The Lighthouse Keeper

I stumbled out of Rock Hudson's trailer in the high desert town of Marfa, Texas, on the set of Giant and into the arms of Stewart Whitaker. The Giant production had started in Keswick, Virginia, supposedly represented as located in Maryland. Warner Brothers had licenses to film two movies in Central Virginia in 1956, and I was the heartthrob in the other movie, a Civil War epic called Honor Above All Else, which wrapped up filming while Giant was still being shot in Albemarle County. Giant was a hit; Honor wasn't. But I was riding high in those days and had caught the eye of Hudson. He assured me that the problem with Honor wasn't me—that I was superb in the film clips he had seen. I was flattered that he had looked at the film clips—that he took the time to pull me aside, place his hand on my arm, and assure me that I had been good in the film. Unfortunately, as films go sometimes go their stars as well, and my career peaked with Honor.

The flattery given me in that trailer led to where such things sometimes lead in the presence of a major movie star.

Needing a drink badly after leaving the trailer, I went straight for the Fandango bar on Marfa's main street. Stewart Whitaker, the gossip column writer, was there, dark, handsome, muscular, and brash. With me still in a daze from my first experience with a man, he invited me to sit with him. I remarked that I'd just seen him in Virginia. Admitting that that was true, he'd said that he'd followed me to Texas from Virginia just as I had followed Hudson. Three drinks later, I'd staggered under his guidance to his hotel room, and he fucked me mercilessly with an eight-inch cock. As narcissistic as any movie person, he made sure that image was in my brain by measuring his erection for me during foreplay.

It had been nothing like that first time. Being invited into the trailer and offered a drink. Him standing there in a silk robe, a gorgeous man, an icon, holding a crystal glass of scotch out to me. Smiling down at me where I was sitting, nervous—honored but nervous—on the end of a studio couch. He had told me what he wanted from me. He told me in Virginia. And here, in Texas, I have come to his trailer. I have followed him to Texas and come to his trailer—just to say yes.

The sash of his robe coming loose and drifting to the trailer floor. The robe brushing open. Me gasping. Him solicitously, gently taking the glass of scotch out of my hand, saying I am trembling so badly it will spill. Don't be afraid, he whispers to me. Cupping my chin and looking deep into my eyes, waiting until I wanted it before lowering his lips to mine. I somehow become unbuttoned, unbuckled, unzipped during the kiss, my trousers and briefs sliding off my legs as I closed my eyes and savored the taste of scotch on his lips.

Going back on my elbows as his hands glide down my shuddering body—to my thighs, my inner thighs. Coaxing them open to him with slender, insistent fingers. His hand encircling me. The other at the back of my head, arching my head back with a tug in my hair. His face over mine, his eyes boring into mine, his throbbing staff at my entrance, my pelvis instinctively rolling up to receive him. Someone in the room is whimpering. Could it be me? I raise and spread my legs further, grasping the edge of the couch with the soles of my feet. I blot out the pain as he slowly enters me, enters me, enters me and holds, while, panting, I struggle to open fully to him. I pant harder as he starts to move, in, out, deeper, in, out. His hand pressing my torso down on the studio couch and remaining there, his face still over mine, as he moves deeper, slides faster, thrusts harder . . . All I can think of is what an honor this is—to give my virginity to a man—to this man— crying out at the warm flow of him when, inevitably, it comes.

Aiden dropped the wrench on the steel catwalk surrounding the Sea Isle lighthouse in Delaware Bay and shook his head to clear it. It was no good dwelling on what had gotten him here when the light needed to be fixed before dusk. He'd been working on it all day, and it was frustrating the hell out of him. There wasn't much room to work up here and it was hot as Hades. He was stripped down to his briefs to combat the heat. He was a muscular young man—still young. His movie career hadn't lasted for more than five years. Like Icarus, he had dared to soar too close to the sun. But he'd been at the top, blond movie star handsome, perfectly formed body, a combination that made the teenage girls scream and won him beefcake roles. He had never worn a shirt throughout any movie he'd been in.

He'd gone through all of the mechanical courses that went with lighthouse keeper when he'd chosen this as an escape, as a way to drop out of the world. Why couldn't he get this light going? And why was he drifting off into reliving a past that he couldn't change. A past that had ended for him nearly a year ago in the summer of 1958.

Aiden sighed, deciding that there was nothing for it but to unscrew the crystal cover and delve deeper into the mechanism of the light. But the cover hadn't been off since he'd arrived—and who knows for how long before that? The screw he started with seemed to be stripped. His mind wandered again as he worked on it.

Please go slow, I had begged when we were stretched out against each other on the bed in Stewart's room, naked, and he was stroking my cock. The size of his cock had frightened me silly. Why, you've been fucked before, haven't you? he asked. Not before this evening, I'd answered. He'd laughed and then had gone slow, stroking me and then sucking me and working my hole with lubed fingers and his mouth until I'd ejaculated. He'd coaxed my legs open then, lain on top of me between them, and I'd grunted and groaned—and would have cried out if he hadn't been covering my mouth with a hand—as he worked a cock inside me that was thicker and longer than I'd taken earlier in the evening. He started slow, as promised, but, getting excited, he rode me hard near the end. He gave me his cum in three blasts deep inside me. That, at least, had been the same as earlier in the evening. Afterward, I'd said I was headed back to L.A., and he said that, strangely enough, so was he—that perhaps we could fly out to the coast together. Once in L.A., he claimed two drawers in my dresser and a section of my closet and fucked me on the sly on a regular basis.

The screw wouldn't come off. In frustration, Aiden hit the iron base of the light with the wrench, and the light miraculous came on and started to revolve.

It was dark when he came out of the shower four flights down in the tower. It was too late to dress, so it again was just bikini briefs. It didn't matter. He was all alone out here—purposely. He did his evening calisthenics—he did them three times a day to keep in shape—fixed his dinner on the level below that of his bedroom, and sat in front of the fireplace of the living room in the addition at the base of the tower and whittled away at his wood while his stereo blasted mind-numbing—also purposely—classical music.

Wood whittling had been the pastime he'd taken up when turning to the solitary life of a lighthouse keeper. He whittled on wood. Sometimes he didn't even think about what he was whittling and let it take whatever shape it wanted. He was surprised and a bit disturbed by the piece he had completed and had polished up earlier today. He'd almost thrown it into the fire—almost. But he hadn't. He'd polished it until it glistened.

When he looked up from whittling, he saw that it was nearly midnight. He had to be up by 6:00. There was work to do—maintenance work on the lighthouse, maintenance never being finished, and there was the garden. He grew his own vegetables. Wouldn't his fan club be aghast at how he lived in isolation and grew much of his own food? If he had a fan club that cared. Stewart had taken care of that.

He went to bed, stripping off his briefs before climbing in bed. He closed his eyes, fondled himself for a few minutes and fell into full-fledged, writhing, sweaty masturbation.

Stewart and I are lapped, facing each other, my thighs on top of his, each embracing the other, his eight-inch dick inside me, on the bed in the master bedroom of my Beverly Hills mansion. He is miffed at me, saying that he waited in vain for the invitation to the premier of my latest movie, Love in the Shadows. He was holding me tight, refusing to fuck me, even though he already was inside me, and I was begging for it. I tried to reason with him. Rock had just been outed—by his own wife—in the June 1958 edition of the Hollywood Reporter, although the charge didn't seem to be taken seriously. I knew it would lead to a relentless witch hunt, though—that the rest of us would have to cool it. Stewart said we'd cool it then, and he started to pull out of me. Begging for the fuck, I'd agreed to put him on the premier guest list. He pushed me back on the bed then and fucked me hard, deep, and long, giving me all eight inches. My agent nixed the invitation, though, the next day.

His cock filled and stretched me when he fucked me. No one could work me like Stewart did. No one else did except in casual pickups in anonymous bars in anonymous towns I passed through, where the man wouldn't recognize me—where he was only interested in if I had a hole that would open for him and accommodate him. Even my movie star looks didn't mean anything in the darkness of a fleabag hotel room at night. All I was to these casual partners was a fast-opening hole and a cock hugging passage. None fucked me like Stewart did. Eight thick inches, fully possessing me, hitting all of the sensitive spots as it worked inside me. Stewart: handsome, muscular, hung, virile, vigorous, arousingly cruel, demanding, dominating. And, ultimately, vindictive.

Having shot his load toward the ceiling, Aiden groaned, turned over on his side, and drifted off to sleep, facing a day much like the day before and the day before that—unending monotony. But by his choice.

* * * *

"So, I found you. And in tip-top shape, I see. Playing the role of Robinson Caruso? I think we have quite enough movies on that theme already. It's only been five years since we were gifted with the Luis Buñuel version."

"Scott," Aiden said, surprised to see his former movie production colleague stepping out of a motorboat at the lighthouse pier. He would be surprised to see anyone other than the old geezer from the biweekly supply boat lash up to the lighthouse pier. He had been working in the vegetable garden and was instantly embarrassed that he was just wearing a pair of now dirt-splashed briefs. He hadn't looked in the mirror for days. Surely he had mastered the scruffy, unshaved look.

Scott Drayden was a movie scriptwriter, some four years older than Aiden was. He had worked on Aiden's earlier movies when they had both just been starting out in the business. They had hit it off and palled around with each other, each making an attempt to work each others' films after that. But Scott also had been one of the people in Hollywood who had turned his back on Aiden when, in July of 1958, Stewart Whitaker had written his blockbuster "Male Hollywood Stars I Have Slept With" exposé in the wake of the beginning of the Rock Hudson scandal. He hadn't named Hudson; he had featured Aiden Allen, though. Aiden's movie stock had dropped like a boulder, and, by mid August he had completely disappeared from not only Hollywood, but also the face of the earth.

Scott had disappeared from Aiden's presence even before that.

Aiden had been so happy to see Scott that he initially forgot all that, but he soon recovered and his reception became guarded. "What brings you out here, Scott? You can hardly say you were just passing by."

"I almost passed out trying to get the motor on this boat operating."

"I can look at it for you," Aiden said. "I've had to become quite the mechanic. Have you tried hitting it with a wrench?"

"What?" Scott said, clearly confused.

"Never mind," Aiden answered. "Why are you here? You didn't just coincidentally drift here when your engine stopped."

"I want to take you away from here, Aiden. I have a proposal."

"Take me away from this paradise?" Aiden asked, with a laugh, opening his arms to take in the quarter acre of lighthouse base that he lived on. "I must show you my empire. Come. Give me fifteen minutes to shower and find some clothes and I'll walk you around and show you why I couldn't possibly give up this life."

To Scott's credit, he followed Aiden around the lighthouse, asking questions with respect, not criticizing or making fun of any part of the life Aiden had retreated to. It wasn't until after Aiden had fixed him supper—which Scott also tactfully didn't complain about—that they settled down in the lighthouse living room before the fire and talked seriously again.

"What is it, Scott? You couldn't drop me soon enough last year. Why is it that you are here?"

"I'm moving to Italy," Scott said. "Writing scripts for Italian movies. They don't have enough heartthrob leads there. I thought you might like to move to Italy too. As I remember you speak passable Italian."

"My mother's parents were from Milan," Aiden said. "They never learned English, so I learned some Italian out of respect and self-defense. I wanted to know what they said about me and my acting; they never held back and were the best movie critics I'd ever encountered. I've had too few honest people my life."

At this, he gave Scott and pointed look, but the man wasn't rising to the bait.

"But you know I can't get back into movies," he added.

"Others are doing it. Just pick a new stage name. No one will know—and even if they do, they won't care. It's not the Communist scare that you were involved in. Stewart isn't in the picture anymore. Memories are short. Rock is still taking leading roles. If he can survive the scandal, so can you. You just haven't given it a chance."

The reference to Stewart tugged at Aiden's heartstrings—and, truth be known, at the wall of his nether passage too. It's not easy to wipe out the memory of a thick eight-inch cock. "I didn't wish death on Stewart," Aiden said. Another actor, as ruined by his exposé as Aiden had been, had shot the gossip columnist dead. He was headlining in Folsom Prison now. "I was stupid to go with a gossip columnist," Aiden said.

Scott didn't disagree with him, which raised his hackles again, and Aiden said, "I don't know why you are looking out for me now, Scott. You dropped me like a hot potato when Stewart's article came out, just like everyone else did."

"I couldn't say anything—for your own good."

"My good, or yours? We palled around too much. You were afraid to be painted with the same brush. Can't get too close to a queer in Hollywood these days—almost as bad as being in bed with the Commies."

"No, I was afraid that our friendship would be used against you—to add fuel to the attack on you."

"I don't understand."

"I was under threat too, Aiden. Some of my former lovers were threatening to out me too. And if they had and I was linked to you, it would have made your life even harder than Stewart's article was making it. There was only that one allegation about you. The same story from two separate sources and you're a cooked goose."

"Former lovers? Outing you? Are you telling me that you are queer too, Scott?"

"Of course. How could you have missed it? How could you have missed how much I ached for you, but couldn't do anything about it because you obviously were with Stewart, and Stewart wasn't someone you crossed?"

"Oh. Well, that's ironic. Learning that now that I'm out of that lifestyle."

"Out of that lifestyle? You showed me what you were doing with wood—the objects you were whittling. What's this object, Aiden?"

Aiden looked at the object in Scott's hand and his heart skipped a couple of beats. It quite clearly was a penis—a thick and long one. Had he carved that? He hadn't been conscious of doing that. But there was no mistake about it. It was the object he'd finished carving two days ago and had polished up to a satin finish the previous day. And it wasn't just a penis, he was aghast to realize. It was a particular penis. It was life size, albeit oversized. It was at least eight inches long, and thick, and it had those three veins running up the shaft and the slight upcurve that Stewart Whitaker's cock had had. It was a dildo.

"Have you been fucked by a man since last summer, Aiden?"

"No," Aiden answered. "You're the first man to come ashore other than an ancient mariner who delivers my supplies and he usually just hauls the boxes out onto the pier and never leaves his boat."

"Have you used this dildo on yourself?"

"No." How could he say that that was Stewart's cock, the size and thickness of it, Stewart's cock down to the veins in it? Or did Scott suspect that it was?

"Why not? Why not take your pleasure despite whatever the public thinks?"

Aiden didn't have an answer for that.

"Where is that bedroom that takes up a whole floor of the lighthouse?" Scott asked.

* * * *

Aiden, naked, was lying on his back on the double, brass head-boarded bed on the fourth level of the lighthouse. The light from the revolving beacon overhead was showing up at one window in the stuccoed wall before disappearing and, after a moment, showing up in the window across from it. Aiden's arms were pulled over his head, his wrists tied to the brass rungs of the headboard.

Other than the brief flashes of light reflecting off the white walls of the circular room, the room was dark. The only sounds other than the distant grinding noise of the light revolving on its base, were the sounds of Aiden's low grunts and groans and of Scott's moist kisses.

Scott, also naked, was positioned lower against Aiden's body. His cheek was on Aiden's trembling belly. Aiden's right leg was trapped behind Scott's back, with his ankle hooked on the back of Scott's neck. Aiden's other leg was spread to the side and bent, his foot flat on the surface of the bed, but rocking back and forth, causing the former movie star's pelvis to move. Scott's left arm was under Aiden's waist, his hand helping to keep Aiden's left thigh raised.

Scott's right hand was holding the base of the wooden, lubed-up dildo, which was six inches inside Aiden's passage and being rhythmically pushed in and pulled out, with brief stops for the bulb of the dildo to punish Aiden's prostate.

At seven inches, Aiden arched his back and moaned deeply. One more inch and it would be Stewart fucking him.

Scott dipped his head lower, and tongued up Aiden's erect cock from base to glans, after which he swallowed the cock and began to suck it. He worked the dildo progressive harder, pumping faster, digging deeper, pulling it completely out, and plunging it back in.

Eight inches. Aiden arched his head back, bowing his spine, and cried out to the wooden beams overhead as he shot his load and creamed the back of Scott's throat. Pulling the dildo out immediately, Scott rolled over on top of Aiden, stuffing a pillow under the small of his back to elevate his pelvis. He thrust inside Aiden's passage with his hard cock and immediately started to pump. Aiden moaned at the realization that Stewart Whitaker hadn't been the only one who had an eight-inch plus cock.

For a good fifteen minutes the noise level in the room went up: Scott grunting and breathing heavy as he grabbed Aiden's hips and worked hard to dig deeper, stroke harder and faster; Aiden moaning and crying out, "God, yes, fuck me. Fuck me harder"; and the frame of the old brass bed making the most noise of all, the brass headboard banging rhythmically against the wall and the springs of the bed screeching, bouncing and scrunching under the punishment.