I pushed him up against the dusty wall of the alley, knocked his fedora flying, bent my konk down and plowed into his pouty lips. He was small and slender enough to throw over my shoulder and take home for a real thorough reaming, the kind the economy was giving the country in these dirty 30s. But the heat was on, and I just couldn’t wait.
I chewed on the guy’s lips, poured tongue down his gaping kisser. His big, brown eyes gleamed like gems in the darkness, his boyish figure trembling under my onslaught.
I’d met him in the dive next door – Sailor’s, a popular hangout for the Hollywood twilight sex crowd. I’d bought him a beer and myself a fourth, a ticket for two to glory alley. The slim, smooth, effeminate ones have a way of really getting under my foreskin.
He’d said his name was Lavinder Folles, that he was a movie extra. The moniker sounded phony as his trade. But I’d let it pass, cracking, ‘Looking for a good part? I got one.’ And now I was getting the lovely with the short, slicked-back brown hair intimately acquainted with it – pressing hard rod into soft belly.
We swirled our tongues together, his quick and darting like a Dempsey jab, mine heavy and thrashing as the Wild Bull of the Pampas. He shot a hand down in between my spraddled legs and cupped my balls through the gabardine and cotton. A hot shiver of delight showered all through my muscled torso. I sucked on his soft, wet tongue, urging him on.
But he suddenly clamped down on my nuts tight enough to crack ’em. I pulled my teeth out of his tongue and rasped, ‘Easy, baby. I’m gonna need those marbles in a second.’
‘I need them right now,’ he responded, voice squeaky-throaty like Jimmie Noone’s liquorice stick. I could almost taste the fuzz on his sac.
‘I want to hire you,’ he went on.
‘Huh? What I’m givin’ is strictly on the house, sweet cheeks.’
He squirmed out of my mitts. ‘You’re Dick Polk, aren’t you? Private investigator?’
I groaned. Then slowly bobbed my coconut, cock sagging like the “Land” in “Hollywoodland” as he launched into his spiel.
The missing heel was Tex Rodeo (aka Dagskiell Goodmunderson), a fellow bit-part shadow player who’d stolen Lavinder’s heart – 500 dollars cash, a pet snake, and “Grandma’s pearl”. Tex had been in abscondia for a month now, and Lavinder wanted the man found, his property returned and heart healed.
He provided me some sketchy details about his short-time, short-change lover, an 8x10 glossy with more creases in it than the San Andreas fault line, and a vague listing of where the short, black-haired, blue-eyed, pencil-mustached dandy liked to hang out. Then Lavinder made a small cash advance on my services, a promise of payment in full with a rousing conclusion to our sweaty alley tussle. Work and sex weren’t so easy to find in the summer of ‘32, so I agreed to look into his matter.
I didn’t waste any shoe leather or tongue spit checking out Tex’s known hangouts, however. They were all the usual huddling places for the masses of struggling actors: drugstore soda jerk counters, the front gates of Paramount, the back doors of Poverty Row. A wanted man doesn’t hide in plain sight, even a ham.
Instead, I hopped in my heap the next morning and dodged downtown traffic like Cobb dodged beanballs in batting practice. I slid safely to the curb in front of “Tub” Belli’s talent agency and pimp shop at the corner of Figueroa and Pico. Then I pushed open the taped-glass door and trotted up a set of wooden stairs many a desperate thespian had used to walk the plank on their dignity.
‘Shure, shweetheart, he’s the perfect guy for ya,’ Tub oiled into a candlestick. ‘He’ll do anything for a buck. Long as I get my dime.’ He nodded into the receiver, then pronged it, chins wagging with mirth.
‘Lookin’ to make some easy money, Polk?’ he wheezed, stuffing a hamburger in his craw. ‘Big strong blond boy like you could make lotsa dough.’ He didn’t even bother to chew.
‘I only bend over backwards for the ones I love,’ I growled, tossing Tex’s crumpled physiognomy down onto the slob’s crumb-littered desk.
He licked the grease out of the corners of his gob with a forked tongue, grinded, ‘Tex Rodeo. So what?’
‘What’d you know about him?’
Tub folded his sausage digits together like they were in church, waited patiently for the collection plate to be filled.
I dumped a ten-spot down on his desk.
He salted the geetus away in a watch pocket quicker than a blackjack dealer. ‘He’s queer as Confederate currency. Played “man in purple toga” in DeMille’s last sand and sandal epic, “Oasis Are Aces”. That’s Izzy DeMille – no relation.’
‘What’s he been up to lately?’
More asthmatic waiting. Another ten hit the deck.
‘No acting jobs in the last month – in or out of the studios.’
I grunted, threw a third tenner into Tub’s sty. ‘Does the boy have any other talents?’
‘Fancies himself a long-distance hoofer – marathon dancer.’ The fat man batted me a flatulent wink. ‘Got no stamina – from what I seen.’
There were two dance marathons running in the county of Los Angeles just then – one out on the pier at Long Beach, one at the Civic Pavilion in Glendale. The track meet in Glendale was nearing a merciful end, only six semi-conscious contestants left, none of the men wearing Tex’s mug. The shuffle on the Pier was about halfway over (494 hours in, and counting). There were 19 couples swaying to a sleepy afternoon crowd of flies and sadists, the stench of stale sweat and popcorn hanging like a pall over the proceedings, a fifth-rate band doing nothing to freshen things up.
A small guy with blond hair gone suspiciously dark at the roots and a pale upper lip immediately caught my eye. He was wearing sunglasses, like he was loafing around Chaplin’s pool, and the weak chin I was after. A redhead with a small front and a large rear was clinging to him, allowing herself to be dragged around the parquet.
I registered as a sponsor – Phil’s Plumbing; We’re No Four-Flushers – and got the greasy MC to introduce me to my favourite couple.
‘You interested in sponsoring us, Mister?’ Blondie asked, working over a wad of chewing gum like Burleigh Grimes worked over a spitball.
‘Yeah. How’d you kids like some new shoes, maybe a couple of nice shirts with Phil’s Plumbing on the back?’
‘We can wear ’em to formals, huh?’ the guy jawed.
‘Well … I could give you other things, too.’ I delivered that slippery pitch strictly to Blondie. ‘I’ve really taken quite a shine to you.’
He gave me the overall eyeball, then Red the brush. We adjourned to the men’s room to discuss details.
I shoved him up against an enamelled wall and planted a hand between his gams, getting a feel for the situation. ‘Play ball with me, pal,’ I breathed into his pan, ‘and maybe I’ll put in a good word for you with this movie producer friend of mine, see.’
I yanked the shades off his clock. He was staring at me with a pair of frightened green glims that signalled anything but “Go”. I was mauling a dick limp as the garden salad in the lunchroom buffet.
‘You some kinda nut or something!’ he squealed. He slithered out of my grasp and fox trotted for the exit sign, barrelling over his dance partner who’d been crowding the crack in the door.
I helped her up, set fire to a gasper and took a contemplative puff.
‘You really have a friend who’s a film producer?’ Red asked, making no move to vacate the manly premises.
‘Sure.’
Her blue eyes flickered. And then she peeled off the red wig, revealing short, black hair; dropped the baggy skirt and bloomers, giving me a gander at the cock taped to her inner thigh. Even soft, it beat most guy’s hard.
‘Yimminy-yamminy,’ I gibbered, my smoke tumbling out of my kisser as the man-in-disguise took my meat-hook and placed it squarely on the inches of schlong. It was as real as LA City Hall. I’d found Tex Rodeo.
I petted his pulsing appendage. ‘Lavinder Folles’ pet snake, I presume? So where’s the gelt, Tex – and “Grandma’s pearl”?’
He swung at me. His toy fist dusted my square jaw without so much as a tinkle. I squeezed the cockiness out of him.
‘”Grandma’s pearl” is a pearl-handled revolver I took from Lavinder!’ he gasped. ‘I only took it ’cause she would’ve killed me otherwise. She’s nuttier than a Blue Diamond plantation, I tell you!’
‘She!’ It was my turn to gasp. And consider the possibility of installing a personal two-beer maximum at Sailor’s.
‘That’s right, Polk,’ someone sneered from the doorway.
It was Lavinder Folles, a bob in her brown hair now, boyish face decorated with make-up, boyish figure with a flapper dress. She’d snatched Tex’s purse up off the floor, a pearl-handled revolver out of the purse. She was pointing the pill dispenser straight at Tex’s dong. It was a target too large to miss.
I moved my hand away from the crux of the issue, stalled, ‘How’d you two ever get hooked up? You’re no ladies’ man, Tex.’ It was almost funny saying that, what with the rouge, mascara, and lipstick adorning the guy’s mug. But no one was busting a gut that I noticed.
‘Tub Belli! ‘ Tex spat it out, his eyes focused on the gat aimed at his rod.
‘You … you tricked me!’ Lavinder shrilled, the little gun jumping around in her dainty hand like a dame’s mood. ‘You … you pervert!’
She squeezed the trigger. Just as Tex screamed. Just as a siren wailed calling the dancers back to the floor. Just as I uppercut my blade of a left hand into Lavinder’s right wrist. Plaster rained down on our sorry parade.
I twisted the smoking heater out of the girl’s hand and heaved it through a glazed window, out into the Pacific Ocean. She burst into tears and raced out of the bathroom and away with my expense money.
‘You saved my life,’ Tex exhaled. He grasped one of my dukes like he was going to shake it, but found a better use for it – cradling his Texas-sized longhorn again.
I looked down into his misty eyes, his cock hardening under my caressing mitt, growing even longer. I ripped the tape away, and we both watched his erection slowly rise up and hover in the air like a giant hooded cobra.
He was slim and small and sleek – just like I like ’em; with a poker as long and bumpy as Lindy’s oceanflight – just like I love ’em. I bowed down to the twitching ruler, planting my kneecaps in the black and white tile and covetously grasping his staff, stroking.
‘That’s the way, big man,’ he groaned, digging his manicured nails into my hair.
The thing was alive in my hand, pulsing like my heart. I covered every inch of its heated, vein-ribboned surface with my palm, gripping tight, downy-furred sac with my other hand, squeezing the beans as I polished the pork.
Tex danced around on the end of his skin flute to my rapturous tune. And I put some voice into my song of the south of the border, bumping my tongue-tip into his yawning slit, flicking up a glistening tear of precome and swallowing.
He clawed at my scalp. I swirled my fat sticker all around his gearshift bulb, painting his hood in the warm, wet colours of my saliva. Then I took the beefy cap into my mouth and sucked on it.
‘Heavens, yes!’ Tex moaned, delivering the right dialogue on cue.
It was a man-sized job, but I was up for it, lip-inching more and more of his prodigious pecker into the steamy confines of my mouth. I gulped meat with the gusto of Charles Laughton, inhaling Tex to the halfway point, the three-quarter pole, the high-water mark on the back of my throat. His cock crowded my mouth, packed my throat, the man’s night-shaded pubes rustling with the gusts of hot, humid air flowing from my flared nostrils.
I locked him down in total tightness, then total silence. Sweat trickled down my reddened mug, poured down his. Seagulls squawked far off over the ocean, the band played on, waves lapping at the pier. He stared wildly down at me, his body vibrating out-of-control, consumed by the cauldron of my maw.
And just before the Big One rolled through him like turn-of-the-century San Francisco, I freed his snake, disgorging him to the hood in a gush of pent-up saliva and breath. But before he could fully regain his sexual equilibrium, I was on him again, sucking on his trouser truncheon.
I moved my dome back and forth, gliding my lips over his member, polishing marbled shaft with my wagging tongue. I hard-sucked the man’s monster cock slow and sure, like oil was being sucked out of the ground at Signal Hill.
And right before I struck rubbery orgasm, I pulled all the way back this time. Leaving Tex’s fly-buster hanging there, dripping and quivering in mid-air like a big, begging question mark. ‘I want it up the ass,’ I answered.
I climbed to my feet and crushed the little big man in my arms, kissing him heavy and hungry. His cock bounded up between my legs and banged against my crotch, shaking me with delight. I sucked the living breath out of him for a second time, making a meal of his lips before cramming his mouth full of tongue like he’d crammed mine full of cock.
He moaned, flailing feebly at my roiling tongue. I tore his blouse open, his brassiere away. His nipples were perfect pink pearls, and I swallowed them up, sucked on them, my big, sweaty paws mauling the smooth, tender flesh of his chest. He whimpered, trembled, as I bit hard into his buds, twirled my tongue all around his pebbled aureoles, the pair of us on fire.
Finally, leaving his chest slick and heaving, I dropped my pants and drawers faster than Dietrich. I went down on to all-fours on the tiles this time, presenting ripe, round, blond-dusted rump to the man with the foot-long, urging him to take the full measure of this man.
He pulled a vial of petroleum jelly out of his purse and greased up his cock, my crack. ‘Fuck my ass!’ I snarled impatiently.
My own dick was harder than the times, and I excitedly pulled on it, as Tex butt-ended me with his knob. The pressure built, my lungs billowing, hand jacking. And then he split my pucker, ram-rodded inside me. His club muscled in smooth and sweet and forever, filling me to the rim, plugging me full of a wicked, tingling heat that left me dizzy, gasping.
‘F … fuck me!’ I garbled, wagging my cock-stuffed and stretched behind.
He tightened his grip on my waist and started shifting back and forth in my chute, rubbing me just the right way. He thrust harder, faster, fingers digging into my flesh, pounder pumping into my bowels. He splashed up against my rippling butt cheeks in a frenzy, his pole breaking new ground in my anus, the annals of my bottom-dwelling joy.
I fumbled with a flapping cock gone numb, burning with a sensual, overfull sensation that suffused my body and set my head to spinning, stars shooting in front of my eyes. My blasted ass expanded beyond all erotic dimensions, and I cried, ‘Fuck, I’m gonna come!’
‘I’m coming in your ass, big man!’ Tex bleated, hammering my battered backdoor.
Thick, rich ropes of semen leaped out of my jumping cock, my body and soul searing with ecstasy. Tex wailed a strangled lust note and doused my bowels with white-hot come, the savage ass-fucking sending the both of us sailing.
I wasn’t walking right for a week, Tex cornholing me night and day like an Iowa farm field. And when I finally admitted I actually didn’t have a friend in the flicker biz, he fed me another week of walking funny, thumping an indignant size-nine into my groin. Those little guys can pack a wallop. Just like Hollywood facades are packed with false promise.