All Things Durning

When a Stranger Calls (1979) - Charles Durning

Chapter Five: The Trailer Temptation

Featuring Actor Charles Durning

In the sticky heat of late August 1991, the set of Evening Shade buzzed with the controlled chaos of filming the Season 2 premiere, the crew transforming the Angeles National Forest near LA into the misty woodlands of fictional Arkansas. Young Jamie Nichols, a 24-year-old makeup artist fresh on the job with a lean, 6-foot lanky frame, fair skin, and piercing green eyes, navigated the flurry of activity like a ghost in the machine. His job today was intimate: preparing Charles Durning, the 68-year-old character actor, for his first nude scene. Charlie—at 5’8” with a stocky, roly-poly build, broad-chested and barrel-like, heavyset from years of Broadway buffets—carried a rugged, lived-in charisma that made him magnetic. His cherubic mouth that spun yarns with profane tenderness.

The makeup trailer was a cocoon of warmth, the air heavy with the scent of cosmetics, sweat, and unspoken anticipation. Jamie stood by the counter, organizing brushes, when Charlie sauntered in, his wide mouth curling into a sly smile that crinkled his laugh lines.

“Hey, kid,” Charlie rumbled, his gravelly voice laced with playful menace and that upstate twang—thick as Hudson fog. “Ready to paint this old warhorse pretty for my big reveal? Hell, at my age, it ain’t vanity—it’s survival.”

Jamie’s pulse quickened, but he flashed a grin, keeping it professional.

“Just gotta get you camera-ready, Mr. Durning.”

His sharp green eyes flicked over Charlie’s robust frame—broad shoulders straining his shirt, ruddy age-lined skin, that slight belly from years of good whiskey and better family feasts.

“Call me Charlie,” he said, winking those twinkling blues as he began unbuttoning his shirt with callused fingers. “Since you’re about to see more of me than my confessor back in Highland Falls.”

Jamie swallowed hard, watching Charlie strip with unselfconscious ease, the shirt whispering to the floor to reveal a thick torso sparsely dusted with silver-gray hair, sagging pecs tipped with small pink nipples, and those jagged scars crisscrossing his fair skin like a roadmap of foxholes and fury. Charlie kicked off his scuffed shoes, then dropped his trousers and briefs in one swift motion, the fabric pooling at his ankles. Jamie’s breath caught. Charlie’s thick, uncut 8-inch cock hung heavy between his sturdy thighs, light shaft nestled in a wiry nest of gray pubic hair, the broad rosy head hooded shyly in foreskin. His pendulous balls, plump and loose in their fair sturdy sack, glistened faintly with the day’s sweat, swaying as he shifted his weight on those thick legs. The sight sent a jolt through Jamie, his own 9-inch cut cock twitching to life in his jeans, straining against the denim.

“Here’s your wardrobe,” Jamie said, voice cracking slightly as he handed over a flesh-colored modesty pouch with clear straps—barely a whisper of fabric, more suggestion than shield.

Charlie chuckled, a deep, throaty rumble that vibrated the trailer’s thin walls like distant artillery. He stepped into the jockstrap, grunting as he adjusted it with a profane tug, the thin material clinging obscenely to his bulge, outlining every vein of his thickening dick and the heavy curve of his pendulous balls. Jamie’s eyes locked on it, unable to look away, his fair skin flushing hot.

“Need a closer look?” Charlie teased, catching the stare with those bushy-browed blues glinting mischief. His cherubic mouth twisted in a smirk, that strong jaw set with jovial challenge. “Or you just admirin’ the scenery?”

Jamie’s cheeks burned, but emboldened by the heat and the actor’s gruff charm, he dropped to his knees in front of Durning, the wooden floor creaking under his lanky frame, Charlie’s cock and giant nuts staring him in the face like forbidden fruit.

“Just makin’ sure it fits right,” he said, his tone half-joking, half-hungry. His fingers brushed the jockstrap, grazing the warm, firm outline of Charlie’s shaft, then cupping the pendulous sack—feeling the weighty orbs shift and warm his palm like heated stones. It twitched under his touch, swelling thicker against the fabric. Jamie’s heart pounded as he let his hand linger, then gave a slow, deliberate squeeze through the pouch, the girth filling his grip, pulsing with each heartbeat as blood rushed in. “Looks like you got more than the pouch can hide—hell, it’s fightin’ to bust free already.”

Charlie’s smirk widened with pugnacious pride, his voice dropping to a husky growl. “Careful, kid. You ain’t no queer, are ya?”

The question caught Jamie off guard, but lust overrode surprise—he was good at giving in to temptation, his 9-inch cut cock now a throbbing steel rod in his jeans, leaking a damp spot through the fabric. His fingers hooked the jockstrap’s waistband and tugged it down with a slow, teasing drag. Charlie’s cock sprang free like a coiled spring, now fully hard at 8 inches—thick and veiny, the light shaft rigid, foreskin peeled halfway back to reveal the broad rosy head glistening with a pearl of precum. The musky scent—sweat-soaked skin, faint cigar ash, and raw male earthiness—hit Jamie like a drug, making his mouth water and his balls ache.

Charlie grabbed his hardening dick at the base and began to shake it back and forth with a jovial grunt, the pendulous length slapping audibly against his thigh, foreskin fluttering like a flag in the breeze. He stopped swinging the hard pecker and made it jerk up and down hands-free, the shaft flexing with muscle memory, before wrapping his meaty fist around it and jacking slow—up and down the light shaft in lazy, twisting pumps, thumb smearing the emerging precum over the broad rosy dome until it shone slick, a wet schlick filling the air.

“Go on, grab hold—show me if those artist hands know more than powderin’ noses.”

Driven by the hypnotic rhythm, Jamie reached out, his long fingers closing around the thick shaft just above Charlie’s grip—the skin velvet-hot over iron, veins pulsing under his palm. He started to slowly jack it in tandem, their hands overlapping in a profane duet, sliding the foreskin fully back and forth over the broad rosy dickhead with deliberate drags that milked fresh beads of precum, the salty tang wafting up as it dribbled down to lube their strokes. Just touching the old man’s dick got Jamie so excited that his own cock throbbed painfully inside his jeans; he reached down with his free hand, unzipping them in a frantic tug, allowing his 9-inch cut length to spring free—cut head flushed purple, shaft straight and veined, leaking a steady string of precum that pattered onto the wooden floor like summer rain. Jamie stroked himself in mirror to Charlie’s rhythm, fist pumping his exposed cock with slick faps, the dual masturbation building a fever in the cramped space.

“That’s it, grab it,” Charlie mumbled, his voice rough with lust and that vulnerable storyteller’s lilt, blue eyes hooded as he watched their hands work his shaft, the pendulous balls swaying below like hypnotic pendulums.

Jamie leaned in, lips parting on instinct, and dragged his tongue along the underside of Charlie’s shaft—flat laps from base to tip, savoring the salty heat and veiny texture, the smooth skin over rigid flesh making him moan low. He swirled his tongue around the broad rosy head in fervent circles, lapping greedily at the slit to suck up the oozing precum—briny and faintly sweet, like tears from a hard-fought battle—before engulfing the crown with a wet, hungry slurp, cheeks hollowing as his lips stretched taut around the girth.

“Goddamn!” Charlie barked, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, weathered hands grabbing Jamie’s head, fingers tangling in his short blonde hair with a grip that was half-tender, half-rage-fueled. “You got a mouth like a fuckin’ hover.”

Jamie hummed around the invading cock, the vibration rumbling through the shaft like an aftershock, making Charlie shudder from his barrel chest to his rounded buttocks. He took it deeper, inch by thick inch—3, 4, 5 inches gliding over his tongue, the foreskin bunching slickly—until the broad head nudged the back of his throat, jaw aching from the stretch. At 6 inches, he gagged, eyes watering with the burn, spit bubbling at the corners of his mouth, but Charlie’s grip tightened, holding him steady with no-nonsense insistence.

“Take it, kid—choke on that cock,” Charlie growled with a pugnacious edge cracking with vulnerable need, his free hand drifting down to lazily fondle his own balls, rolling them in his palm as Jamie worked.

Jamie fought the reflex, relaxing his throat with practiced breaths, letting the last inches slide in until his nose buried in Charlie’s coarse pubic hair, the soft heft of his belly brushing Jamie’s forehead like a warm blanket, the fullness overwhelming as the cock pulsed hot against his palate and tonsils. Once he saw Jamie could take the entire length, the old man started fucking his mouth as though it was a well-oiled pussy—slow at first, hips rolling with deliberate thrusts that dragged the veiny shaft over tongue and cheeks, then building to a steady rhythm, balls slapping Jamie’s chin in wet paps.

As Charlie mouth-fucked him, Jamie’s hands roamed free—sliding up those thick, hairy thighs to knead the meaty flesh, fingers digging into the sturdy muscle with appreciative squeezes, the roughness of sweat-damp skin sending thrills through him almost as intense as the throat-stuffing. Charlie eased back occasionally, giving Jamie a gasping moment to breathe and spit, then thrust forward again, slow and deliberate, his cherubic mouth parting in rasps.

“Fuck, that’s good—suck it like you mean it, son.”

Jamie did, bobbing his head in counterpoint to the thrusts, lips gliding over the slick shaft with obscene slurps, tongue swirling along the bulging veins and flicking the sensitive frenulum underside, Charlie’s pendulous nuts bouncing invitingly against his chin like weighted chimes. The trailer filled with lewd symphony—wet glucks of deepthroat plunges, Jamie’s muffled moans vibrating the length, Charlie’s gruff grunts punctuating like curse-laced punchlines. Jamie’s hands slid higher, cupping those heavy balls fully now, rolling them gently in his palms—the warm, loose skin tightening under his touch, faint wrinkles smoothing as he tugged lightly, feeling them draw up with building pressure—while his other fist resumed pumping his own 9-inch cock, slick with precum, the fap-fap-fap syncing with the oral rhythm, his cut head flaring red and weeping steadily onto the floor.

“Look at me,” Charlie ordered, his voice sharp with that sudden rage-tinge.

Jamie glanced up, green eyes watering to meet Charlie’s intense twinkling blues, the sight above pure, filthy poetry: Charlie’s sagging pecs bouncing with each thrust, pink nipples trembling like targets, his big belly rippling like disturbed pond water, sweat beading on ruddy, age-lined skin and trickling down scarred channels. Charlie’s hand abandoned his balls to tweak his own nipple, twisting the sparse-tufted bud with a hiss, masturbatory flair adding to the vulnerability.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” Charlie said, almost to himself, self-deprecating chuckle bubbling up.

Jamie moaned louder around the pistoning cock, the sight fueling his frenzy; he sucked harder, hollowing his cheeks for vacuum suction that pulled schlurks from the shaft, his tongue flicking relentlessly at the broad rosy head on every withdrawal, lapping the slit for fresh precum like a parched man at an oasis. Charlie’s hips picked up speed, fucking Jamie’s mouth in earnest now, the wet slap of cock against throat echoing like applause in the small space, Jamie gagging sporadically with drool cascading down his chin in shiny ropes, pooling on the floor amid his own leaking precum—but he didn’t pull back, throat convulsing in greedy swallows. He matched the fury, his fist flying on his 9-inch length now, thumb circling the cut head to spread the slick, the dual sensations coiling tight in his gut.

“Shit—gonna make me blow, kid—fuck, get ready for it?” Charlie panted, his grip tightening in Jamie’s hair like a lifeline, thick legs quaking as his pendulous balls drew up tight under Jamie’s rolling fingers.

Jamie nodded as best he could, mouth stuffed to bursting, squeezing those orbs one last time in encouragement. Charlie’s thrusts grew erratic, breath hitching in guttural bursts—“Aw, goddamn it all, here it comes, son!—before he roared, yanking free with a wet pop, the cock bobbing slick and furious in the air. He wrapped his meaty fist around the base, stroking generously with furious pumps—twisting at the crown, foreskin flying back and forth over the broad rosy head in a blur, schlick-schlick-schlick—milking himself with veteran precision, the shaft bulging as veins throbbed visibly.

If Jamie lived to be a hundred, he’d never forget watching the old man jacking his dick like a man possessed, the fist a blur on the 8-inch length, matching Jamie’s own frantic strokes on his 9-incher—the cut head purple and slick, precum flying in arcs. Charlie shot off first, a bellowed curse ripping from his throat as the first rope struck Jamie squarely in the face—thick, hot, and copious, splattering his cheek and eyelid like warm glue, salty tang blooming in the air. Another burst crossed his lips and chin, dripping in a sticky white mess down his jaw, and damn if Jamie didn’t cum too, right then—that’s how electric it was, his fist clenching as jets of his own load erupted onto the floor in pearly puddles, splattering the wood with splat-splat, his lanky body shuddering as waves crashed through him, cock jerking untouched after the last pump.

Charlie groaned low, hooded blue eyes locked on the facial mess with hooded satisfaction, his hand slowing to lazy squeezes that wrung out the final dribbles—pearly drops oozing from the slit to string down the rosy head.

“Yeah, let it drip, ya eager little cocksucker—fuckin’ messy slut.”

Then the old man reached down with his free hand, gripping Jamie’s jaw tenderly-profane, and used the broad head of his still-spasming tool to smear the cum all over his face—swirling the rosy dome across cheeks, lips, and brow in sloppy, glistening trails, mixing with Jamie’s tears and spit into a filthy glaze. Jamie grinned through it, tongue darting out to lap at the coating on his lips, then sliding the softening cock back into his mouth one last time to suck the remnants clean—hollow-cheeked pulls milking the shaft with gentle slurps, savoring the bitter aftertaste as Charlie hissed oversensitive, thighs tensing.

“Jesus, kid, you’re gonna fuckin’ kill me,” Charlie yanked himself free with a shaky laugh, that cherubic mouth twisting in jovial exhaustion, his jowly face flushed crimson.

He tugged the jockstrap back up with a grunt, the fabric tenting over his spent but still impressive bulge, then grabbed his robe, tying it loosely over his broad, scarred frame. Jamie stood on wobbly legs, wiping his face with a handkerchief from his pocket, the taste of Charlie lingering musky-salty on his tongue, his own cock softening with dribbles still clinging to the cut head. This had been about Charlie, but the mutual release hung electric between them.

“Guess I should get to the set,” Charlie muttered, running a hand through his thinning hair, pausing at the door turning with a vulnerable glint in his twinkling eyes. “Keep this between us, kid, and maybe I’ll let you choke on it again.”

Jamie’s lips curled into a smirk, dabbing the last sticky remnants from his chin.

“My lips are sealed, Charlie—but I’m holdin’ you to that.”

Charlie snorted, a mix of amusement, nerves, and that good-hearted joviality cracking through, then shuffled out, his stocky figure disappearing into the set’s bustle, thick legs carrying the subtle hitch of satisfaction. Jamie leaned against the counter, heart racing, body buzzing with adrenaline and afterglow, the trailer reeking of sex and secrets. Nothing else happened on Evening Shade—not that day, at least. But the promise of more hung in the air, thick as the forest heat.

The Hindenburg (1975) - Charles Durning

Damn...Charles was a handsome man. And Richard Dysart wasn't bad to look at either.

Interesting note, Anne Bancroft would later co-star with Durning in

To Be or Not to Be (1983) and Home for the Holidays (1995).

Far North (1988) - Charles Durning

Chapter Four: The Backstage Seduction

Featuring Actor Charles Durning

In the spring of 1990, Bruce Jennings, a 5’7” man with a lean, athletic build, fair complexion, short brown hair, and striking blue eyes framed by a strong jawline and a boyish charm, decided to spend a weekend in New York City. He was there to soak in the sights and catch a couple of Broadway shows. One highlight was a revival of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, starring Kathleen Turner, with Charles Durning commanding the stage as the formidable Big Daddy. Clad in a cream-colored suit that accentuated his paunchy frame, the cigar-chomping Durning certainly caught the young man's eye. After the final curtain fell, Bruce lingered at the backstage door, clutching a souvenir poster and a pen, hoping for an autograph.

The crowd buzzed with anticipation—about 25 people jostled for position, posters in hand, primarily hoping for Turner's signature—but as the stage door creaked open, it was Charles Durning who emerged first. At 5’8”, his stocky, roly-poly frame was a broad-chested, barrel-like presence, heavyset and unyielding, marked by the faint scars of WWII snaking across his neck and chest like faded tattoos from some Normandy nightmare. His large rounded buttocks and thick sturdy legs filled out a dark navy suit, its jacket straining just enough to hint at the versatile everyman beneath—unpretentious, with a no-nonsense edge sharpened by Highland Falls grit.

He carried a sly smile as he scanned the crowd, unnoticed, and sauntered down the street alone. Something about Durning’s confident stride, unflappable demeanor in the face of the slight, and that enigmatic grin caught Bruce’s eye. Abandoning his wait for Turner, he chased after the actor.

“Mr. Durning!” he called, catching up. “Could I have your autograph? I’ve always admired your career.”

The wedding band on Durning’s finger gleamed, but Bruce, emboldened, added, “And if I got you into bed, I’d satisfy you like never before.”

Durning raised an eyebrow, his bushy brows knitting in surprise before his wide mouth curled into a grin, those twinkling blue eyes glinting with mischief.

“Well, hell’s bells, kid—you got some balls. Bold as brass, ain’t ya?”

Impressed by the young man's audacity and not having his cock sucked in months—he clapped Bruce on the shoulder with a meaty paw.

“Autograph’s yours, son, but that bed talk? Let’s see if you’re all bluster or if you got the goods. Lead on—before I change my mind and go home to the wife’s meatloaf.”

It didn’t take long for them to agree. Within the hour, they were back at Bruce’s hotel room, the city lights flickering outside like distant foxfire. Durning sauntered in like he owned the joint, unzipping his trousers with the casual flick, pulling out his 8-inch uncut cock—light shaft veined, broad rosy head hooded shyly in foreskin, pendulous balls swaying heavy in a fair, sturdy sack. He plopped down on the bed with a grunt, the mattress sighing under his barrel-like weight, and waved Bruce over, stroking the thickening length with lazy pumps.

“C’mon, kid—don’t just stand there gawkin’. Get to work.”

Bruce's jaw dropped at the sight, but he moved in front of the big man, sinking to his knees as heat flushed his fair skin. He slid his hands up Durning’s thick, sturdy legs, the wool trousers rough under his palms, and unzipped them fully. Durning lifted his heavyset ass with a playful growl, allowing Bruce to tug the pants down. As they slid free, the actor’s underwear snagged the half-hard shaft, causing it to snap back against his soft belly with a meaty thwack, the rosy head blooming free and already glistening. Bruce couldn’t help it; before Durning even settled, he dove in, wrapping his lips around the broad crown, tongue flicking the foreskin aside to lap at the salty slit where a bead of precum welled like Highland spring water—briny and faintly smoky, laced with the day’s sweat and stage greasepaint.

That cock was like a drug, the manly scent—earthy musk mingled with cigar ash and old spice—filling Bruce’s nose and sending him into overdrive. Durning’s shaft generously filled his mouth, stretching Bruce’s lips taut around the girth as he slid it all the way down his throat, the uncut length gliding smooth until the broad rosy head nudged his tonsils, making his eyes water. Durning threw his head back, groaning deep from his barrel chest, “Jesus, ya got a mouth like a goddamn Hoover, boy! Suck it like ya mean it.”

Bruce’s hands roamed upward, skillfully unbuttoning Durning’s shirt to reveal the scarred, sparsely haired chest heaving with each breath, fingers tracing the patchy trails down to the soft abdominal swell, kneading the warm give as he bobbed, hollowing his cheeks for suction that pulled obscene slurps from the shaft.

Durning’s callused fingers tangled in Bruce’s short brown hair, gripping tight as he thrust deeper, fucking Bruce’s face with deliberate rolls of his hips—the veiny light shaft dragging over tongue and palate, foreskin bunching and sliding with wet friction, pendulous balls swinging to tap Bruce’s chin in rhythmic paps.

“That’s the ticket—gag on it, son, makes me feel like a king,” Durning rasped, his voice gravelly with that pugnacious tenderness, laugh lines crinkling even as his strong jaw clenched.

Bruce pulled off with a wet pop, the cock springing free slick and throbbing, strings of spit bridging his lips to the rosy head. He stroked it slow and firm, twisting at the crown to milk more precum, then kissed his way down the shaft, tracing every ridge with feather-light laps before nuzzling the sturdy sack. His tongue flicked out to lightly lick the pendulous orbs, one then the other, sucking the fair skin into his mouth to roll them gently, the musky tang blooming on his tastebuds like aged whiskey.

A low moan escaped Durning’s cherubic mouth, his thick thighs tensing. Bruce took the opportunity to murmur against the heated skin, “Have you been with a lot of guys before?”

“One or two,” Durning admitted, his deep-set blue eyes glinting with self-deprecating wit under bushy brows, a vulnerable flicker crossing his jowly face. “But Christ, your tongue’s wakin’ up ghosts I thought I buried.”

His hand ran through Bruce’s hair with gruff affection, guiding him back up as Bruce stood, shedding his own clothes in a haste—shoes kicked off, pants and shorts shoved down to free his 7-inch cock, hard and curving upward, veins pulsing with need. Bruce looked down at Durning’s inviting big body—scarred chest rising and falling, soft belly quivering slightly—and climbed on, laying atop him to claim that hot, warm mouth in a deep kiss, lips crashing with raw hunger, tongues dueling like old sparring partners. Bruce began rubbing his hard dick against Durning’s uncut monster, shafts grinding slick with spit and precum, the friction sending sparks up his spine.

“Your wife ever let you fuck her in the ass?” Bruce teased, spitting a thick gob into his hand. He reached back, moistening his own hole with the cool wetness—fingers circling the puckered ring, dipping in to loosen the tight muscle, the contrast heightening his arousal—then lubed Durning’s cock with the same slick strands, stroking the light shaft to full, throbbing hardness, foreskin peeled back to expose the broad rosy dome fully flushed.

Durning shook his head with excitement, his huge hard-on twitching against Bruce’s grip, a sudden jovial spark lighting his twinkling eyes.

“No, son. Says it’s ‘unnatural’. But you? You’re beggin’ for it, aren't you. Gimme that tight little hole; I’ll plow ya proper.”

Lying there vulnerably naked, his barrel chest scarred and heaving, Durning watched as Bruce hovered over him, guiding the actor’s thick cock to his entrance with one hand while tweaking a sparse-tufted nipple with the other, eliciting a sharp gasp that rumbled like thunder.

“Easy on the merchandise, ya devil,” Durning chuckled huskily, but his voice cracked with need.

As soon as the broad head made contact, kissing the spit-slick rim, Durning thrust up—all 8 inches breaching in one brutal surge, the girth stretching Bruce’s hole wide with a burning schlick, the veiny shaft dragging inner walls until the pendulous balls pressed flush against his ass. Bruce gasped loudly—loud enough, he was sure, for the next room to hear—the sudden fullness bordering on pain, his blue eyes widening as he clenched around the invasion.

Durning froze, his bearded face—etched with concern, bushy brows furrowing.

“Sorry, son—you okay? Didn’t mean to spear ya like a shish kebab. Say the word, and I’ll pull out—ain’t here to break ya, just… Christ, you’re tight as a drum.”

Bruce, recovering with a shuddering breath, placed both hands on Durning’s broad, scarred chest—fingers splaying over the patchy hair and warm flesh—and started bouncing, his ass clenching and releasing around the thick shaft in rhythmic swallows, the rosy head nudging deep into his core with each descent.

“Fuck me as hard as you want,” he urged, taking control, riding with precision that ground his prostate against the invading length.

He paused whenever he sensed the actor nearing climax—Durning’s thick legs tensing, grunts turning frantic—to lean down and kiss him, their mouths fusing in sloppy, tongue-lashing heat, Durning’s cherubic lips parting with a vulnerable moan. The teasing prolonged the ecstasy, Durning’s breaths growing ragged with desperation, his hands groping Bruce’s lean flanks.

“Goddamn, boy—you’re ridin’ me hard. Keep that up, and I’ll blow soon.”

Finally, the gray-haired actor flipped Bruce over with surprising strength for his heavyset frame, pinning him face-down on the bed with a grunt that echoed his pugnacious edge. Grabbing a fistful of Bruce’s short brown hair, Durning shoved his cock back into the loosened hole, the intrusion deep and relentless—a wet squelch as the shaft bottomed out, balls slapping home. Bruce moaned into the mattress, the sound muffled but raw, as Durning pounded furiously, hips snapping with the fury of a man starved for release. The actor’s free hand slapped Bruce’s ass cheeks—sharp cracks that bloomed red, the sting mingling with pleasure like salt in a wound—as if taming a wild bronco, each impact jiggling the firm globes. Pinned beneath Durning’s weight—the soft belly pressing into his back, scarred chest heaving against his shoulders—Bruce surrendered, feeling the uncut cock piston in and out, stretching his rim wider with every brutal slam, the foreskin dragging inner walls in slick, frictional pulls that milked obscene schlicks and paps from their coupling, Durning’s pendulous sack swinging to batter his thighs.

“Take it, ya little fucker—gonna fill this greedy hole till ya leak,” Durning snarled over him, voice tight with that sudden rage-lust, but laced with profane tenderness, his bulbous nose buried in Bruce’s hair as he rutted deeper, the broad rosy head flaring against that sweet spot inside. Bruce knew Durning was close—his grunts grew louder, thrusts erratic, thick legs quaking. Not wanting to stop him, Bruce stayed silent about pulling out.

With a final, guttural moan—“Aw, shit, here it comes, son!”—Durning erupted, ropes of thick, hot cum flooding Bruce’s ass in heavy, pulsing jets, the warmth spreading deep like molten lead, viscous wads coating his channel and bubbling out around the shaft with each shallow pump, dripping down to mat the sheets. The sensation pushed Bruce to the edge, though he hadn’t cum yet, his own cock trapped and throbbing against the mattress.

Exhausted, Durning collapsed onto him, their sweaty bodies pressed together, the actor’s softening cock still buried deep as aftershocks rippled through. They lay there, catching their breath, before sliding under the covers. Bruce felt Durning’s load dribbling out of his stretched, sensitive hole—a sticky, creamy trail snaking down his thigh—as they kissed lazily, Durning’s tongue tracing his lips with storyteller’s patience. Noticing Bruce’s still-rock-hard cock pressed against his soft belly, Durning grinned, that cherubic mouth twisting sly.

“Well, now. Fair’s fair; lemme return the favor.” The married man turned ferocious, shifting down to take Bruce’s length into his mouth—the gray-stubbled jaw working as his tongue swirled around the head, dipping into the slit to lap up the steady ooze of precum with hungry slurps, savoring the clean, salty tang. He engulfed the full 7 inches down his throat, gagging slightly on the curve but pushing through with veteran grit, the suction pulling like a vice as he bobbed fast, one hand cupping and rolling Bruce’s balls with gentle squeezes, the other stroking the base in twisting pumps that matched the wet glucks of his mouth.

Durning mumbled around the shaft, his twinkling eyes locking on Bruce’s as he hollowed his cheeks, beard—stubble—tickling the sensitive skin, adding prickly friction that had Bruce bucking. The intensity built swift, and within minutes, Bruce exploded, his cum shooting in thick arcs down Durning’s throat—hot, bitter ropes that the actor swallowed with greedy gulps, throat working visibly, not spilling a drop. He pulled off with a satisfied smack of lips, licking his cherubic mouth clean, eyes glinting with no-nonsense pride.

“There now—clean as a whistle.”

They lay tangled in the sheets, the night stretching ahead, the city outside forgotten, Durning spinning a quiet yarn about Big Daddy’s ghosts as Bruce drifted, sated in the arms of the king of character actors.

Ballet (1989) - Charles Durning

Jerry and Tom (1998) - Charles Durning

On A Side Note: You don't need three guesses to know what I was thinking about here. Dat ass.

Katherine Helmond, Charles Durning, Ron Leibman promotional photo for the unsold and unaired ABC tv series 'Side by Side', episode 'Pilot'.

Damn… Charlie was a handsome man. And I'm willing to bet he was a helluva good fuck in his day.

Chapter Three: The Best Movie Theater in Houston

Featuring Actor Charles Durning

Terry Copelin never imagined that a trip to the movies in Houston back in 1986 would turn into something unforgettable. He was 6 feet tall, lean and lanky, with a fair complexion, short light brown hair, and striking blue-green eyes that framed a strong jawline and a slightly boyish charm. That night, he’d gone to see a flick at a local theater, not expecting to stumble into two familiar faces from the silver screen: Charles Durning and C. Thomas Howell. They were in town filming A Tiger’s Tale, and as luck would have it, they’d caught the same showing as Terry.

Charles Durning was a Highland Falls boy through and through—5’8” of stocky, roly-poly heft, broad-chested and barrel-like, his heavyset frame carrying the scars of WWII etched across his neck and chest like badges from some half-forgotten foxhole brawl. His large rounded buttocks and thick sturdy legs spoke of a life pounding pavement and dodging punches, topped with sparse, patchy hair dusting his chest and gut. Thinning gray hair crowned a round jowly face etched with laugh lines, a strong jaw, twinkling blue eyes under bushy brows, a bulbous nose, and a cherubic mouth that could spin yarns or spit curses with equal charm. Fair, age-lined skin stretched over an unpretentious everyman who hungered for the spotlight like a kid eyeing the last slice of pie—pugnacious yet vulnerable, armed with sharp self-deprecating wit and a profane tenderness that could curdle milk or melt hearts.

When Terry stepped out of the theater, he spotted the two actors lingering nearby. He recognized them instantly.

“Hi,” he said casually, keeping his cool instead of turning into some starstruck spaz. Howell barely acknowledged him, but Durning—well, Durning was different. Terry rattled off a few of the actor’s films he admired, and to his surprise, the old man lit up, his twinkling eyes crinkling as he clapped Terry on the shoulder with a meaty paw.

“Aw, Christ, kid, you’re makin’ me blush,” Durning chuckled, his voice a gravelly rumble laced with that upstate New York edge—gruff as gravel, warm as a shot of rye. “The Sting, huh? Hell, I was just the fat Irish bastard stealin’ scenes from the pretty boys. But don’t tell nobody.”

He didn’t seem to mind the attention at all, spinning a quick tale about dodging a prop pie to the kisser on set, his cherubic mouth twisting into a sly, self-mocking grin. Terry knew better than to overstay his welcome, so he wrapped it up and watched them walk off.

Then came the moment that flipped the night on its head. As Durning parted ways with Howell, he called out, “I’m headed to the john—see you later, Tommy.”

At the door, he paused, glanced back at Terry, and gave him a quick, deliberate wink—bushy brow arching like he was daring the devil himself—before disappearing inside. Terry’s heart thudded. What the hell was that? he thought. An invitation? A tease? Fight or flight kicked in, and since Terry was a fighter, he made his move, striding toward the bathroom door with a mix of nerves and curiosity buzzing through him.

Inside, the place was empty except for one pair of shoes peeking under the last stall—Durning’s, scuffed loafers that had seen better days. Terry’s pulse raced as he approached and gave the door a light knock. It creaked open slowly, revealing Charles Durning leaning against the wall, his deep-set blue eyes glinting with mischief under those wild brows, a no-nonsense edge sharpening his jowly grin.

“What’s your name, son?” Durning asked, his voice low and gravelly, like tires on wet asphalt.

“Terry,” he replied, swallowing hard.

“Well, Terry, this is between me and you. You got that? Or I’ll kick your skinny ass back to whatever cornfield you crawled outta.”

Terry nodded fast, his throat dry. No more words were needed. Durning unbuttoned his pants and let them drop to his ankles, unveiling an 8-inch uncut cock—light shaft veined like old riverbeds, broad rosy head peeking shyly from its foreskin hood, already twitching to life atop pendulous balls swaying in a fair, sturdy sack. Terry shut the toilet lid, sat down, and wrapped his fingers around the base of Durning’s shaft. It was warm and heavy in his hand, the skin silky-soft over steel as he gave it a slow, firm stroke, peeling back the foreskin to expose that plump rosy dome fully. He leaned in, flicking his tongue across the slit, tasting the salty bead of precum that oozed like morning dew—briny and faintly sweet, with a hint of tobacco from the actor’s endless chain-smoking.

Durning let out a soft grunt, his wide mouth parting in a crooked smile. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, boy—you got a tongue like a goddamn paintbrush. Keep goin’.”

Terry worked his tongue in fervent circles around the broad cockhead, lapping at the sensitive underside where the frenulum dipped like a hidden valley, tracing every ridge and vein with wet, swirling laps that made the shaft pulse and thicken. He jerked Durning’s cock steadily, his grip tight and twisting at the crown, then dipped lower to tease the actor’s pendulous balls—inhaling the musky, earthy scent of sweat and skin, like a well-worn leather booth in a dive bar. He sucked one orb into his mouth, rolling it gently with his tongue, the fair sack tightening as Durning’s thick thighs tensed. Alternating between balls, he pumped the shaft hard, slicking it up with ropes of spit that dripped down to mat the sparse hair on Durning’s gut. Looking up, Terry saw Durning’s shirt unbuttoned, revealing the WWII scars snaking across his barrel chest—heaving now as the actor pinched his own sparse-tufted nipples, twisting them between callused fingers with a look of pure, gritty pleasure, his laugh lines deepening into furrows of bliss.

“Fuck me, that’s the spot—suck ‘em like you mean it, ya little devil,” Durning rasped, his voice cracking with that vulnerable edge, like a storyteller mid-tale afraid of the punchline.

Suddenly, Durning’s hands—rough from years of hauling scenery and dodging shrapnel—clamped onto Terry’s head, shoving his cock deep into Terry’s mouth. The girth stretched his lips wide around the uncut shaft, the broad rosy head breaching the back of his throat with a wet glurk, making him gag hard, tears pricking his eyes as drool cascaded down his chin in shiny rivulets. The foreskin bunched and slid with each involuntary spasm, adding a slick, frictional drag that had Durning moaning low.

“Too big for ya, huh?” Durning chuckled huskily, self-deprecating wit cutting through the heat, but his hips betrayed him, rocking forward with profane tenderness.

Terry didn’t answer—just adjusted, breathing through his nose as Durning fucked his mouth slow and deliberate, the veiny length gliding over his tongue like a piston in oil, leaving trails of salty precum that pooled under his tongue. Terry hollowed his cheeks, sucking with vacuum force, his blue-green eyes watering up at Durning’s twinkling blues. He bobbed his head fast, letting the broad head ram the back of his throat in rhythmic thwacks, while Durning’s pendulous balls slapped wetly against his chin, the sack swinging like a metronome. The old man’s soft belly pressed against Terry’s forehead, warm and yielding, as he rocked harder, grunts turning to guttural curses—“Shit, boy, you’re milkin’ me dry already!”

Then it hit—Durning’s hips stuttered, thick thighs quaking, and with a bellowed “Goddamn it all to hell!”, he unloaded. Thick, hot spurts of cum flooded Terry’s mouth, sweet and tangy like overripe pears laced with brine, coating his tongue in heavy, viscous wads that clung like warm glue. It was a goddamn torrent—rope after rope pulsing from those pendulous balls, Terry swearing the man hadn’t busted in months, maybe since the last wrap party. He swallowed greedily, gulping down every salty blast as it jetted forth, the last creamy surge painting his lips and chin when Durning pulled back with a wet pop. The actor’s legs trembled, his ruddy, age-lined face flushed crimson, breath ragged as he sagged against the stall wall, cherubic mouth agape in ecstasy.

They froze when the bathroom door swung open. Someone shuffled in, pissed noisily at the urinal, zipped up, and left without a clue. Silence hung heavy until Terry whispered, “I wanna fuck you.”

Durning nodded, his blue eyes flashing with that sudden jovial spark, turning with a grunt to drop his pants fully to the floor. He bent over the toilet, bracing his thick arms on the tank, exposing his big, fabulous ass—large rounded buttocks pale and plump, the deep crack shadowed and glistening with sweat like a furrow in fresh-plowed earth. Terry leaned in, spreading those meaty cheeks wide with trembling hands, the flesh yielding soft under his grip, and ran his tongue along the puckered hole—tight and pinkish-brown, twitching at the first contact. He lapped broadly at first, savoring the raw, musky tang of sweat and skin, earthy as Highland Falls mud after rain, before spearing his tongue inside, probing the hot, velvety ring with wet, insistent thrusts that loosened the muscle bit by bit. Durning moaned softly, a vulnerable rumble—“Easy there, son, I ain’t no virgin bride, but Christ, you’re stirrin’ up the ghosts”—as Terry’s tongue delved deeper, swirling and sucking at the rim, slicking it with saliva until it winked open, dripping and ready, the faint scent of soap from Durning’s morning shave mingling with pure male heat.

“Gimme that tongue-fuck one more time, ya bastard,” Durning growled over his shoulder, his voice tender-profane, pushing back onto Terry’s face with a needy grind.

Terry stood, spitting a thick gob into his hand to lube his own 7-inch cock—hard as steel and throbbing, veins bulging like ropes. He pressed the tip against Durning’s loosened hole, the rosy pucker yielding with a slick squelch as it swallowed the head, then inch after inch, the actor’s ass taking it like a champ—hot, gripping walls rippling around him in velvet waves. Terry groaned at the furnace grip, the way it clenched and released like a fist, then started fucking—fast and steady, pinning Durning’s barrel chest against the stall wall with a meaty thud. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed faintly as Terry pounded into him, his cock sliding deep into that slick, churning channel, the friction building like a storm over the Hudson.

“That’s it, fuck my fat ass—ram it home, ya sonofabitch! Been too long since I got properly plowed,” Durning rasped, his voice tight with need, that pugnacious edge cracking into raw plea, his large buttocks jiggling with each impact.

Terry grabbed those meaty cheeks, spreading them wider to watch his shaft disappear into Durning’s hole, the rim stretching taut and pink around him, clinging like a greedy mouth with every withdrawal, only to bloom open on the thrust. He fucked harder, ramming in with brutal, hip-snapping drives that made Durning’s thick legs buckle, the suction pulling obscene schlicks from the depths. The walls fluttered and milked him, hot and insistent, as Terry reached around, gripping Durning’s soft, fat belly—fingers sinking into the warm give—for leverage, driving even deeper, his balls smacking against the actor’s sturdy sack with wet paps. Sweat beaded on Durning’s scarred back, trickling down to where their bodies met, adding a slippery glide that had Terry’s cockhead nudging that spongy sweet spot inside, drawing guttural “Fuuuuck yes!” from the old man’s cherubic lips.

Durning gasped, stifling his moans into bitten-off curses—“Don’t stop, ya hear? Pound this old warhorse till he breaks!”—and shot Terry a look over his shoulder, twinkling eyes wild with sudden rage-lust. Terry obliged, fucking him like a machine, relentless and raw, hips pistoning as the fire coiled tight in his gut. His cock pulsed, veins throbbing against those clenching walls, and with a final, savage thrust that buried him to the hilt, he exploded. Cum surged into Durning’s ass in thick, sticky jets—hot and copious, flooding the channel until it overflowed in creamy rivulets down the crack, the obscene gurgle of suction as Terry kept pumping milking every last drop. He groped Durning’s chest, squeezing those fleshy, sparsely haired tits and tweaking the nipples hard, riding out the spasms as his dick softened in that cum-soaked, quivering hole, the excess bubbling out with each shallow rock.

When it was over, Durning turned around, pulling up his pants with a wide, satisfied grin, his jowly face slick with sweat and that post-battle glow. “I’ll be in town two more weeks for shootin’. How about we do this again? Hell, I’ll even buy ya a beer—Make it worth the ride.”

“That’d be great—I’d love it,” Terry said, still catching his breath, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

Durning scribbled his number on a matchbook and handed it over, clapping Terry’s shoulder with gruff affection.

“See ya later, son—don’t make me regret this, or I’ll haunt your dreams like the ghost of Christmas Fuck,” he said, winking as he limped out, moving a little slower than before, those thick legs carrying the weight of a well-fucked warrior.

Terry stood there, dazed. Who’d have thought Charles Durning, the king of character actors, would turn a Houston movie theater into the hottest spot in town?

Mr. St. Nick (TV Movie) - Charles Durning 

Give me a moment as I enjoy these extra pics of Mr. Durning’s ass.

Home for the Holidays (1995) - Charles Durning

Charles Durning savoring the taste of pie.

What!

It's not what you think. I can make a helluva cinnamon glaze for a pumpkin pie. OK... it was exactly what you thought.