It's taken a while but reality shows are all the rage in Italy at the moment. The latest one is called 'Casting Couch' and is already high in the ratings as Italians are naturally curious to see just how far actors are willing to go to get that plum part. I believe it's somewhat similar to 'The Starlet' in the States, but with an Italian slant. I'm one of the show's five hosts. Like each of the contestants, we all bear a fairly strong resemblance to well-known actors or celebrities. I look quite a bit like Sean Connery, only I'm slightly shorter and fortunately a lot younger. The creators have cleverly fashioned a fairly pedestrian talent show into a harrowing contest that has almost everybody in Italy riveted to their dining room chairs five nights a week. There are re-runs on the weekends in case you've missed one, or are sado-masochistic enough to want to see them again. Part of my job is coaching the young pretenders to sing, dance and act. Each one of us is assigned someone once a month and has to stick with them to the sometimes bitter end. It's worse than being married as you almost live and breathe together, eight to ten hours a day, and have to learn how to take all the shit with precious few of the perks. It can be great if you hit it off, but hell if you don't get on together. But that's all part of the "fun," as you're constantly videoed during class and also at rehearsals. Those vicious viewers sure love to see all the pain as well as the gain.

Most of the time, I've been extremely fortunate, and recently I was fucking over the moon. Literally. I had the cream of the crop. A fantastic Armenian boy and a Rudolf Nureyev look alike. He had everything going for him: looks, talent, sob-story etc. And he was great in the sack. Of course that wasn't included in the contract and I could have lost my job. But it would have been worth it. He was officially a refugee and I was officially married at the time, although my wife lived in another part of the apartment. He still hadn't received his papers, but made such an impression on the judges at his first audition that

somebody had pulled some influential strings somewhere, and he was allowed to take part in the contest. As we had to spend so much time together preparing for the show, it seemed only sensible that he should come and stay with my wife and I for the duration of the contest. That was my official story for curious journalists anyway. Fortunately, Sheila was very co-operative and covered up for us well. Problem was the authorities could have checked up on him at any moment, but they didn't. If they had, the press would have had a field day and labelled me another Michael Jackson. My reputation would have been ruined. But, as I told you, I was over the moon and Toma was used to taking risks.

He'd left Armenia on a raft and narrowly escaped being drowned. He arrived in Bari without a penny to his name, evaded immigration, slept in the streets and had all kinds of nasty adventures until someone told him about the contest. You see, not only did he look like Rudolf Nureyev but he showed great promise as a dancer and had been part of a ballet company in his own country. Sounds like a fairy story doesn't it but it's true. If you don't believe me you can come over here and see for yourself. He's famous now although his name isn't actually Toma. Naturally, everybody was enchanted with his rags to riches story and that's partly why he won the contest. That combined with good looks and talent. Well the day I first set eyes on him, he'd been limbering up in the dance studio. He was taking off his shirt as I came in, so I got to see his nipples before I saw his face. Got to see his dick too as the outline was very evident through his damp dance pants. He looked in the mirror and saw me watching him adjust his dick. He didn't blush or anything, just looked me straight in the eye. I told him that jock straps were mandatory. He said he couldn't afford one. Nobody in production had thought of giving him money. I took him into the dressing room to fit him out with one. That was my undoing. He had the hairiest ass I'd ever seen. It was a real turn on. I watched him slip into the jock strap and the die was cast. Before I could stop myself I'd reached out and touched him.

I stroked his ass as you might stroke a dog. Then I put my hand between his legs and made a cup out of his balls. He purred. I smiled. He asked me why I was smiling, and I told him I'd never heard a dog purr. Of course he didn't understand, even if his English was quite fluent. I said he had a great ass, and I just had to reach out and stroke it. I told him that it was a million times better than stroking any dog and also that I'd never touched anyone's ass quite like that before. It was the

strangest conversation I'd had with anyone too. The funny thing was that everything was quite natural between us as if you went up to a perfect stranger every day, stroked his ass and introduced him to your dick. Which by the way I was in the process of doing. I took hold of the elastic on his jock strap and began to roll it down. As I did so I thought that only five minutes ago I'd told him that jock straps were mandatory. Life can be very contradictory sometimes.

There was enough pre-cum on my excited dick to fill a lube-tube, so I didn't have too much trouble oiling his works and inserting my member. Although, initially, his ass was very dry and felt like a bird's nest. In fact, as I fucked him, I half expected him to crow, but he growled this time and I laughed out loud. I thought he might be offended, but he wiggled his ass like a baby vulture waiting to be fed, and I didn't have the heart to tell him he'd made the wrong noise again. Besides, I thought the quieter we were, the better, as anybody could have come in and found us fucking like rabbits. That made me wonder what sound rabbits made, especially when fucking, and I started laughing again. All in all it was the funniest fuck I've ever had. And the finest.

Later on in our relationship I told him about the thoughts going through my head during our first fuck. He thought making love like animals was a great idea, and he invented a sex game where we had to make noises according to the animal we thought we were fucking. We fucked ourselves through an entire week making every barnyard noise known to man. That was quite a turn on, too. I tell you Old McDonald never had it so good down on his farm, and that's for sure. I can't look at a goat or a chicken anymore without thinking of Toma and of how naturally we consolidated our relationship. I mean when two people meet, and it feels absolutely right, everything seems to fall into place immediately, so to speak. One day you have never met and the next you have always known each other. Communication becomes easy, effortless and natural. Total understanding. When two unite as one and time melts into the eternal now. When we made love after a very tiring day we seemed to renew each other's energy. Toma was working hard perfecting some difficult dance routines and he also had to sing in English and Italian. Singing was not really his forte, and I had to choose the songs very carefully. Besides I'd almost fucked him hoarse, or maybe I should say "horse," during our farmyard sessions. Nevertheless, he was always ready to work off his tensions on me sexually and lead me quite a dance in bed, or on the kitchen table, or up against the bathroom wall and even splayed over the freezer.

His dick seemed convinced I had truffles up my ass or something because it would sniff and ferret around till it drove me crazy. I discovered that I did indeed have truffles up my ass, only they're normally known as erogenous zones. He found all of them and a few more besides. Having a dancer fuck you is like taking part in some erotic ballet and never knowing which choreography your partner's going to be using on you at any given moment, so you have to be pretty flexible and always on your toes so to speak. He can tango the fuck out of you one moment, and lead you into a heavenly waltz the next. And then just when you're floating nicely on cloud nine, he'll rumba the shit out of your ass or do a passa doble on your dick. Sucking and fucking were tame to me after him, and of course, inevitably, there had to be an "after him." He won the contest, and I was assigned another contestant. And the show went on. Toma went on too. To better things. So we drifted apart. All that eternity collapsed into six weeks. Still, it was nice while it lasted. The song may be over but the melody lingers on. Ah, well, back to the casting couch.