by Rick R. Reed
Chapter 8
Cody couldn’t believe the man sitting across the small bar-height table from him was actually his date. Sure, Cody was a good-looking guy, but this guy, man, this guy was so out of his league that Cody didn’t even feel a twinge of shame in thinking it. This god belonged with some pro athlete or a model or a movie star. He was that hot.
And that familiar.
When Cody was introduced to Diesel Hunter, he remembered him right away from the auditions. Diesel was probably the man he had admired the most that day that now seemed so long ago. He was the one who looked like the actor Jesse Williams from Grey’s Anatomy. Cody, almost breathless from Diesel’s good looks, thought the actor was more of a pale imitation of this guy than the other way around. Jesse Williams, one might say, was actually a poor man’s Diesel Hunter.
Even his name was sexy! It sounded like a porn star.
Cody could not believe his good fortune as he hopped up on the chair opposite Diesel. “Hi,” he said shyly.
Diesel was warm, though, reaching across the table to grab his hand, squeeze it, and hold it tightly for longer than the usual handshake. While they shook hands, Cody peered into Diesel’s eyes. They were so pale, standing out in contrast to his caramel-colored skin. They looked even more remarkable because Diesel had shaved his head since Cody had last seen him. The lack of hair made his eyes somehow stand out even more, which Cody wouldn’t have believed possible. What color were those eyes? Gray? Blue? They fell somewhere in between. They were like icy water. They were cold and mesmerizing all at once.
“Excuse me for staring.” Cody pulled his hand away reluctantly, forgetting the cameras all around, the boom microphone over his head, the extra lighting the crew had brought in. “But your eyes.”
Diesel smiled. “I know. They’re weird. Spooky.”
“Not at all! They’re gorgeous.”
Cody could see a blush rise to Diesel’s cheeks even under his dark complexion. He’s modest too? Should I just propose now? Cody grinned.
Diesel waved his hand to brush the compliment away. “Some people think they’re too intense.”
Diesel cast his gaze around the room, and Cody realized the guy was nervous. Of course he was. Cody was fawning over him like a little schoolgirl over a puppy. But he wanted to fuck this puppy, so bad. For the first time since he was maybe thirteen, he had a champion boner that he doubted would go down anytime soon. He shook his head and laughed out loud.
“What?” Diesel asked.
“Just a funny thought.”
“Not gonna share?” Diesel stuck out a pouting lower lip fetchingly.
“Not right now.” A change of subject was definitely in order. With a trembling hand, Cody snatched up the menu before him. “What looks good?” He began furiously scanning the type, which suddenly seemed to be hieroglyphics. He hoped his shaking hand was not visible in the camera’s lens.
“Cut! Cut! Cut!” Martha’s gravelly voice sounded from behind the lights. She appeared suddenly at Cody’s side, smelling of Chanel N° 5 and, already, vodka. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What?” Cody asked.
“You’re acting like a nutcase. All jittery.” She looked off to her left. “Someone get this boy a drink. Bring him one of those Moscow Mules. The copper mug will look good on camera.”
Immediately a frosted copper mug was set before him by the waiter. He was an adorable boy, something of a twink, with a shock of black hair that fell over one eye, Cupid’s bow lips, and a tall, lanky frame. Cody wondered if he was hired for the shoot for set decoration or if he actually worked at the restaurant.
“What’s in it?” he asked the waiter, looking up into his dark eyes. He noticed the boy wore a little mascara.
“Vodka, lime, and ginger beer.”
Cody took a sip. It was delicious, making him think of diving into a cool lake on a hot summer’s day.
“Drink up,” Martha commanded. “Bring him another.”
“But—” Cody said.
“Down it,” Martha said.
And Cody did.
The waiter brought him another one. Cody looked up at Martha. “Can I go slower on this one?”
“Sure.” She walked away, muttering what sounded like, “Lightweight.”
Cody, relaxed a bit by the vodka coursing through him—it was, after all, early morning, and he was, after all, a lightweight—turned back to Diesel, who wore a smirk on his perfectly chiseled face.
“Oh come on!” Cody cried. “You can’t blame me for being nervous. Aren’t you scared?”
Martha called from the sidelines, “Guys, let’s not talk about the show, okay? You’re on a date. People generally don’t discuss stage fright on a date.”
Cody thought this was going to be harder than he’d anticipated. This would be the first time he had ever been on a date with a camera crew recording his every move.
He drew in a deep breath and tried to center himself. He smiled. Diesel smiled back. “So, Diesel, what’s your story?”
Diesel laughed, and Cody couldn’t help but feel a little shiver run through him. Even his laugh could be described by words like infectious, melodious, masculine. Cody reached out with one foot and put a little pressure on Diesel’s calf, which Diesel returned, staring into Cody’s eyes.
“My story?”
“Yeah, that sounds better than asking you to tell me a little bit about yourself. That’s too much like a job interview.”
“Isn’t this sort of a job interview?” Diesel cocked his head. “For a blow job at least.” He chuckled, and Cody felt Diesel run his foot up and down his calf now. Diesel had removed his shoes, and it was his bare foot against the bare skin of Cody’s calf. The erection in his shorts twitched, and Cody wondered if he would need to ask that cute waiter for another napkin soon.
Cody leaned forward. “You can say shit like that? Blow job? On TV? Really?” He laughed and cast a nervous look over his shoulder.
Diesel held up a hand, one side of his mouth turned up in a lopsided and deliciously sexy grin. “They’ll edit and edit and edit. When this airs, the folks at home will probably see us all of a minute or two in this part. Believe me, they’d like to keep the blow job comment in, especially Martha, but that’s a bit racy for prime time, okay?”
Cody wasn’t sure how to respond. He was sure Diesel did not need to “interview” for a blow job. He already had that job…in the bag. Or was that in the sack? Time would tell…
Diesel took over. “So, Cody, I hear you teach. What subject?”
God bless him, Cody thought, he’s steering things back to G-rated fare. I can try and relax, maybe banish for a bit, anyway, that image of Diesel’s dark-hued cock rising up from between his muscular thighs, dripping precome, just before I swallow it down. “I teach English.”
Diesel cocked his head. “Who’s your favorite writer?”
“Oh, I have always loved Flannery O’Connor. She’s so twisted, so Gothic, yet so real. Have you ever read her short story, ‘A Good Man is Hard to Find’?”
Diesel shook his head, and Cody could see he looked a bit bewildered. “Although I do agree with the sentiment, I can’t say that I have. And speaking of the sentiment, I liked how Mae West put it better, ‘A hard man is good to find.’”
“Well, you can stop looking,” Cody whispered, just under his breath.
Diesel smiled. “Really?”
Cody quickly steered things back to reading. They would need to have some conversation that wasn’t blue-tinged for the show. “So, what do you like to read?”
“Oh, I don’t read much. Who has time?”
For the first time, Cody broke the connection their eyes were making. And for the first time, Cody felt a little disappointed. A man who didn’t read? He shook his head very slightly. It doesn’t matter how cute they are, if they don’t read, that’s a big strike against them. Maybe even a deal breaker.
Diesel licked his lips, and watching that tongue moisten those soft, full lips made Cod
y forget for the moment about reading. “Mmmm. They have biscuits and gravy.” Diesel winked. “I’d love to cover your biscuits with my gravy.”
“Oh God!” Cody couldn’t help it. He tittered. Yes, actually tittered. “Yeah,” he said quickly. “I think I’m gonna go for something Vietnamese, since that’s their specialty here. The pork belly congee looks good.” Cody set his menu down and took a sip of his drink. “You must read some. Doesn’t everybody? Come on. What was the last book you read?”
“I started something a few summers ago, some suspense book, by this woman named—” Diesel’s intense stare drifted away as Cody imagined—hoped, anyway—Diesel was busy cataloging great female suspense writers. Maybe Laura Lippman? Gillian Flynn? Mo Hayder? Karin Slaughter?
Diesel snapped his fingers. “Got it. Her name was Mary Higgins Clark. That was a great book, man.”
Cody nodded wearily. “I think we should order now.” He looked around for the waiter, trying desperately to ignore the question Diesel asked him.
“Who’s Flannery O’Connor?”
By the time they left Ba Bar, Cody wondered how much of the breakfast the producers could find to assemble for the show. Once you edited out the downright salacious flirting and the strained conversation about their jobs (literature was a dead end, and Diesel’s career as a model was unsurprising), all that was left were shots of the restaurant’s funky interior and maybe Cody guzzling a Moscow Mule.
Perhaps the next segment would go better? The day was a sunny one, so they were headed up to what passed for Central Park in Seattle—Green Lake. The plan was to have the boys bike, in-line skate, or take a dive off the pier into the murky waters of the lake. At least this segment would be all action, showing them frolicking, and they wouldn’t have to talk, which was a relief. Mr. Hunter had many admirable attributes, but Cody was quickly coming to the realization that making conversation was not one of them.
Still, he looked forward to seeing the man without a shirt on.
* * * *
Green Lake shimmered in the early afternoon sun, a lovely oasis in the busyness of Seattle all around it. The trails around the lake were crowded with runners, dog walkers, skaters, and bikers as they arrived on the scene.
“You guys can just change in the back of the van,” Martha said. She and the driver got out, leaving the guys alone.
Cody was grateful he’d brought the Hurley blue plaid board shorts and glad he’d spent some time in the tanning salon as well as the gym. He had some stiff competition. He looked over at Diesel and was shocked to see he was already naked, backed up against the dark-tinted windows of the van. Cody didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone get undressed so quickly. It was almost like magic.
But that wasn’t what was making Cody’s heart race and his pulse pound. The speed with which Diesel undressed wasn’t what was making his mouth all dry so it was almost impossible to swallow.
No, those physical manifestations were all due to Diesel’s naked body. He blurted, “Good Lord! I bet in the dictionary, next to the word ‘Adonis,’ is your picture.”
Diesel looked away, closing his eyes briefly. “Aw, shucks,” he whispered. “I try to keep in shape.”
Yeah, Cody thought, and Kobe Bryant tries to play a little basketball. He didn’t want to stare, but Cody couldn’t help himself. Diesel’s body was a study in caramel, ripped in all the right places, bulging provocatively, satin skin just begging for a caress.
“You’re staring,” Diesel said softly.
Cody noticed the effect of his gaze. Diesel’s cock was rising slowly from a mat of jet-black hair in little jerks.
“You can’t really blame me, can you? You like being stared at, don’t you?” Cody’s words came out a little breathless, and he felt his own cock mimicking what Diesel’s was doing. He pulled down his boxer briefs and kicked them to the shadows in a corner of the van.
“Can’t you tell?” Diesel made a fist and brought it to his mouth. He spit into the fist and then began stroking his cock until it was fully erect. Shiny, he pulled it forward and let it spring back against his hard belly, where it made a very satisfying smack.
Cody knew the meaning of the word mesmerized and was just about to drop to his knees, crawl over to Diesel, and begin to worship.
Martha Stewart—God damn her to hell!—broke the mood. She swung the door of the van open and poked her head in.
“For Christ’s sake! Do you two realize what we pay by the hour to shoot this show? Right now, we’re shooting on my budget. You can shoot all you want later on your own. Or on each other! Get dressed and get out here.” She slammed the door.
The dressing-down cooled Cody’s ardor only slightly, and that was most likely because it had been heated to the charring point.
“Just a tiny suck?” Diesel asked, pointing his dick at Cody. The opening in the head was like a little eye, begging.
How could he resist? He hurried over and took the cock in his mouth, swallowing it effortlessly down to the root. Diesel grabbed the back of his neck and thrust even deeper, until Cody was almost gagging, the coarse pubes filling his nostrils. Diesel thrust once, twice, and then pulled away, whispering, “Later.” He began pulling clothes out of the bag so he could turn away from Cody and dress.
Cody wondered if what he was feeling was the first stage of shock. His knees were weak, shaky. He panted. He couldn’t seem to assemble a coherent thought. He needed to grip the cool metal side of the van for support.
Good thing he had a coach nearby. “Dude, get dressed. I don’t want to see what that bitch will do if we get her really mad.”
With trembling hands, Cody pulled on his board shorts and a simple white cotton tank. He slid into a pair of Nikes.
“You look good,” Diesel said, slapping him on the shoulder.
And you look spectacular, Cody thought.
* * * *
Once outside, the warm summer breeze and the bright sunshine allayed Cody’s stupor a bit. By dribs and drabs, he returned to reality and realized he had lapsed into a world crafted entirely from man flesh. Diesel flesh.
He felt like Diesel could get him to do anything, anything at all, if only he would stand in front of him naked and hard and command it.
He wondered if that would be a good thing. He wondered if this was how obsessive-compulsive relationships began—with a lover and a loved one. He shivered at the thought of what such beauty could make him do, and he didn’t know if it was healthy.
Diesel walked up beside him. He had a bright yellow disc in one hand. “Ready to toss?”
“Huh?” Cody stared at the object for a moment, trying to place it. “Oh! Frisbee!”
Diesel laughed. “Yeah, they thought it would be a good idea for us to throw it around in that big grassy area.” He jerked his head to the field behind him. “We’ll look like a couple of average Joes.”
“Me, maybe. You, never.” Cody followed, trying to stare down at his hands, willing them to know how to pitch and catch. This was a way to avoid staring at Diesel’s ass and try not to think about other ways of pitching and catching.
* * * *
The day had been a long one. Cody had no idea how tiring it would all be when they got off to their somewhat bumpy start in the morning at Ba Bar. But shooting a TV show, even one as mindless as a reality number like Husband Hunters, took a long time. A very long time. Who knew?
Now, as he turned under a hot shower at the Westin hotel in downtown Seattle, feeling the warm pressure loosen up and relax him, he continued to marvel at what went into producing just a few minutes of television.
There were takes and retakes, endlessly. There were staged reaction shots. For example, when they were at happy hour at the Lobby Bar on Pike Street, they actually had each of them sit alone as the cameraman filmed them laughing, looking ahead quizzically, and nodding as though they had just heard the most interesting thing in the world. They reshot entire sequences just to make sure the lighting was right. They had to do dinner twice at Terra
Plata because they thought Cody’s face was too much in shadow as they sat on the restaurant’s rooftop deck. Cody hadn’t realized acting would be involved, but there was, and a lot of it. Having to eat a second meal after one had just consumed a first and pretending to enjoy it was not easy. Nor was it easy to try and make conversation over and over when you were stopped in the middle of talking so the sound guy could adjust the audio or the cameraman could work on a different angle.
It was not surprising to Cody that all he wanted to do after this shower was go to sleep. Right now, nothing could tempt him away from the sublime oblivion sleep offered. Not even sex…
Officially, Husband Hunters frowned upon under-the-covers fraternization. It was in the contract they had signed. The official line was that the show wanted to avoid exposing themselves to litigation. Cody found this puzzling until he thought seriously about things like HIV infection. There was not only a personal risk, but a legal one.
Yet Martha Stewart, that disrespecter of rules extraordinaire, winked at them as she delivered the speech about staying in their own hotel rooms that night before heading off to bed. “We don’t allow contestants to sleep together during filming, even though it makes sense to me. I mean, if you’re really gonna consider marrying a guy, don’t you owe it to yourself to know how he is in the sack? How he’s hung? We’re talkin’ a lifetime here!
“Anyway, I am required to tell you that you should remain in your rooms until I knock on your door in the morning. That way, you’ll awaken all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.” She started away and then stopped and looked up and down the hotel’s corridor. “I don’t see any security cameras. Do either of you?” She didn’t wait for their responses but simply shrugged. “Just sayin’.” And she tottered off, presumably to her own room.
Cody got out of the shower and took his time drying off. He slipped into the fluffy bathrobe the hotel had so thoughtfully provided and flung himself on the king-size bed. It felt wonderful, and Cody thought that under other circumstances he could have drifted immediately off to sleep.
But his day nagged at him. He realized now that Husband Hunters existed mainly for entertainment purposes and not really to help gay men find their soul mates. That was a bit disillusioning but not surprising. Yet he had to think about Diesel Hunter as a potential husband. It was in the contract: “Contestants will make a good faith effort to consider all potential mates for the possibility of legal marriage.”
