My Lucky Star (30 page)

“Look,” I said, my tone calm and reassuring, “I’ve known Moira for years and I know how much she values your patronage. I’m
sure if I explain the situation she’ll rectify it immediately.”

Stephen shot me a grateful look, which made me glad I’d spoken up. Then Claire walked in, which made me rather wish I hadn’t.

“I thought that was you, Philip. Or is it Glen still? Or perhaps some third identity I haven’t met, in which case hello, I’m
Claire.”

Stephen, unable to believe yet a third female had invaded his sex den, blurted, “Jesus!” and buried his face in the doughnut.
Diana imperiously informed Claire that they were having a private discussion and Claire sweetly replied that she hadn’t meant
to intrude; she’d just grab me and be off.

“Sorry,” I said, “I haven’t finished Stephen’s massage.”

“Excuse me?” said Claire. Gina helpfully explained that I was practicing and, by all reports, getting quite good.

It was at this unfortunate juncture that I chanced to notice that Oscar’s large golden sword was still sitting where he’d
thrown it, leaning against the sofa. I gave a little gasp and my eyes ricocheted involuntarily to the base of the massage
table, a serious blunder as the eagle-eyed Claire noticed it and began eyeing the same region with regrettably keen curiosity.

“Sorry about the whole Glen thing,” I said, babbling in a futile attempt to distract her. “I had to pretend, you see, because
Monty —”

“Yes, I know,” said Claire. “Gina was kind enough to explain your extracurricular chores to me.”

“Does everyone need to know our business?” wailed Diana as Claire discreetly yanked a button from her blouse and let it drop
to the floor by the table.

“Oops, lost a button!”

She knelt to retrieve it and, pretending it had gone under the table, lifted the sheet slightly and peered in as Stephen looked
on in stoned agony. It was clear that the day’s events had done much to inure Claire to bizarre surprises and restore her
native aplomb.

“Found it,” she said airily, then rose. “I’m off. I’m absolutely desperate for a drink. You look like you could use one too,
Diana.”

“You know, ashually I could,” replied the star.

Claire then told Gina that when she had a moment she’d like to discuss the script, particularly several scenes that did not
currently feature Gina’s character and which Claire felt suffered from the omission. Gina said there was no time like the
present, then turned to us.

“You guys finish your massage.”

“That shoulder’s still tight,” I said, kneading it lightly, the thrill of my first touch of his bare torso shamefully undiminished
by the presence of his wife.

“You’ll talk to Moira?” asked Diana.

“Soon as we’re done,” I vowed.

“Bye, hon,” said Gina to Stephen.

“See ya.”

Claire shepherded her charges out the door. The look she shot us as she closed it contained volumes, none of which I looked
forward to reading.

T
HOUGH IT WOULD HAVE BEEN DIFFICULT
to imagine a more shattering ordeal, there was no topping it as a bonding experience for Stephen and me. When the ladies
had finally gone the look that passed between us was one such as two World War I doughboys might have exchanged after passing
a long night in their foxhole, staring death in the face while dodging their less fortunate comrades’ flying viscera.

“Jeez,” said Stephen with a shudder.

“Yikes,” I concurred.

The door to the back hall opened and Ricky entered, clearly agog with curiosity.

“I was going to check on you but I heard all these voices! Was that your mom?”

Stephen nodded darkly.

“I thought so! What was she so pissed about?” asked Ricky, apparently laboring under the misapprehension that his brief residency
in Stephen’s bottom entitled him to hear family secrets.

“Please,” sighed Stephen, “just go.”

“Okay,” he said, a bit stung. “I was just—” He paused and looked around, puzzled. “Where’d Oscar go?”

Oscar crawled sheepishly from his hiding place, his previous allure now dimmed by the flaccidity of his gilded cock and the
charley horse he’d acquired while crouching down there.

“So,” inquired Ricky, “would you like to reschedule for maybe —”

“Just go,” repeated Stephen. Ricky nodded, chastened, then helped his limp and limping colleague from the room.

You might suppose that such a debacle, offering as it did the clearest possible warning on the dangers of extramarital spa
nooky, would have banished all lewd thoughts from my head. You would, however, suppose wrong. The instant the door closed
I became powerfully aware that Stephen and I were truly alone for the first time ever and that he was nude save for boxers.
I also realized that although two skilled sex workers had escorted him briskly around the sexual bases, his cleats had yet
to touch home. I scurried to the hall door to make sure it was locked, then returned to Stephen’s side. I perched subserviently
on the edge of the table and eyed him with tender concern.

For a while he said nothing but just lay staring ahead with the air of a man waiting for the hearse. Then he turned to me,
his eyes boring into mine.

“If you tell one single person what happened here —!”

“Stephen!” I said with a maidenly gasp. “Never! No one!” I touched his shoulder and gave him my most soulful gaze. “I’m on
your
side. Always. Don’t you know that by now?”

“I guess so,” he conceded with a sigh. “But what about Claire?”

“Oh, don’t worry about Claire,” I said lightly. I was eager to dismiss the whole topic of Claire, which I deemed dangerous
and inconducive to erections. “She’s the soul of tact. I mean, you saw her peek under the table. Did she cry ‘Aha!’ or even
bat an eye? No, she just stood up, realized this was no place for ladies, and hustled your mom and Gina out. You’ve nothing
to fear from Claire. God, you’re so tense!” I observed, tentatively kneading his upper back. “Allow me.”

Holding my breath, I began to gently massage the area, fully expecting that any second he’d ask what the fuck I thought I
was doing. His muscles
were
tight though and he accepted my ministrations without protest. Emboldened, I began kneading the area harder, concentrating
on my technique even as I marveled that I was fondling the screen’s most legendary trapezius.

“So,” he asked dreamily, his eyes closed now, “where the hell’d you come from? What were you doing in here?”

Having just extolled Claire’s benevolence it seemed imprudent to admit I’d been running for my life from her. I said that,
in order to avoid an unwelcome pass from Monty, I’d claimed to be double booked then taken refuge in here, hiding beneath
the table when I’d heard footsteps approaching.

“Once I realized it was you I was going to come out but . . . well, things had kinda heated up by then. One hates to kill
the mood.”

“Liar,” he said with a stoned smirk. “You just wanted to listen in.”

“And watch,” I conceded boldly.

“You could see?” he asked, more intrigued than offended.

“A little. In the mirror.”

“Slut,” he said companionably. “Played with yourself too, I’ll bet.”

“Oh,” I deadpanned, “like that was the dirtiest thing going on in here.”

He laughed softly. Silence fell. It lengthened and I grew concerned. Had I overstepped? Or worse, put him to sleep? But then
he gave a little sigh and without opening his eyes asked, “So, wudja think?”

A part of me couldn’t help thinking “Actors! Can’t they do
anything
without wanting a review?” But a far shrewder part of me realized that there’s nothing like boffo press to raise an actor’s
spirits and in this case perhaps more. So I launched into a rhapsodic appraisal of Stephen’s performance, leaning heavily
on words like “stunning” and “godlike” plus several metaphors drawn equally from the worlds of ballet and rodeo. I hoped my
lascivious praise joined with my increasingly visible excitement would reignite Stephen’s libido. He shifted onto his side
and I stole a glance at his boxers.

Success!

Rubbing his neck now, I lowered my face to his ear.

“You,” I growled huskily, “are the sexiest man of all time.” This phrase proved the sexual equivalent of open sesame. He grabbed
the back of my head and gave me a kiss so electrifying it damn near finished the job it was meant to begin. When our lips
parted I squatted there, nose to nose with him. I gazed into those perfect eyes, waiting breathlessly to hear the words that
had echoed in my fantasies since the moment we’d met. And though I’d been hoping for “I want you, Philip, I always have!”
or “Take me, my love!” I settled quite happily for “Get busy. You’re batting cleanup.”

W
HEN THE DAY COMES
that I lay wizened on my deathbed, preparing to breathe my last, should those in attendance note that I am smiling more lewdly
than is quite decorous during extreme unction, they may confidently assume that I’m recalling the eight and a half minutes
that followed Stephen’s invitation. It is a memory I’ve revisited times without number and one that has never, even in the
darkest hours, failed to divert.

The question most often put to us members of the Fucked-a-Megastar Club by the frustrated applicants who crowd its waiting
list is, “Was it all you dreamed it would be?” In strict honesty I must say not entirely, if only because my dreams were more
romantic in nature and ran toward sleigh beds, roaring fires, and perhaps dinner. But these are mere quibbles. When you’re
making love and the face you’re gazing down upon (or, by midpoint, up at) is that of Stephen Donato, matters of venue pale
into insignificance.

True, if I wanted to cavil, I might have preferred it if he’d have spent as much time gazing raptly at me as he did at the
mirror, this previously mentioned predilection of his having reasserted itself rather vigorously. Again, some might have seen
this as narcissism. I preferred to think it was his scrupulous devotion to craft and that he watched his performance much
as he might the dailies of a new film, searching for ways to better his technique. How thrilling for me though to gaze into,
or at least at, those beautiful azure eyes. How much more gratifying still to see them widen in ecstasy at the jubilant finish.
Hey, Stevie fans! Think you’ve seen all his major releases? I can name one you missed!

When it was over we lay there panting. Then Stephen pecked me lightly on the cheek (this being, after all, our first date)
and said, “Thanks, I needed that.”

“Oh, anytime.”

He sat on the edge of the table, still a bit foggy. He remarked on the unusual strength of the pot and said he’d need some
coffee in his room before dinner. I offered to walk him out.

As we promenaded past the unsuspecting guests in the spa foyer and main salon, a wave of euphoria stole over me as I savored
the delicious secret we now shared. It was something I hadn’t felt since Gilbert and I, at the age of fifteen, lost our virginity
to each other, then proceeded directly to a rehearsal of
You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown.
Our covertly exchanged smiles flooded my heart with happiness, erasing the pique I felt over playing the thankless role of
Schroeder.

Stephen and I were adults, not schoolboys. We exchanged no telltale grins but ambled through the salon and into the foyer
with that studied nonchalance illicit lovers have cultivated from time immemorial. But beneath my placid exterior I was already
reliving our torrid antics and happily imagining even steamier assignations to come. Could I lure him over to my place some
night when Gilbert was out? Was my bedroom nice enough? Would I need a bigger mirror?

The problem with euphoria, of course, is that it lowers your defenses, leaving you vulnerable to predators lurking in the
underbrush, which is why I gave no thought whatsoever to Claire until she fell on me from behind as we strolled down the upstairs
hall. Seizing me by my collar and belt, she frog-marched me back to her room. Stephen, so recently assured by me of her benign
placidity, watched in pardonable confusion. “You too!” she barked, motioning for him to join the party. When he failed to
do so immediately she stomped over, grabbed him by the sleeve, and dragged him to her door.

“What do you think you’re doing?!”

“Just get in!” she snapped and shoved us both inside, slamming the door behind her. The room was all but identical to my own,
the sole addition to the decor being Gilbert, who sat at the foot of the bed and wore the dazed, beleaguered look of a suspect
hauled in for questioning on a day when the good cop has phoned in sick.

“Watch who you’re shoving!” scolded Stephen.

“Excuse me, Your Highness,” said Claire, offering a sarcastic curtsy. “Just sit.”

“I don’t know what your problem is but I don’t take orders from —!”

“Sit!”

Stephen scowled but some instinct told him to obey and he parked himself resentfully on a love seat. I sat next to him, bracing
for the worst, which Claire wasted no time in dispensing.

“Your friend under the table —did you have sex with him?”

Stephen just stared, aghast at the impertinence of the question.

“Did you?”

“What are you talking about?” he replied with the knee-jerk outrage such calumnies invariably provoked from him.

“Your little chum,” prompted Claire. “Golden boy. What were you doing before Mum and the missus crashed the party?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about! There was no one under that table,” he declared so forcefully even I almost bought
it. “Philip will back me up, won’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“I
saw
him, you idiots!” said Claire. “And what’s more I saw you see me see him, so do not please imagine you can act your way out
of this. I know all about what goes on in Moira’s VIP rooms. This one told me everything.”

She indicated Gilbert, whose fascination with his lap remained undiminished.

“Nice going!” I sniped. Unfair of me, I know, since I’d have sung like a drunk show queen had Claire worked me over. It was
vital though that Stephen view me as a stalwart confidant who’d never crack under pressure.