“Can we say you’re just another little whore?” Cranston Muller said.
“Really, Mr. Muller, I don’t think we should start out this rendezvous on that note. I’m really not that much in the mood to begin with.”
Cranston Muller and I had just entered a suite at the Château Menaudiere that he had rented for the day. I had arrived in a taxi from Cornichons. He was already there. It was Sunday, and there were no rehearsals.
The suite was that Louis Fifteenth thing that luxury hotels love to do. Dark blue velvet, long white curtains, wall-to-wall carpeting which I think none of the French kings ever saw.
“Take off your clothes,” Cranston said, lounging in a curved-legged and carved chair by a long desk. He was smoking a small cigar, and I could tell he was nervous. He must have gotten the dialogue from some movie he had directed.
“Take yours off,” I said, sitting down on the side of the bed and shucking my sandals. I wasn’t wearing any socks, but my feet were clean.
I knew you’d want to know whether I slept with Cranston Muller or not so I thought we might as well just jump right into it. I’ll go back and fill you in on the details later. But, in brief, the lead up to it went something like this.
I arrived at the theater for Tea and Sympathy rehearsals, and I was early. Cranston was already there. He took me by the arm, he’s quite strong, and sat me down in a chair in the middle of the stage. “I’ve got to talk to you,” he said. “You know that I’m doing a new version of Giant. Now Nicole Kidman wants to do the Elizabeth Taylor part. She’s too old, but who am I to say no to Nicole Kidman? E. L. Losada was my choice for the James Dean role. We’re not sleeping together, but he’s a great little actor, and who knows, after the production he might feel grateful and I’d get lucky. But I don’t want to do that anymore. I want you. You’re not as good an actor, but I have to score with you, kiddo. You’re something beyond acting.”
“Sit down, Mr. Muller. You’re making me feel intimidated,” I said. It was true. He was looming over me, redder in the face than usual, in a real bully pose. “I’m not going to sleep with someone because I’m afraid of them.”
He pulled up the other chair that was there on the stage.
And then it occurred to me. I knew what I had to do. “I will sleep with you, but I want that part to go to Graham. Graham Grant, that’s his professional name. I don’t want it. Graham is perfect. He’s great looking. He can really act. He’ll look better and more convincing with Nicole Kidman.”
“Are you crazy? I don’t want him. I don’t want to sleep with him. I want you.”
“And you shall have me. But that’s the deal. Graham really needs a break like that. I don’t want it. I just decided. I don’t want my life to go in that direction. What about E. L.?” I said.
“He’s going to take over your role in this play. I have to do something for him. I’ve already told him.”
“So whether I sleep with you or not, I’m out of Tea and Sympathy? There really isn’t any reason for me to be here then, is there?” I stood up. “Just let me know where and when. I think I’ll start calling you Cranston now that our professional relationship is over.”
“This has moved along so rapidly I’m somewhat at a loss for words,” he said.
“That’s probably a first,” I said. “Keep me posted.” And I walked out. I passed Estelle Anderson in the door.
“What’s happening?” she said.
“You’ve got a new leading man,” I said.
A note came in the mail for me from Cranston inviting me to have lunch at the Château Menaudiere, which is just outside Charlestour, on the next Sunday. I stopped him in the street and said I didn’t want to have lunch, but I would be there at two. And, voilà, there I was.
“What do you think?” I said. “Should we get on the bed or in the bed? I think I’ll get into the bed. It’s a little less awkward in among the sheets.”
I dropped my pants and tee-shirt on the floor. Pulled off my underpants, and pulling back the coverlet, climbed in. There were a lot of pillows. It was all very Madame de Pompadour.
Cranston stood up and started unbuckling his belt. For all of his aggressiveness, I don’t think he had been through a lot of this kind of scenario. I want to go on the record also that physically Cranston wasn’t bad. He went to the gym. He was tan all over, which I was soon to find out. He had a nice penis. He was sort of hairy, but that happens when men get older.
My thinking was this. I wasn’t really committed to Steve. He hadn’t asked that we be. And we weren’t at that “couple” stage yet. But I could feel it coming. At least I was ready for it and wanted it. But until then, I could sleep with Cranston Muller and not feel guilty about it. If I was sleeping with Cranston Muller because I wanted to and would enjoy it, that’s another story. But I had a different reason for doing this. That’s my thinking at any rate, whatever you might think.
Cranston was already barefooted when I entered the room so once his pants were off, he had only to unbutton his shirt and remove his boxer trunks. He did this half-turning away, almost shyly. I noticed that his jacket was already hanging over the back of the chair.
Sex is funny, isn’t it? It’s always different with every person. Not that I’ve slept with all that many men. But it’s not routine. You wonder about all those gay guys who pick up men in bars and go to bathhouses and all that kind of thing. Surely they must notice that everyone is different. Or does it all become one big blur of flesh, flesh, flesh with no personalities involved?
Cranston was already erect when he came across the room, pulled back the covers, and climbed in. He put one leg and one arm over me and started to kiss me. I didn’t expect that. He was a tender kisser. Weird, isn’t it? I think he felt something for me. His body was warm. His breath didn’t smell of those cigars. He had nice skin. His back felt good. Strong. I pressed back against him. “I have to get in you,” he mumbled.
“Do you have lube and a condom?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
I reached under the pillow. I had put them under there while I was undressing. “I do,” I said. “Just a minute. I want to put a pillow under my butt.” I raised up, opened the condom and put it on him and rubbed lube between my buttocks, lifting myself onto the pillow. I would have liked to put a towel under myself, but there’s a limit to what you want to do under circumstances like these. The Château Menaudiere would just have to be shocked later. Cranston eased himself in.
He wasn’t a quick study. At one point, I was off the bed with my shoulders and head on the floor, Cranston’s arms holding him off the floor as he bucked up and down on the edge of the bed. “This is really uncomfortable,” I said. He pulled me back on the bed.
And then I came. I surprised myself. I shuddered and twisted my head back and forth violently. It was a powerful one with lots of deep groanings. Cranston stopped his moving and held me very tightly. Then he kissed me and said, “I was waiting for that.” And then finished up very quickly, dropping onto me with some groans of his own as he slid his hands under my ass.
Then he rolled off, and we lay there, not touching.
“So now Graham is going to get a movie,” I said.
“You bet,” he said.
“Isn’t it curious how paths cross, small incidents occur, decisions are made, people’s lives change,” I said.
“Chance is a fool’s name for fate,” he said.
“The Gay Divorcee,” I said. “Edward Everett Horton’s line. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. 1935?”
“Is it in that? You’re quite a little treasure trove of film information. Who’d have thought you would know that? I hardly know it myself.”
“Film school,” I said. “Chance or fate? Like the Brazilian who was shot in the Underground by the police in London last week. Just because he had dark skin they run into a subway car, pump seven bullets into his head, and then realized he had nothing to do with anything. It was his fate somehow. There was probably some woman who lived across the street who liked him and he had refused to sleep with her, and so she called the police and said she thought they were terrorists, and bang. There he went.”
“It could happen to any one of us at any time. You’re sitting in the park minding your own business and a coconut drops out of a tree and your life is over,” Cranston said.
I sat up and threw my legs over the side of the bed. “Now I must go,” I said.
“I’ll take you back,” Cranston said.
“No. I had the cab wait. I don’t want anyone to see us together. I’m supposed to hate you because you replaced me in the show with E. L. Let’s leave it that way.”
“Does Steve know you’re here?” Cranston asked.
“Definitely not. Nobody does. I told everyone I was having a late lunch in Charlestour with the Flambaughs, that American couple I know from down near Loches.”
Cranston reached over and touched my shoulder. “You’re quite something, Hugo. I could fuck you again right now.”
“No, you couldn’t,” I said. Actually I wouldn’t have minded. I stood up and found my underpants under the bedside table. My shirt and pants were in a heap. I pulled them on.
“I’m counting on you to keep your word,” I said. “If you don’t, I’m going to kill you.” I seemed to be threatening to kill people all over town these days.
“To quote Fagin in Oliver Twist, ‘The worst sin is ingratitude.’ I’m very grateful for your having shared your body with me. I will keep my word,” Cranston Muller said.
“Now I really must go.” I was dressed by now.
“Thanks, Hugo. That was a really good fuck. A twelve,” he said. He was dressed now, too.
“The nice thing about sexual intercourse is that it doesn’t leave any marks. I’m always going to deny that this ever happened,” I said.
“It shall be done. Graham gets the part.”
“Thanks.” I closed the door behind me.