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Date Night

A Hollywood star on a blind date finds his secret love life catching up with him

He’s doing it again! CeeCee thought, before saying aloud, “Is something wrong?”


CeeCee rolled her eyes, repeating the question as she pointed towards her companion’s knife, still tapping away at the side of his wineglass.   “Look, if I’m boring you, just say so.”

“No, I was just...” His voice trailed off under her glare.  “I’m sorry, I was being rude.  My mind was just preoccupied, is all.”   He flashed a grin that would have made most women’s panties melt on the spot, before returning his attention to his half-finished meal as CeeCee continued staring at him, almost daring him to do it again.

To be fair, he really did have a nice smile: natural and friendly; each tooth perfectly straight and white. But then, looking good was part of his job.  And probably tax deductible.  CeeCee scowled, her fork spearing her salmon so forcefully that the plate audibly cracked.

Seated across the table from her, Anthony concentrated on his food.  That was close, he thought.  I almost...  Jesus, Karl would have killed me! 

And without Karl, this evening would never even have happened. 

Anthony glanced at his date.  Karl was some agent, that’s for sure: Anthony, the TV-heartthrob on the verge of Hollywood stardom; and CeeCee, the latest Victoria’s Secret model.  Most men would happily kill their own mothers to sit where he was sitting right now, and he’d almost ruined it with... Stupid!  Stupid!  For God’s sake, get your head back in the game, man!

It had all been going so well, too.  Karl had organised everything down to the last detail, even tipping off the paparazzi, who'd been waiting outside in enough numbers that the flashes of their cameras going off had given the chauffer an epileptic seizure.  Through the window, Anthony could see the man still being treated by the paramedics.  There was bound to be a good shot of him heroically phoning 911 in tomorrow’s newspapers, he thought cheerfully, attacking his steak with gusto.

The first CeeCee knew that anything was the matter was when a half-chewed chunk of beef was coughed out with enough force to arc across the table and ricochet off her elbow, and she looked up to find Anthony, red-faced, pointing over her shoulder.  What was it? Was it an ex-girlfriend?  A producer he’d had a spat with, perhaps?  

“Anthony?  Anthony!” she said, giving up on trying to follow his shaking finger and opting for the more direct approach.  “Are you okay?”

But rooted to his seat, Anthony ignored her as he gasped for air.  Am I okay?!  No, I am most definitely not okay!  What in the hell is he doing here?  What if... Oh, God, he’s not coming over, he’s not — Shit! He fucking well is!

Cutting through the crowded restaurant like a shark through a shoal of tuna, Raoul scowled as he locked onto his target.   Three weeks - three weeks, and not a goddamned phone call, not a letter; not a goddamn thing!   Well, Mr Fancy Pants wasn’t going to get away with it tonight!  He came closer, nostrils quivering in anger as he took in the couple on their date.

CeeCee looked up as the strange man came to a halt at their table, taking into account his unkempt appearance – the worn, ill-fitting UCLA sweatshirt, and baggy grey sweatpants.  And the way he kept staring at them!  He must be some kind of deranged stalker - or worse, an autograph hunter.  And with all those photographers and reporters outside she couldn’t just tell him to fuck off, could she?  CeeCee took a deep breath, flashed her sweetest smile, and reached into her purse for her Montblanc.

Raoul ignored her, focused on Anthony who sat quivering, eyes bulging, unable to speak. 

“So finally, I find you,” he hissed as Anthony squirmed deeper into his seat.  “After all this time, once again it is I who has to come to you.  Well, no more!  No more weekends at your little apartment!  No more five-hour sex marathons!  I will no longer accept your fist.  I will swallow no more pee.  I am human, Antonio – I have feelings!”

CeeCee stared open mouthed, looking between the two men.  “Anthony,” she said, eyes fixed firmly on the interloper in case he tried to do something crazy like urinate on her salmon.  “Who is this... person?”

“Who am I?” Raoul demanded, finally looking at her.

“Yes.  Who the hell are you?”

Raoul blinked.  Was he, Raoul de Menezes d'Souza going to be spoken to like that by this... this... puta? 

He made up his mind and took a firm grip on the neckline of his sweatshirt, the material ripping with a loud enough tear to silence the dining room. 

Patrons paused in the act of eating. 

Waiters stared, open mouthed. 

A sommelier dropped a twelve-thousand dollar bottle of champagne. 

Ignoring them all, Raoul drew himself upright to his full five-foot-four height and stood there proudly flaunting a perfect pair of pert, surgically created breasts as Anthony stopped trying to inch away and instead started moving closer, eyes fixed on Raoul’s erect nipples, his mouth watering.

On the far side of the restaurant, one of the waiting staff nudged the maitre d’hôtel. 

“Shouldn’t we do something,” she hissed.

The maitre d’hôtel shook his head.  “Let’s just see where this is going,” he said, enjoying the show.

Back at the table, Raoul’s sweatshirt was followed in short order by his sweatpants.  These, too, tore away just as easily, revealing the nude body beneath; but here, Raoul was more naturally male, sporting an impressively thick erection that he stroked with one hand whilst he pinched at his nipples with the other, all the while staring directly at Anthony.

“You want this don’t you, baby?” he said softly, taunting the actor.  Anthony nodded, eyes fixed on the cock, licking his lips.  “Ah!” Raoul wagged his finger admonishingly.  “No closer, baby.  Just watch... ”

Raoul stopped stroking his erection and instead gripped it tight enough to turn the head from a dull red to an angry purple as he masturbated; slowly at first, but with increased speed.  Anthony groaned, squeezing his own erection through his trousers, wanting relief but not wanting to introduce something into the mix that could threaten to stop what was going on.

From her side of the table, the evening's meal long since abandoned, CeeCee stared in horror as she struggled to process what was happening right in front of her.  To her mind, this was something that they didn’t teach in modelling school - although to be fair, was there actualy a right way to deal with situations like these?  And in any case the more pressing question seemed to be, is he really doing this

The answer was an emphatic yes – yes, this strange little man was publically stimulating himself for the benefit of half of Hollywood’s movers and shakers and assorted hangers-on.  And of course, this being Hollywood, people were content to let the action happen.  The dining room was so quiet it felt like the world was on mute, and the only sounds to be heard were Anthony’s soft murmurs of encouragement and Raoul’s gasps as he drew closer to orgasm.

Not that either man seemed overly concerned with the wider wishes of the diners around them, lost as they were in their own little bubble.  Raoul’s hand became little more than a blur of movement, fingers moving up and down the thick shaft, his thumb playing over the tip of his cock as he used pre-cum to enhance his pleasure until, with a final roar and a flurry of Brazilian, he finally came, spraying thick ropes of semen over Anthony’s face as the actor moaned in delight, his own erection straining at his zipper.

The act of ejaculation served to break whatever spell had them all transfixed.  At the section of tables clustered close to the kitchen a small round of applause spontaneously faded in and out in quick succession, whilst elsewhere around them diners returned to their meals and staff to their jobs, leaving the three main protagonists to their own devices.

Basking in the afterglow Raoul panted, relaxing after his bout of exercise, his penis still hard and swollen as it bobbed up and down gently with no signs that it planned on deflating anytime soon.  Collapsed onto his chair, eyes closed, and with a small, satisfied smile barely visible underneath the creamy glaze of Raoul’s cum, Anthony twitched softly as he replayed the scene in his mind.

CeeCee recovered first, grabbing her handbag and standing in one fluid movement.

“Well,” she said, glaring at the two men.  “This has been a very weird night.  Anthony, I’ll leave you with this she-male and I hope the two of you will be happy together doing... whatever it is you do.”

Anthony opened his eyes.  “CeeCee, wait...” he said, grasping at her in a half-hearted attempt to prevent her leaving, but CeeCee evaded his hand with practised ease, her Manolo Blahnik’s clicking along the marble floor as she stomped away from the table.

His date ruined, Anthony turned his semen-coated face towards Raoul.  “Maybe we can...” he began hopefully, but the Brazilian shook his head sadly.

“Oh no, darling,” he said, pinching one of his nipples, eliciting an involuntary moan from Anthony.  “You had your chance.  Now it’s my turn to be a star.  Jerry Springer, here I come!”

Anthony watched as, still nude, Raoul strutted his way through the restaurant, patrons automatically parting to let him through, gaps seamlessly rejoining in his wake.  Through the window, he saw the Brazilian exit the building, the waiting paparazzi descending on him as he reached the sidewalk, cameras flashing as they each vied for the perfect picture.

Finally alone at the table, Anthony sighed to himself.  Karl was going to kill him for sure – but it wasn’t his fault this time, surely he’d have to see that?  How the hell am I supposed to say 'no' if a man wants to jerk off onto my face?  It was bound to be all over the news tomorrow; shit, it’d be surprising if the incident didn’t headline the nationals.

Still, wasn’t all bad.  And didn’t Karl always say that any publicity was good publicity?  The thought made him smile, and he rescued the bottle of champagne from the ice-bucket, pouring the remains into his glass.

Maybe Jerry Springer fancied getting two for the price of one.


This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © The act of writing is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration and whilst it's pretty hard work, truth is it's pretty enjoyable too. So if you liked this story, please don't steal it - and if you didn't, leave feedback so I can do better next time. But for now, I'll just say: "Copyright 2018 Chesh78 (and his real-life persona), all rights reserved - this story may not be copied, transmitted or reproduced or used in any manner or media, either in part or full, without the express written permission of the author."

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