Chapter 10

With somewhat trembling hands, Phil toweled himself dry from a leisurely shower, pulled on a light knit shirt, the scanty European shorts he had just purchased, and tight, cock-hugging slacks.

At last ready, he clattered down the stairs, managed to snare a cab and gave directions for the Broadway office where he had an appointment-topic unrevealed-with Sartain.

His heart was pounding and his fingers trembling slightly as he entered the foyer and strode to the elevator. Suddenly he was beginning to have second thoughts about his plan.

But he had an appointment, so with leaden feet he walked down the hallway to the door modestly marked "Oscar Sartain, Theatrical Producer," and entered.

The secretary nodded and had him sit down to wait. He glanced at a copy of Variety and wondered if he could excuse himself and leave without too great a problem. He no longer wanted to face Sartain with his proposal, particularly with the bait he had so foolishly decided to offer.

Before he could make up his mind, the inner office door opened and Sartain stepped out, smiling at Phil.

His heart still fluttering, Phil entered the cluttered office crowded with Sartain's desk, a couple of lounge chairs and a long, black leather divan with stuffing protruding from a couple of broken spots on the cushions.

Sartain motioned Phil to a seat in one of the lounge chairs and eased himself behind his desk.

"To what do I owe this pleasant visit?" he said, leaning back and smiling.

"I'm looking for a job."

Sartain smiled, his eyes almost disappearing as his face crinkled up in fatty rolls.

"Doesn't everybody? What sort of job did you have in mind? A juicy role in my new show?"

"I want to work backstage . . . anything, just to be part of something. I'm tired of having to sit out front and watch others get a show ready."

'That does pose a problem, Phil. You know all about unions, I recall."

Phil blushed at the reference to that first morning's faux pas at the theater.

"What I had in mind was, well, perhaps you know of some off-Broadway theater that uses a non-union crew. I can do lights real well, and I don't think I'm bragging. You could ask any of the guys at the theater. I've talked with all of them since that first morning. Back home-"

"What happens when you have to go back to school this fall?"

"I-I was thinking I could stay here. Perhaps live with Dan and-"

"You aren't going to quit school, are you?"

"No, but I could go to school here and work at night."

Sartain sat silently for several moments.

"Does Dan know of this?"

"We talked about it, but he's afraid of what might-that something might happen to me."

"What do you think?" "I think I'm old enough to shift for myself," Phil said tersely.

"Oh?"

For a moment Phil sat silently In the chair, his heart pounding furiously and his stomach knotted. He could sense that Sartain was about to brush his request aside.

He got to his feet, walked to the door and flicked the safety latch to the locked position, then trembling but resolute, turned back to Sartain, who had leaned back in his chair, his tiny eyes watching closely.

Still without speaking, Phil deftly tugged his shirt over his head. He dropped it into the chair as he kicked off his loafers. Then he loosened his belt and shrugged out of his slacks. With another quick movement he slipped off the briefs and stood nude before the producer, his heavy cock slowly stiffening.

"I-I'll do anything . . . just find me a job in the theater," he pleaded in a hoarse whisper.

"You know how to sell yourself, anyway," Sartain said at last, "but how do you know I'm interested in buying?"

Phil blushed. "I.. . I'll do anything. Please-"

"Put your clothes back on, Phil," Sartain said and sighed. "Much as I'd like to, this isn't the time or place. Who knows who might come in.. . . "

"But-"

Sartain shook his head, then reached for a note pad and scratched a brief message.

"Take this to Zach Bergmann. Tell him I sent you. Maybe he can work you into something he's doing down in the Village."

Sartain looked up, his eyes feasting on the handsome body before him, then shook his head.

"You belong to Dan, son. He's a friend. Don't embarrass him, or me."

Tears welled up in Phil's eyes as he fumbled with his clothes.

Just then there was a rap on the door and Phil jumped, a surprised look on his face.

"Just a minute, Kathy," Sartain called.

"There's a call for you, line two."

As Sartain picked up the receiver, Phil resumed his hasty dressing. He stepped closer to the desk and silently accepted the note Sartain shoved toward him.

"I-thank you . . . thanks a lot," Phil mumbled.

His face still flushed from the rebuff, he silently turned and walked out, barely nodding to Kathy as he fled through the outer office.

Outside he hailed a taxi and slumped into the seat.

Dan's a friend. . . don't embarrass him, or me. Sartain's quiet plea repeated itself in Phil's mind until it grew to a thunder roll. This isn't the time or the place. Dan's a friend. . . don't embarrass him . . . embarrass him.. . .

Phil sobbed and tears trickled down his face.

The driver pulled to a halt in front of the apartment, then noticed the tears as he turned to Phil, who had made no effort to move.

"You sick or something, kid?"

"I-I'm okay," Phil gasped as he handed the driver a bill and bolted out without waiting for change.