This story is a work of fiction. It is not intended to imply anything about the true sexuality of the celebrity, Zac Efron, involved. I have no personal knowledge of Zac Efron's private life. This story is an original work of fiction; the author retains all rights. Your comments are appreciated: Future chapters, depending on the response, will be forthcoming.

Zac Efron in Connecticut

Chapter One

My father died about two years ago. He was a novelist and -- this may be surprising -- a successful and well-read novelist. His books are probably not destined to become classics, but I like to think he was artist. His books were on the dark side, as far as books go, and funny. “Savagely good-natured,” one critic put it. They were mostly about the raunchy and sordid underbelly of New England prep schools, students sneaking out in the middle of the night to sleep with the wives of their teachers. These were the same schools that he had attended and that he sent me to and there weren’t nearly as interesting as my father described. So, I grew up in dormitories and didn’t talk to my father very much. I lived in dormitories, got good grades, and, in the summer, I would fly to LA and live in my father’s apartment. Sometimes he was there and sometimes he wasn’t. Mostly, I walked around and spent time on the beaches. I snuck into a few bars and I picked up photography.

I had graduated and was taking a year off from school when I got a call from my father’s literary agent, Mark Slatterly. He told me with genuine sadness that my father was dead. He had died in Key West. The novel he had been trying to finish wasn’t finished. I had no family to speak of. A cousin I hadn’t met somewhere, but that didn’t matter. So, I hung up the phone. I was standing somewhere on Wilshire Boulevard.


My father’s estate turned out to be considerably more valuable than I had imagined. Mark Slatterly explained that aside from writing, my father had wisely invested his royalties in real estate -- largely at Mark Slatterly’s direction -- and several of the properties that he owned had turned impressive profits. It seem out of character for a man who was probably a functioning alcoholic. And none of money or any of the conversations that Slatterly and I had about money meant very much to me except that I would probably never have to work. The work I did now was managing my father’s estate. His novels were still popular and owing to whatever small celebrity he had had, there had been offers to turn his books into movies. I entertained them seriously. One of his short stories had been made into an HBO movie. Beyond that, nothing had really captured my imagination, and looking back at the experience, I think HBO could have done a better job. You live; you learn.

I sold my father’s apartment and bought a new place. I put a half-assed attempt into a few college classes. I bought a car. New clothes, mostly Hugo Boss. I read a lot. I started writing a little. And mostly, I kept to myself. I wasn’t angry and I was sad. But, I also wasn’t exactly interested in anything. One day was like any other.

So, it was by a peculiar coincidence that I had been standing in a Starbucks in a familiar place on Wilshire Boulevard when someone tapped me on the shoulder. It should have been a day like any other.

“Are you Jonah White?” he asked.

It took a split second to figure out who I was talking to. His young beard had grown in lightly, but not completely, and it retained a trimmed look. He projected a ragged look, but his beauty was still very much apparent, his bright, blue eyes -- disturbingly more vibrant than in photographs - his long eye lashes, his jawline. His shoulders were square and strong. His chest was broad and his stomach was flat. He kept his back straight and he smiled broadly.

“Yes,” I said. His hand was outstretched so I took and shook it politely.

“I’m Zac Efron,” he said. “It’s funny running into you. We have a meeting a few days.”

Its difficult to speak to someone as beautiful as Zac Efron. I was immediately speechless. He was talking about a meeting with me. It was the sort of thing that I would remember.

“Back Light Films,” Zac added, grinning at my confusion, which made me blush even more.

“Oh, right,” I said, remembering the meeting. Back Light, from what I could remember, had made a few successful movies in the indie market but it had been several years since they had had a hit. Their movies probably turned profits but probably not enough to develop seriously any projects -- ‘development’ can take years and involves no revenue, so you need capital. I pictured them still struggling to be taken seriously as a contender, but still being able to produce a quality film. I could imagine the marketing strategy of bringing Zac Efron on board and pairing him with one of my father’s novels. It would be presented to the public as an edgier, sexier project. Zac Efron would be pushing his reputation farther away from the deeply unbearable High School Musical franchise.

Back Light Films had bought the option on a novel called simply Connecticut that my father had written. Among his novels, it had the rare feature of being semi-autobiographical and I actually appear as an infant in the final chapter. I tried to think of Zac Efron portraying my father as a young man. Something about Zac’s celebrity, however, made the idea of him playing my father feel contrived and forced, but that’s the way it always feels when a project, as movies are called, is in development.

“Oh, so you’re going to be there,” I said, smiling in a tone which I hoped was friendly but not enthusiastic.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve read Connecticut and I’m really interested.”

“Good,” I said, not wanting to give too much reaction to the phrase “really interested.” “Really interested” doesn’t mean very much in the movie business. “I didn’t realize you were attached to this project.”

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m -- I’m thinking about the projected.”

He smiled at me.

“I shouldn’t tell you this,” he said and stepped a little closer. My heart began to race a little. He was about an inch taller than me and I had to look up at him ever so slightly. I was suddenly struck the desire to put my hand down his pants or get on my knees and fuck him with my face. “But, I asked my agent to get me this meeting. Not the other way around.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yeah. Don’t tell anyone, though,” he said and grinned a little.

“Sure,” I said. Well, maybe he was interested. And I knew what he meant when he asked me not to tell anyone. That was about posturing and giving away the upper hand. So long as we, the owners of the material, felt like we would be lucky to get Zac, he would have more creative control. He could approve his costars and have script approval which means he could control the story -- omitting scenes that would compromise or affect his public image. The moment the balance of power shifted and he was more interested in project, the creative control would be back on our side of the table. We could ask him to do more promotional work or we could hire a more subversive director whose interpretation we could trust. But, surely Zac already knew all of this. Maybe he had just been careless or he really did expect me to keep the secret. Or maybe it was a tactic. Often, these negotiations occur entirely because he was trying to express disinterest in an entirely unrelated project. In the other words, the more Zac appeared interested in Connecticut, the more money it would take to get him interested in some other project. This was the part of the business that I hated. Some people thrived on it. Not me.

“I’ve actually read several of your father’s books,” he said. “I was sorry to –“

“It’s okay,” I said. Yes, people were still sorry that  my father had died.

“Um, yeah...” he said. “I’ve read Swords of Connelly Hall. And, Serendipity.”

He was much more talkative in person than I would have thought. In interviews, he seemed to be comfortable and never for lack of words, but somehow I pictured him being very reserved in his private life. I imagine him brooding. Of course, when I imagined him brooding, I also imagined him naked on a bed.

Being somewhat quiet myself, I always thought talkative people were uncomfortable to be around. Or were themselves feeling uncomfortable being around me and were trying to compensate.  He was very friendly and he had a way of sharing his excitement. I felt invited to talk to him rather than obligated to listen. I enjoyed listening to Zac -- or watching him talk. His tongue looked undeniably delicious and his teeth were very white. His muscularity seemed to radiate from him and I wanted to feel him wrapping his arms around me and holding me down on a bed while I held his hair or felt the smooth skin of his back. He would gentle bite my ear while he fucked me deeply, saying nasty things to me while I whimpered with each powerful thrust

Serendipity,” I said, mildly aware of the incongruity between what I was saying and what I was thinking, “is the other book that sort of semi-autobiographical.”

“Really?” he said and smiled widely. Somehow I knew he would make an amazing kisser. I need to get control of myself or I was going to ejaculate in a Starbucks.

“You’ll have to walk me though Connecticut and tell me exactly what’s autobiographical and what’s made up,” he said.

‘Made up,’ of course, was the wrong phrase. But, it was cute.

“I will,” I said. I would also like to suck your cock. I almost said it out loud. It was strange to have that thought so close to the surface. I had always imagined myself being more reserved.


“Sure,” I said.

He looked at my paper coffee cup and then looked over at the counter. “Are you doing anything right now? I could join you if you’re not busy.”

I had mildly planned on catching a short film festival that was running that week, but only because I didn’t want to spend the entire day in my apartment doing nothing. I had purchased tickets to a block of films later that afternoon. I looked at my watch.

“Yeah,” I said. “I can do that.”

It was so pathetic, acting like I had important places to go and that this was somehow a favor to him. But I could say that this cup of coffee would probably be the highlight of my year.

“Give me just a second,” he said. There were only a few other people in the place and they had been, I suddenly realized, watching us both. Him more than me, of course. No one knew who I was.

There were two bright orange chairs with a small table between them by the window. I sat and watched him order his coffee. He had a nice ass. He was wearing jeans, a t-shirt and, I could see, as he leaned over the counter slightly to hand a credit card to the barista, grey underwear. Probably boxer briefs because they held to his skin more closely than boxers would. Maybe briefs, I thought. But that didn’t seem to be his style. I didn’t know why. Maybe he wore briefs. That would be nice. These seconds, contemplating his underwear, were the happiest I had been in months, I realized. Shit, when I did become so bummed out on life, I wondered. Definitely a nice ass, though. I wanted to bury my nose between his ass checks for a weekend.

He came over, still smiling.

“Can I call you Jonah?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Can I call you Zac?”

“Of course,” he said and sat down opposite me.

“What did you get?”

“Oh,” he said, looking at his paper cup. “A latte.”

“Do you ever get the flavorings? They have flavorings.”

“Ha!” he laughed. “No. Are they worth it?”

“Well, they’re not expensive. I get raspberry a lot.”

We chatted about restaurants and food for a few minutes. I don’t know why but it broke the ice. More surprising than the raging erection I had was that he didn’t seemed bored talking to me. I’ve never thought of myself as a conversationalist. I’m much more of a listener and as much as I listened intently to everything he said, I found myself speaking in entire paragraphs. I relayed entire anecdotes that I had always assumed would be uninteresting compared to the anecdotes other people seemed to tell. Or that my father would have told. He hadn’t invented the woman that had pulled a gun on him in a Tennessee IHOP. Those things really happened to him. My most exciting stories involved the pin number on my debit card. Or the time I had developed a disposable camera I had found at the Getty. The pictures were ordinary but it seemed exciting at the time.

He laughed at that story.

“So, no amateur porn?”

I laughed. “No. No amateur porn.”

“Too bad,” he said.

And wouldn’t it be fun to make a porn together, Zac? Something that we could watch over and over again, snuggling up together in an Aspen lodge together on a cold night. And we could reenact it a few times.

“So,” he said. “Can we talk about Connecticut?”


“Tell me about your dad.”

“Okay...” I said, not sure where to begin. “You know, we didn’t know each other very well.”


“Yeah. I mean, I think he cared about me. He certainly did the fatherly things like he was supposed to. More or less. But –”

“Like what?”

“Like parent-teacher conferences. He didn’t take me to the doctor’s office, though. I went to boarding school since the third grade.”



I told him about years I had spent living in the same schools which featured so prominently in Connecticut.

“Was he trying to create the same childhood had for you?” he asked and stretched his chest by pulling his elbows back. His pectoral muscles filled out and stretched his t-shirt.

I looked away, just to focus on the question. It was a great question. I hadn’t really thought it about it in way before.

“Maybe,” I said. “I think he thought it was the only way to grow. My father always wanted me to be an artist.”

“How so?”

“Well, he didn’t answer his phone very often. He wanted me to write him. So, I wrote long letters to him. The only thing he ever really did was write letters back to me.  I have them all, still. That was kind of his way of making me write, I guess. But, that’s just an example.”

“What was he like when he was your age?”

“Not like me.”


“Really. He was much more... well, more like what I imagine you’re like.”

He look at me quizzically for a moment. “And what’s that?”

“Well,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t offend him. “A bit of a lady’s man.”

He laughed loudly. “You think I’m a lady’s man?”

“Am I wrong?”

“I can be flirtatious, sure,” he said. “I wouldn’t call me a lady’s man, though.”

“Lady’s men never do,” I said.

“So, you’re not a lady’s man.”

“No,” I said.

“Can I ask you a more... personal question?” He asked.

“Sure,” I said.

“Was your father... um, bisexual?”

“You know,” I said, “I don’t know. Sort of. Probably. I don’t know.”

“Because in several of his books, including Connecticut, there are scenes with men.”

“Sure,” I said. “Yeah, I mean that’s in the book. I don’t know if that stuff really happened. I sort of feel that it did.”

“But, it’s also not really about love or anything. In the book, I mean.”

He was referring to an episode in the book in which my father, the narrator, had been caught cheating by an upperclassman and had traded sex for secrecy. The book, in rather explicit detail, maintained my father’s inner monologue throughout the sex. In it, my father comes off like a psychopath, completely unemotionally involved in the sex. I had never sat with my dad and talked intimately about his books in a page-by-page analysis. So, I didn’t know if my father had really been willing to trade his body in a cover-up. It struck me, though, like he could. He routinely lied in interviews, for example. One of the reasons he had developed something of a following as a writer was that he was hard to pin down.

We talked on, sipping our beverages.

“Do you do any writing?” he asked.

“I do,” I said. “A little.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I mean, I have my own projects. I’m still learning,” I said. “I’ve done a little script doctoring, which is fun.”

“Anything I’ve seen?’

I had worked a little on a Pierce Brosnan movie that was in production at the moment.

“That’s cool,” he said. “So, you’re going to a writer, too?”

“Maybe,” I said, knowing that I wanted to be, but that I felt I couldn’t. Partly, it was was talent. I didn’t really feel I had any. And partly, I wasn’t sure I would ever establish a name apart from my father’s.  

“So, let me ask you a question,” I said.


“Why... I mean. Every teenage girl in America is wet for you –” he laughed at that. “Wouldn’t you be destroying... well, not destroying, but changing your public image? By doing Connecticut?”

“Sure,” he said. “Picking movies is tricky. I mean, not only do you have to pick the projects carefully but you have to make sure that things are done in the right way. I need to push certain parts of my image but not... over do it. You know what I mean?”

“I think so.” I thought for a minute. “Can you be more specific?”

“Yeah.” And he thought for a minute. “Well, it’s hard to say. It’s like there’s certain rules that exist.”


“Yeah, okay. Expectations,” he said. “You don’t want to get type cast. And at the same time, I don’t want to... betray, I guess, my fans.”

I leaned forward, wanting to hear more.

“And,” he said, “I can’t stay the same age. There are new things I want to... new performances I want to experience.”

“And you think Connecticut can be part of this?”

He smiled at this.

“Maybe. Truth be told, I want to explore it. I want to see if its possible, but I’m not entirely sure. It might be too much. It depends on the director.”

“Anyone in mind?”

“A director?”

“Yeah, any thoughts?”

“It’s really funny that you mention that. There’s a director I’m interested in working with. He has a short film that’s debuting today. I was going over there,” he checked his watch.

“The short film festival? At the... It’s on Sunset Boulevard?”


“That’s really funny. I have ticket. I was planning on going, too,” I pulled the ticket from my pocket.

“No shit?” he smiled.

“So, do you want to go?” I asked. I braced myself, pretty sure that he’d make up an excuse. It was a good conversation but it couldn’t go on forever.

“Yeah,” he said, surprising. He licked his lips. “Let’s go.”


The director Garrett Lachappelle had been doing art films in New York for about ten years before one of his movies, I Hear You Cry, got picked up and made a run at the Academy Awards about three years ago. He took home a nomination but no statues.

I had seen it and thought it was terrible. I wasn’t excited to sit through one of his short films. To my mind, Lachappelle was undisciplined and it seemed that most of the screen time was filled with moments were no decision was made. The rawness that some critics praises was indulgent to me.I didn’t see framing or the space organized in any way. Sure, there were ways to create that effect and it could be deliberate. But, it could also be shitty film making.

It was surreal driving the streets of LA with Zac Efron. We rode in his car which was an Audi and very nice inside. Its speakers lifted up our of the dashboard, which was completely unnecessary but very cool. He drove quickly, but not manically.

We drove north up Highland Avenue.


The premiere of the festival was several nights earlier, so the majority of film crews and paparazzi had left -- not that a short film festival is a big draw for forums like Entertainment Tonight. We parked a few blocks away and walked to the theater. Zac put on sunglasses and a baggy hat. I’m sure that a dedicated paparazzo could have seen through that brilliant disguise, but it seemed to do its job well. As we crossed the courtyard that formed the entrance of the theater, a few cameras flashed from a group of men and someone shouted out: “Zac, what are you going to see today?” He didn’t respond and we headed in. I made a note to buy every magazine for the next month to see if I would appear next to him in a photo somewhere (or if I would be cropped out.)


In the darkness of the theater, we watched a peculiar film called Broken Mirror. Lachappelle’s story seemed to meander between two houses on opposite sides of a suburban street, which by itself was a device that might be interesting. But, Lachappelle couldn’t seem to get any of the symmetry to support a theme. If one house wife was addicted to pain killers, why was the other having an affair? If one teenager was a closet cutter, why did the other the analogue in the other family want to get into film school? Vaguely, it seemed like the film was pointing to the madness of suburban life. But, it was a message lost in subtly.

“What is this shit?” Zac asked and smiled at me. It was a waste of time, but his smile made it a funny waste of time. It was enjoyable to be annoyed by a terrible movie so long as Zac was there to make it better.

“I know,” I said. “You like this guy?”

“I guess not,” he said.


We looked at the brochures, examining the schedules.

“Is there anything worth seeing?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. Honestly. Film festivals are hard to gauge because, of course, there are no reviews yet. Winners have not yet been announced and although there’s some buzz if you keep your ears to the ground, for the most part, it’s a crap shoot.

“Sarcasm,” Zac said, looking up. “Connecticut has a lot of sarcasm in it. Right? I mean, the underlying tone is sarcasm. Like... how could this place really exist? These people?”

I looked up at him.

“Yeah,” I said. “Sarcasm without the humor. The joke’s not supposed to be funny.”

“But, it’s more... something... more ‘something’ than cynicism.”

“Yeah, I think so,” I said.

“Do you want to see this?” Zac asked, pointing to a movie poster. His mind, I decided, moved fairly rapidly from one subject to the next. It was a little difficult to keep up.

I looked at the poster. Fairly unambiguously, the poster featured a teenager in those first years of sexuality before adulthood, bending over to fiddle around with a lawnmower, and behind him, in the mid-background, a slightly older man checking out the teenager’s ass. The suggestion was a 1950s neighborhood, a quiet neighborhood, with a strapping teenager doing yard work. The other man was probably in his late thirties, slightly rugged but still very handsome. A young homeowner, I decided. Maybe with kids, but not an entire generation older than the teenager. The movie was called Next Door. I looked at the fine print and no names stuck out at me.

“A comedy?”

“I’m not sure,” Zac said. “You want to see it?”

“Sure,” I said.

We had venue passes so everything was open to us so long as there was seating available. We just needed to find a screening and fortunately, there was one starting in twenty-five minutes.

“Coffee?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. I loved that he wanted more. I could drink coffee all day.


For a few moments as we crossed to the cafe that served hot coffee, I wondered if this could somehow become my life: movies, coffee, and Zac Efron. He was so fucking beautiful to look at. In every gesture, it seemed, he exuded his bodily perfection. He would occasionally clasp his hands behinds him and stretch, or twist his neck as if he had too much energy to simply sit still. And all this seemed to only make the allure of his body more clear in my mind. When he stretched, I wanted to lick his chest and bite at his chest and smell him after a workout. When he seemed restless, I wanted him to pound my ass. And, as we stood in line, waiting to order our drinks, I wanted to stand behind him and put my arms around him, quietly suck his neck while playing with his balls, my hard cock pressed between the cracks of tight, muscular butt.

He must have known that these fantasies followed him everywhere. He encouraged it, I’m sure. Why else would he wear t-shirts that were obviously a few sizes to small for him and wear a belt but not cinch it tight so that his pants line sagged below his underwear. I kept getting slivers of glances of his back side and stomach as he tilted one way or the other. God save me if he ever reached for the ceiling!

And he liked coffee. I wasn’t sure I could every truly love someone who didn’t need coffee every hour or so. I wonder if he, like me, could drink coffee late at night and still fall asleep.


Again, we sat in the darkness of a theater. I was completely hard. I don’t know why. He didn’t have quite this affect on me when we watched Broken Mirror. He hadn’t randomly decided to take his shirt off or anything. And we had sat in darkness before.

If I put my hand on his lap, I wonder what he’d do? Or just his knee? Would he smile and very politely tell me than he wasn’t interested? Would the moment pass quickly? Would he get mad, hit me, and storm out? Would he put his hand on my hand and hold my hand tightly? And say, “I’ve been waiting for you to make since the first move?”

Probably not, I thought.

I realized that I had left my car by a meter. I probably had a ticket by now. Fuck it. I didn’t care.

“I’ve never really played a bad guy,” he said, leaning over and in a hushed his voice. “I’d like to do that at some point.”


My heart was beating fast as the movie started up. The movie was, indeed, a comedy but a very black comedy. In the opening shots, the teenager, whose name was Randy, showered and got ready for school. The camera watched him closely and we, the audience, were clearly supposed to feel the arousal of the camera. That arousal, then, was contrasted by intermixed shots between the protagonist, Roger, and his wife, Linda. There as almost no attraction between them. She plastered lipstick on her lips without any grace or sexuality. They readied themselves in a cramped bathroom. They woke their children, both daughters, and made them a bland breakfast. Linda seemed entirely bored with him and could barely contain her contempt. Much of the humor emerged from her tired glares as Rodger dropped his grapefruit on the floor. We felt pity for him, but not sadness. This was the awkwardness of life. Roger left for the morning first, getting into a car and driving away as the daughters gaily skipped off down the street, lunch boxes in hand, to what I imagined was the bus station. As Roger drove away slowly, he passed Randy walking towards the same bus station. Roger slowed the car slightly and followed Randy with one eye for a long moment, the secret longing evident. The movie faded to black and the opening credits ran beneath a generic rockabilly song.

I wanted to lean over and ask if Zac thought Randy was cute. Randy had a nice, soapy body with that quarterback feel, sexy if perhaps a little boring in his ordinariness. He was handsome but not breathtaking. There was no depth, whereas with Zac, there was constantly a smoldering energy and heat. When he grinned, he seemed to be grinning about his knowledge of nakedness.

“So,” Zac lead over to me, “Do you think Randy’s good looking?”

I just about came.

It’s so fucking frustrating to be so close to someone so beautiful and to feel, for a moment, that he might be flirting.

I shrugged noncommittally, wanting to say more.

Roger never had a chance to touch Randy and I don’t think Randy was ever the wiser. But, throughout the short film, the audience had to suffer through an increasing gulf between Roger and his wife. There was a mild plot of a failed dinner party, but it seemed to support the themes of the movie rather than become them. We almost knew the party would fail. It was inevitable and so we didn’t mind. What we wanted was for Randy to step outside caring about the party and his wife and the boring, false life from which he lusted. The gulf between Roger and Randy does not increase but it remained uncrossable. Sadly, the sexual longing that Roger felt for Randy seemed to become more and more acute. Roger’s dreams, which we see on screen, are not the passionate, sexual dreams that we might imagine. They are dreams about Randy’s happiness. He was sometimes naked, but he is often merely being a young, happy teenager. Playing football, walking in autumn scenes, learning in classrooms, distracted by his friends. In the final scene, as Randy masturbates in his house and Roger masturbates in his, Randy’s horniness seemed evidence. He gleefully comes to orgasm looking at clean, innocent pornography. And Roger can’t seem to enjoy it. It happens. But, there’s no joy. The longing broadens past the sexual and an intense sadness sets it. It was overwhelming.

The credits began, I realized that I had almost begun to cry and that I had been mesmerized. I looked over and Zac, too, seemed a little choked up.

“Man,” he said. "Man, that was really sad."

"Yeah," I said.

We sat quietly, letting the emotion saturate the moment. I realized as I sat next to Zac that I had been thinking that there was something boyish about him. I had felt an air of mischief in him but somehow, I had assumed that he wouldn’t be contemplative. I knew he was smart, but I had thought that if he had a quick mind, he didn’t have a thoughtful mind. Maybe it was just his celebrity. Or his overwhelming beauty. Or, maybe it was the movie - which was so full of longing. There was more to Zac than I thought. More than beauty and more than sex. I still wanted his body and the sex, but not for the pleasure of it - not like you want the body of a stranger you see in the grocery store. Not just the pleasure. There was more to it than that.

I wanted to tell him. I wasn’t sure what, though.

“Do you want to see what else is playing?” he asked.

I looked at him, trying to think of something to say.

“Another movie?” he asked.

We went out into lobby again. We spent a few moments looking at the brochures again, but nothing seemed important. Zac saw the poster for Next Door again and walked over.

“I liked it, though,” he said. “It’s deceptive.”

I didn’t saying anything.

“You go into it knowing that this guy --” he gestured to Roger and didn’t finished the sentence.

“Hmm,” he said and folded his arms, staring at the poster.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

He looked at me.

“You wanna get coffee?” he asked?

I looked at my watch.

“Let’s get dinner.”


We considered a few options - a few local restaurants. There was a Japanese place that both of us had been thinking of getting to, but when we drove by, it seemed too crowded.

“Do you know a really quiet place?” he asked.

“Quiet...” I said, thinking. Quiet and romantic.

“So, why don’t we go to my place?” I asked. “There’s a grocery two blocks from my place. We can pick up whatever and I’ll cook.”


“Do you cook a lot?” Zac asked me. He was sitting at the island in my kitchen, sipping on a glass of white wine.

“Not a lot,” I said. I was sauteing some almonds in garlic and butter and in a second pan, I had some shitaki mushrooms. “I like cooking, but usually I just eat out.”

“I don’t cook at all. I mean, I can make cereal,” he laughed.

“When I was in school,” I said, “I had to make dinner for the dorm once a week.”

“Really? Why?”

“We all did. Once a week. It was me and three other guys. We were Tuesdays. Other teams had the other nights. The prefects set the menu or I think we would’ve always had pasta.”

“So, what did you make?”

“Um... we would make a ham and huge bowl of mashed potatoes. Things like that. Hearty food.”

“Did you like school? I mean, was this a military school?”

“No,” I said. “It was a boarding school, though. So, we wore uniforms. Not military uniforms. A coat and tie. And we got insignia for a year and grades and there different positions you could have.”

“Like a prefect?”

“Yeah,” I said. I scooped up a bit of almonds on a wooden spoon and took over to him. “Taste this.”

He leaned forward and gingerly opened his mouth. His lips were soft and gentle. His tongue came out smoothly and picked up the flakes of chopped almond and took them into his mouth.

“Mmm,” he said. “Delicious.”

“Did you like that?”


“So, this will be done in like three minutes,” I said. “Can you set the table?”

“Yeah,” he said.

I checked the haddock which was baking in a batter in the oven. A small casserole dish of broccoli was cooking next to it.

Zac took two plates over to the table and set them on the table. It was very domestic and very sexy. When I had proposed eating dinner at my apartment, I had assumed we would be naked. But this was very pleasant, nevertheless.

We sat and each served ourselves.

“So, this turned out really good,” said Zac.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Yeah. No, I mean the whole day,” he said. “We bump into each other. We get to know each other. We see some movies. And then dinner. I mean, that’s a pretty good day.”

“Yeah, it is,” I said. “It’s been a really special day.”

He smiled at me.

“Can I read something you wrote?” he asked, and took a bite of broccoli. “Oh, this is good.”

“Maybe,” I said. “I don’t know.

“You don’t like people reading the stuff you write?”

“Um,” I said. “No, I don’t mind. A lot of it’s not finished.”

“Well, that’s okay,” he said.

“But, I do think that you should look at the script for Connecticut,” he said.

“Oh, I didn’t know there was a script,” I said.

“Yeah. It was written Sandra Ki. Do you know her?”

“No,” I said. “Any good?”

“Well, we can talk about it. I think the story is there. It’s clearly not the script we’re going to end up using.”

“Why not?”

“Um... well, here’s the thing. First of all, I’d kind of like you to write it.’


“Yeah. I don’t know if it’s possible, but I think you’d would understand it more. Sandra Ki read the book. But, you know the man.”

“Maybe,” I said. I knew that if I wrote the script, I would be moving closer to my father’s name. Not farther away.

I poured myself another glass of white wine.

“So, you really want to make the film?” I asked.

“I do. Yeah, I do. When I read the book, I felt a great connection. There’s a lot I can identify with.”

“With my dad?”

“Well, with the character. Yeah. He’s a sexual object, right? I feel that way sometimes, sure. And wanting to be understood in sexual terms at the same time. Sure, I feel that way, too.”

He looked at me, still thinking.

“And I guess the last thing would be,” he said, “wanting to step outside one’s own sexual identity... just push the boundaries of identity in order to... I guess, in order to discover one’s own real identity.”

“That’s what you think Connecticut is about?”

“I think that’s what Connecticut invites us to do. I’m not sure if the narrator actually gets there. I feel like he doesn’t.”

“I think I could write that,” I said slowly.

        He reached over and put his hand on mine, softly.

        “I’d really like to read some you wrote,” he said.

        I looked into his eyes. My heart was racing. His meaning was clear. It was instantly and overwhelmingly intimate and sexual.

        I reached out my slowly and touched his cheek -- his sexy face. A week of stubble was coarse in against my fingers. And still, his face seemed soft to me. He turned his head slightly as if to kiss my hand.

He looked deeply into my eyes. The passion that was there, the intense sexuality, was too much for me. I couldn’t even begin to think about why or whether he was sure, whether this was a good idea or what it meant him. All I could know was the heat and power of that moment.

He came closer to me, face to face. And paused just before for a moment. And then kissed me. His lips pushed against mine, and then he opened his mouth slightly. I opened mine. Our tongues touched briefly and his tongue flicked out curiously further into my mouth. I opened my mouth wider and tilted my head slightly. His hands came up and held my head as he kissed me deeply, our tongues playing slowly with each other. I ran my tongue along the inside of his teeth and bit gently at his lower lip. I put my hand on his shoulder and his arms, feeling his muscles. We stood and he pulled me against him, running his hands down my back and over my butt. I put my head back and he licked at my neck.

“Oh, fuck...” I said. It felt so good and I was barely able to make any decisions for myself in the moment. He pulled my hands down to his butt, holding them. I held his butt. It pushed our groins together. Both our cocks were hard and I grinded mine against his and he grinded his against mind, the fabric of our pants between our hard cocks, still kissing. He sucked on my ear lobes and my neck. I ran my tongue over his chin.

“I want to fuck you,” he said into my ear.

“Fuck me, Zac,” I said back.

“You want me to fuck?”

“Fuck me, Zac. I want to you fuck me.”

He pulled back a half step and pulled his t-shirt off in a single, swift motion. His chest was absolutely perfect. His pecs were tight and his nipples erect. His abdomen buldged with muscles. The lines of his Adonis belf were pronounced. He smiled, knowing that I was admiring him. I ran my hands down his chest, feeling ever muscle. And then bent, licking between his perfect pecs. I sucked at his nipples and he moaned quietly. I knelt, kissing at his stomach, running my hands along his lower back and over his butt. He reached down and undid his belt. I looked up at him and his beautiful blue eyes. I loved looking up at him and see his beautiful body and face from that perspective. I undid the button of his pants, unzipped the zipped and pulled them down to his ankles.

His cock was bulging inside his boxer-briefs (I was right about that.) It looked enormous, pointing down towards me. I gently put my mouth over the tip of it, sucking at it through the fabric. I put my fingers at the band and pulled it down slowly. I could see his pubic hair, trimmed. And then the top third of his cock. And then kept pulled down further until his cock sprang free.

Zac’s cock was more than eight inches long and its girth was incredible. It was perfectly symmetrical. He was circumcised and the head of his cock was large. I put my hand around his shaft, barely able to get my fingers around it. For a moment, as I prepared to suck as much of his cock as I could, I realized that this beautiful cock was Zac Efron’s cock, his massive, beautiful, incredibly hard cock.

I licked the head of Zac’s cock, just once playfully and looked back up at him once. He smiled at me and plunged his cock into my mouth. I moved slowly, sliding his cock in and out, moving my head. I continued you the motion with my hand, trying to create an entire motion covering his entire cock. I could only get half his cock into my mouth. I could feel him against his the back of throat. His hands came down and held my head gently as I moved. With my other hand, I reached up and took a hold of his balls, feeling them both. They were large and smooth. Zac moaned in pleasure. I could feel him bend at the hip and begin to thrust his cock into my mouth. I ran my hands down over his strong legs, feeling the muscles of his thighs and up the back of legs.

Pulled out of my mouth and bent down to kiss me, kissing the taste of his cock in my mouth. He stood back up and held his cock up, licked at his balls. I took each one into my mouth, gentle squeezed at them with my lips and playing with them tongue. Zac trembled at this, quivering and grabbing at my head.

“Oh, fuck...” he said. “That feels good.”

I kept working his balls and stroked his cock with the spit that I had left there. I reached up and felt his abs again. His body was so hard and smooth. I leaned back and look at his cock.

“You have a beautiful cock,” I said.

“Can I suck yours?” he asked.

“You wanna go into the bed room?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. I stood, realizing that he was completely naked and I was completely dressed. He must have thought the same and came forward, unbuttoning my shirt. I kissed him as he did. He pulled it over my shoulders and let it drop to the floor.

I’m not very muscular, but I’m pretty thin. I’ve always be scrawny and pale skinned. He opened my pants and let them fall, too. And then pushed my underwear - also boxer-briefs - down. My cock was not as large, either in length or girth, but still - if I may - very respectable. Seven inches to his eight.

We kissed again, our cocks grinding against each other, between our stomachs.

“You are so sexy,” he said.

        I looked up at him, coyly.

        “You’re beautiful,” he said. He reached down and took hold of my cock. “Let’s go. I want to make love to you.”

        We went into the bedroom.

        He sat me down on the edge of the bed and knelt before me. I ran my fingers through his hair. He pushed me back so that I was lying flat on my back, my feet on the floor. And my cock was pointing straight up in the air. I felt his mouth, warm and wet, on my cock. He sucked at it for a long moment and then began to move his head over it slowly. I moaned - being very verbal in bed.

        “Oh, yes...” I whimpered. “Yes...”

        I folder my arms behind my head and simply relaxed, enjoying the wonderful feeling of Zac suck my cock. He focused on the head of my cock and then plunged my entire cock deep into his throat. He moved quickly, again licking around the head of my cock, flicking his tongue into the slit, and then moving down and sucking at my balls.

        “That’s feels so good,” I said.

        He put one hand on my stomach - nowhere as tight and muscular as his. I put my hand down and held his. With his other hand, he pulled my right leg up and began licking below my balls, towards my asshole. The pleasure was intense.

        “Oh, fuck, Zac...”

        “You like that?”

        “More,” I said.

        Nimbly, he jumped up on the bed. Lying on his side next to me, he lined his cock up with my face and put his face down by my cock. I took his cock into my mouth and wrapped my arms around his hips, squeezing his butt. With one arm wrapped around him entirely, I could reach his balls and massaged them gently. With my cock in his mouth at the same time, he spread my butt checks and pushed gently with one finger against my asshole. I ran my hands up and down the full length of his muscular back. I couldn’t believe how muscular even his back was.

        I took his cock out of my mouth and took a deep breath.

        “You are so perfect,” I said, and began enjoying the taste of his cock again.

        I felt a twinge of pain and pleasure as he pushed a finger inside of me. He held it there and then pulled out very slowly. And then pushed in again. He did this very slowly as we sucked each other’s cocks. Each time he pushed in, he pushed in a millimeter further. I wanted to feel his cock inside of me.

        “Zac...” I said.


        I turned onto my stomach and then got to my knees, pushed my butt up into the air. Zac got behind me and put his nose into my butt. The feeling of his tongue against my asshole sent me over the edge. I moaned loudly as he probed up and down over ever inch between my cheeks. He bit gently at my cheeks. And then he pushed a finger deep inside of me. He moved it in and out at a slow, steady pace. I kept moaning with each stroke of his finger. I almost screamed when he pushed in with two fingers.

        “Oh, fuck me...” I said. “Fuck me...”

        “Are you ready?” he asked.

        “Yeah,” I said.

        He flipped me onto my back. Pushing my legs up and hold them with his arms, he lined his massive, beautiful cock up with my asshole. His broad chest glistened with sweat. I reached up and ran my hands over his stomach. The head of his cock pushed into my easily and he held it there.

        “I’ll go slowly,” he said.

        He pushed in an inch at a time. The pain was incredibly. I almost thrashed. I cried out.

        “Oh, fuck!” I shouted as he pushed in. “Keep going.” I put my hand up to his hard abdomen to guide him.

        He pushed in further. I could feel his cock stretching me deep inside.

        “Fuck... oh, fuck...”

        He was entirely inside of me, all eight thick inches.

        He leaned down on top of me. Our faces close together. I wrapped my arms around his torso and he put his arms under my shoulders, holding me tightly.

        He pulled out with his hips slowly and then pushed pack in. I bit at his shoulder.

        “You’re so big,” I said.

        “You like my cock inside of you?” he said into my ear.

        “Fuck me, Zac... fuck me...”

        His entire body rocked forward gently. I could see the pleasure in his face. He moaned deeply and wordlessly as he rocked forward.

        “You’re so tight...” he said. “Oh, my god...”

        I felt his back and the muscles on his arms and shoulders. I held his pecs and pinched at his nipples. I put my hands into his gorgeous hair and looked deeply into his eyes.

        Now, he was thrusting faster and faster. He pushed his tongue into my mouth and lapped at almost every inch of my face. He licked up and down on my neck.  He was like an animal on me.

        “Fuck me with you hard cock...” I moaned. With each powerful thrust, I moaned and whimpered with pleasure and pain and joy. His shoulders were as hard as fireplace mantle. I held on tightly as he pounded my ass.

        “I’m getting close,” he said.

        “Wait,” I said and pushed him back. I didn’t want it to end. I stood up and pushed him onto his back. He laid flat on his back, his legs slightly open. His torso was a perfect Greek sculpture, each muscle distinct and glistening with sweat. He panted and I watched for a moment as his lungs filled with air, his stomach moving with each breath. I had never seen anything more beautiful than his body and his cock, massive and erect.

        I wanted to keep him excited but not touch his cock so that he could fuck me again. I knelt next to him on the bed and kissed at his chest. I massaged his chest, feeling every muscle, kissing every muscle as I did. I sucked at his cock.

        He reached under me and took a hold of my cock, jerking me off slowly as I worshiped his body. I run my tongue slowly between the muscles of his abdomen, tasting the sweet, salty sweat of his body. I came to his pubic hair and felt it it against my face. I wanted to suck his cock again. His hips were thrusting it into the hair like an invisible man was sitting on top of him. I bypassed it and took his balls into my mouth.

        “Oh, fuck...” he said. “I want to fuck you again.”

        “Not quite yet,” I said, grinning. I stood up and then knelt over his torso, putting my knees into his arm pits. He wrapped his arms around me and I aimed my cocked into his mouth. I leaned over and supported myself on my arms so I was on all fours, fucking Zac’s face. His face was so beautiful and more so with my cock in his mouth, his lips wrapped around my shaft. His fingers found their way to my asshole and again he pushed is way inside.

        “Suck my cock...” I said. “Yeah... oh, god... that feel so good...”

        I couldn’t last long.

        His mouth was so warm and he move his head at different angles so each stroke was different. And inside his mouth, his wrapped around my cock and seemed to invite my cock further inside.

        I sat up again. And then worked my way back so that I was over his cock. I guided it into my and sat down on it, my hands on his pecs. He sat up and kissed me, holding me in his strong arms so that his stomach pressed my cock between us.

        Gently, I moved up and down on his cock. I wrapped my hands around his shoulders and held on, riding him.

        “I love the feeling of my cock in your ass,” he said, his face buried in my chest, panting. “Ride my cock...”

        “Fuck me harder, Zac...” I said... holding on this head, my face buried in his hair.

        He began to moan as I moved up and down and my cock was tingling against his stomach.

        “Oh, fuck...” he said. “I’m going to cum...”

        “Cum inside me,” I said. He couldn’t move his own hips so his orgasm came slowly.

        “Oh, fuck....” he moaned. “I’m cumming...”

        He gave a deep moan and threw his head back as I felt him ejaculate deep inside of me. I kept riding him and he moaned and bucked in sheer pleasure.

        Suddenly, I was cumming too, onto his chest and mine, the cum between us. I almost screamed with pleasure and gripped him tightly, almost digging into his flesh with my fingernails. I kept riding him as our orgasm continued. And then, slowly, I stopped... looking into his eyes.

        He kissed me, his cock still deep inside of me.

        “That was amazing,” he said, finally, as the motion stopped.

        We wrapped blankets around ourselves. Turning me on my side, he held me from behind, breathing on the back of my neck. Our legs intertwined and we held each others hands in front of me. It was warm and perfect and before long, we were both asleep.