Free Electroboy by Andy Behrman Page A

too late to stop—anybody might be watching. Like friends of my parents or an old high school English teacher going to see a Broadway show. The walls going down the steps are covered with photographs of bare-chested boys and men, and I wonder if they’re the same guys inside getting ready to go onstage. Sitting in the ticket booth is a man I can barely make out but who looks like Mr. Wizard from my chemistry set. Superimposed on the glass over his forehead is a sign that reads ADMISSION $6. I smile and give him my most masculine “Hey.”
    “You here for an audition?” he asks. “Yeah,” I respond without the slightest hesitation.
    He signals me to walk through the turnstile. I am in a dark vestibule.
    “What’s your name?” he asks.
    “Eric. Eric Colter,” I say. Not a bit of thought. Where did that name come from? He shakes my hand and I smile. His name is Jerry. My name is Eric. Inside the dark theater I can see about fifteen men bathed in light from the screen on which two skinny young blond kids are in a sixty-nine position. There’s no way either could be older than sixteen. This is not a turn-on for me. I’m a little nervous now, a bit afraid. Something about this place repulses me. It’s musty and smoky and not very clean. Jerry asks me if I’ve danced before, and I tell him that I have, just not in New York. San Francisco. And Montreal. He calls over a well-built young guy and introduces him to me as Justin. Justin is an all-American hunk. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark complexion, bright green eyes, not quite good-looking enough to be a model, and he’s just wearing a towel wrapped around his waist.
    “My real name is Joe, but they like Justin better. It sounds more porn-star-like,” he says. This leads me to believe Jerry’s name might not be Jerry either. But what does Jerry have to hide? Justin is posing in front of a mirror. It’s funny I chose a first and last name. Almost as if I intend to have a serious career in porn. Justin tells me he’s from West Virginia. He leads me back to the locker room, a dingy gray-painted space with exposed wires, bad overhead lighting, and a few benches. He sits down on a bench, his abs not moving an inch.
    “Have you ever done this before?” he asks.
    “Does it look like I haven’t?” I say. I take off my sweater. I’m just wearing a T-shirt underneath. Justin kind of looks me over.
    “There are six shows each day. The lineup switches every Monday. It’s a much better place to work than the Gaiety. The clientele is more upscale and has a lot more cash to burn.” He starts oiling up his chest and arms. “Better tips and better private shows,” he explains.
    I’m not sure what Justin’s talking about. He tells me it’s really easy. “They announce your name, put on some music, you walk onstage fully dressed and then strip down to your underwear or jock, dance around the audience a little, and then come offstage and get a hard-on.” He makes it sound like such a normal thing todo. “Then the music starts up again and you go back and work the crowd. Guys in the audience will fondle you and tip you and put dollar bills in your socks. You’ve got to work the crowd to get the privates. At the end there’s a grand finale, and all seven guys come out hard for the audience. Kind of like a chorus line. There’s always lots of applause.”
    “Sounds easy enough. $10 a show plus tips and privates,” I say. “And you can really get up to $50 for a private on the premises?” I ask.
    “Yeah, a jerk-off thing. There’s a narrow hallway in the back for that. Or you can do something outside for whatever you can negotiate,” he tells me.
    “I like to negotiate.”
    Justin tells me there’s a star of the show, a guy named Brent Cummings, who has just appeared in a new porn film. I pretend I don’t know him.
    “And he’s bi, too. Are you bi?” he asks.
    “I guess so,” I say.
    “Well, are you into pussy?”
    “Yeah, totally. I’ve got a