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PARTY GUEST
Now this is a party. It's Hollywood the way they show it in the movies. Men in expensive suits and some of the best built dudes not even wearing shirts under their jackets. Women in practically nothing that you know costs more than what any ten guys are wearing. Waiters plying you with booze. The stars, the makeup, the hair, the colognes, the jewelry, the colors, the music, the food, the wine, the drugs, the valets, the videos, the pool, the balconies, the lights, the everything. It's the dream and I'm living it. The only thing missing is some guy getting his cock sucked on the sofa out in the open but I'm sure it's happening here behind closed doors somewhere.
I'm saying hi and giving air kisses and wrapping my free arm around some chick and doing a little dance move with her while I down the last of my Cristal before moving onto the cute boy and sipping from his beer glass, sticking my tongue in his ear and moving on to even more people I've never seen before and will never see again. To some producer I'm talking Netflix and Red Box, to some agent I'm talking signing bonuses, to some ten million dollar actress I'm talking passion and hair and to some sizzling actor I'm talking dicks and asses. Fuck, I love this party.
I am on goddamn fire tonight. A little shrimp here. A little cracker there. Here a smoke. There a toke. There's a boy a I wanna poke...
Okay, so my imagination's going a little wild. The reality? I'm quietly sipping my white wine, accompanying my boss as he works the room. My job isn't to attract attention. My job is to make him look important. He's the one talking to the producers and agents and actors. And that god over there. (Man, what I wouldn't do to get ahold of him. He could do to me whatever he wants...) And no, my boss didn't talk about dicks and asses. That's just what I, the assistant, would be talking about. How the boss stays so focused on work with all this eye candy around I don't get. Every little thing is distracting me. The color of men's eyes. The cut of their jackets. The fit of their pants. The abs on the shirtless ones. Their hair. Their lips. Their teeth. Their tongues. My incredible need to pee right this fucking second.
The nearest empty bathroom is upstairs in one of the bedrooms. Maybe there was a free one downstairs, but this house is so big I would have pissed myself before I ever found it. So I'm up here doing my business. When I finish, I exit through the adjoining bedroom thinking maybe there's a pair of men's underwear in a drawer I could take as a souvenir (used would be better, but hey) when I see the god from downstairs. You know the type. LA's full of them. He's fixing his hair in the mirror, flashing a smile at himself. Then he sees me and now I'm the one he's smiling at. All that charm coming at me, I must look like one of those dummies in old 50s movies being hit with a nuclear blast. I actually take a step back. This guy is looking at me? Okay, I'm cute but there's easily three dozen dudes in this house who are better looking than me. And if he wants the best looking guy, there's the mirror. This whole scene has to be more of my wild imagination going to town, but when he pushes the bedroom door closed, I know it's for real.
He starts kissing and groping without even so much as a "hello" or a "hey" or a "what's your name?" It's just kiss and pet and grab and squeeze and breathe and hug and suck and nibble and push and next thing I know my Hugo Boss and I have been pushed onto the bed, me practically sitting up by the headboard while this big time what, model? actor? god himself? undoes my pants and slides them down just far enough to get access to my dick and balls. We haven't been at it for more than two minutes and I'm already trying to catch my breath. And I'm only 23. This man – and I mean "man" in all the "take charge," "alpha," "merciless," "fucking out of this world body" meaning of the word – this man has my stamina beat. Maybe when you're used to taking what you want, no questions asked, extra stamina just comes with the package.
He's got his face between my legs and I notice a flash of something at the bedroom door. It didn't fully close – it's still open about four inches and a waiter just passed. The god between my legs pinches something and I forget about the door. I lean forward to try to give him a kiss but he pushes me back and licks my balls. He grabs my left hand and plants it on his head, scrunching up my digits for me. He wants a scalp massage? I'm all fingers. He returns his hand to my balls which are just a balloon animal between my legs he twists and twists and twists into fuck knows what. If he lets go, my nads will probably spin backward so fast I'll fly off this bed. (I actually kind of hope it happens.) His pinkie's in my ass. His thumb is right at the base of my cock, where it meets my body, pushing and scratching. And all of this – better than I've ever experienced from anyone before and believe me, I'm not new to this kind of shit myself – he's doing one-handed. He's that good. With his other hand he's diddling himself.
The god bites, I moan and the Latin waiter passes the door again. Does he peek in? Now I'm feeling a little weird about that door. Sex isn't a spectator sport in my book. It's for doing. In private. Just the two of you alone. Or the three of you. Or the ten of you. Call me old-fashioned, but if you're not licking or sucking or fucking or kissing or something, you shouldn't be there.
I'm still thinking "shit, that waiter" when the god takes my whole member in his mouth in one big swallow. What, does he have three tongues? How does he do what he's doing down there? I'm twisting on the bedspread and pounding the mattress with my free hand.
From the look of things, he's squeezing his own cock just as hard as he's squeezing mine. I'd like to pitch in but he's making it kind of tough. Every time I reach for his dick, he pushes me away. He's got his own ideas of what he wants. Now he twists his head so my left hand is all over his face instead of his scalp. Okay, that's what the man wants, that's what the man gets. With my other hand, I try to reach down to his cock. I mean, I want some dick, too, but his shoulder pushes my arm up, so my right hand also ends up playing with his head. Big head, not little head. So he jacks me and himself at the same time while I get the thrill and joy of rubbing his face. Swell.
The shadow passes the door again. I'm thinking "fucking waiter, is he Asian or Latin?" and "when is it my turn to suck some dick?" and "oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, I can't move" when I realize the shadow hasn't left. There's an eye at the door, watching us. The immigrant waiter. I'm trying to tell the god between my legs about our little voyeur but every time the word is about to come out, the god licks my cock head and my whole body twitches and I sound more like someone reacting to a ghost than a dude trying to say, "Hey, we're being watched, mind if I shut the door?"
I want that waiter to go away, not necessarily back to his home country, just downstairs, but he just keeps watching with no expression, his one visible eye locked on mine. The god has me close so my body's doing that tightening up thing it does just when I start to cum, like it's suddenly super important I do some ab crunches, and now he's making the "hunh hunh hunh" sound that can only mean one thing and I know I'm going to be making the same sound in seconds and my eyes are locked on the little Latino/Asian waiter's single eye and then –
Nothing.
God's done.
He's shot his load on the bedspread and probably my pants for all I know and that's a wrap. His hand's off my cock. His mouth is off it, too. My poor penis is abandoned without so much as a good-bye kiss. Not even a little thwack with the finger. Just... nothing. He flashes me a smile – gosh, aren't I lucky? – adjusts himself in the mirror and exits. I guess I should be grateful he shut the door when he left so I'm not visible to every passerby, the young dude lying on the bed with his pants around his knees, trying to catch his breath with a big "what the fuck just happened?" look on his face, but... fuck.
That's when the door opens again and the waiter enters.
I'm too fucking stunned to move. Waiter guy shuts the door tight behind him and locks it. I guess it's one thing to watch and another thing altogether to be watched. His eyes are on my crotch. They never leave it. Not when he puts down his tray, not when he removes his tie or his shirt or even his t-shirt. Never once. He peels off every stitch of clothing and even removes his ring and necklace so he's as naked as the day he was born and he still doesn't take his eyes off what I've got going on down there.
Clothes gone, jewelry gone, this dude lands on the bed and crawls toward my crotch licking his lips. There's nothing special about this guy. He's no god. He's probably never been in a gym in his hard-working life. Maybe there's no fat on him but there's no muscle definition either. He's just a smooth-skinned, slightly built, caramel colored dude with a little beard thing at the tip of his chin and two of the most intense eyes you've ever seen and he gets to work. Those piercing eyes of his closed, he slowly rubs his nostrils up and down the length of my shaft, taking his time. He lets his bottom lip touch the underside of my dick once or twice. The first time he touches my cock with his moist tongue, it's right on the sweet spot he's already primed with his breath and a brush of his lips.
Carefully, delicately, he licks down to my shaved balls. It's gentle, like he's making sure I don't blow yet. But it's precise, too. This Latin/Asian/Whatever really knows what he's doing. If he could fit that tongue of his in a glass bottle, I bet he could build one of those old sailing ships. He slides my pants down, but so slowly, so gracefully, it's like it's not even happening. He uses his feet to pull off my shoes. His big toes hook into my socks and slide them off me. He executes all these simultaneous complex moves – the licking, the fondling, the stripping – with a finesse I can only envy. Wow, I wish I were this good.
He nibbles my upper thighs and drags his fingertips to the back of my knees. He explores my body, his eyes closed, just feeling his way over the entire thing. When he gets a response – and believe me, he gets responses – he goes over the spot again. But it's not like he grinds gears into reverse to just repeat what he already did. He makes it all one smooth, progressive action. You can tell it's an art to this guy, a real dance. Along the way, he finds the space between my toes that gets my ass to jiggle. He nails the spot on my right calf that makes me squirm. One spot after another he finds and mines for my pleasure and then moves on. And this is only my lower half.
He crawls up me, this guy with the kind of body I've ignored a million times in the showers at the gym. It's so average, so un-special, so... nothing. The way he looks, all light brown with no tan line, it's like he's never worn a stitch of clothing in his life. He's a wild animal. A panther slinking its way into my tent to do heaven knows what. All grace and precision. This guy who's probably never once looked in a mirror he wasn't being paid to clean is easily the sexiest beast with a cock I have ever seen.
He moves past my dick and starts kissing the little trail I have leading to my belly button. He pushes my shirt out of the way, not bothering to unbutton it. Instead, his hands slide under it. Fuck it's a sexy move.
There's voices in the hall. Then some laughter. Something's said about the architect being from Germany and Architectural Digest wanting to do a piece on the house, "But I couldn't. Just couldn't." The woman talking concludes with, "As if." Apparently that's funny. Then again, when you're worth what she's worth, probably everything you say is funny if you tell people it is.
Waiter guy, my panther, my amigo from Mexico or Guatamala or Cambodia, kisses my stomach between the buttons of my shirt and a whole new world of hot men opens before me. I'm flashing back to the bars where I hang out, the restaurants where I eat my dinners, the office buildings with the execs I want to become, and I'm zooming past all the usual perfect gods with their wide shoulders and narrow waists and square jaws and penetrating eyes and bubble butts and massive cocks and landing the camera in my mind on all the average, dark skinned waiters and busboys and gardeners and cooks and janitors and mail guys who keep the world of LA moving so the rest of us are free to work overtime on our bodies and make obscene amounts of money and suddenly what's obscene to me is me overlooking all these incredible men I have judged beneath me whenever I have even bothered to notice they exist at all.
And now he kisses my lips. The woman and her guests are still out there. I hear the doorknob jiggle once, twice, then a "Huh" and some murmuring about the color scheme in the guest room she can't show them and then footsteps move down the carpeted hall. And my panther keeps going. His lips are soft and all-enveloping. They're wet and warm and I want them to wrap around my entire head. He moves up to my nose and eyes. His hands cup my face. He whispers something in my ear I don't understand. I love that I don't understand it. His voice is simply music. Anyone could hear the sex in it.
Suddenly things speed up.
He sits up on my stomach as he kisses me and unbuttons my shirt, quick, every once in a while bending down to plant a peck on my mouth. I reach up for him and instead of pushing me away like the god did, my panther rolls over, so now I'm on top and he's on bottom. He pulls me toward him, impaling his tongue in my mouth, one hand holding my head in place while his other digs into my back. I grab his dick, he grabs mine. We twist around, me still in my shirt and jacket, him still beautifully naked, and we 69 it. His cock is luscious and warm and maybe not a baseball bat disguised as a human appendage, but it's a perfect fit for my mouth. He copies what I do to him and I copy what he does to me. It's the give and take of great sex where neither party can tell who starts or finishes anything. It's a match made in sex heaven and there are voices echoing off the tiled bathroom walls, footsteps hitting the tiled bathroom floor, a door opening and a woman saying, "And this is the bedroom my designer said she – oh my!"
Shit!
The way Panther and I are positioned on the bed, I can't see who just entered. All I can see are some pubic hairs and some wrinkled scrotum, some caramel thigh and a bit of a dresser with what looks like an expensive lamp on top of it. The doorway to the bathroom – and anyone standing in it – is behind me.
There's gasps. There's an "Are they...?" There's a "Holy shit!" And a "Do they belong in here?" There's a few laughs and a little snicker followed by "Friends of yours?"
Fuck!
I try to pull away but Panther amigo dude has his legs locked around my back. He must feel me trying to release his dick – I want to apologize to the hostess and get the fuck out of here – so the little waiter clamps his leg around my neck. Now there's no way I can get my mouth off his cock. He gives me just enough room to move up and down his pole. Actually what happens is when I try to release, he forces my head back down his shaft with his leg. He lets up the pressure a bit, so I think I can back off his cock, but just when I near the top, he clamps down with his leg again, forcing me back down his little friend. Forcing me to blow him. None of it stops me from trying to apologize to our visitors, though, but I'm sure all it sounds like is I'm having a really, really good time despite people watching us. Or maybe because people are watching us. Who knows what the fuck it sounds like.
The hostess, she's too Hollywood to be thrown by us for long. She takes a deep breath, says, "Well..." and then launches into the thought process behind her choice of gray for the walls. How the sheets – "If I was able to show them to you" – are the perfect compliment for the walls, the carpet, the movie poster and "Even the blue of the pool which these young men could see from where they are if they were to look up." Honestly, I try to, because I've heard nothing but great things about that pool for weeks now but the panther doesn't let my face leave his dick.
One guest gamely asks about the drapes and the hostess launches into the kind of detailed answer that suggests she may have actually convinced herself we're not here, when one of the men in the group says, "So that's what fags do." Yeah, we lick and suck and use our tongues and hands. There's all kinds of flesh and sweat and noise. It's called sex. Man, the guy's question makes you wonder what the hell straight people do in bed.
And if all this weren't embarrassing enough, my Southeast Asian Latin Something Or Other goes back to unbuttoning my shirt.
"Oh my god, look at that!" Some woman I haven't heard speak before. "The brown one's undressing the white one!" Brown one? White one? What are we, dogs?
"It's kind of sexy," purrs one old woman. I can't see her but I like her already. My shirt and jacket are off and go flying. My arms released, I think this is my chance to finally get free and get out an "I'm sorry about this." I peel Panther's leg from off of my head and manage to sit up, but just that quickly he gets an arm around me. Before I can get out a single word, he flips me around and my arm flies out so it must look like I'm waving a big ole' hello to the folks. Then I am slammed back down to the bed, my head where my feet used to be.
Someone jumps. One guy says "My lord." And another guy, just above a whisper, says, "Jesus..." And the panther is kissing me again and gradually I'm kissing him back and his fingers are playing with my ass and I'm digging my fingers into his shoulders and the hostess is saying, "Let me show you the kids' room" and leading the others out. >From what little I can see, she stands by the door to make sure all of her guests exit with her. But the bitch – when she goes, she leaves the door wide open.
I'm going to get up and close it. I swear. I just need one more kiss. One more squeeze. One more whiff of his breath hitting my tongue and nose at the same time. Then I see his eyelashes and am lost. He looks into my eyes and I can't look away from them. There's not just hunger there. There's sadness and smarts and wisdom and playfulness. There's a human being reaching out to me and seeing the real me and welcoming me into him and I forget about the door and the people and the party and we move together and now I'm face down on the bed, head buried in the pillow and I feel his tongue on my ass, licking and digging and slurping and –
"Fuck! There really are two guys going at it in here!"
"No there aren't!" I hear the tinkle of bracelets moving in rhythm with high-heeled footsteps. "That can't be – haaa! Oh my gawwwwwd!"
Some other woman now: "Isn't that what you do to me?"
Some man, flirty: "Not often enough."
There's a giggle and a kiss.
The first woman wants to know the name for what the panther is doing to me. The voices are louder now. These people must be standing right by the bed. The woman is told it's called rimming. There's a comment about how clean my ass looks and speculation about whether it was that clean before the waiter started to lick it.
I don't want these people to see my face but can't help being curious about them so try to peek out from my pillow. I see a man with a bald spot and a woman with a pony tail squatted down next to my ass, cocktail glasses in hand. Her eyes go wide at something waiter does that makes me gasp. She pokes the man next to her. When he doesn't respond, she turns to him and giggles. "You should see yourself." He's pressing the tip of a little cocktail weenie dipped in some white sauce against his lips. He catches himself and hurriedly inhales the whole thing. The woman laughs, standing. "Yeah, that makes it better." Red-faced, the man stands, too. They leave along with the other couple. It sounds like the first woman says something about a souvenir and I think I see my jockeys twirling on her finger and then they're gone.
Now we are an official stop on the party circuit. There's more laughter. More giggling. More ice in cocktail glasses. Movie deals are made to the accompaniment of Panther licking my ass and slapping it with both hands. He spanks it with his cock and, my face still buried in the pillow, I hear someone say it's just like a porn. Panther never reacts. It's as if, for him, the people aren't even there. He just licks and kisses and spanks. He slams down on my body, his cock in my ass crack, his lips on my neck. He pulls my hair and reaches around to my nipples. I'm on my knees.
"Oo, I think they're going to do it!" Whoever it is – another woman – she's actually clapping. "Do it! Do it! Do it!" It's a little chant. Some fingernail reaches in, but Panther Boy slaps it away. They can watch all they want, but I am his and his alone. The woman huffs, offended.
"I want to see this." It's a man's voice. Deep. An older guy. I feel Panther's cock up against my hole. I hear him spit and feel it land on my anus followed by his hardest slap yet. Somebody says, "That's rough!" And someone else says, "Treats him like a whore." And someone else says, "Well, isn't he?" And then the pillow's away from my face. My head is sideways on the expensive sheet and I'm looking eye-to-eye with some sixty year old man with puffy cheeks and cigar breath. "Yeah" is all he says. It's the guy who wanted to see me get fucked. Shouldn't his face be by my ass? That's where all the action is.
Panther pushes against my hole. Instantly I open my mouth and gasp. It's a natural reaction. And this straight guy staring at me, he opens his mouth at the same time, raises his eyebrows just as I raise mine. With every stretch of my mouth, he stretches his. He is my mirror reflection. And when Panther finally enters me and I flinch, the old guy flinches, too. I let out a whimper and so does he. But as my head starts to bob, adjusting to the incredible sensations my body is experiencing as Panther slides oh so deliciously in and out and in and out, the O of my mouth perfectly in place, the old guy's O turns into a wide grin, all artificially white teeth and twinkly eyes. He lets out an "Ohhhh" as if he himself were getting fucked. Then he takes a puff on his cigar and blows the smoke right in my face. He gives a nod of approval and a little wink as he stands. "Now that I like." I can't criticize. If I could form words right now, I bet I'd say the same thing.
Who knows exactly what happens after that? I reach the point of just not caring any more. So Panther fucks and I moan. He rolls me over so my face – my whole body – is visible to this room full of high rollers and big time couture. I shiver shamelessly. When Panther pulls out and kisses me, I don't care who is watching. I'm as wild now as Panther is. More movement, more craziness, and Panther's dick is in my mouth again, my nose buried in his pubes, his hands gripping my head. I'm in heaven, licking and sucking this delicious piece of man. I'm –
"Danny?" Oh SHIT... "Danny? Is that you?"
I open my eyes and look to my side. Right there, crouching down and gawking at me from not eight inches away is my boss. Our eyes meet. His mouth opens but no more words come out. I try to say something – anything, really – but I've got this dick twisting and turning in my mouth, buried to the hilt. Even smiling is impossible in this position, but I do try. Then Panther's paws tighten on my head, his dick swells and – my eyes still locked on my boss's just inches away – Panther explodes in my mouth. The boss reacts more than I do. He inhales suddenly. His eyebrows jerk up. His eyes spring open, riveted on the thick, pulsing cock in my mouth, my expanding cheeks, my flaring nostrils, the little drips of cum which escape my lips. I struggle to keep up with all the jizz. My boss watches my adam's apple bob with every swallow. Panther is pumping now and boss is there for all of it. The glistening shaft emerging from my mouth. The round, pink head. The blast of white against my lips and the second impaling of my face. He must see my eyes close for the single moment I forget he's there and allow myself to simply enjoy the experience. And he must see the instant I remember he is still there. Sees as the panther smears his cock all over my lips. Sees my tongue clean it while my eyes embarrassedly meet his. My apology for doing what I can't stop myself from doing right that second and right in front of him. My boss never takes his eyes off me. Unable to look at him any more, I close mine.
Panther collapses on me. There's some mild applause and even some woman enthusiastically saying "Hooray!" in that cultured way that sounds like she's never said the word before in her life. I get a glimpse of people leaving. Apparently we packed the room. And Panther kisses me and rubs me and I think "Oh my god... oh my god... oh my god... I am so so SO fired..."
Waiter dresses faster than I do – he's got a job to return to, after all – so I'm alone when I discover it isn't just my underwear that was taken. Someone made souvenirs of my socks, my tie and even my shirt. Fuck fuck fuck!
The party's still going when I leave the room. The men, the women, the music, the booze, the food, it's all just as I left it except I'm half naked. The only way out is down the stairs and through either the front door or one of the side entrances. But whichever exit I choose, I'm going to have to walk through crowds and crowds of the beautiful, powerful people who just watched the shit get fucked out of me. Talk about your goddamn walk of shame. Here goes...
The front door is only fifteen feet away. I'm almost home free when some woman kisses my ear and whispers, "We have to talk." I look up and her movie star husband is nodding at me. Is that my underwear he's holding up to his nose? Random hands touch me. Cards with phone numbers are slipped in my pocket. An A-list director wants to talk about an upcoming project. Even the god who got me in the bed in the first place winks at me, giving me his charm routine again, as if I'd be interested in a replay of his one-man show. One of the beautiful shirtless guys smiles at me. Then another one. Another shirtless guy simply stares at me in disbelief, then I realize it's just my own reflection.
"Hey, Danny!" Great. The one person I really wanted to avoid. "Danny, come here. Join us." My boss grabs a glass of champagne from a passing waiter's tray and puts it in my hand. His hand he puts on my hip and uses to guide me to the little group of people he's talking with. The conversation is light and fun. It's still about signing bonuses and quality scripts and beautiful people, but apparently I have become one of the beautiful people. These men and women are talking to me. Asking my opinions. A waiter circulates among them, taking their empty plates and dirty napkins. One of the power men says, "To the sexiest man alive" and other rich voices, including my boss's, say "Here here." All these beautiful people – these famous faces and money gods – raise their glasses and smiles to me.
It's heady stuff and for a few seconds there, I almost buy it. Shit, who hasn't wanted to believe he's the sexiest man alive? But just as my champagne glass touches my lips and I'm about to sip, my smile fades. Sure, they're all looking at me but my eyes have landed on the waiter bent over to pick up some napkin smeared with cocktail sauce. My very own Latino/Asian/Whatever. My panther. I take the glass from my lips and gesture with it to him because I'm not the sexiest man alive. He is. The invisible man cleaning up after the rest of us.