I know, you would think I’d been away from home for as long as Trudy Amberson’s husband had been serving in Iraq. But in the two days I’d been gone, I missed my city almost as much as I missed Étie.
I called him the moment the plane touched down and the flight attendant gave us permission to use our electronics. He was waiting in the terminal for me. The excitement in his voice was equal to mine.
He hugged me and kissed me as I stepped off the escalator. An older couple, reminding me of Katherine Hepburn and Henry Fonda in On Golden Pond, smiled at us.
We exited the terminal and I paused a moment to inhale the cool night spring air. Étie then took my hand and led me across the thoroughfare to the center parking structure.
“So how did it go, my darling?” he asked as we climbed into the car, him behind the wheel.
“Great, baby. Really great.”
“And what was she like?”
“She was everything I expected her to be.”
“Good,” he said as he drove us out of the parking structure and into the airport’s circular traffic. In the brief silence, I felt his hand on my thigh.
“I missed you, Papi,” he said softly, staring straight ahead, his hand finding the print of my dick, his touch causing me to harden.
“I missed you too, baby,” I responded, weakened by his touch.
“My asshole miss your big black pinga,” he then said, my pinga growing in his hand, causing me to shudder.
Once home, we wasted no time. Barely through the front door, we tore at each other’s clothes and our mouths collided with a barrage of kisses.
We grabbed at each other with passionate fury, clung to each other as our tongues danced a wet tango. We wrestled each other toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of keys, shoes, pants, shirts, boxers and briefs behind us.
We threw our naked selves on the bed with a bounce that made us laugh through our holding and kissing. I was on top of him, kissing his face, his eyes, his nose, kissing his neck, biting it and grinding him. Our hardened joints slammed and jammed against each other with delicious fury as we dry fucked, humped and grinded with heaves and grunts.
I then flipped him over and positioned him on his knees doggy style. On my back, I scooted beneath him. Between his spread legs, I marveled ravenously at his thick stick of joy staring down at my whimpering mouth. I reached up and around his tight waist. I then grabbed both his ass cheeks and danced them up and down, impaling my greedy mouth with luscious dick. I slurped and gagged and moaned greedily with the face fucking. The deep throating I was getting was driving me wild. The taste of his pre-cum intoxicated me.
“Es so bueno, mi Papi,” he cried like a baby as I sucked him with a devil’s passion. “Es so muy, muy bueno!”
I had to have it. I couldn’t wait, neither could he. He lifted himself on his haunches and lubed himself with his saliva. He then eased himself down backward, cowboy style. His asshole found my quivering dick by sensual radar. The mother lode! He slammed himself on top of me. The sensation of his tight and hairy hole gobbling my dick whole made me gasp and nearly nut. He cringed with glee as all of me filled him with a rapturous snuggle. And there he writhed, danced my dick inside him. Up and down, round and round, he slammed his ass on me, choking my heated pinga into a tizzy.
He then slipped his arms underneath mine and brought me down with him. He was now on his back, the writhing and the dancing and the slamming and the stirring never off a beat.
“Oh God, baby, yes!” I wailed as he wrapped his legs around my shoulders. I piped him with a frenzy that ignited everything within him. His sweet hole was a suction, sucking up the love my dick was giving, taking it like a glutton, sucking it, riding it.
“Papi! Papi! Papi!” he screamed and laughed and cried and swooned as I pumped him while he jerked his joint.
“I love you, baby!” I was screaming, knowing I was almost there.
“I love you too, my beautiful man.” Tears were streaming down his cheeks. His beautiful face contorted with mad ecstasy as he jerked in triple time and took my pounding with a growling joy.
Suddenly we were both right there. We howled and cursed and called each other’s name. I shook like a tremor as I flooded his hole. He was just a beat away. And as I continued to drain myself inside him, I grabbed his rod and massaged it into an eruption. He screamed and cried, getting my cream, me getting his.
And as I collapsed on top of him, he drew my mouth to his, forced it open in a rush, attacked me with his brutish tongue. When he pulled away, he laid his head on my chest. My arms were all around him, afraid to let him go, afraid to let the moment pass, wanting it to last forever.
We lay there in each other’s arms for more than half an hour—although it only seemed to be mere moments long—before I noticed the UPS box sitting on the dresser.
“Your photos came?” I asked gleefully.
“Oh yes,” Étienne replied softly, as he fondled me gently. “They come today.”
“Oh baby, you know I gotta check ’em out,” I said, kissing him and easing out of his touch. He smacked my naked ass lightly, and then kissed it as I climbed panther-like over him, scooted off the bed and started across the room toward the dresser.
“My sexy ass, man,” I heard him growl behind me, making me chuckle as I arrived at the dresser and reached inside the open box.
“Wow.” I beamed in awe as I thumbed through Étie’s headshots and started back to the bed where I nestled between his legs. “These are pretty damn good.”
“That is because my lover is very good photographer,” he said, wrapping his arms around me, nibbling on my neck.
“Baby, Stevie Wonder couldn’t take a bad picture of you,” I crooned, enjoying the nibble as much as the pictures. “You have to get them over to your agent.”
“I will, tomorrow when I go for my wardrobe fitting.”
“Your wardrobe fitting?” I asked wide-eyed and surprised, turning to him in his lap.
“I get small part on TV show.”
“What?”
“Agent Pam say they call and request for me from seeing my picture on her website,” he said matter-of-factly, nibbling my lips. “I play pool boy who see murder. Must pick out suspect in lineup.”
“Étie! Baby! That is great!” I said, pulling away from him to get a good look at my rising star.
“It be nice,” he said, shrugging his wide shoulders like a blushing child.
“So when do you work?” I gushed more than he.
“Friday. I already talk to Mr. Nahng, my boss at market, to get day off. He say it is okay.”
“What’s the name of the show?” I asked, admiring his shyness.
“It is called Precinct Ten.”
Chapter Fourteen
I had gotten completely caught up in what seemed to be Étie’s good fortune, forgetting good fortune is when one is rewarded with something, though sometimes unexpected, one truly wants. I had momentarily forgotten I was with a man of simple wants and needs.
No, I hadn’t forgotten Étie’s quiet reticence of a Tinsel Town career was real. And I hadn’t forgotten I promised myself to discuss it with him.
But I also had to accept the fact Étie was a grown man. He was very capable of making decisions on his own. And as he would be the first to point out, I was his lover, not his father. He accepted the gig rightly without approval, consultation or blessings from the man he happens to sleep with. He had also joined the Screen Actors Guild and thoroughly consumed the union’s rights, rules and bylaws with no assist from me.
But caught up in his induction as possibly the newest, in my biased opinion, Hollywood flame, I was proud of him, even in light of his obvious lack of enthusiasm.
And no, it didn’t escape my attention that one of the stars of Precinct Ten was, in my opinion, a sexually lascivious asshole by the name of Hardy Ferrell, who had fucked my sister and wanted to fuck my man. But I was going to be an adult about this. Hardy Ferrell was no worse an asshole than, say…Syl
vester Winfrey.
Oh shit! Sylvester Winfrey!
Suddenly I was sweating bullets. So much good had been happening for Étie and me that I had completely forgotten about the threat to our happiness that existed in the ruthless and vengeful hands of Sylvester. Although he was down in the DR getting serviced by the locals at House of John, the chicken would eventually come home to roost.
I knew he would be down there for ten days, which bought me some time to come up with a plan of reconciliation when he returned. For a brief moment, I actually thought about putting in a call to him down at House of John, prepared to declare my penitence and beg for absolution.
But a call from me down to his Caribbean playground where his oral fixation with local schlong was surely complicated by me busting his dick-sucking lip would certainly not be welcomed. Believe me, I know. The love of giving head is one of the few things Sylvester and I have in common.
And maybe him having such a good time frolicking in paradise had him in a forgiving spirit. Maybe he was having too much fun to think about a little old fisticuffs with little old me.
Wait a second. I had to catch myself. After all, this was Sylvester Winfrey I was talking about here, the true Queen of Mean. This was the guy who thought love was for suckers, only the strong deserved to survive, and one of his many delights was drugging guys like me unconscious then fucking them in their comatose state.
“You all right, Junie?”
“Huh?”
“You’re frowned up like Brittney in rehab.” My sister Frankie had just returned to the bar from the ladies room at Kate Mantilini’s. We had drinks at the popular Beverly Hill eatery prior to our lunch visit with Étie on the set, making his acting debut.
“I’m fine.”
“No you’re not,” she smirked as she sat and politely gestured to the bartender.
“No I’m not.”
“Hi, sweetie, could you close out our tab?”
“No problem,” the bartender smiled deferentially, used to the flirtation. He then turned and walked toward the other end of the bar. My sister’s eyes followed every flex of his ass.
“So what’s the problem?” Frankie asked, not taking her eyes off the bartender’s behind as he retrieved our bill.
“I can’t help thinking about Sylvester, and what he might—”
“Listen to me, Junie,” Sis interrupted, finally looking me in the eye. “You need to have a bit more faith in the three of us, you, me and Étie. Thanks, sweetie,” she said to the bartender as he placed the bill in front of us.
“Thank you.”
“And besides, you have love on your side,” Frankie continued, as she signed the bill, added a tip, removed her American Express from the card slot of the bill folder and tucked it into her clutch bag. “Now let’s get out of here, get over to Burbank and have lunch with my cute-ass husband and your hot-ass lover.”
* * * * *
A drive-on pass was waiting for us at the Barham Boulevard entrance to Burbank Studios.
It was a quarter past one, forty-five minutes before Étie would be breaking for lunch. He had two scenes. The first was a morning shot, the poolside changing room, where he witnesses his employer, the soon-to-be murder victim, arguing with his live-in girlfriend and her ex-husband. His second scene would be shot after lunch on the precinct station set, where he would be asked to identify the live-in girlfriend’s ex-husband, once his employer is found dead.
I really wanted to be there for his first scene, but Frankie cautioned that Étie was going to be nervous enough. My presence right off the bat would probably not be good for him or me, so I acquiesced, reluctantly. But I was still glad we were early because I couldn’t wait to hear directly from my baby how things had gone so far. And I really needed to take my mind off Sylvester.
We parked in a visitor’s spot near the ADR recording stage, got out of Frankie’s Mercedes and strolled across the lot toward Stage 52.
“Oh hot, look!” Frankie exclaimed, pointing at a block of dressing trailers lined up next to Stage 52. “There’s Étie’s trailer.”
“Cool,” I beamed, seeing his name—Étienne Saldano-Templeton—boldly hand printed on a thick piece of masking tape across his door.
“Étie?” Frankie called out sweetly as she knocked on the door, which swung open almost immediately. Both Frankie and my broad smiles turned into jaw-dropping grimaces, accentuated by our bulging eyes and my immediate fury. “Hardy?” Frankie managed to say, in light of my seething silence.
“Hey, Frankie,” Hardy answered awkwardly. “Whaddup?”
“Where’s my husband?” Frankie demanded.
“He’s, ah…in the shower.”
“Come on, Frankie,” I finally spoke, my eyes burning into Hardy Ferrell with a vengeance. “Let’s go.”
“Hold up, Junie,” Frankie insisted, turning to me, ready to hold me back.
“No, let’s just get the fuck out of here.”
“What the hell are you doing in his dressing room?”
“Now wait a second, Frankie. I mean you really need to chill.”
Frankie climbed the three steps and pushed Hardy aside. I refused to enter. “Étie?” Frankie called toward the sound of running water in the bathroom.
“You must be Jesse,” Hardy finally said to me quietly, extending his hand.
I looked at him, then looked at his hand without budging. “Yeah, I’m Jesse,” I finally said, looking up into his eyes, waiting for the chance to…no. This wasn’t going to be another Sylvester Winfrey moment. In spite of everything, I had to be cool. No matter how much it hurt. I had to be cool.
I looked past Hardy and saw Frankie at the bathroom door, banging on it. “Étie?” she called out again. “It’s me. Frankie.” The water stopped.
“Listen,” Hardy fumbled. “I’ll check you guys out later.”
“I don’t think so,” I snarled, as he scrambled past me.
Inside the trailer, the bathroom door opened. Étie, dripping wet, a towel wrapped around his waist, was now standing in the bathroom doorway. There was a look of utter confusion on his face.
“Frankie?” he said quizzically. “What you do here this early?”
“Maybe I need to ask you the same thing about Hardy Ferrell,” I said, staring at him with a face of stone, still refusing to enter the trailer.
“Baby?” Étie said, seeing me for the first time, his sudden smile turning into a confused frown. “Hardy Ferrell?”
“Yeah, Étienne. Hardy Ferrell. What was he doing here?”
“He welcome me to show.”
“And how many inches did he welcome you with?” I snapped viciously, then turned to my sister. “Frankie, let’s go.”
“If you do not trust, you do not love,” I heard Étie say. But I was not listening. I saw what I saw and knew what I knew. My sister hesitated.
“Frankie, let’s go!” I insisted. I did everything in my power to hold back the tears that threatened to unmask my hurt and despair.
We drove back to my place in total silence, save for the constant ringing of my phone, caller ID’d as Étie. I allowed all his calls to go to voicemail.
“Listen, Junie,” Frankie finally said. “Before you jump to any conclusions—”
“Any conclusions?!” I ranted. “The motherfucker’s in the dressing room and Étie’s in the shower. If that’s not a conclusion, then I don’t know what is.”
And suddenly it was déjà vu. An actor’s job was to lie, cheat and deceive, so why would I expect Étienne to be any different from my ex Sean who cheated on me with Brad Pitt’s stunt double? I needed to leave these fucking actors alone. Even though Étie had only been in the profession less than a day, he proved to be a quick study on the set and between the sheets. I was heartbroken.
I had no idea what time he’d be getting home from his shoot, but I knew I didn’t want to be there when he got there. I sulked angrily at Frankie’s place for a while, until I grew weary of her feeble defense of Étie. So I left and sp
ent the rest of the evening pitifully nursing a barely touched Tanqueray and tonic at One Shot, a gay hole-in-the-wall dive in Inglewood I hadn’t been to in more than a decade.
“You look like you could use a friend,” came the mellow voice of the guy I hadn’t noticed sitting on the barstool next to me. I looked over at him, slightly offended by his intrusion on my misery. I suppose my glare was more pathetic than intimidating. He wasn’t deterred.
“My lover cheated on me,” I found myself finally saying out of nowhere. The stranger’s handsome face frowned a bit.
“I am so sorry,” he said softly, staring into my averted eyes.
“Yeah, it’s really fucked up.”
“Listen, can I get you a drink?”
“I already have one.”
“It looks pretty watered down to me. Allen?” he called out to the bartender. “A Chavez on the Rocks for me, and whatever my friend here is drinking.”
“You got it,” the bartender said.
“Thanks,” I said.
“No problem. So what’s your name?”
“Jesse. Jesse Templeton.”
“Ty January,” the stranger said, extending his hand, “but everybody calls me TJ.”
“My pleasure, TJ.”
“The pleasure’s mine. I mean, hell, if I had a guy as hot as you, I’d never cheat.”
“Thanks,” I said again, taking in TJ’s handsome face as scrupulously as he was taking in mine. My God, I thought to myself, were we actually flirting with each other? The thought of it made me giggle past my pain.
“What?” he asked with bright curiosity and a smile as the bartender delivered our drinks. “Thanks, Allen. So what’s so funny?”
“Me,” I said. “My situation, my life, my fucked-up life.”
“Do you still love your partner?” he asked.
“I don’t know. For the first time since meeting him, I’m not sure I love him. I’ve been hurt so many times in love, you’d think I’d be used to it by now. But this time…I just don’t know.”
Hollywood Flames Page 9
