Phantom is the star. An opera virtuoso whose career is destroyed because of his ugliness—but whose voice remains. Ugly political extremism has again destroyed art, and the artist who creates it. The prequel is all about his trauma, his railing at the unfairness of a God who would give him a voice; then take away the chance to use it, his resurrection at the hands of Lydia—and then his crushing defeat as she begins to go on with her life—with another “normal” boy—another opera star. (Anyone who knows opera will attest that there are no “normal boys” who are good opera singers. They’re all would-be divos.)
Only half of my face would ever be seen—the other half always covered in a mask. My bulk would give the robed character a sinister super-human dimension—not an evil super-hero, but a giant of a man, who had known success and dominance, dealing with trauma and rejection. And sexually repressed, not out of choice but out of circumstance.
Miller giddily announced the role was made for me. “This is the role that will make you a Broadway star, Flip.” (Duh, based on the press, I thought I already was!) “No dance, but the flowing robes preferred by the Phantom would require your deft footwork and ostentatious movement.” He even had a voice coach lined up. He was so excited that it wore off on me. So we scheduled the audition. Rehearsals would start in a few weeks—in New York. Then, he dropped the nuclear device, “By the way, Brent’s producer syndicate has a majority of the ownership. He’s the one who called me.”
Brent was my neighbor, one of my best friends, my confidante, and my “almost landlord”—he had provided the funds to acquire the coop. He had helped me over Michael. And he was Kirk’s guy. Probably my best, non-bedded friend in New York.
I had a show that night, and so I headed back to the Winter Garden to prepare. My head was in the sky with the possibilities, but I needed to center myself and move into my Jud persona before the curtain. Costuming and make-up always helped. So did sitting in a dressing room surrounded by the memorabilia of the role.
I knew it was bad luck to celebrate before I had even auditioned. But I needed to talk to someone. I knew that Brent would be anxiously awaiting Kirk’s return later, so that was out. Even if he were free, I didn’t want to prevail on our friendship to get the part. And so I txted Trey: “Cum by tonite, love? Meet me at the stage door?”
Trey (Andrew Jackson Maguire III) and I had become a pair in the last months. We had met on a lighting job at a particularly difficult point in my relationship with Michael. He was just what the doctor ordered: a young, handsome, simple, randy, hung Southern jock. (Actually, he was only a year younger than I.) He was in New York, escaping from an Alabama family who didn’t know and wouldn’t have approved that he was gay. He was a ginger—and gingers always pick me up when I’m down. Fiery red hair and pubes are so festive! And it’s such fun to trace the dots (freckles) on a ginger ass, and try to visualize an image as your tongue turns it all dark! He had played athletics, had a nice muscular build and a drawl that had enough syrup to handle breakfast for most of Manhattan. And he was a gay virgin. At least until we spent some time together. I was his first—and as far as I know his last. How can any guy be so hard and so soft at the same time?
I hadn’t asked him to move in….yet, at Brent’s suggestion. Brent had cautioned me against a quick rebound romance—particularly with someone I barely knew. But, by now, Trey was spending three or four nights at my place every week. He was doing performance lighting tech at the Barrymore—and so our schedules meshed very nicely. And we were definitely getting closer.
Within seconds, there was a return txt: “Can’t wait. I’ll B there–“—followed by several suggestive emojis.
It looked like Kirk and I were both short-timers now. And the stage phenomenon kicked in: every actor wants his (her) last performances to be so good that they are “defining” and “memorable.” Thus, the show was terrific, and we even got that rare New York standing ovation when we came out for curtain calls.
I changed and cleaned off the make-up and headed for the door. Trey was there with his now worn-out line, “Need a body-guard, Flip?” We embraced and started the uptown walk, both anticipating the pleasures just in front of us. Trey had finished before me and had showered at the theatre. He smelled clean and of the South—with the musky tones of fragrant blossoms past their prime, but still alluring to any nearby honeybee. My senses were peaked—and my stinger was hardening in my jeans! Every step brought me closer to having him in my bed and my cock in his sweet little ass.
We arrived at the Montana, and Carlos greeted us warmly. He was getting accustomed to the absence of Michael (whom he later told me he never really trusted) and the ever-presence of Trey. Trey and Carlos apparently had a thing going. They traded jokes and game scores like they were old friends. Both were soccer and baseball nuts. I had come to realize that everyone loved Trey. He was the perfect friend: always with the melting smiling, always with an apt compliment, always with a good word.
Trey had weathered my storm. My depression. My self-blame that I had injured Michael in some unseen way. That I had betrayed Michael by sleeping with Trey. He put up with my needs and consoled me with physical closeness that I had never before felt with anyone.
And he had done it in my bed. He became the best sex that I’ve ever had in my life. Pro or amateur! (Fuck, I say that about all my partners, at least while they’re my partners. Just call me a hopeless romantic.)
At first, I was always the top. But, after a few weeks during which he had frequently taken me into his lap in consolation, I had urged him to take me. He was a vigorous and ardent lover. And from that day, he gave as much as he got. But tonight I had to top.
We entered and he immediately began to undress me, lingering over my hard pecs and aroused nipples as he unbuttoned my shirt. He leaned in to take my nipples between his teeth. He was a multi-tasker: he was also caressing my ass and then stroking my dick as he lowered my jeans. Then, when I was naked, he stood back and his eyes said it all. He was worshipping. And I soaked it up like that renowned paper towel.
I was not so patient. I nearly ripped his clothes from his body, grabbed his bubbled ass globes–hard, and knelt to take his shaft into my mouth as his pants fell to the floor.
I was excited to tell him my news. But we were both too aroused. He led me to the bedroom (it wasn’t “ours” yet), pulled back the duvet and stretched out on his back. His arms went out immediately to draw me on top. And when I stretched out, his arms and legs immediately trapped me to him and squeezed me hard. I was breathless and rock hard. He released and I sat back to allow him to prepare for my taking. He drew his legs high, exposing his lightly red-fuzzed thighs and his glorious inviting pink-rimmed hole. Fuck, I’d love to have a picture of this in my dressing room. It would definitely induce my best performances!