From: AUTHOR22@aol.com
Subject: My Teenage Heart
Date: 9 Mar 1996
My Teenage Heart is a full length novel, describing the develop-
ment of a young boy into a bi-sexual man of 70. It traces his
evolvement from a rejected child, thorough adolescence and as a
16 year old run-a-way, his maturing as a Marine during world war
2, continuing thorough his development as a musician, and eventu-
ally closing as an itinerate country western performer at age 70.
For readers who find graphic sexual descriptions not to their
liking, they should read no further. The same restriction apply
to those under the age of 18, or those who find sex between
males, or sex between females, or sexual development between
children as offensive.
For the rest of the world I invite you to partake of this adven-
ture as it leads from the 1930's into the 1990's, as it traces
the development of a young boy's sexual development thorough
adolescence, young adult, middle age, and old age. As he evolves
from a rejected child to a teenage hustler, to a United States
Marine, to a successful Country Western Musician, viewing him at
the peak of his career, experiencing his slide from the crest;
his evolution to age 70.
My Teenage Heart
Chapter Six
How Not To Become a Star
My imagination got the better of me during those last few weeks before
separation from the Marines.
I was still in San Diego when I dialed Vince's private number. When he answered
the phone, I began to talk with enthusiasm and affection as though no time
had passed. Then, I sensed something had changed.
Vince had married a young actress whom he had directed. He was very cordial,
insisting that I visit him and his new wife as soon as possible. Then he
extended an invitation for Saturday, two weeks hence. Adding that there would
be a lot of people there including some that I already knew.
The next two weeks were spent with mother and Earl. It was then that I learned
that the Schuberts had moved and that a local kid, "Herman Carmichael", had
died during the battle for Okinowa. I wondered if he was in the cemetery I
had seen in Karama Rheto. Herman had been an unusual youngster. He loved to
shoot his BB gun, loved to climb trees, and telephone poles. My mental
pictures of him were mostly his sitting atop a telephone pole shooting birds.
Herman was a sniper in the army when he was shot out of a tree by Japanese
forces, less than two months before my company set up camp in Karama Rheto. I
felt very sad.
I spent most of those weeks in late February of 1946 trying to improve my
guitar playing. There was no doubt, within my mind, where my talents lie.
I bought some music books and sheets covering all kinds of music, including
a large book of English music hall songs.
Mother thought I had greatly improved my playing, but expressed great doubts
about my making a living at it. The music hall songs she expressly disapproved.
"Why do you have to play those dirty songs?"
At Vince's I met a lot of people. It was a big party. There was a small
producer of films who had been working with one of the biggies in making "B"
films. There was Tom Sanchez and Jack Wormski. Tom was doing well just having
finished filming "A Night in Paradise" and planning to start work on "Ride
The Pink Horse." Jack was starting his own talent agency. Even the guy I
had seen with Jack setting up the mics and amplifier for the Hope show on
Enewetok was there.
The film producer was a short little guy from Georgia who had recently been
released from the army. Rumor had it that the CO had caught him sucking some
guy's cock; his CO was very homophobic.
He seemed to me to be a nice, friendly little guy. While the rumor was probably
true it seemed a shame that had happened. Of course, it was rumored that even
Walt Disney had been dishonorably discharged from the Navy. Anyway, a few
people called him Charles, but mostly everyone called him by his middle name
"Buck".
For me, the evening went very well. These people made me feel comfortable
and welcome. Late in the evening Tom and I did the music hall bit, using
Vince's guitar.
Buck and I became quite friendly, and when it became obvious that Vince wasn't
going to invite me to stay the night, Buck stepped in saying there was an
extra bed at his place.
I must not have been Buck's type, because our relationship remained strictly
platonic. He had just bought a house which he intended to renovate and divide
into three rentable units. He offered me a job helping him with the remodeling.
I could stay with him 'til one of the units was finished enough where I could
temporarily move in to it.
Buck was a life saver.
A couple of days later, I called Jack at his office, hoping that he might be
willing to take me on as a client. He declined, pointing out that with the
hundreds of thousands of returning veterans, combined with reduced film
production, that the competition was too great. He added that if anything
came up that he felt I could do, he would let me know.
We finished Buck's first house, whose spaces had been rented before we had
completed the work. He had negotiated a deal with all three tenants for a
first month, last month, and security deposit equal to one month. With that
money he put a down payment on another house and our work continued.
For three months most of my time was spent tearing walls down, putting other
walls in, painting, etc. My social life revolved around Buck's household,
with most of my newer acquaintances being actors and out of work actors. Some
of the older ones evolved into "sex for money" dates which allowed me to
build my savings.
Buck usually had about six of us working on his remodeling projects. Out of
work actors, out of work coaches, out of work dancers, out of work theatrical
people. Three of the other guys (Roy, Glen, and Tim) also discretely hustled,
and sometimes during the hammering and the nailing we would compare notes
about what our "customers" liked and didn't like.
We were not street hustlers; each of us simply found it convenient to enjoy
the company of successful friends and acquaintances who entertained us, dined
us, and tipped us. Most of the sex was simply getting a good blow job.
Summer was rapidly approaching; we were almost finished with Buck's second
project. Tim and Glen were talking about going to Hawaii for the summer.
They had been there last summer and had "boy friends" who would wine them
and dine them. My thoughts immediately jumped to "Miss Doug", with Tim adding
that he'd bet he could get Roy fixed up with a place to stay.
With no planning ahead, we simply bought one way airplane tickets to Honolulu
and left.
At noon the next day we were in Honolulu with no real plans. I called "Miss
Doug", telling her what we had in mind, and she suggested that we all meet
her at a new gay bar, "Hula's Bar and Lei Stand", at 4:00.
Our luggage consisted of one carry-on handbag each, plus my ever present
guitar which we carted onto a bus, ending up at Hula's at 1:30.
We were a good looking group, if I do say so myself.
Roy was short, with reddish blonde hair. In fact he looked a lot like the
young virginal sailor from the Naval Air Station.
Tim had long blonde hair. Tall and lanky. Clear complexion, with a good tan.
Not a bit of fat on him.
Glen had brown hair, was solid muscle, weighed about 165 lbs, measured a
little less than 6 feet, and had the largest cock of our group.
Tim and Glen were brothers, with Glen being the eldest by one year.
At first we sat at a table, then each of us started accepting invitations to
"join me for a drink" from customers at the bar. It soon became pretty obvious
that we were going to have a blast in Hawaii, and if we were shrewd about
it, we might even return to Hollywood with extra money in our pockets.
"Miss Doug" arrived in his "I own a radio station" business suit, accompanied
by a tall, black hair man in his thirties, Dave Johnson, the chief sound
engineer for the station, a practicing alcoholic, also gay.
Dave Johnson teamed up with Roy. I presumed I'd be staying with Doug, leaving
only Glen and Tim to be placed. Wrong: Miss Doug practically threw a rope
around Tim. Miss Doug ran to the pay phone, made a couple of calls resulting
in "Tom Thornton", a local photographer, and "Alan" a radio station engineer
arriving on the scene with the intent purpose of lassoing a summer house
guest.
The accommodations for our summer were this: I was staying in a Waikiki
Penthouse with Tom Thornton, the photographer.
Roy was staying with Dave Johnson, also in a Waikiki Penthouse.
Doug provided Tim with part of his bed.
Glen's place to sleep was a palatial apartment right on Waikiki Beach, with
their own private swimming pool and boat dock.
Our lives began to revolve around the lives of our hosts. Occasionally we
would see one another, sometimes planned, frequently by being at Hula's at
the same time. More frequently we kept in contact by phone.
Tom took me on a trip to the big island and Maui. He wanted to photograph me
in provocative poses, not erotic ones. All of the pictures were nudes, all
of them were at beautiful and world famous spots: the Black Sand Beach, the
edge of Kiluea Volcano, the crest of Haleakala.
It was necessary to do our photo sessions early in the morning before tourists
started to arrive. This usually meant scouting the area in the previous
afternoon, getting up before sunrise, be at our site as the sun came up.
I wore only cut-offs, so I could slip in and out of them within seconds.
It was a Sunday morning when we were at the Kalapana Black Sands Beach. It
was very quiet, only the sound of the surf. We had picked a tall, tilting
palm tree as a prop against which to lay. My dick, however, was all shriveled
up, so it was necessary for me to massage it. The result was an extreme in
the other direction, which Tom had to orally resolve.
We had shot most of a roll in various poses, and from various angles, when
a voice from above us said, "Hey! What are the pictures for. Want to get some
of me?"
Scampering down from the top of a near by Palm Tree came a dark, thin, black
haired Hawaiian boy of about 14 or 15. He had been in the top of the tree
during our entire session -- and I mean the entire session.
Lopaka had boundless energy. He had ideas for places to take pictures that
would be spectacular, yet secluded, offering us the privacy our type of
modeling required.
Lopaka was a choir boy from the Catholic Church. Lopaka was also a horny little
teenager who wanted some of the "makeup" that I had received from Tom.
Our shoots that day included a spectacular, if not dangerous, pose with me
out on a rock, surrounded by pounding surf, while Tom and Lopaka were shooting
from the safety of an over hanging bluff.
There were also shots of Lopaka and I together, but Lopaka continually had an
erection problem that required a "makeup" session with Tom.
My favorite picture was one shot at the very edge of Kiluea caldera; measuring
probably 2 miles across and at least 150 feet deep. The molten lava glowed
red, even in the daylight. White sulfur laden fumes drifted upward from the
sides and bottom. The Park Service had built a stone wall, some of which had
fallen into the eroding pit. It was with that wall as a posing prop that
those pictures were taken.
Tom was an interesting fellow. He was more bi-sexual than homo. While he
certainly took care of my sexual appetite, he also stuck his dick in a few
cunts.
It was about two weeks after I had moved in with Tom, that he had an idea
with which he intended to spice up our summer.
He had placed a classified ad in the Honolulu Star Bulletin which read:
Help Wanted Live in Housekeeper for Waikiki Bachelor Penthouse. Call
942-7121 for an appointment.
The telephone was constantly ringing. Our first screening made only 16 to 24
year old females eligible for an interview. If the girls were not transit,
they were not eligible. Essentially, the girls who were granted an interview
were single tourist females, ages 16 to 24, who had come to the islands on
vacation, who had run out of money and needed a live in job.
They were also foxy and horny. We also learned that most of them had sex on
their mind when they made the appointments and really didn't want a job. We
set two interviews a day, one in the early afternoon, the other in the evening.
The ad was so successful that we extended it for a second week, then a third,
and a fourth. The newspaper refused to take the ad beyond that.
Our Penthouse was not really in Waikiki, but on the other side of the Ala
Wai Canal, overlooking Waikiki. The building had two 2 bedroom apartments on
each floor, except for the top floor which had a single, very large, 2 bedroom
apartment. About a quarter of the top floor was an open, covered Lani looking
across a golf course at the Waikiki Sky Line. It was also a walkup; no
elevator. It was fenced, gated, secure, and private. The 12' x 12' Lani had
a table with chairs and a sliding glass door opening into the living room.
The living room had a dry bar with three stools and a couch. Most of the
floor was carpeted except for the section around the bar, which had been laid
with Italian marble. Behind the living room was a kitchen hidden by a eight
foot long wall. Opposite that wall was a drapery windowed outside wall
opening to a walkway, and at right angles to that was the sliding glass door;
also draperied.
The more often you repeat an event, the more it develops into a repeated,
almost scripted occurrence. What evolved were primarily two scenarios: the
afternoon and the evening.
The afternoon outline usually started with the girl showing up about 2 o'clock.
Cocktails were served before, during, and after the interview. I wore only
my tight cut-offs. Barefoot, no underwear, no shirt. The shorts were so tight
that the outline of my cock was clearly visible even if it was totally soft.
Tom would conduct the interview. I would usually stretch out in a chair where
the Waikiki skyline was the background, clearly in view of the girl. The
more she watched me, the more I would make my cock grow. If she looked long
enough, it eventually would grow right out of the bottom of the left leg. If
that happened, I would then look embarrassed reach down inside of my shorts
positioning it vertically, with just the tip of the head visible under my
waist band (only if the girl looked closely).
Usually the girl would make the first move, resulting in a threesome. Tom
and I would team up to remove the girl's clothes while she would be eagerly
ridding me of my shorts. Somehow, Tom would also have his clothes discarded
by the time the girl was naked. The action would then shift to our bedroom
which had only one very large bed constructed from two double beds.
The evening interviews were only slightly different. My attire was the same,
just the cut-offs. Evening interviews were conducted in the living room with
me sitting on a bar stool. This placed the girl less than two feet from my
knees. I would mix and serve the drinks. As the sun would begin to set, I
would strum my guitar, picking out Hawaiian melodies.
The routine with my cock would then begin. Usually, by the time the sun had
set, my cock had extended well out of the leg, but being dark I wouldn't
reposition it.
Unfailingly, the girl would watch entranced by my hot, throbbing cock as it
grew, just barely visible in the failing light. Three times out of four she
would start by touching my knee, followed by circular motions leading up to
my waiting tool. During that first move, Tom would begin to play with her
tits, usually slowly, but deliberately removing her clothes. Sometimes he
would fuck her while she was sucking my cock. If she was particularly enticing,
Tom and I would take turns titillating her clitoris with our tongues.
Occasionally the evening girls would spend the night. The nights that they
didn't, Tom and I would usually fall exhaustedly asleep in each other's arms.
By mid-August, our original quartet had begun to drift back to Hollywood.
It was just before my 21st Birthday when I returned to Hollywood and checked
in with Buck. He was midway through his 4th house; I was again tearing out
walls, cleaning, and painting.
Then I hit the jackpot.
Vince and his wife gave few parties those days. She was kind of a recluse
and certainly thought she was hot stuff. However, on this rare occasion, he
invited me to a small gathering. Actual it was she who called Buck's, asking
for me, and saying, "They'd love to have me join them for a small gathering."
The gathering was not small; there must have been 50 people there. Vince
had put the party together so that he could introduce me to an important
musician and band leader. Although this man was highly successful in his
profession, he had no one in his personal life. Most of his time was spent
either in his work rooms at home or at the film studios.
Harry and I hit it off immediately. He was a cute little guy, with graying
hair. Certainly less than 5 1/2 feet tall. Just a little on the plump side,
round faced, gray eyes, and a smile that wouldn't quit. Vince had told him
about my interest in music, the music hall material Tom and I had played
with. About the Bob Hope show on Enewetok. Vince embellished on the truth a
bit, something for which I will be forever thankful.
Harry insisted that I come home with him that night... so we could get to
know each other better.
The house was in Toluca Lake, not far from where Bob Hope lived. The walled-in
property took two building lots so that the front entrance was on one street
while the garage was on the opposite street. The house occupied more than
one of the lots; the rest was the garage and the swimming pool.
The domicile had been built in the shape of a square donut, with the center
being an open patio, but surrounded by the building. Harry had modified the
structure so that the patio was now covered by a sizable glass dome or
skylight. This was kind of a living room with a fireplace, a sound system
that must have costs thousands, and furnished with white, upholstered, metal
patio furniture.
His work room occupied half of one wing of the building, with deeply cushioned
carpet. A concert grand piano was the largest thing in the room. There were
also several upholstered chairs and a divan. It was there that Harry often
coached some of Americas most famous singing stars, and that included Vince's
wife.
While I can't say that I fell in love with Harry, I did appreciate him for
who and what he was: a friendly, lovable, generous man. Also a very bashful
man, almost timid, until he was in command of an orchestra, or was tutoring
a student.
I lived with Harry for almost two years. He taught me all I really know about
music. Looking back, I realize just how little I knew and just how well he
molded what little talent I had.
It was in early November of 1947. I had just finished two laps across the
pool, when Harry came out with a twinkle in his eye. "Jack Wormski just
called and wants to know if you want to play at the Hermitage in New Zealand."
Jack was putting together a Country Western group for a booking at New Zealand's
newest and classiest hotels located on the edge of the "Tasmian Glacier" on
Mount Cook on New Zealand's south island. Later, I found that this whole gig
was put together at Harry's prompting. He felt I had developed as a performer,
and this was the next step I needed in my career.
As a performer, music is something that envelops your entire being. The rhythm
drives into the depth of your bones; the melody grips the spirit; the lyrics
expose the soul. Your body becomes driven by it, resonating with it. You and
it become one. It is then, and only then, that your resonance extends outwards,
netting your audience, exciting them, drawing them into a sympathetic resonance
with your own soul, your own body. They become part of your performance,
enhancing it, generating waves of excitement. I think that is why studio
recordings or movies are never as exciting as a concert.
While Harry had tried to teach me this great secret, it was the Hermitage
experience that made it become reality.
The group was a quartet: guitar, bass fiddle, drummer, and piano. All three
of them looked like they came right off of the Grand Ole Opery. As might have
been expected, the bass was a tall lanky guy from Tennessee, the piano was
a very young kid with drive and the ability to hear a melody just once and
perform it, embellish on it, improve it. The drummer reminded of Burt, a
little short, youngish, and with a driving rhythm that was inside of his body
even as he walked down the street. Jackie, the pianist, had come from the
Bible Belt, growing up on the country music circuit, performing accompaniment
for Gospel and country groups from Nashville to Little Rock.
Jack had rented a small second floor rehearsal studio on Melrose, near Fairfax.
A choreographer friend of Vince's had been coaxed into putting together the
show, and working with us during our first days of rehearsal.
The selection of numbers we were going to do was pretty standard except for
a couple of specialty tunes. And it wasn't until he saw the drummer and Jackie
bouncing off of the ceiling that he became inspired. Jackie's runs on the
keyboard were astounding as his little butt bounced off of the piano stool,
his fingers flying from one end of the keyboard to the other. The drummer,
Evan, would practically jet across his drum set; he spent more time off of
his stool, than on it.
Even my own capabilities changed as what we did merged into a single cohesive
performance; almost as though we, through metamorphosis, became one being.
It was an awesome experience.
Our rehearsals would start at 8:30 in the morning. By 11:00 at night we forced
ourselves to leave. This went on for two weeks. It wasn't until mid-afternoon
that the choreographer would show up to supervise and suggest subtle changes.
On an occasional evening, Harry would drop by. Then, later that night, while
we were cuddled up in bed he would present his criticism.
I guess I was the only one who didn't know that it was Harry's money that
put this show together, that in fact we all worked for Harry. It was apparently
common knowledge that I lived with Harry. That I was Harry's protege.
Christmas in New Zealand is in the middle of summer. Our plane had taken off
from Los Angeles, first hop to Honolulu. We spent the night at the old Moana
Hotel. The second Leg put us down in Samoa. Third Leg landed us in Auckland,
on the tip of the North Island. A two day bus ride put us in Wellington on
the southern end of the North Island. An over night ferry boat took us to
Christchurch, where a car from the hotel drove us south, then west, and up
on to Mount Cook.
Jackie was in his early twenties, but could pass for a young 17. He was
beardless, had a perpetual smile, had a baby butt.
The flight from L.A. to Honolulu took well over eight hours. In boarding
the plane, I made it a point to sit next to Jackie; the other two were further
back in the plane. During all of those long hours of rehearsal, we had
developed an understanding, and appreciation of each other. We shared a real
liking of each other that went beyond the work. In a lot of ways it was
similar to my relationship with Burt. As we sat there sopping up each other's
personality, I began to wonder if cute little Jackie and I might have some
other things in common.
When the steward brought us drinks, I shifted around so that my leg was
touching his. He didn't shift. If anything I sensed returned pressure. I
gave him a look that said, `Oh?' and he said "Damned right" and pulled my
hand under his tray and on to a very throbbing cock. The more I fondled him
the bigger his smile got. Finally, he re-adjusted it, suggesting we both go
to the toilet.
When we landed in Honolulu, I told Jackie about Miss Doug and suggested we
play a prank. Jackie was all for it. I called Miss. Doug's apartment, reminded
him of who I was, and explained that I had picked up this cute little 17 year
old and asked if Miss Doug would like for us to come over.
We stopped at a liquor store and bought the worst booze we could find. It
was about 7:30 when I rapped on Miss Doug's door, cute little Jackie alongside
of me. Jackie carried the bottle.
She was in her drag, looking very real. Her line about "what was in there"
was the same. She brought out the pineapple juice, made the drinks, suggested
I be a darling and run down to the corner for the Grenadine. When I came back
there was Jackie standing there in his under shorts, dick hanging out. Then
the removal of the shoes and socks, the licking of Miss Doug's ear; the whole
scenario was repeated, line for line, lick for lick. The three of us had one
hell of an orgy. Even Miss Doug (for the first time I'll bet) had his cock
worked on.
The flight from Honolulu to Samoa wasn't as much of a drag, as Jackie and I
had become even tighter. We still laughed about our visit when, just before
we left, we told Miss Doug how old Jackie was and what we were doing in
Hawaii. We talked about many things. I learned that a lot of the country kids
don't consider playing around as anything but ordinary and expected. Even in
church the kids used to sneak out in to the bushes and whack each other
off.
We had a 36 hour stop over in Pago Pago, Samoa, as we changed planes and
airlines. There was only one small hotel. The town was tiny. The oddest thing
of all was that most of the houses had no walls. Long bamboo curtains were
rolled up and down. Mostly they were up allowing you to view right thru the
house to the other side. Since tourism hadn't really developed, the native
life style was more natural, less enhanced than it was in Honolulu.
The final air leg from Samoa to Auckland, New Zealand took almost 10 hours.
We landed shortly after 5:00 AM. Our passports and luggage were checked, and
our Cab dropped us at the bus station. We were heading south towards Wellington
by 8:00 AM.
We soon discovered that all New Zealand boys are natural born flirts. They
flirt with everybody. Men, women. And of any age 17 to 90. I think they start
to do it as soon as they can walk (if not before) and continue through old
age. Two particularly cute pre-pubescent boys were flirting outrageously with
Jackie and me. When the bus would stop for a rest break, the boys would
immediately come over, engaging us in conversation. The parents seemed to
ignore this behavior. If we sat down on a bench, they were right next to us,
leg to leg. If we were in a chair, they were practically in our laps. While
it was an enticing situation it was also downright frustrating.
The two pre-pubescents soon had competition as a couple of 15 or 16 year olds
boarded the bus. Seeing us, they headed right down the isle taking a seat
across from us. First it was eye to eye contact, then smiles and winks. I
think Jackie and I had a perpetual hard-on from the time we got to New Zealand
until we departed those lovely islands.
We should have been dead tired. We had been traveling for more than 18 hours,
but the New Zealand youngsters kept us intrigued. However, lack of rest
finally caught up with us, and we dozed off.
The ferry from Wellington to Christ Church was an overnighter, with sleeping
cabins. Even though it began taking on passengers at 7:30 in the evening, it
didn't actually depart 'til after 10. We were told that it had an excellent
dining room, and thus we planned to dine on board.
At dinner we experienced the same thing we had on the bus. There were several
tables around ours all occupied by 14 to 17 year olds. We later learned they
were part of a competition tennis team. They were outrageous. Again, the
eye contact, the smiles, the winks.
To make things ever more difficult they all wore very short white tennis
shorts and tight shirts. Those beautiful, well-sculpted thighs, baby butts,
developing baskets, flat hard abdomens, well formed chests, and bulging biceps
were all topped off with angelic smiles on heads with gorgeous eyes and
unruly hair.
After dinner Jackie and I sat in the lounge. Two particularly bold boys whom
we had seen during our meal came over and asked us where we were from and
what we were doing. Their eyes got big when they learned we were a country
western band. Then they begged us to play some music.
Jackie told them he played piano, but that I played guitar. After much coaxing,
they accompanied us to the tiny cabin Jackie and I shared to retrieve the
guitar. Then we retired to an upper deck where I strummed and sung, with
Jackie harmonizing several tunes. The boys were entranced.
All too soon the boys had to check in with their coach and go to bed.
We headed for our cabin, got undressed, and went to sleep. I don't know how
long I had been asleep when I was awakened by a light tapping on the cabin
door. Being on the bottom bunk, I got up, naked, from my bed and cracked open
the door. It was the two boys; they kind of pushed their way in, closing the
door. "Can we sleep in here with you?"
Jackie had awakened and answered for both of us. The boys stripped off all
of their clothes hopping into our beds, with cute little 5 inch hard-ons.
Sometime before sunrise the boys unwrapped themselves from us, dressed and
left.
The car from the hotel turned out not to be a car at all, but a station wagon.
It was Evan who first spotted it. His drum set took most of the room, then
the bass fiddle. I was thinking it a good thing that Jackie didn't need to
carry his piano.
New Zealand, by our standards, is an odd country. It is part of the British
Commonwealth. Unlike Australia, it was not settled as a penal colony. The
church is an integral part of their society and of their lives. No
entertainment was allowed on Sunday. No movie theaters. No bars. Even most
restaurants were closed from midnight Saturday to midnight Sunday.
No female would consider sexual relations with a man who was not her husband,
very Victorian. Once married, the husband's role was authoritative. The wife
did as he wished; it was expected thusly. All major business is owned by the
government: hotels, breweries, radio stations, transportation, food processors,
etc. etc. Even the resort we were booked into was operated by a New Zealand
government Bureau.
Male sexuality is pretty much the same world wide. A boy gets a hard-on; its
head takes control. If girls are not available, then a bond between buddies
grows as youngsters become sexually active.
Beer is the national beverage. There is a daily ritual, that after work or
school the male heads for his favorite pub. There are two types of pubs: the
"public and the private". No woman is allowed in the public bar, and it is
in the public bar where everyone meets. Add a little horniness and you have
the natural fermentation conditions for mutual sexual experiences.
In the New Zealand Navy, sex between sailors is permitted once they have been
at sea for more than 4 days; in fact, it is expected that a quarter of the
ship's crew will take care of the needs of the other three quarters.
New Zealand is a small country, isolated in the south Pacific, its closest
neighbors being Antarctica and Australia. Australia, on the other hand, is
also a rather odd country. It was founded as a penal colony. It is not a
socialistic country. It is not a country dominated by religious philosophy.
The women are socially and sexually aggressive. There are substantially more
women than there are men. Males are more laid back, and even sexually not
as intensive.
In most New Zealand resorts, the female staff are Australian, while the male
staff are New Zealanders. There is stiff competition between young Australian
women for those positions. And most New Zealand boys hope they can find a
hotel position.
The motor trip from Christchurch to Mount Cook took half of the day. The
view was magnificent as we drove past Lake Taeanou, paralleling the mountain,
and eventually climbing it.
The Hermitage, even then, was developing the reputation as a world class
hotel and eatery. It was built on the edge of the Tasmian Glacier. Ski buffs
from all over the world found this a unique and exciting vacation spot. The
down hill slope provided a full half day of uninterrupted skiing. Getting
to the top of the slope required two days of mountain climbing.
Alpine resorts have a built in camaraderie. Being cold most of the year,
fireplaces add to the coziness. The pubs are usually full before noon, and
by 2 in the afternoon everyone is partying. Those alpine hotels had no public
bars, only private.
In 1949, the Hermitage was a bit smaller than it is today. It had one bar,
one lounge (show bar), and two restaurants. Activities started early and
ended early. For the most part the guests were in their beds by 9:30.
We arrived at 5:30 Friday evening. We were given two tiny rooms, each with
a single double bed, located at the back of the hotel. Jackie and I doubled
up as did Evan and Jake. Our first and only set for Friday night started at
7:00.
We met in the lounge immediately after dropping our bags in our rooms. Evan
was trying to find the best place to set up his drums; it was important that
he be seen while not beating the rest of us into submission. Jackie checked
out the upright piano, while Jake and I adjusted our strings against Jackie's
middle C.
By the time we had adjusted everything, we barely had time for a sandwich
before starting our session.
There had been no advance publicity of our appearance. The only thing we had
seen was a small sign at the entrance which said "American Country Western
Music in the lounge at 7:00 PM".
When we started our first number, it was for the bartender; there were no
customers. After a short conference, we figured we had better do a warmup
first, to try and draw in an audience. We really didn't have a warmup routine
to fall back on, but we didn't want to start our choreographed performance
without an audience.
Jackie took the bull by the horns and started a high tempo Gospel number.
As he got further into the number, Jake added the bass fiddle, and soon I
was chording along. Only poor Evan seemed to be left out until he grabbed a
tambourine, giving this number a real "Old Time Revival" sound.
An audience began to drift in. By the end of the second Gospel number, we
had a full house. However, we couldn't start our regular show, inasmuch as
the first part of it was designed to bring the audience to the same level as
they were now.
The piano had the spotlight during the Gospel Numbers. We decided to jump
into the middle of our show, almost segueing into a spirited number featuring
the bass. The next number we did was something specially created by Harry.
The orchestration started with a slow-tempoed, sorrowful, soul dragging "Saint
James Infirmary" merging into "When the Saints Go Marching In". It was a very
skillfully created piece of material. It was also a piece of material that
we loved to do. The piano started the piece, softly, sorrowfully, then the
guitar was added, while faintly in the background the bass could be heard
played with a bow. Occasionally the bright tinkle of a triangle sparkled
against the almost velvety sounds. Harry had, with great finesse, woven the
melody, then the tempo of "Saints", so that the piece went from the mournful
strains of "Infirmary" to the joyful, excitement of "Saints".
The piece was almost 15 minutes long, ending with Jackie jumping up and down
as his finger hit every key on that piano, with Evan ricocheting from one
percussion surface to another. Jake was plucking and pounding his bass with
great energy. My body melded into my guitar as my entire being literally
rocked with vitality. We could feel the intensive power being projected from
the audience as we all became a single vibrating, then resonant entity.
The last note had been played. The audience was on its feet in a veritable
roar of excitement; not in approval of our work, but as part of it.
We were drained. I looked at Jackie, his shirt was soaked. Evan was dripping.
We had to take a break.
Jake came back from the bar with four drafts and four shots of bourbon.
Evan picked his shot glass and dropped it, glass and all, into his beer,
yelling "Depth Charge".
Adding bourbon to beer takes the sharpness off the beer, making it a bit
mellower; it also adds one hell of a punch to it. While we rested, the
activity at the bar increased. A rather cute young waiter came over with four
more mugs of beer, saying "It's from the staff". I asked him if he would
have one with us. He said he couldn't 'til he was off duty at 9:00.
Inadvertently, I found myself with a date.
The second half of the show was an emotional letdown; there was no way we
could match that last number. I suggested we have a conference after the
show; probably in the coffee shop.
The kitchen closed at 9:00, so the only thing we could get was soup and
sandwiches. We examined and discussed our performance, the audience reaction,
and how we should reconstruct the show. It was certainly agreed that that
special number of Harry's be at the end of the show. Also, the unique use of
the Gospel numbers at the beginning had unexpected appeal. In the end, we
increased the length of our show by almost a half hour, keeping everything,
but in a different order. This, in turn, created an additional problem, in
that the choreographer had given us some dialog and bits of business to
enhance the appearance of spontaneity, and this no longer fit. So we decided
to, at least for the moment, cut it, and add our own real spontaneous bits.
About halfway through our conference, my "date" showed up with 5 glasses of
beer. He pulled up a chair from another table and seemed intrigued by what
he heard.
Evan said something about having "a date", which rather surprised me, and
Jake said he was beat and was going to hit the hay.
I could tell by Jackie's expression that he thought my "date", Jimmy, was
delightful. However, he also had good manners, excusing himself, retiring to
our room.
The coffee shop was closing. We decided to take a walk.
The night was bright. There was a quarter moon. The stars twinkled in the
sky. The air was just a little on the crisp side. He was walking too close
to me for it not to have been romantic. The top of his head came to my chin.
His light brown hair was short. He had an Ivory Soap smell about him. I put
my arm around his 19 year old shoulders, kind of hugging him to me.
Further down the road, my bladder got the best of me and I had to unload the
beer I had been consuming all evening. Jimmy couldn't keep his eyes off of
my hand as it unzipped my pants and pulled out my penis. A great stream of
piss propelled by too much pressure struck the ground in a noisy splash. He
unbuttoned his own pants and we soon had streams of piss crossing and playing
with each other.
His penis, while not large, was well formed. He also was uncircumcised. He
also pissed without holding himself, leaning back, and guiding the stream by
moving his butt. The silvery light from the moon made our cocks look whiter
than they were, smoother than they were; quite beautiful.
My member began to swell, and in response so did his. He reached over, first
just touching, then putting his hand around the base. "Can I sleep with you
tonight?"
I was sure Jackie wouldn't mind, even though we had only one bed.
Jimmy said he had to shower and change clothes, and he would come to my room
in about a half hour.
Jackie wasn't surprised when I told him we were going to have an overnight
guest. He even laughingly asked if he could have any leftovers.
At 11:30, there was a soft knock at our door; I let Jimmy in. He had another
kid with him. Also very attractive. Neither seemed at all embarrassed that
I was standing there in the raw, and with a hard-on. "This is my friend
Kevin. Thought I'd bring 'em along to keep yer Mate company."
The boys slept between Jackie and myself. At first it was just a little
fondling, but soon worked into two 69's, then a single daisy chain. We were
all so tired that one climax each brought us to and over the edge of sleep.
"Get yer dick out a my butt," followed by laughter, and wrestling between
the two boys, woke us at 5 AM. I grabbed Jimmy, Jackie grabbed his as we
entered into this early morning boy romping. I was on top of Jimmy. He was
face down, the head of my cock at the edge of his butt crack. The wrestling
had turned to sex. He looked back at me, gave me a grin, "Help yer self,
it's been had before".
I put a bit of KY on my dick, sliding it between his cheeks, and gently into
his anus. The other kid had never seen KY, took the tube, rubbed some between
his fingers, then on his dick, then on my butt, inserted his cock and started
fucking. Jimmy on the bottom, next me, now the other kid. Jackie's kid looked
at him and said, "come on mate whatcha waitin' for?" Whereupon we became a
stack of four humping, asses forced into synchronism, with Jimmy getting the
most out of it. We all reached our climaxes within seconds of one another.
"What time is it?"
"6:00," I replied.
"Oh Shit! We are late; we were supposed to report a half hour ago." The two
boys jumped out of bed and into their clothes running down the hallway.
Jackie and I looked at each, laughed like hell, and fell back to sleep.
It was after 11 when we finally got out of bed, showered, and headed for
breakfast at the coffee shop.
On the way down the hall, we overheard two of the maids talking about one of
the other girls having fun with the drummer; that he could do even more with
his own stick than with the drum sticks; they also added something about
several of the girls were going to try and make it a foursome tonight. Jackie
and I glanced at each other and smiled. Poor Jake seemed to be the only one
not getting any.
Saturday night, the new show was a resounding success, climaxing in a crescendo
that left the entire room drained of energy. The show had run until almost
10:00. We had played to a packed house; the bar had done a phenomenal business,
so no one complained.
The story apparently had gotten around that Jimmy and Kevin were sleeping
with the piano player and the guitarist, putting them into a very envious
spotlight. They spent every spare second they had in our company showing off
that we were their friends.
The original contract with the New Zealand Bureau of Hotels called for our
appearance for two weeks. We increased business so much that the hotel wanted
to keep us longer. They first approached the group about it. We agreed. Jimmy
and Kevin were ecstatic. The hotel asked the government to try to extend the
booking, but the government felt that if we were that good they should try
expanding the tour; go to other hotels. They sent someone from the Hotel
Division to see what all of the commotion was about.
The government booking people contacted Jack Wormski's office in Hollywood,
asking about extending the contract, not as the hotel had asked, but as an
expanded tour. Harry called me to find out how the guys felt about it. I
said I'd get back to him.
The group thought it was great; the only gripes came from Jake and Evan about
having to lug their instruments around. It was then that I had an inspiration.
I called Harry; we were all in agreement with only one minor problem, we
wanted to hire a couple of roadies to go with us, take a lot of the burden
off of us in transportation, setup and handling the drums and bass. I also
told him who I had in mind for the jobs, and the personal side of why. Harry
kind of laughed, said he was happy that things were going so well. Said that
Jack had already asked for more money and the government had agreed.
That afternoon, the six of us were sitting at our usual table in the coffee
shop. I explained the extended tour. That we probably would be on the road
for at least another month. The boys looked rather forlorn as they realized
that we were going to leave within a couple of days. Then I dropped the
bomb shell. "You kids want to go with us?" They were delighted.
The next night we were told that the NZBC Radio Network was going to do a
remote from the Hermitage. The remote was to be part of a regular feature
highlighting and promoting the NZHC (New Zealand Hotel Corporations) resorts;
we would be on national radio for 15 minutes, the last 15 minutes of our
performance, Harry's number.
Everyone at the Hotel was sad to see us leave, but happy and envious of Jimmy
and Kevin.
The boys understood that this was no free vacation, that they were being
paid, and that they had a job to do.
Early that morning, the boys had made certain that all of our gear was packed
and ready to travel. Then they came in our room rubbing their dicks in our
faces saying that if we didn't hurry we, "weren't gonna get none."
We got dressed and started down the hall. Jackie and I were guided into the
coffee shop. Our breakfast had already been ordered and was waiting for us
on the table. Almost immediately, Kevin escorted Jake and Evan to the table
as we enjoyed a hearty breakfast.
Kevin had been in contact with the government booking agent arranging for a
small bus for our use during the tour. It was parked in front, packed and
ready to go. Kevin and Jimmy would take turns driving.
Our bookings would take us first to Milford Sound, then Queenstown, Dunedin,
Invercargil, Christchurch, Wellington, Rouratoura, and ending in Auckland.
Jimmy and Kevin also worked out the details, planned and coordinated our
travel time, and our accommodations, as well as the dates of our performances.
The director of entertainment at the Hermitage had given the boys a short
course in handling a road show, given them a list of phone numbers and
contacts, had really done most of the room bookings, etc. He had even helped
the boys "negotiate" better accommodations and perks. To our amazement, one
of the perks was that our dinners would be served after our show. No more
soup and cold sandwiches.
All of this was done quietly. We had no idea what the boys had done, and were
prepared to wing it. It wasn't until we experienced the results of their
efforts that we began to realize just how valuable they were.
Milford sound was just as beautiful and majestic as any of the Scandinavian
fjords. It also was where most of the New Zealand Lobster tails came from.
The Hotel stood out on a point, looking southwesterly over the Pacific. We
now had three rooms, each a double. Jimmy had arranged that they be side by
side, that they be adjoining. This arrangement would have several benefits:
people outside of our group would not know what the sleeping arrangements
were, and the center bed room could be used as a gathering, conferencing,
and office space.
The publicity we had received from the NZBC had the hotel booked. We began
to develop fans, and fans represented another problem. I had learned from my
association with Vince and Harry that most fans sought the limelight of their
prey. On the positive side, they created an enthusiastic core within your
audience, upon which you could rely. I had also learned that you don't date
a fan. Some will use their personal relationship to create publicity for
themselves. To some extent, that happened with Kevin and Jimmy. Everyone at
the Hermitage knew about it; the boys had bragged about it. However, we had
lucked out in that in New Zealand, our sleeping with the boys was nothing
either unusual nor unexpected. Thus, Kevin and Jimmy became an additional
asset; we could keep our sex lives between ourselves.
Having the station wagon gave us an opportunity to do some sightseeing, and
the boys were great tour guides. At first it was an occasional offhand thing
to do. Then they started planning our days, setting times for meals, when
and where we should do what, including planned explorations all around the
surrounding territories.
Our booking at Milford Sound was for 3 days. Kevin and Jimmy saw to it that
we never had a performance the day that we arrived.
The hotels invariably tried to get us to do a show the first day. Sometimes
we would do a rehearsal to add or change something. We found that those
unscheduled performances always drew a full house creating an unplanned-for
demand upon the bar.
The morning of the second day found Jimmy and Kevin sandwiched between Jackie
and myself. I was facing away from Jimmy, with his arms around my waist.
His hand had dropped down and was cuddling my soft penis. A little gentle
squeezing changed that; he soon had a fully erected dick in his hand. A
pleasant way to wake up. He nuzzled the back of my neck, turned me on my
back, shifted so that his chest was laying across mine. "We're going to put
playtime off til this afternoon. We've got a boat waiting for us down at the
dock."
However, neither Jackie nor I were going to let the kids get away with that,
as we turned, wrestled, and had our way with them.
The boat trip they had arranged was an exploration of the Fjords aboard a
fishing boat. For almost three hours, we navigated the sound with Jimmy or
Kevin or both conferencing with the captain, enabling us to investigate
alluring sites.
The drive from Milford Sound to Queenstown was relatively short. We didn't
depart 'til almost 10. The hotel staff had been very nice to us, developing
relationships as close to friends as you can do in three days. I guess, in
looking back, we developed an ability to build friendships in a short time.
During the drive we talked about ways we could improve our constantly evolving
show, as well as discussing problems we could see developing.
Jimmy wasn't much of a diplomat, if he had something on his mind he was direct
and to the point. "Ya know, Evan, you're quite the ladies man; and that dick
of yours is goin' to get you into trouble." Rumors were rampant that Evan
was even better in bed than he was on the drums. Both Jackie and I had heard
it, and even talked about it. But it was Jimmy that felt it was becoming a
problem for the group. Evan grumbled about we were not being fair cause "you
got yours". Finally, it was Kevin that suggested that he and Jimmy add the
screening of Evan's expected playmates to their ever expanding roll in our
group.
Queenstown was something else, one of the high points of our tour. Unlike
either The Hermitage or Milford, our show was in a restaurant. The building
was high on a small mountain overlooking the city and the lake. Its only
access was via a cable car. If you lived or worked in the town you had a
pass to ride the cable. Others paid $2.00.
Our accommodations were in the "Mountain View Hotel" located in the business
district, and not more than a block from the lake. Since Jimmy had insisted
on three interconnecting double rooms, the management had put us on the 4th
floor, and there was no elevator.
The ground floor of the hotel had a dinning room, lobby, front desk, and
combination private and public bar. In building the bar, they had divided a
much larger room into two areas by simply building the bar down the full
length of the room, thus splitting into two separate lounges.
Our group was upstairs, trying to decide how to get the drums and the bass
to the restaurant. Jimmy and Kevin were insisting that was NZHC's problem.
Jake and Evan expressed concern on how the instruments would be treated. It
was finally decided that Jimmy and Kevin would personally supervise the
transport, but the work would have to be done by the restaurant's own people.
The day was a warm one, and I was thirsty for a cool one. While they were
working out these details I went to the pub. It was crowded, I spotted an
empty seat at the bar next to a tall youthful blonde of about 22 or 23.
He was a friendly sort. He offered to buy me one, I did likewise. After a
couple of rounds, Jimmy came looking for me, saw that I was engaged and
retreated.
My new friend was most pleasant. Soon, I was getting hungry and asked him if
he would like to join me for dinner. He apologized, saying he should go home
for his meal. I pressed the point; he suggested that I come home with him.
This offered an interesting opportunity; but, remembering what Jimmy had said
to Evan about his exploits, I thought it only right that I run this invitation
past the group. I explained to my new friend that I was a part of a group
and that I needed to make certain that they had not already made plans.
Jimmy gave me an twinkling, almost evil, smirk when I ran the invitation past
them. He told me he figured something was up so he had checked around. The
guy I was talking to owned the "Queenstown Men's Ware" shop, he was married,
had two kids, and there was no doubt that accepting the invitation posed any
risk.
Even though they had punched a big hole in my fantasies, I accepted the
invitation.
His wife was most agreeable, expressing not the least concern about her
husband bringing home an unexpected guest. The dinner was good wholesome
home-cooked food, not inspired, but a nice change from the restaurant food
we had been eating in the past week.
My host and his wife were amazed that I was a member of the group that was
taking New Zealand by storm (That was the first time I was aware of it).
The "babies" had been put to bed, and I enjoyed a most pleasant and wholesome
evening with a young New Zealand family.
That night, Jimmy teased me about having a roving eye. But I think it also
added a bit of insecurity, as our romping that night was particularly spirited
and pleasant.
At breakfast, I repeated the "Group that was taking New Zealand by storm"
story telling them we should get hold of Jack and Harry. Kevin gave us a big
grin saying that he had already wired Hollywood and was awaiting some kind
of response. He and Jimmy had caught the excitement as we had checked into
the hotel. While our Broadcast performance had carried only the last 15
minutes of our show, NZBC had recorded the whole thing.
Several of our more up tempo numbers were being played on the network. This
could never have happened in Hollywood. But in New Zealand, the government
owned everything, and they controlled everything, making us the hottest group
in the country was good business.
It was Harry who called back, but it was Kevin with whom he spoke. He explained
that our tour in New Zealand would not be extended, he and Jack both felt it
best if we end the tour at its peak rather than letting NZHC milk it dry.
I don't know what else they talked about, but Harry, apparently having heard
just how good Kevin and Jimmy were at handling us, had asked about the
possibility of them coming back to the states with us at the end of the tour.
It was then that I first realized that Harry was developing our group into
a property. The New Zealand tour was not the beginning and the end of an
isolated opportunity.
Then Kevin dropped the second bomb shell of our tour, Harry said Jack had
booked us into the Monarch Room at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel and that we were
to be guests on Harry Owen's `Hawaii Calls' Radio Show. Jack had received a
copy of the complete NZBC recording of our show, and like NZBC had pulled
out several numbers which even now were being played by the Radio Stations
in Honolulu.
I wondered if Miss Doug knew who the guitar and pianist were on this hot new
group.
Now we had an identity problem on our hands. Our group had no name. I
laughingly suggested "The Studs". Kevin suggested "The Cuddling Four", leaving
Evan and Jake out in the cold. Evan suggested something about drum sticks
that was totally out of the question. Finally, we left the matter in Kevin
and Jimmy's hands with instructions to coordinate it with Jack and Harry in
Hollywood.
After our first performance in Queenstown, we could not go into the Hotel
Bar without being totally engulfed. I had tried, seeing my Men's Ware friend,
but before I could get across the bar I was swamped and had to retreat.
Gerald and Sally offered dinner again, but we were booked solid and couldn't
accept. They also said they had tried to see our show but all shows had been
sold out, that not even standing room was available. After talking with Evan,
Jake and Jackie I asked Kevin and Jimmy if they could find us some place with
a piano, either at our hotel or elsewhere. We had decided to give a free show
of our own with Gerald and Sally as our guest of honor.
Jimmy had found an outdoor park with a covered stage that had an upright.
However, the park department had been in contact with NZHC and they had given
the idea thumbs down.
Kevin had been in contact with Jack Wormski, who said that interference would
be a violation of our contract. If NZHC didn't back off, the tour was over.
It would be an excellent test of our popularity.
We heard from the Park Department that the stage was ours. The restaurant
canceled our last show leaving the image that the free concert was their gift
to the city.
Jimmy dropped by Gerald's store inviting his family as our special guests.
The entire town was excited about the show in the park. The Local NZBC radio
station was providing the sound equipment, including a hookup on the national
network.
The show was scheduled for 6PM. By 4:00, the park was packed. Not even standing
room.
It was so packed that if Gerald and Sally (and their kids) were going to see
the show we would have to seat them on the stage.
Jimmy and Kevin, with the help of four heavy burly guys, literally forced a
path through the crowd to the stage.
There was so much noise that we couldn't be heard.
I signaled to the guys I was going to do something different.
I got up to the mic with my guitar and started to sing one of the music hall
numbers, complete with English accent. The crowd had to quiet down to hear
what was going on. Then they recognized the song and began to sing along.
I don't know how we managed to move from a bawdy music hall song into a
spirited Southern Gospel number, but we succeeded, and the show was underway.
That was the first and only time in my life that I saw what happened when a
huge crowd gets into that special resonance between performer and audience.
It is not possible to describe it; the power, the effect upon the performers,
the effect it has upon the audience itself.
Such an experience drains every bit of energy from you. Kevin and Jimmy had
put together a special detail. More big burly guys practically carried us to
our hotel rooms under Kevin's direct supervision; several others helped Jimmy
get our gear packed into our bus for our trip south to Dunedin.
Dunedin, Invercargil, Christchurch, Wellington, Rouratoura, and even Auckland
were all kind of a blur. Most of our time spent dodging crowds. Our hotel
rooms became hideouts between performances. Gone were the nice sightseeing
trips, no more romantic strolls. Dinner and trips had to be planned in secrecy
and executed with precision. Jimmy and Kevin earned every penny we paid them.
------------------------------------------------------------
My Teenage Heart
Chapter Seven
Oriental Thunder
As the last note was played in Aukland, as the last sneaking out of our hotel
was accomplished, as we finally boarded the airplane for a non-stop run to
Honolulu, we all discovered this had ceased to be fun. It was hard work.
Oddly, we had no idea how much money we were making. And frankly we could
not have been making enough to make this kind of life worth while.
Kevin had negotiated a deal with the New Zealand Airline to upgrade our flight
to first class. First Class all the way to Los Angeles with a stop in Honolulu.
Our "Stardom" was strictly local and had not spread beyond the shores of New
Zealand.
Even though we were booked into the Monarch Room at the Royal, we were not
recognizable "Stars". It took Kevin and Jimmy a little while to realize all
of that organized effort in New Zealand could be abandoned. But also, now
that we were back in the U.S., the personal side of our lives had to be much
more guarded.
Kevin and Jimmy were running our tour company. They planned everything,
They made all arrangements. They fed us, directed us, provided love and
comfort, protected us, took care of all business matters, became the
communications link with Hollywood. When I spoke with Harry it was always on
personal matters. Anything to do with business or the tour he referred me
to Kevin.
"Thunder" was the name Jimmy and Kevin had come up with, and which was approved
by Jack and Harry. There was also a disagreement commencing between Jack
Wormski and Harry. Harry wanted to bring us back, examine our old show, and
probably rebuild it into a new one. Jack, on the other hand, recognized the
potential that had been building, and that now was the time to keep things
going, build upon what was already hot.
A compromise was finally reached when they decided that, after the engagement
at the Royal, we would return to Hollywood where our show would undergo a
major overhaul. During that time Jack would book us on a tour of the Orient,
getting the promotion underway, using the NZBC recordings for circulation on
an advancing path for the tour.
Kevin and Jimmy were jumping up and down, saying that we needed a rest, that
Jack and Harry had no idea what New Zealand had turned into. Oddly, Harry did
not bring Jake, Evan, Jackie, or myself into this discussion. Either Harry
realized this was part of the cost of a rapidly expanding career or he didn't
realize what the cost was. I suspect he knew, and figured that I didn't have
the experience to make that decision. He was probably right. At that point
I would not have booked the Orient Tour. If it had not been for his hard
decision that probably would have been the end of a promising future.
We were in Honolulu for only three days.
We cut the Gospel numbers from the show. With Harry Owens' help, we worked
out some special Hawaiian material with "Auntie Clara" known as "Hilo Hattie"
for the Hawaii Calls radio broadcast.
She was an experienced comedienne with many years behind her working
nationwide. With a great deal of diplomacy, she went over our show, word by
word, movement by movement providing suggestions, adding humor where it was
needed. Many we included in that show, and many even survived the
reconstruction in Hollywood.
Back in Hollywood, Harry had been creating a new number "Oriental Thunder";
it was to replace "Saints" as the finale.
Harry and Jack met our plane at Los Angeles Airport. They almost fell over
when they actually met, and saw the two young New Zealand kids they had
allowed to assume so much responsibility on the tour. All the way back to
Toluca Lake, Harry and Jack carried on conversations with Jimmy and Kevin,
getting to know them; in reality, becoming inspired with them.
Only our New Zealanders had no place to be dropped off. Harry had already
planned that they would stay with us in Toluca Lake. Jackie would have none
of that, he wanted Kevin with him; needless to say Kevin was on Jackie's
side. In the end, Jackie came to stay at Harry's.
Jimmy and Kevin were absolutely speechless when they saw Harry's house.
Before we could say yes or no, they had shed their clothes and jumped into
the pool. It was with a great deal of restraint that stopped Jackie and I
from following them.
Both of the New Zealanders were aware that I was Harry's protege, that we
slept together. I thought this was going to be a problem between Jimmy and
myself, but Harry resolved it by having Jimmy sleep with us. The three of us
took turns sleeping in the middle.
Thunder had no rest. At 9 o'clock, the entire group met at the rehearsal
studio on Melrose, along with Harry, Jack, and a new choreographer. They
wanted to hear and to see the show as it finally had evolved in New Zealand.
We cheated and kept the bits "Auntie Clara" had given.
Without an audience, the performance lacked that high energy. Both Jack and
Harry realized why. Jack arranged to use one of the radio studios of NBC on
Sunset Blvd. Most of the west coast network shows originated from there, all
of which had live audiences. What was planned was that after the Bob Hope
Show or the Don Ameche Show, the pages would herd the audience into ours.
It worked like a charm, we brought the house down. Apparently there was enough
noise that it brought people from some of the other studios in backstage.
At the close of "Saints", an unexpected guest walked out on stage, put his
hand over my shoulder, "Let's hear it for the little guy. Wonder what a Limie
is doing over here". It was Bob Hope, ever the ham . . . always center stage.
The audience hadn't the slightest idea what the "Limie" bit was all about,
but Hope got a roar of laughter anyway.
Later, Harry asked me what the hell that bit with Hope was all about, then
Jack explained it to him.
Back at Harry's, we began to decide what material we wanted to keep and what
we wanted to put in. We knew what worked, but Harry had come up with damned
nice new material. They were hard choices. Oriental Thunder was going to be
a difficult number if we couldn't rehearse it in front of a live audience.
I don't know how he did it, but Jack made a deal with a night club down on
Santa Monica Blvd. We were to be the nightly show; the show was our rehearsals.
For two weeks we worked in the little studio on Melrose during the day, then
preformed in the club at night.
Jimmy and Kevin were right there beside us from 8 in the morning 'til midnight.
Oriental Thunder required special lighting. Instruments had to be transported;
the lighting had to be moved and set up. After a couple of problems with the
sound system at the night club, Harry and Jimmy went out and bought our own.
Now Jimmy took over the responsibilities of setting up and running the sound,
while Kevin took over lighting.
Harry wanted to add a couple more musicians, but Jack said absolutely not:
the bookings had already been made; the advance publicity was out there; the
fees already negotiated. The group could not, at this stage, be expanded; we
couldn't afford it.
Now it wasn't fans and groupies that forced us into seclusion; the total
effort of refining our performance to a high luster left us no time for
recreation.
Dinner was frequently at local Hollywood eateries at 1 and 2 in the morning.
Now we were all dreaming about those earlier first few weeks we had at The
Hermitage and Milford Sound.
Jack came in with Kevin and Jimmy to go over our itinerary. It was a tight
one. Manila, Bangkok, Singapore, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Las Vegas. The good part
of it was that we had one week in each city, but only four performances.
The exception being Vegas where we had two shows a day for the entire week.
The hotels were the best: The Manila in the Philippines; The Jewel in
Singapore, The President in Bangkok, Hong Kong Hilton, The Imperial in Tokyo,
and finally the Flamingo in Las Vegas.
First Class Air all the way.
Except for Las Vegas, we were not playing in hotel show rooms. We were in
concert halls or stadiums seating capacities no less than 1500. The contracts
called for a fixed fee plus a percentage of the house. It was Kevin's
responsibility to see that we got that percentage. Kevin and Jimmy were being
spread far too thin. I called Dave Johnson in Honolulu and asked if he could
join us. In retrospect, I am glad he said he couldn't; his alcoholism would
have been fatal. He did suggest a protege of his, a young kid who was part
of an explorer boy scout troop who had been training on audio at Miss Doug's
station.
The boy had just turned 18, and Dave assured me we would like him. Jimmy
called Phillip at his home in Honolulu. They must have talked for about a
half hour (at $3.00 a minute). Jimmy recommended we give Phillip a try. Jack
and Harry went along with it. Phillip had to rush through a passport, and
in the end Phillip boarded our plane when we stopped in Honolulu for fuel.
Kevin, Jimmy, and Phillip fell in love with each other at first sight.
Phillip was very blonde. He was a bit taller than the other two. He was also
a surfer, with the stance of a surfer. His voice was the voice of a surfer,
light, almost child like. His blue-green eyes almost matched the shade of
the deeper water at Hanama Bay.
Jimmy was to take over the lighting, while Phillip replaced Jimmy on sound.
Phillip suggested that they probably could work the lighting like they did
in some of the Waikiki Nightclubs, putting the controls along side of the
audio board, thus letting Jimmy cover the matters of transportation,
security, and accommodations, etc. On the personal side, Phillip seemed
disappointed that Jackie and I were already spoken for, that Evan strictly
was a woman's man, and that Jake didn't seem to be interested in either.
However, Jimmy said not to worry that there was more than enough to go around.
No longer were we transporting just our musical instruments; the sound system
included mics, cables, amplifiers, speakers, anti-feedback devices, and our
master control board. Special lighting had been added. We were still relying on
the house for spots and general lighting, but Thunder used a new light called
a strobe, along with some other special effects devices including a gadget
called a fogger.
All this equipment required its own shipping cases. It all had to be
transported with us on our aircraft. Jimmy, Kevin, and Phillip had to see
that that was done. That meant that one of them had to be overlooking the
baggage loading to make certain the airlines made good on our requirements.
Nothing was to go ahead of us.
Nothing was to be shipped later. Everything had to be on our plane. At our
destination the procedure was the same. Unloading had to be watched, transfer
to our vehicles had to be assured. Possible breakage, mishandling, and even
theft were always possibilities that could damage our show.
Jack's advanced publicity had done its job. There were hundreds of Filipino
youngsters meeting our plane. "God, we were back to the problems of the New
Zealand tour."
While we were clearing customs, Jimmy and Phillip were trying to hustle up
some security for us. The local promoters had sent a limo and a truck. Jimmy
jumped into the limo behind us, leaving Kevin and Phillip to oversee the
loading of the truck and the delivery of everything to the stadium.
We had arrived on Thursday night. We had two performances on Saturday: one
in the afternoon, one at night. Friday would be used for setup and rehearsal.
We would be free until the following Saturday when we would again have two
performances. Being free wasn't exactly being free. Inasmuch as we got a
percentage of the house, it was to our advantage to cooperate with local
promotion, and that meant newspaper and radio interviews. Kevin had arranged
for us to get most of that out of the way on Monday.
Phillip had found a cute Filipino youngster with whom he had developed a fast
friendship. Jimmy had told him about the problem of fans, and that Phillip
would have to make certain the kid did not get involved with either Jackie
or myself.
The youngster was hustling his way through college, and was helpful in
planning, and executing some fun sightseeing trips to Paxham Falls, to the
US Military Base at Cuebic Bay, as well as shopping tours in Manila.
All four concerts were tremendously successful, with the final one practically
destroying the concert hall.
Next stop Bangkok.
Jimmy and Kevin had decided that if we wanted to do any sightseeing, we should
do it before our first concert; that way, few people would know who we were.
Also, if our playing tourist was divided up with Jake and Evan along with
one or two of our roadies being one group; Jackie, the other roadie, and
myself as the other we would be less likely to be recognized.
Our flight from Manila to Bangkok was relatively quick, and that, coupled
with the changes in time zone, put us in Thailand on Tuesday morning, with
our first concert not scheduled until Saturday. We would have a single concert
on Saturday and a single concert on Sunday. That was to be repeated the
following week end, putting us in Singapore the following Monday afternoon.
Thailand's appeal to the tourist stems from many different things about its
culture, about its structure, and about its people. They are a quiet and
polite people. Pointing is extremely rude. Raising one's voice is not done.
Sex in Thailand is an acceptable business. Male and female prostitution is
a way of life. Some of it is organized (whore houses); most is not. Most
prostitutes come from the rural areas where living is difficult: there is
never enough money; there is never enough food; there always are too many
children. Boys and girls leave those farms at an early age, entering the
"trade" as early as 13.
The gay bars provide "Off-Boys", named because they are expected to leave
the premises with a customer.
When entering a bar, one usually passes a platform where the off-boys sit.
They are always very quite, give frequent smiles to passing customers, and
wear a number tag by which they can be identified.
A customer may invite a boy to join him, either by winking at him, or asking
the waiter to have the boy join him for a drink. After the young man joins
you, if you find him not to be what you want, it is acceptable to let him go
back to the platform, and invite another boy.
Bangkok is the largest city in Thailand, but not the center of the gay
lifestyle. Pattaya is a 99 percent gay beach resort. Tourists from all over
the world vacation there. Nude sun bathing is frequent. Boys and men stroll
down the streets or along the beaches, hand in hand; lovers or simply afternoon
tricks.
As Jackie, Jimmy, and I exited our hotel, we were accosted by a man. "Want
a cute girl?".
We ignored him, turning left on the side walk, and were immediately accosted
by a second man, "Want a cute boy?".
"Massage parlors", as might be expected, are not places one can get a massage.
They are whore houses. The three of us had agreed that a deep body massage
would do wonders.
A large wooden door provided entrance to a hallway, which led to a counter
some 20 feet away. The entire right side of the hall was glass, with perhaps
a dozen beautiful girls, sitting in various poses, in various types of apparel.
After several attempts, we gave up finding a real massage parlor.
We saw the Emperor's Palace, cobras and snake charmers, huge buddhist temples.
We rode elephants, and boats, buses, trains, and taxis.
Phillip found this exquisite boy of 15 and wanted a room by himself. While
he probably would have had no difficulty in bringing the boy into the
Presidential Hotel, they were fully booked. We could have accommodated the
boy in our rooms, but that was against our rules, unless Kevin or Jimmy had
checked the boy out, thoroughly! In the end, they got a room in a nearby
hotel. The boy was probably the son of a prostitute; half Thai and half
Caucasian. While having the round face of the Thai, as well as the slightly
almond shaped eyes, he had blonde hair, and very blue eyes. His clothes were
scrupulously clean, but worn to the point of being ragged.
The next time we saw the boy, he was well dressed. Phillip must have spent
at least $100 on wardrobe.
The concert was well attended, with at least half of the audience being
American military or their families stationed in Bangkok.
There was a problem in leaving Bangkok for Singapore. The cargo bays of our
airline had been loaded with high priority US Military material. They could
not carry our equipment. Kevin and Jimmy were on the phone to the US embassy;
they couldn't help. They wasted a lot of time trying to talk to the U.S.
Military Command, getting nowhere. A call to the promoters in Singapore
resulted in our traveling by train.
Kevin booked first class sleeping compartments. They were assured that not
only would there be space for all of our equipment but that we could supervise
its handling and loading.
No one told Kevin that first class was not air conditioned. The temperature
had been in the low 100's with the humidity being close to the same.
The sleeping car had a room for bathing, which consisted of a five foot tall
earthenware jar, full of water, which a bath boy would ladle over your body.
The water drained from the car through an open hole in the center of the
floor. The bath boy was very handsome. I would guess his age 17 or 18. His
eyes had a deep sensuous brown. His smile very inviting.
Kevin went off to find the conductor. The air conditioned cars cost a little
more, but had no sleeping facilities. Unanimously, we decided to sit rather
than to lay down, relocating in the air conditioned car.
Even though we had re-located to the air conditioned car, we had rightful
access to the sleeping car and its bath.
When I entered the bath, the boy didn't seem to be surprised to see me. He
helped me remove my clothing, then removed his.
He grasped the handle of the ladle and doused me with water. Taking a bar of
soap between his two hands he created lather which he applied to my body:
first the back, down to my butt, between the checks. As he moved in front of
me, my cock had gotten quite erect.
He smiled shyly as his penis jumped again and again. Putting my arms around
him, I squeezed him to me, placing my hand on his awakened member. He breathed
out as he slowly sank to his knees, still holding tightly onto my thick,
extended member. Guiltily, I realized that he would obey, but would know
what was expected of him only if I told him.
My penis flexed again as he took his hand away. This time it was right in
front of his face and there was no avoiding my overpowering desire. My scrotum
was shrunk into a full lump that formed a swollen ball at the base of my
cock. It bulged outward like a ripe pomegranate ready to split open and spill
its seeds.
I gazed at his genitals in wonder. I was so much bigger and man-like that it
seemed strangely threatening. My penis was stretched so tightly that the skin
was shiny. Curiously, I took the boy's penis in my hand and tested its
stiffness with an even firmer squeeze. He gasped audibly as my fingers pulled
up and down slowly. Again and again my hand experienced the strange sensations
from his rigid flesh. This Thai boy's penis was so unlike my manhood; there
was almost a looseness between the smooth skin and the blood-engorged tissue
underneath, his skin sliding back and forth easily.
Already my body had stiffened and become tensed. With surprise, I recognized
the proximity of my orgasm. I had only been inside his mouth for a matter of
seconds, and I was frenzied, charged with the urgency of achieving release.
My thighs thrust eagerly forward as he sought to drive my jackhammer penis
through the entrance of his throat. He pulled away from my saliva-soaked
genitals. Taking the ladle he again doused my body, soaped, rinsed, and
toweled. He helped me dress, and seemed to be pleased at the $10.00 tip I
pressed into his small boy hand.
When I returned to our car, I told Jackie about the full services extended
by the bathing facilities. Just before 11:00, he smilingly said he thought
a bath would be in order.
Being a westerner, I couldn't see a lot of difference between Singapore and
Hong Kong, except for the weather. They both had orientals. They both had
rickshaws. They both had great shopping centers. Neither had the available
boys as did the Thai's.
Our travel by train put our schedule a bit behind, so the entire stay was
rather truncated. But it was in Singapore that our world came to an end.
After the second show, our tour was canceled, and we returned to Los Angeles.
Harry was dead; heart attack at age 66.
The plane trip seemed to take forever as we reversed our trek: Manila,
Hawaii, Los Angeles. Harry had written the show; Harry had produced the show;
Harry had financed the show. Without Harry there was no show. He had been
our manager, he had been our creator.
Jack met us at Los Angeles International Airport. Clearing customs seemed to
be drawn out. Kevin, Jimmy, and Phillip had the monumental task of filling
out the pyramid of forms proving ownership and place of acquisition of our
equipment. A business meeting was scheduled for that afternoon in Jack's
office, just Evan, Jake, Jackie, and myself.
Kevin, Jimmy, and Phillip had been on salary as well as expenses. However,
the rest of us had just received a small allowance; the earnings were ours,
split four ways. Total for each was $25,000, and Jack gave each of us a
check in that amount.
We were back to square one. Kevin and Jackie shared Jackie's apartment.
Phillip returned to Honolulu. I rented a small apartment from Buck.
Within the week Kevin and Jimmy had offers to manage a tour which would take
them back to New Zealand. Jackie joined a Gospel Group in Nashville. Evan
and Jake disappeared into the world of road performers.
Most of the $25,000 I put into savings. I found a few local gigs, but it just
wasn't the same. A call from Harry's lawyer informed me that he had left me
$50,000, but it would take about a year for his estate to go through probate,
so I wouldn't actually see the money for quite some time.
Buck was in a lull, between houses. I was getting bored with the Hollywood
scene. It must have been early March when Jack asked me to drop by his office.
Returning veterans had created a demand for education. Universities and
colleges were bursting at the seams. The students were, on the average, older
and more mature than their predecessors. A new type of school, the Junior
College, evolved for the many veterans who had gone to war without finishing
high school. College campuses were better organized. While the frat and
sorority houses still existed, they were giving way to campus-wide student
body organizations. It was these more cohesive organizations that created a
demand for nonacademic entertainment.
Theatrical Agents were booking tours, and gigs across the country. Jack wanted
to know if I was interested in such a solo tour. There wasn't enough money
in these tours to pay for much more than the artist, his transportation, and
accommodations. If I needed additional musicians they should be recruited
locally.
Jack's bookings were somewhat open ended. My first gig was Louisiana State
in Baton Rouge; next would be Notre Dame in South Bend, Indiana, then Detroit,
Chicago, and Philadelphia. Performances would be Saturday nights.
Creating the show was left up to me. Of course, I relied upon the material
we used in New Zealand, with greater emphasis on my English music hall
routines.
My advance procedure placed a help wanted ad for musicians in the local
newspapers a week before my arrival, arranging for tryouts at the schools on
the Thursday preceding the show. It was, in effect, a theatrical cattle call.
The Mississippi flows along the edge of Baton Rouge's business district. My
hotel was also on the edge of the river.
My flight on American Airlines had put me in the city in mid-afternoon. Even
in April, the climate can be hot and humid.
The hotel was a six story red brick structure. The lobby was sparsely
furnished. The desk was old but well maintained. The clerk was in his middle
forties.
The bell hop was young, enthusiastic, and a bit on the smart assed side;
typical. All the way up to the 5th floor he was generating the atmosphere
that Baton Rouge could be a fun city if I let him know what kind of fun I
was looking for. When I didn't respond to those offers, our conversation
moved on to what I was doing in Baton Rouge.
Once he had left, I examined what little there was of my room. There was a
small desk which contained the ever-present Gideon Bible, stationery, and a
map of the city. The bath was a tub, sink, and toilet. The large double bed
and a chair were the only other furniture.
The map showed me where the school was in relation to downtown. I decided to
explore.
The city is the state capital. The capital building is somewhat similar to
the U.S. Capital in Washington; that is, it has a domed foyer in the center,
with wings extending to the left and to the right. The marble steps take you
to where Hughey Long was assassinated; the front court yard holds a massive
statue of the "King Fish".
It was still daylight when I returned to my room. I called room service
ordering a bottle of rum, orange juice, and ice.
The same bellboy arrived with my order, still exuding extroverted personality,
still trying to drum up extra business.
At this point, I think a more detailed description of this lad is in order.
He had short red hair. Green eyes. Height 5 foot 8 inches. 125 Lbs. Well
built. Bellboy uniform with a round brimless hat. The uniform was snug in
the back hugging a well formed behind. The front of the trousers left
everything to the imagination as nothing was revealed. He sported a cheeky
smile which projected, "I want you to have fun, and I have connections."
Age: probably late teens early twenties.
"Can I mix you a drink?" He removed the bottle, ice, and juice from the tray.
"Sure. Make it light on the booze. Make yourself one if you'd like."
"Sorry, the hotel would fire me if I partied with the guests."
Handing me my drink, he gave me a bright "have a ball" smile and left with
a tip in his hand.
Again, I left the hotel, strolling down the main street. Small stores, a
cafe, a music store, a department store. The street was quite busy, but in
a rather lethargic way. On the way back to the hotel, I had dinner in the
cafe. The boy that waited on me had that flirting type personality seen in
the boys in New Zealand. Always there with a smile. Extra friendly. Easily
entering into conversation about himself; wanted to know everything about
me. Light brown hair; almost blonde. Well scrubbed complexion. Cute
everything. The restaurant began to fill up, keeping him occupied; terminating
our developing friendship.
My bellboy was leaning against the front desk, talking with the clerk as I
entered the hotel. He gave me a big smile and a wave.
The ringing of my telephone brought me out of a snooze. The little waiter
from the cafe was downstairs and wanted to know if I would like to play some
pool.
The kid and my bellboy were busily chatting away. It was obvious that they
knew each other.
Billy-Bob was 17 and was between high school and junior college. He was
wearing tight jeans, which hugged his body, both front and back. As we walked
toward the pool hall, we continued our earlier conversation, exploring our
backgrounds.
I am not sure exactly why I never won a game, but I suspect it was because
I was too distracted. When Billy-Bob would lean over the table, lining up a
shot, his jeans so tight you could almost see the hairs on his butt, my dick
would jump. I was carrying a tent most of the time. And that wasn't all,
little Billy-Bob wasn't so little in the front. While he didn't have a rod,
his equipment was distinctly outlined as it lay alongside of his right leg.
He also had a pervasive, pleasant, masculine odor, that heralded his presence.
After the game, I invited him to my room for a drink. He declined, saying
that tomorrow was going to be an early one.
It was precisely at 10 that night that I heard a rap on my door. My bellboy
was delivering an un-ordered bucket of ice. "Thought you might be running
out. I get off duty at 11:00; if that invitation for a drink still holds,
I'll come back then. But I can't let anyone know I'm here".
At 11:05 Roger returned. He had shed his uniform, wearing jeans and a polo
shirt. "I left the hotel, then sneaked in the back and took the stairs up,
so everyone thinks I went home."
This time I mixed him a drink, and I wasn't light on the booze. After those
hours with Billy-Bob I was in the mood for some action, and if this kid was
available then Hi-Ho!
Roger asked how the evening had gone with Billy-Bob. My reply was
"Interesting... but", and I left it at that.
At first he just sipped his drink, but as his taste buds adjusted to the
alcohol, he drank more and more of it.
I was pretty sure Roger had a suspicion of what was up. Why else was he here?
Why else was he so friendly?
Well, as the saying goes, what goes around comes around. I was sitting on
the edge of the bed. Roger was reclining in the chair. He did as I had done
that first time with Vince en route to Hollywood. His dick was laying along
his leg. It grew and grew. As it did, he kept watching me. When it was very
stiff and bulging, he reached inside of his pants, readjusting it. I did as
did Vince, I readjusted my raised member.
"What happened with Billy-Bob? I thought you had it made for the night."
We had several more drinks, before Roger shed his clothes and joined me in
wrestling, fondling, and eventually a bit of sex. I think it was after 4:00
when he went home.
The next morning I called the entertainment coordinator at the University
Student Union, inquiring about response to my cattle call ad. There had
been about a dozen; the tryouts were scheduled to start at 2:00.
My priorities were piano, drummer, bass, and voice; however my auditions were
random; first come, first heard.
The first was a "hobby" drummer. He had no control. While he had a basic
beat, adjusting that tempo seemed beyond his ability. He looked like a drummer,
and he was quite good looking. But "Thanks for coming, I'll let you know."
The second and third were a team. A boy at the piano, the girl a vocalist.
And they were attractive. The pianist was well trained, but not particularly
inspired. The girl, on the other hand was outstanding. She did not "perform"
the music, she WAS the music. Also, there was a spark which seemed to emanate
from her jumping to the boy. She was the music, but she inspired the boy to
merge, to compound into this homogeneous performance. However, it was far
from my material.
Number seven was a "Gospel" piano player, who had "inspiration"; reminded me
a lot of Jackie.
Number 10 was "the drummer", exactly what I wanted. Although, looking back,
he reminds me of "Animal" from the muppets. Wild eyed, unruly hair, all
energy, and rhythm, otherwise quite shy.
Everyone knew there would be little money, but, if chosen, it would give them
an opportunity to develop their talents.
My mind kept coming back to the boy-girl team.
I made a decision. After all, this was just a single performance, let's gamble
and see where it takes us. I engaged both the "team" and the gospel pianist.
The girl and the boy would take the vocal on our gospel numbers, hopefully
her closeness to him would rub off. Our gospel pianist would be our only
pianist. To bring this off, we would require a great deal of creative
rehearsal. This was already Thursday evening; the concert was Saturday, less
than 48 hours away.
We would start with a bit of up-tempo country, slide back into a ballad, then
a not too bawdy English music hall for comedy, then several gospel, but ending
in a high paced Dixieland. It was a wild mixture, but emotionally it should
work.
The rehearsals were mostly familiarizing everyone with the music and the
order; very little attention paid to "extra business".
Sue and Tony were "the Artist" in "Blues in the Night". I had chosen it, as
the material seemed to add a thread towards the Dixie finale. As their singing
became a part of them, you could tell that they were deeply in love.
Saturday night we had a half house. The performance went very well. But the
highlight of the evening was Sue and Tony's "Blues in the Night". First, Sue
enveloped Tony, their harmony being more than just a performance. They sang
towards each other, they ignored the audience. It was seductive, it was
sensual. You could see the emotion being transmitted to one another as they
looked deeply into their eyes. Their bodies moved closer and closer, their
arms were in an embrace. The number concluded in a deep kiss.
They separated to absolute silence, followed by a roar of applause.
I made a note to tell Tony that he'd better wear a Jock next time they did
that number.
That night at the hotel, at about 11:00, there was a knock at the door; it
was Roger, and he had Billy-Bob in tow. Roger kind of pushed him through the
door. "Billy-Bob, and I have had a long talk and, if you're up to it, he
wants to spend the night." With that direct statement he closed the door and
left.
Billy-Bob was shy and embarrassed by Roger's directness, as was I.
He just stood there with an odd uncertain smile.
"Would you like a drink?"
"Naw, that's OK."
"It'll take the edge off. You sure?"
"OK."
I mixed 2 drinks, handed him one. "Roger is something else. What was that
`Long Talk' all about".
"Aw, nothin'," a pause, "He asked me if I liked you, and I wanted to," again
a pause, "you know; fool around."
"Well, we'll see. Sure, I'd like it, but I like you better. We'll do whatever
you want to do, whenever you want to do it."
The pressure was off; he could see it was just two buddies that were going
to share an evening.
After the third drink, I told him he was welcome to spend the night. He
stripped down to his briefs, and we laid side by side. I asked him if he
would like a back rub; he said he would.
I began with his neck and his shoulders, working my way down to the small of
his back. Then my fingers moved across his back and around to his hip bones.
Starting with his feet, I massaged my way up over his calves and thighs.
Then I attacked each buttocks, with firm, deep grasps and rubs. Again moving
up to the small of his back, I let my fingers retrace the path to his hips,
then back to the center, and slowly allowed them to move under his waist
band, touching the tail of his spine, exploring just a little further, before
moving back to the cheeks.
"Lift up," and I removed his briefs. His little butt was round, firm, and
beautiful. The skin was white and with out blemish. The gluteus was solid
and distinct from the leg. It had a "sculpted in marble" look to it.
I spread his legs apart, there, pointing down towards his feet, was his cock.
Quite hard, enticing. I let my fingers touch his balls, then trace a line
down the length of his shaft, culminating in a light circular massage of the
head. Leaning over, I nibbled his right cheek then the left.
Then I momentarily abandoned the massaging, laying down along side, facing
him. He turned, and our dicks met head on, almost saying "glad to meet ya".
I looked into his brown eyes; his shyness seemed to evaporate. His smile was
angelic. Moving my fingers across his lips caused him to part them, then to
caress those tips.
My arms went around him, hugging, pulling him towards me. Our noses touched
as we looked deeper into one another. I moved my hands between our legs,
cupping his testicles. Without warning his cock began spewing forth its seed.
Shooting semen over and over, splashing my stomach, my navel, even my chest.
Shyly, "Sorry, I just couldn't hold back." We fell asleep, arms around each
other, letting our bodies be bonded by his ample emission.
My flight to South Bend left at 10AM; both Roger and Billy-Bob took off work
to see me to my plane. I suspect that Roger's interest was more commercial,
while I know Billy-Bob's was highly emotional.
Catholic boys seem to have a different outlook on their sexual development
than do other males. Their attitude seems to be that inasmuch as you will be
forgiven at confession, it's OK to experience almost anything, bearing only
short term guilt. Protestant boys, with Victorian imposed guilt training,
know that they will go straight to hell if sex isn't missionary style, and
if it isn't with your wife. Of the two philosophies (whether interpreted
correctly or not), I think the allotropic catholic version is the healthier.
Notre Dame, while a very large university, attempts to create the impression
of a small school with red brick buildings covered in ivy.
The school maintains a small two story hotel on campus. It too is red brick
and covered with ivy. On the inside, it is modern, with spacious windows
overlooking the campus. A small, but up to date elevator takes guests to the
second floor rooms. The staff, except for the manager, are students.
The bellboy who showed me to my room had dark hair; an Italian look. He also
had that "I've got connections" attitude which Roger had exhibited.
After handing me my room key, he said, "If there is anything I can do, just
let me know."
As he started to leave, I said, "To tell you the truth, I think you are one
hell of a sexy guy. If you want to come back tonight we can have a drink."
I think he was shocked by my lack of subtlety, as he blushed while closing
my door.
The concert was being held in the field house, and my contact was the coach's
secretary.
Auditions were scheduled for 4:00 PM the next day.
This tour was rapidly developing into something I hadn't expected. I had two
choices: I could either just follow my own routine, enhancing it with what
ever talent was available as backup, or I could maximize the use of local
talent, creating the best show. Even though it was a great deal more work,
I elected the latter. This meant every show was an entirely new show, designed
to showcase the local talent. There never was enough time; rehearsals were
ALWAYS lengthy. It was also my best opportunity to develop my talents; learning
by trial and error choreography, directing, even some basic orchestration;
I knew Harry would have been proud of me.
Sometime after midnight, I was awakened by a key in my door. I watched as
the figure being silhouetted by the hall light entered my room. As my eyes
adjusted to the dim light, I could see it was the bellboy. He quietly removed
his clothing, nakedly crawling under the covers. "Surprise!"
Mostly, he was just horny, and mostly what he wanted to do was greet my anus
with his pokey. Nevertheless, he was gentle, and affectionate in his love
making. It was after 8 AM when he finished his fifth investigation of my
charms. "You know, it would be wise for you to check out of here, and stay
at the `Y' in town. It's the only safe thing to do. Everybody will know your
business if you stay."
I pointed out that I had no transportation; he offered to be my chauffeur.
He had me moved to the YMCA before noon, and back to the field house by 3:30.
A stage had been set up in the center, so that the performance would be in
the "round". The first three rows of seating was ground level, then eight
rows of bleachers extended upwards. Total seating a little less than 500.
Amongst the auditioners were two worthy of mentioning: Thomas Chester and
Donald Keith, both ex-servicemen. Chester had been in the Navy: Tall, lanky,
blonde hair, blue green eyes, from Saint Claire Shores, Michigan.
Keith was somewhat shorter, brown hair, ex-Marine; from Rome, Georgia.
Chester was a drummer. A real drummer. Rhythm throughout his body. A bounce
in his walk. A real metronome in his universe.
The house lights were off. A single overhead spot lit the stage. I was seated
in the third row. Chester was my third performer; I liked him and suggested
he comeback at 8:00 PM for additional audition.
The fourth performer had been a choir boy but his voice seemed a bit unstable.
The fifth and sixth were both drummers and couldn't come anywhere near
Chester's ability. The seventh was a satisfactory pianist.
The eighth was Donald Keith, who played guitar, and had one of those new
electric washboard type instruments. For his audition, he played something
he had improvised or reconstructed from country music, but with more bounce,
more expansion of the melody. In later years, it would have reminded me of
rock and roll. I suggested he also return at 8 o'clock.
Instead of leaving the arena, he came back and sat next to me. "What did you
think of Tom? Wasn't he somethin' else?"
I agreed, asking him if he'd worked with him before. It seems that he, Chester,
and the pianist worked local school dances, etc. as a trio.
The easy solution for me would have been to simply adapt their show to mine.
But if I did that, I would be cheating the school, giving them a slightly
different version of something they had already enjoyed.
These thoughts were circling in the back of my head, when I felt Don's leg
against mine.
I moved my hand down to my knee. He put his jacket in his lap, extending into
my lap. Then I felt his fingers touching mine. I didn't move my hand, but
extended my little finger 'til it touched his knee. Then withdrew it. Quite
suddenly he put his hand on top of mine, pulling it over on top of his fly,
where his quite ridged member was laying vertically towards his belly button.
After giving it a couple of squeezes, I withdrew.
It was now 6:30; we had an hour and a half before our meeting. I asked Don
if he'd like something to eat. He suggested we go to his apartment where he'd
make sandwiches.
The walk from the field house to his apartment took about 15 minutes.
The structure was an old two story house, which had been converted into two
separate living spaces (ala Buck) and another over the garage. Keith's was
the one over the garage.
The apartment was really a studio, one large room dominated by the bed. On
the far end was a kitchenette; to its right was a doorway that probably was
the bathroom.
Don had closed his front door. I turned toward him; he put his arms around
me, giving me a very bashful grin. "You won't believe this, but I've never
had sex with anyone. What do I do?"
I smiled, "Nothing. Leave it up to me". I unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it
free of his trousers, slipping it from his arms. Then I unfastened his belt,
the top button at his waist. His dick was quite erect, but still in that
vertical position. As I sequentially released each button, his penis projected
outward.
Lowering his jockeys left him standing there with his trousers and shorts
around his ankles and his undershirt covering his chest. Slowly, I arose
breathing out gusts of hot air. As my mouth was about an inch above his pubic
hair, his cock pulsed forward leaving a daub of pre-cum on my chin. Grasping
the bottom of his undershirt, I lifted it over his head, dropping it to the
floor.
At my guidance, he waddled over to the bed, where he sat. I lifted his legs,
removing the rest of his garments.
I laid him back upon the bed, and began kissing his abdomen, his navel, his
chest.
He put his hands on my head, gently but firmly moving it down and over his
penis. My tongue flicked out, licking the drops of natural lubricant being
generated by his glans. As I began moving my lips over the head, I could feel
his body tensing; I knew he was about to ejaculate. I tried to lift off his
shaft, but his hands refused that upward motion, allowing his cock to spew
out its seed. And then it was all over.
On the walk back to the field house, he asked me not to tell anyone, especially
Tom or the pianist.
The show that we put together used all of my material, but we adapted their
style: more beat, more energy.
I think it was Tom who kept bringing up the idea that it would be great if
we had a bus and could keep this group together as a tour. The more we talked
about it, the more excited we all became. However, it wasn't practical. All,
except me, were in school. They would loose their GI Bill benefits if they
dropped out in the middle of a semester.
Saturday was going to be a full day on campus. USC was playing Notre Dame,
and the coach's secretary had asked me to join her in the Notre Dame section.
Then our show was scheduled for 8 PM. That meant we had to start setting up
by 6:30, be finished with our warmup by 7:30. Oh, for the days when Kevin
and Jimmy coordinated all of this.
In reflection, the highlights of that day were: the cold that had hit South
Bend, my jumping up and down rooting for USC while seated in the middle of
the Notre Dame bleachers, the warm up in the Field House, and the concert with
its better than average response.
I learned a great deal about music from those kids. I embraced that new
style. I could see it replacing the spirited Gospel music with a form more
generally acceptable.
As usual, a performance drains every drop of energy from your being. Even
though it wasn't even midnight, I fell exhaustedly into my bed at the "Y".
Kieth had invited me to sleep over at his place, but I had declined; just
too fucking tired.
About one in the morning, a knock on my door pulled me out of my sleep. It
was my bellboy. He had had a few too many beers; or, at least, that was his
excuse.
His hair was quite mussed up. His smile was rakish but adorable. Before I
could get back in my bed, he was naked and had beat me to it.
My plane to Detroit left at noon on Sunday. We had breakfast at a local cafe.
My chauffeur transported Keith, Chester, and myself for lovable goodbyes.
I was in Detroit by 4:00 PM.
The week in Detroit went pretty much like it had everywhere else. Getting
settled at the local "Y". Auditioning, rehearsals, the concert. The only
exception was that Thomas Chester, whose home town was just a little north
of Detroit, had hitch hiked up, arriving on Thursday, wanting to join the
show.
His arrival was unexpected, and was about nine o'clock at night. Neither of
us had eaten so we adjourned to a "diner". The food was uninspired, but was
the first time I had ever eaten spaghetti with no sauce, only butter and
oregano.
Tom had not arranged for any place to sleep, so he doubled up with me. The
beds at the "Y" are really designed for only one, so it put us in close
proximity. He was against the wall; I was on the outward edge.
I faced the room; he formed himself around me, his gentle breath on the back
of my neck. Sometime during the night his erection stirred me. I reached
behind moving it more vertically, less intrusively. Again, I was brought back
from slumberland by his erected member. I let it be, if anything I might have
moved back toward it.
Again I started the trip back to dreamland; then I felt Tom's hands on
the top of my shorts, gently pulling them downward. I faked sleeping. The
head of his warm cock was now resting on my bare cheeks. I heard him put spit
on his hand, then felt him wet his cock. Ever so gently he pushed forward.
Still there wasn't enough wetness. Again he transferred saliva to his cock,
and continued his invasion. Eventually he was all the way in.
Then began the gentle in and out motion, as though he didn't want to wake
me. His thrusts got bolder, more aggressive. His rhythm was shaking the bed
as he built towards his climax. Suddenly he was there. He was pressed into
me so tightly that I could count his pubic hairs; his cock was propelling
the product of his balls deep into my bowels. We both fell asleep with him
still in that position.
Sometime during the night I used the toilet which meant I had to leave the
room. Upon my return Tom was facing the wall; I resumed my position facing
the edge.
The next morning we showered, had breakfast, and did a little sightseeing.
Then rehearsals at 2:00 and 8:00.
He never made comment about Thursday nights sexual scene. However, Friday
night was an exact repeat of Thursday.
Tom returned to Notre Dame after the concert on Saturday. Still no
acknowledgement of his appetites, no discussion of his sampling a strange
and different world.
------------------------------------------------------------
My Teenage Heart
Chapter Eight
The Yacht
Sunday mornings always come too early. My train to Chicago left in just two
hours. Breakfast was yet in the future as I checked out of the YMCA, and I
was handed a note from Tom Chester, asking me to telephone at my earliest
convenience.
Even though it was early May, summer had already begun to move towards us.
It was a warm afternoon as I boarded the "Flyer" for Chicago. Few people
seemed to be traveling. The porter stowed my luggage and my guitar, showing
me to my seat.
Most of the trip out of Detroit is ugly, passing through the less desirable
districts of the city. Both sides of the tracks being "The Wrong Side of the
Tracks." Within the hour we were passing through rural Michigan.
The club car was just two cars behind mine; I sought the company of the bar.
Two people sat at the counter; neither looked interesting. I chose to seek
the privacy of a window chair.
At my request, the waiter brought an apple cider with bourbon on the side.
Tossing the bourbon, I enjoyed the cool sippings of the cider. On the second
round I mixed the two together. The flavors blended into a most welcome taste.
A woman in her late thirties sat in an adjoining window chair. "Martini on
the rocks", to the waiter. It was served just a couple of minutes later.
After a few minutes of mutually shared silence we began to converse. She
was the wife of a minor State Department Official and lived somewhere outside
of Washington in Virginia in one of those quaint little towns that wanted
to be remembered for what it had been, rather than for what it was.
Her taste in music was like her taste in towns: the older, simpler, classical
form suiting her temperament.
For the next hour or so we explored one another's interests and backgrounds,
whiling away the time. As the train pulled into Chicago Station we separated,
returning to our own cars, to collect our luggage.
Again, we met as we exited the train. The taxi station was quite crowded, so
we decided to share a cab; dropping her at her hotel. As I exited the cab,
I noticed she had left a small bag. I thought it best if I took it with me.
I would telephone her, and arrange for its return.
Finally, in my room, I noted I had two telephone calls to make: Tom Chester
and the lady in the hotel.
I opened her bag, hoping to find a clue to her name; not only did I find her
name, but I found $35,000 worth of negotiable government bonds.
A bit of larceny is in everyone's blood; mine was no exception. A few fantasies
danced through my mind, before I took the elevator to the lobby to make my
phone calls.
The lady was in a panic as she answered my call and was greatly relieved when
I agreed to deliver the bonds to her hotel.
The second telephone call was to Tom Chester. Junior wasn't there; it was
senior who had left the message. Senior was an executive with the Ford Motor
Company in Dearborn. Tom Junior wanted to go "on tour".
His dad was proposing that if I could come up with $3,000 he would allow me
to buy an almost-new bus. He would pay for the materials to renovate it into
a home for four people the idea being that his son's Notre Dame group would
tour America during the summer. In the end, the bus would be my property. If
I agreed, then I was to return to Saint Clare Shores at the end of May. In
early June, his son and Donald Keith would join us to actually do the
reconstruction work.
This proposal, while out of the blue, fitted very well with a developing plan
of my own. There was a lot of talent available, but not enough money to
provide transportation and accommodations for an entire group; a bus tour
would solve those problems, allowing me to create a "real show". I readily
agreed, hoping that Jack Wormski could provide the bookings we required.
My cab dropped me at the Sheraton Hotel. The lady met me in the lobby and
insisted that she reward me with dinner at Mike Fritzels.
The gathering at Fritzels was most interesting; she had invited two other
people: Fran Allison and Dave Garroway. Fran did a local kid's TV Show with
puppeteer Burr Tillstrom. Dave Garroway had a local show on NBC.
Everyone seemed fascinated by my college tour, as my lady friend began to
divulge all she had learned about me during our train pub session. Then I
told them of the offer from Tom Chester. Fran asked me if I would play guitar
on their kids show on Monday. I doubted if the University of Chicago would
complain, and so it was agreed.
I liked Burr Tillstrom the moment that we were introduced. Basically he was
an introvert, hiding his real self behind his characters. Thin, nervous, and
quite tall; all fitted him. He struck me as being rather effeminate, but that
could have been his introversion expressing itself.
Fran, on the other hand, was definitely the "mother type". Most of her life
was spent teaching school. She had met Burr through a mutual friend a few
years back. Burr needed mothering, so she mothered. But then Oliver Dragon
needed mothering, so her life became entwined with Burr's yielding "Kukla,
Fran, and Ollie".
The studio was in Chicago's Merchandise Mart and was one of the smallest I
had ever seen. The show used two cameras, almost on top of each other.
The puppet stage was less than 4 feet wide, and Fran stood in front of and
to the right of it. Further to the right and back a bit was a piano. High
above us, and behind the cameras was the glass enclosed control booth.
Lighting was provided by at least 50 Kilowatts of overhead lighting, beamed
directly at the small stage and at Fran.
When I was introduced, I entered from the Left, Fran and I blocking most of
the stage. She moved out of the camera shot as I strummed my guitar, and
Oliver Dragon swooned to my performance.
Even though I was on camera for less than five minutes, I was soaking wet
from the heat of the lights.
After the show, Burr took Fran and me to O'Callohans for a drink and a bit
of getting to know one another.
Oliver Dragon's short quip about my performing at the University of Chicago
had created an unexpected demand for tickets. The Theater Arts department
was brought into the picture, providing additional talent and funds. The
actual show we produced was a replica of "Oriental Thunder", with Dave Garroway
as host, and Kukla, Fran, and Ollie as special guests.
However, even though this was a replica of "Oriental Thunder", the actual
music was greatly influenced by what I had learned in South Bend. It brought
the house down. We had replaced most of the gospel with the pre-rock material.
At first the new, unfamiliar sounds were received with reservation, but as
the ears of the audience transmitted the sounds directly to their bodies,
bypassing their conscious thinking processes, the pulse of the listeners,
the pulse of the audience, the pulse of the entire building grew and fed
off itself until it erupted as a single emotional experience.
And then there was Philadelphia.
There is nothing worse for a performer than the next show after something
like Chicago. Gone were all of the musicians. Gone were the special guests.
Gone was that exciting show.
But Philadelphia was a challenge. It was the blank sheet of paper upon which
a masterpiece can be created.
But a blank sheet of paper can also be where scribblings whimper and die.
It was in Philadelphia that I learned about mood enhancers. About pills you
can take to keep you going. About pills you can take to get you to sleep.
About keeping that excitement going in response to that ever sustained demand
for that next "great performance".
It wasn't that other people expected me to produce the kind of a show we had
in Chicago, it was that I expected that result. It was I that would settle
for nothing less. It was my body that demanded that exhilaration, that
excitement generated by creation of sounds, by the creation of mood, by that
expansion of the performer into the performance.
During the audition I found only a pianist. He was cute and bouncy. The rest
were not acceptable. The Philadelphia experience was to be a duo.
By the time the show was to start on Saturday night, I was in a bad mood. I
had the start of a headache. I was depressed. My sex life was nil. I
complained. Kenny, my pianist, said, "Take two of these, and call me in the
morning".
I thought they were aspirin; they weren't. Within 15 minutes I was feeling
great. My excitement returned; my tiredness, my depression left me. I
approached that stage with enthusiasm. I was going to knock 'em dead. The
harder we worked, the more the audience appreciated it.
We had started with a bit of comedy, getting the audience into the mood with
the English music hall material. Then we swung into the rock material. I
think Kenny had taken a couple of those same pills, because he was racing up
and down that keyboard, his cute little bottom getting spanked by the bench.
In many ways that music was also sensual, as it ground into my body, my hips,
my pelvis. My dick was as hard as a rock, I was practically fucking my guitar.
It seemed that our mood was totally shared by the audience.
Leaving the auditorium was not easy. People kept stopping us, asking about
our music, even inviting us to parties. Kenny refused them all but invited
me to come home with him for a drink or two.
He lived about two blocks from the University. He was renting a room. His
landlord was gay and was used to Kenny's late night comings and goings.
"I am fucking horny," was the first thing he said as soon as he closed his
door.
I didn't say a word, instead I threw my clothes on the floor, and laid upon
his bed.
"Turn over on your back." I did as I was told, as he stripped even more
rapidly than had I.
He retrieved a tube of KY from a drawer, putting a generous amount on his
cock. My ass muscles were totally relaxed, as he slid, in one easy continuous
motion, fully, and completely into me; his balls bouncing on my butt.
His in and out motion seemed to go on forever, then it seemed that it would
be over only too soon. I could feel the rhythmic throb as Kenny came and
felt the hot fluid fill the furthest reaches of my gut. His hand wrapped
itself around the base of my cock and balls, tensing in sync with the pulsing
in my ass. This was enough to finish me off.
With a yell, my own orgasm swept through me, fire and ice along my spine,
focusing in my cock as my first shot of cum fountained out of it, arcing
across my chest, impacting in a hot puddle on my breastbone. Two more shots:
one hitting slightly lower, the other landing in my navel.
More trickled down over his fingers and as the last feelings of his orgasm
died down.
I had been fucked. Thoroughly fucked by an expert. Wow!
Then he said, "Take two of these, and call me in the morning". I knew they
weren't aspirin; they weren't. I fell into a deep sleep, not waking 'til
mid-afternoon.
That was my one and only experience with chemical mood enhancers. Many years
later, I learned how to create those same feelings, those same changes, all
within my mind.
It was the third week of May when I arrived in Saint Clare Shores. It's a
beautiful little town, right on lake Michigan. It was an upper middle class
"bedroom" community.
The Chester home was white and rambling. The front yard was rather short,
allowing the back yard which bordered the lake to be deep and the center of
most summer activities.
There, sitting in their back yard, was "our yacht", as it was to be known.
Bright and shiny. Almost 35 feet long. In reality it had been built for the
Greyhound company, but had been diverted for some safety testing. It had
less than 5000 miles. The inside was completely empty. Only a driver's seat.
Tom Senior had some floor plan sketches that he thought would provide good
travel and housing for four or maybe even six people.
In the very back would be two sets of double bunks. One upper and one lower,
one set on each side of the bus. As you moved forward, a partition and sliding
door would provide privacy and darkness for daytime sleeping. Moving forward
there was a two section bath. Toilet on the left, shower on the right. Swinging
doors that could open, making that section into a single, larger compartment.
Further forward was a small kitchenette, then seats, and the driver's section.
As a Greyhound bus, it had ample storage space underneath the vehicle,
accessible from the outside.
Accessories that would be required would be a hot water tank and a gasoline
driven electric power plant.
During the next two weeks I learned about septic tanks (we needed one), fresh
water storage tanks (we needed one), gasoline tank for the generator (we
needed one), and so on. The tanks took up one of our storage compartments.
The power plant took up 1/4 of another.
The bunk section was the first to be built, wood paneling all around. The
bunks were fixed, not adjustable. As soon as the first bunk was in place, I
moved in. I loved it.
By the time Tom and Don arrived from Notre Dame, the bedroom was finished,
complete with sliding doors and an extra movable panel. The panel could be
attached to the two lower bunks, converting them into a single large bed.
Don had had some plumbing experience so he did the shower, toilet, and kitchen
sink. Tom and I worked on the rest: the refrigerator, a table, cabinets,
seating, and lights. The propane tanks had to be installed by a professional,
and was the only outside work.
On June 18th I made two telephone calls: one to Jack Wormski telling him
about our venture, one to Kenny in Philadelphia asking him to join our tour.
Kenny jumped at the opportunity. Jack fucked us over.
No, the fault wasn't Jack's, it was timing, and we should have second guessed
it. It was summer; all of the colleges were closed. While the news was a
bit depressing, we had too much invested to walk away; and in fact two days
later Jack called asking if we would be interested in two gigs in Mexico.
Even though none of us had ever been there, we couldn't see any reason why
not -- and both Don and Tom had taken Spanish in High School. The first gig
would be two weeks in Acapulco, followed by two more weeks in Puerto Escondido.
Our gig in Acapulco was set for July 18th.
It was only then that we put together our route, discovering just how much
of an adventure it would be. We would leave Saint Clare Shores, travel 1700
miles south west through Detroit, Chicago, St Louis, Dallas, and San Antonio,
stopping in Laredo. Then it was another 1500 miles deep into Mexico, traveling
through Monterey, Mexico City, and Texco before arriving in Acapulco. The
second gig was another 350 miles south.
We visited the AAA with Tom Senior to get more detailed maps and more expert
information as to what we might expect in Mexico.
We all took turns driving, learning to drive this huge vehicle. At first,
they were short one hour stints at the wheel, but as we became more
comfortable, we extended them to four hours. Another experiment and we settled
on two hours on, six hours off. Driving around the clock was OK in the United
States, but the triple-A warned us not to try that in Mexico. Too many animals
on the roads at night, bad road conditions. And we shouldn't plan on more
than 250 miles in each Mexican day of travel.
Two hours at the wheel provided plenty of time to think, and to plan. I
laughingly realized that I'd gotten it on with Don, Tom, and Kenny; yet they
each played it so straight, not wanting the others to know. I wondered how
long that fantasy of secrecy would last.
One late night it was Don's turn at the wheel. I had been sitting up front,
talking and doing a bit of reading. When I went back to bed, I noticed Tom
and Kenny were sleeping together in one of the top bunks. I'd probably been
too late to "catch them in action".
Actually it was Kenny who got to the other two and brought our sex lives into
the open. After that, we each did what we wanted: no problems, no hangups
other than an occasional, "I'm going to fuck a lot of Mexican pussy" support
to our male ego's.
Crossing the border into Mexico was our next challenge. For the first time,
we stayed over night in a trailer park on the US Side of the Border. We had
to arrange for insurance, entry cards, and a vehicle permit.
Kenny was more outgoing than the rest of us and began investigating the Norte
Casa RV Park as soon as we had checked in.
Don, Tom, and I began exploring Laredo. Kenny had acquired a directory of
bars and night clubs listing hot action places world wide. There was one
particular listing which indicated the establishment was well known to be
frequented by hustlers. Even though none of us were either "In" or "On" the
market, we thought it would most likely be the hottest spot in this border
town.
Laredo is too small of a town to have good maps, but following a criss cross
pattern we eventually found the street. The sun had set by the time we were
in the correct neighborhood. At first, we almost missed it as we were looking
for a bar; what we found instead was an old run down hotel. As we walked past
the lobby we could see a small desk, behind which a very large black man
presided.
Walking around the corner, parallel with the side of the building, we could
see two floors of "rooms", all brightly lit, most occupied. There were neither
shades nor curtains on the windows; the pornographic action easily seen. Tom
made the comment that it looked like something out of a Tennessee Williams
play.
Kenny was waiting with interesting news. He had found a retired military
couple who were headed for Puerto Escondido via Acapulco and were interested
in "convoying". The proposal was that we would travel together, staying in
contact by CB radio. We would stay in the same trailer parks, maybe even
explore intermediate destinations.
Bill and Carol were in their early fifties. Their rig was a trailer towed by
a medium sized pickup truck.
Jack had provided a letter from our Mexican sponsors, duly stamped by various
Mexican government officials. Even so, it took two days before we were
permitted to cross and head south to Monterey. It was Wednesday; our odometer
read 20884 kilometers; we crossed the border with Bill and Carol in the lead.
Seventeen miles south of Laredo on MEX 85, we were stopped at a check point,
our papers examined, and then informed that we must go back to Laredo. Someone
had forgotten to stamp something.
Even though it is a short run from Laredo to Monterey, it was late afternoon
before we were parked in the "Neva Castilla Motel & RV Park". We were tired
and hungry. One of the AAA guides outlined restaurants in the area, we
collectively chose one and proceeded by taxi to the center of town.
As in most Mexican cities, the center of town is a large, open square, either
a park or a cathedral in the center; in this instance, a park. The restaurant
faced upon the square. The taxi dropped us in front. The front of the
restaurant didn't look much different than its neighbor. But on the inside
it was something to behold. Deep red carpeting and draperies, hand made tables
and chairs, white linen, crystal glasses, shining silver settings.
The menu matched the furnishings in elegance: beef, pork, chicken, seafood
prepared in any international style: Stroganoff, Catchatore, Scampi, Ripshin,
broiled, boiled, roasted.
I settled on vichyssoise (ice cold rich potato soup), scampi (giant Mexican
prawns, sauteed in garlic), and concluding with Banana Flambe. Total cost
for mine was less than $15.00.
The sun had not quite reached the horizon when we heard a knock on our door.
"Let's go! We need all of the daylight we can get."
It was 6:30 when we departed Monterey, destination Matehuala. The planned
route took us south on Mexico 85. Again, Bill and Carol were in the lead.
An occasional CB transmission kept us together in spirit, if not in body.
Within 30 minutes we came to a fork in the road: 85 split, going southeast
and going southwest. Kenny tried to raise Bill on the CB. No response. We
took the left fork. While the highway was narrow and wound through the
mountains, the view was spectacular. Repeated calls on the CB were never
answered.
At four in the afternoon when we arrived at the Las Palmas Motel and RV Park
in Matehuala. Bill and Carol were already parked, awaiting our arrival.
They had turned right at the fork traveling to Matehuala via the Satillo
Cutoff. Their route, by far the fastest, was not as beautiful.
Again, we joined forces and had dinner in town. Carol wanted to stay in
Matehuala to do some sightseeing and some shopping. Specifically she wanted
to travel by bus to a little Indian village deep in the mountains. The only
access to the village was a narrow winding road which passed through a long,
low and narrow tunnel. So long and so low that only pedestrians or a specially
cut down bus could pass through.
The bus to El Catorce left Matehuala at 8:30 the next morning. Our party were
the only gringos on board. At first the road was smooth and paved. The sounds
were road sounds plus the hum of unfamiliar human language. Every seat was
taken, there were chickens and pigs in the isles. All too shortly, the road
became rougher; the bus bounced higher; the words louder.
It was 10 o'clock when the bus came to rest in a large clearing, at the end
of which was the tunnel. We moved to a smaller bus; everyone who had arrived
on our bus was now crowded into this tiny, cramped vehicle. Our positions
had gotten totally scrambled. I was compressed in a mass of Mexican humanity,
standing in the aisle. We lost all light as we entered the tunnel.
At first I thought I was hallucinating. I felt my zipper being slid down
and my cock being groped. A hand slid into my pants, squeezing my member.
The packing was so tight that I could not lower my hands to my own fly.
Then I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. The hands departed.
I zipped up as soon as I could reach my trousers. Looking around I could see
no one whom would be suspect.
As we unloaded, a toothless old hag of interminable age gave me a big smile
and wink.
The central feature of El Catorce was the Catholic Church. The floors were
rough hewn timbers, under which ancestors were entombed. The antiquated walls
were covered with old and new photographs and drawings reflecting community
life.
Merchants lined the single street, selling native handicraft. Tom purchased
a wool blanket for his dad and a hat for himself.
It was almost 5 in the afternoon as we returned to the Las Palmas. Carol
offered to cook dinner.
At 10:00 AM Saturday, we were on our way to San Luis Potasi some 200 kilometers
further south on Mexico 87.
The Cactus Motel was easily found, being on the north side of town, and right
on the highway. Our two vehicles were the only ones in the RV Park.
The Park was structured within a grove of eucalyptus. The electrical
connections looked open and dangerous.
It was at this point I noticed we were low on water. Buying 100 gallons of
bottled water didn't seem practical, but drinking the local water would be
risky.
Bill and Carols solution was simple. Put 1/4 cup of Clorox in the water tank
before filling, and fill via a hose sediment filter.
The chlorine taste was very strong on that first day, but as time and movement
entered into the equation the water tasted better and better. Also, we drank
a lot of beer.
It was past 9 o'clock when we headed south to Quentero, another 200 Kilometers
south on MEX 87.
Our maps and instructions were confusing. We entered Quentero trying to find
the Flamingo Motel & RV Park a wrong turn required a U-Turn in the middle of
town. The turn was sharp, wheels hard over. Suddenly we heard a "clunk", and
then the sound of metal dragging on the road.
I parked parallel to the street. Tom was the first out. His report seemed
odd. "It looks like a shock has fallen off." Bill joined the inspection.
What had fallen off was "the steering stabilizer". Actually, it hadn't fallen
off, it broke in half. Tom was able to wire up one half, and remove the other.
With great caution we drove into the Flamingo.
I think it was in Quentero that a major decision was made in our sleeping
arrangements. I showed the guys the panel and bunk modification I had built,
allowing the two bottom bunks to be converted into a single, large bed. The
two who wished to sleep together would take the bottom bunks; the other two
would climb over them and into the top bunks.
Tom had complained of our sleeping compartment being too dark; that we needed
some kind of unintrusive light if the bottom bunks were converted. We would
be likely to step on someone. Kenny contributed a "black light", providing
just what the doctor ordered.
There was a truck repair shop within walking distance of the Flamingo. Early
Monday morning we learned several things. First, replacing the stabilizer
would require parts from the United States and that would take several weeks.
Second, few vehicles in Mexico were equipped with stabilizers as the rough
roads usually broke them and they fell off.
So, by 9:00 Monday morning we were on the road again, Mexican 57 south to
Toluca.
This was one of Mexico's larger cities, with a myriad of highway signs.
Eventually we found the Hotel Paseo. Our guide books indicated they had
facilities for trailers and RV's. They did not. They allowed us to spend the
night in their parking lot for 10,000 pesos.
Bill and Carol disconnected their truck from their trailer. The four of us
jumped in the back, as Bill gave us a tour of the city. Actually, we were
looking for an appealing restaurant. Eventually we spotted something called
the El Flama in what seemed the center of town.
The establishment, even though quite small, was well appointed. We pulled
two tables together. There were only two other people: the cook and the
waiter. The menu was all in Spanish. Neither spoke English. In frustration,
the waiter took us to the kitchen showing us each item on the menu.
We each ordered. The food was delivered. We consumed our orders. We waited
for the next course. Nothing came. Then the check was presented. This odd
restaurant served only hors d'oeuvres.
We paid the check, still hungry and headed back to the Hotel Paseo.
Bill and Carol declined to explore further, "We'll just have a snack in the
trailer and hit the sack". Tom and Kenny decided to do the same.
However, the two Don's were neither sleepy nor tired. We were hungry.
The restaurant in the Hotel was still open. The waiter seated us in the center
of the room. There were two young women seated three tables to our right.
The menu was in Spanish, as was the waiter.
Trying to order was frustrating. One of the young ladies interceded in our
behalf, not only translating but making suggestions. Their English had an
odd accent, an odd lilt to it.
The two girls were Scottish and were twins studying sports medicine at the
University of Chihuahua. Both were very cute, short in stature, a slight
tan, light brown hair, gorgeous figures. Pam and Allie.
We asked them to join us.
They had already eaten, so they shared our wine as we consumed our food.
The girls were clearly interested in us. "You have twin names, but we are
the twins"; that was the only shallow remark they made during the entire
evening.
The restaurant was preparing to close; we were still lingering over the last
of the wine. I invited the girls to join us for a cocktail in our bus. They
accepted, and I hustled Don off ahead of us to make certain Kenny and Tom
were presentable.
The report was that they were sound asleep in the two upper bunks.
I suggested "flaming coffee grogs". Neither Pam nor Allie had had one. I
described them: a hot rum drink, served flaming, they seemed quite excited.
We had seated ourselves in our dining area, which consisted of a table, and
two benches, booth style. The two girls sitting facing each other. Don sat
next to Allie; Pam was mine.
I measured two ounces of rum per person into a sauce pan. In four coffee cups
I measured one teaspoon of instant coffee. I then added a stick of cinnamon
bark, and 1/2 cup of boiling hot water. Added one teaspoon sugar and cream
to the 3/4 point. I warmed the rum, very gently over the stove. When I could
see vapor rising from the rum, I asked Don to turn off the lights. Igniting
the rum provided a gentle blue light as I poured the flaming liquor into the
four cups.
Don, slid the door to the bedroom open, flooding the now darkened front
space with the Black Light.
I sat the hot cups on the table and joined Pam.
The view across the table was delightful. Both Don and Allie were wearing
white cotton shirts. The black light fluoresced the shirts. Their skin was
strangely dark, almost black.
Don turned towards Allie; their lips moved closer; they partook of a deep,
exploring kiss.
As I watched this romantic scene develop, I felt a warm breath in my ear.
Turning, we duplicated Don and Allie.
Little was said as we began our explorations. First the clothing, then the
bodies under the clothing, then the tentative removal of garments. The touching
of skin, the finger investigation of the body, of the genitals.
Simultaneously, in concert, we moved to the bedroom. Quietly, we entered the
girls; lovingly, sensuously. What started out as quiet and gentle rapidly
developed in to passionate activity. Animal sounds, which started deep within
us escaped in loud expressions of pleasure, of satisfaction. There was no
way Tom and Kenny could sleep through that.
Our animal appetites had been expressed, exercised, and exorcised. We moved
back into the front of the bus. The girls dressed, then we walked them back
to their hotel rooms.
Returning, we sought the sanctuary of our bed.
We had hardly put our butts on the bed, when the lights came on. "Hey you
fuckers. We're going to get some, too."
Jumping down out of the upper bunks, they simultaneously sat on both of us.
They were naked and sporting boners on the ready.
Both Don and I laughed, as the other two rolled us on to our stomachs, lubing
our butts, and fucking the hell out of us.
Seemingly by agreement, when they were getting ready to climax, they pulled
out, and switched. This happened three times, and then I could feel the
final path being reached as Tom's body tensed and finally ejaculated deep
within mine.
They didn't move back to the upper bunks; we slept entwined.
The loud rapping on our door at six AM, even though expected, startled us as
we lay still entangled, still somewhat messy from the nights activities.
Kenny faked a bright and cheery voice, saying we had overslept, needed to
shower, but would be ready to roll shortly.
We almost had a fight over who was going to do what in the bath room. However,
at 7:00 we rolled out of the parking lot, heading south towards Acapulco on
Highway 55.
We had difficulty finding the route out of Toluca. Traffic was heavy. We
were in the lead. A radio call from Bill indicated a fender bender with a
taxi. We pulled off on to a side road, while Bill settled the matter by giving
the cab driver $50.00 American. Even though our insurance was valid, and was
in place, the inconvenience of going through a police procedure far outweighed
the cost. Bill was certain he had been scammed. He probably had.
Highway 55 eventually would join Highway 95, which would in turn, take us
into Acapulco.
Taxco, is a small city, high in the mountains, at the crest of the road to
Acapulco. According to the AAA Guide, there was a trailer park; there was
not. At 2:00 we entered the city; a Mexican guide flagged us down. We could
park overnight at the Tourist Office.
Being in the lead, we started parking in the choicest spot. Bill suggested
that he was far less maneuverable, and that he should have that spot. As we
circled out of the lot, we made a left on to the highway. The slope from the
lot to the highway was much sharper than it appeared. The back of the Bus
snagged pipes that were laying in the gutter. We were stuck with our vehicle
blocking the entire highway. I yelled at Bill on the CB that we were in
trouble and needed help.
The pipes we had snagged contained the telephone lines and the cities water
supply. With much back and forward rocking, with much pushing and pulling,
and with the help of some 15 Mexicans we finally were released from the snag.
Traffic had come to a complete halt for almost 5 miles in both directions.
Bill had problems as well. His trailer was lopsided; his rear springs had
broken.
Across from the tourist office was a Mechanico. They agreed to repair the
springs. When Bill's rig had been moved to the Mechanico, we moved back into
our original spot.
Bill was going to supervise the work on his trailer; make certain it was done
properly.
At 5:00 the tour guide returned in his car, suggesting we explore the town,
do some shopping, maybe have something to eat. At no time was the matter of
a fee discussed for his services. A quick drive up some side streets pointed
out craft shops and restaurants.
He frequently stopped at shops and "factories", providing us with the
opportunity to do some guided shopping. I bought a silver brooch for my Aunt.
Tom purchased a pair of earrings for his mother.
We invited our guide to join us for dinner, he declined as we departed his
car for the restaurant. He would return to transport us back to the tourist
office in one hour.
Most of Taxco is on a hillside. The roads all went up or down. The entrance
to the restaurant was 20 feet above the roadway. Our table overlooked the
city. We all drank beer. Being so far from the sea, we avoided the seafood.
At 07:00 Wednesday, our odometer read 22307 kilometers as we departed Taxco.
We had driven for about two hours. Bill and Carol were in the lead. Without
warning the bus came to a complete stop. The engine simply stopped. The
starter wouldn't respond. Our batteries were dead. An investigation showed
that our alternator had frozen. Again we were blocking traffic on the only
highway in or out of Taxco.
Kenny suggested we start the gasoline generator and hook up a battery charger
to provide the 12 volts to sustain engine ignition. The truck behind us
offered a jump start. Thusly we hobbled out of Taxco and into Acapulco.
By 3:00 we were totally and hopelessly lost in Acapulco. Now getting lost
when driving a car is no big deal, but we were a caravan. Bill and Carol in
their pickup truck hauling a 35 foot trailer, followed by our 35 feet of bus.
We were not only lost; we were blocking traffic. Some kindly soul offered to
lead us to the Playa Suave Trailer Park.
Bill and Carol would be pushing on to Puerto Escondido the next morning,
while our group needed to check in with our sponsors and arrange for the
repair of the 12V alternator.
Our trailer park was ideally located, central and just across the street from
the beach. To our left, the main boulevard skirted the shore into "New Town",
the high tourist area.
There were several restaurants on the beach. Each had a solid roof and some
walls, but most of the eating areas, while roofed, were open on the sides.
Carol had picked an Italian restaurant. We could hear the sound of an organ
being played.
Our group was seated two tables away from the organist; a very dark Mexican
youth of 17 or 18. The muscles of a well developed chest were displayed
through a shirt, open to the waist. His selection of music was from Broadway.
We ordered drinks. The boy took a break, sitting near us, drinking a beer.
Carol asked Kenny if he would play something from our show.
Kenny asked the boy if it would be all right. He shook his head "OK".
After a few seconds of re-adjusting the stops on the Hammond, Kenny hit that
keyboard with a fanfare that demanded attention. The boy looked stunned, and
joined Kenny on the bench. At first, the boy just watched and listened, then
he timorously, added a bit on the lower keyboard. Soon, Kenny used only the
top keys, while the boy worked on the lower keyboard. This had turned into
a jam as they excited one another.
All too soon we had to interrupt so that Kenny could order his dinner.
Friday morning I was up before the others. Carol and Bill had already departed.
I walked several blocks to "Gonzales Electro-Mechanico". If I brought the
bus to the shop, they would start work immediately.
The other three slept through most of the repair work. I talked with the
owner, asking about our adding two more batteries as auxiliaries. This would
give us more electric power with out running our engine or our power plant.
He would also add a three-way switch enabling us to select which of our
batteries would be "auxiliary" and which one would be "engine". Total cost,
including the replacement Alternator, and a full day's labor for two
mechanics would be $225.00 American.
About 1:30 we began walking south along the Boulevard towards "New Town",
trying to locate the club we were to open in on Saturday. It took close to
an hour to find "The El Gato", located on a street that angled off of the
boulevard. It was closed. We knocked on the door, someone opened it, "We're
not open til 8:30."
"We are the American musicians that are supposed to start tomorrow; is the
manager in?"
"No! Come back at 8:30", and the door was slammed closed.
We found a bus stop, said bus depositing us in front of the Playa Suave ten
minutes later. A pedestrian entrance on the boulevard gave us access to the
trailer park, while the main entrance was on a back street paralleling the
boulevard. Two blocks further down was the beginning of the "Mercado", the
native shopping district. Two blocks in the opposite direction was the
Electro-Mechanico.
Our RV wouldn't be ready 'til well after six. The other three opted for a
day at the beach. I chose to explore the Mercado. And it was an interesting
experience. Merchant stalls were grouped by type of merchandise. Thus, all
produce was in one area, dairy in another, novelties in yet another, and meat
in still another. Of them all, I found the produce section the most
interesting: beautiful ripe fruits and vegetables. Of them all, I found the
meat section the most repulsive. There was no refrigeration. Flies were every
where. The odor so strong that my stomach threatened to empty itself.
Returning to the RV, I deposited my purchases consisting of a dozen eggs,
some delightful pastries, two mangos, and a ball of white cheese the
consistency of mozzarella. After changing into my swimming trunks, I walked
three blocks to join the others on the beach.
Our Italian restaurant was just behind us, bamboo shades rolled down, the
establishment closed 'til dinner time.
A frisky game of volleyball was underway, Kenny and Tom on opposite sides.
Donald Keith was stretched out, a magazine covering his eyes, trying to ignore
the commotion.
At 6:00 I returned to the repair shop and paid the bill, depositing the Bus
at the Playa Suave.
Back at the beach, I found Kenny and Tom sitting at one of the Italian
restaurant tables, drinking a beer with the Mexican organist, Ramiro Erik de
La Rosa Ramirez. Age 18, son of a Mexican Army Officer. He had been studying
music since age 6. He also studied English (and American conversation) two
nights a week. He also spent an hour each afternoon working out at a gym.
A friendship was obviously growing between Kenny and this Mexican youth.
They were close to the same age. They were both excellent musicians. They
were both creative, and their music excited one another.
Even though we had been instructed to return to the El Gato at 8:30, we
elected to delay until Erik could join us.
At 9:30 the five of us entered the "El Gato". Even at that late hour, there
were few customers sitting at either the bar or tables. I asked for the
manager; we were directed to a tiny office right next to the toilet.
Chuio was rather gruff looking, not well dressed, and needed a shave. Our
arrival was expected, but the presence of Erik took him by surprise. While
his English was pretty good, and far superior to our Spanish, we soon found
that Erik bridged many translation gaps.
Starting tomorrow, our sessions would begin at 10 PM, and end at 2. We would
have a 15 minute beer break every 90 minutes; beer was on the house. "Oh,
incidentally, you know this is a gay club?"
That bowled us over, or at least the expression on Don, Tom, and Kenny's face
showed surprise. Erik just smiled, and nodded yes, he knew. In retrospect,
we all felt a gig was a gig.
The homosexual lifestyle is radically different from the hetero. Both start
with that pre-pubescent interest in sex. As they develop to the point of real
ejaculation, the hunt begins. It is usually at this point where the development
of the homosexual freezes for all time, while his hetero brother, goes beyond
seeking to stabilize, seeking to spend less time on the prowl, more time in
the less demanding pursuits.
The gay is more hedonistic, more adventuresome, always seeking new and exciting
adventures. Being male, he understands the male physiology, and the male
psychology. As with the experienced big game hunter, he continually expands
his knowledge, his intuition, his appreciation of his prey.
You won't find, within the straight world, the exotic establishments, where
leather, display of form, and revealing figure strike at the foundation of
the soul. You will find few gays who adhere to the straight philosophy: "Put
a flag over her head and fuck for old glory."
At the heart of the gay's appreciation of life, is the glorification of
beauty. The world of the gay is the world of forever adventure, spanning the
time between that early suspension of maturity to the final adventure, death.
Where youth is the forever treasure at the end of every rainbow.
Chuio took us out front, to show us where we would be playing. The stage,
was set behind the bar, separating us from the clientele. An old upright
piano was on the right. Lighting was unmanned, and not automatic. Once
established, it remained that way; preferably dim. I noticed two black light
floods on each side of the lighting trestle.
Tom asked if the El Gato could transport his drum set from the Playa. I asked
if we could come in sometime after noon to set up, and have a runthrough.
Shortly after noon, the next day, a truck arrived at the Playa to transport
our instruments to the club.
At 1:00 Erik knocked on our door, asking if he could help with the setup
and maybe join in on the runthrough.
By 2:15 Don and I were adjusting our guitars to Erik and Ken's middle C.
Tom's drum set was center stage and slightly behind us. Don's guitar was
electrified, but mine was acoustic and required a microphone if I was to
compete with the level coming from the other instruments. Also, I knew
something was going to have to be done about the drums. The stage was far
too shallow; Tom would drown us all out.
Chuio brought out about a dozen empty liquor bottle boxes, which he stuffed
with leftover packing material; mostly shredded paper. The boxes were assembled
into a 2 1/2 foot high wall, creating a sound barrier between Tom and the
rest of the stage. This he draped with some kind of cloth.
As Chuio was constructing this makeshift booth, Erik and Kenny were developing
some very interesting sounds. This new rock sound, country with a beat, high
tempo and energetic, was evolving into something quite exciting.
With no prior discussions, Erik simply merged, and became part of our group.
A performance should be both heard and seen. The sounds we were creating were
thrilling. We need the eye to become equally thrilled. I suggested we put
the black light floods to use and that we should wear form fitting white
cotton slacks, and horizontally stripped tee shirts; white and black.
Erik took us shopping. We spent $150 on wardrobe; more than two days of what
we were being paid.
Back at the club, we needed to do something about the lighting. The overhead
trestle had a common outlet box from which all of the lamps got their power.
I wanted to be able to switch off all of the lights except for the black
lights. All of the lamps, except for the black lights were incandescent. The
black lights were 500 watt mercury vapor requiring about 10 minutes of warmup.
I needed a kilowatt of separate unswitched power on the trestle. The solution
was simple. The regular lighting was controlled by a simple wall switch behind
the bar. Chuio ran an extension cord from a wall outlet, along the wall, up
to the ceiling, and across to the trestle.
Then I added a second extension cord, connecting it in place of the wall
switch, moving the switch to the end of the cord, attaching the switch to
the side of the piano. We now had control of the lights.
At 7:00 we were again congregated at the Italian restaurant; the four of us
seated at a table adjacent to the beach drinking beer while Erik provided
organ music.
Kenny joined Erik at the Hammond, altering the course and mood of the music.
The owner whispered something in Erik's ear. He took his break, joining us
for a beer. The owner didn't like the change of music style.
We retired to the bus, leaving Erik to finish the work for which he was being
paid. He was to join us at 9:00, whence we would go to the El Gato.
During that hour we discussed the visual part of our performance. While very
extemporaneous, the general plan was that we would slowly build the tempo
and excitement of our music list. And whenever Kenny felt that both we and
the audience were getting really into it, when it had become demanding,
sensual, and sexual, he would switch off the lights, bathing our group in
the black light, setting a visual contrast as exciting as our music.
As we entered the bar, we were immediately being cruised by the clientele,
four very handsome gringos and a hunky Mexican lad. Everyone seemed
disappointed as we continued through the bar, and up on to the dark stage.
Tom had navigated the cardboard box barrier; Kenny and Erik were on their
bench. Don and I were at the front of the stage holding our guitars. I picked
at single strings, with a light touch, pure single notes. After the first
bar, Kenny's fingers added similar, 3rd octave, individual notes.
Then Don and Tom both joined with a cacophony of sounds, extending from our
simple melody. Deafening the audience. Reverberating the room. Demanding
attention. Kenny switched on the lights; someone behind the bar plugged in
our black lights.
Again, I repeated the first bar, then Kenny did like wise. This time, Don
lightly twanged the electric. Tom added a shimmer from the high hat. While
the four of us were beginning to build the number, an unexpected set of
performing fingers struck the keyboard in places that no single set of hands
could reach.
We had the attention of our audience; we could now play with them.
Kenny started the next number, a simple country number. I joined in. Erik
dueted with Kenny as they explored what they could do. This evolved into
total improvisation extending and expanding into a yet-to-be-explored horizon
of music.
Each number seemed to build on the next.
At midnight, we were to take our break. The tempo had been building. The
audience was now part of us. We had melded into a hot, throbbing experience.
Kenny switched off the incandescent. The black light fluoresced our white
cotton trousers, the white stripes of our shirts. Our skin was an eerie black.
Erik and Kenny were a sight to be seen as they ran the length of their
keyboard, colliding, bouncing, merging. Tom was standing most of the time as
he reached across his drums. Don had fallen in love with his guitar as his
pelvis ground into the instrument. My guitar was hiding one hell of an
erection. As the last crashing note ricocheted, Don bent backward, raising
his guitar above his head, pelvis thrust forward, hard cock clearly outlined.
Then a small dark circle formed at the head of his cock, rapidly spreading
outward. Don had shot his load.
The audience was in a roar. People tried to get onstage. The bouncers had
their hands full restoring order. We ran off stage, locking ourselves in
Chuio's office.
Tom was laughing. "Hey, Don, you going to be able to repeat that for the next
set?"
Chuio was hammering on his door, trying to get in. Erik unlocked the door.
He was happy. He'd raised the prices of drinks because of the show, and the
bartenders couldn't keep up with consumption. Somehow word had rapidly spread
across the Acapulco bar scene that something special was happening at the El
Gato.
By the time we were back on stage, the house was packed. People were jammed
elbow to elbow.
The black Lights were still on; we picked up where we had left off, Don's
black circle still clearly a reminder of our last number.
For the next two hours we built a musical orgy. New, different, exploratory,
and very sexual.
At one point, I resisted a great urge to pull my cock out and masturbate; if
I had the room would have turned into an uncontrollable sexual binge.
Our last set ended at 2:00. The place was still packed. We were back in
Chuio's office trying to figure how we were going to get out of the club
without being molested.
Chuio asked us to do still another set. We couldn't. He offered to double
our fee. In the end, we reached a compromise. We would take a half hour break
now and again at three. The double fee would be for our entire booking. He
would provide a cab back to the Playa at the end of the evening.
Tomorrow we would try and work out a new schedule that would be good for both
the bar and our group.
After he left, we began to discuss what had happened on stage. I don't think
any of us had thought about music as a sexual experience; yet there it was.
There was no question that the total performance, the total experience was
sexual.
The blend of senses became basic, almost primeval. We were titillating the
human fundamental appetites. Don's response had been obvious as he reached
a sexual climax, ejaculating into his pants. The audience reaction was almost
as though his ejaculation was in response to their ministrations. I told of
my overwhelming desire to jack off, to spew my sperm over the audience. Tom
admitted that he had also come in his pants during that second session. Kenny
nodded in agreement, only Erik seemed shocked by the direction that this
discussion was taking.
We felt like explorers pushing back the frontiers of a newly discovered
territory. We sent Erik to bring Chuio back to the office. We needed to know
just how far we could go in this exploration.
Erik and Chuio were talking very fast. Erik was explaining what we had
discovered, about our wondering just how far we could go on stage. He said
that we should do what ever we wanted during the 3:00 set. The police were
on his payroll, that at this point his customers could not get enough. We
should go for it.
We opened the three o'clock set with an almost unrecognizable version of
Night Train. In its original form it is slow and sensual. In our version it
started as a heavy, loud, pounding number. Maximum energy expounded by the
group. As the audience responded to the beat, we moved slightly towards
sensuality. Both guitarists were making love to their instruments, hips
pounding into instruments, our cocks clearly outlined in the black light.
We twirled away from our audience, twitching the muscles of our ass.
We were facing the drummer. He bounced off his seat, exposing the top of his
white pants, which had been opened projecting a V of darkness leading from
his waist to this crotch. The audience gasped. We again spun, facing the
audience. The sight of Tom's open V had its reaction on both Don and myself.
We moved towards each other, almost touching. Again I spun, bending over,
pushing my butt against his guitar. He spun away, as we bumped ass to ass.
Both of our cocks were straining at their restrainers. Everyone had their
eyes glued to our every move. I reached down inside of my pants, grasping my
member, moving up and to the side. Its pulsing exciting our audience, adding
to our mood, generating even more sexuality in the music.
Don fell to the floor, spinning on his butt, guitar above his head, his knees
bent. In one quick move I was sitting on his knees. We played towards each
other, building rhythm, building tempo, exploring melody. We looked into each
other eyes, literally fucking in sight if not in action. I took over a run,
he paused and undid the top of his pants, putting them into the same V Tom
had created. He took over the run, and I undid mine.
We jumped to our feet. The audience couldn't take their eyes from our open
trousers, the black light fluorescing the white cotton, hiding the contents
of the open V in darkness, the huge cocks residing behind the white cotton,
clearly in view.
Again, a spin, facing and dancing towards each other, bending back, guitars
above our heads as our thrusting pelvises met, dick to dick, dark V to dark
V. We could feel the almost uncontrollable sex being projected from the
audience. The air was carrying the unmistakable odor of cum stemming from
the crowd. Looking towards Tom I could see he had stripped. Was totally naked.
I whispered to Erik that he should flash the incandescent at the next roll
on the high hat.
For almost two seconds, the audience had a view of Tom leaning into the high
hats, huge cock, projecting upwards. And at that moment he ejaculated.
The sight of Tom was burned into my memory as I spun back towards the front.
My cock forced itself free, and I too released my seed upon the floor.
Chuio pulled the black light cord. The stage was in total darkness. The bar
was in a roar, as we grabbed our clothing and sought the protection of the
office.
It was almost five in the morning when we collapsed in the yacht. Tom and
Don took the two top bunks. Kenny, Erik, and I shared the bottom double. The
last thing I remember as I fell into unconsciousness was the sight of Kenny's
lips covering the top of a giant, pulsating, uncut dark cock.
It was early afternoon when Erik stirred, quietly clothing his naked self.
I opened my eyes, meeting a shy, embarrassed smile.
Arousing the other three was not easy. I suspect Kenny had kept Erik occupied
for several hours after Tom, Don, and I had gone to sleep.
Erik helped negotiate a better arrangement with Chuio. Our show, even by
Acapulco standards, was spectacular. Eventually, we settled on a percentage
of the gross instead of the double fee. We would try to restrain ourselves
until the three o'clock show. We would perform every night for the two week
booking. We would consider an additional two weeks after returning from Puerto
Escondido. Erik would make certain the accounting was accurate and that we
got our percentage.
During the week, we made some practical changes to our performance. First,
we wore black g-strings under our trousers. The audience couldn't tell the
difference in the black light. The g-strings gave us better control over our
cocks. We cut Tom's ejaculation number; it would be unreliable. In fact,
ejaculating on cue was unreliable. Kenny and Erik developed some prosthesis
simulating the cumming so well that the audience wouldn't notice the
difference. The fake sperm was egg white, mixed with a small amount of water,
and forced through a bit of cheese cloth. The fake cocks were built around
rubber bulbs used as kitchen basters. We used about a dozen eggs a night.
Chuio pointed out that using fake cocks would make his relationship with the
police easier, the payoffs less.
We found the sexual exhibition oddly exhilarating, almost addictive.
Frequently we would use nature's own equipment instead of the prosthesis.
Eventually our booking came to an end. Erik had decided to join us during
the booking at Puerto Escondido. The final accounting with Chuio was quite
a surprise. The original contract would have given us just $500 a week; $1000
total for the 2 weeks. Erik's renegotiation for the new show yielded almost
$12,000. Clearly, there was money in sex.
Early Monday morning we departed Acapulco via Mexican Highway 200.
Erik had quit his job at the Italian restaurant. His parents had not objected
to his joining our adventure.
------------------------------------------------------------
My Teenage Heart
Chapter Nine
Casa de Puta
The highway south was littered with topes and detours.
We missed one sign, and, after an hour of driving, came to a washed out bridge.
The tope is the Mexican version of a speed bump. Frequently, but not always,
road signs warn the motorist that a series of them lay across his path. Few
are painted. Almost all are curb height. The majority of them are square.
Hitting a tope at a speed above 10 MPH is certain to rip the wheels right
from under your vehicle.
The Mexican highway is always narrow, one lane in each direction, yet truck
drivers race down these roads at 50 to 60 MPH. They will pass, squeezing
vehicles traveling both directions on to the shoulders. The Mexican highways
are littered with wrecked vehicles, white crosses marking the places where
motorists didn't make it.
Tom was at the wheel when we heard an explosion. The bus swerved to the right.
"Fuck, what the hell was that! My god that truck smashed our left
rear view mirror."
We stopped at the next tiny village, inspecting the damage. The passing truck
had been within 6 inches of our bus. Don and Erik moved our right mirror to
the left side, while Tom recovered from the shock.
I was at the wheel for the next two hours.
We had left Acapulco at 7:00, we arrived in Puerto Escondido 12 hours later.
It was growing dark as we approached Puerto, a tope diverted our attention,
and we missed the turn off to the trailer park where we knew Carol and Bill
to be.
A sign pointing to the right read "Centro". Following that road led to the
center of town and to a pretty little palm lined camp ground sandwiched in
between the beach and the road.
Most of the spaces were tents, with only one small trailer parked. With much
direction and misdirection from the park manager, we succeeded in getting
parked, and connected, destroying only two small palm trees in the process.
Tomorrow night, Friday, we were to start work.
The center of town was only one street, spanning maybe 3/4 of a mile. Shops,
restaurants, bars, faced the street from both sides. The pavement was cobble
stone.
A barricade blocked further motor traffic; a stage had been constructed in
the middle of the street. Flags and banners proclaimed (in Spanish) "Summer
Fiesta".
It was after nine when we decided to stroll down the main street looking for
a place to eat.
We were surprised at the large number of people wandering leisurely in the
center of town. There seemed to be quite a few young Americans sitting on
curbs or sidewalks, smoking pot or selling things, obviously living off of
the land.
Kenny was intrigued. He and Erik lagged behind.
We could hear live music coming from a bar on the other side of the street.
Club Rosa's was where we were booked; that wasn't it. However, we crossed
and found a place at a table. By the time a waitress arrived, the laggards
had caught up with us. We ordered cervezas (beer). The band was Mexicans;
they were playing a mixture of Mexican and American music. The dance floor
alternated between crowded and sparse depending on what was being played.
A rather ugly heavy set Mexican woman was in high profile, talking to the
band, the bartender, the waitress, and an occasional customer. We presumed,
correctly, that she was the owner.
The group, while very energetic and into their music, was not particularly
good. The drummer had a difficult time with the rhythm. The lead guitarist
and the drummer were marching to a different tune. The vocalist was yelling
at the top of his lungs; the drummer was too loud. The sound level was so
loud and uncontrolled that they couldn't hear themselves as a group, and thus
were each performing "solo".
After the second cerveza, we departed, the din still echoing in our ears.
We re-crossed to the beach side of the street, still in search of dinner.
Entry ways provided access to beachfront restaurants. At one, we could see
the cook grilling a piece of fish over an open flame. He attracted my
attention because of his youth, probably 14 or 15. His skin, while dark, was
without blemish. Of course, he had the black hair and brown eyes so predominate
among these part-Indian people.
An order came in, and he added two nice pieces of beefsteak, paying diligent
attention to the cooking. This young Mexican boy was a good cook and obviously
a good worker.
By unanimous agreement, we turned left, walking into the establishment. A
hallway, perhaps 15 feet in length, led us to the table area. Dining was
under an open sky, stars sparkling above. Each table was under an umbrella,
lighting by candles and moonlight reflecting from the ocean.
We ordered drinks while examining the menus. Erik pointed out that Puerto
Escondido was a fishing village; that the seafood should be the freshest.
Of course, my mind pictures of the meat stalls at the Mercado reminded me of
just how appropriate Erik's remarks were.
I am not quite sure what time it was on Friday morning when we were awakened
by the racket of construction noises. The preparation for the fiesta had
resumed. We still had not found Club Rosa's, so that became our morning project.
We had explored most of the town and finally decided to seek the aid of an
expert, a local cab driver. He agreed to transport us to Club
Rosa's for just $3.00.
The cab drove inland, away from the bay and away from the center of town.
We passed the Mercado and exited even the residential portions of Puerto
Escondido, bouncing over dirt, rutted, roads.
Dust was swirling upward in our wake as we made a sharp turn into a large
compound. The central structure looked like a medium sized warehouse. Flanking
both sides were long, low buildings with many doors. It reminded me of a
large motel, except that, while there were no signs of trash, there was no
landscaping.
The only open door led into the warehouse where we were met by a very large,
very gruff, and hardly polite Mexican man. His eyes were hard, his voice
guttural, as he said something in Spanish. Erik translated that they wouldn't
be open 'til after 10 PM. Erik also informed him that we weren't customers;
we were the band.
The floor of this building was concrete, with a small platform at the far
end. A number of closed doors seemed to lead into those flanking structures.
The Mexican told us to wait, then left.
Shortly, a big, fat, dark skinned Mexican Woman came over to us. She spoke
no English. Through Erik we learned that this was "Rosa", that she would
arrange for a truck to pick up our instruments, that we would perform from
10 PM til 3 AM, that Club Rosa's was a whorehouse.
Well, if people like Scott Joplin and Louis Armstrong can play in brothels,
then there is no reason we shouldn't, especially in view of our recent
escapades in Acapulco. Nevertheless, inasmuch as 50% of our group were good
Catholic boys enrolled at Notre Dame, this booking was something of note.
Rosa suggested we park our bus at the back of their compound, but we felt
this would make us too much a part of the establishment.
The cab was still waiting when we left the club. The driver wanted $15.00
for the return trip. Club Rosa's paid the taxi drivers a commission on each
customer; we weren't customers.
We spotted Carol and Bill at a nearby cafe as the taxi dropped us in town.
It was nice seeing "old friends". We shared some of our adventures. Of
course, we did not discuss our show in Acapulco, except to say that they
wanted us back before we returned to the United States. And, of course, our
only reference to our current gig was that we were surprised that the club
was not right in town.
A missionary friend of Carol's was building an orphanage on the outskirts of
town. They had moved their trailer along side the parsonage.
A tall, very handsome man of perhaps 30 stopped by the table. He was blonde,
had sparkling blue-green eyes, a ready smile, and a most engaging personality;
this was the reverend.
From that point on most of the conversation was about his wife and their new
baby.
Bill asked if we were going to be at the fiesta. We explained our work
schedule; we had to leave by 9 o'clock.
Donald Keith and I broke away from the group and strolled along the beach,
finally seeking the protection of a shady table at a nearby restaurant/bar.
He and I had grown closer since those first few days in South Bend. I think
we both realized that we were falling in love.
Being in love has always been my life's most important goal. Always I sought,
with eager anticipation, the presence of my loved one.
And here, on this Mexican beach, looking at Donald Keith, the sun sparkling
in his light brown, almost reddish hair, my heart felt full; my heart was
in love with this 19 year old Notre Dame student.
Without a word, we walked back to "The Yacht", undressed, and laid next to
one another for almost two hours. We did not have sex, but we were very
sexual. We touched and fondled. We kissed, and squeezed. We shared the
pulsing of our blood, the beat of our hearts. We loved. We did not make love.
We loved, deeply and completely, our eyes allowing our souls to share their
inner most secrets, their most personal desires, their deepest emotions.
We could hear Mexican music coming from the fiesta. The guitars, the lively
sounds, mixed with our own feelings as we sought to unify both our bodies
and our souls. Our bodies forced us to be two; our love bridged that wall
making us one.
The sun had set before we heard the others return. Even though we had dressed,
they sensed the essence of those magical hours. No one joked or remarked
about our being there. They recognized that things had changed, that our
group was no longer the same. I think they shared the new environment with
appreciation touched with a bit of jealousy. The two guitars had become one.
Looking back, I am not sure if Don and I were the first to be touched by the
magic of love. Erik and Kenny had become very close; they always slept in
the same bunk. They both shared the love of the keyboard. I guess, really
the two pianos had already become one.
The truck from Rosa's arrived at 8:30 and we took advantage of the free
transportation to the compound.
Multi-color lights were draped across the buildings, projecting a "Let's
party" image.
Two person tables had been set up, ringing the dance floor. Each table had
a pretty Mexican girl. As we began our setup, we noticed customers entering
the building, walking around the circle, choosing a girl by sitting at her
table. The girl always ordered a drink. Shortly they would leave the table,
entering one of the doors leading to the other wings. Usually, the girl would
be back at her table within 20 minutes, waiting for the next customer.
Mama Rosa explained that dancing was good for business. It gave the
customers extra incentive, and frequently the customer would return to the
dance floor seeking additional adventures during the course of the evening,
sometimes three or four times.
We would get a 20 minute break once every 2 hours. During the break, selected
customers could get a freebie by performing with the girl of his choice,
such performance on our stage.
Generally, customers seemed to be divided into four types: young Mexican
boys (age 13 to 18), single Mexican men (18 to 25), older Mexican men (probably
married and not getting any at home), and a few gringos of all ages.
The young Mexican boys were the most fun to watch, trying to project a macho
image, asserting their developing masculinity. The girls shared their teen
client's puberty. You could feel the exuding sexuality, draping the dance
floor with a feeling of urgency.
As the hour grew closer to midnight, you could feel anticipation growing as
the customers were looking forward to the live sex show.
One of the younger girls was doing a slow dance with a very cute Mexican
youth, of perhaps 18 or 19. She had pulled the boy onto the dance floor. It
was dimly lit but I could see her kiss his ears and neck and knew he had to
be getting excited. The boy eased one arm from high on her back down to the
small of her waist, then soon he had both hands down on her ass.
The next dance was a fast dance. It looked like they were seeing who could
outdo the other one. He would hunch down and look as if he was actually
fucking her, and she would shake her breasts right in the boy's face. She
turned around and actually rotated her ass right against his cock! By now,
even I was hard just from watching them.
Next, she pulled a second boy up and slow-danced with him. You could feel
his excitement; she now had both of their cocks hard. She deep-kissed the
second boy with her tongue while he also played with her ass.
Then she sat both boys down on the edge of the stage, about three feet apart.
She sat next to the first boy and facing the second. She raised her leg and
started rubbing his cock with her foot. Then, while looking the first straight
in the face, she lowered a hand into his lap. I could tell from one look at
his face what she was stroking.
The first boy undid a couple of buttons on her blouse. Soon she had only one
button keeping her blouse in place. You could feel the passion developing
onstage.
The second boy pulled her to him, kissing her deeply. As he did, she coaxed
the first lad toward her, to partake of the same fruit; kissing her neck and
ears.
She smiled and turned to face the other lad, who undid the last button on
her blouse. The other boy reached down massaged each of her breasts.
Meanwhile the other was busy kissing her ears and then slid the blouse off
her arms. Then he bent down and kissed and licked each breast.
The girl never said a single word during all of this; she just smiled and
enjoyed what they were doing to her. She turned to face him, and the other
reached up and held her breasts up toward his friend's mouth. He didn't need
any other encouragement as he went to work on her. He kissed and licked all
over her breasts and sucked on her hard nipples.
She switched positions back to face the first; he undid her shorts sliding
them ever so provocatively to her ankles. They took turns stroking her pussy
through her panties as she turned around giving them both access.
The two boys then knelt in front of her and pulled her panties and shorts
off. Within seconds, one had his finger inside her pussy. The other deep
kissed her mouth and played with her breasts.
Then the girl reached between her legs and fingered her pussy. She then began
stroking both cocks through their shorts and even reached up their shorts
legs to get a better feel.
The two boys obviously had become a team. One was in front of her; the other
behind. One boy started kissing her while playing with her breasts. The
other climbed between her legs and went after her pussy. Then they traded
places.
The taller boy climbed on top and slid his cock into her pussy, fucking her
until with a quivering butt he pumped a load of cum into her hot vagina, then
the other boy took over. He slid his cock into her dripping cunt and began
fucking her with long slow strokes.
He had a bigger cock than the other, and he lasted much longer than the other.
He fucked her for at least twenty minutes without cumming. This was a pleasant
surprise for both the girl and the audience. He had her going crazy with
several orgasms.
He increased the tempo of his strokes until he finally started moaning and
grunting as he shot spurt after spurt of his hot cum into her pussy, adding
it to the load of cum already in her. This made the other boy hard again,
and by the time his friend had climbed off, he was ready again. This time he
fucked her doggie-style while she sucked the others cock. Again they traded
places and fucked her while she sucked his friend.
Our 20 minute break had expanded to more than an hour when, finally, the two
boys, both exhausted, recovered enough to leave the stage to the applause of
a grateful audience.
Belatedly we resumed playing. The sexuality of the two boys had its affect
on our group, and exhibited its self in our music. The sensuality was similar
to what we had developed in Acapulco. But our performance could not compare
with what had preceded. The audience was scarcely aware of anything but the
available girls.
Club Rosa's cash register was doing very well.
It was almost four in the morning when we got back into town. Tom wasn't
sleepy and went into town for a cerveza.
Kenny and Erik had hardly gotten into The Yacht before they began working
off their sensual appetites. Don and I stopped loving long enough to start
making love. Despite the fact that we were exhausted from our gig at Club
Rosa's, the memory of those two Mexican teens had our loins burning with
passion. But, by five, we had all dropped into restful sleep, sharing even
this appetite with our lovers.
Some few hours later, I woke long enough to see a delectable Mexican boy
leaving Tom's bunk. His once hard cock now wilted with exuberant use. It was
the young cook whose seafood we had enjoyed.
The reverend Troy had come into the ministry through the Church of God's
youth program. His interest had been gained while he was a teenager in
Hawaii. He had been an avid surfer. Troy had an inbred ability to communicate
with youngsters.
While a good speaker and a firm believer in his faith, his real talent lay
in his interest in children. He had, at an early age, decided that he wanted
to help youngsters grow into successful adults. He didn't want to change the
world, he wanted to help young people create the kind of world in which they
would be the most happy.
Don and I were having breakfast in a nearby restaurant, when the good reverend
spotted us, came over, and asked if we were going to be at the surf meet. We
didn't even know there was one. Troy seemed eager that we attend.
He joined us for a cup of Cafe Con Lechi. With a mischievous grin he asked
how our gig had gone at Club Rosa's.
Don blushed, as he realized the good reverend knew exactly what kind of an
establishment it was. Troy explained that Mexican culture permitted, and even
encouraged, places like Club Rosa's.
He waxed philosophical, saying that comparing American cities and American
youth with those of Mexico, it seemed to him that the recognition of humans
and their appetites was the healthier form of lifestyle. Men had stronger
sexual requirements which needed servicing. That Club Rosa's was a far better
place for those needs to be serviced than in back streets and alleyways.
Rape was practically unheard of in Mexico. Bastard children were far fewer.
Brothels had been serving the needs of man kind since the beginning. That
for religious groups to try and thwart the needs of its children was far more
sinful than the "sins" they were attempting to halt.
We asked about his mission. We knew, from Bill and Carol, that the building
was under construction. He explained that their income was from special
mission offerings from several churches in the USA and Canada and that most
of that money went for building materials. Some town folk volunteered labor,
but that it was going very slowly.
That afternoon the five of us decided we would volunteer our afternoons to
help build the orphanage.
We found Troy at the surf meet, and volunteered as a group. His smile was
slow in coming, but his tears were not.
We recognized the worth of this man. Even though we were going to be in Puerto
Escondido for only two weeks, we wanted to help Troy build his mission; help
him help the youth of Mexico.
With the exception of Sundays, our daily routine was: breakfast at 10,
construction from 2 to 6, dinner from 7 to 9, the whore house from 10 'til 3,
sleep from 4 'til 9:30.
At the orphanage, we would wear only cutoffs, while we shoveled dirt, pushed
wheelbarrows, cut wood, laid forms, mixed and poured cement. Our
bodies sweating gallons, our skins turning darker, our muscles developing,
our minds reflecting the improvements in our physiques.
Troy worked along side of us, his cut-offs seemed two sizes too small. His
butt almost split through the rough fabric. His very large cock was clearly
outlined as it lay either vertically, head towards his naval, or downward,
with the head approaching the edge of the left leg of his cut-offs.
Frequently at dinner we would discuss the good reverend's attributes. I think
we all knew that if any of us made a pass at Troy, it would have been rejected
in good humor, but it also would have changed our relationship with him and
his work.
Our gigs changed slightly as we, too, looked forward to the stage performances
during our breaks. Playing to this straight crowd kept us from incorporating
our own sexuality into our music as a lot of those feelings were generated
between us and for each other. Those pent up feelings were held in restraint
'til we returned to The Yacht, at which time they were always exercised.
Young Jose (the cook) and Tom became a regular item, Jose being at The Yacht
by the time we returned.
Our breakfasts also changed slightly, as the six of us were joined by Troy.
Sometimes Carol, Bill, or Troy's wife would come along. But, usually, it was
just Troy. He welcomed Jose, expressing no curiosity about his constant
presence in our group. Troy brought something else to our group: a healthy
outlook on life. He did not preach, he simply exuded it. He obviously enjoyed
our company.
We enjoyed his sexuality, and he could not help but to be aware of it. We
thought that he even intentionally accentuated that sexuality for our
enjoyment, as part of his attraction to and for us. His persona seemed to
say "enjoy the senses, but remember your life's goals".
I think he used all of his talents to gain our attention and our respect,
permitting him to communicate his own sense of values, his own example of
being happy, his wish to help us fit into our world.
On Thursday, Troy brought a young American with him to our breakfast clutch.
His name was Jeff. He was a student at the University of Colorado at Colorado
Springs. His summer project was studying the economics of a Mexican fishing
village.
While Jeff was in his early twenties, he looked like he was in his mid teens.
His short stature helped portray that image. I thought he was cute, and if
I hadn't been in love with Donald Keith, I undoubtedly would have tried to
get to know this one better.
Also, for some undetermined reason, Jeff seemed to take a liking to me.
That evening Jeff showed up at Club Rosa's. I was in a prankful mood, and
asked Carmalita, the girl who was scheduled for the midnight break, to target
Jeff.
Jeff seemed dazed as Carmalita pulled him on to the stage. He leaned his head
down and kissed her passionately on the mouth, his hands sliding down her
bare back to squeeze her ass cheeks. Feeling wobbly on her high heels,
Carmalita clung to his neck with both arms, sucking on his probing tongue.
She led him by the hands over to a short table in front of a set of cushions.
He turned her to face Erik and Kenny and pressed up against her back, wrapping
his arms around her to fondle her large breasts as he kissed and nibbled her
neck and shoulders. She arched her back and placed her hands over his on her
tits, feeling his hard cock pressed against her buttocks.
Jeff reached down with one hand, squatting slightly, to guide his upturned
prick between the cheeks of her ass, finding her slick asshole. Carmalita
stiffened with apprehension, but then sighed with relief as his long, thin
cock slid easily into her butt, a surprisingly comfortable fit. Jeff reached
around to finger her hairless pussy as he began to fuck her ass in an easy
rhythm. He continued to kiss her neck and nip lightly at her earlobes, his
left hand cupping one well developed tit, his right stroking her pussy lips.
Jeff's thrusts gradually became more urgent. He spread her feet wide apart
with his own and pushed her upper body forward, bending her at the waist.
She leaned forward and placed her palms flat on the table in front of her to
keep her balance, her dainty breasts swinging as his pounding pelvis smacked
into her buttocks cheeks.
He reached around and underneath her with both hands to spread her pussy lips
and tickle her exposed clitoris with a fingertip moistened in her juices.
After several minutes in this position, Carmalita could feel another orgasm
building within her loins. She cried out as she came in a rush, her arms and
legs giving out beneath her. She collapsed onto the table, carrying Jeff
down with her, his hands grasping her hips and his cock still pumping, never
missing a stroke.
Carmalita lay panting with her eyes closed, her breasts mashed against the
cool wood of the table top, being rocked by Jeff's pounding thrusts. She
felt hands lift her head, and opened her eyes to see Erik's giant hard-on
staring her in the face. He rubbed the great dark cockhead over her lips and
she opened her mouth wide to let it in. It was too big to get much more than
the head in, her lips only making it to about an inch behind the ridge.
She grasped the thick shaft in both hands, pumping it as she sucked and licked
the huge head. Meanwhile, Jeff continued to piston his skinny dick into her
asshole as fast as he could, and after about five minutes of frenzied fucking,
he arched his back and came, shooting his load up her ass.
Jeff pulled his rapidly softening dick out of her ass and stumbled over to
collapse onto the cushions, gasping for breath, his reddened forehead running
with sweat. Erik stood and came around the table to lift her in his arms,
showing surprising strength in his solid form. As he carried her to the front
of the stage, Carmalita held on around his neck, burying her head tiredly
into his chest. He laid her flat on the floor and crouched between her legs.
"Do you mind if I take these off?" he asked, reaching for her stocking tops.
"I like to feel skin." She lifted her leg as he unhooked the garter and rolled
the stocking to her ankle, pulling it off along with her shoe and dropping
them to the side. After he had done the same with the other leg, Carmalita
braced her feet and lifted her hips from the floor, pulling the garter belt
around to unhook it and toss it aside.
Carmalita looked up at him. She didn't find him attractive at all, but that
tremendous cock had its own appeal. She reached down and spread her pussy
lips as he stroked his cock. "Come on, give me that big cock," she said
throatily in Spanish, "Fuck me."
Erik spat into his hand and rubbed it over the head of his cock, then moved
forward to place the tip against her hairless vulva, rubbing it up and down
her slit. Carmalita wrapped her legs around his boy hips and dug her heels
into his ass, pulling him to her, his oversized cock stretching her pussy
wide as it entered. "Oh God, it's fucking huge!" she moaned as it slid into
her inch by inch.
He reached out with both hands to paw her tits, squeezing and shaking them
as he began to rock his hips back and forth, fucking her in long slow strokes.
He bent over faster and faster, until her pussy lips were a blur, rolling in
and out with the jackhammer thrusts of his prick. For long minutes, he kept
up the furious pace, gradually building her up to another climax.
She was beyond speech, reduced to a whimpering, grunting animal as another
intense orgasm wracked her body. Just as she was coming, Erik jerked his cock
out of her spasming cunt and threw her legs to the sides, leaping up to
straddle her chest and shove his twitching cockhead into her open mouth. He
jerked off frenziedly, filling her mouth with spurting come. Carmalita held
the semen in her mouth, breathing heavily through her nose until he finished
and removed his penis, then she swallowed desperately between gasps for air.
After Erik had climbed off of her, Carmalita lay panting exhaustedly with
her arms and legs splayed out, unabashedly exposing herself. By the time her
heartbeat quit thundering in her ears and resumed a more normal rate, she
was almost unconscious. She gradually became aware of the roar from the
audience and shook off the haze.
This young whore had been well, deeply, and completely fucked by this Mexican
lad from Acapulco.
While Jeff was the one targeted, it was Erik who provided the show, leaving
Carmalita wondering if she was in the right business.
Our gigs at Club Rosa's drained us emotionally, sexually, and physically.
Our senses were always being titillated. Our lives were ones of maximum
contrast, very macho, as we moved between the hard, body building work at
the orphanage, the sensual work at night, the loving, cuddling atmosphere of
The Yacht, the philosophical breakfast sessions with Troy.
The two weeks at Club Rosa's raced by; it was time to return to Acapulco.
At first, we thought we would rest for a few days before proceeding north,
but we consumed all of our propane. The irregular electrical voltage had
burned out the AC part of our refrigerator making us totally dependent upon
gas. The propane station had run out and would not be resupplied for another
week. The closest supply was at Pinotepa Nacional, about halfway between
Puerto Escondido and Acapulco.
The drive north was relatively uneventful, and we did purchase Propane in
Pinotepa Nacional.
Erik had become so much a part of our group that we didn't want to lose him.
Erik would have liked to go to the United States, but he was certain his
parents would not allow him to interrupt his education. And, while it was
true that he was old enough to join us without his parents blessing, getting
the necessary papers, passport, and visas would require their cooperation.
Our work permits allowed us to be in Mexico for only 30 days. In Acapulco,
the Mexican Officials told us that we must exit Mexico on the date originally
set. We could return the same day, but our papers required an immigration
exit stamp on or before the established day. That left us four days to drive
to Laredo Texas.
While the driving was hard, it was also uneventful, except for one scene I
shall never forget.
I think it was on our second day out of Acapulco. Along side of the highway,
villagers were selling hand crafted belts, buckles, ash trays.
Further north, those little stalls gave way to dead tree limbs, stuck into
the soft sand shoulder. Each tree limb had dried rattle snake skins and dried
rattle snake meat. The dark skinned sellers were thin and emaciated. Men,
women, children, babies in the arms of mothers. Nothing to sell but the dried
rattle snake.
Then even further north, the tree limbs had disappeared. There were was
nothing to sell, there were only starving people begging for any little thing
a passing motorist could give. They spoke no English, we spoke no Spanish.
The silent, hungry eyes spoke volumes. We unloaded every edible thing we
could find on board The Yacht.
The crossing into the United States at Laredo took a great deal of time.
The U.S. Border Patrol inspected "The Yacht" with great diligence. It took
almost three hours for them to poke through and inspect every cabinet, storage
place, and piece of luggage. Finally, we were permitted to come home.
We spent that first night at the Norte Casa RV Park.
It was the 15th of August, Thomas Chester and Donald Keith had to be at Notre
Dame the first week of September. We decided to drive across to New Orleans
just for the fun of it. It would be our vacation; it would also be the end
of the two guitars.
The next day we took advantage of the good American highways and drove straight
across Texas to Houston, 370 miles in about seven hours.
Kenny dragged out his "Hot Bar" directory. We found that all the hot clubs
were within two blocks square. We maneuvered The Yacht around this
semi-commercial area, finding good parking in the lot of a dance club.
Even though it was only four in the afternoon, the bar entrance to the club
was open.
The building had been divided, so that the bar was separate, though connected,
with the dance floor.
I told the bartender that our "bus" was parked in his lot, and that if it
was a problem we'd move it.
He was in his late twenties, just ever so slightly effeminate. We each ordered
a draft.
After Kenny's fourth draft he was in a piano playing mood. With the bartender's
permission he went into the dance club and began tinkling the keyboard. There
were no other customers, so the bartender became more and more friendly. We
told him of our trip to Mexico.
By five o'clock the owner had joined us. By six o'clock we had agreed to give
a concert in exchange for parking, dinner, and all of the booze we could
drink.
We hadn't eaten all day. We had not re-filled our larder after leaving all
of that food in Mexico. We were hungry. So, first we ate.
By eight o'clock we were set up. The bar was full, plus about 50 people in
the dance hall. We had decided to replicate our Acapulco performance.
The people on the dance floor had come to dance. We performed a concert.
The customers were easily captured, as the sexuality of our show progressed.
While we had dressed in our tight, form-fitting white pants, the lack of
black light reducing the effect, our still clearly defined cocks ensnared
our listeners.
A young fellow, perhaps 16 or 17, wearing a brown suede western style jacket
and tight Levi Jeans, kept us supplied with mugs of beer.
During our breaks, Kenny and the kid were obviously developing a good
relationship. I could over hear a bit of the conversation, a Texas accent.
He had golden light brown hair worn shoulder length. Square face with apple
pie, mom, and America all over it. The fly on his jeans was bleached several
shades lighter, showing exactly where his equipment was positioned. His name
was Larry Butler.
The club closed at 3. We had our gear re-packed in the bus by 3:30 and ready
to sleep by 4. Kenny had brought Larry along, so Tom and Donald Keith occupied
the top two bunks. The double attachment was in place on the bottom bunks,
so Kenny, Larry and I occupied the bottom bunk; Kenny was in the middle.
They were going at it as I dropped off to sleep.
I dreamed a very horny dream; that some gorgeous hunk was playing with my
cock. His tongue was tickling my abdomen, the head of my cock. His lips
enveloping it. Suddenly, my dream became wet as I ejaculated. In that sudden,
startled awaking, I found Larry's mouth around my member. He moved from me
to Tom and then to Don. He wanted to travel with us to New Orleans and felt
we would agree if he provided the proper encouragement.
Larry Butler was a street hustler. To be more correct, he was a bar hustler.
He had begun hustling while in his early teens, hanging out on street corners
near gay bars in Dallas.
By the time he was 15, he had run away from home, sleeping around wherever
the environment seemed to be the best, but moving from home to home, from
queen to queen. He had established a price list (from which we were excluded):
blow jobs cost $5.00; you could fuck his ass for $10.00; and overnights (do
what ever you wanted) cost $25.00. Or, if you provided him with bed and board,
he would sleep with you, and you could do what ever you wanted for an
"allowance" of $35.00 a week.
He had been in New Orleans back in February during Mardi-Gras and found that
business was very good.
New Orleans was 350 miles southeast of Houston. Larry stayed naked during
the entire eight hour trip. He had an insatiable appetite for cum; he also
had developed an unmatched talent for getting as much as he wanted.
It would start with a squeeze, then a nuzzle. A kiss would start just below
your chin, moving lower across the pecs, teasing your nipples. His fingers
acted as an advance scout, preparing the path for his boyish lips. His tongue
would linger at your navel making little swirling motions, accompanied by
gentle sighs. Open mouth kissing would play across the abdomen from hip bone
to hip bone. Hot air and finger tips would journey through your pubes,
scratching, massaging, caressing.
As his lips approached the head of your cock, he would flick his tongue around
that most sensitive area, while the long, thin fingers of his left hand,
felt, squeezed, massaged your balls. His right hand wrapped around the shaft
where his lips met your organ. Then he would slide both his hand and head up
and down the shaft, blowing his hot breath across the sensitive top. Meanwhile
his left hand would move further back 'til his middle finger was resting on
the ass hole.
His mouth would move even further down, 'til your knob met the orifice of
the throat. Hotter air rushed past it, urging you to project your missile
into the constricting tube. By now, enough moisture had either escaped from
his mouth or been generated by his massaging, to lubricate that middle finger
which he, almost undetected, slipped past the sphincter. Larry would
concentrate on the penis, massaging it by swallowing. He could hold his breath
an incredible length of time, bring your juices to the boil. The pacing of
the throat, the swallowing, the vacillating, seemed to reach the limit, but
then somehow, go beyond it.
Then you would explode. It was then that the left hand middle finger went to
work, rubbing your prostrate, forcing cum, generating more cum, prolonging
the final, draining ejaculation, as he moved outward, so that your sensitive
knob rested within the cavity of his mouth, the shaft being supported by his
lips, allowing the last drop of sperm to drip from the end of your cock on
to his waiting tongue.
He got each of us off three times during that eight hour drive. We were all
completely and totally exhausted.
I was at the wheel as we passed the New Orleans Airport, heading towards
downtown.
Larry had spent us all, taken a shower, dressed, and was now sitting up front
with me, commenting on landmarks. On the left was a cemetery, populated by
hundreds of impressive above ground tombs. He explained that the underground
water table was very high. Parts of New Orleans were below Mississippi River
level. Bodies planted below ground level would rise up during heavy rains.
In the distance were the high rise buildings of the business district.
The RV Park we were destined for was in Gretna, just across the river from
New Orleans. Soon, we turned on to Canal Street, driving towards the
Mississippi.
"Hey! Here's where I get off." Larry had jumped up, grabbing his jacket.
"I'll be hanging around the `Corner Pocket' if you want me". And with that
he exited the Yacht, running across Canal Street and down Bourbon.
We looked at each other, with an expression of relief. "Can you imagine what
life would have been around here if he was a permanent fixture?" Tom spoke
with a lascivious grin.
Donald Keith responded "Yeah, but what a way to wake up in the mornings."
A ferry boat transported us across to the West Bank. A short drive brought
us to the RV Park. It was small but well maintained. Water and electricity
were provided for $6.00 a day. A five minute bus ride or 15 minute walk would
get us back to the ferry, to New Orleans, and to the French Quarter.
It was just after two when we strolled down the west bank of the river,
walking to the ferry.
The sky was overcast, but there was still sunlight in the sky. Looking across
to the French Quarter you could see Jackson Square and the Jackson Brewery.
We stood on the fantail of the boat, looking at the brown water of the
Mississippi. A loud toot of the ship's whistle signaled our departure. The
roar of the engines propelled us away from the wharf. We seemed to move into
a large circle whose other side was the New Orleans wharf.
We had walked from the ferry to Bourbon Street where we bought 20 ounce frozen
daiquiris then sought out benches at Jackson Square.
A few feet away was a motley looking group of street musicians, each looking
more like a homeless person, each bundled in ragged clothing chosen for warmth
rather than appearance. The guitarist sat on a folding chair holding his
beat-up acoustic guitar against his chest. His fingers were wrapped in scotch
tape for protection against the chaffing of the strings. His voice projected
as strongly as though he was in front of a microphone.
The string bass player was tall, skinny, and emaciated. He must have been at
least 6 foot 4 inches. His lanky body seemed a part of his instrument as he
slapped and picked those long strings in tempo with the jazz piece being
belted out by the guitarist.
Sliding away on a "wash board" was a character that looked like Popeye. His
round face topped by a cap smiled in a rakish way as he stroked the board
with a McDonalds plastic spoon.
A woman rose from a bench and began tap dancing to the music. Her white, well
worn "tennis" shoes were split above the soles; you could see her dirty gray
socks through the gap.
The troop consisted of guitarist, bass player, drummer, wash board, accordion
player, and dancer. The performance was without flaw. They worked for tips,
and generated all of $6.00 during the half hour we sat and enjoyed their
artistic endeavors.
We finished our daiquiris and wandered off seeking lunch.
I had suggested an outdoor cafe (The Gazebo) which Larry enjoyed last February,
but, today, all of the tables were empty. The bartender said the kitchen
was closed. At the piano sat a middle aged black man dressed in a leather
coat and hat. Kenny and Tom ordered Long Island iced tea, I ordered a bourbon
and soda for the piano player and a creamy Alexander for myself.
The musician tried to get a sense of the kind of music we liked, and eventually
found something that we all enjoyed. I got up from our table and stood next
to the piano, Kenny followed and shared the bench with the musician and Tom
relocated his chair along side. Kenny began to sing with the black man, and
our "group" began to develop a rhythm of enjoyment. Soon, several couples
strolling by joined our group and within a half hour quite a crowd had gathered
to the delight of the piano player and the bartender. It was then that we
slipped away and sought our lunch elsewhere.
We reversed our path, walking along Decatur. At St. Louis we turned right,
walking at right angles to the river, walking towards the center of the
quarter.
You could hear Dixieland jazz permeating the atmosphere as we drew nearer to
Bourbon Street.
Horse drawn carriages clomped by, with black liveried Negroes expounding to
tourists the history and the culture of this part of Nawlens.
Crossing Bourbon we continued towards Rampart and the St. Louis Cemetery.
Donald Keith was about 50 feet ahead of us. He paused at an intersection. A
loud whistle and a shout, "Hey, Cutie, let me buy you a beer." Startled,
Donald Keith turned, peering into the darkened depths of "The Corner Pocket".
A short, white fellow, perhaps 30 years old, came rushing out of the Pub,
grabbing Don, rushing him into the establishment, pushing a "Black
Voodoo" beer into his hand.
We also turned into the bar and ordered "the same".
The guy who had dragged Don off of the street was busily giving him a sales
talk on how he should ditch us, and go off with him. He had some "wild grass"
and plenty of free booze. The guy reluctantly let Don go, but not before
pressing a card with this name and telephone number. "Dante 7331227".
As we left, we saw Larry coming out of the toilet, still zipping up his fly,
followed by an elderly gray haired gentlemen, still in the process of putting
his wallet into his coat pocket.
The Saint Louis cemetery, while not in the French Quarter, is just beyond
it, situated in the middle of a black ghetto. As with the cemetery we had
seen as we entered New Orleans, the tombs were all above ground. But this
one was in disrepair. Some tombs were bright and new. Others had been there
since the earliest days of New Orleans; the bricks and cement now eroding
back into the materials from which they were made.
Even in bright daylight it was an eerie place.
Strolling back along St. Louis Street, but on the other side, we passed the
"Corner Pocket".
The afternoon had turned warm as we started to pass the "Roundup Bar". We
decided a cool one would be in order and we entered the somewhat decadent
doorway of the bar.
The lights were dim and even more so by contrast with the bright outdoors.
As I sat at the bar I noticed that at least half of the "patrons" were whores,
male and female, mostly boys. They all looked like they were cut from the
same mold: tight fitting jeans, western boots, some with hats,
most not, 15 to 20 years old.
There existed a camaraderie amongst these providers of "a good time"
testifying that this watering hole was their home.
They sat far back upon the bar stools, rears plainly in sight and joked
amongst themselves keeping a watchful eye for a new customer that might buy
them a drink, play pool, or buy their wares.
The boys at the pool table took pride in their game as their older partners
demonstrated that a good eye was more productive than a cute butt. Frequently,
one player would throw the game as bait for another little hustler to show
interest in the play. But those older men could take control of the game
whenever they chose.
35 cent draft beer is the drink of this dive. Slim waisted, tight butted,
young whores were the real product sold. One youngster, somewhat shorter, in
Levi's and tee shirt, who looked more like a welder than a hustler, strode up
to the bartender and asked for a draft. The bartender gave away his story by
squeezing the boys rear end while kissing him fully upon the lips. But once
the boy had his beer and the encounter was over, he went back to the pool
table where no one made note of his somewhat deviant behavior.
Snatches of overheard conversation told an unsettling story: these kids who
slept where they could, often a sugar daddy's apartment or a hotel room when
they could pool their funds and rent one for the night. Their daily routine
seemed to be to sleep until early afternoon, go to the bar to get as drunk
as they could, hopefully find a trick to buy them a meal, and then party 'til
they could again sleep -- day in day out.
"Jack is looking for you," one hustler said to the other. "Last night you
pissed in the corner of his room."
"Damn, I don't remember that ... how much does he want?"
"About $20.00."
"God I got to stop smokin' so much."
"Shit, it wasn't the Grass ... "
"Yeah, I wonder what that old queen would say if he knew I was just 13?"
I looked at the young one, there in the dim light of the Roundup Bar; he
could have been 13, 15, 18, or 22. He was aging fast. The booze, the grass,
and the fast life of a whore who lived by night were taking their toll.
Ask any one of them and they'll tell you they are straight; they prefer women;
that they hustle for a living.
The "Roundup" rather depressed me. It was the other end of "Sex Sells".
None of these kids would survive five years of this lifestyle.
Larry had told us of an excellent Cajun restaurant that some sugar daddy had
treated him to. By unanimous agreement, we walked two blocks to the Corner
Pocket, entered, grabbed Larry, and hurried him out onto the street. He was
going to escort us to Mulache's.
Aside from being the world's greatest cocksucker, he was someone we had
genuinely developed a fondness for. We sincerely did not want him to become
like the kids at the Roundup.
Besides, as Donald Keith said, "Yeah, but what a way to wake up in the
mornings."
------------------------------------------------------------
My Teenage Heart
Chapter Ten
My World Explodes
Even though September and school were just around the corner, we decided to
extend our vacation to the limit.
Thomas Chester and Donald Keith had to be back at Notre Dame at the end of
the first week of September; Kenny at Penn State.
I had no long range plans and, of course, our newest, Larry Butler, had no
commitments whatsoever.
The relationship between Donald Keith and myself had matured beyond the point
of sex, sex, sex. We had been discussing my staying in South Bend, about he
and I living together. If we did, I could devote my time to creating a better
road show. Also, this afforded me the opportunity of studying music. I wanted
to learn piano and organ, maybe even accordion.
It was almost 700 miles to Tampa, Florida, where we had decided to spend our
first night away from Nawlens.
Little Larry was almost hyper, as he bounced around the Yacht, talking up a
storm, still naked most of the time. Don and I practiced a little guitar.
When we did Night Train; little Larry did a reversed strip, going from naked
to fully clothed. It was genuinely foxy.
I thought we just might have something there. Even though our tour was over,
we all worked at polishing this new piece of material. It helped while away
the 14 hours to Tampa. It also kept Larry off of our cocks.
It was well after dark when we pulled into Tampa. The wind had built to nasty
gusts, and the temperature had dropped below 50 degrees. Donald Keith fixed
spaghetti for dinner. We were in bed before midnight, and on the road again
by 7AM.
Kenny had been talking about a bar listed in his directory. It was in Fort
Lauderdale on Highway 1 . The directory listing showed it to be one of the
cities most popular gay bars.
Donald Keith and Larry were peering out the window. I drove right past it.
The building badly needed painting. A large glass window was boarded up. A
small neon light winking "Stanley's" was the only manifestation of life.
I made a left at the next intersection, then another left, retracing our
course on a back parallel street.
Stanley's had a large parking lot, almost full. We parked the Yacht on the
street, and found the only entrance was from the parking lot.
We could barely hear muffled sounds, mostly music. Tom opened a heavy door,
and a pandemonium mixture of noise almost pushed us to the floor.
Loud music assaulted the ears. People attempting to carry on conversations
were shouting to be heard.
There was no furniture other than bar stools, just a large bar in the round.
On the far side was a stage, running parallel to Highway 1.
Three bartenders raced about serving bottles of beer, while Stanley tended
the sound system, feeding the turntable from a stack of disks.
On the stage was a handsome guy, late teens or early twenties. His hips
gyrated to the beat. His pelvis hugged a pole, then slid provocatively up
and down its length.
When the piece came to an end, he left the stage, only to be replaced by
another equally comely lad.
The original dancer went the rounds of the establishment, introducing himself,
generating interest, enjoying an occasional beer, and always accepting a
dollar tip.
The entire sequence was repeated as more than six guys first entertained on
the stage, then made the rounds. One of the dancers waved at Larry; they had
both hustled the French Quarter.
Kenny had been talking to Stanley. He had arranged for little Larry to try
his new routine. Kenny and Larry went to the Yacht, but returned shortly with
Larry carrying his clothes and wearing my bath robe.
Stanley put on Night Train, turned up the volume to the max. I thought he
was going to blow his speakers.
Larry tossed his clothes as a bundle to the far side of the stage. Dropping
the robe, wearing only one of the black G-strings we had acquired in Acapulco,
he sprang to the stage, undulating his hips, licking his lips, eyes sparkling,
his semi-aroused dick clearly outlined as it rested vertically pointing at
his navel, the head stretching the fabric over the tie string.
He moved across the stage leaving the impression that he was "hot and for
sale". The music was building; he bent over, away from the audience, his cute
buns naked and displayed. His right foot suddenly sprang forward, engaging
his jockey shorts, tossing them into the air. He caught them with his right
hand, whipping them over his head. With both hands he sawed them across his
neck, his back, his butt, dropping them to the floor.
His left hand moved in front of him, away from the audience. His hand waved
the g-string above his head. Again, his toe engaged his underwear. Stepping
into them he slowly drew them up over his legs, then over his butt. The
garment hugged his ass; again he bent over then slowly rotated towards the
audience, while moving vertically.
His heart pumped blood into his penis as it grew. The tight jockeys enhanced
the sensuality. Next came the tee shirt. Still the mood of sexuality
increased. His little butt was moving harder, his body a staccatoed
counterpoint to the beat of the music. He again faced away from the audience,
pulling his Levis over his handsome butt. As he rotated toward the audience
you could see the open "V" of his fly, and the pubic hair which laid just
inside. His dick was tenting inside of the left leg. Reaching down, he
slowly, sensuously, buttoned each button on the jeans, his cock head clearly
visible, hidden only by the cloth of the pants. As he buttoned the top button
every eye was glued to his throbbing cock; a dark wet circle spread from the
head.
As Night Train came to a resounding end, Larry threw his jacket over his
shoulder, gave the audience a playful smile, and bounced off the stage fully
clothed.
The patrons, roared, clapped, stomped the floor yelling more. But what could
he do for an encore? He didn't have any more to put on.
I glanced over at Kenny with a questioning look in my eye. He winked. I
wondered if we were one egg short in the 'fridge.
Larry made the rounds as did the other boys. He collected almost $200 for ten
minutes on stage.
At 2 o'clock, Stanley put away his records; the boys got dressed preparing
to leave; and the last customers were prompted to say good night.
Stanley had been talking to Larry; I suspected he was interested in adding
him to his show. He also suggested that we pull The Yacht into their parking
lot for the night. The dancer that had waved to Larry came over, inviting us
to join a few of the others for late night snack down the street.
It was at that coffee clutch we learned how Stanley ran his business. If
you performed you must obey some iron clad rules:
1. No hustling.
2. No dating customers.
3. You never used the customers' restrooms.
4. You were never alone with a customer.
5. You were encouraged to be warm and friendly in making the rounds.
If you broke the rules you were suspended for one week. If you again broke
the rules you were permanently fired.
Stanley did not pay the dancers; their only income was the tips generated by
making the rounds. Each dancer earned in excess of $500 a week.
That night, for the first time since we had met Larry in Houston, he went to
sleep without sucking anyone's dick.
The smell of freshly perked Coffee woke me at 10. Donald Keith was serving
omelettes, toast, and coffee.
Larry was already up and dressed, munching on a piece of cinnamon toast.
They had been talking about the pros and cons of Larry taking Stanley up on
his offer.
Stanley looked after his brood like a mother hen. No one knew if Stanley was
gay; none of the dancers had ever gone to bed with him nor had known anyone
who had. But Stanley didn't date women either. If Larry stayed in Fort
Lauderdale he would share an apartment with two other dancers, including the
one he knew from New Orleans.
We all agreed that Larry would be better off under Stanley's tutelage than
hustling the streets of Miami, New Orleans, or Houston. Our group would
disperse within a couple of weeks. My plans were to return to South Bend,
to set up housekeeping with Donald Keith.
We stayed in Fort Lauderdale for three days, making certain that Larry could
cope with his new environment. He was eager to get started on his new career,
and even though he was sorry to see us leave, he was excited to begin this
new chapter in his life.
Kenny would leave us in South Bend. Philadelphia was about 500 miles, about
11 hours on the Greyhound. Tom would move back to a campus dorm while Donald
Keith and I would move The Yacht to a trailer park.
If we drove all night we could be at Notre Dame by early morning of the next
day.
Our route took us through Atlanta, Louisville, and Indianapolis. It was just
past noon when we drove through Atlanta; I was at the wheel. Donald Keith
had made sandwiches. He stood behind me as I ate mine, his fingers playfully
entwining my hair. "Tomorrow night I have something special planned for
dinner. Just the two of us in our new home."
The sun had set as we passed through Louisville. A fender bender was slowing
traffic. Tom was at the wheel. Indianapolis was in our wake by midnight.
We pulled into the Notre Dame Parking Lot at 3 AM. We were all asleep except
for Kenny who had been driving. Within a few minutes he was snuggled up
against Tom in one of the upper bunks, leaving the other upper unoccupied.
A sharp rapping on our door woke us from our deep sleep. It was just past 6
AM. College security insisted that we move our bus from their lot.
Tom and Kenny began packing their belongings, while Donald Keith prepared a
breakfast of oatmeal and toast. After a light breakfast, Tom left for his
dorm.
I drove to the closest trailer park, which was 15 miles away in Buchanan,
Michigan, delivering Kenny to the Greyhound en route.
We had chosen this lovely park on Clear Lake hoping we could break away from
college life. Donald would come home from school each evening, entering "our
private world" of love, affection, and sharing.
We were assigned a pad on the lake. There was a fishing pier less than 200
foot from the Yacht. We even thought of buying a small boat. However, of
more immediate concern was some kind of vehicle. Using the Yacht for
transportation was out of the question; we needed a car.
Donald Keith had always gone on record as being able to make the world's
greatest lasagna, and that night he fulfilled his promise.
For more than two hours he bustled about our small kitchen, mixing egg and
flour, then rolling it out into noodles. His meat sauce had ground beef,
tomato paste, onion, and cinnamon. When he added red wine, the aroma from
the spices seemed to explode.
He assigned me the task of making the salad; "It's hard to fuck that up!
But I'll make the dressing."
The dinner was memorable as we sat across from each other. He had turned off
all of the lights except for a dim one in the bedroom. The radio was tuned
to a music station playing slow, romantic compositions.
The red wine reappeared; in our glasses.
We sipped, we tasted, we shared. Love had resurfaced. My heart felt full and
warm as I looked into his eyes. We raised our glasses, tapping them together;
"I am so lucky to have found you". I could hardly believe that Donald was
saying that to me. No question about it, we were in love. Deeply in love.
When the meal was finished, he came over, looked deep into my soul, smiled,
and sat in my lap. Putting his arm around my neck, he drew our lips together.
First just a brushing of the lips, then a slight parting. Our tongues touched,
sharing the flavor of the Lasagna, sharing the warmth of our hearts. Soon
the gentle loving awakened passion, that fifth horseman of the apocalypse.
Those animalistic appetites drove us hedonistically towards personal
satisfaction, whose energy was derived from the sensual pleasures of our
partner coupled with our own deep-rooted need to climax.
That first night was a typical honeymoon. We loved, fucked, loved, sucked,
loved, and titillated 'til we fell exhaustedly asleep, securely, and lovingly
in one another's arms.
I drove Donald Keith to school the next morning. Aside from going through
the class assignment procedures, he was to look at the bulletin boards in an
attempt to find a car. We had agreed that $500 was as much as we wanted to
spend.
Most of my day was spent grocery shopping, returning to the Lake, cleaning
the bus, and making ready for the return of my lover. I was to pick him up
in front of the Student Visitors Hotel at 5.
I was just getting ready to disconnect the bus from park electricity, when
I heard a car park in front. Looking out I could see a small gray Chevrolet
coupe. A rather good looking, reddish blonde girl, of perhaps 20 or 21 was
driving. Donald was the passenger.
"Patricia wants $600.00 for the Chevy". After a bit of haggling we settled
on $550. I gave her a check, she signed the title, and Don drove her back to
South Bend.
Midnight had come and gone but Don had not returned. Finally I went to bed.
I don't know what time he came back, but dawn had already brightened the
inside of the Yacht. He smelled of beer. He climbed into a top bunk, fully
clothed, and went to sleep. I was pissed, and yelled something at him, which
I doubt if he even heard.
He slept most of the day. Around 5 he grouchily got out of bed, showered,
and sat on the couch with just a towel wrapped around his waist. He looked
like hell, and I didn't have the heart to berate him.
Things got better between us as he assumed the roll of chef and lover.
I had found a good music teacher, and had started taking piano lessons each
Wednesday and Saturday afternoon. The Clear Lake Trailer Park had a piano in
the recreation room that I was allowed to use for practice.
As my ability improved, Donald would join me using my acoustic guitar; we
would kind of jam.
September, October, and November had moved by us very fast. Pretty much the
same routine week in and week out, with Tom occasionally coming for dinner,
and a memorable evening of loving on my birthday.
Snow had begun to fall in early December. Most mornings we drove into South
Bend: Donald to class, me to shop and take care of other household problems.
I had seen a beautiful sweater that I thought would look great on Donald, an
ideal Christmas gift. It was an ensemble which also included a ski cap, and
mittens.
Christmas vacation was starting and Friday would be Donald's last day of
school. We had talked about driving the Yacht somewhere for the Holiday, but
finally decided to just enjoy ourselves right there at the lake, kind of a
second honeymoon.
My piano teacher had asked me to come a bit earlier on Saturday. Donald had
collected my music sheets, laid out a warm jacket. He wanted to bake a pie.
The roads were a bit icy, so my drive into South Bend was a bit slow.
Nevertheless, I still found time to buy Donald's Christmas present. I'd hide
it in the car.
My music teacher was pleased at my progress. My lessons were usually two hours
in length. He wanted to skip this coming Wednesday, so my two hour session
extended closer to four.
The snow fall had increased; the roads seemed a bit more slippery. It was
close to 5 by the time I reached Clear Lake.
The Yacht was gone!
Once we had purchased the Chevy we had never moved the Bus. I couldn't
imagine what had happened that would cause Donald Keith to move it.
The temperature was getting colder, so I decided to go practice piano in the
Rec Hall pending his return.
By 10 o'clock I was worried. By 11 o'clock I was frantic. The snow had
increased; it was dark; I couldn't look for him in the Chevy. I spent the
entire night in the Rec Hall anxiously awaiting day break.
As the yet to arise sun was lighting the Indiana sky, I was speeding down
Highway 12 towards South Bend.
It was early Sunday morning nobody was about.
The Bus was no where to be found. I looked in every conceivable spot about
the Notre Dame Campus. Then I drove around South Bend. Nothing.
I drove 15 miles back to the Lake, hoping that he'd returned. Nothing.
At 9 I called Tom's dorm. The pay phone rang, and rang. Finally someone
answered. I asked for Tom. They padded away. The next few minutes seemed an
eternity. The guy returned, Tom wasn't in his room. "Maybe he went with Donald
Keith on his honeymoon!"
I was stunned. I asked the guy to repeat. He did. I said, no, you probably
have the wrong Donald.
"No, there is only one Donald Keith. He and a girl by the name of Patricia
had been married yesterday afternoon and were on their honeymoon."
My fucking world had crumbled around me. My lover was gone, even my home was
gone. I couldn't hold back the tears. No clothes, not even my razor or tooth
brush. And, above all, I had received the most total of rejections.
Tears were streaming down my face as I left the park, heading toward
California. I had a real physical pain in my heart. If I had had a gun I
would have killed myself. That was the only time in my entire life that I
had thought of self destruction. The healing process would build a barricade
around me which would never allow something like that to happen again.
I drove all day. I drove all night. My eyes were tired, my body was tired.
My mind wouldn't let my body rest. The driving occupied my hands, but my mind
was free to drive the nails deeper into my heart.
I don't know what time it was when I stopped in Omaha to buy gas. While the
woman attendant was filling the tank I dropped off to sleep.
"Honey, you'd better get some sleep." She was a rather buxom woman, in her
early thirties. Her eyes showed an interest that went beyond selling me a
tank of gas.
Some women have a big heart; they need the stray puppy to mother, and so it
was with Henrietta. Her shift was over. She lived just two blocks away. She
was also the horny type.
My emotional condition was obvious. She abandoned her attempts to find out
what was wrong.
Within minutes of entering her front door we were in bed.
"Donnie?" she called sweetly. "Would you be a dear and bring me a bottle of
that beer?" I jumped up and hurried over to her, twisting the cap off a
bottle and handing it to her.
"Thank you," she smiled, taking the bottle. I stood before her indecisively
as she tipped the bottle and gulped gratefully, downing half the bottle in
one long pull. Seeing me hang my head and start to walk away, she reached
out and caught my flaccid penis with her left hand and pulled me back. She
took another swig of cold beer, then said, "Tell me what you want."
I hesitated, and she looked up at me questioningly. "I want to do it in your
ass," I said thinking of that cunt that had stolen Donald Keith.
She sipped more beer, still holding on to my dick like a subway strap, eying
it askance, now half erect in her hand. I stood in anticipation, awaiting
her answer. Finally she released my prick with a sigh and said, "Lie down on
the bed."
As I clambered aboard, she tipped her head back and drained the last of the
bottle, then sat it on the night stand, muttering, "I'm going to need a new
butthole."
She turned and bent over me, once again reaching for my cock. She squeezed
it in her hand and licked its pink head, teasing the underside with the tip
of her tongue. Taking it into her mouth, she sucked the hardening head and
moved her hand down to cup my balls, rolling them lightly between her fingers.
I groaned as she sucked my growing dick, opening her mouth wide to engulf
nearly the entire shaft before withdrawing until just the head was still
inside, her tongue flicking all around it.
When it was fully hard, she took it out of her mouth and stroked her fist up
and down its thick length, reaching back to the bedside table for a tube of
lubricant with her other hand. She twisted the cap off with her teeth then
squeezed a glob onto the head of my cock and spread the slippery gel all over
it with her hand.
Releasing my cock, Henrietta squeezed more lube into her hand and tossed the
tube back to the table. She got on her knees on the bed and reached back to
smear the gel between her ass cheeks. She wanted to be sure it was sufficiently
lubricated. She looked over at me. "Alright, Donnie," she said, getting down
on all fours, "Fuck my ass."
I eagerly jumped up behind her, climbing between her legs and grabbing her
hips, positioned my pointing cock between her ass cheeks. Overanxious, I
thrust my hips forward, but my slippery cock slipped past her tight sphincter
and slid up the crack of her ass. I grunted and tried again, but again my
cock slipped past. Henrietta giggled as I almost whimpered in frustration.
"Here, Donnie," she said, reaching back to grab my slick penis. "Let me do
it." She placed the pointed head against her anus and pushed back into it,
feeling the hot wedge sink slowly into her butt.
I groaned loudly; as soon as she had removed her hand, I thrust hard, slamming
my fat prick into her to the hilt. Henrietta yelped in pain as my wedge-like
cock stretched her asshole wide, but I barely paused before I began pumping
it in and out at a fast pace, holding onto her wide hips as my pelvis slapped
against her jiggling ass cheeks, all the while thinking of Patricia with
flashes of Bob Schubert.
She gritted her teeth and grabbed up handfuls of the sheet, holding on tightly
as I reamed her butthole. She could hear me behind her, breathing heavy and
grunting, and must have felt the drops of sweat dripping off my forehead onto
her back.
Her mind began to reel after several long minutes of being violently rocked
by my slamming hips, her asshole now stinging painfully, my pain being
exorcised. She whimpered each time the fat base of my cock stretched her
sphincter wide. Her head hung loosely and flopped back and forth along with
her breasts in time with my thrusts. Unable to hold herself up any longer,
she dropped her upper body to the bed, burying her face in the pillow, leaving
her butt high in the air, while I was still banging away at it.
After another ten minutes of steady fucking, I finally threw my head back
and howled as I came, with confusing thoughts of Bob Schubert and Patricia.
Henrietta, drenched in sweat, collapsed onto her belly in relief, barely
hearing my stammered thank you. She lay with her legs spread wide, still
feeling as if a hard cock were pumping her sore asshole. With her face still
buried in her pillow, she sighed with exhaustion, her mind barely registering
my muttered voice and movement in the room.
Then all was quiet and she drifted, half asleep, while I sought the safety
of my drive on to California, much of the hurt and anger anesthetized by the
ministrations of this kindly woman.
The 11 hour drive to Denver was tedious, but the exercise with Henrietta had
done wonders for my disposition. Unrealistically, I had put all of the blame
on the girl Donald Keith had married. My introspection developed a better
understanding. How was it, that in the months at the lake, I hadn't seen
anything that would have led me to believe that he had a relationship with
her.
Had he known her before I came into his life? Had he really played me for
a sucker, or had he simply changed?
I began to realize that our love affair was his first. Looking back at the
difference in our ages, it could have well been that he had developed guilt
feelings about our relationship. The fully bisexual world in which he had
been enveloped during our Mexico Trip was purely synthetic. The experiences
in Acapulco, Puerto Escondido, New Orleans, and Fort Lauderdale were as
exciting, titillating, and exotic as a drug.
I began to understand that returning to the square world of a religious school
such as Notre Dame must have made our world one which wobbled and reeled
through time with out much foundation in reality. Or, so I convinced myself
in trying to placate my conscience, in trying to salve my ego.
I called Jack Wormski informing him of my impending return. Jack told me he'd
received a telephone call from someone by the name of Jeff; asking that I
call him in Colorado Springs.
The pay phone demanded $2.00, which I fed into its quarter slot. Jeff picked
up the phone on the second ring.
When I told him I was calling from Denver, he insisted that I drive the 55
miles south to Colorado Springs; Jeff was eager that I come visit him at the
college. He expressed surprise that I was not driving the Yacht, but readily
invited me to share his quarters.
Even though the introspection that I had exercised on the drive west from
Omaha, had reduced a bit of the pain, it was, in fact, little more than a
band aid. Only time would heal. Visiting Jeff might be a needed diversion,
preventing my mind from dwelling further on Donald Keith.
Jeff and three other students lived in a rented house a couple of blocks away
from the college. While it was nice, it was not new. While it was clean, it
was not organized.
There were three bedrooms. One was Jeff's, Anthony had one, and Luke and Matt
shared the other,
Jeff was the oldest, but looked the youngest.
Luke was the youngest, just barely 17; a freshman. He was tall, probably 6
foot. He was not thin, maybe just a tiny amount of baby fat. His blonde hair
was cut flat; a crew cut. His rosy complexion and hazel eyes, made him look
incredibly sexy.
Luke's roommate, Matt, was quite a contrast. He had dark brown hair; he was
short and muscular. There was nothing out of the ordinary about his hair,
but his smile and clear complexion bespoke of youth. His tight jeans bespoke
of a huge piece of meat.
Anthony was the least attractive of the group. He had black hair, hardly cut
at all; he seemed ragged and unkempt. He was as tall as Luke but as skinny
as a rail. His skin was so white that it looked like he never exposed himself
to the sun.
As Jeff introduced everyone, he also included a very young reddish blonde
girl, sporting immense breasts. She was less than 5'5" in height. She was
Anthony's girlfriend; she slept over a lot.
Dinner was an interesting arrangement; a potluck in which each tenant cooked
something that everyone shared. Each one would help themselves to the pots
and bowls in the kitchen, then retire to the living room where everyone sat
on the floor, with their backs against walls, or the couch, facing the
television.
While most of us were still eating, Anthony and his girlfriend, Ann, started
to play games on the floor. She had moved from along side him to sitting
between his legs. She slid down 'til her head was resting on his crotch.
After a moment or two, she put her hands behind her head. You could see that
her hands were not just resting there.
She turned over on her stomach, with her lips against Tony's pants-covered
cock, kind of mouthing it. He looked around at everyone, smiled, and slid
his pants down to his ankles, where upon Ann began sucking on it. Needless
to say, no one was watching the TV.
Live porno!
While his dick was being thoroughly sucked, Anthony removed the rest of his
clothes, and then started removing hers.
Leaning forward, she guided his bulging shaft into her open mouth. She sucked
and licked it lovingly, sliding her full lips up and down the entire length
and gently cupping his big balls in her palm. She worked her swollen clit
between her thumb and finger, moaning around his cock as she bobbed her head
faster.
Now Anthony's dick was nothing to be sneezed at. It was sizable. She was
really going at it. Then he spun around into a 69 position.
Everyone was tenting. I was astonished at the size of Matt's tent. Luke saw
my incredulous look, and grinned. "Hey, Matt, you gotta show Don that huge
dong of yours".
Matt rolled it out. Must have been a good nine inches. It was circumcised,
and quite nice looking.
While my attention was riveted to Matt's endowment, Luke had pulled his out,
and began whacking it. Everyone followed suit.
Matt, Luke, Jeff, and I moved over to where Ann was sucking Anthony, and sat
forming a most unique circle jerk.
Luke was the first one to pop his load. It shot upward in an arc, landing
right in the crack of Ann's ass.
Next was Jeff; it rather dribbled out; all over his hands and nuts.
Just before Matt came, he stood up, leaning over Ann, aiming his huge piece
directly onto her ass, depositing a massive load of cum right on top of
Luke's. That brought me over the edge, and I deposited mine in a paper napkin.
None of this affected Anthony and Ann's performance; they just kept going at
it. However, I did notice a big blob of cum drizzle down between Ann's crotch
and onto Anthony's nose.
"Now I want you to fuck me," she breathed. She leaned back and slid her ass
forward, spreading her legs wide. Pulling her labia apart, she held her pussy
open as he knelt on the floor between her thighs and positioned the head of
his cock at the gaping hole. He pushed his stiff member all the way into her
slick sheath, inch by inch. Ann gasped and tickled her clit as he began
pumping his big cock in and out of her pussy.
That night I shared Jeff's bed. Nothing happened. Our passions had been
exorcised.
I spent three days with Jeff and family; each night being a carbon copy of
the first.
The healing process had gotten well underway as I sped west towards Los
Angeles.
The sun had already set as I entered Las Vegas; probably because it couldn't
compete with the bright gaudy displays attracting the traveler to the casinos.
Billboards were touting the high quality and low rates of the casino hotels.
I pulled into the parking lot of The Circus Circus Hotel and Gambling Hall.
I entered the building through a rear portal. The floors were carpeted in a
rich deep red. Gold hand rails led down to a massive shallow pit containing
hundreds of slot machines. A constant din of the noise of coins falling into
the drum like metallic trays assaulted the ears, as the machines purveyed
their mechanical lie of, "You too can get rich".
A sign pointed towards the front of the structure: "Check In".
My room was on the 5th floor. It was small, and not as grandiose as the
gambling hall. It was clean and comfortable. A sign on the writing desk
extolled the virtues of the "Mezzanine" where high wire circus acts could be
viewed hourly.
I called Jack Wormski's office. Thomas Chester had shown up at his office,
wondering where I was. He turned him over to Buck, pending my return.
The Mezzanine was a huge circular promenade whose inner ring looked down on
another pit of one arm bandits.
Carnival-like booths provided entertainment for those too young to gamble,
substituting the lure of a high score for the real money which might be won
if the patron were old enough, already preparing them for the future.
Hundreds of youngsters paraded around this endless path, breaking trail
through a myriad of marching seekers of "fun".
Approaching me was a black haired youth, wearing blue jeans and tee shirt.
His footwear was unique: kind of a moccasin, which was a laced up boot of
soft leather reaching to the middle of his calf. He observed my gaze, smiled,
and winked as he passed. Ten minutes later we again passed; now a nod of
recognition was added to his response.
Moments later he was walking along side of me. "You ever play that one?" he
asked, pointing at a stack of bottles being hit by baseballs. I nodded.
"Gimme a quarter and I'll try and win one of those fuzzy bears for you." I
handed over five quarters.
At a snack shop we enjoyed a coke. He had won the bear and duly handed it
over for my appreciation.
"I have to be home by 10. You gotta car?"
Gary Pound lived about eight miles away in Henderson. I drove down Las Vegas
Blvd. towards the airport. He asked how long I was going to be in Vegas,
suggesting that we get together "tomorrow and I'll show you Vegas". But my
plans did not include a lengthy stop over. My curiosity of Thomas Chester's
arrival in Hollywood was getting the best of me.
"Pull in there", a dirt road skirted the end of the airport. "Let's watch
the planes land."
Gary rubbed his hand over his crotch. His bulge had developed into a hard
rod traveling down towards the knee of his left leg. "Can I borrow $5.00?"
I smiled and slipped the bill under the waist of his pants, pushing it down
into his pubic hair.
"Wanna suck it?" He unbuttoned his fly, freeing his instrument.
Sliding his seat back he said, "Why don't you get down there", pointing at
the floor in front of his feet.
I could almost feel the heat radiating from his five incher. Gary put his
hands on the back of my head as I blew hot air around it; he lifted his body
and pushed down 'til it was resting at the back of my mouth. "Hey man, that's
fucking nice. Why don't you get naked too?"
He helped me out of my clothes, tossing them in the back seat of the Chevy.
I returned to my choice chore. "Hey slow down, I don't wanna cum yet." His
hand had moved down caressing my bare bottom. Again I returned to my task.
I could feel his body building towards the end of this journey. His finger
had slipped between my cheeks. "Stop! I wanna fuck you".
We wiggled around so that I was leaning over the back of his seat. He spit
on my asshole, then rubbed a goober on the end of his cock.
With what I could only describe as either much practice or naturally born
talent, he gently entered me, and began his trip to the top of the mountain.
I could feel a tremendous load being pumped into my bowels. As he withdrew,
he kissed the back of my neck, my shoulders, and the right cheek of my butt.
"Man I wish you could stick around Vegas. We could have some fuckin' fun."
I inserted a Kleenex in my hole to keep my shorts from getting spunked.
Gary gave me his phone number when I dropped him in front of his Boulder
Highway trailer park.
The romp with little Gary coupled with the long drive from Colorado Springs
had promoted deep sleep. I felt well rested, and only the wonderment about
Thomas being in Hollywood caused my mind to occasionally touch upon Donald
Keith.
The Chevy was parked in front of Buck's before noon the next day.
Buck's home was high atop one of the Hollywood hills, with a panoramic view
of Hollywood, stretching from Beverly Hills to downtown L.A. A free form
swimming pool immediately adjacent to a hot tub dominated the back yard.
Little space was allocated for incoming traffic, forcing any guests to park
curbside on a somewhat narrow street.
As was his custom, the front door was wide open; and as was his custom he
was stretched out on a couch talking on the phone, a glass of wine in hand.
He motioned me to sit in a overstuffed chair opposite him, while he continued
his chat.
I hadn't seen his home for quite sometime. I noticed a new building on the
other side of the pool; kind of hanging over the bluff of the hill. Most of
the weight of the new structure being supported by timbers angling downward
and buried in the hill side.
Finally, he was off the phone. "So I hear you've been on a fuckin' roller
coaster". I knew he was talking about Donald Keith's jumping ship.
"Thomas is a a doll; I think you let the best one get away."
His thoughtless slap in the face must have changed my expression as he went
on, "I've put Thomas to work on a house I just bought over on Laurel Pass.
And guess what, you remember that cute marine buddy of yours; you know Burt.
Well, he's back in town, has hooked up with Dick Claymore, and has been
promised a lead roll in `Ilse of Desire'; I suspect Vince had a lot to do
with that."
Buck went on and on about all of the gossip in town; who was being cast in
what parts, who was sleeping with whom, who was getting parts through the
casting couch. On and on he droned.
Eventually he returned to the matter of Thomas; Buck had put him up in his
new tool shed, pointing over to the cliff hanging structure. "He'll be back
about 5, but we're supposed to be at a party at Bob Road's over on Sunset
Plaza by 7:00. Where you staying?"
It was then that I realized I was not being invited to stay around. Without
waiting for my response he dialed the phone. "Burt, Don's back in town, hold
on." He passed the handset to me.
For almost an hour Burt and I caught up on the world we had not shared since
1944. During that hour I began to realize that I wanted to settle down here
in the Hollywood Hills. I had enough for a down payment on something nice;
not as spectacular as Harry's house had been, nor even as Buck's. Also, the
money left to me by Harry would be available soon.
Burt explained that Dick was a very jealous lover, and that he would have to
be very careful in the way he explained my presence. Eventually, I decided
to spend the night at the "The Garden of Ala", a rather plush hotel at the
foot of Laurel Canyon as it intersected Sunset Blvd. The Garden had, for more
than 30 years, been the site of many "clandestine affairs". The grounds were
spacious. Rooms were cottages hidden in dense shrubbery, ideal for discrete
assignations.
The hotel gave me a nice cottage, especially nice considering the facts that
I arrived in a beat up Chevy with Indiana plates and virtually no luggage.
Burt had spoken highly of a new West Hollywood clothier Hi Rothman, over on
La Cienega. If I was going to settle down here, then I'd better start with
a decent wardrobe. A couple of nice sport shirts and a pair of slacks came
to over $300.00. I filled out the balance of my needs from Penny's and
Hollywood Western Wear.
I had flaked out alongside of the pool. The warm sun had coaxed me into a
shallow doze. "Hey Don. What the Fuck you doing out here!" It was Burt. I
opened my eyes as he came into view.
Man oh man, had the intervening years been good to him. You can't change
short to anything but short, but his stocky muscular build had been developed
into quite a hunk. His perpetual hard-on had been harnessed into a projected
sex appeal that radiated from him like heat from the fiery furnace. His
hand-tailored slacks accentuated the butt that still looked like it belonged
to a baby.
Along side of Burt was a tall, thin, dark haired man, dressed in a gray, pin
striped suit, white shirt, conservative charcoal gray tie. Dick Claymore was
Burt's agent. For the past year Burt had been kept under wraps, being trained
by Hollywood's best theatrical coaches. Dick's "famous" agency had a reputation
for discovering talent, then developing it, before selling the talent.
A number of highly successful actors had started their careers with "famous".
It was also rumored that only "cooperative" boys had their "talents" developed.
But it was also a known fact that if you were one of "Famous's" boys you
were on your way to becoming a megastar.
After the long conversation with Burt from Buck's, I had been prepared for
anything but what I now saw and experienced. My imaginary image of Claymore
was that of a faggoty character who swished into a room, possessively clutching
whatever young man he had in tow.
Boy was I wrong. He exuded a dominating extrovert personality. His eyes did
not linger over a cute body. He was also a gentleman, in every sense of the
word. He and Burt were going to "stop off" at Bob Road's at about 8; he invited
me to join them.
Our entrance into Bob Road's living room brought the noisy party to a complete
stop. Dick was a super star in the agency business; everyone wanted to be
his friend. Burt was the newest hot stud in town. I was dressed in my Rothman
slacks and shirt. We were not tender young kids; we were in our early thirties,
and as a threesome we emanated a mature sexuality, that brought even this
jaded room full of Hollywood Hopefuls to a screeching halt.
Buck was on the far side of the room talking with Thomas Chester. His jaw
dropped as he saw the company I was with. Tom practically sprinted across
the room. I introduced him to Dick and Burt. Within moments, Dick was being
chiseled away from Burt and me, as one important personality or another had
a need for his attention.
Burt and Thomas Chester took an immediate dislike for one another. Dick
lassoed Burt and carted him off, leaving Thomas Chester and me to ourselves.
Buck was headed our way. "Don, we gotta talk. I need to talk to you about
Donald Keith."
I had hardly spoken, "Call me at the Ala", when Buck grabbed him by the elbow,
escorting him away.
Our host introduced himself then introduced me to a group. "Ron" was a dancer,
very handsome, very masculine, one of his "Ex's". A tender dark-haired sailor
dressed in his "blues" was the son of one of Hollywood's most famous pioneers.
And then there was 16 year old "Tony". His father was a well known comedian
whose weekly television show was one of the top 10.
Both of these sons of the famous were to play important roles in my life.
However, I will start with the first one: Harold. He was raised in a very
rarefied atmosphere.
Harold's father was an early megastar who, at the peak of his performing
career, successfully transcended the technological advance into the "talkies".
They lived on a impressive walled estate in Beverly Hills.
It was during the nation's first kidnapping case (Lindbergh) that the estate
was staffed with round-the-clock armed security. His early schooling was at
the hands of tutors. Their home was a rambling two story structure built in
the early thirties. The ground floor contained a full feature motion picture
theater which could seat 50 as well as formal dining room, kitchen, and living
room.
Sleeping quarters were on the second floor, accessible either by a long,
sweeping staircase, or a wrought iron elevator. Harold's bed room was a small
apartment, complete with kitchenette, living room, and bath.
I've often wondered what his first reaction to Navy boot camp had been like.
Dick Claymore sought me out. "Burt and I are leaving. He's got to be at MGM
by 5:00 AM. Can we take you back to the Ala?"
Harold interceded on my behalf, offering a lift to my hotel.
Ron left our group; his moving away from me gave me the first real glimpse
of a beautifully developed, muscular, dancer's butt. Harold noticed my gaze.
"Cute guy, but his dick is so fucking big nobody can handle it." That was my
first clue to the fact that Harold was not straight; I then began to wonder
about Tony.
The three of us wandered into the back yard, and, as time rolled by, we
developed an appreciation for one another; a real friendship was beginning.
Harold seemed to be a heavy drinker, tossing down glasses of straight scotch,
no ice. Tony, on the other hand drank only Cokes. "My Dad would kill me if
I came home with liquor on my breath".
Harold's burning interest was in music; he wanted to sing. Tony's interest
was behind-the-scenes theatrical. At 16, he was already remodeling apartments,
building sets, writing plays, and learning photography and the business side
of theater.
In later years Harold was to die at an early age of alcohol aggravated liver
disease, while Tony became one of Hollywood's most prolific television
producers with multiple shows in the top five, year after year.
Tony had a midnight curfew, so we left Bob's party by eleven. Tony's home
was near Doheny, on the edge of Beverly Hills, while Harold lived with his
Dad on the other side of Beverly Hills. They dropped me at the Ala.
As I readied myself for bed, I reflected over my first day back in the south
land. Buck's odd rejection of me. Then Burt, Dick, Harold, and Tony. I began
to wonder what the future held for me.
I was awakened by a knocking on my door; the clock showed 3 AM. It was Thomas
Chester; he had a fight with Buck. "Can I stay here tonight?"
Buck had never been reticent in avowing his enjoyment of getting fucked. It
was probable that Thomas Chester was doing the servicing. It was also most
probable that I was the cause of their disagreement.
I knew that Thomas slept naked, as did I; all of those months on board the
Yacht had dissolved any modesty we might have had.
The bed was large. We talked about Donald Keith. He said he was aware of
his involvement with Patricia. Donald had sworn him to secrecy. His stealing
the Yacht was a surprise. He wished that I had not left South Bend so
impetuously.
It was well past 8 in the morning when the door of my room burst open. Buck
rushed into the room, saw Thomas in my bed. He threw the covers back. During
the night Thomas had cuddled up against my body, his front to my back, arms
around my waist. We both had early morning "pisser hardons".
"You God damn fucking ass holes!" Buck shouted, running out of the room.
Tom jumped into his jeans and ran after him, still barefoot.
I had hardly had the chance to put on my shorts when the phone rang; it was
Harold. Could I join him and Tony for Breakfast at Mussos? They would pick
me up.
Tony was a little cutie. His sparkling teenage personality was a refreshing
change from the past few hours. Although Harold was a bit older, I could see
that they were "best friends". Even though Tony was straight and Harold was
gay, they were still best buddies. If any of Harold's friends were persistent
in hitting on Tony, Harold would have a "big brother talk" with them and the
hitting would cease.
Breakfast at the "eateries" of the stars is always impeccable. The finest of
table settings. The Benedict was flawless. The Hollandaise was smooth, the
lemon subtle but distinctive; still buttery. The muffins toasted to perfection.
The bill exorbitant.
I had told them of my wanting to buy a house in the hills. Tony suggested
that I contact Mann realty, a real estate agency in Laurel Canyon. Harold
said that he and Tony had better stay in the background, else I'd get
overcharged.
Both boys gave me their unlisted phone numbers so we could stay in contact;
they dropped me at the Garden of Ala about 12:30. Thomas Chester was sitting
at my door with all of his possessions in a couple of shopping bags; Buck
had thrown him out.
Thomas was familiar with Mann Realty, so after depositing his bags in my
room, we headed up the canyon.
The office was quite small, located below what Tom referred to as the Country
Store. While most of this territory was familiar, it had changed in the
intervening 12 years.
Wally, the realtor, was only too eager to show me available property. The
first available was on Ridpath. It was too small. The second was past the
top of Lookout Mountain Road, overlooking West Hollywood and Beverly Hills;
it was out of my price range.
"Wally, is that place on Wonderland still available." I thought I saw an odd
glance between him and Tom.
"Yes. You mean the one next to the Air force Lab?" Tom nodded.
We drove across a dirt road joining the very top of Wonderland Avenue. It
was apparent that Wally had not intended showing this particular property.
The house was ideal. Wonderland Avenue was on a hillside. The house, while
a single story, was at ground level at the upper part of the hill, but a
double car garage supported the down hill side. Inside, the house was divided
into two wings, joined by a 35 foot long living room with a fireplace
dominating one end. On the uphill end were two large bedrooms: one facing
onto the front yard, the other facing onto the back yard, a full bath
separating the two. The other wing was over the garage: a good sized kitchen,
a third bedroom, and a 3/4 bath.
The backyard was accessible from both wings. The garden was overgrown and
needed immediate attention. I fantasized about a pool in the back yard. The
asking price was $26,000.
Tom looked at me, I shook my head yes. "OK Wally, we'll take it". Wally looked
stunned.
"You mean just like that?"
Tom smiled a definite yes.
My immediate concern was "What the hell did Tom mean by `We'll take it.'?"
I gave Wally a $5,000 deposit. He said we'd be in escrow by tomorrow.
That afternoon, we moved into 8957 Wonderland Ave. Moving in meant I put my
newly acquired clothes in the front bedroom, the Chevy in the garage, and
Thomas Chester's two shopping bags in the rear bedroom.
"Buck is gonna be pissed". Tom grinned.
"Oh?"
"Yeah, he had this place staked out for himself. He was planning on dividing
the main house into three apartments. The sketch I saw would have turned the
living room into a plush studio, then each end wing would have been one-bedroom
units. The garage would have been another unit. His monthly payments would
have been about $250. He would have collected about $1200 in rents. He had
made an offer at $25,000. Wally had submitted it, but no money had changed
hands. Fuck him!"
The next morning we walked in to Mann Realty to get the escrow underway.
Wally was on the phone. "No, Buck, I couldn't. Well, I'm sorry you feel that
way but he paid the asking price. Yes, Thomas was with him. Now come on there,
Buck, that's no way to talk. Hell no, I couldn't have done that; the realty
board would have had my license. Now look, you cool down; after all it's just
one more house. Well, I'm sorry; the deal has been made, and that's the end of
it."
Escrow would take two weeks, but occupancy was immediate. I either had to
arrange for a mortgage or put and additional $21,000 in escrow within that
time.
The papers that Wally asked us to sign gave the title to Thomas and me in
joint tenancy. I hadn't planned on that, but I was afraid to rock the boat,
so I let it slide.
We got back to the house by noon. Harold and Tony were waiting. "Man oh man,
it's all over town how you stole Buck's house and his boyfriend." Roads had
spread the gossip. Tony had called Wally for the address, so he and Harold
had arrived to give us moral support.
Tony knew of someone who was completely redecorating their house; he thought
we could get some great furniture "real cheap".
"Real Cheap" was $500.00, but we furnished both bedrooms, had a couch, two
recliner chairs, and a coffee table. Stove, refrigerator, and laundry were
included with the house.
Thomas had promised to pay the entire monthly mortgage payments until half
of it equaled $2500; his half of the down payment.
Harold and Tony suggested we have an "open house". I pointed out that we
had no kitchen sundries, no glasses, no plates, no pots, no pans. Harold
suggested we go to the Goodwill. In the meantime, Tony and Thomas could start
clearing the weeds from the back yard.
While we were down the hill, I used a pay phone to check in with the Wormski
office. I told Jack I'd bought a house; he said he'd heard. I invited him to
our open house.
Jack asked if he should call Vince and Thomas Sanchez.
I said yes. Then I called Dick Claymore's office inviting both him and Burt.
This "open house" was growing way beyond what we had intended.
Harold suggested we serve Fish House Punch instead of having an open bar.
We stopped at the Liquor Locker on Sunset. Fish House Punch is one quart of
rum, 1 quart of vodka, 1 quart of brandy, and 1/2 pint of peach brandy served
in a punch bowl over a large chunk of Ice. We bought a case of each, and
rented the punch bowl. Paper cups were provided instead of glass.
Harold called a few people. Tony and Thomas had finished with the back yard
by the time we had returned. They went down the hill, for sodas and the
cake of ice. They also made a few phone calls.
Guests started arriving by 8. The place was packed by 9. Tony had brought in
a hi-fi for the party. The house was rocking by 10. Buck showed up, uninvited,
at 11, all sweet and forgiving. At 2, our next door neighbors came by to
complain about the noise; they decided to stay. At 3, a roving police car
stopped in front, suggesting that we cut back on the sound level; they were
going off duty; they decided to stay.
We bid our last guest goodbye as the sun brightened the sky. Tony had to go
home and make ready for school; Harold had to go home to change into his
uniform. Then came the biggest surprise of the day. "Where's your duty station?"
I asked.
"Right next door at the Air force Motion Picture Lab."
Thomas and I slept until mid afternoon.
While I was down the hill buying groceries and arranging for telephone service,
Buck came by the house, wanting Thomas to come home, to continue working on
one of Buck's projects. When Thomas told him that he owned half of the house
and intended to live there, he asked if he'd at least come back to work.
The first month went by; the mortgage payment was due. Tom didn't have the
money; I had to make the payment.
During the second month, Jack had gotten a gig in Orange County for Thomas
and me. The pay was pretty good. The mortgage payment was again due; Thomas
had spent his pay; I again made the mortgage payment.
Thomas began going out with Buck, frequently didn't come home for several
days at a time. After I had to make the third payment, I asked Thomas if it
wouldn't be better if he would turn his interest in the title over to me.
He exploded, "Hell No! I was the one that got this place. Wally wouldn't even
have shown it if I hadn't insisted. Fuck, Buck warned me you'd try and pull
this shit on me. Fuck you, you cocksucker; it's half mine, and as long as
you own half, I fuckin' well will own half."
Two days later I found a note on the kitchen table. "Hey you stupid fucker,
I've moved back with Buck. And he said I should collect $150 a month from
you as rent for my half of the house."
Harold said that I should turn the matter over to an attorney. I looked in
the yellow pages, found one who would file a suit to gain full title.
A deputy marshal served the papers on him while he was having dinner at
Buck's. He tore up the papers right in the marshal's face and slammed out
of the house.
I heard Buck's car screech to a stop in front of the house. Thomas banged
on the front door. His fist came through the wood. He smashed in the door,
and beat the shit out of me.
I laid in the middle of the living room floor, as blood gushed out of my
mouth, my jaw was broken. He thundered out of the house. The next door
neighbors came in, called an ambulance, and I was taken to the hospital,
where I remained under observation for two days.
I went to the Hollywood police station to file a complaint. They laughed,
and said they don't get involved in "domestic disputes".
Then I went to a gun shop and bought a 9mm Beretta. As required, I went to
the Hollywood police station informing them that I had purchased the weapon
to protect myself since they wouldn't provide protection. Their only comment
was, if you use it, you'll have to answer for it. At home I wrote a letter
to Thomas:
"I have purchased a gun to protect myself from you. If you ever set foot
on my property again, I will shoot you on sight. I don't like taking this
step; I thought we were friends. But I will not subject myself to that kind
of danger again. I repeat. Stay off of my property or I will shoot you on
sight." I sent it by certified mail.
His reaction was violent. He raced to my front door, again breaking it open.
With my heart pounding in my ears, I faced him gun in hand. "Get out of here
NOW!"
I fired three shots into the ceiling. He laughed, rushing towards me. I
fired a fourth shot as I moved laterally away from him. It caught him in
the hip. He still was moving towards me when I shot the fifth and final
shot. Only then did he turn away from me, exiting the house, saying, "You
stupid son of a bitch".
I ran to the phone and called the police. I stayed in the house until the
they arrived. An ambulance arrived to take Thomas away; he had collapsed in
the driveway next door. I explained what had happened. I was taken to the
Hollywood police station, where I answered many questions, trying to relate
the events of the last months.
An officer came in during the interrogation. "He didn't make it. That last
shot got him in the lung." A chill ran the full length of my body. In the
end, I was charged with first degree murder and held without bail.
Harold went to his Dad's attorney asking for advice; asking who would they
recommend if this had happened to one of their family. Without hesitation, he
was told to go see a young Jewish attorney: Bill Spetstein.
I was still sitting in a cell at the Hollywood substation, when Harold brought
Bill to see me. He was short, well built, black hair, fiery eyes, and an
aggressive "don't fuck with me" personality. After he had heard my story, he
was pissed at the Hollywood cops. If an attorney had conducted themselves
like that, it would have been malpractice.
I had needed help, they ignored it. They knew of the attack, they knew what
steps I was taking to protect myself. They could have stopped the whole thing
by prosecuting Thomas for assault.
I was transferred to LA County Jail awaiting my preliminary hearing. A week
later, we were before a municipal judge. Bill moved for a dismissal on the
grounds of justifiable homicide. The district attorney said that I had
threatened to kill Thomas, that I had even done it in writing. They put a
Sargent Detective Beck on the stand to confirm that.
Bill asked if he had seen the written note. Beck said he had. Bill asked if
he had it with him; he said no. He claimed he didn't know where the note was.
As Bill queried him further, Beck began fidgeting with a large envelope. A
small envelope slipped from inside of the larger, fluttering to the floor.
Bill sprung forward, picking up the envelope. It was the certified letter I
had sent Thomas. Beck turned red, stammered, then admitted that that was the
letter about which he testified.
Bill stood back, facing the judge, reading the letter out loud, almost shouting
as he read the letter, showing that this was not a threat, it was a warning
trying to avoid what had finally happened.
The Judge ruled there was sufficient evidence to warrant my being held over
for trial in the superior court of Los Angeles County, on a charge of first
degree murder. Bill had said it was unlikely a decision would be made in our
favor; most municipal judges are little more than a rubber stamp for the DA's
office.
------------------------------------------------------------
My Teenage Heart
Chapter Eleven
Paradise Hawaiian Style
If you have never been in jail, time does not go by easily. Despite
incarceration being a new experience, it drags on interminably. The inmates
establish their own political system, with a hierarchy of people and rules
that are allowed to exist. The officers presiding over these inmates allow
them to run their social empire with little interference.
Those without experience are on the lowest rungs of the ladder and suffer
the most at the whims of the seasoned con. There is no "hard time" for the
hardened con; after all, it is a political system he has been allowed to
develop and run. In the long run, it is easier for prison administrators to
allow or even promote this system than to administer the proper supervision
of its inmates.
Old cons shared cells with youthful traffic offenders. One night, I heard a
new kid being fucked in the cell next to me. The guards ignored the obvious.
The target was just 18: light brown hair, small but well-defined butt. He
had a red mark on his neck where he had been restrained. He limped slightly
as he moved about; the attack had not been invited or welcomed.
New prisoners were examined by felons, comparing them with newspaper articles,
giving realistic drama to these daily events. The inmates personally know
these people whose names were spread over our news media.
The LA Times had carried a small story whose lead read "Musician Kills Partner
Over Property Dispute". It was buried on the fourth page.
Bill visited about three times a week, going over various aspects of what
had occurred. Comparing notes from Sargent Beck with what neighbors and
associates of Buck's knew to be the case, it appeared that most of Beck's
case was built on rumors created by Buck.
Dick Claymore came by at Burt's insistence; MGM balked at the idea of Burt's
even visiting me, much less testifying at my trial. However, Dick had been
talking with Bill, then did a little investigating on his own.
He said this whole mess had been created by Buck. Jealousy and revenge were
his motives. He felt he had been rejected by Thomas. He had constantly
impregnated Thomas with the idea that I was trying to steal the Wonderland
house from him; that, in reality, it belonged to Tom, that Tom was being a
nice guy just by letting me live there.
The next day Dick came down hard on Buck. He told him, with no punches pulled,
that Tom's death was his doing. His stupid little jealousy game had caused
Tom's death. That if Buck didn't knock off this rumor peddling and confirm
to Beck what had happened, that Dick would personally see that the whole
story made the papers, naming Buck as the promoter of this tragedy.
That squelched Buck. He called Beck and changed his story. The DA's office
was now faced with the prosecution of a case whose primary witness was a liar
and a rumor monger; that, in fact, it was their primary witness who had
fomented this event.
The District Attorneys' office in LA has never operated on the principal of
seeking justice; it becomes a statistical game. If they can plea-bargain
for a guilty plea, it is a win. No way would they agree to withdraw the
charges just because the defendant was not guilty; that would be a loss.
I had been in jail for thirty days. A bail hearing was scheduled. Even though
the charge of first degree had not been changed, the hearing rapidly became
one of negotiation: not if but how much. $25,000, was the bail. I had that
amount still in probate. Bill worked out some kind of deal with the court to
accept a probate document in lieu of cash or a bond. I was out of jail that
evening.
The next day, I replaced the patched up front door with one of solid oak.
The phone rang around 11, it was Buck. "Don, don't worry, I'm not going to
testify." He hung up.
At noon, Harold came over during his lunch period, dressed in his Navy blues.
I made tuna sandwiches. Several times, cars, drove by; you could hear them
slowing as they approached my house; I could envision someone pointing at
the house, "That's where he shot his lover".
The case came to trial during the first week of February, 1959. The
prosecution's case was one not supported by any evidence other than the actual
events: our purchase of the house, his moving from the premises, his being
shot while entering his own house. No mention was made of the certified
letter. Sargent Beck sat at the prosecution table in an advisory capacity,
not as a witness.
Our case was simple: Thomas Chester had no interest in the property on
Wonderland, that he had acquired a paper interest supported by no equity.
That his violence was triggered by my wish to have full title, since I had
100% of the equity. That he had attacked me on a previous instances, breaking
my jaw and putting me in the hospital.
The certified letter was introduced. Bill wanted to call Sargent Beck to the
stand. The DA objected; the objection was sustained.
At the end, I took the stand. Bill guided me through a tour of this horror,
touching upon my attempt to get police protection. I told of my fear and of
my buying the gun, of my writing the letter, of the final attack, of the
shooting. Tears were streaming down my face as I remembered the gentle Thomas
I had known on the road. I told of how hard I had attempted to prevent this
tragedy.
The District Attorney's cross examination was belligerent and sarcastic.
Bill was constantly objecting to innuendoes and unsupported allegations; the
Judged censured the DA twice.
The trial took four days, from beginning to end. The jury was out four hours,
returning an acquittal on the basis of justifiable homicide.
It was over.
But not quite.
Sightseeing traffic increased. I found a few pieces of hate mail deposited
in my box. Jack's office said they couldn't get work for me. Few friends
dropped by. Even Harold seldom came next door for lunch.
I listed the house with Wally's office. It sold to Buck. I packed my things
and bought a one way ticket to Honolulu in an attempt to start over.
It took less than a day to find the apartment I wanted. The Ala Wai Palms
was located on Ala Wai Blvd., which paralleled the Ala Wai Canal. On the
other side of the canal was the penthouse I had shared with Thornton.
Waikiki's International Marketplace was just a block Maki. It was in the
center of Waikiki. It was where most of the action was.
Fort DeRussey had changed only slightly. The enlisted beer hall was still
there.
Vietnam was our major conflict. Hawaii was swarming with military en route
to Asia.
I had always liked Hawaiian music; it was built on Country Western. The guitar
being imported with the Paniolas (Cowboys). I purchased a "Slack Key" acoustic
guitar.
I began hanging out at a Hawaiian joint on the Ewa side of downtown Honolulu
on Sunday nights. I think I was the only white guy. Entire families would
arrive and perform. Kind of a Hawaiian jam session. Frequently a youngster
would perform solo. Sometimes guitar, sometimes singing, sometimes hula.
Many times people in the audience would play their guitars along with those
on stage. I soon did the same.
My evenings during the week were spent mostly at the DeRussey Beer Hall,
almost always ending in my entertaining some lonely service man, then driving
the kid back to where ever he was stationed: Barbers Point, Kaneohe, Schofield,
Pearl Harbor, Fort Shafter. Mostly they were transient and appreciated the
attention. Sometimes they returned for more.
More often than not, sex was on their agenda. They either wanted a good blow
job or a dick up their butt. They were the youth of America: age between 17
and 22.
My days were spent "sleeping in" 'til 10, then strolling down Waikiki Beach.
Playing the guitar most of the afternoon, and repeating the evening scene.
One day, my beach stroll extended down to the Ala Wai Yacht Harbor, and it
got me to thinking how great living on a boat might be: sailing from port to
port. A really care-free life. Some boats had "For Sale" signs. Many people
lived on their boats.
I checked out a yacht broker who seemed reluctant to show anything.
I checked out the classified section of the Honolulu Star Bulletin. There
must have been 50 listings. Most locations were not at the Ala Wai Yacht
Harbor: some were in Kaneohe; some were as far away as Pokai Bay; but most
were at Kehai Lagoon, next to the airport.
The first few that I looked at were either too small or too costly. However,
at the end of Pier "Baker", I found the boat of my dreams. It was a 35 foot
sloop rigged Trimaran. Its 20 foot beam made it more spacious than the average
35 foot sail boat.
The Tehani had been built by a New Zealander at the Bay of Plenty on North
Island and sailed to Hawaii stopping at all of the exotic ports of call from
the south to the north Pacific. Les McCloud wanted $12,000. I offered $9,000.
We took it for a test run. We agreed at $10,000.
The Tehani was primarily a sailboat. It had a cockpit where the ship's wheel
was located. A cap could be removed from a well at the bottom of the cockpit,
and an outboard engine lowered into the well, providing an "after thought"
propulsion system. The lines controlling the sails laid along the top of the
main cabin, riding on pulleys, and fastened in place by ratchet type vice
jaws along the leading edge of the cockpit.
It had three sails: a mizzen on the stern of the vessel, the main held by
the main mast, the jib forward of the main and also suspended from the main
mast. The leading edge of the jib was held by a stainless steel shroud fastened
to the bow and to the top of the main mast. The leading edge of the main sail
was held by a hardware track extending up the length of the main mast. The
leading edge of the mizzen was held by a hardware track extending up the
length of the mizzen mast located to the rear of the cockpit.
The Tehani had a small stern sleeping cabin, just rear of the cockpit. The
main cabin contained four bunks, two on either side, the galley, and a marine
radio. The two top bunks were almost double the size of the smaller ones.
The bottom ones also doubled as seats for a removable table.
Forward of the main cabin was the head (toilet). Forward of that was the bow
cabin which contained one bunk, and then storage of spare sails and lines in
the very tip of the bow.
The two side pontoons had storage space for miscellaneous "stuff", including
a couple of gasoline powered mini-scooters.
There was no hot water heater or shower. A portable shower, consisting of
a black canvas bag, could be laid out on deck to heat the water then suspended
from the main boom over the cockpit while the spray nozzle allowed the bather
to wet down, soap down, and then rinse off.
Most "live-aboards" used the hot showers provided by the marina.
By Saturday noon, I had vacated the Ala Wai Palms and installed myself on
the Tehani.
It was a beautiful day, I thought it would be a good idea to get the feel of
her as a boat and prepared to give 'er a run.
I had never sailed a boat before, but watching McCloud, it looked simple
enough. But, before I got underway I thought I'd better practice hoisting
the sails. Big mistake. The light breeze caught the main as I started to
hoist her. It banged the boat into some tire cushions nailed to the side of
the pier.
I lowered what little of the main sail that I had raised, and started to tie
her back down.
"Going for a sail?". There stood on the dock the cutest little 16 year old
that I had seen in years. His complexion was light, but his eyes had that
almond shape. He had jet black hair. Racially he was half German and half
Japanese.
"I thought I'd give it a try."
"Want some help?" Thus I met Bobby Schultz. He and his younger brother lived
with their parents at the end of "Charley Pier" aboard a 50 foot motor sailer.
He jumped on board. Ran forward and untied the Jib. He ran back to the stern
and started to untie the line holding us to the dock. "When I wave at you,
let go of the bow line." I did as I was told. "OK push her straight back and
jump on board."
We drifted into the narrow channel. He hoisted the jib, giving plenty of
slack on the jib sheet. The wind caught the sail, and we moved out into the
channel. "If it's OK with you, I'll take her out past the channel markers
just with the jib; then we can hoist the main."
I was astonished. The wind was almost dead behind us as we continued out to
sea, down the main channel, past the airport on our starboard, and past Sand
Island on the port side. Bobby hoisted the main just a little, putting the
jib and main out like wings, the wind pushing us from astern.
We had passed the buoys marking the entrance to the channel. "Watch yourself.
I'm going to tighten up the jib sheet and hoist the main all the way. Be
careful, she might come about!"
I had no idea what he was talking about, so I just stayed next to him in the
cockpit.
He spun the wheel around, putting the wind off of our starboard quarter.
The boat took off like it was attached to a rocket. We were headed in an
angle out to sea, passing Waikiki Beach and Diamond Head.
As we passed Diamond Head, we began to hit some swells coming from the Molokai
Channel. The bow of our port pontoon began to dip into the water tossing up
a spray, hurling it back over the decks, back over us.
Hawaii Kai was just to the rear of us on the port side when Bobby again used
those mystical words "Gonna bring her about".
He tightened up on the main sheet and spun the wheel, causing the Tehani to
turn clockwise, putting the wind on our port side, causing the jib boom to
swing from one side to the other. The main shortly followed, with a thump.
Bobby was smiling from ear to ear. "Wow, she's a honey!"
We were now headed back towards the Marina, Waikiki on our starboard side.
As we approached the entrance to the channel, Bobby pointed out two lights
located at the far end of the channel, located on shore. "You gotta line
those 2 lights up so that they look like one, then you know you are in the
center of the channel, and you just keep it that way 'til we are home".
The wind that had pushed us out of the channel was now trying to keep us out
of the channel. "We're going to have to tack. The reef is right up against
the side of the channel, If we lose our wind, the current can carry us into
the reef. Keep your eyes peeled." We zigzagged homeward.
As we neared Baker Dock, Bobby had lowered the main, slacking off on the jib.
He spun the wheel, dropped the jib, and we coasted gently into our slip.
Didn't even nudge the dock.
We secured the dock lines, then tied and covered the sails, and hosed down
the decks. "That was fun. Any time you want some company let me know." He
jumped on the dock and was gone.
I realized that I didn't know a damn thing about sailing. If I had succeeded
it taking the Tehani out by myself, I never would have gotten back without
calling the Coast Guard.
Looking out over the stern, I saw Bobby and his brother heading towards the
marina showers. If I took a shower, I'd probably get a glimpse of little
Bobby's bare bod.
The marina shower reminded me of the one at the Sloan House. It had no
cubicles. A number of shower heads simply extended from one wall. As I entered
Bobby and his brother were already standing, naked, under the shower heads,
hot water streaming over their bodies.
"Don, this is Charley".
"Howdy! You named after the pier your are tied up to, or the other way around?"
The joke went over their head.
Charley was a year younger than Bobby. While Bobby looked more Caucasian than
oriental, Charley looked more oriental. His face was rounder, the color not
quite dark, but not really white.
Bobby, on the other hand, while sporting a deep tan, had very white skin
below his tan line. Oddly, Bobby's Cock was smaller than Charlie's.
"Is there any chance I can get you guys to teach me how to sail?"
They smiled at each other.
The next day, Sunday, we took the Tehani down the channel, and anchored her
off Waikiki Beach. Charley had brought along his surf board and paddled in
to "Queens" to ride a few. Bobby swam around the boat, climbed back on board,
and sat right next to me. "God, what a doll," I thought.
Every day, the boys would appear on my dock within minutes of having returned
from school. We would take the boat out for a sail, returning just before
sunset.
During my Thursday sailing lesson, Charley mentioned that they had a week's
vacation beginning Monday. Bobby suggested that we sail around the island.
This would take us past Pearl Harbor, Ewa, Barbers Point, Pokai Bay, past
Kaena Point, and putting in at Haleiwa. We would return to Kehai, by continuing
around the island, past Waimea, Sunset, Laie, Kaneohe, Waimanalo, and Diamond
Head. Friday night we would put in at Poki, Saturday we would sail to Haleiwa,
spend Sunday there. Monday we would put in at Laie; Tuesday we would continue
down to Kaneohe; then, Wednesday we would either return to Kehai, or sail
across the Molokai Channel and spend a couple of days at Kaunakakai.
While the boys were in school on Friday, I made preparations for our trip.
Stocked up on food for a week. Saw that we had fuel for the little Honda
generator and fuel for the galley stove. I filled our fresh water tank.
Once we were away from the dock, the only electricity we had would be from
an automotive 12 volt battery or the Honda.
Our running lights consisted of two white lights (one at the top of the mizzen
mast, the other at the top of the main), the Red Port, and Green Starboard
lights. International marine law required this to be operational if running
after sunset.
Precisely at 3 the two boys were dockside carrying a inflatable boat and a
camping cooler loaded with ice, milk, and soda.
After putting the boat in our starboard pontoon and the cooler in the galley,
the boys untied the sails, checked the sheets, made sure every thing was
securely stowed or tied down, and cast off.
It was almost midnight by the time we entered Pokai Bay. The moonlight was
bright; the boys were familiar with the area; tying up wasn't any more
difficult that it would have been back in our own slip.
The boys were still fooling around on deck when I hit the sack. I always
slept on the upper bunk on the starboard side. Charley came in first, took
off his shirt and swim shorts, and jumped in the upper port bunk wearing just
his briefs. Bobby bedded down on the lower port bunk. We went to sleep.
In the middle of the night I heard Bobby say "Watch your fucking foot",
followed by the sound of Charley taking a piss in the head.
I returned to slumber land. "Move over, can I sleep with you?" Bobby snuggled
up against me, wearing only his briefs, his little butt up against my lap.
My arm wrapped around him, my hand on his chest, his hand over mine.
I let my hand drop down between his legs. His hand moved mine back to his
chest. That happened several times; we finally drifted off to sleep, my
hand cupping his soft penis.
"Hey, you guys, we gotta get out of here before anyone wants to use this
dock". Charley was enthusiastically full of energy.
The boys had us at sea before I could get dressed.
The sail up the coast was fast and smooth until we reached Kaena Point.
Two currents meet, one coming up the coast the other across Oahu's north
shore. They meet at Kaena Point. It is rough water. Also, the winds seem to
parallel these currents, also crashing together at the point.
The white water was tossing us about like we were 5 feet long. Wind gusts
attacked the sails, putting a pounding pressure on our main mast. Bobby took
over the wheel, directing us in an angle away from the point. Charley ran
forward, grasping the jib boom, forcing it in tight, while Bobby and I pulled
up the slack. A wave crashed across the bow, soaking Charley to the skin.
Within 15 minutes we had cleared the point. The run along the North Shore
was calm. Charlie, still soaked, stood on the deck just above us, peeled off
his shirt, shorts, and underwear. He stood there beautifully naked, looking
out to sea, his dark hair blowing in the wind, his body sparkling with drops
of water spread over his shoulders, his chest, his abdomen, his well formed
buttocks, and calfs.
The wind caused his penis to sway gently, the sensation signaled his brain
to close off the return blood supply, the organ began to enlarge. Charley
turned away from us, hiding that piece of sculpture from our view.
The anchorage at Haleiwa is encircled by a man-made breakwater, protecting
the boats from the unpredictable wind and water along the north shore. Of
course, it's these same extreme conditions that make the north shore a surfer's
paradise.
There was no dock. The few moorings were occupied. Many boats were simply at
anchor.
Bobby and Charley hoisted our outboard into the well, fussed with it a few
moments, got it started, and putted us into a place they felt would be OK,
if we put out both a bow and stern anchor.
While Charley and I put the engine and sails away, Bobby retrieved the rubber
boat pump.
"Too bad we weren't here last night, they had a Luau". Bobby pointed towards
the park where you could still see the E. K. Fernandez Ferris Wheel being
dismantled.
"Dummy, tonight's the Luau. They are putting the rides together."
The boat was a two man-er. Bobby paddled me across to the shore and returned
for Charlie.
All though we hadn't eaten all day, the boys only wanted hot dogs and
hamburgers.
The Luau was not a traditional Luau; it was more like a carnival. There were
food booths, carnival games, and rides.
A merry-go-round was cranking out typical make-believe calliope music, the
steam engine having been replaced by an electric one many years ago.
A crowd began to gather; Bobby stuck with me but Charlie wandered off on his
own. He returned carrying three pieces of watermelon. Again he left, returning
with smoked Ahi. His sense of the order in which food should be eaten was
out of whack. Next it was Sashimi. I declined; I don't like raw fish.
Soon the ferris wheel was in operation, revolving high in the sky. Bobby
wanted to go; Charlie didn't. Bobby and I sat close together as the wheel
lifted upward into the Hawaiian sky. The sun was beginning to set. But you
could still see the surf crashing into the beach along the northern coast,
while lights for the night were competing for attention. I felt very close
to this half German, half Japanese youth. I'm afraid my Teenage Heart was
still in evidence, bruised but healing.
The wheel paused at the top for a moment or two. Bobby pointed out a stage
further into the park; musicians were assembling there.
We walked over to the stage. I recognized several of the performers from the
Hawaiian club downtown; they smiled, waved me over, and asked if I'd like to
sit in with them. Bobby thought that was a great idea and volunteered to row
out to the Tehani and retrieve my guitar.
All evening, both Bobby and Charlie sat very attentively while I played along
with the group.
The day soon came to an end; we returned to the boat. Charlie first, then
Bobby and I.
Charlie was already asleep when I entered the cabin. I undressed and climbed
into bed. Bobby followed, snuggling against me, as we had the night before.
The lights were out; it was dark. His little butt was pushed up against my
cock. My arm was around him, my hand against his chest. He put his hand over
mine, then moved it down over his soft penis. I could feel the head resting
against my finger, I squeezed it a couple of times. His instrument responded
as was expected. Bobby moved our hands, up to his belly button, patting my
hand into place.
Sunday morning I could hear Charlie moving about on his bunk. I parted my
eyes ever so slightly; no one could tell that I wasn't still asleep. Charlie
was looking at Bobby and me cuddled up, my arms around him. He was jacking
off. His equipment was sizable and worth paying attention to. At first, it
was a gentle massage, but full stroked. His fingers wrapped around the shaft
and moved from the base to over the top.
He spit onto his right palm and began to stroke the head with soft circular
motions. His other hand quickly traced a path over the ridges of his belly
up to his chest where the nipples were standing firmly at attention. He
pinched them in turn and began to tug at them in counterpoint to the long
strokes as he pulled at his meat.
A deep groan came out of him as he threw his head back, abandoning reason in
pursuit of total sensual gratification. The tempo of his hands increased as
he began pounding his prick in earnest, his wrist making wet slapping noises
each time he pumped the root of his joint. I could tell that he felt that
familiar warm glow spreading through his groin and up his belly. He couldn't
have stopped pumping his nut even if he saw me observing in wild eyed
amazement.
I felt the boat jump beneath me and then suddenly he was cumming. He cried
out in ecstasy as his groin began to spasm fiercely. A shot of cum flew over
his head and another landed in his hair and on his face. Another landed
squarely on his mouth. His chest and belly were covered with squirt after
squirt of creamy white sperm.
Using a paper towel, he wiped the deposits from his body, while still looking
at us, making certain his J. O. session had not been observed. Little did
he know, observed and appreciated.
He had hardly pulled his briefs up over his now flaccid member, the paper
towel still in his left hand, when my eyes popped open, looking him squarely
in the eye. He tried to tuck the wet sticky paper towel behind him out of my
view, not certain if he had been caught.
I smiled, "So what's up?"
His skin was already flushed from his exercise; it turned even redder. I
didn't have the heart to tease him further.
"Want to go ashore for breakfast?" He grabbed at the opportunity of changing
the subject.
"Yeah. See if you can wake Bobby up."
My hand had been cradling Bobby's dick during the entire J. O. session, and
judging from its varying condition, I'd bet Bobby saw exactly what I had
seen.
It was past 11 when we walked into Haleiwa's only restaurant, but breakfast
was still being served. Bobby and Charley each ordered Portuguese sausage,
eggs, and rice. I had an omelette, raisin toast, and coffee.
Sunday was primarily a day of rest, although we did more or less make ready
for the trip along Oahu's north shore to Laie. In mid-afternoon, the two boys
tossed their fishing gear in the inflatable and rowed out past the breakwater.
An hour and a half later they returned carrying their catch. Charlie had
gutted and cleaned our dinner while Bobby paddled back into the harbor.
I hadn't the faintest idea what kind of a fish it was, at least not in haolee
terms; but it weighed at least four pounds.
The kids took over the galley, preparing the meal.
As the Hawaiian sun faded behind the Koholuos, we sat on deck eating our
last meal of the day, sharing the rare beauty of the islands, the rarer beauty
of a growing appreciation of one another.
Charley had gone to bed. The moonlight reflected a silvery path from the
horizon to the Tehani. It was as if some heavenly creature wanted us to know
that something special was there; just follow the silvery path into the
future.
I had my arm around Bobby's shoulder, hugging him to me. The warmth of his
body radiated not only warmth, but appreciation and affection.
We went below, Charley was asleep. We undressed, completely. Entering our
bed, we snuggled, my front to his back, my arms around him, his cute little
butt warming my soul. He put his hands on mine, gently moving them down to
his pubes. I scratched and played with the black kinky hairs.
He moved my hand further down 'til it touched his erect member. Gently I
massaged it. He moved his body even tighter against mine. I kissed his
shoulders. He sighed. My hand released his penis and began to massage his
abdomen feeling the ripply muscles. He moved my hand back down to his cock,
silently imploring me to guide him down the path of release.
All too soon, I could feel his body tense. I cupped my hand over the head as
it splashed forth the seed of his loins. God, how I wished Charley hadn't
been there. Oh, how I wished I could have brought him to that precipice in
a more explosive way. But then, there was always tomorrow. We drifted off
to sleep; our day was done.
The sky hadn't even begun to glow from a rising sun, when Charley dragged us
out of bed; I think he momentarily showed surprise that Bobby and I both were
naked, but in that dim light it was difficult to be sure.
We let out on the stern line, pulling on the bow 'til we were over the anchor.
Once it was on deck, we pulled on the stern line, finally hosting it on deck.
I tied both down, while Charley started the engine, Bobby was at the wheel.
We gently putted past the breakwater. The boys quietly hoisted our sails and
set the tension on the sheets as we silently sped along the coast, past
Waimea and Sunset.
The early morning surfers were already resting on their boards, waiting for
just the right wave, apparently between sets; we passed perhaps a 1/2 mile
Maki of them. The knee boarders were already off of Goat Island as we made
the southerly turn past Kahuku point.
The Trade Winds had shifted from the northwest, and were now off of our
port quarter. If the Trades had been normal, our course would have been
directly into the wind; we would have had to tack most of the way. As it
was we made Laie before noon.
Even though the coast line dipped inward, it didn't create much of a harbor.
The water was shallow, but the Tehani was a shallow draft craft. Even with
the skags down, she drew less than four feet.
We had to move in with caution. Charley wanted to use the engine; Bobby
thought it too risky. In the end they pushed and pulled the boat close to
shore, anchoring us in shallow water. The tide was out, so it was not likely
that we would find ourselves grounded by a low tide.
Laie is the center of Hawaii's Mormon culture. The church and its parishioners
own all of the land for miles around.
An institution of higher learning had been established as the final stage of
educating the Polynesians of the Pacific. Island natives from New Zealand,
Tahiti, Tonga, Fiji, Samoa, and Hawaii attended the Church College of the
Pacific.
As what could be best described as a "Theme Park" had been built, providing
the tourist with a better view of native life styles and also providing the
students with the opportunity to work while they learn.
Even though Bobby and Charlie had lived in the islands most of their life,
they had never been to the Polynesian Cultural Center.
There was quite a bit to see: typical native villages, staffed by students
who actually came from those islands; food prepared native style; two shows,
one outdoors presented on floating stages built like outrigger canoes, gliding
down a man made river; the other indoors, after dark, on a huge stage with
several hundred performers.
It was in the Tahitian Village that we met 18 year old Jann Maker. While he
was dressed in Tahitian Garb, he was light skinned, tall with the build of
a football player. He would not have been out of place in New York or Los
Angeles.
His father, who had passed away a few years before, had been a French Doctor
who settled in Tahiti marrying a Tahitian Girl. Through a genetic quirk Jann
was the only white boy in the family. He had taken after his father, all of
his five brothers and sisters were quite dark.
Mormon missionaries had recruited him, sending him to a Mormon High School
near Aukland, New Zealand. From there, it was Hawaii and the Church College
of the Pacific. He felt the maximum level of education at Church College was
the equivalent of finishing Junior College. It was his intent to enroll at
the University of Hawaii at the end of the current school year.
Jann was not only handsome, he was studly. Bobby was the first to start a
conversation with him. He became quite interested in us when he realized that
we were islanders, not tourists. His attention seemed to center on me. He
was curious about how I related to the two boys. I was in my forties, they
were still in their early teens. He asked for our phone number; we didn't
have one so Bobby gave him our mailing address at Kehai.
The night show could only be described as spectacular, with as many as 100
people on stage during the finale. There was hula. There was Tahitian dancing
and drum pounding. There was fire sword dancing. The show started at 7:30;
we didn't get out of there 'til almost 11PM.
The tide had come in. The Tehani was floating high. We waded out toward her,
but finally ended up swimming the rest of the way.
Back on board, we removed our wet clothing hanging them over the main boom
to dry as we went below, naked, to sleep.
I must have slept very soundly, as we were underway when I woke up. I stuck
my head out of the hatch. Bobby was at the wheel, I looked toward the bow;
there was Charley out on the tip of the Bow, holding on to the hand rails,
buck naked. Again, I noticed how well his unclothed body looked; a living
sculpture. A dark skinned, athletically built, 15 year old piece of the
world's greatest art: the wind in his hair, ocean spray sparkling from his
skin.
I looked at Bobby, he too was with out clothes. He smiled, "They're still
damp".
"Yeah, and they're going to stay that way if we don't get them down below."
Instead, I took the wheel while Bobby fastened our clothes to a halyard,
hoisting them 20 feet above us, allowing the sun and the wind to dry them.
The sail from Laie to Kaneohe was the longest we had so far encountered.
It was just past 3 when we saw the Kaneohe Bay Channel Markers. We slid past
"Chinaman's Hat" islet, following the buoys in a arc, which led us to the
docks at the Marine Corp Air Station at Kaneohe Bay.
The long dock was the home of the Navy's Air/Sea Rescue team. There was plenty
of space; we tied up at the far end, away from the Navy's building.
We were in the main cabin, when we heard "Ahoy there. Any one on Board?"
I stuck my head through the hatch. A Marine sergeant sporting a badge was
standing along side the dock. "Come Aboard."
He didn't make a move to jump on board. "This is a military base, you can't
dock here."
It was already growing dark. "I'd be afraid to move her after sunset; I hear
the channel buoys aren't lit."
"You are probably right. OK. You can stay over night, but be out of here by
daybreak."
The sun had set. We sat out on deck, our backs against the main cabin, looking
at the dock, watching the Navy personnel come and go. The boys were drinking
soda, I had a bottle of Primo beer.
Several sailors walked by, curious about our presence; wanting to know about
the Tehani. One particular guy seemed to know a great deal about sailing.
He, Bobby, and Charlie immersed themselves in a conversation I was finding
it difficult to follow. I'd owned the Tehani for less than two weeks.
The sailor took the three of us to the Enlisted Mens Club to play pool.
Bobby and Charlie were very good. They'd line up shots that looked almost
impossible, sinking the balls in the called pocket. Marines, sitting at the
bar, became interested. The two boys found themselves being challenged.
The kids were having a ball, but I was tired. I returned to the Tehani,
leaving the boys in the hands of "the guy that brought us".
As I was leaving the club, I noticed a cute little marine sitting at the end
of the bar. He smiled and nodded at me. I remembered him as being someone
whom I had met at the De Russey Beer Hall; we had gotten it on.
It took no more than a five minute walk to reach the docks. I was below, in
the main cabin. The boat rocked, someone had stepped on board. The young
marine climbed down the hatch. He was obviously a bit drunk. His smile was
lustful. His hard cock was tenting his uniform. He walked over to me, grabbing
my hand, placing it on his throbbing member. "You are the best cocksucker
I've ever met."
He zipped down his fly, releasing his hard cock. The head was glistening from
pre-cum. I could smell his sexuality. My dick responded in kind. He put his
hands on my shoulders, coaxing me to my knees, then pulling my mouth towards
his waiting rod. He reached down, grasping his cock, rubbing the head against
my nose and lips, covering them with his natural lubricant.
All of the activity with Bobby and Charlie had gotten me very horny. The
Marine's smell, the look of his demanding prick, the urgency of his hands on
my shoulders broke down any restraint that I might of had, as I opened my
mouth sinking his throbbing cock, directly, in one stroke, down my throat.
He groaned and began stroking rapidly. I unbuckled his trousers, sliding them
to the floor. I moved my mouth up to his naval, tonguing, kissing his stomach,
his hip bones, while lowering his shorts to his ankles.
Grasping his prick, he moved it back to my mouth, offering it for further
service.
My lips stayed around the head, my tonguing titillating that super sensitive
spot. My left hand moved between his legs, rubbing his inner thighs, seeking
their way to his firm buttocks. I moved my finger towards his anus, already
moist in anticipation. My finger probed and then entered the tight muscle
ring. It spasmed, grasping my finger, then releasing it only to grasp again,
pulling my digit towards his prostrate, immersing my finger into the damp
heat of his bowels. I could feel his guts pulsate with his dick, both demanding
immediate attention.
He pulled loose from my mouth. "Fuck me! Pleeeeeeease, Fuck me good."
I pushed him face down on the lower bunk. The only lubricant I could see was
margarine in the galley. I put a big gob of it on his hot ass hole, positioned
my demanding cock against his anus. Before I could push down, his ass moved
up, sinking my prick in his body, 'til his butt had smacked my abdomen.
He moved his ass up and down, and round and round, like he was trying to
start a bonfire by rubbing sticks of wood together. "Get off me for a minute".
He turned over, back against the wall, his legs pointed upward. I moved in
between them, resting his knees on my shoulders. Lifting him, I shoved back
into the hilt. His legs pulled down, his butt moved up. I stroked down, he
stroked up. I could feel myself reaching the point of no return.
Looking down into his face, I saw passion, lust, and ecstasy. His arm came
up, grasping me at the back of my neck pulling me down to his protruding
tongue. He wildly fucked my mouth with his hot thrusting tongue. Suddenly,
we were both there. My balls projected stream after stream of cum into his
demanding ass, his prick exploded, jetting his sperm between our bodies, most
hitting me in the chest, then cascading onto his own chest, stomach, and
abdomen.
I withdrew. My giant load was flowing out. I gave him a paper towel to wipe
himself.
Silently we dressed. He had worked the alcohol out of his system. Almost
shyly he grinned at me and left the Tehani.
I was asleep when Bobby and Charley came back on board. Charley said "What's
that funny smell?"
Bobby's answer was, "Guess he must have been cooking something; look at the
butter."
They undressed, put out the lights, and crawled into bed. Bobby's bare little
butt again pushed against my penis. I played possum.
The sun had not as yet risen as we pushed off from Marine Corp Air Station
Kaneohe. The channel marker buoys were still hazy figures. I stood on the
bow, looking beyond, straining to see the next marker just beyond our view.
Our course paralleled the tropic shore. Palm and Banana trees crowded up to
the water's edge, an occasional inverted phallic Papaya, testicles higher
than the surrounding trees, directing our attention to the romantic nature
of Hawaii. The day became brighter. Chinaman's Hat was just ahead, not yet
off our starboard side; a few fisherman, standing in water to their waist,
were throwing their small nets.
Once we were in the Molokai Channel, we reversed our course, heading towards
Makapuu Point. The sky was still clear, we could see Molokai in the distance
off of our Port Quarter. As we approached Makapuu Light, Bobby shifted our
course to 170 degrees, heading us toward the "slot" between Molokai and Lani.
The currents were heading towards us. The Tehani's starboard bow would dip
and crash into the oncoming swells, lifting and throwing great torrents of
water high into the wind, as it propelled over the sails, and over us.
The wind was at an angle to give us significant speed; perhaps 10 knots.
The waves, however, threw us around, constantly pushing us off course. The
35 mile run to Kaunakakai took most of the day; a fight every inch of the
way.
Once we were in the slot, protected by Molokai off of our port side and Lani
to Starboard, everything calmed down. The sail up the slot being smooth and
easy.
Charlie spotted the smoke stacks of a sugar mill, "We're getting close to
where we ought'a head in towards shore." Bobby spun the wheel, trying to
bring us about. We didn't have enough inertia; the sails wafted in the breeze,
we didn't move across the wind line.
Bobby turned the wheel, shifting again to starboard, trying to build speed.
Suddenly he spun the wheel to port, the Tehani slowed, came to a stop, we
still hadn't come about.
Again wheel to starboard; we built speed. This time, Bobby kept it to
starboard, bringing the wind behind us. With a snap, the Tehani jibbed, the
booms smashed from port to starboard. The main mast vibrated from the impact;
we were finally headed directly towards Molokai, towards Kaunakakai.
The wind dropped off as we drew closer to the island. We lost speed. Bobby
was fighting to maintain enough way to keep the boat under control. They
eventually furled the sails, wrestled the engine into to the well, and we
proceeded the rest of the way under power.
Kaunakakai was very tiny; it was very rural. Surprisingly, it did have a
restaurant, which was also part of a general store. This was Molokai's only
port. Seagoing barges would tie up to the dock to be loaded with sugar cane
or pineapple, then towed across the channel to Oahu.
The population of the entire island was less than 2000 people, including the
infamous Kalapana Leper Colony.
The boys thought they would go exploring using the Mini-Scooters. They hauled
them out of the pontoons. Neither would start. Bobby checked one engine while
Charlie worked on the other. Bobby thought the carburetor was bad and borrowed
the one from Charlie's scooter. That fixed the problem. They decided to take
turns. Bobby would go for an hour, then it would be Charlie's turn.
The scooter was loud, or Molokai was very quiet. We could hear the scooter
as Bobby sped out into the country side.
Charlie and I boarded the Tehani. We went below and sat opposite each other
on the lower bunk/seats.
I could tell there was something on Charlie's mind. After a bit of coaxing I
got him to open up.
"What's going on with you and Bob?"
"What do you mean?" I parried.
He smiled, "I'm not stupid you know. Bob never slept naked before he started
sleeping with you. I know you guys are getting each other off."
I truthfully denied the allegation; I had gotten Bobby off, but not he me.
"If that's so, then why don't I start sleeping with you, instead." Charlie
was beginning to tent.
It would have been better if I had changed the subject, but my dick responded
to his; it began to grow. Charlie's tent got bigger as he noticed my meat
expanding.
"I'm very fond of Bobby, but his move into my bed was his doing. He's like
a little teddy bear, nice to cuddle up to. You'll have to work out any changes
with him."
Charlie moved next to me, putting his hand directly on top of my now throbbing
cock. "Well, I wanna do something." He squeezed the head of my cock. It
answered for me.
"Take your shorts off." I complied as he removed his. His good sized member
expanded further as he saw my now very erect cock. "I wanna do something
better than jacking off. What can we do?"
He was fondling me, "It's your choice. What do you want to do?"
His hand began massaging my prick in response to my question. "I've never
had my cock sucked, but I'd like to fuck you."
The sound of the returning scooter prevented further confrontation. Charlie's
face showed disappointment. He reached for his shorts, but before he could
put them on, I reached down, and gulped his very rigged member fully down my
throat. He groaned, and exploded from that one single motion.
Charlie went on deck as the scooter came to a stop along side the Tehani.
Bobby came into the main cabin as Charlie sped off into the distance. "What'd
you guys do while I was gone?"
I didn't respond to his rhetorical question. "See anything interesting?"
There were only two roads on the island, he explored the paved one, which
took him across Molokai to the bluff overlooking Kalapapa. You could see what
was left of the colony far below on that inaccessible coast. We went on deck
to stow the unusable scooter in the port pontoon.
On his return, Charlie told us he had found a night club in town. That seemed
unlikely. What Charlie had found was close to being a night club, or as close
to is as a small Hawaiian village might support.
Just to the right of the dock was a structure built directly on the water's
edge. While it had a corrugated metal roof, it had no exterior walls on three
sides. It contained wooden picnic tables with attached benches. The locals
would gather there sharing beer, music, and talk, or even fish from
the side overlooking the harbor.
The sun had already sunk below Lani by the time we had stowed the other
scooter and more or less made ready for an early departure on the morrow.
Dim orange/yellow light coming from the "club" reflected off of the water as
the first strains of a guitar could be heard. The boys insisted that I bring
my guitar along.
We walked the short distance, entering the building. A heavy, dark Hawaiian
waved at us, asking what we'd have. It was a rhetorical question in that
Primo beer was the only thing for sale. We sat at one of the long tables,
Bobby and Charlie facing me.
We were on our fourth beer. I was chording along with the other musician,
trying to find chords which would harmonize and fill out what he was playing.
One of the two boys was playing footsy with me. I couldn't tell which by
looking at them.
Charlie went over to the bar and came back with some smoked fish. The footsy
play ceased when he left, but started again after he was seated.
The establishment closed earlier than we expected. We walked back to the
boat, feeling no pain. Charlie was a little ahead of us. We could hear him
pissing off the dock. Bobby and I did the same.
Charlie was already in his bunk when we came below. As was our custom, Bobby
and I were soon cuddled naked, my front to his back. The beer led the path
to a deep sleep.
Several hours later, Charlie stepped up on the lower bunk, lifted himself
up, crawling over Bobby and me. It didn't arouse Bob. Charlie slipped between
the outer wall and me. He was naked. I could feel his bone resting against
my butt cheek. He had put something slippery on his hot dick. Positioning
it, he slowly rocked back and forth hoping it would find a home for itself.
Bobby's deep breathing continued undisturbed, as his brother began to slide
his demanding cock into my hungry ass. At first it hurt a bit, but the
adventure of his doing it while I was still cuddled around his brother added
to the intrigue, suppressing the pain. He eventually was all the way in.
He paused. I could feel the head grow as it absorbed the heat from my
intestines. He withdrew 'til his head was just barely inside of my sphincter.
Then he pushed back in, slowly. When the head touched my prostrate, it paused,
then seemed to rock back and forth the hot knob stimulate my gland. Then he
pushed all the way in, again resting, again the head felt like it was swelling.
He slowly withdrew, with the head resting just inside of my body. Then he
withdrew all together. The ring had been massaged to the point of total
relaxation. His cock head than began rocking back and forth entering, exiting,
reentering my hole. Then back to the prostrate, again the gentle rocking.
Sperm was leaking out of my rigid penis without the spasm of ejaculation.
Again all the way in. He was driving me crazy. I wanted to throw my hips back
into his, but was afraid of alerting Bobby. Finally, his rhythm began to
build, the strokes were faster. He moved in tight for the final thrust as I
could feel his ejaculation spray the inside of my intestines with what seemed
to be a gallon of cum.
He left his waning dick in that deeply inserted position until it shrank
and fell out of my ass hole.
With stealth, he moved back to his own bed. Bobby was still deeply asleep in
my arms, his butt covered from my dripping cock.
Much later, Charlie shook Bobby by the shoulder. "Let's go, it'll be daylight
soon."
Bobby stirred and opened his eyes. Sleepily he yawned and began to crawl out
of bed. He reached behind him touching his now sticking ass cheeks. "Jesus,
Don, you have a wet dream or something?"
"I don't know, I was a sleep."
Even though I couldn't see Charlie's face I could feel an ear to ear grin.
The trip back across the Molokai Channel, while totally different, was equally
as difficult. The swells moved toward Oahu, but seemed to come from constantly
different directions. A swell would lift us. The Tehani would be carried at
the crest of the developing wave, and then hurl us off the lip, diving the
pontoon bows into the ocean. It was a constant fight of the wheel to keep
our course headed toward Diamond Head. Looking behind us, we could see the
next swell moving toward us, again lifting us. The oncoming swells seemed
higher than the boat as they approached from the rear.
I was shocked as I looked back at one particularly high swell. The sunlight
made the water translucent as it looked like it might crash over us with the
shadow of a 15 foot shark clearly visible in its shell.
We left Kanunakaki before sunrise. It was almost midnight before we started
the trip up the Kehai Channel to our slip and close to 1 AM when we tied the
Tehani to the dock. The full Hawaiian moon lit the sky with silvery light
as Bobby and Charlie walked down the dock and over to their own boat.
The previous week had been a rarefied experience. My life slid back to normal.
Bobby and Charlie were back in school.
Monday morning I checked with the Marina office to see if the bill for next
month's mooring was in my box; instead, there was an envelope from Jack
Wormski's office.
Inside was a note from Jack: warm, cordial, wanting to know how things were
going in Paradise. Also, there were two letters, addressed to me care of his
office. One was from Miss Doug; the other, postmarked New Orleans, was from
Little Larry.
Larry's letter was kind of a downer. Stanley had fired him; I suspected it
was because he broke the no hustling rule. The memory of the last blow job
he had given me created a boner right there in the Marina Office.
The letter from Miss Doug was equally interesting, but in a different way.
He said that he had heard that I now lived in the islands and felt badly
that I had not contacted him. The letter went on describing a new broadcast
format he was undertaking. The music was to be an all Hawaiian format, with
musicians being DJ's. He had contracted with an island entertainer named "Don
Ho" to provide the DJ's, but that Ho couldn't find anyone to take the 8 PM
to 4 AM spot. All of his people worked the clubs during those hours.
I wrote a letter to Larry, addressed to him care of the Corner Pocket in New
Orleans, explaining that I had moved to Hawaii, and was now living on board
a sailboat. I included my address, should he even get the letter, or should
he care to respond.
Then I called Miss Doug's office. He invited me to lunch at the Royal Hawaiian
on Tuesday at 11.
The Buffet at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel is Hawaii's most sumptuous. Doug had
an umbrella-covered table overlooking the beach. He had another guest already
seated. They were sipping something exotic, something I also presumed was
alcoholic.
Doug had aged in the ensuing years. No longer could he get away playing the
roll of a female. He had gained 40 lbs. His hair was gray, but existed only
as a ring around his otherwise bald head.
He introduced me to his friend: a robust man in his early fifties. He was an
administrator at the Kamehameha School for Hawaiian Children. They had known
each other for years. Fred was of German extraction and had been a professor
at some school in California, before being attracted to the islands by an
offer from the Bishop Estate and Kamehameha Schools.
Even though we had nothing in common, we developed an instant liking for each
other. His interests were strictly academic. I hadn't even finished High
school. Classical music was his forte, mine Country Western/Hawaiian.
The primary reason for this luncheon was that vacant spot in Doug's schedule.
Even though I could hardly be called an expert in Hawaiian Music, my friendship
at the Hawaiian Club had paved the path. Don Ho, Sammy Kapu, and even Zulu
had heard about this strange haolee that hung around the otherwise
predominately Hawaiian Club.
However, I didn't want just to be a DJ. I suggested that we see if Ho could
get past the American Federation of Musicians, so that we could do thirty
minute live segments from each club, rotating them through the week.
Doug was more concerned about the labor cost of doing a remote. I suggested
that we simply tie into the club's PA System. Doug said that he'd talk to
Dave Johnson about the engineering side of it and to Don Ho. In the final
analysis, it would be good business for everyone.
I'd take care of the MC'ing. We'd start with an hour of recorded music
featuring the artists we would be visiting. Then after midnight, I'd take
the reigns. I'd mix recorded music with an open mic; me on the guitar.
Also, any musicians who wanted to drop by for talking story or playing music
could do so. We would not issue specific invitations; there could be no
advance planning; we'd make do with whomever arrived at our studio after
midnight.
Fred suggested I needed a quick course in Hawaiian History: the ancient chief
system, the evolvement of that system to today's modern Hawaii.
There was very little that I knew about the Hawaiian people other than their
contemporary music. I eagerly accepted his offer and found myself invited
for dinner at his home on the Kamehameha Campus friday night.
Bobby and Charlie were ecstatic about my being on the radio. But they were
unhappy about the probability that it would cut back on the sailing.
Finding Fred's home on Friday night was not as easy as it should have been.
First, I got to the wrong gate and had to backtrack, coming up to what I then
found was the main gate. Then, Security needed to telephone Fred's house to
clear my entry. It seems Fred didn't know my last name. They had a guest
list, but of course, I wasn't on it. And his phone was busy.
Then the drive from the gate to Fred's was long and winding with several
forks; of course, I took two wrong ones.
However, eventually I did find his home. There had been few cars in evidence
as I drove up the hill. I turned a corner; there were cars parked everywhere.
Fred's party was a gathering.
Everyone in attendance seemed to have a different reason for being there.
First, there was a heavy set guy touting old movies taken in Honolulu in the
early 1900's. Then there was a lady writer who was doing research on a book
about the last reigning monarch of Hawaii, Queen Liliokalani.
Still another handsome haolee woman was studying the Hawaiian language and
culture. Several of the school staff were present. Two other musicians were
introduced to me. Kui Lee was half Chinese and half Hawaiian and a leading
composer of Hawaiian music. The other fellow, Jack Demello, was one of the
island's leading band leaders.
In introducing me, Fred pushed the truth way out of proportion saying that
I was starting a revolutionary type of Hawaiian programing on the radio. He
emphasized the nightly open forum from midnight to 4 AM. The writer
immediately sought me out, offering her research. At the moment, most of that
research was divided between the archives at the Bishop Museum and interviews
with Queen Liliokalani's hani (foster) daughter, Lydia Aholo. Miss Lydia,
now in her 90's was bedridden in Mount Lelani Convalescent home.
I found her story an intriguing one: how the missionary's culture had clashed
with that of the monarchy. About how white settlers lead by Sanford Dole had
mounted an armed revolt, supported by American warships. How the queen had
been placed under arrest and imprisoned in Iolani Palace. How she appealed
to President Wilson, who avowed that America had no part in the revolution
and therefore could not intercede.
Kui Lee provided a different insight to my perspective of the Hawaiians.
Much of his music was contemporary; "Tiny Bubbles", a Don Ho trademark, was
one of his. Kui was a quiet man, yet one who always seemed nervous, or
unsettled. He was a heavy smoker. His smile always seemed to be a bit sad.
I was also introduced to Frank Fasi, a city councilman who wanted to become
Mayor. He was of short stature but quite fiery; he would have been a good
evangelist. Fasi was not native to the islands; he was from New Jersey.
By the end of the gathering, I had made numerous valuable contacts and came
away with several invitations for drinks, lunch, or dinner.
Over the weekend, Dave Johnson and Don Ho had come through for us. The union
had given a temporary go ahead, and Dave was arranging for the tie-ins to
the various clubs' sound systems. The Hawaiian telephone would install a line
from each club to a jack panel in the radio station studios. That work should
be done by the end of the week.
Dave invited me to the studio on Friday so that he could familiarize me with
the audio board and the new jack panel. While I was a little concerned about
the technical side of this new job, I was more concerned about familiarizing
myself with the station's music library.
Advertising and promotion for "Hawaii After Dark", slated the inaugural for
Saturday. The first half hour was to come from the Queen Surf and Sammy Kapu.
The second half hour would be from the Kahala Hilton with Danny Kalakini.
The third was Hilo Hattie from the Hawaiian Village Hotel. The fourth and
final part was from Don Ho at Duke's.
I made one change in my original plan, I would precede each live remote with
a lead-up to the performer, featuring earlier recordings as well as telling
whatever historical or biographical data that I could find.
Sammy Kapu was relatively new on the scene, so most of what I used came from
the jackets of his recordings.
But I really lucked out when it came to Hilo Hattie. The woman whom I had
met at Fred's party, the one studying the language at the culture, had some
very old recordings that she had done in the early 30's. It didn't take a lot
of extra research to find her Hawaiian name and history. How Harry Owens had
objected to her appropriating his song "When Hilo Hattie Does the Hilo Hop"
but she had turned it into such a success that he had to let her have it.
The last number that I played before switching to the Village was an old,
scratchy 78 of "The Cockeyed Mayor of Kanakakai". As the recording came to
a close, I could hear on the monitor from the Village her commencing the
Cockeyed Mayor; I segued, and we joined, early, and without my announcing we
were switching to the remote. After the applause had died down, I lowered
the volume coming from the club, announcing "And live from the Hawaiian
Village Hotel... Aunty Clara... Hilo Hattie."
The final remote, Don Ho's, was tailored for the broadcast, bringing that
part of the evening to a resounding and successful end.
During the day, I had gone through an index of the station's recorded music.
I suspected it would take a little time for the "open forum" idea to spread
and attract some of the performers.
I had put on a Hawaiian music instrumental. My mic was open as I strummed
along with the recording. I heard the studio door open, I looked up at the
glass window, and saw the reflection of Aunty Clara, coming through the door
behind me.
Ignoring the red 'ON THE AIR' sign, she burst into Hawaiian. She threw her
arms around me, lifting me from my chair. She gave me a big kiss, pointed
at me, "Donald from Thunder? Right?"
For almost two hours we sat, mic open, and talked story. Not just her life,
but what she knew about her people. Her mother had attended the same church
as did Queen Liliokalani. The queen had been at her christening in the old
Kawaihow Church. Miss Lydia had been like an older sister in her childhood
days.
And so came the end of my first day working for Miss Doug.
Bobbie and Charlie had stayed up for the whole show and were waiting for me
on the Tehani when I got home just past 5AM.
They were as eager and rambunctious as a couple of happy puppy dogs.
Somehow, they had obtained a bottle of champagne and had it on ice. Even
though I was very tired, I couldn't turn them away. Bobby popped the cork
and we drank the entire bottle.
Charlie went home at 6AM. Bobby got naked and climbed in bed with me. He
pushed his little bare butt against my pubes. My arm was around him. He put
his hand over mine, pulling it down to his erect member as I drifted off to
sleep.
It was mid afternoon when I finally woke up. Bobby had gone.
------------------------------------------------------------
My Teenage Heart
Chapter Twelve
The Garden Of Eden
The next two years were an interesting combination of getting to know the
Hawaiian people, of the adventure of doing something new, of the challenge
of an ever changing world. And all of this within the laid back Hawaiian
environment.
Vietnam had gone on and on. Bobby graduated from high school and enrolled at
the University of Hawaii, while Charlie was attending school at the University
of California at Long Beach.
The Shultz's moved their boat to Waikiki's Ala Wai Yacht Harbor then to
Seattle, and I was given their slip at the Ala Wai.
It was in early September of 1969; Bobby's National Guard Unit had been
activated; he was in California for basic training.
Saturday night was the end of my week. The walk from the radio station to
the Ala Wai was a short one; my path took me through Fort DeRusey. The
temperature was cool, but not cold. A slight breeze waved the palm fronds
high above my head. Even though the sun would not lift itself above the
horizon for several hours, the sky somehow seemed lighter.
Waikiki could have been any small town at 4:30 in the morning. Everything
was quiet. As I walked down the pier, I could hear the gentle splash of water
striking the pilings.
The tide was out, the Tehani's deck a foot below the dock. I stepped down,
she shifted slightly. It was then that I noticed someone was asleep on the
starboard deck. I wondered if it was a previous conquest, as I approached
him, curled up into a ball, facing away from me.
My moving across the deck caused the boat to rock gently. The sleeper turned
then sat up, propping him self on his left arm. "Hey Don, I thought you'd
never get here." It was little Larry.
Little Larry was still short of stature. Even though he was now almost 20,
he still had that apple pie and mom look about him. His hair was still long,
but just a shade darker. He still dressed in blue jeans chosen for their
tightness rather than comfort, and his body was still that of a youngster.
We went below to the main cabin. I suggested he stow his bag in the bow cabin.
Being close to 5:00 AM all I wanted to do was sleep.
All too soon, the sun insisted that we to rise and shine. Of course, we were
famished, not having eaten since early the night before. We went to a Perry
Boy's Buffet and pigged out on fresh fruit, french toast, orange juice, and
coffee.
After brunch, I took Larry on a drive around the island. Our route was down
Kalakaua Ave., over the front slope of Diamond Head, down the Kalanianioli
Highway, and stopped at Hanama Bay. It is almost totally enclosed by the
mountains. Very peaceful, shallow, warm, crystal clear water. Ideal for
snorkeling.
A long, steep trail led to the water's edge. It was very inviting; we could
have spent the entire day there laying in the sun, relaxing, swimming.
However we continued on the road towards a ocean sprouting "fountain" called
the "Blow Hole", then stopped at what was rumored to be the world's greatest
body surfing beach. We sat there for almost a half hour watching the surfers
riding those waves. Then we continued on.
As we left the parking lot we saw a young Hawaiian kid walking; his thumb
extended carrying a body board. Larry wanted to give him a lift. He was
going just a few miles to the little Hawaiian Village of Wiamanalo.
His name was Rocky Kauanui, and he was very handsome. About 16 or 17. 5'10"
tall, slim waisted, very cute butt, well developed chest from swimming, jet
black curly hair, dark skinned, and a beautiful smile.
His grandfather was a Hawaiian musician whom I had become aware of, both from
the station and through my patronage of the Hawaiian Club.
We were well into Wiamanalo with Rocky navigating to his home. The house was
an older wooden structure; kind of a plantation house, and badly in need of
painting. The building faced the water. The back yard was grass from the back
porch toward the beach for about 50 feet, then sand all the way to the water.
We dropped him at his home.
He waved goodbye as we sped down the road, away from him, and towards Mount
Olomanu.
Larry had suddenly developed a passion. He wanted to learn how to body board
those waves at "Sandy Beach". We had hardly made a left on to the Pali Highway
when he said, "Let's go back to Sandy".
I pointed out that not only didn't he know anything about body boarding, he
didn't even have a board.
"Well, maybe Rocky would let me use his."
Even though the Hawaiians are very sharing people, I doubted that trait
extended to strange haolees. Nevertheless, Larry was persistent, and we
returned to Waimanalo.
Rocky was sitting on his front steps, elbows on his knees, looking rather
dejected. He appeared somewhat surprised to see us. Larry bounded out of the
car and practically sprinted to where he was seated.
After a few minutes of discussion, both boys came back to the car. "Rocky
says OK. But he's got another problem. He's supposed to be at a Hula practice
in Kaimuki this evening at 7. He usually goes with his uncle, but he's on
the Big Island."
This would provide me with the opportunity to take a nap at the Tehani, before
returning to pickup the boys at 6:00.
Rocky grabbed his board and jumped in the back seat.
It took me less than a half hour to return to the Tehani, dropping the
youngsters at the beach en route.
The nap was more of a lay down, as my mind was contemplating this new turn
of events. Larry's arrival was totally unexpected. With Bobby and Charlie on
the mainland, my sex life had dwindled to being practically nonexistent. But
unless Larry's interests in life had changed, that was about to take a
different course.
My trip back to Sandy took a little longer than I had expected. Kalanianioli
Highway was notoriously unpredictable. There were no side streets or alternate
ways to get from Waikiki to Sandy Beach. Even though it was September, the
weather was remarkably spring like.
The two lads were waiting as I turned off of the highway into the beach
parking lot.
Rocky explained that he was part of a men's Hula dance group, and that they
were entered in the Kamehameha Hula competition being held in Hilo just before
Christmas. The group rehearsed at the Kaimuki Dance Studio twice each week.
Larry asked if we could watch the rehearsal; Rocky said it would be OK, and
then we could take him home after practice.
The dance studio was on the second floor of a building shared by the Kaimuki
Theater. It was not unlike the one in Hollywood where Thunder had rehearsed
so many years ago.
The floors were the same polished wood. Full sized mirrors lined two of the
four walls. A piano was pushed up against another wall.
Sitting on a stool was an older Hawaiian fellow whom I recognized from the
Hawaiian Club. He waved in acknowledgment.
We were a little late; Rocky was the last of his group to arrive.
All of the boys were in their teens. They were all dark skinned, either full
Hawaiian or part Hawaiian/part oriental. Some were dressed as was Rocky;
cut-offs and tee-shirts. Others wore jeans and shirts. They were all bare
foot.
The first exercise was mostly twirling and fancy foot work. Each dancer had
his counterpart with whom he provided point and counter point. It looked more
Tahitian than Hawaiian.
But the second routine was truly in the Hawaiian tradition. The body movements
involved their entire form as they undulated from their heads to their toes
in what I could best described as a wave motion. Every movement seemed a
natural extension of its predecessor. The music and the movements needed each
other to be whole. Larry began to sway with the music, to mimic the troop's
routine.
The group broke after the third routine, and Rocky joined us. Larry asked
questions about the meaning of the dance routines, of the body motions, and
of the steps. Rocky was clearly pleased at his interest, answering all of
his questions and showing precise details of this traditional art.
We drove Rocky to Waimanalo after practice. Rocky was talking about cutting
school if surf was up (a Hawaiian tradition). Then the conversation drifted
to the Hula dance troop and the competition. Surprisingly, Larry related his
Go-Go Boy adventures to Rocky, who also surprisingly, seemed enthusiastically
interested.
It was well past midnight when we finally stepped on board the Tehani. It
had been a full day.
Larry and I had slipped into the upper bunk on the starboard side.
"You can rub my back, if you want," I ventured and turned over on my belly,
resting my arms under my chin. He told me to slide over "cause he was right
handed", and then he climbed over me, grazing my body with his own until he
was on the other side.
With that, I pressed up against Larry's side; he started caressing my shoulders
and back. He inched downward and rubbed across my ass cheeks, still covered
by my cotton briefs. I spread my legs somewhat. He took the cue and browsed
between my legs. Larry fondled my thighs and slipped his fingers inside the
elastic, touching my balls and cheeks.
"Let's get naked." I wanted more. I felt like being pampered.
"You do it." I whispered. He started to pull on my underpants as I arched
up he slipped them down to my ankles. I kicked them off. Then he slipped
his off and pressed his hardened dick against my leg while he resumed fondling
my ass. I found that after all of those weeks of celibacy that I loved to
just have the boy touching me.
He slid lower under the sheet so his head was even with my hips. That way
Larry could more easily stroke my ass, play with my balls and run his hand
down my thighs. I knew my ass was not all that small but he seemed fascinated
with its softness, contrasting to his: firm and muscular. He finally climbed
over and rested his cheek on the round cheeks of my ass. I felt very
comforted; my soft bottom seeming to serve as an erotic pillow. Larry
continued stroking my thighs and balls just below his chin. Once, he turned
his head and caressed my soft skin with his lips.
"Kenny liked to do that," Larry said. What Larry didn't say was that Kenny
liked to lick his ass. I remembered his 19 year old friend and how he liked
to spread his cheeks and lick even his hole.
Larry was developing a thing for my ass, paying far more attention to it than
my hungry cock. At first, I hadn't thought much about it as he seemed
satisfied with the intimate touching. However, tonight, he wanted to get
the show on the road so he turned me over. I found myself with Larry's very
erect cock looking me in the eye.
I began to play with it, very gently stroking it and reaching downward to
play with his balls. I liked his being under the sheet, seeing nothing --
just feeling the warmth of my shipmate's privates.
"Lick it, Larry." My request was almost an order, and he obeyed. His lips
found the underside of my member as he extended his tongue and licked all
along my hard penis.
I began leaking precum in anticipation, and when his tongue found its way
over the ridge of my dick, he tasted the slippery juice and then took my
penis into his mouth. He nursed all the slipperiness there was and began
sucking. When he paused for a moment, I slid upwards in the bed and raised
my leg around him so once again he was between my legs.
I drew my thighs up and Larry got into a crouched position where he could
feel my hips and thighs. He continued sucking and then kissing and even
snuggling his nose and mouth on my exposed scrotum. He seemed to love the
soft warmth of my private places, feeling the firm gonads against his
lips. When Larry had fully explored my genitals, he went back to sucking,
and I concentrated on the wet warmth of his mouth. In only a few seconds,
I began a deep orgasm that reached clear to my butt. My powerful gland
spurted a half dozen times, sending my juices deep into Larry's mouth. My
dick pulsed rhythmically between his open lips; his mouth was filled with my
juice.
Larry struggled with it. I had been thinking about this all day, and it was
as if my body was making as much jism as it could to give to the lad at this
moment. I felt the spasms tingle all over me; it was a great climax. When
Larry had sucked and swallowed all that there was, he got up and laid beside
me.
"That was good, Lar." I whispered, still breathless. If anything, Larry's
technique had improved since those last days in Florida.
For the next month, our daily routine almost became habitual: We would sleep
until late, then Larry would go to Sandy Beach and surf. On some evenings he
and Rocky would go to Hula practice, and, of course, I worked at the radio
station from 8PM 'til 4. Larry's voracious appetite for cock never seemed to
wane, so my sexual requirements were well met. He and Rocky were rapidly
becoming best friends. On my days off, we would take the Tehani out for short
sails, frequently with Rocky.
It was during the latter part of the first week of November that Larry told
me that Kanni, Rocky's dance partner, had broken his leg, and that the troop
master had asked Larry if he'd like to join the group, to be part of the
Kamehameha Competition in Hilo.
Miss Doug had been contemplating coverage of the event with a live remote
from Hilo. Everything seemed to come together as though it had been planned.
It was decided that Larry, Rocky, and I would sail the Tehani to Hilo, where
we would anchor in the small craft anchorage on the southern part of Hilo
Bay. The station would provide a rental car for our week's stay.
The first leg would put us in Kanakakai Molokai; the second, Wailuku Maui;
the third, Hana Maui; then Hilo in the afternoon of the fourth day. I would
need a full day to set up the audio equipment and test out the telephone
broadcast circuit between Hilo and our studios in Waikiki.
Doug had arranged for someone from Don Ho's staff to take over my show at
the station for two weeks.
I had warned the boys about the Molokai Channel, so everything had been
properly stashed and tied down. Even the station's remote audio board and
mics had been packed in waterproof wrappings, and stowed in the stern cabin.
Both Larry and Rocky were excited about the trip south. If everything went
according to plan, we would leave our slip at the Ala Wai about midnight,
parallel Waikiki (changing course off of Diamond Head), and aim the Tehani
towards the channel between Lani and Molokai. The trip across to Kanakakai
could take 10 hours depending on what the winds were like and how forceful
were the oncoming currents in the Molokai Channel.
Rocky and Larry wrestled the engine into the well. The engine caught on the
second pull of the recoil starter. We cast off, backed out of our slip, then
powered down the channel to the open ocean.
Just past the channel markers, we put the engine into idle and hoisted the
jib sail. The breeze was light, but the sail immediately caught, pulling us
out and away from the island.
As I adjusted the tension on the jib sheets, Rocky and Larry untied the main
and prepared her for hoisting.
I changed course so we were headed dead into the wind. The boys hoisted the
main. The sails filled as we were propelled along the Oahu Coast. The water
on our port side sparkled from the reflected lights of Waikiki's hotels and
clubs.
The trim on the main sheets had the boom pulled in tight. The boys stood at
the end of the main boom, silhouetted against the shining sea.
"We'd better stow the engine before we hit the Channel." I broke the magical
spell.
We had cleared the Diamond Head light, the Makapuu Light was yet to be visible.
In the far distance, you could see the pinpoints from the bluffs at Molokai
and Lani.
The moon shone down on a sea as smooth as glass. I wondered if this was an
omen predicting the future of our trip.
The wind had shifted. I let out on the main sheet, allowing the head of the
boom to move further out.
Rocky went below deck, returning with my guitar. He sat on the edge of the
cabin, feet down toward the cockpit, strumming, then adding his voice. The
magic had returned.
Larry stood in the center of the deck above the main cabin. His body was
moving to the gentle rhythms of the music.
Rocky handed me the guitar, joining Larry. I continued the melody improvising
as best I could.
The boys, removed their shirts and jeans, continuing the ballet in the nude.
The silvery moonlight reflected from the skin of both boys: one dark, one
light. The movement of the feet, the hips, the waist, the shoulders synchronous
and flowing, telling a romantic tale for any imagination.
Their movements were improvisation, as was my music. While we all followed,
we also added our own creativity, leading us on an intriguing path.
I picked up the pace; the boys conjured steps that, while in the spirit of
Hawaii, were not quite Hawaiian. They turned, lined up, Larry following Rocky.
Then on a beat they whirled, reversing their direction. Rocky put his hands
on Larry's bare hips. You could feel an emotional shock rock the atmosphere
as though Madam Pele, the goddess of fire, had hurled her lance of pent up
passion across the heavens and into these two supplicants at her alter.
Larry turned; they smiled at one another. Then they did something very odd.
They rubbed noses.
The spell of the Gods was completed.
It was just past 10 AM when Larry woke me. "I think we're off Kanakakai."
Rocky was at the wheel. I'd given the wheel to Larry about 3 AM, together
with directions on keeping the Lani and Molokai lights at certain angles from
our position. By the time we were in the slot where the lights were no longer
visible, it was daylight, so staying in the center of the channel as we headed
towards Maui was an easy task.
There was still eight hours of daylight ahead of us so we decided to press
on south and east, entering the channel between Molokai and Maui. Our
destination was Wailuku on Maui's Eastern Shore.
The offshore currents were no longer glassy. The sea was choppy and indecisive
in the way it tossed us around as we rounded the southern point of Molokai.
But once we had crossed Maui's northern point and were running parallel with
the island's eastern coast, the seas calmed. The wind was still with us. We
were making a good eight knots, and we found ourselves tied up dockside by
3 o'clock. We were a day ahead of schedule.
Rocky wanted to visit a cousin who worked at a restaurant in Iao Valley, just
a few miles away from where we were docked.
The sun was still in its final quadrant as I first heard then saw a rickety,
black, pickup truck clattering down the dock towards us. Rocky was leaning
out the window waving. Larry came topside as the truck came to a halt.
The driver was a very dark, almost black, Hawaiian man of at least 200 lbs.
His hair was black. His weight filled his face so that his age was not obvious;
could have been 18 or could have been 30. His shirt was one of those button
down the front Hawaiian shirts remarkable for the brightness of the patterns,
rather than any tailoring style.
Rocky introduced his cousin Isaac Hopii. We were invited to come to their
home for an Aloha party. We would need to spend the night, as they lived in
a tiny Hawaiian Village accessible only by a narrow dirt road that crawled
along the bluffs of Maui's North Easterly coast.
The village was nestled in a ravine which started at the top of a small
mountain, and wound its way downward 'til it met the ocean in a picturesque
cove. They had no electricity, no telephone. It consisted of ten houses and
a church. The residents had lived there all of their lives and were closely
related.
Larry and I were seated in the bed of the truck, while Rocky sat up front,
chatting with his cousin. The vehicle had bounced around this narrow, rutted
dirt road. On one occasion, an oncoming truck needed to pass, requiring that
we back up to a wider spot.
As we wound down the road into the village, the road seemed to get a little
wider, but at the same time a bit more uneven. We turned into a narrow
driveway, parking in the front yard amongst a flock of chickens and ducks.
The house was surrounded by dense vegetation: banana trees, papayas, and just
plain greenery of every imaginable kind. The house, which was of single wall
construction (same boards were both the inner and outer walls), had been
painted a dark green sometime in the distant past. The sun had bleached it
several shades lighter. The wind had eroded much of the paint, baring the wood
to the elements.
An older woman appeared at the front door. When she saw Rocky, she burst into
Hawaiian, running across the front yard, embracing him. The sound of horse's
hooves pounding behind me drew my attention. Two boys, riding bareback, jumped
from the back of their horses and ran to greet Rocky. The boys could have been
identical twins, but in fact were a year apart: 15 and 16.
Their jet black hair was long but appeared shorter because of the curliness.
They were a little less than 6 foot in height and probably about 145 lbs.
Their old, worn blue jeans suggested that they had gone swimming in them many
times, as they had shrunk so tight that you could see every detail of their
beautifully curved butts. They wore no shirts, their chests attesting to
their abilities as swimmers and surfers.
Rocky introduced us. The boys put their arms around us, squeezing us, letting
us feel their Aloha.
We were guided to the back of the house, where we sat at a rough hewn picnic
table. Isaac reappeared with a six pack of Primo. Keoki and Keno popped the
caps off of two of the beers, passing them to Larry and myself, then helped
themselves to one.
The boys decided to go for a quick swim. Rocky joined them as they ran down
to the water's edge. They stripped, climbed atop a boulder, and dove into
the ocean. Over and over again each boy would climb the rock, bare buttocks
gleaming from the ocean water, their manhood thus exposed, constricting
because of the temperature of the sea.
The woman who had first greeted Rocky joined us, bringing a pitcher and a
ukulele. She waved at her two teenage sons and their cousin. They waved back,
unbothered by their mother viewing their nakedness.
The sun had set as they tired of playing in the water and ran past us into
the house.
When they returned, Keno was wearing what at first looked like a loin cloth.
It was a single piece of very colorful cloth, tightly wound around his waist,
brought up between his legs, and tucked in at the top forming a breathtaking
swim suit. The cloth hugged his butt; you could almost see the start of his
pubic hair, and his cock was well outlined within the cloth. His bronze body
reflected the light of the full moon that was just now rising.
In the background, I began to hear the first sounds of ukulele playing
something familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. Keno's voice was strong,
clear, and perfectly on key. Delightful, gracious, and quite professional.
Keno was so sensual that anyone would have melted in his arms. His voice made
my passions rise. I would have bet that kid lost his virginity while he was
still in diapers.
Isaac was lightly picking at an old steel guitar. The mother was humming;
Rocky merged into a duet.
We sat at this long table with chairs on both sides. The table faced the
ocean. There was some kind of a smoking cook pit between the table and the
ocean. The family was seated with their backs to the water, while we sat
facing them and the ocean.
Mama began to "talk story", telling us of the history of the islands, and
the folklore surrounding their ancestors. Isaac offered a glass of Okolehau
punch. It was delicious, and quite alcoholic. Okole is the Hawaiian name
for butt, so I presumed the name meant a drink that will put you on your
butt. It is similar to a light rum. The juice which was added tasted of
passion fruit, and orange, with a touch of coconut.
Rocky sat next to his cousin, put his arm around him, and they began to sing
"Sweet Lelani".
Keoki began to perform a graceful Hula; shortly he was joined by Rocky.
Their entire bodies swayed with the music; Rocky's in an almost virginal way,
Keoki's in a very provocative way. In fact, at times I was hoping his equipment
would fall out of that loin cloth. Larry joined them, placing himself between
Rocky and Keoki. Then Keno joined at the end, next to Rocky.
For the next two hours we experienced a delightful Hawaiian luau, one that
only real Hawaiians can create. The food was different and delicious (except
for the poi, which looked like baby poop and tasted like wall paper paste).
The conversation inevitably moved to the reason for our trip south. The two
boys, Keoki and Keno, became very excited about the competition in Hilo, and
wanted to join us.
All too soon the evening came to an end, and it was time to sleep. Keno,
Keoki, Larry and Rocky had gone for a stroll along the beach. When they
returned, Larry said they had a real surprise. Keno knew of a place high on
a rocky cliff overlooking the ocean, with a max of privacy; he had a king
sized air mattress. He would take us there, and we could spend the night; it
was only 1/2 mile. Keno went with us to show the way, and to help set things
up.
We walked along a path, then down a slope of rock, and then around to the
left of a rather large boulder. Right there was a cove of rock. We nestled
the mattress in the protection of the rock walls. The moon was bright, and
our little bedroom looked like heaven. A gentle trade breeze was wafting its
way on shore; you could hear the crash of the ocean against the rocks some
30 feet below us.
Keno left us saying that he and his brother must take care of some chores
and make ready for their trip with us to Hilo.
At first, we just stood there looking out over the ocean, listening to the
waves, smelling the fresh air.
Keno had left us a couple of gallon bottles of water, a cooler of Okolehau
Punch, and a light blanket that he didn't think we would need.
I sipped a cold glass of water, while leaning against one of the rocks.
Larry came over and leaned next to me. He whispered in my ear asking if he
could undress me. I smiled, lifted my left foot, and he removed my shoe.
Then the right foot. He then slipped my shorts off. Getting up, he put his
arms around me nuzzling his crotch against mine. I could feel his rigid cock
trying to find its way home. I began to realize that Rocky knew a great deal
more about our relationship than I had supposed.
Rocky came over and slipped my shirt off, then stood behind Larry with his
arms around both of us. I could feel Rocky's hands move down my back and then
slowly to the front, where they were being squeezed by Larry's body against
mine. Rocky loosened Larry's pants and slid them down, where he could step
out of them.
Then Larry moved to the side and began blowing hot air into my ear then into
Rocky's. Then, he slowly applied hot streams of air down the side of both of
our bodies.
Rocky was moving his body back and forth, his hot cock sliding up and down
between our stomachs. On a back movement, Larry grasped Rocky's cock and
guided it between my legs, where I could feel the full length of it move back
and forth massaging under my balls. A few minutes of that and we moved on to
the air mattress.
At first we just laid there, face up, Rocky in the middle, looking straight
up at those twinkling stars. I could tell that Rocky wanted to get on top
and start fucking, but Larry was restraining him. Larry wanted this first
time to be long and slow, not fast and over with.
Larry and I turned upside down with our feet towards Rocky's head, and our
faces toward his erect penis. We both began scratching Rocky's pubic hairs.
Next, Larry moved down between his legs, facing both me and Rocky. His tongue
began titillating Rocky's cockhead. Then Larry moved over crouching above
Rocky with his cock and swinging balls just above his face. I moved down to
where Larry had been.
Larry and I took turns tickling Rocky's cockhead and testicles: Larry from
above, me from below. Soon, it seemed that we were both tonguing at the same
time. Judging from Rocky's reaction, he must have been in heaven.
I began to massage Larry's balls. I reached up and put my hands around his
shaft and started to move up towards the head. His cock seemed to get super
hard and hot, and I knew it was all over. He came. A large, hot (almost
steaming) load onto Rocky's stomach.
Rocky gently got up and laid beside me, on his side, toward me. I moved up,
and he slid his cock into me. He laid on top of me, and our bodies slid back
and forth with Larry's cum being a lubricant. My arms reached around and were
on Rocky's back, then around his butt. I pulled him firmly into me. I could
feel Larry's loving eyes upon us as Rocky and I worked toward that climatic
fulfillment. Then we were THERE. Rockets went off. The thunder boomed, and
my passions were quenched.
By now, Larry was again charged up and ready to go. He moved between my legs,
and I guided his throbbing cock into my butt. He laid down on me, and again
moved in and out with the cum lubricating our bodies.
Rocky had us stop. He was laying on his back, and he had not lost his hard-on.
He asked me to lay on top of him, face down, with his cock between my legs.
Then Larry got on top of me, with his cock between my legs, sandwiched between
my balls and Rocky's cock.
Larry began to move up and down. I could feel his stomach and abdomen moving
against my butt, and I could feel the pulsing of the movement transmitted to
my body through Larry's dick. Then Rocky began to move up and down creating
his own vibrations. I could feel Larry's cock against my balls and against
my asshole.
Then Larry moved up and slipped it into my rectum where the motion was driving
deeper and with more and more purpose. In the meantime, I could feel Rocky's
cock rubbing between both my legs and Larry's. We continued this way for
about 15 minutes, then Rocky spurted. His cum landed on my hand and all over
Larry's butt. Almost immediately both Larry and I climaxed.
Again we lay next to each other, with me in the center, arms and legs entwined.
We drifted off into sleep while the soft Hawaiian breezes cooled our bodies.
I felt loved, secure, and fulfilled laying there between two lovers.
In the morning I was awakened by the sounds of sea birds. As I looked up,
I could see the sun was getting ready to rise. The horizon was red; the
clouds beginning to change from golden to white. My stirring must have coaxed
Rocky and Larry into wakefulness.
"Hey guys... breakfast is on", it was Keno. He came into our "bedroom"
carrying three cups of coffee. He was also stark naked. He didn't have a
rod; he was just naked. "Finish that coffee, and we'll go for a swim."
Keno in the nude was just as beautiful as I had imagined. His body was dark
all over. His cock was circumcised, well sculpted, and really quite beautiful.
His ass was firm. If he and Rocky entered a "Cute Ass" contest, it would be
anyone's guess who would win. He seemed only to have hair on his head and
around his dick. His balls were tight against his body. And there seemed to
be a silky sheen to his skin. He was exquisite.
He led us down a steep path to an ocean pool at the bottom of the cliff. A
span of at least 50 feet of water was protected by rocks on all sides. It
was warm and very clear. As we four frolicked in the water, I knew another
delightful Hawaiian day was a head of us. While in the water, I looked up
to see three beautiful naked, male bodies, diving, and swimming. It could
have been an underwater scene from the Blue Lagoon.
We returned to our camp site, finished our coffee, got dressed, and hiked
back to the Hopii farm.
Keoki had the truck already loaded with their gear. Isaac was waiting behind
the wheel. We bid a fond goodbye to their mother, jumped in to the back of
the vehicle, and took off down the dirt road, headed back to Wailuku and the
Tehani.
Larry put Keno in the stern cabin, and Keoki in the bow.
The boys had never been on a sail boat, so Rocky gave them a quick
indoctrination on what to expect on the trip.
The sail to the south, next stop Hana, would take about 10 hours. I decided
to give each of the brothers a quick chance at the wheel, with an hour each
of supervised helmsmanship.
I didn't want to put into Hana during the night, so leaving a bit later than
planned and sailing all night, putting into Hana a little after daybreak
seemed like the most practical approach. Additionally, this was only our
second day; we were ahead of schedule.
Keoki was a natural. He would anticipate every shift of the sea; very intuitive
on trimming the sails for maximum speed. And it seemed everyone on board
preferred naked to clothed. All four young men were lean and trim. The bow
would dip into the ocean, then lift, tossing a spray back over the decks,
back over all but those below deck or in the cockpit.
The three Hawaiians were quite dark. The water glistened on their firm
muscled buttocks. Their cocks nested in the black pubic hair, their eggs
firmed into a tight ball. Unlike Larry and myself, they sported no tan line.
Their narrow waists accentuated the hip bones. The wind stretched out their
curly locks, making the cut of their hair much longer, almost to their
shoulders.
When adjusting a sail, their strong arms displayed firm muscles: back,
shoulders, abdomens. They conjured up images of the ancient Hawaiians and
their long sail in populating the Pacific. It was art in its purest form.
The sun had set. Everyone was on deck. Rocky was sitting in the lee of the
cabin hatch, protected from the wind and spray, picking at a Ukulele. His
two cousins jumped down into the cockpit. I was at the wheel. They began to
sing the words of an ancient Hawaiian melody, creating a perfect harmony of
voice, body, and movement.
The Tehani leapt across the ocean. Larry and the two `K's stood arm in arm,
the white boy in the middle. I could feel the warmth of human companionship,
a bonding between the boys.
Very soon there was little light. I had turned on the running lights, putting
two tiny man-made stars at the top of our masts. Keoki had gone forward,
standing at the tip of the bow, restrained by the chromium hand rails.
The Tehani suddenly dipped, immersing him in an ocean swell, before lifting
its head and tossing the water back over me. As he ran back toward the stern,
the ruby port light gave his naked body the kind of a look it might have had
had he been moving around a camp fire.
He joined me at the wheel, his cold arm around my waist, stealing warmth from
my body. "Where is everyone?" I asked.
Rocky and Larry were doubled up on the port side bunk, resting before one of
them would relieve me at the wheel. His brother had bedded down on the
starboard bunk.
Keoki's arm, tightened around my waist, pulling me firmly against him,
not in passion, just a statement of being happy with where he was, what he
was doing, and whom he was with. My penis ignored that reality and began to
swell. Keoki glanced at my rising member, chuckled, kissed me on the cheek,
and went below.
A half hour later, Larry popped his head out of the cabin hatch. "You ready
to crash?".
I nodded. He came around behind me, nuzzled his soft cock against my behind.
His warmth was pleasant. He kissed me on the back of my neck. My small head
must have remembered Keoki as it sprang to life instantly. Larry dropped to
his knees, moved to my side and began licking my hip bone, sliding further
around to my front. I swung my penis towards him, and he immediately took me
fully into his mouth, then gulped it down his throat.
Lar had really just gotten started when Keoki's head popped out of the cabin
hatch. He watched for a moment, then put his fingers to his lips signaling
me to be silent. He stood there watching as Larry brought me to the brink,
and then over. While my load was still pumping, Keoki disappeared back into
the cabin.
Rising from his knees, Larry squeezed me tightly, "Sorry it's been so long,
but Rocky has gotten a bit demanding." He took the wheel. I walked to the
leeward side of the deck, holding onto a main shroud, and pissed into the
ocean as we sailed south towards Hana.
I went below. The star light was dim, but I could see that Keoki had replaced
Larry in Rocky's arms. Rocky's arms were around him as they slept side by
side.
I was asleep within moments of crawling into my sack. Sometime later, just
barely aware of it, I felt a body move next to me, encircling me in its arms,
head on my shoulder. Again, even later, the body left, my eyes opened as I
saw Keno going on deck to relieve Larry at the wheel. The hands of the ship's
clock pointed to 3:00 AM.
Larry came below and saw Keoki cuddled up in Rocky's arms. He moved Keoki's
shoulder. "I want my spot back."
Keoki stirred, raised his head, moved out of the port bunk, and nuzzled up
to me. I put my arm around him as he replaced his brother on my shoulder.
His body was cool from the night air. The contrast gently blended to sameness,
as I resumed my slumber.
It was not quite 5 AM when I unwrapped myself from Keoki's embrace and went
topside to relieve Keno at the wheel. The movement of the boat had altered,
awakening me. We had begun to encounter the cross currents of the channel
between the Big Island and Maui. The western sky was just beginning to glow.
I took a bearing from the two light houses. "In about a half hour, we'd better
change our course to about 200", referring to the magnetic compass.
I moved next to Keno, putting my arm around his naked waist, hand resting on
his right hip. He moved, rotating slightly toward me. My touching had triggered
an immediate erection. His hard, black cock radiated a hungry demand. "Suck
it," he whispered, placing his left hand on my shoulder coaxing me to my
knees, coaxing me to satisfy his obvious lust.
My lips had barely enveloped the warm head, when he shot load after load.
His fresh warm cum was just slightly salty, while tasting sweet and clean.
His now super sensitive instrument rapidly withdrew from my lips. "Thanks
man, I fuckin' well needed that".
I took the wheel from him, "Watch your head, I'm going to bring her about".
With that I spun the wheel, crossing the wind on our stern, jibbing the craft.
The main boom snapped to port. The Tehani shuddered from the impact. This
improved bearing raised our speed, as we seemed to shoot down the southern
coast of Maui.
We were perhaps 1/2 mile off shore, Hana still an hour away, when everyone
came up on deck. All of the crew, with the noticeable exception of Keno, had
early morning "pisser" erections, which they, in concert, took care of by
relieving themselves over the port side.
The dawn light changed the shore-side shadows into swaying palms. The blue
water changed to white as it crashed into the bright sand. The morning air
felt cool and fresh. The day seemed good.
"We'd better get some clothes on, we're getting pretty close to shore."
They went below, returning clothed in swim trunks. Larry tossed me mine.
Somehow the boys looked sexier in their trunks then they did bare assed.
I noticed the channel entrance buoys marking Hana. They would be on our port
side; we were too close to shore. I shifted to a course of 180 for about 15
minutes while Larry and Rocky wrestled the engine into the well. We then
dropped our sails, took her back to 200, passing the channel buoy 20 feet to
starboard. Then I turned to starboard and putted our way up the channel into
Hana's tiny bay.
As we drew into the bay, I noticed a long concrete dock along our port side.
The dock came to an end as the bay extended around to the west for a couple
of hundred feet. Several small boats were moored to buoys sheltered by the
dock.
There were close to 40 people standing on the dock at this early morning
hour, watching us enter their harbor.
Making a wide arc, I turned the Tehani around, bow towards the sea. "Larry,
you take care of the bow lines. Rocky, you handle the stern. K & K watch the
sides; try and get a fender between us and the dock".
The tide was out, so dock level was a few feet above our decks. Larry and
Rocky hoisted themselves to the dock, preparing to tie our lines to the dock
cleats.
The 40 people were talking, even singing.
I yelled "Let out on the bow line. Rocky take up on the stern."
Some big, fat Hawaiian guy relayed the message, but reversed it. "Let out on
the stern, take up on the bow." I was getting a little ticked.
Keno came over "They want you to move to the end of the dock where the other
boats are. If you tie up here the rising tide will bang up your boat."
The boys jumped back on deck as I backed the Tehani towards shore, then moving
amongst the other small craft. We tied the bow line to the dock, while holding
our stern with an anchor.
Pulling on our bow line would move our bow to the dock where we could climb
ashore, then releasing the line would allow the boat to move back, away from
the dock.
I was the last one to climb ashore. Keno had the big fat Hawaiian guy in tow.
"Don, I want you to meet my cousin Harold".
Well cousin Harold was well known for his sense of humor. That is, well known
to everyone else but me. I think he sensed the rancor that had developed
because of his interference with attempting to tie up the Tehnai. But he
gave me a big smile, rushing towards me, crushing me to his bosom, sweatily
embracing me while emitting noises of Aloha. No one could stay angry with
cousin Harold.
I was curious why there had been so many people on the dock. Keoki explained
our arrival was the most exciting thing to happen in sleepy Hana in weeks.
Cousin Harold owned a beat up Volkswagen bug and insisted that he give us
the grand tour. Harold must have weighed in excess of 300 lbs, and it wasn't
because he was big boned. Harold was fat because his favorite pastime was
eating, drinking beer, and then eating. He also liked to talk story, while
eating. He also liked to play ukulele between bites. He also enjoyed singing
when his mouth was not otherwise occupied.
Now the funniest thing I have ever seen was a picture someone took of cousin
Harold and the five of us in his VW. I was sitting up front next to the
driver. Keoki was sitting in back on the left side, Keno on the right, Larry
in the middle with Rocky in his Lap.
The VW rattled up the road. At the end of the bay road we made a left, driving
a short distance to a well worn, badly in need of painting, used to be green,
wooden building: The Hasagawa General Store. Harold bought six cases of cold
beer, which he stashed in the front trunk, and under our feet. Three up front,
two in the back, and one under mine.
Now the VW was pretty low to begin with. The six cases of beer added a few
more pounds, and when Fat Harold again sat in the drivers seat and we took
off, something was dragging. We stopped. I got out and walked behind the
VW.
Fat Harold's weight always had the vehicle lopsided as he drove down the
road. With all of this extra weight, that lopsidedness caused the left side
to drag the street. We had to shift the beer. The case of beer under Keoki's
feet was moved under Keno's. We moved two of the cases from the front trunk
under my feet. I could rest my chin on my knees.
Harold took off down the road like we were in the Indy 500, with the left
side only occasionally glancing off of the road as we would hit some small
bump.
We had left the main road, now driving down what seemed little more than a
path through a jungle growth, of vines, orchids, banana trees, papayas,
mangos, gardenias. Then suddenly we were in someone's front yard.
Harold opened his door, rolling out on to the road. The bug immediately
lifted, then tilted the other way. The springs were obviously sprung.
We clamored out of the vehicle, each carrying a case of beer, following Harold
into a large room created behind an old house, by extending its screen back
porch about 20 feet into the back yard. Inside of the room were picnic tables,
with attached benches. A very skinny oriental wearing an apron joined us from
within the house. "This is my Cousin Chan".
Chan bowed, smiling as we each acknowledged him.
Harold passed the cases of beer to Chan, who trotted off to an old chest type
freezer, modified to function as a beer cooler.
When he returned, he was carrying several large platters heaped with what at
first appeared to be deep fried sliced potatoes. I tasted one; my taste buds
were set for "potato", so my reaction was negative.
Harold had passed around bottles of beer. "Try the Brew First".
I did as he suggested; the combination made an interesting and pleasant
flavor. I pointed at the platter.
"Taro root and yams". Some of the slices were a little on the purplish side,
the others lighter and sweeter.
Singlehandedly, Harold consumed one entire platter and four beers, while the
rest of us drank one beer and only one quarter of the other platter.
Harold was well into our second platter of chips when Chan returned carrying
two more huge platters of chips. "Mahi-Mahi be ready soon. You want
Squid too. It fresh."
Harold nodded yes.
Harold asked Keno to get another case of beer from the cooler.
Chan sat a large platter of odd-looking things in the middle of the table.
What ever they were, they had been fried. Fat was still draining off the
pieces. They were light in color, almost white, and shaped something like
tiny donuts.
I tasted one; it was tough and had an unfamiliar flavor that I didn't care
for. Larry seemed to share my opinion, while the Hawaiians dove into them
like they were some tasty treat, consuming the entire lot in less time than
it took Larry and I to finish our second beer.
"You no like squid?"
We shook our heads. "Too bad! It very good!"
We were well into our second case of Primo when Harold waddled off to take
a leak. When he returned, he was carrying a ukulele and a long piece of clear
plastic tubing.
He stuck his Primo into a hole in the table top, fitted the tubing through
a cork which he inserted into the top of his beer. Next, Harold ran the tube
up under his shirt, exiting at the collar, and into his mouth. Harold could
now drink his beer, hands free.
At first I thought this would allow him to drink his beer while eating with
both hands. I was wrong; he wished to play ukulele while drinking his beer.
The Ukulele is a simple instrument with only four strings, yet to the
well-practiced player, it can be as versatile as an eight or even 12 string
guitar.
Playing the uke can be easy; but it can also be the tool of a skillful master.
Cousin Harold certainly fit that last category. For close to two hours we
sat at Chan's Table, listening to the uke. Occasionally, he would sing in
that beautiful Hawaiian falsetto, amazingly uninterrupted by his constant
sipping from his tube.
We were into the fourth case when the boys felt like dancing. The line
consisted of Rocky in the middle the two K's on either side. Rocky motioned
Larry to join them. Keoki and Keno seemed to know the dance as well as did
Rocky and Larry. The body motion was quite artful, telling a story of passion
and lost love.
Harold picked up the pace of his playing. The melody seemed familiar, reminding
me of something that Aunty Clara had performed: artful but humorous.
Suddenly, Harold thrust the uke into my hands, ordering me to continue as he
joined the boys. As he swayed his bulky hips, the beer tube drained its
contents down his leg making it look like he had pissed his pants.
His movements, while graceful, created an image of a hippo performing Swan
Lake.
It was after dark when we finished the last of the six cases and departed
Cousin Chan's.
While the channel between Hawaii and Maui is about 30 miles wide, the run
down to Hilo on the island's eastern coast is closer to 90; most of the run
being parallel to Hawaii's shore. The trip would probably take 10 to 12 hours,
and that I would prefer doing during daylight hours.
My plan was to leave Hana about 3 AM. We would leave under power, but as soon
as we were past the channel markers, we would hoist our sails, heading towards
Hawaii's Upolu light. We should have good vision as we approached landfall,
with the remainder of our trip down the coast being an easy sail.
Harold dropped us at the Tehani. He sped away from us, his VW a lopsided
advertisement of who it belonged to.
As we climbed down to the Tehani, we noticed several cardboard boxes that
had not been there when we left. Someone had given us about a dozen pineapples,
a full stock of bananas, papayas, and mangoes. Rocky and Larry put some of
the fruit in the galley, but stowed most of it in the port pontoon.
The boys went below. When I joined them, I found Rocky and Larry cuddled up
in the port bunk, Keoki was in mine, while Keno had decided to sleep in the
bow cabin.
I stripped and started to join Keoki when I felt the boat move; someone had
climbed on board. I grabbed a bath towel. Wrapping it around my waist, I went
top side.
A naked youth in his mid teens had swum over to the Tehani, and hoisted
himself on board. Even though the night was quite dark, a distant light
permitted me to see him.
As he approached, I could see a most pleasant smile. In many ways he reminded
of Larry when I had first met him, except that he was part oriental, part
haolee. "Hope you can use the fruit."
I asked the boy if he would like a beer; he declined. The adventure of a
beautiful stranger began to stir my groin. I couldn't see his manhood nestled
deeply in his black pubic hair, but I could feel the sensuality that is
usually present in most teenage boys.
He lowered himself into the cockpit. I could feel the cold of his body. He
shivered slightly. I moved closer to him. He seemed to welcome my proximity.
Reaching over my hand touched his biceps. My heat warmed him while cooling
me.
The boy moved closer. I put my arm around his shoulders, pulling him toward
me, sharing my warmth. The advance seemed gratefully accepted; he turned to
face me.
My eyes had become more sensitive. I could see more than a warm aloha in his
gaze.
Both of my arms went around him, drawing him into full body contact.
Removing the towel, I shared my body with him. His penis began to grow,
pushing its way up between our touching bellies. His erection clearly
embarrassed him. He attempted to move away; I held him. Soon his member
relaxed, and it was then that I released my hold on him.
The boy's name was John Hanshit. His ancestors had been quite prolific, many
of Hana's residents bore that name.
The reason for our presence in Hana had become common knowledge. John had
been playing Hawaiian guitar for most of his 17 years. He wanted to go with
us; first to Hilo, then on to Honolulu.
The Hawaiians are a sharing people. It hadn't occurred to him that we might
say no, and so he had his possessions sitting on the dock.
We brought his few things on board, temporarily stowing them in the starboard
pontoon.
With Keno in the bow cabin, Rocky and Larry, plus Keoki and me in the main,
that left only the stern cabin for our newest crew member.
Leaving John in the cockpit, I went below to find a sheet and some blankets.
Keoki had joined his brother in the starboard bunk. Rather than disturb them,
I decided to join John for the night.
We slid the stern hatch open and climbed below. The space was small to begin
with, but the radio station's audio gear was also stored there.
After repositioning a few things, we created enough space. We folded two of
the blankets length wise, creating a four layered pad between the deck and
our bodies.
Our first position was back to back. We both had a natural curl that put only
our butts in contact while pushing our heads against the sides of the ship.
The next position was face to face. We put our arms around each other in a
relaxed but very personal embrace. John's cock immediately reacted, again
embarrassing the boy. I turned away from him; he nuzzled up against me, his
arms around my waist.
That was too much for my cock. It jumped to attention, hitting John's fingers.
That caused his dick to pulsate, nudging my butt. I could feel the
embarrassment radiate from John's face, as he turned to again face the side
of the cabin.
Finally, I tucked my rigid dick between my legs, turned over, and cuddled up
to his back, my arm extending around his waist, my hand upon his chest.
Eventually, both of our cocks must have given up hope as they relaxed and we
drifted off to sleep.
I woke at 3. John stirred slightly; I whispered that we were going to get
underway, but that it would be best for him to stay put 'til we were under
sail.
I retrieved my towel from the cockpit, and went into the main cabin to get
everyone out of their sacks. Rocky was still cuddled up against Larry, but
there was the unmistakable odor of sex in the air. Keno and Keoki were sleeping
on their backs with enormous hard-ons reminding me of two rockets prepared
to blast off into outer space.
I couldn't resist the temptation. Standing on the lower bunk, I lowered my
mouth over Keno's throbbing cock. Within 20 seconds he reached his climax.
His immediate reaction was that he was having a wet dream. His hands grabbed
for his shooting penis, but encountered the back of my head.
His body motions had awakened his brother; I pulled off his still dribbling
cock. I looked up and saw that Keoki had been watching the activity, his own
dick in hand. My eyes had hardly focused on Keoki's smiling face when his
cock spewed forth catching me squarely in the eye. "Tomorrow, how about waking
me up like that?" Keoki whispered.
We should have put the engine in place the night before, but didn't. Rocky,
with Keno's help, put it in the well and connected it to the gas tank. Rocky
pulled on the recoil several times; she didn't catch. I realized the boys
had the Tank on the deck, a couple of feet above the engine. The gas had
flooded it. We moved the tank down to cockpit deck level.
The boys began unfurling the sails and preparing the sheets and halyards for
raising once we had cleared the channel markers.
All of the lines were now in readiness. I reached down and gave the recoil
starter a good solid tug; the engine immediately sprang to life.
I sent Keno to release our bow from the dock. Then, pulling on the stern
line, I hauled the ship back 'til we were directly above the rear anchor.
Keoki grabbed the line and hoisted it on board. Once stowed, I put the engine
in gear, backing another 50 feet, then in to forward. Within 10 minutes we
were clear of the dock, within another 10 we had passed the channel markers.
Larry took over the wheel as I helped our three Hawaiians hoist the main
sail, the jib, and finally the mizzen.
The trade winds were brisk; the currents were gentle; the Tehani raced towards
the Big Island like she had some urgent appointment.
The exercise and the adventure of continuing our trip deprived all of us of
any desire to sleep. Rocky and Larry sat next to each other on the deck,
their feet hanging over the side, the ocean spray glancing off their naked
bodies. Keno had moved up to the bow and sat straddling it. Keoki was sitting
with his back against the main mast, his body aglow in red from out port
light.
"Where did you crash last night?" Larry asked, directing his question at me.
"The 2 K's were in the starboard bunk, so I used the stern cabin".
Keno returned from the bow. "Anyone want a Mango?"
He retrieved five of them from the galley, then went back to where he had been
sitting next to the Main Mast.
The boys were all looking into the distance, trying to see activity on shore
or the distant light from Upolu point. I heard the stern hatch slide open.
John came out of the cabin and sat next to me while I was at the helm.
It was Keno who first took note of John's presence. At first he must have
thought it was Rocky or his brother. He glanced towards the bow, then over
at Rocky and Larry sitting on the port side. He said something to Keoki, and
came back to the cockpit. Our new crew member had been discovered.
What I thought was very funny was that both Rocky and Larry generated immediate
boners while appraising John. Larry very openly asked me, "Has he been
initiated yet?"
I shook my head no, leaving John confused as to what Larry was asking.
The two K's took an immediate "buddy, buddy" liking to John, making him feel
welcome, but also acting as senior members of the crew, providing him with
tasks to perform.
John, on the other hand, stuck to me like glue. Keno took over the wheel,
and I went below to make some hot coffee. John followed, naked, and always
very close to me, frequently finding an excuse to touch me. Finally, I turned
towards him, put my arms around him, and pulled him flat against me. My chin
was on his shoulder. My hug was firm and appreciative. I pulled my head back,
our noses almost touching.
He bent forward, placing his lips over mine. They parted slightly. His tongue
sought mine. This unexpected kiss was deep and passionate. His cock again
jumped to attention, forcing its way up between our embraced bodies. I pulled
away. This was neither the time nor the place.
I returned to the cockpit, my member had been stirred, but not fully aroused.
John, after getting his cock under control, came on deck with the coffee.
We sat next to Larry and Rocky, John's body was touching mine. He raised his
leg, hiding his again rigid cock. Shortly it went down; he lowered his leg.
It looked like the jib sheet needed trimming, I moved into the cockpit to
make the adjustments. John was again right next to me. I touched the cheek
of his left butt, then placed my palm flat upon it, cupping it. His dick
immediately jumped to attention. Everyone was becoming aware that something
was developing between John and myself.
Then I started playing a game with John, touching him unexpectedly, trying
to get his cock hard at odd times, in awkward places.
I think it was Keno who finally broke the ice by commenting to John, "You'd
better do something with that thing before it falls off."
I grabbed John by the hand and led him to the main cabin, signaling the boys
to give us privacy.
We were standing between the bunks. I put my arm around his waist and pulled
him against me. His member was again at attention. My hand wrapped around
it, squeezing it, causing it to pulse in response. My mouth sought his lips,
my tongue began to explore, my hand was massaging his rigid instrument, my
other hand had sought the cheek of his tender young ass.
I could feel uncontrollable emotion building in his body. His tongue wildly
ran the gamut of my mouth, fencing with mine. His cock began to swell. I
removed my hand from his dick before it exploded. His eyes were exploring me
to bring release to his raging river of sexuality.
I moved to the starboard bunk, bidding him to follow. I was on my back,
expecting him to lay beside me; instead he placed himself directly on top of
me, his lips regaining their purchase upon mine. John's hips were urgently
thrusting his member parallel with my own.
Suddenly, he got up on his knees, turned around so that my view was of his
hanging testicles, his clean bare butt hole, his rigid dick sticking forward.
To my surprises he took my cock in his mouth, hungrily engorging it. I blew
hot air on to his sphincter, concentrating on what I could see, trying to
distract my attention from the feelings in my own dick.
I reached down, pulled back on his hard cock 'til I could start it in my
mouth. He moved back, relieving the stressful angle. I put a hand on each
of his butt cheeks, and pulled him straight down. The head rested against
the opening of my throat, the hot air gushing past his rod. Again I pulled
down; the member forced its way into my constricting throat.
John's body shuddered as I swallowed, massaging his instrument, demanding of
it that it at least match my own readiness to release. As if by telepathy we
both let loose at the same time. His knob was deep in my throat as it gushed
forth his seed. Mine exploded into his mouth; he unhesitatingly drank it all.
Then we simply collapsed. His wilting rod was still deep in my throat. I
put my hands on his hips trying to lift him a little so that I could breathe.
Silently, he turned around, laying next to me, head on my shoulder. "Don,
I've never had sex with anyone before. I never realized what I had been
missing". He hugged me, and started to doze.
Then he shyly added, "Was that my initiation?"
My laugh was more of a gentle response than an affirmation. My arm tightened
around his waist; he snuggled even closer.
"We had better get back on deck." He smiled.
John crawled over me, pecking me on the chin as he moved towards the hatch.
His once rigid member quite flaccid. I followed.
Keno was still at the wheel as John stepped out on to the deck. Keno gave
him a big smile and a wink. John's face turned red. I bent over and bit him
firmly on the butt, then sucked the spot 'til a red hickey would be certain
to mark him for at least one day.
John's sexual needs had been taken care of, but that didn't reduce his
attachment to me. He would join K or K or Lar or Rock, but he would always
return. Unless I was mistaken, John was falling in love with me.
Lar and Rock had gone from being best friends to becoming lovers. The two
K's were simply horny teenagers. So that left me emotionally free.
John was cute; he was horny; and he found me tempting. Nevertheless, I refused
to say those magical words, which I suspected he wanted to hear. Like a
puppy dog: nice to have around, nice to pet. Maybe eventually I might fall
for him.
The two K's and John were relaxing up front on the main deck. Larry and Rocky
were in the main cabin. Keno moved over by the porthole, and peered inside
and laughed. He motioned the other two to come look. Within seconds all three
were sporting major hard-ons. The boys continued to peek and talk. Then John
left their ranks, coming back to the cockpit.
"What's up?" I inquired, smiling at the obvious double entendre.
"Rocky and Larry are getting it on". Keno bet me five bucks that I wouldn't
go inside and watch them. John continued past me and down into the main
cabin.
I motioned Keno over and gave him the wheel. Going forward, I let myself down
into the bow cabin, where I could watch the action in the main cabin without
being observed.
Rocky and Larry were on the top port bunk. Rocky was on his back, with Larry
straddling him in a 69 position.
John was sitting on the lower starboard bunk watching Larry suck Rocky's
cock. Judging from Rocky's response, he was on the verge. In the meantime,
John's boner had really heated up. I could see pre-cum oozing from the end.
Larry, sunk down all the way. Rocky's dark abdomen had tensed and was now
spasming.
The boys smiled at John. "You like the show?"
"Do me, too, Larry." John wondered if Larry was going to even move so he
decided he'd better say something.
Larry waited a moment to catch his breath and enjoy the relaxed feeling of
glow after such a good cum. But he did like sucking, too, so he motioned
John to move to where Rocky had been, at the bottom of the bunk.
Larry crouched down between John's legs which he had raised, his knees high.
Larry could see John's hard dick in the glow from the window. But Larry
tried something a little different. He lifted John's legs and put them on
his shoulders. John slid his legs down Larry's back, the calves of his legs
feeling Larry's skin.
Larry practically dived to the center of John's privates and licked the
underside of John's smaller, but hard cock. Larry lifted the lighter boy's
hips off the bed and licked his balls, even the underside, just an inch from
the boy's asshole.
But, according to John, the sensation tickled but the wet tongue felt strange
and erotic. Larry didn't linger there but long enough that John wished he'd
continued down, for his ass was spread and his hole felt open and exposed
and he realized for the first time that he really wanted some attention paid
to it.
But Larry began sucking John's dick again and the younger boy who, was new
at this, wasted no time building to a climax. It only took seconds and John's
dick spurted for the second time in his life. John knew enough about it,
this time, so that instead of wondering what his body was doing, he had a
chance to feel the climax and concentrate on it.
John felt more than the localized spurting; he noticed the tingle that moved
up his body. With his legs up and his ass open, he felt his young prostrate
flex as he spurted his juice into Larry's mouth. He noticed that the climax
was not just localized to his dick, though that, too, gave him sensations.
He felt that cumming made his whole pelvis explode with a rushing feeling.
The three boys went up on deck. I heard someone behind me; I turned. It was
Keno. He had been watching all of the action from the porthole, and it had
him extremely randy. His hard cock was glistening with hopeful self
lubrication.
"Don, please?", he pointed at his cock. He followed me into the main cabin,
where I sat on one of the lower bunks. His hot head was almost touching my
nose; his horny odor was exciting. Keno brushed the slippery top across my
lips hoping for entry. His hands went behind my neck, coaxing me to envelope
his waiting rod.
I started to lick away the ooze, but he became impatient, thrusting forward.
My teeth grazed the skin; I pulled my jaw open, permitting the thrust to go
full length. Then I gulped it down my throat. Keno practically shouted in
pleasure. His moans were so loud that John and Rocky came into the main cabin
where they shared the last of Keno's climax, his body arched backward quivering
in pleasure and release.
Keno sank to the other bunk. His audience uttered "Wow!" and "Far fuckin',
out!"
In retrospect, I was glad that Larry had sucked John's cock, and that John
had seen me suck Keno's. I thought this would make our sexual play more open
and less emotional.
However, I was wrong. John's attention to me seemed to increase. He became
emotionally upset if we did not sleep together. If I had sex with anyone
else, he wanted to be part of it; and if he wasn't, he would become very
unhappy. For him, any sexual activity in which I engaged must be an extension
of his love for me. If I played it that way, he was happy. If I didn't, then
he would pout.
From a sailor's point of view the trip from Hana to Hilo was uneventful. We
had found a spot to anchor on the southern end of Hilo's bay.
Larry had inflated the boat, and, with six of us, it took five trips for
everyone to get ashore. I almost didn't recognize our crew with clothes on.
In fact that was the first time I had seen John in anything other than his
birthday suit.
Miss Doug had flown down to help with the setup at the Kam auditorium, as
well as to watch the first day's competition. He had a rented VW van which
was for our use once he returned to Honolulu.
While Doug knew that Larry and Rocky were with me, Keno, Keoki, and John came
as a big surprise.
Several times in the past, Doug had taken an interest in Larry, and I suspected
that they had even gotten it on a few times. Larry hadn't volunteered the
info, and I hadn't asked.
Larry had to make two more trips to the Tehani to bring the stations audio
equipment ashore.
Doug, Rocky, and the 2 K's were heavy into conversation. John had cornered
me, talking about something which I wasn't following. I was more interested
in snippets of conversation I was hearing from Doug.
"Does Gabby want you to work with him?" Doug was asking Rocky about his
Grandfather. Then I heard something about "Are you related to Sol Hopii?"
That was directed toward the 2 K's. "What ever happened to that haolee wife
of his; I think her name was Georgia?"
Larry returned with the last of the equipment. We loaded the van, and took
off for the Kamehameha Auditorium.
All of the equipment was finally in place. I had called the studio for a
test. Dave Johnson wasn't there. Doug's secretary suggested I call back in
an hour.
Larry and Rocky were on stage practicing some steps. John was at my side.
Doug and the 2 K's were deep in conversation.
Keoki joined us, "Doug wants Keno and me to have dinner with him. Is that
OK?"
"Sure, we're going to be tied up for at least a couple of hours. We'll eat
across the street and take a cab back to the harbor." As an afterthought I
added, "How you going to get out to the Tehani?"
"We'll swim out. It's not that far."
Doug, Keno, and Keoki left.
There was an upright piano along side of the stage. Rocky came over and said
that Larry wanted me to play Night Train for him. He wanted to demonstrate
the reverse strip. I looked around, there was no one in the auditorium. I
agreed.
John and Rocky sat in the front row. I suggested they move back another 10
feet.
Larry was no where to be seen. I started the number, developing its sensuality.
Then, suddenly, he was on stage, stark naked. He spun around, his dong swaying,
his butt shifting, his body was now doing a modified hula, very erotic. His
toe caught his briefs, and tossed them into the air. He caught them with
his left hand, swung them behind his head. He turned, facing away from us,
sawing the underwear over his neck, down over his back, rubbing his buttocks.
He dropped them; his foot caught them; he stepped into them. Slowly and
provocatively he slid them up 'til they tightly covered his ass. Next came
his shirt. He turned towards us, hips still moving. The shirt was still open
as he drew his jeans up over his legs, his hips. Then he buttoned only the
bottom two buttons, leaving the fly an open `V' as he spun and jumped off
stage.
A roar of applause reached our startled ears. I turned. The entire hula group
from Honolulu had quietly entered the auditorium.
The dance master came down the aisle "Damn! It's too bad we can't use that
in the competition."
The rest of the troop followed, the kids making remarks like, "Gawd Lar, you
gotta sweet ass," and "Save a piece of that for me."
The troop wanted to rehearse before the competition started; this would give
them a chance to get the feel of the stage.
Rocky and Larry took their places in the line. The dance master replaced me
at the piano. I joined John in the audience.
Another call to Honolulu put me in contact with Dave Johnson. The activity
on stage made the audio test much more meaningful.
The rehearsal came to an end. The troop dropped us at the Harbor en route to
their hotel. Rocky volunteered to row each of us to the ship. I was first,
then John, and finally Larry.
The Tehani smelled heavily of ripe papaya and mango. John turned domestic
and wanted to cook dinner. And it was unique; he baked layers of banana, ham
slices, and curry sauce. It was served over rice, with slices of fresh papaya
and mango on the side. From start to finish it was done in less than an hour.
At this point, I think I do need to give some perspective to this story.
Age needs to be considered. Doug was in his fifties. At 44, I am the next
oldest. Larry at 20 is next, with John at 19, Rocky at 18, and the two K's
at 15 and 16.
Also, another point is that at 44 I found myself with a 19 year old lover,
whom before he met me had never even played with himself (or so he says).
Falling in love is the rarest of life's gifts. Being in love means you have
lost your perspective about the people around you. Truly staying in love, or
at least the kind of love felt while falling in love, is a mirage hoped for
by all, experienced by few.
Nevertheless, I would not deprive John of his feelings for me. He was a
delightful creature who did great things for my ego.
After dinner, we went on deck. The only light was starlight. There was no
moon. We sat on the port side, facing out to sea.
John saw Rocky lean over and kiss Larry, then he snuggled down against me.
He reached over and unbuttoned my shirt, then laid his head in my lap, looking
at my chest. His fingers made twirls around my navel before moving upward
touching my nipples.
His touching was not passionate, it was loving. He looked into my eyes and
smiled at me. My heart felt warm and full; those forbidden mystical words
passed my lips. "I love you".
His eyes seemed to brighten in response. He stood up, grasped my hand, "Let's
go to bed."
Keno and Keoki did not return that night.
We had taken a bus to the auditorium. Hula troops from all over the United
States were present. Each afternoon session was divided into two time periods,
as was each evening session. Four troops would perform in each session, and
only one of the four would be selected for the semi-semi-finals to be held
on the morrow.
It was mid afternoon when John tapped me on the shoulder, "Look, there's
Keno".
My eye followed John's finger. Keno and Keoki were seated on either side of
Doug. They were dressed in tight fitting white slacks, and blue silk shirts.
They each wore red carnation lei's sprinkled with delicate lavender orchids.
"Doug must have gone out of his fucking mind. Those outfits had to have set
him back close to five hundred dollars."
John looked at me, and whispered. "Dummy, he's probably in love".
Keno caught our glance. He and Keoki eagerly waved at us, smiling from ear
to ear.
The afternoon schedule put Rocky's group as the last of the four teams.
The first team was from Chicago. There were six members, all males between
14 and 18. There was only one non-white, and he appeared to be of Mexican
extraction. John was scoffing at their performance, as it wasn't traditional
Polynesian. I pointed out that the Chicago group had little chance of success
if they simply did the ordinary; they would need something different to catch
the judges' eye.
The second and third teams were from Maui and Kaui. These were 100% Hawaiian.
It was my guess that none of the groups presented their best material, and
that to go on to the next heat was more a matter of good guesswork as to what
the others would do. Certainly Chicago had the greatest disadvantage, being
the first to perform.
Having watched the entire afternoon's competition, I had concluded that the
judges were going to have a real problem maintaining any level of fairness.
None was particularly good; probably because they were all holding back for
the time they would need their best material.
The judges had two sets of ties on their hands: from the first heat and from
the last heat. Personally, I felt that the Chicago team had performed better
than Rocky and Larry's gang. However, as John had pointed out, it hadn't been
traditional, and that by default gave extra value to the Oahu Group.
Between the 3rd and 4th heats Keoki came over. "Doug wants to treat the Oahu
Troop to dinner at the Hilo Bay Hotel. Will you work it out?"
I said that I would, but "only if you and Keno tell me everything that went
on with Doug last night."
My eye moved down from his bright dark face, slowly over the lei, shoulders,
and lingered on his crotch. His cock responded immediately, swelling within
those skin white pants.
"You got a deal." He paused. "But don't worry, he's not as good as you or
Larry." He laughingly turned and walked away. John seemed to move closer to
me.
I sought out Larry while his group was anxiously awaiting the decision of
the Judges. I told him about the 2 K's and Doug. He laughed, saying "Those
kids could have made a fortune at Stanley's in Florida." After a moments
reflection he added "Nope, Stanley would have fired them... Hustling is
hustling any way you look at it! But not bad for a couple of country kids
fresh off the farm."
------------------------------------------------------------
My Teenage Heart
Chapter Thirteen
And the Band Played On
The dinner at the Hilo Bay was a memorable event. Doug had rented one of
their smaller private dining rooms. The table was set for 14. In the middle
was a magnificent center piece of Anthirums, Fern, and Orchids.
White Linen, polished silver, candles in crystal holders, and three different
wine glasses were at each position; a high backed Rattan Chair designed to
envelope its occupant in a royal fashion at each setting.
Keno and Keoki dressed in black leather trousers and, wearing bright red silk
Filipino Barong shirts, greeted each guest with pink and white carnation
leis. They then led each guest to his seat at the table.
Doug was seated at one end of the table flanked by Keno on his right and
Keoki on his left. The dance master occupied the opposite end of the table.
I was seated next to Keno, with John on my right, facing Larry and Rocky.
The rest of the troop occupied the seats extending to where their dance master
sat.
Soft Hawaiian music was playing on the background music system.
With great dignity, Keoki rose from his seat and withdrew a magnum of champagne
from a silver iced bucket. First the foil was removed, then the wire keeper
was discarded. Carefully he twisted the cork till it popped. He poured a
small amount in Doug's glass, then, at Doug's prompt, poured a glass for the
guests. As he stood between his brother and me, filling our glasses, I
surreptitiously rubbed his cock till it bulged in his tight black leather
pants.
He moved to the next guest, whereupon I continued my harassment by slipping
my hand from behind into the crack of his ass. There, after he held the magnum
in front of his bulging cock, positioning himself in such a way that the
bulge was hidden by a chair, he continued serving the wine.
I didn't think John was correct in the assumption that what Doug was doing,
he was doing because he was in love. There had to be something more. I didn't
doubt for a second that Doug was getting it on with the two K's. But Doug
didn't run a successful radio station by throwing his money around.
From what I could see so far, he had invested over $1,000.00 in Keno and
Keoki, and that was too much for a night's orgy. There had to be something
more.
Further, this dinner at the Hilo Bay was setting him back at least another
grand. No . . . there was a piece of this puzzle missing.
Beneath the table, John moved his hand, resting it on my right knee. It
squeezed a message of affection, then moved ever so slightly upward.
Keno started to taste his champagne, but Doug signaled him not to. Then I
felt Keno's right hand on my left knee; it to moved upward so slightly.
John had worked his way up to where my shaft was pulsating. He found my
zipper and lowered it. Grasping my cock, he then pulled it free. As he was
doing so, Keno reach for my cock, encountering John's hand and my bare
instrument. The unexpected engagement caused both boy's to jerk back and look
at each other in surprise. It was at that moment Doug chose to stand, beckoning
his guests to rise and join him in a toast.
I tucked the table cloth into the top of my trousers, as though it were by
accident. Then, as I rose the table cloth hid my exposed cock from view.
John and Keno burst out laughing. Doug, not knowing why, gave them both "Stink
Eye", whereupon things quieted down.
Doug continued with his toast. "Gentlemen, I want to tell you something that
I have been working on for almost a year.
"I have been negotiating with the owner of Channel 13 in Honolulu for its
acquisition. Only Don Ho enterprises and Henry Kaiser are aware that beginning
January 1st, 1970, KDDB-TV will become the nation's only, and the world's
first all-Hawaiian Television Station.
"As you are all aware, for several months our radio station has been featuring
live performances from Waikiki night clubs followed by an open forum, loosely
programed, late night show.
"We have four potential celebrities in our midst. You all know Rocky, and
are aware that his grandfather is one of the most respected talents in the
islands. On my right and left are Keno and Keoki Hopii. They are from Maui,
and have been preceded by their uncle Sol Hopii, who in the 30's was a Hawaiian
talent featured in several motion pictures. But he was primarily known for
his work in night clubs around the world.
"As the backbone of this new venture will be our own troop, with your parent's
permission, you are invited to join our ranks. It is my intent to develop
all who find their way among us to become part of a unique form of
broadcasting.
"The fourth is Don," pointing to me. "While not Hawaiian in body, he is
Hawaiian in heart. Further, a decade ago, he was a member of a rising new
musical group `THUNDER', which, due to the death of its creator, came to an
abrupt end while touring the Orient. Hawaii After Dark was his idea. Even
though I have not discussed this new project with him, it is my intent to
allow him to apply his creative energies to the new station."
Doug raised his glass, "To 1970. To Hawaii. To the Hawaiian People. To Hawaii's
newest entertainment project. And to each of you who choose to join forces
with us."
I sat down in utter shock. The missing piece from the puzzle had been put in
place.
---- The Whirlwind Begins ----
A number of things changed as a result of Doug's announcement.
The first news of the all-Hawaiian format TV station was announced at the
conclusion of the Hula competition. Incidentally, Chicago won. Rocky's group
took second place.
I found myself in charge of programming for the new station. Doug was specific
about only two things: the 2 K's and Rocky were to be developed into the
hottest talent in the islands and Don Ho enterprises would be the exclusive
agents for our new talent outside of their use on KDDB-TV.
Doug left the Big Island with Rocky, Keno, and Keoki to enter into contracts
with their parents.
This left only Larry, John, and myself to sail the Tehani back to Oahu.
With Rocky and the 2 K's gone, Larry, John, and myself drew closer, bonding
into a real threesome. Larry reverted to form, keeping both John and me
drained.
The trip back to Oahu was in record time. A storm had come up and we sailed
the 250 miles to the Ala Wai Yacht Harbor in less than 2 days; most of it
with just the storm jib.
The 2 K's and Rocky were waiting for us dockside when we tied up at our slip.
We were all excited about this new project. The next day we were going to
inspect the facilities at the television station.
I hired both Larry and John as "administrative assistants", but in reality
their jobs were to do whatever was necessary to make this project work.
Rocky wanted to hire the hula group's dance master to head up talent
development, but Don Ho turned that idea down suggesting that Jack DeMelo
would be more appropriate. In the end, talent development became an unofficial
committee, with Larry keeping in contact with everyone. Aunty Clara, Don Ho,
Jack DeMelo, and Rocky's granddad providing coaching and direction.
The TV studios were on the second floor of the Royal Hawaiian Shopping Plaza
on Kalakaua Ave, with the transmitter on top of the Hawaiian Village Hotel.
The studios were too small for live performances, and the owners of the
building wouldn't renew the lease as it was to be replaced with a more modern
structure. New studios would have to be built.
Among the assets of the station was a remote bus, of the same model that the
Yacht had been. The fifty passenger vehicle had been gutted and then equipped
with a complete control room, two cameras, microwave link, two video tape
recorders, and power plant.
At my suggestion, Doug arranged to lease the facilities of the Hawaiian Club
for our yet to be developed Hawaiian format.
Within six months, the new studios needed to be constructed, but in the
meantime our programing would originate either at the Hawaiian Club or at
the current studios on Kalakaua Avenue.
Miss Doug had taken on a task that was more complex than I realized. Real
estate had to be located for the new facilities. The engineering effort of
building and moving into new studios while staying on the air would be
monumental. Even the staffing of the new station would be a complex issue.
Doug brought three key people into the project, two of whom I had known in
the past: Dave Johnson and Phillip from Thunder (now in his thirties). Phil
was the current chief engineer of KDDB-TV. Of course, Dave was the engineer
from the radio station. The third key man was Alan Roycroft, an expatriate
New Zealander whose roots in broadcast engineering extend back to World War
II.
Roycroft was an independent contractor who provided broadcast engineering
support for many of Honolulu's radio stations. He had also been a consultant
to Henry Kaiser during the construction of Channel 13.
Doug's inauguration of the new all-Hawaiian TV Station was a hectic event,
to say the least. There were only a few weeks to accomplish a great deal.
Don Ho suggested that we try to get the people at the Hawaiian Village Hotel
to let us use the Tapa Room. Phil and Dave both jumped on the idea; being in
the same building as the transmitter, the show would be controlled from the
bus, parked in the back of the hotel, then a single coax and audio line could
be run on the outside of the building, to the roof, and to the transmitter.
Even though there were six of us living on the Tehani, we rarely were on
board at the same time. Rocky, Keno, Keoki, and Larry spent most of their
time either at the Hawaiian Club or in one of Don Ho's clubs. Their goal was
primarily to be trained as Hawaiian show talent. Rocky's grandfather, Aunty
Clara, and a local show producer, Ed Michaelman, put in major effort and time
working with the four boys.
The week between Christmas and New Year's is a slow week in most of the clubs,
so both Don Ho and Hilo Hattie featured the boys. Ho used Rocky and Larry as
a team, while Hilo Hattie used the two K's. Then on the 31st of December all
four boys as a team were used in both shows, Hilo Hattie's early show and
Don Ho's late night performance.
In the meantime, John, Doug, and I were spending most of our time creating
a workable broadcast schedule.
Normally, KDDB-TV signed off the air at midnight, but at 12:01, January first
the ownership of the station officially switched to Doug. The last program
to air under the old ownership was an old Jimmy Stewart movie, ``The Front
Page''. At 11:55 the film was into the tail end of the credits. At 11:59
the film was faded to black. Precisely at midnight the transmitter took its
feed from the bus, as most of Hawaii's TV Sets became illuminated from the
Tapa Room at the Hawaiian Village Hotel.
Hilo Hattie's last show had finished at 11:00, but its audience was encouraged
to stay for the Telecast.
At 11:59 all of the stage lights were turned off. At midnight the stage was
still dark and silent. A twang of a guitar string broke the silence. A single
overhead spot simultaneously encircled a Hawaiian youth, clad only in a
colorful loin cloth. His legs were bent at the knees. A second twang of the
guitar turned on two more overhead spots, illuminating the 2 K's dressed in
their black leather trousers, open shirts, and fresh leis covering their
chests. Rocky, in an adaption of a Tahitian dance, moved between the two K's,
enticing them to follow his lead, their legs beating a savage rhythm. Then,
without warning, the lights went out; the sounds ceased. The auditorium was
bathed in black silence.
Several seconds went by before we again heard a single guitar note, accompanied
by a single tenor voice. The same single spot, now greatly dimmed, began to
glow, lighting just Rocky. A second tenor voice joined the first, the second
spot adding to the light; it was Keno. A third tenor voice joined the duo;
the third light spotlighted Keoki. The two K's were now attired in loin cloths
matched to, but not a duplicate of, Rocky's.
The guitar fell silent as the boys continued the lyrics a capella. A fourth
spot began to light the rear of the stage. A woman dressed in a long white
dress that clung to her body followed the lyrics in a classic hula. As the
rear spot grew brighter, the front spots faded out. As the stage lights were
brought up, the figures of Rocky and the two K's could be seen along side
the woman. The impression was virginal, while first Rocky and then Keno
and Keoki tried to entice her to join their romantic offerings. The spot on
the girl stayed tight and white. Spots were used to light the boys, bathing
their bodies in a sensual gold as the general lights were taken to black.
Now, for the first time, the gentle music of a full orchestra seemed to fade
up from nowhere as the old story of lustful young men attempting to fulfill
their destiny continued in a most provocative manner.
Larry appeared on stage portraying an early missionary wanting to halt this
process of procreation. Eventually, he too got ensnared, attempting to seduce
the woman from her culture, from her god, and into his bed.
In concert, the Hawaiians reject the Haole and then retreat into the darkness
as the virgin continues her call.
KDDB-TV was the first Hawaiian television station with a 20 hour format,
signing off at 2 am and starting its broadcast day at 6.
During the day, its schedule was pretty much like any other commercial station
laced with movies, soap operas, and sitcoms. However, after 8 in the evening,
things changed.
Our format followed that of the radio station as a simulcast: short remotes
from the clubs preceded by material on the performers. Then, after midnight,
we held "Open House" from the Hawaiian Club.
Doug had been pressing us to develop Rocky and the two K's as commercial
material, but the Ho group and Aunty Clara insisted the boys needed more
experience in front of a live audience.
One of the Ho Enterprises was a booking agency that specialized in shows for
the military circuit. There were 21 military clubs on the island: at Fort
DeRusey, Fort Shafter, The Kaneohe Marine Corps Air Station, Hickam, Pearl
Harbor, and Schofield.
Those were hectic days. There were six of us living on our 35 foot sailboat.
The new studios had not as yet been built. The remote bus practically raced
from night club to night club and then across town to the Hawaiian Club.
And then there was always the problem faced by Hawaiian teens: "Surf's up;
school's out".
While I had been generous with my time, Miss Doug was generous with salaries.
My bank account had been building, but my time to enjoy any of it had been
dwindling.
One Sunday in June, the boys wanted to go surfing at Sandy Beach. They had
been working diligently in rehearsals both at the Hawaiian Club and at the
Kaimuki Dance Studio and deserved the recreation. We started early, before
the tourists were on the road, and I deposited all five of them at Sandy's
before 8:30.
Kalanianioli Highway passed through the bed room community of "Hawaii Kai".
A real estate sign caught my attention; someone was having an open house.
The real estate agent who greeted me at the Condo was a pleasant Japanese
woman in her mid twenties. The condo was nice, but couldn't possibly meet my
needs. She laughed when I told her that we were "a family of six" and suggested
that she show me some houses in the area.
I fell in love with the very first house. It had three bedrooms, two baths,
a family room, a Dining Room, and the living room was 18 by 30 feet. It also
had a bar room and a swimming pool. The price, at $83,000, would mean a
mortgage, and I probably would have to sell the Tehani as part of the down
payment.
The young lady showed me several more available houses, but my creative
redesign of the first house had already started, and thus I kept coming back
to it.
To make a long story short, I spent the day negotiating and finally signing
the escrow papers for the purchase of the property.
At 3:30, I drove back to Sandy Beach. I parked and walked down to the water's
edge, trying to attract the attention of one of our five. Finally, it was
Keno who saw me and came paddling in.
"Something has come up; we've got to go. Go get the others."
Keno wasn't too happy about leaving before he had worn himself out, but
dutifully he rounded up the gang.
Hawaii Kai is about ten minutes drive from Sandy Beach, and we took a back
road through the Queen's Gate subdivision.
I told the boys that I needed to see someone who lived in the Haione Valley.
The drive took us over the back slopes of Koko Head, past Mariners Ridge,
and then up into the Valley.
I parked in front of the house and told the boys I wanted them to see
something.
If they had had the time to catch on they would have, because I opened the
front door with a key. I closed the door. "Hope you like it, this is your
new home."
Pandemonium broke loose as they raced through the rooms.
Larry came up behind me, pinning my arms to my side, while John and the two
K's took turns stripping me of my clothing. Then, they all picked me up,
carried me to the back yard, and threw me into the pool, whereupon they threw
their clothes on the decking and jumped in after me.
Our already hectic schedule had gotten even more complicated in that the
house and our new home also needed our time.
After the down payment, I didn't have enough cash left to furnish this huge
house, so we opted to build our own.
Naturally, the first priority was MY bedroom. There were a few built-in
cabinets in the master bedroom. A trip to City Mill yielded the materials
for the construction of a king sized water bed.
The back yard was totally enclosed by a six foot high brick wall, so our
daily routine started with a bit of wrestling in the bedroom, followed by
tag and wrestling in the pool, and then breakfast in the family room.
We had decided to furnish and modify our house as follows: The living room
was to be converted into a rehearsal hall. The master bedroom, while my
sleeping space, would be a community sleeping place. Each of the other two
bed rooms would have queen sized water beds. We would build a Jacuzzi into
the bar room.
A tool shed, detached from the house and located along the back wall of the
property would be converted into a "Private Fun Cottage" for guests or
clandestine sexual opportunities.
Privacy on the Tehani had been nonexistent; there were no secrets; we didn't
need it. Sexual encounters had been open, and, in many instances, community
events.
Usually, we didn't bother to dress unless we were leaving the house.
The following Sunday we invited Miss Doug for a early dinner.
Unbeknownst to Doug, the dinner was to be a nude dinner party.
Preparing the meal had been divided among the six of us. Keno would serve
cocktails; salad was Keoki's; Rocky: Kalua pig; John: yams and mashed potatoes;
Larry: desert; and I would do after-dinner drinks.
Doug was expected at 3:00. Keno was to answer the front door, with one of
those god-awful pineapple vodka things that Doug used to serve his conquests;
and, of course, Keno would be naked, preferably with a rod, if he could manage
it on cue.
The rest of us were pool side. I thought it would be fun to see Doug's
expression if we all had raging hard-ons, so Larry and I took turns at
"Make-Up" to see that everything stayed at attention.
Miss Doug's reaction and performance was pretty much as we had imagined.
It was almost midnight when he became totally uninhibited, and got it on with
Keno and Keoki at the same time. First, teasing the boys into burning lust
then sucking Keoki while Keno fucked him.
The new rehearsal room meant better and more frequent rehearsals and no more
dance studio rental fees. Doug donated a Sony video tape machine and a sound
system.
Even though our rehearsal room had a large mirror, the video equipment would
enable us to examine and appraise our rehearsals and our improvements.
Our days were constructed oddly. The boys needed to practice their art. My
evenings were spent at the radio station. The boys would either help me at
the station or perform at one of the military clubs. Then, at midnight, they
would join me at the TV station where we simply sat around, talked story,
performed, played records, and interviewed whoever happened to show up. Then
at 2 we would depart for home, fix a late night snack, hit the pool or Jacuzzi,
and then to bed.
Under Michelman and Ho's tutelage, the boys were continually expanding their
material. Their performances were always different and spanned from ancient
Hawaiian to modern rock.
Their regularity on the late night TV program gave them a working knowledge
of not only Hawaii's biggest and best, but also headliners from all over the
world who visited the islands.
Miss Doug negotiated a deal with the Magoon family for the long term lease
of a quarter acre in Waikiki, just eight blocks from the Hawaiian Village
Hotel. It was also walking distance to most of the night clubs. The building
had housed the studios and transmitter for KPOI radio.
The new building plans provided broadcast facilities for both radio and TV.
The floor plan was unique in that all radio broadcast originated in a TV
studio. Doug's plan was to simulcast almost everything. Another unique feature
was the creation of a outside garden studio where the old parking lot had
been. The control room had two views: the garden and the indoor sound stage.
The remote bus could be used as a second control room, either for live
productions or taped shows.
The loose "Open Camera" format would hold forth from midnight till closing.
Even though going off the air was scheduled for 2 am, the practice was to
stay on as long as we had guests.
I believe everyone was thinking that once the new studios were ready,
everything we wanted to do could be done there. Rehearsals, broadcasts, even
tutelage. In reality, the new studios were the center of hectic activity.
Plans for the use of the facilities required prior arrangement. John took
over that responsibility.
Keno's interest in the video equipment at home altered our home rehearsal
hall to a video production center. Although what we created at home was not
of broadcast quality, it allowed us to put together a show as it would be
aired or performed on stage.
It was an early Sunday morning for me in mid-summer; John and Larry were at
the station; Rocky had spent the night with his parents in Waimanalo. Miss
Doug had called asking me to meet him at the Tapa Room; Danny Kalikini wanted
to discuss our participation in his annual Christmas TV Show. We had walked
over to the Hale Kalani for Brunch. Danny wanted Keno, Keoki, and Rocky as
guests. I told them I thought it would probably be OK, but that I needed to
run this through the Don Ho office.
It was shortly after noon when I returned home. No one seemed to be about.
As I walked to the back of the house, I saw Keno with a video camera, pointing
it out the back window towards the pool. He turned and put his finger to his
lips signaling me to be quiet.
I looked out the back window to see what he was taping. There was Keoki
fucking a blonde haole girl of perhaps 18 or 19. She was laying flat on a
chaise lounge, while Keoki was in the saddle pumping away.
Keno pointed out two large glasses right next to them. Apparently they had
gotten drunk and decided to make their own porno.
The sun and the exercise caused both of the lovers to perspire, the drops of
sweat glistening. Keoki had changed his pace to long slow strokes, pulling
out till just the head of his cock was being held by her vulva. Then he
moved in slowly, till he had bottomed out, his buttocks tensing in an effort
to travel even further.
The telephone rang. Rocky wanted me to pick him up.
On the way back to the house, Rocky and I were discussing the 2 K's video
production. Old Rocky caught a bone, "Wonder if I can get sloppy seconds?"
In fact, Keoki had finished and taken the girl back to her Waikiki Hotel.
Keno ran the tape for us. It was pretty good. A few bits needed to be edited
out. There was no sound, but music could be added, and then maybe fake action
sounds could be over dubbed.
For the next several weeks we teased Keoki about being "The Hawaiian John
Holmes".
Rocky's grandfather was working with an all-Hawaiian boys choir, "The Waimanalo
Keiki's". He had hoped to have them ready for Christmas. They had just cut
an album of Hawaiian Christmas songs.
Our boys had been booked into the Officers' Club at Hickam Air Force Base.
The Waimanalo Keikis wanted a spot in our show to test audience reaction.
The O. Club Show was Friday and Saturday Nights. I suggested that the Keikis
appear on our Thursday late night TV show.
My thoughts were that the TV appearance would promote the O. Club show.
Also, I had something else up my sleeve.
While Rocky, Larry & the two K's had been frequent guests on the television
program, they had never been on the other side of the "Interview Microphone".
It was my intent to turn the program over to Rocky, and let him work with
his grandfather. Everything was to be improvised. We wouldn't even have a
program outline. I assured the boys that I would stay behind the scenes and
if they got into trouble, I'd bail them out.
Thursday was the most chaotic night of my life. If only the Keiki's had been
late. They weren't; they were early.
Rocky, and the two K's were in a sweat as 11 o'clock drew nearer and then
passed. There were 26 hyper Hawaiian youngsters ages between 9 and 14 running
all over the garden studio.
Dave Johnson had set up mic stands and an overhead boom mic for the choir.
Three wireless mics had been deployed.
The 11:30 news was being broadcast from inside. 11:58 approached. The floor
director had finally gotten everyone to settle down. It was 30 seconds to
air.
"I'll bet you mine is bigger than yours". Spoken by a tiny voice, blared from
the studio speakers.
I looked at Dave Johnson in the Control room, wildly trying to find and kill
whatever mic that had come from.
Everyone on stage had been stunned. Then suddenly everyone broke into laughter,
practically rolling on the floor.
As we came on the air, everyone was laughing. The cameras were aimed at the
hosts who could barely regain their composure.
Rocky's grandfather Gabby began to talk story, reminiscing over the early
days of Hawaiian music. The atmosphere was as though they were in their own
back yard: informal, homey, comfortable. Even the Keiki's had calmed down as
they listened about the roots of their heritage.
Rocky introduced Keno and Keoki. Gabby had known their uncle Sol Hopii in
the late 1930's.
As the evening wore on, Rocky and the two K's warmed to being "host" and
began taking away the leadership Gabby had so subtly exercised.
The highlight was when the Waimanalo Keiki's performed the Hawaiian version
of Partridge in a Pear Tree.
When ever we did a club date, we would arrive in the early afternoon to set
up sound and lights, and the boys would do a run through making certain that
everything worked.
The Friday afternoon of the Hickam date was no different. We arrived at the
Air Force Base shortly after 2:00.
The club served lunch, and they were still in the process of cleaning up as
we began to set up our equipment.
I noticed a young airman sitting at a near by table, drinking a glass of
milk. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but also there was
something very sexual about him; he radiated it.
The boys were busy on stage. I walked over to him and asked if it was OK if
I joined him at his table. He smiled, and motioned for me to sit. His dark
hair was cut short.
"My name is Don." I extended by hand, he laughed as we shook hands.
"So's mine. My job here is the A/V equipment, so, if you need anything, let
me know."
My thoughts were not about the A/V equipment, I wanted to get to know this
kid better.
"You're the guy on the radio aren't you?"
I admitted that I was and invited him to visit the studios next time he was
in Waikiki.
The bartender came over. "You've got a telephone call. You can take it over
there," pointing to a phone on the bar.
It was John. Doug wanted to use the remote bus in a promotion, but John felt
it unlikely that we'd get it back in time for our late night TV Show. I told
him I'd be there as soon as I could.
"Shit! I've got to get back to the station, and the boy's need the van."
The young airman offered to run me into town.
My devious mind was always at work. "If you have time, would you like to come
out to the house for a quick swim. You might find our rehearsal studio
interesting."
Young Don watched and listened as I talked with John, going over the details
of the use of the remote bus. I pointed out that if Doug could start the
promo a half hour earlier, then everything should be OK. And, at the worst,
it would mean a somewhat sloppy switch from the news studio to the garden.
My guest was obviously impressed by our home. The idea of a very private
swimming pool pleased him. We drank Long Island Ice Teas, to the point that
both of us were totally uninhibited. We got naked in preparation for jumping
in the pool. He had a huge cock; it must have hung half way to his knees. He
lifted his glass in a toast, and, as we drank, he spilled part of his drink
on his crotch. I laughed, grabbed a towel, and soaked it up. His member
immediately responded into a raging hard-on.
"God, that thing is big enough to stir my drink with."
"Now that's something to think about."
I lowered my glass, immersing his cock into my drink. Then I lifted my glass
to my lips and said "Here's to ya," and bottomed out my glass. "Finish yours
and let go for a swim".
"Not till you finish yours," he pointed to his cock, still wet with my Long
Island Ice Tea.
I lowered myself to my knees and began licking off the remnants of my drink.
He put his hand on my shoulder, "Don't finish it yet. Let's take that swim."
I got to my feet, took hold of his dick, towing/leading him to the pool.
The cool water caused my dick to shrink; but not so, his. The more we played,
wrestled, and played tag, the randier he seemed to get.
We dried off and went into my bedroom.
I looked over his body, which was a healthy tan color. It was nicely
proportioned, and he had a face that looked almost Italian in its features.
His hand stroked his cock which increased in size. I could see by the dim
light coming into the window that there was a droplet of glistening cum on
the tip of his cock. I wanted to drop down to my knees and lick it off, but
I refrained.
"Don, you wanna jack off together?" I asked.
"Sure! I'm so fuckin' hard, I could shoot right about now." His hard cock
was about 10 or 11 inches long. I was amazed at the size of his instrument.
I had never seen one that large before. I stood up and he reached over and
took my cock in his hand, stroking it gently with his palm. His smooth hand
massaged my hard cock, and the feel of his fingertips on my skin just made
me shake. I reached over and took his cock in my hand, and just felt it, the
weight of it, the mass of this huge, throbbing cock.
"Man, that feels so good..." Don moaned as I stroked.
"Mine too," I sighed.
"C'mon buddy, get on your knees and take my cock in your hot mouth and suck
on it for me..." he said, slowly pushing on my shoulder to get me down.
I was on my knees in no time at all, and his cock stared me in the face. I
saw his hand stroking the large tool, back and forth, and I wanted it badly.
"Go on. Take it, it won't hurt you. Just a little, in your mouth, you don't
have to take it all." he smiled at me.
That was all I needed. My hands wrapped around his tight buttocks and my
index finger rubbed his soft asshole. On the table behind Don, I found some
of John's cocoa-butter and smeared some on his ass and on my finger.. As I
took his cock into my mouth, I pushed my finger deep into his hot ass.
Soon, our bodies were both in ecstasy, my finger in his asshole, his cock in
my mouth, and later my cock in his.
In about 15 minutes we both shot huge loads of cum down each other's throats;
my airman's cock was still so hard, I had to jerk it off again and take the
second load.
Finally spent, we rested with his head on my shoulder looking up at the
ceiling. "Where are you from?"
"New Jersey. You?"
"California. How long have you been in the Air Force?"
"This is my second year. My Dad was an officer in the Navy. He wanted me to
go into their OCS program. But I'd seen enough of Navy life to know that
wasn't for me."
A thought began to germinate in my mind, one born mostly from intuition
rather than fact. "Are you a Don Junior?"
"No, my Dad's name is John. I was named after someone he knew when he was a
teenager, before he joined the navy."
The vague familiarity vanished as I clearly remembered a scene early in
my life.
-------------------
It had been after dark when the sound of a key in the door woke me. I must
have been dreaming of Hal as I had a huge erection. The light came on.
Standing in the doorway was a young fellow, of about 17. He had a short brush
hair cut. He was staring at me with a big grin on his face. "Hey, sorry man,
didn't mean to interrupt". At first what he said didn't make any sense till
I looked down and saw my giant rod sticking up right through the towel.
"No, you didn't interrupt anything; I was just snoozing"
"Must have been some hot dream".
At that point John introduced himself. He was indeed 17, was from New Jersey,
was in New York for a week, and had been assigned to the other bed in "our"
room.
-------------------
The boys were in a sweat by the time we got back to Hickam. "Where the fuck
you guys been? We got one hell of a problem." Larry seemed pissed off.
An Air Force lieutenant came over. "The Commander wants the show to be moved
to the Base Theater. Reservations have exceeded our space, and the Commander
wants to see the show."
"Well, we can't do it." I said, "there is not enough time to tear down, set
up and rehearse. We can compromise to this extent: we can hold tomorrow's
show at the Base Theater. The other alternative is we can cancel and try to
reschedule later in the year."
The Lieutenant's face turned red. "What do you mean you can't do it? We've
got a contract."
"Yeah you do, and it's for a performance in this goddamned club. I'm willing
to compromise. But as I said you have three choices: We perform tonight and
tomorrow night here in the O Club; or we perform tonight here in the O Club
and at the theater tomorrow night; OR we cancel the whole fucking thing and
you can work out the details with Don Ho's group."
The Lieutenant's faced turned a deeper shade of red.
"Come on guys, we need a break." I motioned for our guys to leave with me.
"Airman Halderman. Stop right where you are." Don turned to face the officer.
"Lieutenant I need the Airman's expertise in engineering this move for
tomorrow. That is, unless you have already decided on the third alternative.
Come on Airman Halderman, we need to talk."
The Lieutenant got himself under control. "Dismissed. I'll talk to the Base
Commander. We'll probably do tomorrow's show at the auditorium".
Halderman had been John's last name. Was I the boy's name sake?
--------- Home Alone, I -------------
Rocky and Larry became the hosts on Hawaii After Dark. I began spending most
of my time developing live performances for the four boys.
The fiery Lieutenant took his revenge out on Don Halderman, getting him
transferred to Tule Air Force Base in Greenland. Don had given me his father's
address before he left, but I had not made an effort to contact John at his
home in New Jersey; I think I was frightened of the unknown.
I was sitting in the Jacuzzi one afternoon when the phone rang.
"I understand you are looking for someone to take care of your house."
The idea had not crossed my mind until then, but in fact the house was always
in a mess. We could afford to have someone to come in and do both the house
and the yard. "Who told you?"
The young man on the other end of the line named someone whose name I didn't
recognize.
"To be frank with you, I wasn't looking for someone, but we do need help.
If you want, you can come over and discuss it. When do you want to come by?"
The voice suggested later that afternoon. I gave him directions. No
one showed up. My imagination had created the image of an overweight dork,
so it was with some degree of relief that the afternoon passed with a no
show.
I mentioned this happening to the other five. No one knew anything about it,
but they also thought getting a "maid" would be a good idea. I was thinking
about putting an ad in the Star Bulletin, but hadn't gotten around to it.
About two weeks, later the caller again telephoned. I put him on the defensive
about not showing up for the last interview. He had lost the instructions on
how to get to the house.
I asked where he was. "The Texaco Station on Hawaii Kai Drive".
I had reservations about him coming to the house; I wanted to see him first.
If I didn't like what I saw, I'd be the no-show. "You stay right there by
the telephone. I'll call you right back; I've got to see if I can cancel an
appointment. I'll call you within 15 minutes."
I jumped into my car and drove to the Texaco Station to buy gas. As the
attendant was filling my tank I looked over by the pay phone. The kid was
fucking gorgeous. Long blonde hair. Surfer's build. A little on the thin
side. He was wearing swimming trunks and a tee shirt. He was barefooted, but
had a skate board along side. The trunks seemed molded to his behind.
I walked over to the kid "Are you Jay? I'm Don. Get in the car and we'll
talk at the house."
We sat in the Jacuzzi buck naked, and talked while drinking two Long Island
Ice Teas. Jay lived with his mother in Kailua. He had an older brother with
whom he did not get along. The family was poor; the mother worked as a hotel
maid in Waikiki. Jay and his brother had a fist fight two days earlier, and
Jay had told his mother he was going to move out. His interests were almost
entirely body boarding, and skate boarding. His mother, Michelle, had three
sons, sired by three different fathers. Now, in her more mature life she had
turned to "The Church and had been saved from a life of sin." She attended
the Kaimuki Christian Church at least three days a week: every Wednesday for
Prayer Meeting; every Sunday morning for Sunday School and Morning Service;
every Sunday night.
Michelle's sons did not share her views.
Jay's interest was more to become a part of our unique family than an interest
in a job. I explained about the relationship we all had with one another:
that we cared for each other; we worked together; and even slept together.
He kept nodding affirmatively. I thought he might be naive so I became very
direct. "You know we even suck each other's dicks."
Jay nodded his head. "George is interested, so I guess I am too."
"Who's George?"
Jay lifted himself from the water. He pointed to his very erect member,
"That's George."
The converted tool shed became Jay and George's room.
---------- Jay makes seven and George makes ate -----------
In the months to follow, many of the neighborhood teenagers would drop by
for a visit. Some knew Rocky from Sandy Beach. Some knew Jay. Our home became
as much as an "Open House", as did Hawaii After Dark.
When we rehearsed at home, we were assured of an audience.
Even though I was now in my late forties, I found strong friendships developing
with these teens. Some of the friendships were sexual; most were not.
I had heard that a local cop by the name Kealoha had been asking the local
kids what they knew about me and our home. Knowing that we were not doing
anything illegal, I discounted the story.
One evening just Jay and I were home having dinner and watching a Public
Television program called "Pau Hana Years". The live telecast was a call-in
program for the senior community. This week's guests were the Attorney General,
a Hawaii Supreme Court Judge, a Family Court Judge, and a lawyer in private
practice. The subject was what specific rights do seniors have, especially
as it has to do with privacy and noise abatement.
About half way through the program a young male voice was asking a question.
"I'm 15 and I'm gay. My boyfriend is in his 30's. My mother says that if I
see him again she is going to have him thrown in Jail. Can she do that?"
The panel unanimously agreed that there were no charges that could be brought
against the boyfriend, inasmuch as their sexual activities were consensual.
The most she could do is ground her son, then if the boy failed to obey she
could ask the authorities to step in. That probably the family court would
ask that the entire family engage in counseling. That the counseling would
make certain the boy understood the full consequences of choosing that
alternate life style, but that in the final analysis the boy had a right to
be gay, and to love whom he chose.
Again the months seemed to fly by. Larry and Rocky practically owned the
television air waves after midnight. The two K's still were frequent guests
when they were in town, but Hilo Hattie went on mainland tours and took the
boys with her.
One late afternoon I received a welcome telephone call from the woman that
I had worked with in breaking Liliokalani's code. "I've just experienced a
phenomenal event in my life. I really want to share this with you."
I tried to get more details, and, for some reason June wouldn't say more than
to tell me that it was something called EST, and that she wanted me to attend
an orientation lecture being held at the Regency on Tuesday.
The speaker was eloquent and passionate. Even after the lecture I was uncertain
exactly what it was that they were selling, something to do with providing
tools to take control of ones own life; utilizing the basic power of the
brain to enable one to become powerful in dealing with ourselves and our
relationships with others.
If it hadn't been for my deep respect for the opinions of June and her husband,
I would have walked away from that evening with skepticism and disbelief.
Despite my reaction to the orientation, and at the prompting of June, I laid
out $350.00 and enrolled in the series. At the time of enrollment, they
specified several rules that must be adhered to. First, the series was divided
into two full weekends, starting at 7 am on Saturday. That first day's session
would most probably finish about midnight. Sunday would be the same. The next
weekend would be the same schedule, but the series would be completed the
second Sunday somewhere around ten PM.
The goal we were to achieve was to "get it". Over and over again the nebulous,
never defined "it" was stressed.
No one could leave a lecture without permission, and permission would never
be given unless it was a predicted medical need. There would be only one
break, somewhere around noon. One of the first things required was that the
participants learn to control their bladder, their toilet functions.
My curiosity kept me alert. I was more interested in how they did what they
did rather than have it effect me personally. The lectures reminded me a good
deal of Pentecostal revival meetings. However, what they were teaching both
in principal and by demonstration was the art of self hypnosis.
The first practical demonstration was to enable the student to achieve the
equivalent of eight hours sleep in as little as four. The success of that
demonstration occurred at about midnight on that first Saturday, when my head
hit the pillow on my bed. I was out like a light, awakening at five the next
morning bright eyed and bushy tailed.
My mind was suddenly and eagerly embracing this new technique, trying to find
unexplored applications, and there were many.
Two weeks after I finished the EST training, I was sunning myself on the
beach at Sandy's. My eyes were closed with the EST magazine covering my eyes.
A sudden splash of cold water caused me to look out from under the publication.
There, bending over me, obviously trying to read the cover was a young man
dripping water on to my stomach.
My first impression was pleasant, as his warm smile grinned at me
apologetically. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you. Mind if I read your magazine?"
I handed it over.
"I just went through something like this a couple of months ago, but it was
called Silva Mind Control".
Roger was in the Air Force, stationed on Okinowa. Every six months, the base
gave him a week's pass, and priority space available air transportation for
R&R anywhere in the world he choose. Further inquiry yielded the fact that
he was 24 and lived with an Okinowan girl.
He was handsome, intelligent, and interesting. We discussed Silva versus EST.
The sun was bearing down, and he suggested that if I had the time, that we
should have lunch at the Hawaii Kai Shopping Center.
We had the "all you can eat Salad Bar" at Sizzlers. We sat there continuing
our discussion between mouthfuls of salad and then soup.
I had steered the conversation around to my favorite subject, sex, and found
that he was worrying about his Okinowan girl friend. She was fucking him
silly; he couldn't keep up with her; he was sure she would find someone else.
My mind began to whirl. "Why don't we see if we can create a process to try
and solve the problem?", referring to developing an EST self hypnosis
procedure.
What we jointly put together as a scenario was a procedure by which he could
engage in intercourse five times in a row. Each time the girl would reach
her climax, it would feel to him like he was also climaxing, but in reality
ejaculation would not take place. Only on the sixth climax would his cock
release its fluid.
Both the EST and Silva processes utilize a "trainer"; I would be his trainer.
They also use directed body relaxation to achieve a trusting relationship
between the two people. After the relaxation, they create two fantasies, the
first a pleasant beach scene, the second a safe space high on a mountain top,
or suspended in space where the real work takes place.
Our objective was to create, in the safe space, a sexual experience, tailored
to generate the five synthetic ejaculations before the final and real one
occurred. To do this, we would bring six girls into his imaginary safe space,
where he would develop his sexual fantasy. First, he would view the girl
standing on a small stage or platform, dressed in a bikini bathing suit. In
his mind he would undress her, take her to the nearby bed, and engage in
various types of detailed sexual activity.
The idea intrigued both of us. There was no one home, so I asked if he would
like to experiment; he seemed as eager as did I.
To conduct this project, I would sit in a nearby chair, while Roger would
lay naked, on my bed, face up, hands on his thighs.
I moved a chair close to the bed as he slipped out of his swimming trunks
and tee shirt. He had a sprinkling of brownish red hair on his chest which
was just a shade darker that the hair on his head. The chest hair coursed
its way down past his navel and into the pubic region. His penis was flaccid,
cut, and of normal size.
"Close your eyes. Put your hands on your thighs where your thumb can touch
the head of your penis. I will give you instructions, and when you have
achieved the expected result, you will tap the head of your cock twice as a
signal.
"First, you are to stretch the toes of your left foot. As you do so, pay
particularly close attention to the feeling. Now relax the toes, relax the
foot. Notice the pleasant warmth that you can now feel in the relaxing muscles.
"Now, strictly within your mind, I want you to create those same feeling in
your right foot. You will do that without actually stretching the right toes
or foot. When you feel the warmth develop in the relaxed right foot, you
will have achieved your goal, and you will tap the head of your dick twice."
Fifteen seconds later, Roger tapped the head of his still relaxed cock. I
was afraid that his touching it might arouse him and ruin the experiment,
but it did not.
During the next twenty minutes we progressed through all of his body: calf,
thighs, buttocks, abdomen, chest, hands, arms, shoulders, and even face
muscles. His body was totally, and completely relaxed.
"I want you to imagine that you are at a beach. There is no other person
within your view. You look down the beach and envision the sand as it stretches
out beyond your view.
"Feel the warmth of the sand on your feet. Look out into the cool blue water
as it gently moves in and out upon the sand."
His fantasies were building as he embraced my dialog creating a realistic,
directed daydream.
Next, we created the safe space. It was to be a room created by him for him.
The only suggestions I injected were that it be a space he felt totally
comfortable and relaxed in, and that it was a space where no one could enter
without his specific invitation, and that it was a safe space in which he
could experience anything he wished.
"I want you to imagine a girl standing on the platform. You are standing
directly in front of her. She has long, flowing black hair. You look into
her soft brown eyes, your gaze flows downward to her slightly parted lips."
Under my direction he placed his fingers on her bikini bottoms, sliding them
down to her ankles. We had lingered over every portion of her body, before
he took her hand and led her to the bed. His cock had fully inflated.
The fantasy went further, where they were sampling each other genitalia with
their tongues. He open his mouth, licking an imaginary clitoris. Within
moments, the pre-cum was flowing. She took his penis into her mouth tonguing
his instrument.
"You feel like you are going to cum. Close your eyes. Let the sensation fall
back. Now squeeze your buttocks together and I want you to create, within
your mind, the full and complete feeling of ejaculation."
His body arched, his stomach spasmed, I expected to see a jet of cum shoot
from the end of his throbbing cock; it did not.
We repeated this process five times with women of different descriptions,
with various sexual performances: he got his cock sucked; he fucked pussy
and he fucked ass; he fucked doggy style. Then on the sixth girl, she was
sitting on his dick, jumping up and down on it. He had been primed that the
sixth time his ejaculation would be real and full.
As I described the girl, the feeling he had of her body on his cock, his cock
got larger than it had been so far, the precum was flowing like a river down
his shaft and over his balls. Again, his body arched, his stomach spasmed as
he came great wads shooting clear over his head, striking the head board.
All together I counted eight large shots, with the last few landing on his
chest and stomach.
"Keep your eyes closed. From now on, whenever you engage in intercourse, you
will repeat what you did here today. You will feel like you are climaxing
each time the girl climaxes, but in reality you will not; only on the sixth
climax will you really ejaculate."
I finished the process. He opened his eyes with a pleasant smile on his lips.
Roger returned to Okinowa the following Sunday. Six weeks later I received
a short letter. "She left me anyway. She couldn't keep up with me."
John's responsibilities at KDDB-TV had increased. Doug wanted to make him
program director. He would leave the house before eight in the morning and
not return until after seven in the evening. Larry and Rocky worked from
eleven in the evening until three or four in the morning. When the two K's
were in town, their day didn't mesh with anyone's. That left just Jay and
me.
Jay's talents were not musical. Jay's talents were mostly bedroom talents.
He had many girlfriends. And when girls learned that he lived with such stars
as Keno, Keoki, Rocky and Larry, they were even more passionate in their
interest.
Jay's mother telephoned. "I want to speak with my son!" Her voice was hostile
and cold. What I could hear of their conversation was heated and angry. Jay
slammed down the telephone and went out to his room.
The telephone rang again. It was his mother. "I told Jay that I want him out
of your house. You are running a den of iniquity. He is to be out of there
immediately." Temper apparently runs in the family as it sounded like she
had slammed the phone with even more heat that had Jay.
I went out to his room. "Your mother just called. She said she wants you out
of here immediately. What's going on?"
"That fucking cop Kealoha goes to her church and has been filling her ear
with tall tales. Telling her our house is a whore house for teens being run
by faggots." He paused, tears welling up in his eyes. "Do I have to leave?"
"Not as far as I'm concerned. You are welcome here for as long as you want
to stay." I put my arms around him, pulling him to me, letting my body tell
him how much we appreciated him. Actions shouted where words could only
whisper.
More than two weeks had passed. Jay and one of his several girlfriends hiked
up into the Koholau Mountains for a weekend of Camping. The two K's were in
Las Vegas with Hilo Hattie. Doug, Larry, Rocky, and John were on Maui for a
promotional telecast for a new hotel.
Friday night I was sitting in the Jacuzzi enjoying a Mai Tai. My thoughts
traveled back over the years as I recalled Bobby, Charlie, and the Tehani.
Those fond thoughts brought my dick to attention. It had been along time
since I had jacked off. A porno might be nice.
I got out of the hot water and dried off. I put hand lotion along side of
one of our recliner chairs in readiness for my exercise. I wanted to watch
Keoki fuck that tourist chick. I couldn't find the tape. Both my dick and my
passion went down as my attention was diverted from my body to searching for
the tape. An hour and a half later the tape was still missing.
On Saturday morning I received a phone call from Larry. They should be back
on Oahu by noon on Monday. Almost as an afterthought I asked him if he knew
about Keoki's tape. He said he not only hadn't seen the tape, but that two
weeks earlier he had been looking for it and it wasn't where we kept it.
Saturday night I microwaved a TV dinner and sat down to eat it. Suddenly, I
heard a loud banging on our front door, as though some one was trying to put
their fist through it.
I opened the door. The first person I saw was Officer Kealoha, dressed in
civilian clothes. He was accompanied by three nasty looking guys that looked
like they were going to attack me. Before I could make a move they pushed
their way into the house. Kealoha handed me a sheaf of papers. "This is a
search warrant. Read it."
I read the warrant. The suspected crime was child pornography. The sworn
affidavit by a police officer clearly showed the police had stolen the tape
from our house. For the next four hours, every square inch of the house was
turned up side down. Every photograph, every video tape, every video recorder,
and television set was loaded into the back of a pickup truck. They handed
me an inventory of what they had impounded. The missing video tape was
listed.
The officers put me in the back of Kealoha's car. The radio squawked.
"Officer Kealoha, Michelle Awie wants to know how much longer she should
stay." Kealoha told her to go home.
At the police station I was subjected to interrogation. Always Kealoha was
there. It was clear that he was in charge. I told him point blank that I knew
the search warrant was based on a tape stolen from my home. "So what, faggots
like you don't have any rights. If I had my way I'd shoot every one of you."
The search warrant spelled out a $250,000 bail.
My emotions were in a turmoil as I sat in that jail cell. I had been set up
by a cop. I wondered just how many people were involved in this violation of
my civil rights. As time went by, I learned that Michelle's church group
included Kealoha and a deputy district attorney. They had engineered this
phony charge.
Monday morning I was arraigned. The regular municipal judge had been replaced
by a thinking judge from Hawaii's Superior Court. The judge looked over the
papers. Then looked over them again. He asked the prosecutor's office why
the bail was so high and who the victim was. The judge began to sense that
something was not as it should be. He lowered the bail to $1000. The prosecutor
objected. The judge told her in no uncertain terms that this was his court
and he could do as he pleased, and if she voiced further argument in the
matter he would dismiss the case and hold her in contempt.
Looking back, the police impounded over $20,000 worth of video equipment and
returned none of it. I later learned that most of the equipment had been sold
at auction, mostly to police officers.
As soon as I had been returned to the jail, I telephoned a bondsman and was
released within two hours.
Sunday's Star Bulletin carried a front page story "Ex-DJ Jailed on Child
Pornography."
I began to realize that if the police were willing to perjure themselves to
the extent that they had, that I'd better make myself unavailable ASAP.
Instead of going home, I checked into a hotel out by the airport.
I telephoned the house. Jay answered the phone. I suspected the phone was
tapped, so I asked him to meet me at KDDB. Then I called the station. Doug
was in a turmoil. The station couldn't take a position. Child pornography
was too hot of an issue. Doug was trying to get the station's attorneys. I
should call back in an hour.
At 2:00 Monday, three days before Thanksgiving, John, Jay, Doug, and I met
with a hot new attorney recommended by the station's lawyers.
It was clear that there was a lot at risk. Proving that the police had
committed criminal acts would be difficult. The police had been very cagey;
Kealoha's name did not appear on any of the documents, yet he was clearly in
charge. An officer Tanaka from the Vice division had executed the affidavit
and made the charges. On the other hand, the only way they could have obtained
that tape was by theft. The suggested tactic was to delay and delay, and
delay some more, 'til the driving passion behind this setup had dried up.
The bonding company, with the attorney's assurance, agreed that I could and
should leave the state. Jay and I were on the midnight flight to Los Angeles.
Rather than hold the reader in an emotional turmoil, let me set your mind at
ease. After 14 trips back to Hawaii for court dates, the charges were
eventually dropped. Altogether, Jay's mother, with the help of the Honolulu
Police department had defrauded me of almost $100,000. The religious right
had had its way. "That fag was driven from the state".
They had also destroyed the careers of three of Hawaii's finest: Rocky, Keno,
and Keoki.
***DISCLAIMER****
My Teenage Heart is a work of FICTION. Celebrities like Don Ho, Sammy
Kapu, Aunty Clara, Hilo Hattie are names like The Grand Canyon, or Maui,
or any other public edifice, and are used in that same context. To be
more specific: Don Ho, Don Ho Enterprises, or any other celebrities name
used in this work, is used for purposes of flavor. They were not, in reality,
part of this story.