Page 53 of King of Hollywood

I’d plan better.

I’d continue to carry these condoms and maybe—one day—when I was ready, we’d need them.

Over the course of the next few weeks, I spent a frankly obscene amount of time on porn websites. Yes. Me. Marshall Warden, the proudly self-proclaimed prude—was watching porn. And not just a little of it—no. No. I was watching so much that when my office got pizza delivered on a particularly busy Friday, I immediately reached for the mace in my desk, ready to fend off the delivery boy should it be necessary.

It wasn’t.

But still.

When I closed my eyes I saw dicks behind my eyelids.

So. Many. Dicks.

It was horrifying.

Porn was ridiculous. It really was. I didn’t understand why people seemed able to just…walk into a room—in this case, on set—look at another person, and immediately want to tear their clothes off. I had never felt that about anyone. In fact, most of the time when I saw people out in the wild I wanted to put more clothes on them, rather than take them off.

I’d never looked at someone and thought about fucking them.

At least, until now.

I tried that a few times, during periods of research, putting myself in the shoes of the “characters” I was watching on screen. I wanted to understand. And I figured the best way to do that was to expose myself, the same way I’d exposed myself to cat sounds. Perhaps if I became desensitized, I wouldn’t look like a fool when the time finally came to share physical intimacy with Felix?

That was the plan anyway.

And the plan went awry rather quickly.

On the first night, actually.

Sitting at my desk in my home office that first time the night after the carnival, with a water bottle and an aspirin—should the sounds prove irritating—I prepared to become a new man. I had a few weeks before our next date—Felix was once again acting cagey and like his social calendar was quite full, so I had time. I had tissues on hand—not because I intended to masturbate, but because I always had tissues at my desk. Because I was a planner, like Winnie had said, and even planners needed tissues.

Unfortunately, when I imagined fucking my fake stepmom, the delivery man, or the mechanic that worked on my car—instead of having a positive physical reaction, I became violently uncomfortable.

This was clearly not working, so I switched tactics.

I thought about Felix.

And well, that was a different story.

The idea of Felix without clothing made something shivery and needy awake inside me. The thought of unbuttoning his trousers made my breath unsteady. Heat coiled in my belly, my cock twitching to life.

I could free his cock. The one I’d—maybe—stared a bit at during the carnival, bare. Slick. Pink. See just how big it was in real life. Touch the silky skin and watch his face scrunch with pleasure. Would he push it inside my mouth? Would he hold me steady, plunging in and out, whimpering and whining above me like a needy beast in heat?

When I thought about slicking up my fingers—about slipping them inside him—about…about…shoving him onto his belly. And pushing his legs open and tasting him where he was filthiest, I just—

Fuck.

Yes.

Okay.

That was better.

It was wrong, wrong, wrong for me to want to touch someone else like that. To want to violate their body with my own. Sticky sweat. Naked. The slap of our hips meeting as I forced my cock inside his cherry pink hole and grabbed his ass cheeks like I often grabbed his face. Would the back of his neck taste like salt? Would he cry when I fucked into his sweet little hole?

I hoped so.

I wonder if his tears would taste better if I was the one who had caused them.