Santa, Actually

“What the hell is this meant to be?” Quinn Sentinel stood outside his director’s trailer with legs braced, hand on his hip, and a darkening expression on his evenly bronzed brow. It was the same pose he used for his publicity pictures on BoysBareAll.com where he’d just been voted “Best Arse in Adult Films UK” for the second year running. Today, he could have been the picture of an imperious general, or even a royal prince, if he’d been dressed in something more substantial than a brief, red satin thong and knee-length red leather motorcycle boots. With buckles. In his outstretched hand he waved a sheaf of papers, pinned together with an inadequate paperclip and covered in multi-coloured highlighter pen stripes. “Absolute drivel, from the title page onwards. Santa Claus is Cumming to Town? Puh-lease! Have you seen just how many movies are on the late-night stream with virtually the same title?” “It’s called free riding,” said Gerry Geraldo, the director. “We can benefit from brand association.” He held a green pen between his teeth, and a matching yellow one stained his fingers as he moved them swiftly over his original copy of the script. He was hunched on the steps of his trailer, sitting on a thick rug. He was dressed in worn jeans and a T-shirt with a washed-out WrinkleTheSheets Productions logo on it, but it was the day for filming outside, so he’d wisely added a thick fleece jacket and thick socks. He looked more like a sheep farmer than a movie mogul. Or even a mogul-in-waiting. “Even if it wasn’t intentional,” he added. “It’s a valid economic concept.” “It’s utter corn.” “It’s tradition,” Gerry said doggedly. “For God’s sake, don’t be such a diva. It’s Christmas. Films feature Santa Claus. There’s nothing sinister about it.” “Sinister?” Quinn thought about raising his voice but he was afraid to open his mouth too wide for fear of catching flu germs. “You don’t think it sinister that I’m to f**k Tomasz in a reindeer suit? You’ll have every pet lover in Europe picking up the phone—” “With the hand they’re not using to wank off,” Gerry snapped back. “I wish you had something else to occupy your time at lunch break. I’m trying to work to a deadline here, you know.” Quinn raised a carefully shaped eyebrow, having been told once by a fan how it accentuated the shine of his big blue eyes. “Well, I thought that was actually what I was here for,” he said, using his most deceptively smooth tone. “Join me for lunch, love, you said. Of course I appreciate you’re freezing your balls off in a costume no bigger than a couple of condom wrappers for the sake of my artistic vision, you said. Come to my trailer, where I have deliciously effective heating on this miserable day and make yourself comfortable. We’ll run through your stage directions.” Too late, Quinn realized his voice had risen. Judging from the straining satin at the front of his thong, something else had risen too. His libido always enjoyed a good argument. Gerry sighed and put the sheets of script down on the rug. “It’s the usual seasonal panic,” he said. “Last minute, rush production, just because some client offered to throw money at a Christmas special. You know how it is, Quinn. If we don’t finish shooting in the next week, it won’t be out in time, and we’ll all be back to posting pictures of our navels on YouTube. It isn’t easy to launch an independent studio at the best of times…” “Though I remain totally committed…” Quinn murmured, knowing this spiel by heart by now. “…to the need for artistic freedom,” Gerry finished, speaking blissfully over him. “Yeah, yeah. And if I don’t get to free this artistically in the next five minutes…” Quinn rubbed suggestively at his groin. He knew the shape underneath his fingers was impressively long and hungrily thick. One didn’t get to be the “Best Arse” without knowing the dimensions and capacity of one’s own equipment. He flashed one of his hottest gazes up at Gerry from underneath his long blond lashes. Gerry blinked hard. Quinn anticipated a win. “Just learn the script, Quinn, okay? It may not be up to your West End aspirations, and Great Ejaculations it ain’t, but our client likes comedy. His email said he likes irony, he likes pastiche—” “I like pastiche, too,” Quinn murmured, crouching down in front of Gerry’s lap with all the grace he could muster on a chilly autumn Tuesday in East Sussex, and with a surreptitious tug of the rug so he could kneel on the corner of it. “With a thick creamy sauce.” Gerry opened his mouth, probably to scoff, but he clamped it shut again as Quinn peeled open his fly, allowing Gerry’s c**k to burst out into the cool air. Quinn leant forward, creasing the scattered papers underneath, and took the shaft in between his lips. Gerry whimpered, and his head fell back against the steps of the trailer. He started to groan in rhythm with Quinn’s very lively head movements. Quinn anticipated his win, and very soon. With a gasp, Gerry dragged up the last vestiges of his finely honed negotiation skills. “But you’ll do the film?” “Rather do you. But of course I will. I have a public to satisfy.” Quinn’s reply was muffled because he was reluctant to lose his grip on his lunchtime snack. “And you—and your d**k—talked me into it.” “I—” Quinn tightened his lips and Gerry shut up. A d**k really was best when it said nothing at all.