Author's note: This story is fiction. Although one character bears a similarity to the young film actor who currently plays Spiderman, the author does not claim any personal knowledge about the sexuality or the personal life of that actor.
The traffic on the Santa Monica Freeway crept along, slower and even more agonizing than usual. It was just past rush hour, around seven in the evening, the sunset unfolding on the horizon as they drove west toward the entrance to the Pacific Coast Highway. The ride home at this time of night usually took about an hour, but they'd left the studio nearly an hour ago and were still a while from home. Then again, Tom thought, as he stared blankly out the passenger-side window, he'd been in Los Angeles for close to two years now, and if there was one thing he'd learned, it was this: leave time to get where you're going.
Next to him, Simon gripped the steering wheel, eyes covered by sunglasses and fixated on the road ahead. He hadn't turned on the radio like he usually did, either to KCRW, the local NPR affiliate, or to one of his classic rock satellite stations, which helped him tune out the stress of the day's shoot. On many occasions, Tom had mocked this choice of music, which played hits from bands like Pearl Jam, Nirvana, and Radiohead, all of which had hit their peak long before Tom was even born. Today, though, the car had been entirely silent since they both got in. Tom didn't know exactly what was coming, but he knew better than to say a word.
Eventually, they made the turn onto the coastal highway, which proved much clearer, and they drove up the coast, past the Getty Villa, past the famous lobster shack, and then they turned left, pulling into the driveway of a magnificent mansion overlooking the ocean.
Simon placed his Range Rover in park, and they both sat for a moment, until the silence proved too much.
"Can we go in?" asked Tom, as gently as he could manage.
Simon sat for a moment and didn't turn. Then, he spoke.
"Give me your phone."
"What?" asked Tom.
"You heard me."
Instinctively, Tom reached into his pocket and handed over his phone to Simon, who jerked it roughly into his own pocket.
"Now go upstairs," said Simon. "You will sit in your room. You will not have your phone, you will not be on your computer, you will not be watching television. You will sit. You will think."
Tom looked at Simon.
"Are you---"
"Go. Now, Tom."
Tom obeyed. Simon watched as the boy gathered his backpack from the backseat, shut the door and ambled into the house. He was in a plain black shirt and tight, blue shorts, looking, as usual, quite a bit younger than his seventeen years. He closed the door behind him, sneaking a nervous glance at Simon, still in the car.
Simon sat for a moment, still looking straight ahead, before taking off his sunglasses and giving a long sigh and then a tight smile. It's not funny, he thought. Okay, maybe it's a little bit funny.
"Look, this isn't such a big deal," said Dick Mosher's voice. He'd begun talking the second he picked up the phone from Simon's call. "So we lose half a day, so what?"
"That's not the point, as you know," replied Simon.
"It's the only thing that matters from a production point of view," said Dick. "We lose half a day. We're set to be on time and actually under budget. You wanna know what a miracle that'll be to the studio?"
"That's not the point, Dick," Simon repeated. "It's not the production issue."
"Yeah yeah. It's--- behavior management. I get it. But look. He's a kid. He'll be fine in the morning."
"I don't know," said Simon with a sigh, running his hand through his hair. "This is just another complication that I don't need right now."
"I'm sure you don't. The only guy more stressed out than the director of a big studio picture is the President on the eve of war. But hey, that's why you get the big bucks."
Simon chuckled. As if in some spiritual affirmation of Dick's remark, a cool breeze gusted over Simon and he looked out at his vast ocean view. He was out on his terrace, having poured himself a glass of gin with a very light splash of tonic.
"Where is he now?" asked Dick.
"Upstairs, in his room."
"Ah, right. The whole Dad routine. `No electronics. No fun. Get in your room and think about what you did.'"
"Something like that."
"Don't have to tell you what I would do in this situation, do I?" said Dick.
"Probably not."
"Same thing my dad would've done. You run your mouth like that? Here's a bar of Ivory soap in your mouth---
"Dick---"
"A nice clean bar of Ivory soap in your mouth. And a smart wooden paddle across your bare behind. Into bed without supper and good luck sitting down tomorrow."
For a while, Simon said nothing, mesmerized by the sunset. Then he looked down at the pool below him. Good night for a swim.
"Still there?" asked Dick.
"Yeah."
"Listen. The kid's entering a new phase. First he was shell-shocked, aww-shucks, Idaho boy, can-you-believe-I-made-it, I'm-gonna-be-a-star-on-the-silver screen. He's over that now. He's bought into the hype. He thinks he's a movie star and wants to act like he thinks a movie star is supposed to act. Plus, for christ's sake: he's seventeen."
"I know. It's just so--- disappointing. To yell at a PA like that," said Simon.
"That wasn't nice," admitted Dick. "But like I said, he's going through a change. It doesn't help that he's living at the Malibu home of Hollywood's hottest hotshot director. It's a pretty big deal. And pretty incredible of you to take him in."
"Well, that's what makes me the hottest hotshot, I guess. Anyway, thanks Dick. I'm gonna jump in the pool."
"And what about later? You gonna follow my expert parenting advice?"
"Well," Simon said, slowly, "I'm not sure they still make Ivory soap."
"Of course they do. They still make paddles, too. Or you take off your belt and deal with it that way. Can't go wrong."
Dick had been Simon's first assistant director on both of his previous movies along with the current one, and Simon didn't know what he'd do without him. He was also a generation older than Simon, with a working-class New Jersey veneer. Never married, probably never would be, and that's just how he liked it.
Simon took a final swig of his drink and began to take off his tee-shirt.
"I'm gonna go now, Dick. Have a good night."
"See ya tomorrow, captain."
From upstairs in his room, Tom could faintly hear Simon's voice on the terrace, talking into the phone. He didn't have much time, and of course he had to be discreet, but he needed to talk to someone.
Simon had taken away his phone, but his laptop computer was on his desk, and Tom went over to it quickly, opening it up and typing into the messenger app.
Hey are you there??!? EMERGENCY.
He clicked "send," transmitting the message to his best friend Bridget, who would hopefully be ready to look at it and respond.
A near-eternity passed. He could hear Simon wrapping up his conversation on the terrace. He didn't know whether Simon would come straight up to his room or if he'd take a swim, as he often did after a shoot. He didn't want to risk it, and angrily began to close his computer.
He was interrupted by the chime of an incoming message. Bridget was there.
WHAT WHAT tell me tell me.
Thank god.
Omg you're there. Phew. Ok, Tom typed. He took a deep breath and tried to put it into words.
I think...
He couldn't quite say it.
...??? wrote Bridget.
Tom took another breath. He could feel a tear coming on.
I think this is all about to come to an end. All of it.
The pool was refreshing. Simon's toned muscles labored in the laps, from one end of the pool to the other. It was a soothing after-work ritual. Today, however, his mind was unsettled.
Simon had a problem, and it certainly hadn't begun today. He had had this a problem for a long time--- since a year and a half ago, to be exact.
Since that night when Tom had shown up at his door unannounced at ten o'clock one evening, begging to be let in. Since he'd gestured for Tom to take a seat on the couch, and had listened to the boy plead for a screen test, for an audition for the new Spiderman reboot film, the one that would feature the famous superhero in his high school days, for which Simon was currently conducting a nationwide search for the right-looking teenage actor. Since he'd failed to explain to Tom that this is not how it works, that there was a screening process conducted by assistants who looked at video submissions, and Simon wouldn't even be involved in the decision until it had been whittled down to a handful of boys out of the thousands who applied. Since instead, Simon had kept quiet and let Tom read for it right there on his couch, and then, astonished, he'd had him read for it again, and then he'd given him the part right on the spot, and then, craziest of all, once he'd verified the boy's story--- that he'd lost both of his parents in Idaho long ago and now he lived with a distant aunt and uncle who couldn't care less about his whereabouts--- Simon had told Tom that he could stay in his guest bedroom for as long as he wanted.
Most of all, Simon had had this problem since he'd begun production on the movie and had made the bittersweet realization that Tom truly was a movie star in waiting, that he would be soon be a hot young celebrity of the first order.
The problem, in fact, was this: Simon loved Tom.
He loved him. Not as a surrogate dad or, more to the point, as a surrogate big brother, since at twenty-eight Simon couldn't possibly have fathered Tom--- nor as a director, or mentor, or elder artistic collaborator. He loved him as a lover. As fully and truly as he'd ever imagined that he could.
And this was agony. Tom would never, could never, return Simon's feelings. Tom, with the boyish, beautiful figure and a preternatural charisma. The smooth superhero. The soon-to-be teen idol of his generation. Simon had given him the chance and the boy had run with it. And soon, Simon knew, the boy would have no more room him.
It's okay, Simon thought, as he lifted himself out of the pool. I had him for a time. Heck, I still have him, at least for tonight.
And as long as he "had" Tom under his roof, he knew he had the obligation to set him on the right course. Whether or not Tom could ever love him back, Simon loved Tom enough to make sure that he didn't turn into a spoiled, miserable brat, the type that peaked too early for their own good, made a big splash and were never heard from again. He would not let that happen. Dick was entirely right.
Simon dried himself off and walked inside to shower and change.
I thought it was going really well?? typed Bridget.
Me too! replied Tom. We've been doing this shoot for six months. It's been nuts so crazy fun and amazing. Until today. I think I finally---
Tom froze. He heard footsteps on the stairs. Immediately, he shut his computer, threw it on his desk, and went back to sit on his bed.
But the footsteps passed by his room. Simon must have been walking to his own master bedroom and probably would be a while.
When it was completely safe, Tom reopened his computer to find another string of question marks from Bridget.
Sorry, false alarm, he typed.
It's ok. Just tell me! You "finally" what??
I've been really distracted because... well anyway. I've been distracted. And I kind of snapped. And not in a, shall we say, "productive" way.
So what? You're the new Spiderman. They've put all this time and money into it. It's not like they're gonna kick you off.
Tom grimaced. Bridget...
What?
That's not the point! That's not at all the point!! I'm not worried about getting kicked off the movie...
Oh, she replied. Well then, what?
Tom closed his computer again, this time in mild disgust. He couldn't believe that Bridget, who'd known him his whole life, was unable to pick up on what was really going on. But he knew that was hardly fair. After all, if Tom had barely just begun admitting it to himself, how could he expect anyone else to understand it yet?
Simon stopped in front of Tom's door and closed his eyes. He was not entirely prepared, but it was now or never.
He knocked, and then quickly opened the door, not waiting for Tom to grant permission. That would've sent the wrong message.
Tom was sitting on his bed, looking down. Every inch the little boy, caught stealing from the offering plate or knocking a ball through a neighbor's window and then running away. A few strands of hair were obscuring his face, and Simon thought he saw a trace of tears in Tom's small blue eyes. That was unexpected, and it would make this harder. But not impossible.
Tom looked up while Simon pulled the chair out from under Tom's desk and brought it directly across from the bed where Tom sat. They looked at each other for a moment, right into each other's eyes, fiercely connected in a way that Simon hadn't felt since the night when Tom arrived at his door.
"Sit up, please, Tom," said Simon, deliberately breaking the intensity of the moment.
Tom complied, stiffening his spine and rolling back his shoulders.
"What happened today on set was extremely disappointing, and completely unacceptable. When you are collaborating on a project, particularly when you are practically the face of that project--- when you've been given the extraordinary privilege of a principal role--- there is absolutely no excuse for treating anyone with that kind of disrespect. Look at me, Tom."
The boy's eyes had wandered down for a moment. He snapped back to attention.
Simon continued. "You yelled at a production assistant, who was, (a) simply trying to help you, (b) a very talented and professional man, and (c) a person who makes approximately one-tenth of what you will make for doing about double the work. What in the world makes you think that's okay?"
Tom mumbled something, looking down again.
"Excuse me?" demanded Simon.
"I don't," said Tom, softly. "I don't think it's okay."
"Good. I don't either," said Simon. "Tomorrow you will apologize to him."
Tom nodded, and then the two sat in silence. Now came the hard part. Make or break. Sink or swim. Do or die.
"But you also need to be punished, Tom. And it's my job to do it."
Tom squinted and turned his head to the side, as if he was expecting this.
"Unfortunately, I have to---"
"Please. Please please please. Don't," said Tom.
"Huh?"
"Please don't. I'm so sorry." Tom's head was in his hands, which were rubbing his face up and down.
"Well, I understand. But I think I have to. I know I do. And---"
"I'll never do it again. Really. I've learned. Please don't kick me out of your house."
Simon was astonished, and he stifled a gasp.
"Kick you out of the house?"
"Please please don't. I don't know what came over me. I just... please..."
"Tom. That's--- hey. Hey. Come on. Look at me."
Simon put his hand under Tom's chin, gently guiding it up.
"Listen. Okay? I'm not kicking you out of the house, Tom. I will never, ever, kick you out of the house. Never."
"Really?"
"Yes. Really."
Simon wiped away the remaining tears on Tom's face.
"You don't need to worry about that ever again. Okay?"
"Okay."
Simon went over and sat next to Tom on the bed. He tousled the boy's his hair and gave him several soothing strokes on his back. He noticed Tom's bare, smooth legs were gently rocking back and forth at the foot of the bed, like a child's.
Finally, Simon stood up. "What do you say we order in tonight? Watch a movie? Call's not til noon tomorrow."
Tom looked up, confused, as if Simon had spoken in an alien tongue. "Huh?"
It just isn't going to happen, Simon had realized. I've already done what I needed to do, even though it's not what I thought. The boy clearly feels bad, and now he knows how much I care about him. The other thing is not necessary.
"We already said you'll apologize tomorrow," said Simon. We don't need to make it a bigger deal. Why don't you clean up and meet me in the TV room?"
Simon patted the boy on the head and began to leave the room.
"But you said..."
Simon turned around.
"Yes...?"
"You said--- when you came in here--- you needed to `punish' me. You said it's your job to do it. What were you going to do?"
Damn it, thought Simon. The boy was too perceptive for his own good. This was the last thing he wanted to explain.
"Oh, don't worry about it, bud. It's all taken care of," Simon said, putting on a slight, probably idiotic, grin.
"Come on," said Tom. "What would you have done?"
Simon threw up his hands in mock bewilderment.
"Well. I don't know. What do you think I should've done?"
This was a bit of forced improvisation, and Simon hoped Tom quickly would drop the whole thing.
"Not sure. I've never been punished before," said Tom.
Simon raised an eyebrow. "Never?"
Tom shook his head. "My aunt wasn't up to it, and I've never had a male authority figure to speak of. So I'm not really sure. Grounding? No phone for a week? Extra chores?"
Simon slowly walked back toward Tom. "Those are possibilities."
"Are they?"
"Sure," said Simon. "If I had a son, or a little brother I really cared about, those might be strong disciplinary options."
"And what else would be?"
Simon felt the tension leave his body. He even allowed himself a slight snicker. This was a relief: Tom knew exactly what was happening, and was fine with it. In fact, the boy seemed to be willing it to happen.
"You really want to know, Tom?" Simon said, his voice growing deeper and sterner. "You want to know what would happen to a boy of mine if he showed such blatant disrespect and disobedience?"
"Yes, I do," said Tom.
"He would get spanked. He would get spanked on his bare little bottom right over my knee, and it wouldn't be over until I've decided he had enough. And when I do decide it's over, it'll be because he's a very sorry, sobbing little boy with a red bottom who will remember his misbehavior every time he sits down for a good long while."
Tom took this in. He nodded and stood up.
"Well then, that's what needs to happen," he said.
The boy gripped the waistband of his shorts and gently pulled them down, letting them fall to the floor. His tight white briefs and his tight black shirt clung to his slight frame.
"Punish me. It's long past time."
Simon was determined to make it count. This would not be a series of love taps, or a stagey bit of light roleplay with more sound than fury. This would be a real punishment, a measured but firm response to serious misbehavior. Though it might surprise Dick Mosher, Simon was more than familiar with the practice, having been placed over his father's knee plenty of times in his childhood. He'd been the youngest of three boys in an Irish Catholic family in Southern Missouri, his father a no-nonsense patrol cop, a loving man but one with very limited tolerance for mischief or insolence from his sons. He'd administered the paddle swiftly and firmly, and Simon, with his tart tongue and strong-willed spirit, was the most frequent recipient. His father couldn't have known, or even imagined, that his unruly son would grow up to be one of Hollywood's brightest talents. But Simon knew that this good fortune was in no small part thanks to that paddle, with all the discipline and protection it represented.
He didn't have a paddle, but he did have a wooden hairbrush in his bedroom, and it would do the job just fine. He'd instructed Tom to stand in the corner, underpants and all, until he returned to the boy's room for the punishment. He found the hairbrush quickly, but lingered and walked slowly back down the hall to prolong Tom's nervous anticipation. Standing at the threshold of Tom's bedroom door, before going in to give the boy exactly what he needed and deserved, Simon felt something stir in his pants.
Well, that's to be expected, he thought. No use in pretending it's not. But let's get this over with first.
After sitting down in Tom's chair, Simon had solemnly beckoned the boy over to him. He reached out and tugged at Tom's briefs, slowly sliding them down his legs until they were all the way off. Then, Simon put the boy over his knee so that his feet weren't touching the floor, and he pinned his arm against his back with his left hand, so that Tom couldn't cover his bottom.
"It's too bad that I have to spank you, Tom, but you leave me no choice, do you?"
"No sir," said Tom.
"In this house, and on any set that I'm in charge of, you will speak with respect and you will do as you're told when I tell you to do it. If not, you will be spanked just like the little bratty boy you are. Do you understand me, Tom?"
"Yes sir."
"Well, you're about to, anyway."
Simon brought the wooden hairbrush high above his shoulder, then brought the full force of it down onto Tom's bottom. He could hear the wooosh in the air and the sharp slap against the boy's bare skin.
It made a big impression. Tom cried out, almost a shriek, and involuntarily tried to move his hand down to rub away the pain. Simon blocked the move and delivered several stinging blows.
"Do... not... move... your... hand," Simon said between slaps.
"But I can't take it!" cried Tom.
"You can take it, and you will," said Simon. Spank. "This isn't a negotiation." Spank. "You misbehave, you get punished. You are not in control here. I will spank until you've learned your lesson."
Simon delivered another series of brisk, sharp slaps, and Tom finally began to break down, tears pouring down his cheeks.
"I'm sorry! I'm sooo sorry!" he said, stopping to catch his breath as the sobbing increased.
"I'm sure you are," said Simon. "And you will be even sorrier when you sit down, boy."
Simon didn't let up. He couldn't. He'd learned this from his dad, who would spank well past the sobs and only let up when he felt that the boy was genuinely remorseful and would think long and hard before acting up again. If Tom thought that a spanking would end as soon as the tears began, he'd use it as a tool next time. And, Simon realized happily, there would be a next time. Many next times.
So the spanking went on, each slap from the hairbrush as hard as the last, Tom sobbing and pleading. Simon could soon tell that the point had been made. He clenched the hairbrush tight, and raised it high again, delivering five of the hardest smacks. Then he put more pressure on the boy's arm, pointing down at him with his final admonition.
"If you don't learn to behave, boy, next time will be twice as hard. You'd better remember this punishment."
"I will, sir!" cried Tom. "I will!"
At last, Simon pulled the Tom up and cradled him on his lap. He let the boy sob into his shoulder and caressed his back.
"Shhhh," said Simon. "It's okay, bud. It's over. It's okay."
Gradually, Tom's crying began to subside and he pulled his face out of Simon's shoulder, wiping away the remaining tears. The two of them looked at each other then for a long time without talking, faces close to touching. Simon had just delivered a very real and necessary act of correction, and Tom was genuinely chastened, but that wasn't the whole story. Simon wasn't a dad and Tom wasn't a son, and as they looked into each other's eyes, the question remained: who were they to each other? How would they move forward? How could they?
And then Tom leaned in and kissed Simon, a full, aching, hungry kiss. And Simon, though shocked, at first simply let it happen, and then he engaged, sinking his lips into Tom's, putting all of his pent-up passion into the act. After a while, Tom pushed him away from the chair and onto the bed, and they continued there, greedily exploring each other's bodies. Tom ripped off his shirt, now fully naked, and Simon could see and feel Tom's raging erection, and Tom could feel Simon's through his jeans. Tom went to loosen Simon's belt, but Simon gently pushed his hand away.
Tom pulled back. "What's wrong?"
"Oh--- I mean, nothing, I just..." stammered Simon.
"You just what? Tell me."
"Nothing. I just--- I'm sorry..."
Tom looked down. "Oh. It's okay." He looked ready to cry again, and this time perhaps even more deeply than before.
"Tom. Do you have feelings for me?" asked Simon.
Tom nodded, still unable to look up.
"Have you had them for a long time?"
Tom nodded again. "I'm sorry."
Then he slowly got off the bed and began to dress, scooping up his briefs and then his shorts.
"Tom--- stop..."
"It's okay, you don't have to---"
"Sit down, Tom," said Simon. "Please."
He'd used his firm voice, but tinged with something far more gentle than before. Tom walked over and took a seat next to Simon on the bed, realizing as he did that it would not be easy to sit for a while.
"So look. Okay," said Simon. "I love you. I deeply, truly, love you. I'm in love with you. I think I've probably felt that way since the exact moment you knocked on the door and convinced me to let you in. And I feel it more every day. And frankly, it's awful, and tonight it's probably the worst it's ever been, because I can see it for real. I see what we can be, and how amazing it could be. And I know it's never going to happen."
"Why's that?" asked Tom.
"Because it's grossly inappropriate. I can't confuse you with all of this while you're still figuring it out for yourself."
"But---" began Tom.
"And it's not just that," continued Simon. "It's also--- you'll never see me as anything other than the guy who let you in that night. As anything other than your mentor, your guide. Which I am, and want to be. But the thing is, I want that and... much more."
The weight of Simon's revelation loomed heavily over the silence that followed. Tom couldn't begin to know how to respond.
"But I love you too," said Tom. "I really do. I want to be with you like that."
Simon looked at him, this blisteringly handsome, soon-to-be movie star and teen idol. He smiled.
"Well, here's what I know," said Simon. "I know we have a major project to finish. I know that you're gonna need plenty of discipline going forward. And I know you'll be eighteen in two-and-a-half months."
Tom nodded. "True."
"And one other thing. I know where you live."
Tom laughed. "Yeah. You do."
"So let's take it one day at a time?"
They ordered in and watched a movie. They cuddled on the couch and teased each other and laughed. Later, when they were both tired, with a long day of shooting ahead of them, Simon brought Tom to his bedroom and kissed him good night. He lingered in the doorway while Tom fell asleep and then he shut the door, walking down the hallway with the wooden hairbrush in his hand and a smile on his face, ready for whatever was to come.