In the balmy streets of Charleston, adult filmmaker Armand Bettencourt meets a street hustler like no other. Restless, untutored, and sexy, young J.T. Pierce wings off to Los Angeles with Armand.
The last thing on Armand's mind is the new actor, but young J.T. gets under his skin ... in more ways than one. J.T. is determined to become the next big gay porn sensation. With that body -- and that attitude -- he just might.
But Armand's friends set up a doozy of a trick on them. Armand has to make a choice -- take a chance on the lad or let him go, painful though that might be. Can a grumpy, middle-aged filmmaker find love with a former street hustler?
“What’s a fluffer?”
The question seemed to echo across the set. I’d figured it was time to show the kid the ropes at the studio. I locked eyes with my cameraman for a second. John had spotted the new meat instantly -- was probably already designing the perfect camera angle for his lean good looks. John and I share a taste for the dark, exotic types.
“When you gonna quit bringing in strays, Boss?” John asked. I held up a hand, still watching my new discovery, until my assistant had taken J.T. into the dressing room to introduce him to the crew returning from lunch break. I counted the seconds on my fingers. One ... two ... three ...
On five, an indignant squeal sounded from behind the door. “I don’t need no stinking fluffer!”
John chuckled. “And another prima donna at that. Aren’t you ever gonna learn?”
“He’ll figure it out,” I replied, my gaze still on the doorway. The young man in question stepped from the dressing room, a slightly stunned expression on his face, to pause at a jumbled stack of backdrops leaning against one wall. His silky black hair tumbled over his startlingly green eyes, and he shoved it back with a quick movement of one hand. I was certain that almost every eye in the room was on J.T. Pierce. I had difficulty keeping my gaze from returning to the boy, and I’d had nearly two weeks to become accustomed to his dark good looks. I’d found, somewhat to my surprise, that having an unexpected companion had not ruined my vacation. It had been fun showing J.T. his own home city and then mine. It had been fun educating him in other ways, as well. The kid was smart enough to make teaching him interesting.
John snorted. “I think you picked up a bantam rooster there, Boss.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Street rat, you mean. But he’s a quick learner. He’ll adjust.”
Then, I took a second look. Maybe John was more on target than I was. J.T. did resemble an arrogant cockerel. The top of that dark mop barely reached my nose. His muscles were lean and wiry, rather than bulky. He strutted instead of walking, most likely a habit picked up from his years on the street. I chuckled then, seeing the rooster instead of the rat.
Well, his street days were over anyway. None of my employees had to hustle to make ends meet. In fact, the last time I’d checked, Bettencourt Studios was at the top of the pay scale for the line of work we do, which is making quality gay porn. None of that “Plot, What Plot?” trash for Armand Bettencourt, believe me. When you sit down to watch a Bettencourt film, you can bet it’s going to be a cut above what you’ve seen from other studios.
I had to smile as my young find strutted about the set, investigating the props, the cameras, the lighting. If my instincts were right -- and Armand Bettencourt’s instincts are always right -- J.T. would soon have more men wanting that pretty young ass than he’d ever had on the streets. The rest of the crew straggled in from lunch. I left J.T. to his own devices and called a quick planning huddle.
“I want the new kid in a bit part,” I told them. “Let’s see if he’s as good as I think he is.”
Heads turned, and experienced eyes sized up the boy. J.T. was eighteen, I’d made certain of that, but he looked younger. And that fact would fit in perfectly with the new project, Bart’s Big Game, a tale of frolics and shenanigans on a school basketball team. The trouble was, we’d filmed nearly all of the damn thing. I scrubbed a hand over my chin and pondered.
“We haven’t shot the pep rally scene,” John offered. “Maybe he could be one of Bart’s school buddies.”
“He could be a cheerleader,” said Eddie, the soundman. “He’s light enough to toss around.”
“What about a pizza delivery?”
I whirled at that suggestion, casting one of my best glares around the group to flush out the guilty party. Pizza delivery boys, indeed! Nobody owned up, so I returned my brain to the problem at hand. J.T. could be a cheerleader, but we’d need to find the rest of a team, figure out a set of cheers, rehearse until they got it right ...
Old Ralph, the janitor, turned from sweeping the set for the next shot. “You could put him in as the school mascot.”
Eddie let out a whoop of laughter. His assistant elbowed the lighting director, and the whole lot of them burst into guffaws.
I traded a glance with my lead cameraman. John and I looked over at the props department at the same time. The laughter died out as the rest of the crew watched us. I thought about fake fur ... tiger stripes ... and bronze skin.
“Perfect,” I bellowed.
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