An Imitation of Life

Chapter 1 “Well? How do I look?” With keys still jangling in my hand, I took one step into the living room of my apartment and my beat-up Adidas squeaked to a halt on the hardwood floor. There, in the middle of the room before the battered leather sofa, stood a naked warrior. Or rather, naked except for a loincloth sheltering his most private area. It took me a moment to shake off my fright, but when I looked closer at the rich brown, shoulder-length hair, the lean and muscular torso, and the long, beefy legs of the Tarzan-like character, I finally recognized them as belonging to my roommate. I eventually detected the familiar features of the handsome face I had come to admire, now hidden beneath hideous swirls of brightly hued greasepaint, and gasped relief. “f*****g hell, Reed! What are you doing?” “Huh? Too much makeup?” “Too much for what? Giving me a heart attack? If so, I think you accomplished that just fine.” His hearty chuckle further confirmed his identity. “Mars, Mars, Mars, you’re such a wuss.” “And you’re such a dickhead.” “Is that all you’ve got?” Another round of laughter filled the air. “I’ve been called much worse.” “I’ll bet.” I shut the apartment door behind me, tossed my keys beside unopened bills cluttering a nearby table, and took a few more steps into the room. Despite recovering from both my daily jog and my recent shock, my heart continued to race. It usually did whenever I had the good fortune of glimpsing Reed’s bare flesh, like now. Damn, what a beautiful physique he had, one designed for s*x, and one that kept me up most nights amid lecherous fantasies. I had recently ended a short stint as Rapunzel’s Prince in a production of Sondheim’s Into The Woods, where I’d crooned the song “Agony” five nights a week and on Saturday matinees. Little had I realized I’d soon be facing a daily agony in my personal life. And thus, I thought, eyeing Reed’s current nudity, my daily torment would begin. Several months earlier, I had met Reed Keeting backstage on the opening night of a play in which a mutual friend had starred. Reed overheard me telling our friend about my sudden need for a new place to live, and seeing as how we were both involved in the theater and seemed to have a lot in common, Reed offered his TriBeCa apartment’s second bedroom to me. Desperate as I was to find a place, I almost rejected his overture outright, since I wasn’t certain I’d be able to manage my share of the rent. In the past few decades, the district had been converted from old meatpacking warehouses to spacious apartments, respected art galleries, and high-end restaurants, and in New York City, trendy areas weren’t cheap by any stretch of the imagination. But Reed explained that his well-to-do parents actually paid a large chunk of the astronomical rent, so my monthly half of expenses would be outrageously cheap, even cheaper than I’d paid for my share of an apartment in Greenwich Village. Well, how could any struggling actor reject an offer like that? Still, before agreeing, I had disclosed my s****l orientation to him, giving him a chance to take back his proposition. Many straight guys felt uncomfortable being around a gay man, let alone living with one. Although I always acted discreetly, never flaunted my sexuality or dragged too many lovers home—indeed, many people didn’t even realize I was gay—a small tidbit like that could actually become a bombshell to some straight folks, and I didn’t want that to happen. Thankfully, Reed hadn’t changed his mind, so I moved in the follow day. But upon meeting him, had I realized just how splendid a body he possessed, I might have thought better about living here, thus saving myself the mental anguish of not being able to taste every inch of him. To lessen the pain, I kept telling myself that most people would have killed to snag this spacious two-bedroom, skylight-enhanced TriBeCa abode with its absurdly inexpensive rental price, and since I was one of them, to hell with my carnal misery. Agony, beyond power of speech, when the one thing you want, is the only thing out of your reach… As the Sondheim tune—my recently adopted theme song—started playing in my head, I casually eyed Reed from head to toe and wondered whether his body truly was out of my reach. I loved the delicate brown hairs covering his chest and muscle-ridged belly. The dusky n*****s designed for sucking. The hairy, muscular legs and sexy feet. And the bulge that even now protruded almost lewdly behind the skimpy loincloth. I knew my own protrusion would soon become evident through my running shorts if I didn’t tear away my gaze. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help momentarily fantasizing about pushing him back onto the sofa, ripping off that loincloth with my teeth, and going to town on his d**k until he filled my mouth with his hot load. I wouldn’t even give a damn about all that grotesque greasepaint he wore, as long as I could finally consume his c**k and fulfill my deepest desires. Agony, beyond power of speech… More blood rushed to my groin, and the painful tightness of my jock strap gave me ample warning to abandon the daydream and return to reality. …When the one thing you want, is the only thing out of your reach… Reluctantly, I spun toward the kitchen and stepped to the refrigerator, where I grabbed an ice-cold beer. Damn it, I needed to get laid…and badly! It had been too many weeks since I’d last touched a man with my hands or tongue. Too many agonizing weeks of not savoring a man’s c**k and balls in my mouth or clenching my ass muscles around a stiff pecker. I wondered if a trip to the gym was in order, not for a round of exercise after my recent jog, but for a hunt for warm and willing man-flesh. Or maybe that new bar in SoHo would offer better pickings. Or perhaps I should dig into my little black book—yes, I had one of those—for the number of that cute lighting director I’d met the previous month at that little theater on 7th Ave. The guy had offered to suck me off in the balcony after hours. Damn, what was his name again? Kevin? Keith? Keifer? If I’d had the time that day he propositioned me I would have happily— “Hey, you never answered my question,” said Reed, interrupting my silent and racy lament. “How do I look?” “You planning to go out on the street like that?” I called over my shoulder. “In this city? Probably wouldn’t shock a living soul if I did. No, I’m just trying things on for size to see how I’ll look tomorrow night.” “So what are you supposed to be anyway? George of the f*****g jungle turned rogue warrior?” “Kind of,” he replied with a snicker. “At least for the next week or two. I can’t imagine the show lasting longer than that.” I twisted off the bottle cap and chugged down half the beer. It hit my empty stomach with a fizzing jolt, but did little to cool the fires of my libido. Once his words finally sank in, I continued to talk over my shoulder, since my boner had yet to deflate. “Oh, so you’re not just playing ‘dress up’ or ‘scare the crap out of the roommate’? Are you saying you’ve snagged a role?” “Over at the Quintero.” “On West 42nd? Good for you!” “Don’t get too excited for me. I’m only a last-minute replacement for one of the extras who came down with the flu yesterday. Probably just opening night jitters.” “What’s the name of the show?” A lengthy pause. “Jungle Fever, or Jungle Love, or…hell, beats the s**t out of me. I’m basically nothing more than background scenery. I don’t have any lines, so I could give a damn.” “You’re always such a stickler for detail,” I joked. “Seriously, it’s another credit on the ol’ résumé, you know.” “Oh, yeah, now that’s a credit that will really go far in getting me a lead…‘Jungle Warrior #8’ in a play that will probably close before the damned week is out. All another credit on the résumé will get me is another bill I don’t need. When’s the last time you updated yours? Have you seen the prices these days for updating and reprinting headshots? It’s outrageous.” “In this economy, I’ll bet. Even we actors are suffering.” “Damned bills!” I smiled. Many people would think it odd that someone like Reed Keeting—of the Park Avenue Keetings, no less—would constantly b***h about money, but I knew the truth behind his griping. Certainly Reed’s parents helped with the rent, but that was as far as their largesse extended. They felt Reed’s chosen career was beneath his upbringing, and his desire to be involved in “all that theatrical nonsense” would eventually subside. They didn’t want him to get “too cushy,” and hoped he’d eventually forfeit his dreams and return to the family business of high finance. I always contended they’d probably take away the rent money also were it not for the fact that it would blemish their reputation to have their actor-son living on the street and calling a Maytag box home-sweet-home. Although Reed constantly whined about his lack of cash, his determination to make a successful career for himself always won out. He took any acting job without complaint, no matter how small the role. I doubted he would ever surrender his dreams, would probably starve himself first, and I’m sure his parents had never counted on that inbred tenacity. “Speaking of suffering,” said Reed, his large bare feet slapping against the burnished floor behind me, “I overheard the producers saying they also need a replacement for ‘Jungle Warrior #10.’ Interested?” After finishing off my beer in several gulps, I finally turned toward him. Once again, I struggled to recognize his features beneath the colorful goop on his face. “With all the starving actors in this town? They most certainly filled the position a nanosecond after you overheard them talking. But thanks for thinking of me anyway.” “No need to thank me. We actors have to stick together.” Stick together? I sighed in renewed yearning. If only Reed meant those words in the literal sense. Oh, yes, I could picture it now, my legs clamped around his waist as he buried his rod inside me, our torsos glued together from the sweat of our vigorous lovemaking. I attempted to erase s****l thoughts from my mind, but in his presence, I always found it an uphill battle. “I appreciate your incessant esprit de corps. But no, I wouldn’t be right for the part.” “Are you kidding? All a ‘jungle warrior’ actually needs is a toned bod, and let me tell you, roomie, with the way you work out…” He gestured toward the bench press, treadmill, and dumbbells governing one corner of the living room, then laid a palm against my midsection while his free hand gripped my right bicep. He whistled appreciatively. “Damn it, buddy, you’ve got a great one.” Taken by itself, the compliment both startled and thrilled me, and had my mind reeling. Had Reed actually checked out my body? On numerous occasions, I had suspected as much. Lord knows I’d studied him endlessly yet surreptitiously during his own countless sessions with the exercise gear, but I’d never caught him ogling me outright. But now, having him confirm my suspicions while also giving my belly and arm an almost intimate caress? Holy s**t! After all these months, I thought I’d gotten used to Reed’s “touchy-feeliness.” His gregarious personality fostered scads of handshakes, shoulder squeezes, and bear hugs when it came to his friends, regardless of gender. But the sensation of his hands upon me now had me rocketing toward Gay Nirvana, leaving me completely flummoxed, full of questions, yet speechless. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d encountered a straight macho-man with repressed homosexual proclivities. How well I knew that. But could Reed be one of those guys? I pondered the notion—and certainly not for the first time since moving in either—but like always, I ultimately decided it was probably only wishful thinking on my part. Thankfully, Reed didn’t seem to notice my rattled condition. Instead, a dazzling, stark-white smile sliced through his palette of facial hues, and he playfully thumped my shoulders with his beefy fists. “Oh, yeah, and a ‘jungle warrior’ also needs hair. Since you keep yours rather short, you’d obviously need a wig. But we can easily get one of those for you.” “It-it’s not the hair.” Unable to curb the instinct, I glanced downward to his groin, then looked up almost immediately when the sight of his package once again had me craving a manic romp with him, this time right here on the kitchen floor. Love on the linoleum, with so many intriguing utensils in close proximity… “So if it ain’t the hair, bud, then what is it?” Unable to gather my words, I whipped around and tossed my empty bottle into the trashcan. I dug into the fridge again, grabbed and opened a second beer, then took a mouthful, all the while cautioning myself to calm down. “Hey, is the great Mars Manchester too fine an actor for a bit part as Jungle Warrior #10?” I shook my head. “You know I’d love to land a solid lead role, but beggars can’t be choosers. Anything to keep acting. But no, that’s not the reason. And as I said, with so many actors out of work, I doubt—” “But with the cast coming down with the flu, there’s a likely chance a part is still available, or will soon be. It’s this stupid costume, isn’t it?” Man, did Reed hit the nail squarely on the head. With me wearing only a scrap of material over my groin and being on the same stage with him, let alone in the same room, I’d have a woody as a constant companion and never be able to hide my unquenchable urge to jump his bones. Rather than admit the truth, I thought fast and gave him a response full of the typical macho straight-man bravado I’d heard him bluster on so many occasions. “If you call that a costume. I doubt one of those teeny-tiny loincloths could hold back the monster meat I’m packing, and before you can say ‘indecent exposure,’ I’d be the reason the play would shut down.” His garishly red lips twisted into a smirk. “I can’t believe you had the stones to say that, buddy boy, especially since you know damned well I’m the c**k King in all of New York City. I’ve got the biggest d**k this side of the Hudson. Longer and wider than the Holland Tunnel.” “Is that so?” “Just ask any of the broads on Broadway—or Off-Broadway, for that matter.” “Yeah, yeah, you’ve been spouting that crap ever since I moved in.” “That’s ’cause it’s the truth, my friend. The plain truth.” “Really? You’ve never presented the actual evidence of your supposed super-sized schlong. And I never believe rumors, especially from those chorus-line bimbos you’re so fond of f*****g. And rumors you’ve undoubtedly spread about yourself. So either put up this gargantuan log already, or shut up, big guy. Or perhaps that should be ‘Tiny Tim’?” Why I offered that lewd challenge to him, I had no clear idea. Probably because I felt a bit daring now that the subject of “c**k” was on the proverbial table. Or maybe because the beer I’d guzzled had started to loosen my tongue. But most likely because learning he had actually checked out my body, along with recollections of his hands on me only moments earlier, gave me an extra shot of courage to explore the possibilities. And damned if Reed didn’t possess a wickedly naughty twinkle in his dark eyes, one that clearly indicated he was considering my dare of whipping out his d**k for a session of show-and-tell. I could picture it clearly, us facing each other and staring down at our boners stretched out side by side, or one throbbing atop the other, as we squeezed them together while comparing length and girth. My own c**k twitched wildly at the notion. Ever since I’d moved in with Reed, he’d seemed perpetually horny, and through the weeks, I’d seen many bulges outlined in his pants. I had yet to catch a glimpse of the actual bulge-maker, however, and fantasizing about its size, shape, and design had kept me up innumerable nights whacking my own eight-inch monkey and imagining him letting me measure every inch of his tool with my tongue. But now, would he actually show it to me? And what would be my response? Would I laugh it off, then use the memory as additional jack-off material in the privacy of my bedroom? Would I pull out my own d**k and do a comparison as I’d just imagined? Or would I fall to my knees and take his rod into my mouth, clutch his bubble butt and yank him forward, making him f**k my throat as I’d always craved? Unwittingly, my gaze drifted over his exquisite chest, following the dusty trail of hair down to his belly button, then ever downward toward the lump in his loincloth while the melody of “Agony” once again filled my head— “What’s going on in here?” The jarring female voice, crammed with accusation and no small amount of jealousy, seemed to blast through the air like a gunshot. In this high-ceilinged loft, with its sparse furnishings and lack of carpeting, loud voices usually produced an echo effect. But in this case, the strident voice trumpeted and reverberated through my brain due to the awkwardness I felt at being discovered practically drooling over this sexy man before me. And of course, the voice belonged to Reed’s latest girlfriend, Niki—one “K,” not two, as she was always so fond of pointing out to anyone who gave a s**t, which most people, including myself, did not. She was one of the chorus-line bimbos I had mentioned only seconds earlier. A bleached-blonde annoyance who I assumed loathed me even more than I loathed her. And she had good reason, considering my lustful thoughts about her lover. “Hello, Niki,” I said, doing my damnedest to sound pleasant and hoping my face wasn’t as red as it felt. “I didn’t realize you were here.” Yet again, God damn it, I wanted to add, but held my tongue. “Obviously,” she said, entering the kitchen. Her icy-cold smile might have had the power to create frost were it not for the ninety-degree heat wave blanketing the city, which had our air conditioning units cranking at full force with marginal success. She wore only one of Reed’s dress shirts, and regardless of my presence, she hadn’t bothered to secure the top buttons, so her boobs looked a breath away from tumbling out. “What are you talking about?” “Not much,” I said, perhaps too hastily. “I’ll bet.” She glanced at my groin, which I had already strategically hidden behind the beer bottle in my hand. “Yes, I’ll just bet.” I suppressed a grunt. When Reed first dragged her home weeks earlier and introduced us, I sensed immediately there would be trouble. She had blinked several times upon learning my name. “Mars? Is that for real? Your parents named you after a planet?” “No,” I had corrected, “after the Roman god of war. My dad was into mythology.” “You mean astrology, don’t you?” “The word you’re looking for is ‘astronomy,’ but no—I mean mythology. I already said, this has nothing to do with planets. They were named after ancient gods, too, you know.” “Of course I know,” she barked, while the flaring red cheeks exposed her as a liar. More blinking. “You must have had hell growing up with a silly name like that.” “Hey, I had it easy. My sister is named Bellona.” “Why would your parents name her after lunch meat?” “Not ‘Bologna,’ but Bellona, after the Roman goddess of war. We call her Belle for short. I suppose I should count my blessings they didn’t go the Greek route, or I would have ended up as Ares. Although I bet Belle would have preferred Athena instead.” I smirked. “Parents…crazy, huh?” “No, not crazy…your parents are just plain stupid.” With that, she swaggered away with a scowl on her face and her nose in the air and I had barely spoken two words to her ever since. Don’t get me wrong, I love women in general. What I don’t love are humorless and rude ignoramuses, no matter the gender. Now, Reed seemed not to notice the tension in the room between his girlfriend and myself. “Sorry, Niki, did our talking wake you?” “No, I was just watching today’s episode of Destiny’s Storm,” she said, possessively wrapping one arm around his waist and pressing her free hand on his delicious six-pack. “And wishing you were watching with me.” Reed laughed. “Oh? Did I miss anything exciting?” “Hardly. The show’s gotten so boring lately. I wish something exciting would happen already.” “You and your soap operas. If I’m not careful, you’ll get me hooked soon enough.” He hugged her and gave the top of her head a quick kiss, right on the seam of her dark brown roots. When she cuddled against him, her squinty blue eyes shot daggers in my direction. And I realized quite clearly she was offering me a dare of her own, challenging me to a duel to the death with the sexy Reed Keeting as the grand prize. But I wasn’t about to play her childish game, regardless of the hot trophy on offer. My friendship with Reed meant more to me than that. Besides, I figured she would be gone soon enough. Since I’d moved into the apartment, she was about the fourth or fifth in the string of girlfriends he’d brought home. Unfortunately, she had also lasted the longest, which irked me to no end. “Come on, lover,” said Niki, snatching one of Reed’s arms. “Show me some jungle love.” Another grin cut though Reed’s tribal makeup. “Talk to you later, Mars. Looks like duty calls.” With a smile of pure, undiluted triumph, Niki sent me another glare, then tugged Reed down the hallway toward his bedroom. “Oh, hey, speaking of calls, I almost forgot,” he said over his shoulder. “I answered your phone just before you got home. Your agent called.” “s**t! Did Olive say if it was a part? Why did you keep babbling about getting me a role as a jungle warrior when I might have other work?” “I got distracted and—” The remainder came out muffled as his bedroom door slammed shut. Niki’s doing, most likely, putting a barricade between Reed and myself. b***h! But that b***h had every right to be worried since, given the opportunity, I would have sucked off her boyfriend in a New York minute. Still sputtering curses, I stomped into my bedroom only to discover an empty phone cradle on my nightstand. I started to head toward Reed’s bedroom, but one of Niki’s annoying high-pitched squeals spilled out from under the closed door and stopped me dead in my tracks. Then, remembering where Reed was standing when I came home, I headed to the coffee table in the living room. I set down my perspiring beer bottle on last week’s TV Guide, then finally located my wireless phone wedged between crumbled copies of Times and Variety, various playbills, and empty boxers of Chinese takeout. I punched in the familiar number and waited only two rings. “The Olive Pershing Agency.” “Hey, Yolanda. Is she there? This is Mars Manchester.” “Hang on, babe,” said the long-time receptionist. “She’s been waiting for your call. I think she’s got somethin’ lined up for you.” “Really? You wouldn’t s**t a starving actor, would you?” “Not on your life, sweetie. You guys usually have no sense of humor this early in the day. Hold on.” As I waited, a flurry of wanton female giggles poured through the bedroom door at the end of the hallway. With my free hand, I palmed my groin and mentally traded places with the bleached-blonde bimbo, imagining my roommate kissing me, touching me, and filling me with his c**k. Oh, God, if only… Agony, beyond power of speech, when the one thing you want, is the only thing out of your reach…