Date: Thu, 12 Feb 2015 17:37:03 +0000 (UTC)
From: Macout Mann <macoutmann@yahoo.com>
Subject: New York, New York 2

This story is about a college boy's first visit to Manhattan.  It includes
explicit homosexual acts with a schoolmate, so be warned.

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Copyright 2015 by Macout Mann.  All rights reserved.



                       NEW YORK, NEW YORK

                        by Macout Mann



                              II


The movie at the Radio City Music hall was "The Greatest Show on Earth",
Cecil B. Demille's epic about the circus.  It had already begun when we
arrived, but I was not all that interested in the film anyway.  I was more
interested in the architecture of the theatre and what would happen after
the movie ended.

I couldn't imagine that anybody didn't know about the Radio City Music Hall
shows, but I reckoned without Mikey.

"Is that an orchestra I hear tuning up, Gerald?" he asked when the movie
ended.

"I believe it might be Mikey," I answered.

At that moment to a thundering tympani roll, the orchestra rose into the
pit and the stage show began.  The music hall producers had decided to
match Demille with a greatest show of their own.  After an opening number,
the orchestra rose to stage level, slid to the back of the stage, and on
another hydraulic stage was lifted half way to the flies, where it remained
for the rest of the performance.  The Rockettes kicked, and to top the
production off the orchestra pit rose once more to reveal a set with
another production number fully staged in front of the apron.

As the organ played the entr'acte and a new audience trooped into the
cavernous auditorium, I told Mikey I had to leave without seeing the
beginning of the film.  "I'm due at the 'Your Show of Shows' rehearsal," I
said, "but if you're free, you might meet me at Carnegie Hall at four
o'clock.

I expected that he might be tired of looking at pictures at the
Metropolitan Museum by then.

"Your Show of Shows" was staged at a Broadway theatre.  I watched the
rehearsal with interest.  Rehearsals for live television shows were always
chaotic and almost never were completed before air time.  I learned a good
bit over the afternoon, however, and got to meet "Pat" Weaver, the show's
producer, who was later to become President of NBC, where he invented the
"television special," and started "Today" and "Tonight."

Arriving at Carnegie Hall, I had no idea if I could wrangle tickets to the
concert.  The scene in front of the hall was sheer chaos.  A phalanx of
uniformed NBC pages at "parade rest" was lined up along the steps of the
outer lobby, leaving only a narrow path for ticket holders to reach the
door.  On the sidewalk was a mob of imploring ticket seekers facing the
pages who were chanting "No.  No tickets."

I heard one foreign student telling an unsympathetic page that he had been
trying to get in for a whole year and this very week he was returning to
his home country.  Couldn't he please?

I should point out that the NBC pages were the buck privates of the network
hierarchy.  Aspiring actors, musicians, directors, accountants, everyone
who was hired by NBC below the rank of Hollywood Star started as a page.  I
had a couple of friends out of high school who became pages.  I was offered
a job as a page even after I had some television production credits, and
the vice president who made the offer couldn't understand my refusal.
"That's the way I started," he told me.  The system was unique in corporate
America.

Yet back at the RCA Building, although the NBC Lobby was fully staffed with
pages beside the velvet ropes leading to the elevators, anyone who could
forcefully stride across the acre of marble looking like they knew where
they were going could easily reach the inner sanctum.  On the other hand at
the much less imposing CBS headquarters at 485 Madison Avenue, only two men
near retirement sat at a desk in the lobby.  No one ever got past them
until they were cleared to get on the elevator.

At Carnegie Hall I decided that a frontal assault was in order.  I chose a
page and approached.

"Who is in charge of guest relations this afternoon," I demanded.

"Mr. Kelley," the young man haughtily replied.

"Please tell Mr. Kelley that Mr. Cunningham is in the lobby," I just as
haughtily ordered.

As I waited, Mikey materialized.

"Hello, Mikey, what have you been doing?" I asked.

"I've been at the Radio City Music Hall," Mikey proudly replied.

No Metropolitan Museum.  He had sat through two complete Music Hall
presentations.

The page reappeared with Mr. Kelley in tow.

"Yes?"  Mr. Kelley smiled, but he was obviously unaccustomed to being
summoned.

"I am Gerald Cunningham," I smiled back.  "Ernest Trice, vice president of
television operations, said that you would have tickets for me."

"Let's take a walk down the block," he said.  "We might be mobbed
otherwise."

We strolled almost to the Russian Tea Room before he reached in his inside
coat pocket and produced a stack of tickets.  Actually they were in the
form of formal invitations.

"How many do you need?" Mr. Kelley asked.

"Only two," I responded.  I thought of the poor exchange student, but I
didn't want to be mobbed either.

"Enjoy the concert," he said.  He turned and quickly walked back to the
hall.

Mikey and I found seats about midway back on the orchestra level.  Again I
thought that everyone who had ever heard of a symphony orchestra knew what
happened on Saturday afternoon at Carnegie hall.  But again I had reckoned
without Mikey.

He looked down at his program and yelped, "We're going to see Toscanini?!"

"Indeed we are, Mikey."

The broadcasts of the NBC Symphony were staged like regular concerts.  Ben
Grauer read his commentary from the broadcasting booth and the audience in
the theatre heard only the music.  Grauer did appear briefly, dressed in an
Oxford Jacket and stripped trousers, to welcome the audience and to say
that "Mr. Toscanini has asked that you not applaud between the movements of
the Beethoven Symphony."

Toscanini was known for a unique drive in his interpretations, but I
couldn't imagine how Respighi's "The Pines of Rome" and Beethoven's Fifth
could be fit into fifty-nine minutes and twenty-five seconds along with
Grauer's comments.  Yet it was done.

The concert was also historic, because of Toscanini's recordings of the
nine Beethoven symphonies only one was taken from a live performance.
Mikey and I were there, March 22, 1952.

Also, in those days audiences did not automatically give standing ovations
to every Dick and Harry who took to the stage.  I was really amused as we
stood and Mikey turned to tell me, "Oh, I've always wanted to stand up and
applaud."

We walked from 57th Street down Broadway toward Times Square and stopped at
a sidewalk deli for a bite to eat.  Neither of us had eaten since
breakfast.  As we sat at the counter, there was a tv set nearby.  "Your
Show of Shows" came on, and I delighted in telling Mikey what was going to
happen next as the show progressed.  He responded by telling me what a
bastard I was for conning Mr. Kelley at Carnegie Hall.  I told him if I
hadn't, he'd never have seen Toscanini, and if I'd never gotten him up this
morning, he'd wouldn't have found out what happened at Radio City.

It had been a full day, however, and I had decided to forgo the Hit Parade.
Besides I was wondering if Mikey would let me into his ass.  I had bought a
small jar of Vaseline earlier just in case.

Back at the hotel we showered together.  Mikey wanted to know all about my
sex life.  I didn't tell him who, but I was honest with him about the how.
As the water splashed over our bodies, I told him how I'd first gotten with
the older brother of a high school friend and how that had progressed to
encounters at summer camp and with other buddies at high school.  As I
described my escapades I soaped up his dick and ass.  He did the same to
me.  Then he went down on my now hard tool.

"Will you let me fuck you, Mikey?" I mumbled.

"Oh yes," he cried.  "I'd love to have that big thing inside me."

We dried each other off and I led him to my bed.  He took the lead,
tonguing my ear, nibbling my pecs, rubbing me all over.  I reciprocated as
best I could, even taking his five-plus inches into my mouth, before
applying the Vaseline liberally to his ass and my prong.  Rolling him onto
his back and raising his legs I kissed his hairless chest, then guided my
rod into his waiting hole.

"Fuck me, Gerald," he whispered.

I slipped my bulb past his sphincter.  "Oooh, yes," he cooed.

He'd obviously found partners back at school, because I easily speared his
rectum and brushed my wiry pubes against his butt.  "I just love your
dick," he panted.

"And I love your ass.  We should've been doing this all along," I murmured.

I began to plow his ass, tenderly at first, then more vigorously.  He
responded by grunting and flexing his sphincter each time I plunged home.
I would nearly reach a climax, then back off.  But after almost fifteen
minutes I rammed my tool all the way in and released rope after rope of
cum.

"Oooh god," he sang as he also came on both our chests.  "That was so
wonderful."

It was so wonderful we did it again before we drifted off to sleep.