threes with the script in one hand.]
PONCH. Yeah, you be my punk, I’ll take care of you. [Marshall’s hand leaves my face and slowly strokes its way down my neck, to my chest.]
BILLY. Guard! [A cry of pure animal panic, let me tell you.]
PONCH. Yeah, take good care of you, my little punk, my sweet little punk. [Marshall has me backed all the way into a corner by now, and his hand is at my waist.]
BILLY. Guard!
PONCH. That’s right, baby, you and me we gonna be jam up and jelly tight.
BILLY. Guard! Guard!! Guard!!!
I screamed those “guards” so loud and with such fervor that everybody in the room stopped talking. Suddenly you could hear the crickets outside the building. Because when Marshall hit the word “tight” in “jam up and jelly tight,” he clamped his left hand directly on my crotch. Which was, of course, rock hard and throbbing like a sore.
Marshall looked deep into me with those little brown eyes of his and smiled a smile that I thought might have been ridicule, or maybe something else, I couldn’t tell, when (it seemed like weeks had gone by) Libby said, “Shit-dang, you guys! That was great.”
Which was when Marshall finally removed that big, hot hand of his from my groin. Which was when I finally started breathing again. I said “The Lord is my shepherd” to myself faster and with more feeling than I think it’s ever been said before or since, and my dick slowly co-operated to the point where it probably wasn’t too too obvious that I was about to burst the buttons of my Levi’s.
“Well, Johnnie Ray,” Libby said, “needless to say, you’ve got the part if you want it. Please say you want it.”
“I – uh – ” I was alternating more hot and cold flashes than a roomful of menopausal matrons, I could still feel Marshall’s hand on me, and I was hardly at my most articulate.
“Course he wants it,” Marshall said, and he hooked his arm around my shoulders again. I fought the urge to turn and bury my face in his armpit and said okay.
“Awrite.” Marshall shook me by the shoulder. I wriggled out from under his arm (another erection was announcing its arrival), and said to Libby, “That’s it then?”
“That’s it. We’ll rehearse Thursday and Friday nights, seven till about ten, starting next week for the next four weeks. That’s not a whole lotta time, so you’re gonna hafta learn your lines pretty much on your own. We’ll rehearse at my place. I’ll give you the address and the form for your Mommy to sign so she knows you’re gonna get raped onstage.”
“And I get to do it,” Marshall said through a smile and a slow, insinuating eyebrow-raise. I blushed, albeit invisibly, and my ears sizzled. The thought of getting raped by Marshall MacNeill, on or offstage, really made my toes curl.
“Well, I better go.” I started for the door. “I gotta get a bus or it’s kind of a long walk.”
“You’re gonna walk home?” By Libby’s tone, you’d have thought I was planning to push a peanut all the way home with my nose.
“Where do you live?”
“Just off J Street, near Tenth.”
“Marsh” – she slapped Marshall on the shoulder with a chubby bracelet-rattling hand – “take the kid home.”
“No, that’s – ”
“Libby, give a guy a chance to volunteer, why doncha. Sure, cutie, I’ll take ya home.”
“No, thanks, really. I don’t mind the walk.” Which I really didn’t.
I was used to walking. I did a lot of it, since I’d only had a driver’s license for about a month before I accidentally totaled my father’s V-W Beetle and Dad took away my license. Besides which, the thought of being alone in a car with Marshall MacNeill gave me a chill that I couldn’t entirely chalk up to the cold breeze coming through the wide-open door.
This dude was messing with my mind. I mean, was he gay? Was he just teasing me because he could somehow tell I was gay? Was he hustling me, or was he like this with everybody? And was it my imagination, or
PONCH. Yeah, you be my punk, I’ll take care of you. [Marshall’s hand leaves my face and slowly strokes its way down my neck, to my chest.]
BILLY. Guard! [A cry of pure animal panic, let me tell you.]
PONCH. Yeah, take good care of you, my little punk, my sweet little punk. [Marshall has me backed all the way into a corner by now, and his hand is at my waist.]
BILLY. Guard!
PONCH. That’s right, baby, you and me we gonna be jam up and jelly tight.
BILLY. Guard! Guard!! Guard!!!
I screamed those “guards” so loud and with such fervor that everybody in the room stopped talking. Suddenly you could hear the crickets outside the building. Because when Marshall hit the word “tight” in “jam up and jelly tight,” he clamped his left hand directly on my crotch. Which was, of course, rock hard and throbbing like a sore.
Marshall looked deep into me with those little brown eyes of his and smiled a smile that I thought might have been ridicule, or maybe something else, I couldn’t tell, when (it seemed like weeks had gone by) Libby said, “Shit-dang, you guys! That was great.”
Which was when Marshall finally removed that big, hot hand of his from my groin. Which was when I finally started breathing again. I said “The Lord is my shepherd” to myself faster and with more feeling than I think it’s ever been said before or since, and my dick slowly co-operated to the point where it probably wasn’t too too obvious that I was about to burst the buttons of my Levi’s.
“Well, Johnnie Ray,” Libby said, “needless to say, you’ve got the part if you want it. Please say you want it.”
“I – uh – ” I was alternating more hot and cold flashes than a roomful of menopausal matrons, I could still feel Marshall’s hand on me, and I was hardly at my most articulate.
“Course he wants it,” Marshall said, and he hooked his arm around my shoulders again. I fought the urge to turn and bury my face in his armpit and said okay.
“Awrite.” Marshall shook me by the shoulder. I wriggled out from under his arm (another erection was announcing its arrival), and said to Libby, “That’s it then?”
“That’s it. We’ll rehearse Thursday and Friday nights, seven till about ten, starting next week for the next four weeks. That’s not a whole lotta time, so you’re gonna hafta learn your lines pretty much on your own. We’ll rehearse at my place. I’ll give you the address and the form for your Mommy to sign so she knows you’re gonna get raped onstage.”
“And I get to do it,” Marshall said through a smile and a slow, insinuating eyebrow-raise. I blushed, albeit invisibly, and my ears sizzled. The thought of getting raped by Marshall MacNeill, on or offstage, really made my toes curl.
“Well, I better go.” I started for the door. “I gotta get a bus or it’s kind of a long walk.”
“You’re gonna walk home?” By Libby’s tone, you’d have thought I was planning to push a peanut all the way home with my nose.
“Where do you live?”
“Just off J Street, near Tenth.”
“Marsh” – she slapped Marshall on the shoulder with a chubby bracelet-rattling hand – “take the kid home.”
“No, that’s – ”
“Libby, give a guy a chance to volunteer, why doncha. Sure, cutie, I’ll take ya home.”
“No, thanks, really. I don’t mind the walk.” Which I really didn’t.
I was used to walking. I did a lot of it, since I’d only had a driver’s license for about a month before I accidentally totaled my father’s V-W Beetle and Dad took away my license. Besides which, the thought of being alone in a car with Marshall MacNeill gave me a chill that I couldn’t entirely chalk up to the cold breeze coming through the wide-open door.
This dude was messing with my mind. I mean, was he gay? Was he just teasing me because he could somehow tell I was gay? Was he hustling me, or was he like this with everybody? And was it my imagination, or
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