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.  Buyin