Thank you for your continued interest in my story series. This chapter begins the new chapter of Mario's husband's nephew Sam and his lover Mickey. Please enjoy.
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This is a work of fiction and does not resemble any person living or dead; this work is copyright by the author and may not be duplicated or distributed in any form without specific written permission by the copyright owner.
The Old Fag Book Three: Sam and Mickey
Paul W. Landerman 2018
ONE
Sam called home on his cell phone: driving through Beverly Hills traffic at the end of a long week, he needed to hear Mickey's comforting voice. He was perplexed when he got the answering machine instead but left an excited message.
"Hey Babe, get ready to be a star. We are going to become famous."
"What the Hell does that mean?" Mickey asked when Sam walked in the front door of the condo; Sam hugged Mickey as always, a bear-hug that squeezed the air out of him.
"You know the LA Times Sunday magazine of course. Once a year they have a special issue titled the `Forty Under Forty' feature. They interview and showcase forty young people in the region who are soon going to be famous for some reason or other. usually they exclude the movie and TV types."
Mickey was still confused. "What does that have to do with us?"
Sam played a drum-roll on the hall table; "We are going to be featured on the front cover."
"Oh Hell no."
"Yep. Get ready for the paparazzi."
"Sam, I love you more than life itself, but I don't know, this is a big deal, I'm not sure I am up to it."
"Darling apparently somebody at the LA Times thinks you are! They called me today and invited me for an interview, and in the same conversation told me that they want to interview you as well. You can always back out. I did not commit you of course, that is up to you, but they were pretty adamant that the two of us `make such a cute couple': they love the idea!" Sam made the air quotes with his fingers.
"Let me sleep on this. When do I have to answer them?"
"Mickey, call them back on Monday, let it rest over the weekend; let's just relax and enjoy each other and our anonymity for now."
"OK. Wow, I need to sit down."
"Lover, it's really not a big deal. You get a photo or two taken, you get an interview for an hour or so, that's it. And besides, it might be good for business for both of us."
Sam took Mickey's hand and pulled him into the kitchen. He took two wine glasses from the wet bar and found a bottle of Zinfandel and poured for both. "And please remember that I love you."
"I know. Me too. More than Life"
"What's for dinner?" Sam was always hungry, or so it seemed to Mickey.
Mickey laughed. "I think it's your turn to cook, Babe."
"Oh, yeah, you are correct. In that case get your coat." Twenty minutes later they were seated at Sonoma Wine Garden, the exquisite restaurant on top of the Santa Monica Place tower; the candle on the table providing a dim glow to Sam's excited face and Mickey's continuing apprehension. Mickey took Sam's hands across the table and said "In case you did not know, I truly love you. I don't need the weekend to think about it, I will do it for you since you seem to be excited about it. But I really need you to know something. I am very grateful that you did not commit me- that shows me a lot of respect. That was the one big thing that was missing in my time with Kevin."
"You know, you have never really spoken about Kevin. I just assumed that you did not want to dredge up bad memories."
"Sam, look, you are always so sweet, it may surprise you, but I can be a real bitch, so I just would rather not talk about Kevin. Let it suffice to say I am glad to be out of that relationship, but I also truly grew a great deal. It was my first real long-term relationship. There is a psychologist who has written several books I have read- Colin Tipping- and he writes that every person who came into our lives loved us enough, in some way or other, to teach us what we needed in that moment of our lives. I am still trying to figure out what I needed to learn from Kevin. Maybe someday I will."
Sam was quiet. Holding hands with Mickey across the table, he squeezed both of his hands, and then said, "Just remember I am truly, madly, deeply, in love with you."
The waiter was serving the grilled Branzino and the lamb chops, and they ate quietly just enjoying the company of each other. These quiet moments together as a professional couple, dashing madly from one appointment or client meeting or conference to another all week long, left them very little time for each other. They were both aware of this stress in their lives; they were careful to preserve as much time and energy as available for each other when it was possible. It was not just the sex, either: that was outrageously good, of course, but sex was not the central focus of their relationship.
Saturday was spent cleaning the condo, shopping, recycling the plastic and glass and cardboard and newspapers and magazines, writing up a short menu for next week's dinners, and conferring over their professional calendars. Sam's office was still in Beverly Hills, but he had moved to Ross's consulting suite, where he shared space. Since opening his own consultancy for major sports players, he was busier than before; since becoming a solo act he had tripled his income stream. Mickey was still working as the managing partner for Baylor, McLean, and Garza, the law firm in Santa Monica, and had doubled his salary because of being promoted from Mario's PA. Mario Garza was the senior partner; there were four junior partners, including Mickey, as well as Terry Baylor, Sandra Dominguez, and Phillip Winters.
Saturday night was pizza, beer, and videos. Sam enjoyed craft beers and Mickey enjoyed hard cider. Both enjoyed pizza mounded high with every possible veggie and tons of meats. None of the delivery places served what they enjoyed so they had learned to make pizza at home, buying the fresh dough from the local Whole Foods. Sam made brownies with mint-chocolate frosting. While Sam was icing the brownies, Mickey came up behind him and put his arms around Sam's waist and hugged him. "Do you know that I love you more than dessert?" Mickey asked.
"No but if you hum a little of it I can try to improvise and sing along" Sam joked.
"Let me show you what I want to hum on" Mickey retorted. He unzipped Sam's shorts and reached in and grabbed the Cock of Death. The Schilling men were all famously endowed; as Peter Schilling's nephew, Sam was even larger than Peter. Sam's breath caught; he turned slowly in Mickey's arms and had to lean against the kitchen bar to steady himself. "Mickey fucking Clarke" Sam whispered. "Oh god."
Mickey knelt in front of Sam and took the massive cock out of his shorts and began eagerly sucking. Mickey loved to tease Sam's cock with his tongue: he wound his tongue around the underside of the crown several times, then up and over the top and tried to shove the tip of his tongue into Sam's slit, cradling his balls in one hand. In just seconds, he was licking up his reward, the first drops of pre-cum oozing from Sam's cock. As much as he enjoyed Sam's pre-cum, he quickly buried as much of the beautiful cock down his throat as he could manage. At this point Mickey always giggled; Sam never knew why. In another 2.5 million Nano-seconds, Sam was moaning so loud Mickey was afraid the neighbors would call the police.
Mickey pulled Sam's shorts down to the floor, along with his Calvin Klein black stretch low-rise briefs: the ones with the "steel" waistband. Mickey had to stop sucking that very nice cock long enough to get the underwear off, but immediately returned to his duty. Sam could not take any more: he grabbed Mickey's hands and pulled him up, turned him to face the kitchen bar and grabbed Mickey's ass and pulled the cheeks apart.
"Baby you make me so crazy, I just want to fuck you all night long" Sam could barely breathe.
"Go for it Babe. I really need that monster inside of me." Mickey did not consider himself a natural bottom; he was fully versatile, but for Sam, he would walk across hot coals. Sam used a lot of spit and his own pre-cum to lube up his cock to get inside of Mickey; it was a very snug fit, and not without some pain. Mickey bent over the bar and pushed his ass backwards toward Sam's cock to help him. It worked: the huge cock suddenly leapt forward and slid in all the way up to Mickey's Adam's Apple, he was sure. Mickey gasped loudly.
Sam lost no time in plowing Mickey's wonderful and inviting ass: grabbing Mickey's hips, Sam was pulling his lover back into him in rhythm with his cock shoving into Mickey. In less time than it takes to eat a melting ice-cream-cone on the Santa Monica pier on a hot Fourth of July, Sam was shooting his load into Mickey's ass. Mickey felt the burning cum inside of himself and grinned broadly; he loved pleasing Sam and loved getting fucked when the mood was right. Mickey never worried about "payback"; he knew Sam also loved getting fucked as much as he loved fucking and he was expert at both.
They both jumped at the buzzing of the oven timer: they had forgotten about the pizza. Sam laughed "Oh my god I hope we did not burn it."
"Well something certainly got burned, but it will be OK." Mickey laughed at his own joke.
"By the way" Sam asked; "why do you always giggle when you are sucking my cock?"
"I can't help it; for some crazy reason I always think of that stupid song `Puff the Magic Dragon' when I am sucking you." They both laughed.
Sam set the bar with the placemats, beer glasses, napkins, plates and utensils while Mickey brought the fiery hot pizza out of the oven and placed it next to the salad. They sat side-by-side on bar-stools and grinned at each other; Sam said, "I'm surprised you can sit down."
Mickey nearly choked on his slice of pizza; "I am still feeling you inside of me" he laughed. And he was: Sam's cum was running down his leg. He would need a shower before they went to bed.
Mickey was just getting ready to shut off the water in the huge rain-forest steam-shower, when Sam walked in; seeing that man naked was one of the great wonders of the western world, Mickey thought. They should make a statue of him. Six feet plus two inches tall, one hundred and eighty-five pounds, well-defined muscles all over, a flat stomach and a dark-blonde treasure-trail descending from his beautiful pecs that were also lightly sprinkled with Sam's dark blonde hair. And the Cock of All Cocks; probably the best phallus in California. Mickey's own cock bounced skyward instantly seeing his man.
Sam came into the shower and hugged Mickey: "You must be happy to see me" he laughed, grabbing Mickey's cock. At just under eight inches, cut, thick, and always curving upward, Mickey was proud of his cock and had been since that first time he was forced to shower in PE class in high school. He had the balls of a Billy-goat too: swinging low and loose. Sam loved them and took them in his mouth frequently.
Sam moved around and stood behind Mickey; he took his cock in his left hand and his balls in his right. He gently massaged the balls, and lightly jacked the cock. His own cock was growing and trying to reach up into Mickey's ass again. Mickey leaned his head back and kissed Sam over his shoulder. Sam kissed Mickey's mouth, his neck, his ears, and his cheeks, and then his mouth again. Mickey's cock was now aching: it was hard enough to use as a flint. He was moaning, and Sam was smiling: he knew he had ignited a fire in his lover, and now he wanted to take advantage of it and feel the fire in his own ass.
Soaping up his hands, he spread as much suds inside of his asshole as he could; he covered Mickey's cock with the rest and turning around and leaning his shoulder against the tiles, he pulled his cheeks apart. Without saying a word, Mickey took advantage of the invitation and pulled his stiff cock down even with the waiting hole. The soap suds allowed his cock to slide inside of Sam in one slick motion; Sam gasped as the entire cock was engulfed by his hot hole.
Sam was about three inches taller than Mickey; that required that he bend over a little to allow Mickey an even trajectory while they fucked. In about three more minutes, Sam had slid down to the tile floor of the shower and was on his hands and knees; Mickey followed him and kneeling behind him, began a smooth, slow, plowing into the most beautiful ass he had ever seen. Mickey wondered if it was genetics or the surfing. He didn't care.
They came together: Sam came first, moaning and shouting. Mickey followed him instantly, filling Sam's ass with a load of cum that avenged the week of stress. They lay together on the shower floor, panting. Sam finally crawled into a standing position and grabbing Mickey's hands, helped him to stand as well. They hugged and kissed and hugged again and kissed again. They staggered to the bedroom, collapsing on the king-size bed. Mickey finally realized Sam was asleep; he rolled him over enough to cover him with the duvet, then turned out the lights and fell asleep himself.
Sunday morning was golden. Scrambled eggs, toasted English muffins, French-press coffee, fresh orange slices, plus the LA Times Sunday magazine. Seeing the magazine reminded Mickey about the coming interview, which he was dreading.
"Tell me again about this `Forty' thing with the Times."
Sam said "You really don't have to do it. I know you said you would do it for me, but its OK."
Mickey replied "I am going to call that number you gave me in the morning; the sooner I get it over with the better I will be. It will let me stop stressing out about it."
Sam was trying to be cautious: "What is it really that is bothering you?"
"I am just always wary of publicity; I don't want to be portrayed in a manner that I cannot control. I have seen a lot of bad publicity. But never mind that, I told you I would go ahead and so I will. Besides, I have been thinking about it, and I feel like it may be a little help, possibly, for some poor kid hiding in the closet in the lemon groves of eastern San Bernardino county, scared to come out."
"That was you, wasn't it?" Sam asked. He squeezed Mickey's hands once more.
"Yes. I eventually came out during college, as I guess a lot of us do; it was scary even then. I was 21 years old and afraid of how everyone in my life was going to react."
"I guess I was lucky. My Mom was really understanding and supportive, and I had the help and advice and support of Uncle Peter and Mario. I guess that made a lot of difference. I have never looked back." Sam smiled at the recollection.
"No regrets?" Mickey asked.
"Only one: I should have met you ten years ago." Sam grinned, and Mickey laughed.
"We should go see them this afternoon. I wonder what they are up to now that they are back from that trip to China."
Sam said, "I will call them; maybe we can meet them for lunch at D'Urban?" Peter and Simon's restaurant had been a hit from the day it first opened. Six months ago, Peter had sold his half to Simon and was now concentrating on writing a cookbook and a weekly column for the LA Times Sunday magazine. He occasionally appeared as a guest chef on various TV shows.
Simon Robertson greeted them with a big smile and open arms and showed the four men to a corner table nearest the beach. Since it was Sunday afternoon, the menu was prix-fixe; today it was grilled halibut steak with lemon-butter, cilantro, and green pepper-corns, plus baby red potatoes and haricots verts. Flan cake was the dessert, which only Sam and Peter ate; Mickey sighed.
"I wish I never had to worry about my metabolism" he mused.
"It does not matter to me" Sam looked at Mickey and smiled. "I prefer honesty to perfection." Mickey's attempt at perfection included daily runs on the beach near the Santa Monica pier, as well as weekly workouts at the racquetball court.
Mario and Peter laughed; they were the perfect couple, both Sam and Mickey believed, and had been good friends and good models and mentors for them. Mario had slowed down his frenetic pace at the law firm; he nowadays appeared only three days a week and spent most of his time coaching the junior partners. Peter had been urging him to promote one or two of them so that Mario could retire completely. Mickey knew it was not himself that was going to be promoted: he did not have a law degree and did not practice law but had an over-filled schedule as the managing partner. The job required a lot more than just ordering paper clips and signing paychecks.
In fact, Mickey had streamlined the law firm in some phenomenal ways. He had helped Sandra Dominguez open two satellite offices for immigration clients in Boyle Heights as well as Santa Ana. He had installed a fully-online law library so that the partners and their assistants did not have to spend any time searching through hard-back volumes. He had upgraded the computer system in the firm, and each partner now carried an iPad in addition to a firm-assigned iPhone and laptop, and each legal secretary and researcher and receptionist had access to the court dates for the entire firm on an iPad as well. He had also moved the firm's investment portfolio to a partially-self-directed account, which he himself supervised with the assistance of an old fraternity buddy. So far, they had benefited from an annual return of about double the level of commercial bank savings accounts and the principal balance was over seven figures. Finally, he convinced the junior partners to take on new recruiting twice a year rather than just at law school graduation time; Mario had agreed that doubling the firm's total number of attorneys was important growth for them. The firm of Baylor, McLean, and Garza now listed twenty young men and women lawyers, and was well-known throughout the coastal region. Mickey had insisted on keeping the firm out of the arenas of criminal defense and medical malpractice; both areas were incredibly complicated and could end up sacrificing a huge amount of energy within the firm. He had, however, established a new section on estate planning and taxation, and was searching for a couple of new recruits.
Mickey's own dreams had stayed in the background; Sam was concerned about that but had never broached the topic with his lover. Mickey had sublimated his professional goals for so long that he now rarely even thought about them. In a weird way, the Sunday magazine interview brought them to the surface.
A young blonde Valley-girl clone who desperately wanted to be Barbara Walters met Mickey at the law firm; she brought along a photographer and promised to use up less than an hour of his time. Mickey waded through the routine questions, all of which he anticipated except the final one: she asked `what are your long-term goals ?' He took a deep breath.
He took a moment gazing out of the windows in his office, looking westward toward the ocean. He looked down at his hands, and then finally toward the photographer and the reporter. "I have always wanted to be Stephen Covey", he shyly replied. "I want to be a business- and life-coach for people who are really dedicated to pushing through the barriers; eventually I want to teach grad school." He was shocked to hear those words come out of his own mouth.
Two weeks later, when the `Forty/Forty' issue of the LA Times Sunday magazine hit the news-stands, Mickey had two intense conversations. The first was with Sam Stephenson. His lover. His partner. The man who owned the Dick of Death. The man of his dreams.
Sam was sitting at the bar in the kitchen demolishing a grapefruit; he had already tamped down avocado toast and a couple of scrambled eggs. He had read only the portion of the Sunday magazine article that profiled himself and Mickey; he set the newspaper aside, and dramatically and loudly dropped his grapefruit spoon on the granite counter. "Michael Graham Clarke; how come I did not know your full name?"
"You never asked me, Samuel David Stephenson."
"And how come I did not know you want to become the next Stephen Covey?"
"Same answer: you did not ask me." Mickey was apprehensive.
Sam looked out the windows beyond the kitchen balcony for a moment, and then gazed at Mickey wistfully. "There is so much about you that I just realized I do not know. I think I know your favorite flavor of ice cream, and I think I might be able to guess at your favorite genre of movies, but I am really not certain about your favorite music or color or food or sports or sexual position and I really do not know much else about you except you are from San Bernardino or if you even like rodeo."
"I'm sorry Sam. What do you want to know?" Mickey laughed; rodeo?
"All of that and more. Like your own personal history, your family, and then this is the biggest and most important of all, those future goals you talked about in the interview."
"Sam that question hit me out of the clear blue. I was not expecting that from the interview. It kind of took my breath away, and even after I had given her the answer that you see printed there in the article, I was stunned that I had expressed those things out loud."
"But Mickey, Lover, are you serious?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Mickey, look, the first advice I give to my clients in the sports administration biz is that if they are not serious about a situation, they need to avoid it."
"Sam, it has been in the back of my mind for so long that I had almost forgotten about those goals. I really do want to pursue that stuff, eventually."
"OK, rule number two: there is no such thing as `eventually'; either you want to do it, or you do not. Will you allow me to make a suggestion?"
"Go for it, coach."
Sam smiled. "Grab your iPad, look up the grad school programs at UCLA, and get your butt down there ASAP and get into their doctoral program. I'm sure online it is listed as something like `Stephen Covey Clones' or some-such." He was chuckling; he kissed Mickey quickly to reassure him that he was really trying to be serious and supportive.
It was in the middle of that kiss that Mickey's cell phone rang: it was his boss. This was the second conversation that he was dreading.
"Good morning" he said meekly.
"You have thirty seconds to explain to me why the LA Times has to inform me of your future goals." Mario Garza was usually direct; he was never impolite.
"Well I guess it just never came up."
"Maybe true, but in legal terms, this is negligence by omission."
"Guilty." Mickey was grimacing; Sam, listening to the conversation on the speaker, took his hand and squeezed it.
"Mickey, seriously, I feel terrible that you and I have never had this conversation; it is more my fault than it is yours. Could you and Sam find some time to come out to Malibu and let's have that conversation? I would rather do it here than in the office."
"Sure. Hold on for a second and let me ask Sam if we can do it this afternoon."
"Already there" Sam broke in. "Can I bring my board?"
Mickey and Mario were both laughing when the conversation resumed. "OK, see you about 2; Peter said he will make lunch for all of us."
By the time Sam and Mickey fell into bed that night, Sam felt satisfied with a day on the water, and Mickey felt satisfied that he and Mario had agreed on a course of action to guide the law firm and prepare Mickey for handing over the reins of managing partner. Mario asked Mickey whom he would recommend for that slot: Mickey instantly answered "Terry Baylor; it is a natural for him. He is already the section head for corporate law, and he has two interns right now working under him, plus interviews for new recruits coming up in January."
Mario replied "OK, talk with him tomorrow and set up a meeting with the three of us on Wednesday. I want to get this started as quickly as possible."
Sam was completely relaxed in the bed and was holding Mickey with his arm around Mickey's shoulders. He kissed Mickey on the cheek and said, "You know I have always admired you."
"Why?"
"You do not fit any of the fag stereotypes. I really hate those Hollywood and TV stereotypes that portray us as all as some version of Richard Simmons. You know that one actor on the TV series `Modern Family', I think that is my current target of derision."
"There you go with big SAT words."
Sam laughed; "I mean it, Hollywood wants to portray us fags as hair dressers or stylists or florists or drag queens. RuPaul has not done us any good either."
"You never wanted to fuck a drag queen?"
"Oh, I have, but only once."
Mickey slugged Sam's ribs; "Liar."
"Yeah, OK, I did not know he was a queen until later. It was one of the million one-night-stands I had to endure to find my way to you."
"Endure?" Mickey sat up in bed and stared at Sam.
Sam was giggling. "OK maybe not a million but at least a dozen. Or so. You know we all need to try on the various sex styles to decide if we are pitchers or catchers."
Mickey lay back down and snuggled into Sam's side. He felt such comfort and warmth and security here: this man, three years his junior, three inches taller, with the Dick of Death, really understood him. That tiny little voice in the dark recesses of his mind that kept warning him about his insecurities was easy to ignore in this moment. He fell asleep cradled by Sam's arms.