Summer Fling

Sweet, sweet burn,
Of sun and summer wind.
And you my boy,
My new fun thing,
My summer fling.

The Dream Factory

Hollywood exists in my world just like in yours, America's dream factory. In the Hollywood in my world, pretty young things from all over move, bright-eyed, to California, dreaming of becoming the next It Boy. They find work as janitors, pool boys, household servants; they bus and wait table at restaurants and bars; others work at clubs as nude waiters and dancers. And all the while, they run to casting calls and script readings, where they are easy prey for the power-players of Tinseltown. For a boy struggling to make it here, it's all about how good-looking you are, and who you sleep with, the casting agent, a producer, the director, or that female lead in the film you're auditioning for who gazes at you with a smirk and a little gleam in her eye. Maybe she'll put in a good word for you. Maybe she won't. But she never will if you don't play the game.

Those who make it can look forward to a few years in the spotlight, as ravished men in distress and objects of desire for women in summer action movies, or as the coveted lead and target of envy among men in romantic comedies.

But the tastes of Hollywood are fickle, and the attention of women shorter still, and there are always younger boys, eager to take your place on the casting couch or as arm-candy for the Hollywood elite. And for each boy that the Dream Factory eats up and spits out, there are thousands waiting to get in.