The first time I saw Steven I thought he was just some goofy kid. There I was, sitting in a conference room flipping through headshots. I put aside a photo of Dwayne, the pudgy man performing in front of me – obviously in his mid-thirties despite his résumé’s claim of being twenty-seven – to a Polaroid of some kid’s face. Yes, a Polaroid. Where all the other headshots were professional eight-by-ten photos, this boy had sent a color Polaroid. He must’ve held a camera at arms length and snapped it himself. The name "Steven" was hand-written in the white border at the bottom of the photo. I laughed out loud, drawing a glare from Dwayne in mid-performance.
"Thanks, Dwayne, that’s all I need," I interrupted; paying back the bitchy glance he had given me with an obvious rejection.
I work as an art director at a corporate communications firm. But since my major in college was Theatre the company I work for also has me write and direct live events and videos. Most of the time we look for middle-aged everymen to pander to salespeople with lots of upbeat technical mumbo-jumbo about the newest server or software. I spent this day, however, auditioning young performers for a corporate video promoting a new energy drink. But the gig was non-union, meaning the pay was low, the hours long and most of the guys coming into the room were too old, too ugly, too fat, or some horrible combination of the three. The end of a very long day was quickly approaching and I couldn’t wait to get home and jack off.
As Dwayne grabbed his bag and left the room I looked again at Steven’s Polaroid. Like I said, he was a goofy kid. He looked to be barely twenty, with tussled brown hair and bright blue eyes. He had this lopsided smirk on his face and the photo was slightly blurry. He was cute, granted. But this kid must be completely off his rocker. I chuckled again as I heard the conference room door open and close. I looked up to see Steven standing in front of me, shuffling his weight a bit from side to side. The only way I recognized him was by the unkempt brown hair and the hypnotic color of his eyes that were just as striking in person as in his photograph. They weren’t just blue, but some kind of piercing combination of cyan and silver amidst large, clear pools of white. The rest of him was totally unexpected, however, and my cock immediately lurched.
Steven was exquisitely shaped. He stood about 5’6" and probably weighed 120 pounds wet. He wore a very small green and light blue-striped t-shirt, a pair of brown corduroy pants and red tennis shoes with white laces. Though he was light and thin, his tight shirt revealed flat, square pectorals and a hint of a washboard stomach. His arms were slightly cut, showing off small but perfectly formed biceps and triceps. His skin was pale and smooth – almost as if someone had painted him with flesh-colored cream. His torso formed a distinct "V" shape as it tapered down into a tiny waist. But the best thing about him was his posture. He kind of stood into his hips, jutting his pelvis forward in a very manly way that was in sharp contrast to his boyish beauty. I figured he must be wearing boxers, because what appeared to be a big cock and set of balls hung out and straight down rather casually in his loose-fitting trousers.
"Hi. My n-name’s uh... Steven." He stammered a bit, obviously nervous. I heard a southern drawl in his voice and immediately knew he wasn’t from New York. He approached the table at which I was sitting and stuck out his hand.
I stood up to shake it. As I was standing I sucked in my nearly flat stomach and puffed up my chest just a little. I’m forty-four years old and some say really attractive. I’m 6’3", just shy of two hundred pounds and fairly hairy. I work out several times a week and stay active. There’s a touch of both Italian and Cherokee in my family tree so I have a slightly tanned color even in the winter. I have dark brown hair with just a few hints of gray at my temples. I had overslept the last two days in a row and a short, thick scruff grew on my face. I guess Steven was a little shaken by my size because as I stood up his eyes widened just a bit. I shook his damp and clammy hand a little more firmly than I should and allowed our first physical contact to linger.
"I’m Raf," I smiled. Steven smiled back, showing off the lopsided grin from the Polaroid. "It’s short for Raphael, but I never go by anything but Raf."
"It’s a cool name," he said, obviously feeling a bit braver than before. He didn’t move to break our lingering grasp of each other’s hand. I could feel my cock swelling so I quickly pulled back my hand and sat down. I never wanted to become one of those lecherous directors, no matter how many times I masturbated fantasizing about popping off a load into the mouth of a cute young thing during an audition. I was determined to keep this business-like no matter how much I wanted him. I felt the tip of my cock release a pearl of pre-cum.
"Tell me a little about yourself, Steven," I said looking him up and down.
"Well, I’m uh... I’m from a small town in West Virginia and I just came to the city a week ago. I’ve always wanted to be an actor, but my parents can’t afford to send me to college. So I worked h-hard and saved my money after high school and moved to the city as soon as I could afford it. I figure who needs college if you can learn your craft working, right? So now all I need is a j-job." Steven absent-mindedly adjusted his package.
I’ve got a j-job for you my boy, I thought. Then I came back to reality and said, "That’s great, Steve!" I overcompensated with a giddy exuberance to make up for my dirty old mind.
"Oh, please call me S-Steven. I like it when you— I mean..." he said laughing nervously, "I mean I like it when people call me Steven."
"No problem, Steven. I like saying it," I said smiling. He smiled, too.
"Okay, Steven, let’s get to it. Grab a can of that crap," I said pointing to the cans of energy drink in a nearby cooler "and read the lines off of the cue card on the easel. When you’re done with the lines, pop open the can and take a big swig. And remember, no matter how much you hate the stuff smile and act like it tastes good, okay?"
"No problem," he said grabbing a can.
He read the lines like a professional. Amazing how a kid from West Virginia with no training can walk into a room nervous and read commercial copy like a seasoned pro. When it comes to performing I guess you’ve either got it or you don’t. And this kid had it. I would’ve wanted to strip this kid down and swallow his cock even if he was the worst actor in the world. But now that I was seeing him perform so well, he melted my heart, too.
When it came time for him to open the drink, however, he wasn’t so successful. He reached for the aluminum tab on the top of the can and tried to flip it open with his finger but it slipped. He tried again. This time I could hear the first "POP" of the tab, but the can slipped out of his hands and hit the floor with a thud. Everything else happened in an instant.
Immediately a fountain of yellow, carbonated fluid spewed out from the top of the can like a geyser. The can spun around on the floor like a rocket soaking everything within six feet of Steven. All he could say was "Oh! Oh! Oh!" as he bent over and chased the can around his feet. Steven had foamy bubbles on his face and hair, the front of this shirt and all over his pants. I pulled a tissue out of a box on the table in front of me and jumped up to help him as the spewing slowed to a stop.
