In many respects it was my own fault. I'd sent Jaco Ngono that letter saying I'd do anything to be able to sit in his player's box at the U.S. Open Tennis championships. I'd worshipped the big, strapping black pro tennis player since the twenty-three-year- old broke onto the tennis scene. He was tall, over six foot six, and big, muscular, solid. He had a fast, heavy serve to die for. It had brought him into the quarterfinals of the tournament. He wasn't pretty; he had the rugged good looks of a take-charge thug, which is what I melted to in a potential top. Thus far it was all fantasy and thinking about it. I hadn't gone with a man... yet.
And the invitation had come, by way of his physical trainer, to sit in his box. Quite an honor for an nineteen-year-old TV actor. I asked the physical trainer if Ngono knew who I was, and he assured me that the tennis player did--and knew of the role I played on TV. I was in a situation drama set in New York, which, luckily, was on hiatus that week. I played a troubled family son uncertain of his sexuality. I could pass as a younger teenager, and they just glossed over my character's age in the TV show.
I had no trouble playing the part. My agent had said that it was risky, but we'd signed up anyway and he didn't regret it, because the paycheck was hefty and steady. Nate knew I was working with the knowledge I was leaning gay, although I hadn't done anything overt about it yet. He took that into account both whether I could handle the part and whether my fans could, reasoning in the end that I might as well face it sooner than later and that, if I was going to declare gay, the fans would find out anyway. What happened after that was what happened. What I was going through in my personal life, though, went well with the character in the TV show and helped me act the part convincingly.
Being gay was no longer a career killer in the entertainment industry. If the audience for the situation drama accepted me in my role, my stereotype would be set anyway. I was at the beginning of a career. It was loose enough to establish myself as this or that now.
But I hadn't really decided anything definite for my real-life self yet. I was only nineteen. I told myself that it was Ngono's play if we met. I'd let him take command one way or the other. But I was lost to him even before we met. The way he moved like a dancer, albeit a hundred-and-eighty-pound dancer, on the court attracted me. And there were rumors he was actively gay.
I did look at men and assess them as future bed partners. I had looked at Ngono that way. He had scored very high. He was very African, which gave me the feeling he'd be primeval, commanding, and very direct. I thought that sex with him would be natural, bold, and maybe a little wild. I wondered and worried about size, and I'd read that African men--especially those from central Africa, as Ngono was--were especially hung. I wondered how it would be to take not just any cock, but a particularly big one. But, then, I'd never done it, so it was just feelings. I admit that muscular black men aroused me. There was something breathlessly taboo about them, and I rebelled against being told something was taboo for me. Like other guys my age, that was a challenge to do it.
Ngono's trainer talked to my agent when I was accepting the invitation to set in the player's box for his quarterfinals match. The trainer said I had to understand that if Ngono lost, he very likely would be in a sulk and would want to be alone in his hotel room, but if he won, he'd want to party and he'd want everyone in his player's box to party with him. He didn't specify what "partying" meant in Ngono's world. Maybe since I was seeking the player out, his trainer thought I was further along in being submissive to men than I was.
So, they couldn't say when to pick me up. The trainer would see that I got back to the apartment where my studio-provided companion couple lived with me during the New York filming. My family lived in Fort Collins, Colorado. That's where I lived, on a ranch my salary largely paid for, when the TV series wasn't in production.
Nate was fine with that arrangement. I wasn't really asked what I felt about it. It would be fine with me, if I had been asked, though. I felt my companion couple could be stifling. I rarely could get out on my own. I was old enough to do that now. I seemed to be the only one at the studio or in my family who had realized I had reached the age to make my own decisions legally. I was on the cusp of demanding more access to my finances from my parents. I had been their gravy boat for long enough. I was ready to fly on my own.
Ngono won. He was ecstatic. He took us all, everyone in his player's box, out on the town--for supper and then to a club afterward. I was, of course, too young to go to the club, but the group just swept me in with the rest and the bouncers said nothing. I was recognized. A TV actor qualified as crowd-attracting celebrity. They let me in and turned an eye away from the number on my ID.
Ngono was a big celebrity for the night too. Everyone in New York knew of Ngono's epoch win. He was the last American, albeit a second-generation Congolese, left in the U.S. Open. His rise had been like a rocket. He was in heaven.
He kept saying he was happy I was there, partying with them. He mentioned what I said in my letter--that I'd do anything to be in the player's box--and he had me seated next to him in the club, and put an arm around me while he acted the king of the world. He touched me intimately a couple of times but I told myself that was inadvertent--and I was happy to be here anyway. He also asked me once if I was easy and made some comment about all TV actors being rent-boys, but it was noisy in the club and I didn't respond to either of these. He didn't seem to need response to anything he said or did. He was on the top of the world and he was king.
It wasn't his fault if he thought I was seasoned gay. I played gay on TV and I'd come on to him by making it obvious I wanted to be in his player's box. If he equated access to the player's box with bed, that wasn't an unreasonable assumption to make. I hadn't told him I was a virgin to men.
I wasn't old enough to drink, either, but it was put in front of me, no one saying anything about it, and I drank it. It wasn't like I couldn't--and didn't--get alcohol on the production set. No one said anything about it there if no one else was saying anything. I wasn't drunk or anything when we left the club at midnight and the group split up for their own accommodations, but I was tipsy. The trainer and Ngono offered me a ride. I accepted. The ride wasn't to my apartment; it was to Ngono's hotel room. By then I couldn't say I didn't know what was coming down. The trainer was driving and Ngono was in the backseat with me, kissing me and fondling me. I didn't resist.
When the car stopped in front of Ngono's hotel, I knew. By then, he'd gotten my legs spread and had a hand high up on my inner thigh. If we'd had two more blocks to drive, either I or he would have been unzipped. And I don't think I would have resisted that either.
I have to give credit to the physical trainer. He checked to make sure I was good with this. When we got out of the car at the hotel, he asked, "You're OK with this? You know what you're getting into, right?" he asked me as Ngono was gladhanding his way into the hotel lobby through a group of people who were attending the U.S. Open, knew who he was, and wanted to congratulate him.
"Yeah, sure," I said, wanting to sound more "with it" than I was feeling. But he did ask. I couldn't rightfully say I didn't agree to what happened to me up in that hotel room.
The trainer went upstairs with us, turning the car over to a valet, and he was there, somewhere in the suite, near the door to the corridor, the rest of the time I was there--or at least as long as Ngono was there.
Ngono offered me another drink and I took it. It was drugged, I'm sure of that. It didn't make me sick, but it made me lethargic. It also made me tingle and feel very sexy when he touched me. We sat on the sofa in his suite, with him reliving nearly every point of his match, euphoric about the day, but also attentive to me. I was feeling all loose and "whatever" and sighing whenever he touched me, and, as he talked, expressively using his hands, he used his hands on me--touching, fondling, and, eventually, undressing. I did nothing to stop him. He was a god. I was there for him. I had painted an idyllic view of where this was leading. I ached to do it--to have it over and done with the first time. To entire a new world of experience.
I found myself lying on my back along the sofa cushions and Ngono, big, black, also naked now, in huge, black erection, sitting beside me, gliding his hands all over me, kissing me on the mouth and the throat and the nipples. He ran his hands up the insides of my legs and I opened them to his touch, not giving any resistance. I arched my back and moaned as his thumbs found my hole and stroked it and spread it open. He had every right to assume I was completely open to him.
"So sweet, so young, so ready for me. Let me fuck you," he murmured. I didn't take the opportunity to say "no." I don't know if he'd have taken "no" for a reason to back off. I just lay there, legs open and vulnerable to him, my full attention on his thumbs stroking my hole, and moaning.
He was a big, black god. And then his lips were on my belly on the way to kissing my cock and taking it in his mouth. I lay there, moaning and letting him do what he wanted.
"Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. Screw you good," he was whispering.
The black god was giving me head. The man of the hour was giving me intimate attention.
He put his hand under the sofa and came up with a dildo and a bottle of lube and two condom packets.
