Two chubby, nervous types stand up. The MC looks excited. "Two beauties," he shouts. "Let's give them a little encour agement." He begins to clap, and the audience joins in raggedly.

The two stand still for a moment, bewildered. Then they begin to strip. The clapping grows louder. The two seem glazed. Finally, nude, they stand there. One of them has half an erection.

"Beautiful, beautiful," the MC says. "Here are your passes."

"Put it back on," the fat man yells. Everyone giggles, including the two nude men. They sit down.

"And now-anyone else?" He pauses. "And now-nobody else, sure?-now for boys boys boys. Let me tell you one thing, men. We want you to feel free to participate in this show. This is the new freedom, men. Use it. Touch, babies, touch. OK, here it is. Boys Boys Boys!"

Diana Ross blasts on: "Touch me in the Morning."

We all shift in our seats. Here it is. Through the curtains comes Boy. He is tall, about twenty-five. Good body. Reasonable face. Curly black hair. Mustache. He is dressed in torn blue jeans and a loose, long-sleeved shirt. He is wearing motorcycle sunglasses.

"Here he is," the MC shouts, unseen now, "Robbie!"

The music changes to Rufus. Sexy and black. Robbie takes off his shirt slowly. He seems to be staring at each of us, but his eyes are masked in black. We can't be sure.

His hands undo his belt. He unbuttons the top button of his jeans. Sticks his hands inside. Slowly, sensually, he rubs his cock.

He unzips, and suddenly his pants are off. He is wearing tight cotton Jockey shorts. The bulge of his cock is alarming!

He rubs it.

The audience yearns. Slowly, slowly, slowly, he pulls down his shorts. They are off. He stands there for a moment. Then he jumps off the stage, swaying to the music. He moves to the first row, and the hands reach out to feel his cock, his ass, his stomach. He moves between the rows now, everybody touching him, slipping sly fingers up his ass, over his breasts.

Finally, one man, old, takes Robbie's cock in his mouth. Robbie moans, begins to thrust. He reaches up and takes off his sunglasses. Now he is truly nude. And we see his eyes, full of pleasure.

He thrusts once more and then breaks away from the old man's mouth. For a second he stands in front of us. Then he is gone.

We applaud somewhat shakily. "Robbie," the MC shouts. "Wasn't he something?" We agree.

"He'll be back for the second act. And, of course, you'll see him at intermission." The audience dissolves in laughter.

The show continues.

There are more boys. Not the same as Robbie. Some of them unsure of themselves, clumsy. Some bored. Some ugly. They wear strange costumes; chains, streamers, feathers. They all walk between the rows, letting themselves be handled, sucked. One gets rimmed, grunting in fake pleasure. The audience is excited. They play with each other, go down. The two pudgy men who stripped earlier jump on the stage and suck each other off.

We applaud.

The MC takes off his clothes, and he and a stripper do each other. In between acts there are comedians, some of them in drag telling pallid jokes. (If all the faggot clerks at Bloomingdale's were arrested, the place would be self-service.)

We all roar anyway.

As a finale to the first act, the entire company-minus Robbiedoes a song from "Let My People Come."

The lights go up. We blink at each other. It is strange. We hardly know what to do for a moment. At last, almost in one movement, we go back to the bar. The boys of Boys Boys Boys are all there, circulating, letting us feel their bodies.

I overhear bits of conversation. "Well, of course, sugar, I'm available "I don't spend the night." "No, I'm sorry I don't get fucked. I fuck."

Robbie is talking, but, obviously, he isn't selling. There is a coolness about him, a distance. He is a benevolent monarch, kind, but set apart. I come up to him.

"Hi," I say. I am obviously no good at opening lines.

He hods.

"I enjoyed you,” I say.

"I know," he says, "I saw you." "Can you always tell?”

"

"Almost always. I could tell with you." "I'd like to talk with you," I say. "What about?"

"Oh, about this place."

"What for?"

"Well, I'm interested in this place. You know, what you do."

"That's all I do," he said. "I talk." I pause.

"I don't want you to get the wrong idea," he says. "I'm not hustling. Shit, I don't even give it away."

"Oh that's all right," I say. (But I'm disappointed. I am.) We arrange to meet the following day for lunch. "You buy.” he said.

We met at a small Italian restaurant not the next day (he called to cancel) but two days later.

He was dressed as he dressed for the

VECTOR 57