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"Shut up and blow me."
“Ari,” Vince grumbled, “these script changes are bullshit.” He paced toward the window, staring down at the new revision. “What, now Aquaman can fly? No one told me anything about fucking flying, Ari!”
Ari Gold moved out from behind his desk, his fingers tented, his heart racing. He’d seen the script already, having found a copy of it this morning on his desk. Vince was right about the changes; they’d been so atrocious that Ari had at first thought they were some fucker’s idea of a sick joke. A quick confirm with James Cameron’s people proved it legit, though; it was at that point that Ari began anticipating Vince’s reaction, as well as the heart attack he would probably have trying to calm Vince down.
“Vince, look, this is just a … a minor change. It’s a fucking dream sequence, for God’s sake, it’s not like Aquaman’s actually going to fly…”
Vince spun around and met Ari’s eyes. “I’m not going to be acting it in my dream, am I?” he shouted. “It’s gonna be me up there, Ari! I mean, I looked stupid enough in that goddamn wetsuit, and now they want me to have wings?”
Eric, pacing on the far corner of the room, near the couch where Turtle sat, suddenly interjected. “Look, Vince, we’ll talk to Cameron. There’s probably a way to work around this…”
“Yeah, there’d better be,” Vince growled, tossing the script toward the window, where it collided with a hollow bonk. “Aquaman flies, I’m gone.” With that, he turned and stormed out of Ari’s office.
“Vince!” Eric called, but Vince continued stalking away. Eric spun toward Ari. “What the fuck, Ari?”
“Don’t what the fuck me,” Ari said. “That’s your boy, threatening to quit for what, the third or fourth time? You know, I’m getting a little fucking sick of this whole prima donna act.”
“Yeah, well…” Eric trailed off. “I’d better go after him.”
“Yeah, you better. Do your fucking job and manage.”
“Fuck you,” Eric said, then jogged out after Vince. Ari turned toward Turtle. “Where’s your partner in crime?”
“Drama?” Turtle asked, grinning. “Trying to make up to that MOW director for the whole Brooke Shields thing.”
“Ah, the inappropriate rod-throw. That made the tabloids.”
They looked at each other for a second. Turtle said, “You know, you have a really nice couch here. I’ve always thought so.”
Ari turned away from him. “Don’t you have anything to do?”
“Do I ever?” Ari went back to his desk, sat down, and closed his eyes. His heart was pounding. He pinched the bridge of his nose to prevent the encroaching headache, but it wasn’t helping. Vince really was going to give him a heart attack one of these days, he was sure of it. Fucking actors.
“Hey,” Turtle said, causing Ari to start. He’d nearly forgotten Turtle was even there. His eyes flew open and he stared at the pudgy guy, who was grinning in that easygoing way of his. What was it like to grin like that, Ari wondered.
“Feel like getting high?”
Ari blinked. “What?”
“I got some weed back at the place. You look like you could use some calming down. I was gonna get high anyway. So, wanna?”
Ari looked at him a moment. “With you?”
Turtle’s grin broke into a full-fledged smile. “Sure, why not?” The guy was right about one thing: Ari could use a whole hell of a lot of calming down.
“Sure,” Ari said, standing up. “Yeah, sure, why not?”
* * *
They pulled up to the Brando mansion in Ari’s Porche. No other cars were in the driveway; the place was deserted except for the two of them. For the first time, a twinge of unreality began to settle into Ari; off all people in Vince’s little entourage, Turtle was the last one he’d ever thought he’d spend time with alone. Eric was Vince’s manager and Drama was at least an actor. But Turtle? Why the hell had he agreed to this, anyway?
But things became clearer as they climbed the steps up to Turtle’s room at the back of the mansion. Boxes proliferated; except for his clothes, Turtle hadn’t unpacked much of anything. “Close the door behind you,” Turtle said, heading toward his closet. From the top shelf he brought his stash and settled back on his bed, sitting up against the far wall. Ari took off his suit jacket and looked for a chair, preferably one behind a desk. Turtle noticed Ari’s sudden anxiety and laughed. “Calm the fuck down and sit on the bed,” he said, lighting up and inhaling slowly.
Ari did, tentatively. His heart was pounding again and he wasn’t sure way. Turtle passed the joint to him and he took a long, slow drag. At once, the smoke blasted his sense and began to go to work. It didn’t take long before he’d undone his tie and was leaning in closer to Turtle.
“You know,” he said confidentially, “I’d never have that problem with Brooke Sheilds.”
Turtle sucked in more smoke and glanced at him. “What problem?”
“Throwing a rod,” Ari said, and that’s when he began to feel it: his natural grin. So that’s what it was like. In a conspiratorial whisper, he confessed, “Viagra. I need it, every time.”
Turtle slouched down more, staring at Vince. “Like, every time?”
“Every time, baby. Isn’t that fucked?”
“I don’t know what’s fucked anymore,” Turtle said. “I don’t get laid all that much anyway.”
Ari completed the job of taking off his tie and tossing it across the room. “Why not?”
“Well, I mean, look at me. I’m not, you know, movie star material.”
Ari looked at him, into his eyes. Deep brown. Hm. “You’re not so bad.”
Turtle sighed. “Fuck that. I ain’t no Vince, that’s for sure. Eric or Drama neither. I just don’t got that kind of body.”
“Most guys don’t,” Ari said.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What kind of body you got?”
Ari looked down at his button-up shirt, and all at once it seemed completely natural to want to loosen the buttons. His hands moved down his shirt, revealing inch by inch of bare flesh. Turtle stared at him. “Jesus, Ari, you got a better body than Vince. Why ain’t you a movie star?”
“Don’t have the temperament for it, I guess,” Ari said, taking Turtle’s joint and sucking more smoke in. He couldn’t remember the time he’d felt more relaxed. “How about you? Why aren’t you a movie star?”
“Told you, man,” Turtle said. “The body. I’d be lucky if I got to be a character actor, you know?”
“You don’t have a bad body, Turtle,” Ari said, reaching over and patting Turtle’s belly. “A little big, sure, but … you know, not bad.”
Turtle hesitated, then let his fingers find the zipper on the front of his jogging suit. Slowly, he pulled the zipper down and revealed his pudgy body underneath: pale and fuzzy, but Ari had been right: not bad. Not bad at all.
“You know those shows on HBO?” Ari said. Turtle nodded. “Well, they don’t have ratings like network shows. You can look like anyone. I bet you could be on an HBO show, if you wanted.”
Turtle grinned. “You really think so?”
Nervousness prickling at his belly, Ari reached over and patted Turtle’s bare stomach. Ari marveled at how Turtle’s thin covering of belly hair felt against his bare palm. For the first time in forever, Ari felt a stirring, a stiffening, beneath the folds of his Donna Karan silk boxers … without needing to pop a Viagra. What the fuck?
“Yeah, I completely think so, Turtle,” he said, his voice sounding distant and strange. “You could be in anything.”
Turtle finished off the joint and looked over at Ari. “You’re hard.”
Ari looked down at himself and saw he was. He waited for his heart to start pounding again, but it remained curiously steady. “Look, Turtle…”
Turtle smiled again. “Look, it don’t matter to me if you’re a homo or not.”
“I’m not,” Ari said, not taking his eyes off his own hard cock. “I just…”
“It don’t matter to me, bro,” Turtle said. “But I ain’t been laid in a long time, Ari, and if you’re gonna get it up for me, I’d kinda like a blowjob.”
Ari’s mind reeled. Everything in him battled against the idea. He had a wife. He liked women. Sure he did; he was Ari Gold, superagent. So why was this tubby fuck in a jogging suit giving him a chubby without pharmacological help? (Well, not much pharmacological help.)
“It’s no big deal. Blowjobs ain’t sex. Drama and I do it all the time. It’s just a buddy helping another buddy out.”
“No, I ain’t gay. I just like sex. Now you, you’re a different story.”
“I’m not gay…”
“Whatever, dude, just give me some head. I’ll do you after.”
Ari hesitated a moment longer. The battle inside still raged, but it seemed as distant as his voice had. And had Turtle said he was going to give him head after, anyway? It seemed like a waste to let a natural hard-on go unused.
Fuck it, he thought. What’s one blowjob?
Ari moved over to the edge of the bed and slid off. He got to his knees and faced Turtle, who was leaning back and looking at him with that easy grin on his face. “Go ’head,” Turtle coaxed. “I won’t tell no one.”
Ari reached up and unzipped Turtle’s fly. His hard-on bounced up, longer than Ari had expected and dripping with pre-come. “You’re big all over,” Ari said, admirably.
“Shut up and blow me,” Turtle told him. In the office, Ari would have been on the verge of an embolism if anyone had spoken to him like that. But here, in Turtle’s room, it was obvious who was boss. He leaned forward, closed his eyes, and took Turtle’s cock into his mouth.
Ari was no expert. This was the first time he’d given head and while the act wasn’t repulsive (as he feared it might be; actually, he found the sensation kind of nice.), it wan’t exactly second-nature. Turtle didn’t seem to mind, though, groaning from his place on the bed as Ari let his tongue dart around the tip of his cockhead. The taste of Turtle’s pre-come spread across his tongue, semi-sweet and thrilling. Turtle reached down and rested his thick hand on the back of Ari’s head, not so much pushing as guiding, moving his hips up and thrusting deeper into Ari’s throat than Ari would dare go himself. Moments later, Turtle clutched hard at the back of Ari’s head, grabbing up a handful of hair and pushing down. Ari sensed rather than felt Turtle’s body tense a split-second before Turtle came, shooting jet after jet of that sweet/sour ejaculate down Ari’s throat, which he was forced to swallow down. Eventually, Turtle let Ari’s hair go and sank back into the bed, his grin even wider.
“Fuck, man,” Turtle said. “Damn, that was fine.”
Ari stood up, wanting to be abashed at the fact that he had just swallowed at least a quart of Turtle’s come. Somehow, though, it didn’t seem to bother him. Ari decided to blame it on the pot. “What now?” he asked.
“Now,” Turtle said, “I relax a second. Then I take care of you.”
“I could get used to this,” Ari said, settling down next to Turtle, unable to keep his eyes off the bigger guy’s still-erect penis.
“You know, the way you keep eying me, I’d swear that you actually were a homo,” Turtle said lazily.
Ari turned to him. “Shut up and blow me.”