastened the top of his 501s and pulled them down. As one hand continued jacking him, the other slipped into the crack of his ass. Over Mike’s shoulder Gil could see that the two guys were now taking turns to fuck Fairhair, while some of the voyeurs had sidled up to fiddle with whatever they could get their hands on.
“Uh, I’m getting it from both sides…” Gil managed in Mike’s ear.
“Relax, baby, it’s the Heath. It’s the way it goes.”
The invisible presence behind him stopped his ministrations, but only so he could hunker down to force his way between their legs. Gil squirmed as the guy’s warm mouth closed over his engorged cock, while Mike explored his mouth and their tongues mashed in growing desire.
Suddenly, Gil realized that he had now become another focus of attraction. Men encircled them like natives closing in for the kill, aroused by a different action scene. He thought he should be embarrassed, but what the cocksucker was doing combined with Mike’s loving embrace and the ogling of so many others, made him feel delightfully slutty.
As though by mutual consent, Mike moved around Gil to stand behind him. He slipped fingers up against Gil’s pucker, and the guy in front shuffled to get into a better position to start deep throating. Immediately, the watchers crowded in and warm hands began seeking out, poking into gaps, lowering his jeans, sliding up and down the insides of his thighs. One man fondled his balls, slick with the saliva from the suck. And then Mike’s hard-on slid into him.
“Aaah,” Gil breathed in ecstasy at his lover’s penetration.
Sexual electricity crackled throughout the group as Mike began to fuck him and the kneeling guy sucked harder and faster. A man built like the proverbial brick shit-house reached out and pulled Gil’s head down, bent him forward over the blowjob artist, and a second later shoved his large wet cock between Gil’s lips. Gil gagged on its bulk for a second, regained his equilibrium, and began taking it down as far as he could.
His entire body was now on fire from many stroking, probing, and squeezing hands. Someone tweaked his tit so hard it made his eyes water. All the while, Gil remained aware of the familiar feel of Mike’s hands gripping his hips as his lover passionately reamed his rear end.
This was no place of quiet contemplation over lingering sex. The guys pressing in wanted to get off fast to move on to a new scene. Lust agitated the very air and dictated a rapid culmination. In its midst, Gil embraced the sex whirlpool. He fought his body’s demand for relief to enjoy the worship for as long as possible. He managed to wriggle his hands down through the forest of arms to grab the back of the cocksucker’s head and hold on as he rammed himself deep into the man’s throat. “Ohhhh shit, I’m gonna cum! Aaaaahh fuck! ”
The guy below him frothed as Gil fed him hot cum, which squirted out between the lips gripping him and his slicked cock shaft with the force of his orgasm. Wet heat exploded inside him as Mike came. He felt the flop of Mike’s hair as his lover’s head dropped down on his sweating spine. He felt Mike’s hands swatting aside the strokers’ fingers.
And then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Shadowy figures melt
ed away into the surrounding dark, in search of yet more hot sex. Gil straightened up creakily, held up in Mike’s arms. With an odd sense of politeness, the guy who had sucked him off helped pull up his jeans and then he too was gone. “I never even saw his face,” Gil said.
Mike blew affectionately in his ear. “Probably just as well… Ooof, that was sensational. Boy, were you slick and ready for it.” He released Gil to button up and then produced a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “Let’s find somewhere a bit peaceful. Want one?”
They wandered down to the upper edge of the bank over the track and squatted down against the broad roots of a tree and lit up. Not much of a smoker, Gil coughed on the Muratti. Mike had bought two hundred of the Italian cigarettes in the airport Duty Free shop in Rome and he was now on the last couple of packs. He stared into the dark trees opposite and blew a stream of smoke which magically caught a whiff of the orange sodium light that filtered through the foliage. “What’s with the cigarette after sex?”
“What do you mean, after sex?”
“Well, isn’t it?”
Mike shook his head. “Uh-uh, this is a cigarette before sex.”
Gil slowly rotated his neck to look at his friend. Mike grinned happily. “Night’s young, O ballin buddy of mine. I reckon there’s gotta be a guy out there somewhere would love a taste of my dick, especially after it’s bin up your fragrant bum.”
Even in the near dark Mike could obviously see the grimace of disgust on Gil’s face because he chuffed out a barking laugh.
“Different strokes for different folks, Gil.”
A rustle of leaves preceded the silhouette of someone who loomed out of the night. “Gotta light fellas?”
Gil looked up to see what at first appeared to be a young kid, bent forward, cigarette thrust out. Mike flicked his lighter into flame and they both got a better look. “You’re just a baby,” Mike opined affably.
