Fic: Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy Entry 21-40/150 (Entourage, NC-17, Vince/E, Vince/Others)
Title: Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy
Entries: 21-40 of 150
Status: Complete
Fandom: Entourage
Word Count:~5,700
Disclaimer: I don't own Entourage or anyone who has ever appeared on it.
Pairing: Vince/Eric, Vince/Pretty much everyone else except Turtle, Johnny, and the Golds (seriously)
Rating: NC-17 for lots and lots of sex
Warnings: AU, prostitution, mentions of past childhood physical abuse, BDSM, gay sex, straight sex, group sex, rape fantasy, fisting, wax play, a foot fetishist, mentions of daddy-kink, extremely brief mention of watersports. If any of the particular warnings are squicks for you, send me a private message and I'll tell you which entry to avoid!
Betas and helpers: guest_age, justabi, allyndra, ariadne83, pesha and deepad were all completely indispensable. Thank you so much.
Authors Notes: This inspired by Belle Du Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the entourage_fest.
Summary: Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.
Entry 1-20
Entry 21
This shouldn’t work. It really shouldn’t. I’ve seen porn where it happens and I know the mechanics, but rationally speaking, it's an insane thing to do. It shouldn’t feel this good.
Jesus, but it totally fucking does.
Freddy says something about the lube having a topical anesthetic, but I don’t listen. I’m too focused on not coming right that fucking second as he works his forth finger into me. And then he stops talking and wraps his lips around my dick and sucks.
Freddy doesn’t explain exactly how he gets his whole hand in me. But Jesus Christ, at some point after he starts sucking me, he tucks his thumb into his hand and pushes in. He twists his wrist so his fingers dig inside me and I scream and curl off the bed, my head coming up and sweat dripping down my forehead, making my hair stick and my eyes sting.
It burns and it's full and I’m sure I’m going to die. But then I don’t. I don’t, which is good because holy fuck, it feels so good I can’t even see.
I’ve done a lot of crazy shit in my time but this is a first. It’s not something I’d trust with a client and I don’t usually keep dates around long enough to get to this point. But that’s clearly a mistake on my part because I feel like there’s nothing to me but nerves.
I can feel him moving his hand inside me, curling it into a fist. God, God, God fucking yes.
I don’t know who he learned this on. I don’t care. He’s clearly had practice and that’s enough for me. I don’t know how he got the X through customs either, but it’s from Amsterdam and it makes me so loose and hot and giddy that he could bring in the entire defensive line of the Lakers and I probably wouldn’t notice. No. Wait. I think I’d notice. I just wouldn’t mind.
I come in his mouth, his fuck puppet writhing on the end of his arm. He swallows, then he laughs as he pulls off. He runs his fingers over my stomach as his other hand keeps moving, twisting and rocking and turning me out.
He needs to go to Eastern Europe more often if this is what he learns while he’s there. I feel like I can taste his fist in the back of my throat and I’m choking on it, and all I want is more.
~*~*~
Entry 22
Afterwards, when I’m still high enough not to hurt too bad from the way he managed to work half his forearm inside me, we talk.
Freddy: I should’ve taped that. You were fucking hot, Sunshine.
Me: Next time. I bet it’d make a shitload on the internet. I look good on film.
Freddy: That you do. You look good everywhere, Vince.
Me: Thanks.
Freddy: I talked to Domenico and Stefano while I was in Milan. They think you’d look amazing in their clothes. I already know you do.
Me: Freddy-
Freddy: You’re not too old to start modeling. Male modeling’s a different game and they think you’re just as gorgeous as I do.
Me: I’ll think about it.
Freddy: Do.
I do think about it. He’s asked me a few times in the last few years since he started to get real pull with some of the bigger designers, but I’ve always said no. My brother and Turtle are here in L.A. The jobs he talks about are always somewhere insane like Helsinki or Bogotá.
I don’t think I can pick up and start over. Not again. Not yet.
~*~*~
Entry 23
Freddy only stays three days before he’s off to New York. I took off five because I knew for a fact that I’d need the other two to bounce back. My ass feels like a tractor rolled through it. Which is nice. Really fucking nice. But it does make doing the job a little harder than it needs to be.
I start back slow with a regular who’s a foot fetishist and submissive. I read the script Johnny gave me for the latest character development on his role on Days of Our Lives while the client rubs his dick against the arch of my left foot and sucks the toes of my right.
It’s low-impact and easy clean up. Plus, beyond the whole getting off on my feet thing, the guy gives a decent foot rub.
~*~*~
Entry 24
Back, crack, and sac waxing-the worst fucking thing ever devised. It never gets any easier. The Gold Standard agency’s got this policy about hair so I do it, but fuck. It always kills me.
Turtle has to drive me there; I don’t have a license or a car, and he mocks me mercilessly the entire way there and the whole way back. I take it though, because Turtle’s got enough job flexibility working for his girlfriend’s dad that he can actually take me to do stupid shit like this for work.
On the ride home, he’s got Biggie blasting loud enough to shake the windows of the Escalade he’s leased. I just want to get home.
I’m going to take two Percocet, weep, and pass out. Jesus.
~**~*~
Entry 25
I call my mother’s house once a month.
And then I get very, very high.
I love my ma more than life, but I can’t talk to her. I just can’t.
~*~*~
Entry 26
The client comes on my face and calls me a dirty whore. Then he smears it around with his dickhead and asks me if I like being filthy for him.
I say yes because that’s what I get paid for, but no. No, I don’t fucking like it.
Okay, I’m a whore. Fine. Not arguing that. And coming on my face, that’s cool. One of Johnny’s girlfriends once told me it’s good for your skin. But dirty? Come on, jerkoff.
My grandma used to say cleanliness is next to godliness. I work in sex, so that’s not just a saying to me. It’s a way of life. Like, beyond just the whole full body clean. You shave your face, yeah, and you put on deodorant but there’s more to it. This isn’t a date.
So, there’s other things. Like waxing (evil, evil, fucking evil) and trimming, and the money I spend keeping my hands and feet in good condition so that people like him will want me to put them on and in them.
And then there’s the inside job. My ass makes as much of my living as my dick, lips, or face and keeping it up to standard is unpleasant, but necessary. It’s not the most fun in the world, but it’s better than explaining to your client that no, it’s fine, that frothy mixture, that’s disgusting, but totally natural. Santorum's a mood killer and the mood is my job. So I take preparatory steps that go beyond condoms and lube.
So whore, yes. Dirty whore? Abso-fucking-lutely not.
He’s not going to be a regular. I get enough work to be discriminating.
~*~*~
Entry 27
Sometimes I wonder what the fuck I’m going to do when I get too old to work. I’m trying to save up, but a lot of what I make goes into paying my rent, buying the equipment I need, cab fare all over L.A. county, and, believe it or not, taxes. Plus, I’m shit at budgeting.
Sometimes I worry.
I try not to, though.
~*~*~
Entry 28
I don’t do virgins deflowerings. I don’t. They’re a lot of responsibility and I always feel like I shouldn’t have it. I’m not a responsible guy. I don’t even have any pets.
So I turn Ari down when a woman tries to book me to deflower her younger, untouched sister. Because I’m attractive and relatively harmless looking, I assume.
I’ve gotten a couple offers like this and the reasoning why I should is sound. Who knows how bad a person’s first might end up if I don’t take them up on it? I have experience. I get tested regularly. I’m polite and I know how to be gentle.
Yeah, she could end up with someone worse. But she could also end up with someone better. Either way, I just don’t like to go there.
Hey, we’ve all got lines. This is one of mine.
~*~*~
Entry 29
I’m out of Viagra. Not something I want to advertise, but I need to go to the pharmacy soon or there’s going to be a problem.
Contrary to the hooker/porn star legend, I can't get hard on demand. I work five days a week sometimes for hours at a time and a lot of the time the people I have to fuck are not people I find sexually attractive. I don’t always use it-if it’s a regular who I exclusively bottom for, if the job explicitly focuses around oral, that kind of thing.
So Ari’s got this pharmacist on tap. Apparently the guy’s got what we like to call “a fetish too far” and the Gold Standard takes care of it for him. It's not really above board-I don’t have ED-but the guy hooks me and the rest of Ari’s guys up even though we don’t medically need it.
Problem is, my health insurance (Mrs. Ari requires employees have it) doesn’t cover it what with me being under 30 and healthy and all. And I can't exactly recoup it as a tax deduction for work because, well, escorting is legal but hooking is not. Yeah, sex is legal and buying is legal, but buying sex isn’t legal. I don’t get it, either.
Point is, refills come out of my pocket and I have to get them a lot. Like now. I’ve got work tonight and it’s a top job. Sometimes it feels like this job is actual work, which is exactly what I got back into the business to avoid.
~*~*~
Entry 30
Johnny calls me at way-too-fucking-early-in-the-morning about getting lunch later in the day and I mumble something, reset my alarm so I can meet him at the Ivy (my treat), and go back to sleep.
I get there ten minutes before he does. He’s got a bad fake tan and a ridiculous hat but he’s happy. He’s got a guest spot on Days of Our Lives and it looks like its going to become a regular thing.
“This is great for me,” Johnny says. “You know soaps are a jumping off point. I could be lookin’ at a come back. ”
“I know Johnny. I’m happy for you. You’re way overdue. It’s all up from here, man. I can see it.”
“Damn right.”
He smiles at me, but he doesn’t ask any questions about my life. He knows what I do and he loves me, but he doesn’t like to hear it. I kinda think that the whole thing makes him sad. He’s got theories about where I got started, he told me when he was drunk once, and they make him feel guilty. They shouldn’t, though. He’s not responsible for the shit that happened before he left Queens. Hell, he’s the reason I’m even close to well adjusted.
He’s not responsible for what went down after he left, either. But Johnny’s always taken being a big brother very fucking seriously. He beat the living hell out of the old man for pushing me down the stairs in our apartment building right before he left New York. So I know trying to tell him otherwise isn’t going to be something he’ll hear.
So I talk about what I’ve read lately and what I think of the guy who’s playing Aquaman in James Cameron’s adaptation that I just saw the trailer for. I tell him about how I can get him tickets to the Emmys and he gives me that big grin that makes me feel like I’m a star and it's worth the o’dark-thirty phone call.
~*~*~
Entry 31
My client today is a CEO visiting from Japan and just…I don’t even fucking know.
Everybody’s got kinks. I’ve been on the prettier side of the industry for nearly ten years and I tend to pull more than my fair share of them. And I respect them. I do. God knows I’ve got my own.
But Jesus, man, international businessmen. I’ve heard stuff from other people in the agency. Rumor is they all lose their freaking minds once money changes hands. I think it's vacation syndrome-once you get far enough away from home to keep from getting caught, people go crazy.
For example I don’t see the appeal of watersports. I really don’t. I don’t see how me pissing on his face and in his mouth is attractive but you know, the customer’s always right. He got off and I didn’t have to get fucked by or fuck him. I’m just glad it wasn’t my bathroom, that’s all I’m saying.
~*~*~
Entry 32
Bob kills me. I wish to God I could drop him as a client, but I just can’t
Bob’s in his eighties. And most of the time, we don’t fuck. In fact, in all the time he’s been employing me as an escort, I’ve only actually had sex with him twice. Not because I’m not willing. I am. But he’s old and he’s tired and sex is great, but it’s not the thing he’s really looking for.
Bob’s lonely. He’s built an empire and it’s amazing. The guy made some of the greatest movies of all time. But he’s got no one but his housekeeper, and she goes home at night. I can see where that’d leave you needing.
So usually, he buys my time and it’s just that. My time. My company. My contact. I sit on his couch or deck or floor or bed and listen while he talks about the Hollywood fairy tale he lived. He ran with the greats of all time-Brando and Peck and Stewart and Hepburn and Monroe. He pays me to listen. But I remember because I care.
He’s going to die soon. Maybe not this year. Maybe not next year. Hopefully not for the next fifteen years. But one day sooner than me, he’s going to die. And he knows it. It scares him, which is reasonable because I like to think I’ve got a good forty to fifty years left and it scares me.
It sounds corny and cheesy and unbelievable, but we hold each other. Honest to fucking God, we do. I hold him and he clings to me and we sleep in his oversized, hand-carved bed. And when he cries, sometimes I cry with him.
I care about a lot of my clients. Some of them I consider to be work-friends. Some of them have been around long enough that I can’t help but care. Some of them I see once and they just kinda stick in my head. But I love Bob.
Yeah, I take the money he pays me to spend time with him, but I’ve turned down conflicting bookings Ari took that were a lot younger and a lot more attractive for Bob. My fee doesn’t change the fact that I do care for him deeply. I don’t think most people would understand, but sometimes, I need what he has to give. There aren’t many people out there who want to hold me.
~*~*~
Entry 33
I actually watched Johnny when he did his guest spot on Days. One of the things about working the night shift is that, well, I’m home at two in the afternoon. Yeah, usually I’m asleep, but I can wake up for that.
Thing is, he did almost three weeks worth of guest spots. I’ll admit it. I got hooked. It’s pathetic, but I can’t fucking stop myself. Of the many embarrassing things in my life, I’m completely fucking ashamed of how hot I find Bo and Hope. Seriously. I know Johnny tried to tap the actress who plays her, but I really just want to see the two of them fuck. Or be in the middle. Or something.
It’s pathetic. I’m aware. And the commercial break is over, so all my attention will be back on Days. I need to know what that psycho bastard Stephano is pulling this time.
~*~*~
Entry 34
Ari: I’ve got a job for you, Chase.
Me: Of course you do, Ari.
Ari: Couple job. Out of towners. The little lady wants you to suck her husband’s cock and then let him fuck you with it while she watches. You’re an anniversary present. Ain't love grand?
Me: How many years?
Ari: What’s it fucking matter?
Me: Did they tell you?
Ari: Fifteen.
Me: When?
Ari: Tomorrow night. Four Seasons. Suite 1123. You bring the lube. They don’t know what the hell they’re doing.
Me: They ask for any flavors?
Ari: What? Of the lube? Who fucking cares, Chase, baby. It’s their anniversary. Surprise ‘em.
Yet another typical conversation with Ari. For this I give him forty percent of every booking?
~*~*~
Entry 35
There’s a lot of paperwork involved in fucking a closeted movie star.
Let’s call him M.
M is a big name, fucking huge. He gets 20 million a picture and he has ties to the music industry, and he produces. M is a sex symbol and a superstar.
I’m surprised when the call comes in. He might be the most famous guy I’ve ever fucked and I had to sign so many non-disclosure agreements that I thought for a minute there I was selling my soul.
His house is a fucking palace. It’s got everything: ten bedrooms, an indoor pool, a sauna, a screening room, and even one of those arcade style Galaga games in his basement. His is one of my favorite episodes of MTV Cribs.
I come to him during the day in a van that’s got a maintenance logo on it. He opens the door, lets me in, and then locks the door behind me. Twice.
He won a People’s Choice or something and I’m his present to himself. He goes from room to room of his house while I take off my clothes in his living room. He’s checking that the curtains are closed.
“Paparazzi,” he says. He’s staring at me, hungry, with his lips parted just a little. He catches himself and laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’re fucking vultures.”
I stand in front of his couch, naked and smiling. “I’ve heard that.”
“A picture of you,” he says kneeling down in front of me, “like this-“ He kisses my bare stomach. “With me.” He rubs his cheek against my half-hard dick. I reach down and stroke his hair. “It’d be worth millions,” he sighs and I feel so fucking bad for him.
“Well, there is that saying about pictures. Worth a million words, or something like that.”
“Fuck words,” M says before sucking me down. It takes me exactly three seconds to go from half hard to rock hard and my hands in his hair fist instead of stroke. I fuck his mouth, moving his head back and forth with my hands because I can tell, I can tell from the way he holds his shoulders, moans around my dick, and his fingers dig into my thighs that he needs it. He doesn’t get it from places he should-a boyfriend, a lover, a one night stand. So I have to give it to him.
I don’t come in his mouth, though. He looks disappointed when I pull out, but that’s not what he really wants. The brief Mrs. Ari gave me was kind of specific.
“Do you want to do this here?” I ask, cupping his chin. “You want me to fuck you on your floor, leave stains on your carpet so you’ll remember me inside you every time you use this room?” He groans and shuts his eyes. “Or do you want to go to your bed so you can tear up your sheets and bury your face in your pillow when you come?”
A tear slides out of the corner of his shut eyes. I brush it off his cheek and pull him up to stand. He’s bigger than me, broad chest and shoulders, and just as tall as I am. He looks so strong on film but right now, he’s raw and open and desperate.
When he opens his eyes, they’re wet and so blue.
“It’s okay,” I say. And then I kiss him. “It’s okay, baby. It is.”
“Please.”
“I know.”
He covers my hand on his face with his own. “Please, Chase. Please.”
Okay. Bed then. I kiss him again, soft, all lips and no tongue, and then lead him to the back of his house. I don’t know the layout, but there’s only one door open; I assume that it’s his bedroom, and I’m right.
He lies on his back with his knees pulled up. I wonder how many times a year he gets fucked, gets to have anything with a man since he’s so very fucking gay, and so clearly needs it. Not enough judging by the way he watches me as I lube him up on the inside. He moans and whimpers and pushes himself up so that his head rests against the headboard so that even when his head goes to tip back, he can still see me.
“You are so beautiful,” he says and yeah, I’ve heard that before. I’ve heard that lots of times before. But he says it like he’s afraid I’ll disappear as he glides his hands over my shoulders and down my back. “Christ, you are so fucking beautiful.”
“So are you.” And its true. I mean, yeah, it’s the right thing to say, but he’s fucking gorgeous. I fuck into him slow and smooth. His hole is fucking hungry for me and it’s a pleasure. A genuine Goddamn pleasure to feel him tighten and spasm around me.
He gasps and the hand on my back goes from a stroke to a grab. His fingers are blunt and large and they push into my flanks. He focuses all his energy on watching my face and breathing deep as I fuck him.
His heels come up off the mattress and dig into my lower back. He uses my body to pull himself off the bed and up onto my dick. M gasps my name again and he begs, harder, please, harder. But I don’t go harder. That’s not what he needs and I know he’ll thank me for this later.
I fuck him slow and deep for almost twenty minutes. I’m holding myself up on one arm while the other reaches between us to stroke his dick. It burns, but it's worth it. M is a complete mess when he comes. His neck strains, his body curves into a C shape, pushing me in even deeper, he chokes, and God, he is beautiful. He really is.
When he’s done and the space between our stomachs is wet and sticky, he touches my face and pushes my bangs off of my forehead, but his fingers get caught in the curls. “Don’t stop. I want to see you come.”
M watches my face as I keep moving inside him. He’s soft now, but he grunts in time to my thrusts, little “uhn uhn” sounds that come from his chest, rather than his throat. I work the sounds out of him until I’m close, and then I kiss him while I come.
I pull out, take off the condom, tie it off, and throw it in the trashcan he has by his bed. Then I lie back down and he reaches out to me, lining his shoulder up to mine so that lying next to each other we’re touching all the way down our sides.
“Jesus fucking Christ, I needed that,” he sighs, staring up at his ceiling.
I try not to smile at him. I know he’s being serious. “I could tell.”
He turns his head at me and gives me a million-dollar smile. “We got time to go again?”
“You booked me for the whole day. You tell me?”
He rolls on top of me and kisses me. His passion is genuine, and so is his need. It’s like he’s at a buffet and he knows he won't get to eat freely again for months.
I wouldn’t trade my life for his, not for anything in the whole fucking universe. He’s so unhappy that he makes me and my issues seem like Mary Sunshine. At least I don’t have to hide from my friends and I only have to lie to my mother and I never talk to her anyway.
~*~*~
Entry 36
I hate working out. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have to. Lazy by nature, remember? But I get a blow job from my trainer, a cute blond girl in spandex shorts, when we’re done. I’ll call it even.
~*~*~
Entry 37
Fiona, the yoga teacher at my gym, insists on taking me out for dinner after class. She asks me what I do over veggie burgers and I hesitate.
“Shame is an unnecessary emotion.” She’s got the voice of a hippy and the glazed eyes to match. She gives me a dreamy smile. “Embrace your reality. It’s not my place to judge you. Just tell me.”
So fuck it, I tell her. And she stares at me for a long moment before she speaks. “That’s cool. Did you know that in certain cultures, prostitutes were holy vessels that did a public service for the gods?”
No. I didn’t.
“The Aztecs had male prostitutes that sanctified holidays and offered their sexual services as religious acts. The devadasis in India actually had more socio-sexual freedom than most women through their services. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you performing a service like that. People need it.”
I think so. But she’s the only one woman I’ve ever met who does, too.
“So do you fuck women?” she asks, leaning towards me over the small table.
I grin at her. Under the table, I slide my hand from her knee up her thigh. She shifts so that her legs spread and I slip my fingers under her shorts and panties and into her. She’s hot and wet. I brush my thumb over her clit and she gives a little gasp.
I rub small circles with my thumb for a few thrusts, then pull my hand free. My index finger shines in the light and I lick it clean. She tastes a little sweet and I think it's all the fruits and smoothies she eats.
Her lower lip drops and her eyes go dark as she watches me.
“I love women,” I say, letting my hand drop to my napkin.
“Me, too.”
“Really?”
“Sex is a physical expression of our connection to other human beings. I like to connect to lots of people, regardless of gender.”
“Same here. Connecting’s good.”
She smirks over the edge of her drink. “It’s the best.” Fiona rises from the table and walks towards the back of the restaurant. I count to ten and then follow her into the women’s room, locking the door behind me.
It’s a nice restaurant and there are three stalls. All of them are empty. The sinks are made of shiny black stone and she’s leaned up against them. I lift her up and set her down on the edge of the sink. She covers me in a condom and wraps her legs around my waist. I don’t take off her shorts or her underwear, just pull them to the side and fuck her right there on the sink. Fiona’s hands leave streaky sweat marks on the mirror behind her.
“What’re you doing tomorrow?” she asks, panting with her chin on my shoulder.
I bite the skin under her ear. “You.”
When she laughs it makes her internal muscles squeeze around my softening dick.
~*~*~
Entry 38
I am soooooooooooooooooo fucking high right now. Fiona knows this guy. He’s a Sherpa but he isn’t up on Everest or anything. His house is like, it’s like made of hemp.
He has greeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeat weed. And a big gun. Jesus. Crazy.
~*~*~
Entry 39
Johnny’s auditioning for this movie with some hotshot director. He drags me and Turtle along with him for moral support. It’s not your average audition. The director, Billy, called Johnny to his crazy apartment and it’s a fucking riot inside.
The whole place smells like weed. People are fucking in bedrooms with open doors. There’s a cluster of girls on the floor of the living room snorting coke off a hand mirror. Johnny and Turtle seem freaked. I pretend to be.
The director, I’m assuming, unfolds himself from behind the couch. He’s thin as a rail with a patchy beard, lanky black hair, and he’s tall. Taller than me by a good couple inches. “Johnny Drama! My favorite Viking. Glad you could make it.”
Johnny nods and does his best to look cool. He’s crap at it, but he gets points for trying. “Billy, hey.”
“Nice to see I was right. You are one ugly son of a bitch. Don’t argue. It’s good. It really works for the role. I’m going for understated grotesque.”
He pushes an unlit cigarette between his lips and then looks at me. I get stared at all the time so it's something I’ve gotten comfortable with. But Billy’s eyes almost dig into me. It’s invasive and uncomfortable. And kind of hot.
“You get bonus points from bringing someone so fuckable with you.” He holds out a hand to me. “Billy Walsh.”
“Billy, this is my baby bro, Vince.”
I shake his hand as he eyefucks me. His hand’s bigger than mine, long fingers that squeeze my hand a little too hard. It makes me think he’d do everything too hard.
It makes me wonder where I’d bruise and what colors they’d be.
He’s not my type. He’s messy and looks like he probably hasn’t showered in a few days. I shouldn’t like him. He’s a greasy asshole who just insulted my brother. And his hand on mine is starting to hurt but fuck, it’s turning me on.
“You are Goddamn edible, aren’t you?” he asks like he means it, no double entendre. Flat out want that reads as totally fucking honest.
He knows. I know he knows I’m hard and the knowledge hits me like a fist to the gut, turning me on even more. I wouldn’t have to ask him for anything. Billy’s the kind of guy who’ll just take and take and take, if I can let him.
“Parts of me,” I reply. It’s as good as an invitation.
His hand moves up and wraps tight around my wrist. I have to choke on a gasp because Johnny and Turtle are right fucking here. They’re right beside me and I can feel my brain slipping into that dark place where I don’t have to do anything but do what I’m told and just feel.
He squeezes a little tighter, just enough for it to really hurt for a second, and then lets go completely. It’s kind of trippy how hard I crash back into the conversation, horny and disoriented.
“So listen, I’m gonna give your brother the part anyway, but I’ve got like six tabs of LSD and a room with a lock. You wanna fuck?”
“How about you fuck yourself?” Turtle spits before I can say anything (like for example, “Fuck yes, how do you want me?”).
“Turtle, come on,” Johnny says, desperate to smooth this down before it blows up and he looses his one shot at a real comeback.
“I didn’t ask you, tubby.”
“Hey who you calling tubby you tweaky faggot fuck?”
I have to get Turtle out of there before he gets arrested or something. I drag him out, leaving Johnny to talk about the role with Billy, because Kelly wouldn’t forgive me if she had to come get us out of lock up. So I don’t fuck Billy.
But I do spend the drive home reaming Turtle a new one for using the F word. And not “fuck.” I think he sometimes forgets I that I kind of am one.
Whatever. Johnny’s gonna be doing Billy’s movie, though. So there’ll be other chances.
~*~*~
Entry 40
The agency puts me with a female client who likes me to dress up like a woman. The androgyny gets her hot. So she sets me up in a room in the Peninsula. The girl’s an heiress and a famous one, so there’s no expense spared. The outfit’s waiting for me in the room when I get there.
It’s designer and, I think, completely ridiculous. But I don’t get paid to judge what other people find sexy. I get paid to be it.
I put on a dress, hose (Cause fuck if I’m shaving or waxing my legs. All my clients other like me male), and high heels that make me want to personally apologize to every woman alive. Mrs. Ari sends over the Rope Girl to help me with the make up. It takes forever, especially the eyeliner. When she leaves, I put on jewelry and clip on earrings and the client is actually speechless for a few seconds when she sees me.
“Fuck me.” She pushes up my skirt. Her hand finds my dick through the fabric of the heinously uncomfortable panties Mrs. Ari told me to wear for her. “Fuck me right now.”
I do. The thick red lipstick Rope Girl put on my lips ends up all over her face, neck, and breasts. When it's all gone, she stops and puts more on me. She looks kind of like spin art when we’re done.
Then she spends the rest of the time we have booked alternately staring at me and fondling me through the dress.
~*~*~
Continue to Entry 41-55
Entries: 21-40 of 150
Status: Complete
Fandom: Entourage
Word Count:~5,700
Disclaimer: I don't own Entourage or anyone who has ever appeared on it.
Pairing: Vince/Eric, Vince/Pretty much everyone else except Turtle, Johnny, and the Golds (seriously)
Rating: NC-17 for lots and lots of sex
Warnings: AU, prostitution, mentions of past childhood physical abuse, BDSM, gay sex, straight sex, group sex, rape fantasy, fisting, wax play, a foot fetishist, mentions of daddy-kink, extremely brief mention of watersports. If any of the particular warnings are squicks for you, send me a private message and I'll tell you which entry to avoid!
Betas and helpers: guest_age, justabi, allyndra, ariadne83, pesha and deepad were all completely indispensable. Thank you so much.
Authors Notes: This inspired by Belle Du Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the entourage_fest.
Summary: Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.
Entry 1-20
Entry 21
This shouldn’t work. It really shouldn’t. I’ve seen porn where it happens and I know the mechanics, but rationally speaking, it's an insane thing to do. It shouldn’t feel this good.
Jesus, but it totally fucking does.
Freddy says something about the lube having a topical anesthetic, but I don’t listen. I’m too focused on not coming right that fucking second as he works his forth finger into me. And then he stops talking and wraps his lips around my dick and sucks.
Freddy doesn’t explain exactly how he gets his whole hand in me. But Jesus Christ, at some point after he starts sucking me, he tucks his thumb into his hand and pushes in. He twists his wrist so his fingers dig inside me and I scream and curl off the bed, my head coming up and sweat dripping down my forehead, making my hair stick and my eyes sting.
It burns and it's full and I’m sure I’m going to die. But then I don’t. I don’t, which is good because holy fuck, it feels so good I can’t even see.
I’ve done a lot of crazy shit in my time but this is a first. It’s not something I’d trust with a client and I don’t usually keep dates around long enough to get to this point. But that’s clearly a mistake on my part because I feel like there’s nothing to me but nerves.
I can feel him moving his hand inside me, curling it into a fist. God, God, God fucking yes.
I don’t know who he learned this on. I don’t care. He’s clearly had practice and that’s enough for me. I don’t know how he got the X through customs either, but it’s from Amsterdam and it makes me so loose and hot and giddy that he could bring in the entire defensive line of the Lakers and I probably wouldn’t notice. No. Wait. I think I’d notice. I just wouldn’t mind.
I come in his mouth, his fuck puppet writhing on the end of his arm. He swallows, then he laughs as he pulls off. He runs his fingers over my stomach as his other hand keeps moving, twisting and rocking and turning me out.
He needs to go to Eastern Europe more often if this is what he learns while he’s there. I feel like I can taste his fist in the back of my throat and I’m choking on it, and all I want is more.
~*~*~
Entry 22
Afterwards, when I’m still high enough not to hurt too bad from the way he managed to work half his forearm inside me, we talk.
Freddy: I should’ve taped that. You were fucking hot, Sunshine.
Me: Next time. I bet it’d make a shitload on the internet. I look good on film.
Freddy: That you do. You look good everywhere, Vince.
Me: Thanks.
Freddy: I talked to Domenico and Stefano while I was in Milan. They think you’d look amazing in their clothes. I already know you do.
Me: Freddy-
Freddy: You’re not too old to start modeling. Male modeling’s a different game and they think you’re just as gorgeous as I do.
Me: I’ll think about it.
Freddy: Do.
I do think about it. He’s asked me a few times in the last few years since he started to get real pull with some of the bigger designers, but I’ve always said no. My brother and Turtle are here in L.A. The jobs he talks about are always somewhere insane like Helsinki or Bogotá.
I don’t think I can pick up and start over. Not again. Not yet.
~*~*~
Entry 23
Freddy only stays three days before he’s off to New York. I took off five because I knew for a fact that I’d need the other two to bounce back. My ass feels like a tractor rolled through it. Which is nice. Really fucking nice. But it does make doing the job a little harder than it needs to be.
I start back slow with a regular who’s a foot fetishist and submissive. I read the script Johnny gave me for the latest character development on his role on Days of Our Lives while the client rubs his dick against the arch of my left foot and sucks the toes of my right.
It’s low-impact and easy clean up. Plus, beyond the whole getting off on my feet thing, the guy gives a decent foot rub.
~*~*~
Entry 24
Back, crack, and sac waxing-the worst fucking thing ever devised. It never gets any easier. The Gold Standard agency’s got this policy about hair so I do it, but fuck. It always kills me.
Turtle has to drive me there; I don’t have a license or a car, and he mocks me mercilessly the entire way there and the whole way back. I take it though, because Turtle’s got enough job flexibility working for his girlfriend’s dad that he can actually take me to do stupid shit like this for work.
On the ride home, he’s got Biggie blasting loud enough to shake the windows of the Escalade he’s leased. I just want to get home.
I’m going to take two Percocet, weep, and pass out. Jesus.
~**~*~
Entry 25
I call my mother’s house once a month.
And then I get very, very high.
I love my ma more than life, but I can’t talk to her. I just can’t.
~*~*~
Entry 26
The client comes on my face and calls me a dirty whore. Then he smears it around with his dickhead and asks me if I like being filthy for him.
I say yes because that’s what I get paid for, but no. No, I don’t fucking like it.
Okay, I’m a whore. Fine. Not arguing that. And coming on my face, that’s cool. One of Johnny’s girlfriends once told me it’s good for your skin. But dirty? Come on, jerkoff.
My grandma used to say cleanliness is next to godliness. I work in sex, so that’s not just a saying to me. It’s a way of life. Like, beyond just the whole full body clean. You shave your face, yeah, and you put on deodorant but there’s more to it. This isn’t a date.
So, there’s other things. Like waxing (evil, evil, fucking evil) and trimming, and the money I spend keeping my hands and feet in good condition so that people like him will want me to put them on and in them.
And then there’s the inside job. My ass makes as much of my living as my dick, lips, or face and keeping it up to standard is unpleasant, but necessary. It’s not the most fun in the world, but it’s better than explaining to your client that no, it’s fine, that frothy mixture, that’s disgusting, but totally natural. Santorum's a mood killer and the mood is my job. So I take preparatory steps that go beyond condoms and lube.
So whore, yes. Dirty whore? Abso-fucking-lutely not.
He’s not going to be a regular. I get enough work to be discriminating.
~*~*~
Entry 27
Sometimes I wonder what the fuck I’m going to do when I get too old to work. I’m trying to save up, but a lot of what I make goes into paying my rent, buying the equipment I need, cab fare all over L.A. county, and, believe it or not, taxes. Plus, I’m shit at budgeting.
Sometimes I worry.
I try not to, though.
~*~*~
Entry 28
I don’t do virgins deflowerings. I don’t. They’re a lot of responsibility and I always feel like I shouldn’t have it. I’m not a responsible guy. I don’t even have any pets.
So I turn Ari down when a woman tries to book me to deflower her younger, untouched sister. Because I’m attractive and relatively harmless looking, I assume.
I’ve gotten a couple offers like this and the reasoning why I should is sound. Who knows how bad a person’s first might end up if I don’t take them up on it? I have experience. I get tested regularly. I’m polite and I know how to be gentle.
Yeah, she could end up with someone worse. But she could also end up with someone better. Either way, I just don’t like to go there.
Hey, we’ve all got lines. This is one of mine.
~*~*~
Entry 29
I’m out of Viagra. Not something I want to advertise, but I need to go to the pharmacy soon or there’s going to be a problem.
Contrary to the hooker/porn star legend, I can't get hard on demand. I work five days a week sometimes for hours at a time and a lot of the time the people I have to fuck are not people I find sexually attractive. I don’t always use it-if it’s a regular who I exclusively bottom for, if the job explicitly focuses around oral, that kind of thing.
So Ari’s got this pharmacist on tap. Apparently the guy’s got what we like to call “a fetish too far” and the Gold Standard takes care of it for him. It's not really above board-I don’t have ED-but the guy hooks me and the rest of Ari’s guys up even though we don’t medically need it.
Problem is, my health insurance (Mrs. Ari requires employees have it) doesn’t cover it what with me being under 30 and healthy and all. And I can't exactly recoup it as a tax deduction for work because, well, escorting is legal but hooking is not. Yeah, sex is legal and buying is legal, but buying sex isn’t legal. I don’t get it, either.
Point is, refills come out of my pocket and I have to get them a lot. Like now. I’ve got work tonight and it’s a top job. Sometimes it feels like this job is actual work, which is exactly what I got back into the business to avoid.
~*~*~
Entry 30
Johnny calls me at way-too-fucking-early-in-the-morning about getting lunch later in the day and I mumble something, reset my alarm so I can meet him at the Ivy (my treat), and go back to sleep.
I get there ten minutes before he does. He’s got a bad fake tan and a ridiculous hat but he’s happy. He’s got a guest spot on Days of Our Lives and it looks like its going to become a regular thing.
“This is great for me,” Johnny says. “You know soaps are a jumping off point. I could be lookin’ at a come back. ”
“I know Johnny. I’m happy for you. You’re way overdue. It’s all up from here, man. I can see it.”
“Damn right.”
He smiles at me, but he doesn’t ask any questions about my life. He knows what I do and he loves me, but he doesn’t like to hear it. I kinda think that the whole thing makes him sad. He’s got theories about where I got started, he told me when he was drunk once, and they make him feel guilty. They shouldn’t, though. He’s not responsible for the shit that happened before he left Queens. Hell, he’s the reason I’m even close to well adjusted.
He’s not responsible for what went down after he left, either. But Johnny’s always taken being a big brother very fucking seriously. He beat the living hell out of the old man for pushing me down the stairs in our apartment building right before he left New York. So I know trying to tell him otherwise isn’t going to be something he’ll hear.
So I talk about what I’ve read lately and what I think of the guy who’s playing Aquaman in James Cameron’s adaptation that I just saw the trailer for. I tell him about how I can get him tickets to the Emmys and he gives me that big grin that makes me feel like I’m a star and it's worth the o’dark-thirty phone call.
~*~*~
Entry 31
My client today is a CEO visiting from Japan and just…I don’t even fucking know.
Everybody’s got kinks. I’ve been on the prettier side of the industry for nearly ten years and I tend to pull more than my fair share of them. And I respect them. I do. God knows I’ve got my own.
But Jesus, man, international businessmen. I’ve heard stuff from other people in the agency. Rumor is they all lose their freaking minds once money changes hands. I think it's vacation syndrome-once you get far enough away from home to keep from getting caught, people go crazy.
For example I don’t see the appeal of watersports. I really don’t. I don’t see how me pissing on his face and in his mouth is attractive but you know, the customer’s always right. He got off and I didn’t have to get fucked by or fuck him. I’m just glad it wasn’t my bathroom, that’s all I’m saying.
~*~*~
Entry 32
Bob kills me. I wish to God I could drop him as a client, but I just can’t
Bob’s in his eighties. And most of the time, we don’t fuck. In fact, in all the time he’s been employing me as an escort, I’ve only actually had sex with him twice. Not because I’m not willing. I am. But he’s old and he’s tired and sex is great, but it’s not the thing he’s really looking for.
Bob’s lonely. He’s built an empire and it’s amazing. The guy made some of the greatest movies of all time. But he’s got no one but his housekeeper, and she goes home at night. I can see where that’d leave you needing.
So usually, he buys my time and it’s just that. My time. My company. My contact. I sit on his couch or deck or floor or bed and listen while he talks about the Hollywood fairy tale he lived. He ran with the greats of all time-Brando and Peck and Stewart and Hepburn and Monroe. He pays me to listen. But I remember because I care.
He’s going to die soon. Maybe not this year. Maybe not next year. Hopefully not for the next fifteen years. But one day sooner than me, he’s going to die. And he knows it. It scares him, which is reasonable because I like to think I’ve got a good forty to fifty years left and it scares me.
It sounds corny and cheesy and unbelievable, but we hold each other. Honest to fucking God, we do. I hold him and he clings to me and we sleep in his oversized, hand-carved bed. And when he cries, sometimes I cry with him.
I care about a lot of my clients. Some of them I consider to be work-friends. Some of them have been around long enough that I can’t help but care. Some of them I see once and they just kinda stick in my head. But I love Bob.
Yeah, I take the money he pays me to spend time with him, but I’ve turned down conflicting bookings Ari took that were a lot younger and a lot more attractive for Bob. My fee doesn’t change the fact that I do care for him deeply. I don’t think most people would understand, but sometimes, I need what he has to give. There aren’t many people out there who want to hold me.
~*~*~
Entry 33
I actually watched Johnny when he did his guest spot on Days. One of the things about working the night shift is that, well, I’m home at two in the afternoon. Yeah, usually I’m asleep, but I can wake up for that.
Thing is, he did almost three weeks worth of guest spots. I’ll admit it. I got hooked. It’s pathetic, but I can’t fucking stop myself. Of the many embarrassing things in my life, I’m completely fucking ashamed of how hot I find Bo and Hope. Seriously. I know Johnny tried to tap the actress who plays her, but I really just want to see the two of them fuck. Or be in the middle. Or something.
It’s pathetic. I’m aware. And the commercial break is over, so all my attention will be back on Days. I need to know what that psycho bastard Stephano is pulling this time.
~*~*~
Entry 34
Ari: I’ve got a job for you, Chase.
Me: Of course you do, Ari.
Ari: Couple job. Out of towners. The little lady wants you to suck her husband’s cock and then let him fuck you with it while she watches. You’re an anniversary present. Ain't love grand?
Me: How many years?
Ari: What’s it fucking matter?
Me: Did they tell you?
Ari: Fifteen.
Me: When?
Ari: Tomorrow night. Four Seasons. Suite 1123. You bring the lube. They don’t know what the hell they’re doing.
Me: They ask for any flavors?
Ari: What? Of the lube? Who fucking cares, Chase, baby. It’s their anniversary. Surprise ‘em.
Yet another typical conversation with Ari. For this I give him forty percent of every booking?
~*~*~
Entry 35
There’s a lot of paperwork involved in fucking a closeted movie star.
Let’s call him M.
M is a big name, fucking huge. He gets 20 million a picture and he has ties to the music industry, and he produces. M is a sex symbol and a superstar.
I’m surprised when the call comes in. He might be the most famous guy I’ve ever fucked and I had to sign so many non-disclosure agreements that I thought for a minute there I was selling my soul.
His house is a fucking palace. It’s got everything: ten bedrooms, an indoor pool, a sauna, a screening room, and even one of those arcade style Galaga games in his basement. His is one of my favorite episodes of MTV Cribs.
I come to him during the day in a van that’s got a maintenance logo on it. He opens the door, lets me in, and then locks the door behind me. Twice.
He won a People’s Choice or something and I’m his present to himself. He goes from room to room of his house while I take off my clothes in his living room. He’s checking that the curtains are closed.
“Paparazzi,” he says. He’s staring at me, hungry, with his lips parted just a little. He catches himself and laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’re fucking vultures.”
I stand in front of his couch, naked and smiling. “I’ve heard that.”
“A picture of you,” he says kneeling down in front of me, “like this-“ He kisses my bare stomach. “With me.” He rubs his cheek against my half-hard dick. I reach down and stroke his hair. “It’d be worth millions,” he sighs and I feel so fucking bad for him.
“Well, there is that saying about pictures. Worth a million words, or something like that.”
“Fuck words,” M says before sucking me down. It takes me exactly three seconds to go from half hard to rock hard and my hands in his hair fist instead of stroke. I fuck his mouth, moving his head back and forth with my hands because I can tell, I can tell from the way he holds his shoulders, moans around my dick, and his fingers dig into my thighs that he needs it. He doesn’t get it from places he should-a boyfriend, a lover, a one night stand. So I have to give it to him.
I don’t come in his mouth, though. He looks disappointed when I pull out, but that’s not what he really wants. The brief Mrs. Ari gave me was kind of specific.
“Do you want to do this here?” I ask, cupping his chin. “You want me to fuck you on your floor, leave stains on your carpet so you’ll remember me inside you every time you use this room?” He groans and shuts his eyes. “Or do you want to go to your bed so you can tear up your sheets and bury your face in your pillow when you come?”
A tear slides out of the corner of his shut eyes. I brush it off his cheek and pull him up to stand. He’s bigger than me, broad chest and shoulders, and just as tall as I am. He looks so strong on film but right now, he’s raw and open and desperate.
When he opens his eyes, they’re wet and so blue.
“It’s okay,” I say. And then I kiss him. “It’s okay, baby. It is.”
“Please.”
“I know.”
He covers my hand on his face with his own. “Please, Chase. Please.”
Okay. Bed then. I kiss him again, soft, all lips and no tongue, and then lead him to the back of his house. I don’t know the layout, but there’s only one door open; I assume that it’s his bedroom, and I’m right.
He lies on his back with his knees pulled up. I wonder how many times a year he gets fucked, gets to have anything with a man since he’s so very fucking gay, and so clearly needs it. Not enough judging by the way he watches me as I lube him up on the inside. He moans and whimpers and pushes himself up so that his head rests against the headboard so that even when his head goes to tip back, he can still see me.
“You are so beautiful,” he says and yeah, I’ve heard that before. I’ve heard that lots of times before. But he says it like he’s afraid I’ll disappear as he glides his hands over my shoulders and down my back. “Christ, you are so fucking beautiful.”
“So are you.” And its true. I mean, yeah, it’s the right thing to say, but he’s fucking gorgeous. I fuck into him slow and smooth. His hole is fucking hungry for me and it’s a pleasure. A genuine Goddamn pleasure to feel him tighten and spasm around me.
He gasps and the hand on my back goes from a stroke to a grab. His fingers are blunt and large and they push into my flanks. He focuses all his energy on watching my face and breathing deep as I fuck him.
His heels come up off the mattress and dig into my lower back. He uses my body to pull himself off the bed and up onto my dick. M gasps my name again and he begs, harder, please, harder. But I don’t go harder. That’s not what he needs and I know he’ll thank me for this later.
I fuck him slow and deep for almost twenty minutes. I’m holding myself up on one arm while the other reaches between us to stroke his dick. It burns, but it's worth it. M is a complete mess when he comes. His neck strains, his body curves into a C shape, pushing me in even deeper, he chokes, and God, he is beautiful. He really is.
When he’s done and the space between our stomachs is wet and sticky, he touches my face and pushes my bangs off of my forehead, but his fingers get caught in the curls. “Don’t stop. I want to see you come.”
M watches my face as I keep moving inside him. He’s soft now, but he grunts in time to my thrusts, little “uhn uhn” sounds that come from his chest, rather than his throat. I work the sounds out of him until I’m close, and then I kiss him while I come.
I pull out, take off the condom, tie it off, and throw it in the trashcan he has by his bed. Then I lie back down and he reaches out to me, lining his shoulder up to mine so that lying next to each other we’re touching all the way down our sides.
“Jesus fucking Christ, I needed that,” he sighs, staring up at his ceiling.
I try not to smile at him. I know he’s being serious. “I could tell.”
He turns his head at me and gives me a million-dollar smile. “We got time to go again?”
“You booked me for the whole day. You tell me?”
He rolls on top of me and kisses me. His passion is genuine, and so is his need. It’s like he’s at a buffet and he knows he won't get to eat freely again for months.
I wouldn’t trade my life for his, not for anything in the whole fucking universe. He’s so unhappy that he makes me and my issues seem like Mary Sunshine. At least I don’t have to hide from my friends and I only have to lie to my mother and I never talk to her anyway.
~*~*~
Entry 36
I hate working out. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have to. Lazy by nature, remember? But I get a blow job from my trainer, a cute blond girl in spandex shorts, when we’re done. I’ll call it even.
~*~*~
Entry 37
Fiona, the yoga teacher at my gym, insists on taking me out for dinner after class. She asks me what I do over veggie burgers and I hesitate.
“Shame is an unnecessary emotion.” She’s got the voice of a hippy and the glazed eyes to match. She gives me a dreamy smile. “Embrace your reality. It’s not my place to judge you. Just tell me.”
So fuck it, I tell her. And she stares at me for a long moment before she speaks. “That’s cool. Did you know that in certain cultures, prostitutes were holy vessels that did a public service for the gods?”
No. I didn’t.
“The Aztecs had male prostitutes that sanctified holidays and offered their sexual services as religious acts. The devadasis in India actually had more socio-sexual freedom than most women through their services. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you performing a service like that. People need it.”
I think so. But she’s the only one woman I’ve ever met who does, too.
“So do you fuck women?” she asks, leaning towards me over the small table.
I grin at her. Under the table, I slide my hand from her knee up her thigh. She shifts so that her legs spread and I slip my fingers under her shorts and panties and into her. She’s hot and wet. I brush my thumb over her clit and she gives a little gasp.
I rub small circles with my thumb for a few thrusts, then pull my hand free. My index finger shines in the light and I lick it clean. She tastes a little sweet and I think it's all the fruits and smoothies she eats.
Her lower lip drops and her eyes go dark as she watches me.
“I love women,” I say, letting my hand drop to my napkin.
“Me, too.”
“Really?”
“Sex is a physical expression of our connection to other human beings. I like to connect to lots of people, regardless of gender.”
“Same here. Connecting’s good.”
She smirks over the edge of her drink. “It’s the best.” Fiona rises from the table and walks towards the back of the restaurant. I count to ten and then follow her into the women’s room, locking the door behind me.
It’s a nice restaurant and there are three stalls. All of them are empty. The sinks are made of shiny black stone and she’s leaned up against them. I lift her up and set her down on the edge of the sink. She covers me in a condom and wraps her legs around my waist. I don’t take off her shorts or her underwear, just pull them to the side and fuck her right there on the sink. Fiona’s hands leave streaky sweat marks on the mirror behind her.
“What’re you doing tomorrow?” she asks, panting with her chin on my shoulder.
I bite the skin under her ear. “You.”
When she laughs it makes her internal muscles squeeze around my softening dick.
~*~*~
Entry 38
I am soooooooooooooooooo fucking high right now. Fiona knows this guy. He’s a Sherpa but he isn’t up on Everest or anything. His house is like, it’s like made of hemp.
He has greeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeat weed. And a big gun. Jesus. Crazy.
~*~*~
Entry 39
Johnny’s auditioning for this movie with some hotshot director. He drags me and Turtle along with him for moral support. It’s not your average audition. The director, Billy, called Johnny to his crazy apartment and it’s a fucking riot inside.
The whole place smells like weed. People are fucking in bedrooms with open doors. There’s a cluster of girls on the floor of the living room snorting coke off a hand mirror. Johnny and Turtle seem freaked. I pretend to be.
The director, I’m assuming, unfolds himself from behind the couch. He’s thin as a rail with a patchy beard, lanky black hair, and he’s tall. Taller than me by a good couple inches. “Johnny Drama! My favorite Viking. Glad you could make it.”
Johnny nods and does his best to look cool. He’s crap at it, but he gets points for trying. “Billy, hey.”
“Nice to see I was right. You are one ugly son of a bitch. Don’t argue. It’s good. It really works for the role. I’m going for understated grotesque.”
He pushes an unlit cigarette between his lips and then looks at me. I get stared at all the time so it's something I’ve gotten comfortable with. But Billy’s eyes almost dig into me. It’s invasive and uncomfortable. And kind of hot.
“You get bonus points from bringing someone so fuckable with you.” He holds out a hand to me. “Billy Walsh.”
“Billy, this is my baby bro, Vince.”
I shake his hand as he eyefucks me. His hand’s bigger than mine, long fingers that squeeze my hand a little too hard. It makes me think he’d do everything too hard.
It makes me wonder where I’d bruise and what colors they’d be.
He’s not my type. He’s messy and looks like he probably hasn’t showered in a few days. I shouldn’t like him. He’s a greasy asshole who just insulted my brother. And his hand on mine is starting to hurt but fuck, it’s turning me on.
“You are Goddamn edible, aren’t you?” he asks like he means it, no double entendre. Flat out want that reads as totally fucking honest.
He knows. I know he knows I’m hard and the knowledge hits me like a fist to the gut, turning me on even more. I wouldn’t have to ask him for anything. Billy’s the kind of guy who’ll just take and take and take, if I can let him.
“Parts of me,” I reply. It’s as good as an invitation.
His hand moves up and wraps tight around my wrist. I have to choke on a gasp because Johnny and Turtle are right fucking here. They’re right beside me and I can feel my brain slipping into that dark place where I don’t have to do anything but do what I’m told and just feel.
He squeezes a little tighter, just enough for it to really hurt for a second, and then lets go completely. It’s kind of trippy how hard I crash back into the conversation, horny and disoriented.
“So listen, I’m gonna give your brother the part anyway, but I’ve got like six tabs of LSD and a room with a lock. You wanna fuck?”
“How about you fuck yourself?” Turtle spits before I can say anything (like for example, “Fuck yes, how do you want me?”).
“Turtle, come on,” Johnny says, desperate to smooth this down before it blows up and he looses his one shot at a real comeback.
“I didn’t ask you, tubby.”
“Hey who you calling tubby you tweaky faggot fuck?”
I have to get Turtle out of there before he gets arrested or something. I drag him out, leaving Johnny to talk about the role with Billy, because Kelly wouldn’t forgive me if she had to come get us out of lock up. So I don’t fuck Billy.
But I do spend the drive home reaming Turtle a new one for using the F word. And not “fuck.” I think he sometimes forgets I that I kind of am one.
Whatever. Johnny’s gonna be doing Billy’s movie, though. So there’ll be other chances.
~*~*~
Entry 40
The agency puts me with a female client who likes me to dress up like a woman. The androgyny gets her hot. So she sets me up in a room in the Peninsula. The girl’s an heiress and a famous one, so there’s no expense spared. The outfit’s waiting for me in the room when I get there.
It’s designer and, I think, completely ridiculous. But I don’t get paid to judge what other people find sexy. I get paid to be it.
I put on a dress, hose (Cause fuck if I’m shaving or waxing my legs. All my clients other like me male), and high heels that make me want to personally apologize to every woman alive. Mrs. Ari sends over the Rope Girl to help me with the make up. It takes forever, especially the eyeliner. When she leaves, I put on jewelry and clip on earrings and the client is actually speechless for a few seconds when she sees me.
“Fuck me.” She pushes up my skirt. Her hand finds my dick through the fabric of the heinously uncomfortable panties Mrs. Ari told me to wear for her. “Fuck me right now.”
I do. The thick red lipstick Rope Girl put on my lips ends up all over her face, neck, and breasts. When it's all gone, she stops and puts more on me. She looks kind of like spin art when we’re done.
Then she spends the rest of the time we have booked alternately staring at me and fondling me through the dress.
~*~*~
Continue to Entry 41-55