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Chapter One: New Year’s Eve 1989

There were four of them on the bed in the second-floor master bedroom of the Baccarat Hotel and Residence Condo building on Manhattan’s West 53rd Street, conveniently located near the Broadway theater district. The caterers were downstairs in the living area doing last-minute preparations for Ted Sullivan’s early-evening buffet dinner party that led off the dispersal of his and Jeff Malone’s literary and theater circle friends to their individual ringing in the 1990s events.

Sullivan, a literary agent, and Malone, a Broadway producer and set designer, were a couple, but only loosely so, and at the moment they were celebrating the approach of New Year’s in coupling with separate rent-boys. They were doing so on the same bed, though, which permitted them to do some fondling and kissing of each other in the process.

Thirty-five-year-old tall, slim, and blond Ted Sullivan was fucking nineteen-year-old Columbia University creative-writing major freshman Ken Curtain on one side of the bed set against a twenty-ninth-floor full glass wall looking out on the Times Square area of Manhattan. He was sitting back on his calves on the bed, with Ken sitting in his lap, skewered on his cock, and leaning away from him, palming the bedspread in front of Ted’s knees. Ted was gripping the young, boyish-figured man’s narrow waist between his hands and pulling a moaning submissive on and off his cock.

Beside him, his apartment mate, Jeff Malone, was doing twenty-year-old Manhattan Arts Center student Russ Jackson in a missionary. The solidly built, muscular and dark-haired hirsute Jeff was standing on the floor at the foot of the bed, leaning over the small mulatto actor-to-be, lying on his back on the bed, his legs spread and raised, while Jeff, gripping the young man’s ankles, fucked him in long, deep slides.

The two apartment mates were starting the festivities of ringing in the 1990s in lustful style. It was a premium pay night for Curtain and Jackson, and they were just happy that they had drawn studs rather than duds for the evening. Somebody at the escort agency must like them, they thought.

All four of the men were naked. Their clothes scattered haphazardly around the bedroom. They’d had quite a romp getting into their respective fuck positions. As they had all been in similar black and white evening wear before the athletics had begun, it would take several minutes after they were finished cavorting to discern what item of apparel went with which man and Ted and Jeff’s guests would be arriving soon. As if realizing this, Ted and Jeff stepped up their thrusts almost simultaneously. Russ, acting to the hilt, was crying out what a masterful stud Jeff was, raising his pelvis with the leverage of the feet Jeff had lowered to dig into the edge of the mattress at the foot of the bed, and digging his fingernails into Jeff’s biceps as Jeff fucked him hard. At the same time, Ken had collapsed back onto the bed, streaming back in front of Ted, his arms dangling out from his body in a virgin sacrifice position and moaning, as Ted came up on his knees, bringing Ken’s pelvis up to his crotch, and pulled the young man on and off the cock in ever-quicker pulls. With a simultaneous cry of their own, both Ted and Jeff came, disengaged from their own conquered young man, and went off arm-in-arm to the master bathroom to shower together. They directed the two rent-boys to the en suite bath in the second bedroom of the two-floor condo.

Ken and Russ were just two of four rent-boys engaged for the early-supper party. The guests would be a mix of literary and theater folks, most of whom were gay, and the couple liked to provide easily approached eye candy at their parties. The young men were engaged from a high-end Manhattan escort service specializing in luscious young college students studying various aspects of the arts. Ted and Jeff had selected two from the portfolio as New Year’s gifts to each other to get an early start on their own New Year’s celebrations.

By the time Ken and Russ were cleaned up and dressed and coming down the staircase to the large combined living room, dining room, and kitchen below, the party was in full swing. Although the doorbell was ringing continuously, there already were more than two dozen guests, rent-boys, and serving men and women milling about. Most of those in attendance were men, although there was a smattering of woman, as well. Most of them floated around talking with authority and gusto on arts topics. Some of them were recognizable as celebrities in their field. Ken knew the other three rent-boys there that evening. The two who arrived later and weren’t topped by Ted and Jeff—at least before the party; Ted and Jeff did take pains to get their money’s worth on entertainment and the four rent-boys had cost a small fortune—were already being embraced and fondled by two hefty men who Russ whispered were Broadway producers.

After this identification, Russ wafted off to maltepe escort bayan try to find one for himself, leaving Ken to wander on his own for a few minutes. Ken was much too good-looking to be wandering on his own for long, of course, and he was quickly snagged by a walrus of a middle-aged man who Ken had turned and looked at when he’d heard someone in a group the man was conversing with ask the walrus how sales were at Harper and Row. Ken would die to be published by Harper and Row. His hesitation under the walrus’s gaze caused the man to reach out and pull Ken into the small discussion group. Ken, aspiring fiction writer, was willingly snagged.

The younger escort agency rent-boys tried to hook up with someone influential in their chosen field at a party like this if they could and as soon as they could. The networking opportunities it provided were primary reasons they were selling their bodies. Everyone was on the make for getting established in New York. Ken had jumped at the offer to work this New Year’s Eve gig when he could have made more in painting the town on a visiting industrialist’s arm because Ted Sullivan was a literary agent. If the walrus worked in publishing, as the question about Harper and Row publishers posed to him had hinted, this party was earning double opportunity points for Ken.

Exposure of your talents to a person of influence was a step up in the networking world. If he was an older man and you were a younger man and he enjoyed using your body and you could stomach him doing so, that was an upward leap. Ken actually liked older men if they weren’t grossly out of shape. They tended to be more experienced, to appreciating being between a young man’s legs than another young man did, and they usually demanded to have control. Ken liked being controlled.

* * * *

“Have you tried writing a novel?” Jason Mason, the publishing company walrus, was working Ken toward the bed. He had the young man backed up to a column, there not being much in the way of solid walls on the first floor of Ted and Jeff’s twenty-ninth-story West 53rd Street condo, with an arm extended past Ken’s shoulder. Ken was a good four inches shorter than the walrus and over a hundred pounds lighter. He was holding a Martini glass in the other hand and alternating between making large gestures with it and touching Ken where his nipples were under the material of his shirt with the knuckles he was hold the stem of the glass with as he expounded on the publishing process and how important it was for new, young authors to have connections. Ken had every reason to believe that Mason was fully aware his knuckle landed on a nipple each time.

“I’ve just started with the formal training in creative writing,” Ken answered. “My professor says I have promise, but I haven’t completed anything of my own yet. We’re looking at the techniques of various established authors.” Ken thought that maybe this was a mistake. He was worrying about networking too soon. He needed to have some writing under his belt before he started trying to cultivate men in the business such as Jason Mason. He calculated what an editor at Harper and Rowe might make and decided that perhaps he should be cultivating a better paid publisher at this point in his development.

He moved forward from the column as if to start sliding out from the walrus’s clutches, but Mason was having none of that. He set his Martini glass down on an adjacent table and palmed Ken’s chest, pushing the young man back against the column.

“That’s understandable. You’ve just started in college, haven’t you? You’re how old?”

“I’m nineteen. This is my freshman year.”

“Sweet,” Mason said, giving the young man a bright smile. “I like young men. I mean it’s good to start working with a writer early. I could help you with the publishing process—guide you on how to direct your writing while your professor—who is he?—helps you with the actual writing. It’s never too early to start learning what sells.”

Ken had not trouble understanding that he sold well with men like Mason. The publisher’s editor pulled his hand away from Ken’s chest long enough to run the back of his fingers up Ken’s cheek, ostensibly putting a golden curl back in place, although both he and Ken understood it meant more than that. Mason was a tactile man. He was in luck, though. Ken was aroused by being intimately touched. The “start early” advice got across to Ken and he tilted his head to press his cheek into the hand before Mason pulled it away, noticeably trembled, and gave the man a shy smile, batting his eyelashes at the man. Maybe at this point, a publishing house editor was a good choice. Mason’s hand came down, but only to Ken’s chest. He palmed Ken’s left pectoral. Ken, subtly, he hoped, pushed his chest into the man’s hand. The signal was clear.

The deal was done. Mason was going to fuck him. It’s what Ken had been contracted to accede to during the party anyway—to let mamak escort bayan a guest or two fuck him if they wanted to. If any guest propositioned him, the cost was covered. He hadn’t been brought in just for Ted Sullivan to fuck.

“My professor is a woman. Ellen Daniels. Do you know her?”

“I’ve heard of her,” Mason said, clearly relieved that the professor was a woman and not a man. A professor who told a luscious young man like Ken that they had writing promise early in the first semester of the course when the young man evidently hadn’t done much writing yet likely was a professor bedding the student—or working on doing so. Ken appeared to him to be an easy piece in addition to a luscious one. He obviously was a submissive to men. Ted had made that clear. So, a woman professor wasn’t competition. “What authors are you studying initially?” he asked.

“Tom Wolfe for an American author and Graham Greene for English,” Ken answered.

“No one contemporary?”

“Yes. A few. Clifford Langston is my favorite of those.”

Mason laughed.

“That’s funny?” Ken asked.

“Only that Clifford Langston has arrived,” Mason answered.

“Arrived? I thought he already was one of our most popular literary authors.”

“No, I mean he’s arrived at the party. He and his wife.” The hand that had returned to palming Ken’s chest to keep him in thrall was gesturing across the room. Ken gasped, for just as Mason had said, the best-selling author Clifford Langston and a somewhat older woman were being greeted at the door by both Ted and Jeff. Langston was the prize catch for the early New Year’s Eve party. The novelist, a tall, slim distinguished forty-three, looking every inch the successful, confident writer, was scanning the room, assessing who was there. His gaze paused briefly on Ken, and he smiled. Ken smiled back out of instinct. He otherwise was mesmerized.

“You say the woman with him is his wife?” Ken asked Mason when the couple had been escorted into the room and inserted into a discussion klatch.

“Yes. Vivian Fowler—of the department store Fowler’s. She acquired him early and nursed his career along until it took off. Protective coloring.”

“Protective coloring?” Ken asked.

“Yes. He likes young men and Vivian likes young women.” Mason laughed. He cut the laugh off, though, as he noticed that Ken’s eyes were following Langston around the room—and that Langston looked back at Ken more than once.

“Ted tells me that there are bedrooms up those stairs,” he said, pointedly looking up the nearby staircase. He gave Ken a meaningful look and his hand dropped to the young man’s waist.

“Yes, the bedrooms are upstairs,” Ken said, his eyes still turned to Langston. But sensing the pregnant silence, he turned his gaze on Mason’s face. The walrus’s expression was one of slight irritation. “Do you want to fuck me?” he added. The question was baldly put, but Ken didn’t include any tone that would make light of it or suggest that Mason fucking him was a ridiculous idea.

Mason laughed. “Ted told me a young man would lay down for me at this party if I looked at a manuscript from one of his new authors. I was under the impression you were here for that purpose. True? You have already signaled yes to me, right?”

“Would you like me to show you what’s upstairs,” Ken asked.

“I most certainly would,” Mason said. They both knew the deal had already been struck.

Mason, pantless, but still in his shirt and jacket, was bent over a fully naked Ken at the foot of the double bed in the second bedroom. Both were standing on the floor and Ken was doubled over the bed on his belly, his torso arched back by Mason’s cruel grip in the young man’s golden curls. Mercifully, the walrus was fucking Ken in a doggy rather than a missionary, as, though the man’s bulging belly pressed into the small of Ken’s back, little of the weight of it was taxing the much smaller young man. Ken was stiff-arming the mattress with one arm to hold himself in position. His other hand was under his belly, stroking his cock. He was muttering “Yes, yes. Fuck, yes” over and over again to assure Mason of his ascent and surrender—and to suggest that he was enjoying the fuck. In fact, he didn’t mind it. Mason was experienced.

Mason’s cock, which was thick, was taxing Ken, though, as the man was pounding him hard. He also was slapping Ken on the exposed buttocks to the rhythm of stroking. Ken was grimacing and taking it. This was what he was here for. He wasn’t a rent-boy just for the money to help him through college. He chose this way of making money because he loved taking cock. As long as Mason was behind him and Ken didn’t have to watch fat jiggle, he could appreciate a cock as thick and insistent as he was getting. If it wasn’t Mason, it would be some other middle-aged man. He’d already had a good fuck from a stud—from Ted Sullivan earlier in the evening. This was what Ken was being paid for ofise gelen escort to be at the party.

Besides, this man was in publishing. He may give Ken a leg up in getting published someday. For now, though, Mason was pushing them both up on the bed, putting Ken on his knees, his cheek plastered to the bedspread. Mason was crouched over him, moving around to penetrate Ken’s ass from various angles, having the purchase to fuck him deep, showing dexterity Ken wouldn’t have guessed the huge man could have and the inventiveness of the sexual connoisseur.

Ken was in the big leagues now.

Mason stood over Ken on the bed, fucking down into him in reverse. He grabbed Ken’s ankles and raised the young man’s legs up his sides, hooking Ken’s ankles on his shoulders. This was about as exotic and athletic a fuck as Ken had ever had. All of the man’s weight was on his own feet, so this was fine with Ken.

Sensing they were being watched, Ken managed to turn his face toward the half-open door. The celebrated author, Clifford Langston, had paused while passing the door, heard the sounds of sex, and looked in. His interest was obvious. He turned his head and body this way and that to figure out the contortions of the fuck position. It was as if he was assessing the exotic position for how he could describe it on the written page. He wasn’t put off or embarrassed at what he was observing; he was intrigued. He was rubbing his own cock through the material of his trousers, although he didn’t go as far as to take it out and stroke it off. He remained there, for a couple of minutes, watching, as the walrus lowered Ken, putting him on his knees again, remounting and riding him high, gripping the young man’s hair painfully, arching his naked torso back toward his massive chest, and pounded, pounded, pounded the young man’s ass.

For some reason, Ken was a bit embarrassed that Langston had seen him being bully fucked like this and submitting to it. He was interested in Langston, yes, and not just as a best-selling author. He was interested in him sexually as well, but he felt at a disadvantage to be found willingly lying under a man like Mason, letting Mason use him as he was. Knowing that Langston was watching the taking with almost clinical interest didn’t help.

Jason Mason knew what to do with a rent-boy. He would take full advantage of the opportunity as long as someone else was paying for it. He used Ken mercilessly.

* * * *

When Ken came back downstairs, he could see that the author, Clifford Langston was standing at the door to the apartment, with his coat on and speaking with Ted Sullivan. Ken regretted that the man was leaving—apparently as soon as his wife joined them at the door—but he needn’t have worried. Seeing Ken on the stairs, Ted waved him over.

“Ken, I want you to meet our distinguished author, Clifford Langston. Ken is a creative writing student at Columbia, Cliff.”

“Really, it’s a good program,” Langston said, turning a smile on Ken as they shook hands. The man had the left hand gloved already, but he held the right-hand glove in his left hand. The handshake was firm, but Ken shivered when he felt the man’s thumb fold under to rub against Ken’s palm. Ken didn’t know about Langston’s world, but in his, that maneuver was a signal of a seeking top. The gay world response was to wrap fingers around the thumb before disengaging from the handshake, but Ken was too afraid and uncertain that Langston was purposely signaling to carry through. Langston held the handshake for several seconds longer than needed, and Ken, smiling shyly back at the man and dipping his head, was afraid he might have lost a communication opportunity. A dip of the head was a signal of submission, though, so maybe that would convey, he thought. Langston’s smile broadened, so maybe so. Langston had watched him be fucked and now he was declaring his own interest. Ken was awed. Was it going to be this easy?

“But you don’t look old enough to be at the university,” Langston added.

“I’ve just started this year. I was put straight into the creative writing program.”

“You must be a talented writer then.” Langston’s smile remained in place. “Are you studying some interesting writers already?”

“Tom Wolfe this week,” Ken said, and then he blurted out, “and you.”

Langston laughed. “Do you think you’d impress your professor if I gave you a few interview points.”

“I’m sure,” Ken answered. “But you’re just leaving. I don’t want to hold you.”

“You could come with me. It’s after 11:00. I thought I could make it to Times Square for the lowering of the ball, but I’m not sure where we are now in relation to Times Square. Ted here was trying to tell me, but I’m all switched around. I’d hate to be all alone at the strike of the new decade anyway.”

“Certainly, it would be fine for Ken to go with you and show you the way, Cliff,” Sullivan said.

“But your wife . . .” Ken said.

“Oh, she’s already gone. She found someone else to snuggle up to for the turning of the decade. Tomorrow she’ll be gone, perhaps altogether. She has a new apartment in Paris to entertain herself with. Please, won’t you come and show me the way?”

Ken was aghast. “Of course you don’t have to ask me. If it’s OK with Ted—”

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