"Uh-huh." I replied.

"Don't worry about a thing. I'm an old pro-I can get you through it."

Making a porn movie was the last thing in the world I thought I'd be getting myself into when I drove down to Palm Springs in the Flying Couch the day after Christmas. Blair was sitting over with the director and the cameraman somewhere. He'd called me on Christmas, lonely and bored. His father's movie had run over schedule, and he was trapped filming in Australia. "I'm stuck here with nothing but servants," Blair wailed into the phone. "Please tell me you can meet me in Palm Springs tomorrow. Please."

"Okay," I said, "just e-mail me the address so I can Mapquest directions, okay?"

And so, the next morning I threw a suitcase in the trunk of the Flying Couch and headed south out of Polk. It took me about six hours to get there, and when I pulled into the driveway of Steve Blanchard's Palm Springs manse, the white Lexus was already there. I was surprised there was no security gate or anything-given the high tech security of the house in Beverly Hills, the big ranch-style house was pretty open to whoever wanted access to it. The front yard was all sand, with a large cactus here and there, and metal abstract sculptures reflecting the hot sun. I rang the doorbell, and Blair opened the front door just a few moments later. "Thank God you're here!" He flew into my arms, hugging me so tight I could barely breathe. "I was about to slit my wrists."

I laughed, "You're exaggerating." Still, I'd missed him, and luxuriated in the feel of his body against mine. He wasn't wearing a shirt or shoes, just a pair of white cotton tennis shorts with nothing underneath. He'd gotten more tan since he'd left Polk, and I reached down and cupped his hard ass with my hands and squeezed. He hopped up, wrapping his legs around my waist, and I kissed him. My cock responded, despite how tired I was from being in the car for so long, and as his tongue explored my mouth I gently lowered him to the marble floor and pinched his nipples. He gasped and moaned. "Fuck me. Jeff. Right here. I need you so bad." He pulled my T-shirt up over my head and started kissing my chest as I fumbled with my belt. I went up on my knees and pulled my pants down, and he sat up and took me in his mouth. My entire body shivered as he started working my cock with his mouth and tongue. He lapped at my cock like he needed it to survive. With his hands he pushed his own shorts down, and then lay back on the cool floor, spreading his legs for me.

"Fuck me," he pleaded. "Fuck me hard. I need it so bad."

I spit in my hand, rubbed it on my cock and I shoved him backwards. He fell back to the floor and I shoved my cock into him as hard as I could. His lips parted as he cried out, and I drove deep inside of him. "Oh yeah, please, fuck me hard, as rough as you can, please, I need it so bad ..."

I began pumping him, driving my hips back and forth as violently as I could. With each thrust, his head went back and he gasped. His whole body began to shake, and then he came suddenly, squirting out his load all over his chest. I was close so I kept going, pounding and pounding until I finally came with a shout of my own before collapsing on the floor beside him. He rolled over on top of me, burying his head in my neck. "Mmmm," he whispered. "That's exactly what I needed. God, I've missed you."

"You couldn't find anyone down here?" I asked.

He stiffened in my arms. He pulled away from me and sat up. There was a hurt expression on his face. "What is that supposed to mean, Jeff?" He crossed his arms. "I missed you. I wanted you." He scrambled to his feet. "And I thought you wanted me to. I suppose you've been-oh, never mind." To my horror, he started to cry.

"Jeff." I pulled my pants up and hugged him from behind. "I'm sorry. I was only kidding. Of course I missed you." I squeezed him. "Is everything okay?"

"I'm sorry." He wiped his face and leaned back into me. "It just sucked being alone on Christmas. Again." He pulled away from me and picked up his shorts. "Come on, let me show you around."

"Do you want to talk about it?" I asked.

He smiled at me. "Not right now Maybe later." He shook his head. "Follow me."

The house looked small from the driveway, but on the inside it was much bigger. He led me from the foyer into a huge living room with a high ceiling. The floor was the same marble as the foyer; the walls were painted an off white. A small fountain bubbled in one corner of the room, and I saw that it's base drained into a makeshift stream that led outside and emptied into the swimming pool. Over the fireplace was a massive print of Steve Blanchard from his first movie-the one that made him a star. "Wow," I said, walking over to it.

Blair laughed. "Yeah, that's something, isn't it?"

I'd seen The Pool Boy at least twenty times myself. Steve Blanchard had been twenty and had played some small roles in a couple of movies when he landed the starring role. The movie had been intended as a comeback vehicle for Denise Moss, an actress in her forties whose career had kind of slid. She played a woman whose husband had just left her for a younger woman, and who is contemplating suicide when she sees a beautiful young man emerging from her swimming pool naked. He turns out to be her new pool boy, and they wind up having sex. She slowly becomes obsessed with him, and at the very end, she shoots him. But when the film debuted, all anyone-critics and audiences alike-could talk about was the incredible beauty of young Steve Blanchard. The scene where he emerges dripping wet out of the pool in slow motion for the first time, is considered one of the great classic scenes in film history. It was a truly amazing shot. The print showed Steve, soaking wet, emerging naked from the pool, water cascading down every muscle.

"It's kind of creepy to come into the living room and see your father naked," Blair went on. "I'm sure someday I'll have a great conversation with a therapist about it."

I shrugged. "It's a great print, but you're right. I don't think I could handle having something like that around of my dad."

"Come on, let's put your suitcase in our room, then we can go sit by the pool and drink some wine." He winked. "And later on, I'll take you over to meet the neighbors. Did you like that porn I left for you?"

"Yeah, it was hot."

"The producer/director has the house next door." He grinned. "And she's shooting a film this weekend. She said we could watch some of the shoot, if we wanted to."

"That could be interesting."

"Might be good material for you to write about someday." Blair laughed. "You never know. Come on, let me show you around."

The house spread out from the living room. The kitchen was to the right, and beyond that was the master bedroom suite. It was incredibly luxurious, with probably the biggest bed I'd ever seen, and mirrors everywhere. And on every wall were prints of Steve Blanchard. Some dressed, some undressed, from every stage of his career. There were framed magazine covers he'd appeared on, everything from Time to Vanity Fair to Esquire. On a dresser sat several People's Choice awards, and the Emmy he'd won for a madefor-TV movie called Nobody's Hero, in which he'd played a mentally handicapped man who rescued a baby from a burning building. I walked over and picked it up. It was surprisingly heavy. "This room-"

"I call it the Steve Shrine," Blair said, a bitter tone in his voice. "He has this here, because he only comes out here to relax, you know. He can't have all this in Beverly Hills, because people might think he's an egomaniac-and his gimmick is his humility, you know." He made a gagging noise.