Free Electroboy by Andy Behrman Page B

girlfriend uptown,” I tell him.
    “You should bring her down here one night. Maybe we could all bang her.” He throws his head back and laughs.
    The show starts at 8:30 P.M. and the rest of the guys are coming into the locker room, most of them eating their dinner. Something is making me nauseous. Maybe it’s the sight of those two skanky teenagers outside on the screen combined with the smell of fried chicken in the locker room. Those boys could never dance at a place like this—they’d be heckled and booed. In walks the star of the show, Brent Cummings. He’s a strapping Adonis with a handshake like none I’ve ever felt. (The only person I’ve met with a handshake that even comes close is Bill Clinton, as I discovered years later when I met him at a fund-raiser.)
    “So, you came down to see me? Gonna audition tonight?” Brent asks me. He speaks in a dull monotone voice like Dr. Levitt and seems bored with having to perform tonight. Jerry pops his head in and tells me I go on last, which gives me a chance to watchthe show from backstage and get a feel for it. Brent is fixing his streaked-blond hair in the broken mirror on the wall. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I watch the whole group of guys do their routine before Brent is announced. I’m fascinated by what they’ll do onstage—how far they’ll go and what they think turns the audience on. Some of them will satisfy a customer’s ass fetish by bending over and touching their toes; others will thrust their cocks right into a customer’s mouth for a few dollar bills. Others will even jack off the customer, right there in the audience, if he is willing. There are no boundaries in the basement of the Follies.
    Brent takes the stage, and the audience cheers. The theater is filled with his fans. They’ve all seen his movies: the one where he fucks a cheerleader on a bench press and the one where three guys on a diving board take turns sucking his cock. He struts his stuff awkwardly, with a kind of Vegas-style stride, taking off his shirt first and then stepping out of his jeans to reveal a pair of white briefs. He turns his back to the audience, spreads his legs, and pulls his briefs down a bit in the back, revealing a tan line. Then he turns around and shows a little bit of blond pubic hair. He really doesn’t dance, he just touches himself and tugs at himself a little. But it doesn’t matter. He grabs his cock and makes a mock grimace, to the audience’s delight. I can do that. He comes backstage and gets undressed, his cock already hard. He oils up his chest and his thighs and asks me to do his back, butt, and legs. He strides back onstage and the audience claps and whistles. He stands with his back to them, then turns around, covering his cock with his hands. From where I’m standing, I see the red spotlights bounce off his chest. He walks into the audience and pulls his hands away, and guys from both sides of the aisle start grabbing for his cock and his ass as he moves from shadow to shadow to collect tips, all the time stroking his big dick. This is going to be a hard act to follow.
    The announcer introduces the final act: Eric Colter. I have no connection to the name. I do kind of a silly jog out onto the stage. The lights are practically blinding me, and I can’t see the crowd. I’m wondering how many people in the audience recognize me. I dance to the music—Madonna’s “Like a Virgin”—the best I can. Imust look like an idiot. I take off my shirt, then my jeans. This is the first time I’ve stripped except when I’ve done it alone in my studio in front of the mirror. It feels like a visit to the doctor. The air is cold from the air-conditioning, and it’s smoky. Bad combination. Freezing smoke. Offstage. Dip three fingers into the communal lube. Start stroking my cock. Thinking about Allison’s tits and Brent fucking her from behind, and all of a sudden I realize I have a huge hard-on. Easy. Next song. Madonna again.