Guy and Doll
I remember it as if it were yesterday. The back story is a bit cliché so I will barrel through it with all haste. A high school production of Guys and Dolls. Having the role of “Man With Newspaper.” The curtain opening on me as I stand there in the middle of a busy street scene before the action begins. Once the curtain is fully open I walk off stage left and thus ends my participation in Guys and Dolls.
I couldn’t act, I couldn’t dance and I couldn’t sing so in retrospect even that role was a bit of a stretch for me, but I got to get a costume and have make-up applied to me so I felt like one of the team. The theater team. In high school that’s another name for the dorks and queers. Still, a team is a team.
None of that really makes much difference in the story. I could have been any character in any play and it wouldn’t have changed the real crux of the story. That story being that the male and female changing rooms were right next to each other. When I was in high school just the thought of half-naked girls being only a few inches of cement away from me caused heart palpitations. It wasn’t until a few days away from the end of dress rehearsals and the start of the actual shows that one of the males realized that there was another way around those inches of cement. If you stood on a chair and lifted up the ceiling tile you could stare down upon the females.
The females frequently in the act of changing costumes.
It’s a wonder any of the males ever made another cue on time. After some posturing about the evils of voyeurism the male cast was pretty evenly split between those who were willing to stand on the chair and look down upon the unwitting females and those that weren’t. I think it fell pretty much down dork/queer lines as I look back on it now.
Unfortunately for them most of the wannabe-peeping males had significant parts and spent most of their time either on stage or in various stages of getting ready for their next scene.
Not so with “Man With Newspaper.”
A role that really should have been renamed “Man With Aching Boner” because that’s how I spent the week leading up to the curtain going up. My curtain was perpetually up. It was all I could do not to grind against the wall and had it not been for the fact there was always somebody in the room with me I would have no doubt rubbed the paint off of a certain spot about waist-high from the chair.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
On some level it was like going to the world’s worst strip club, not only could I not touch the females but I couldn’t even hoot and holler. I had to stand silent, careful not to make the slightest sound. There are really two camps when it comes to strip clubs anyway. Men that appreciate them the same way an art lover appreciates a museum and then men that appreciate them the same way a hungry man would appreciate a restaurant that shows him food but does not allow him to tuck in.
I was in the latter camp. I’m certain the first time I saw a nip slip in their changing room that dust fell from the ceiling from the impact of my hard dick hitting the cement wall. I distinctly remember a glass of water falling off a table from the tremor.
Even this doesn’t make much difference in the story when I get right down to it. You have the image in your head of what was going on and that’s the important thing. The very important thing going forward is and was Michelle Rosenberg. She was the girl with big boobs. Woman boobs. Boobs that held me transfixed, swaying like two cobras every time I saw her in the hall or the cafeteria or the dressing room.
I must digress quickly and point out that just mentioning her by name just now led my Dr. Pepper to be knocked off the table by the force of my erect penis hitting the underside of the writing surface. A thud that sent the dog to the door convinced we were about to receive a visitor. A thud that cries out for me to take a break in this tale and satisfy a sudden carnal desire to wrestle my throbbing member into submission but, because of my lust to finish this story on your behalf, a desire I will be putting on the backburner. (Or would that make it a backboner?)
I hope you appreciate it.
So where was I?
She knew I was watching her.
She looked up into the narrow space between where the ceiling tile was and where it should have been and we made eye contact. A hundred million volts passed through me. She was alone in her changing room and I was alone in mine. Her dress slid to the ground leaving her in nothing but bra and panties. She closed her eyes and her hands slid up her stomach to her breasts and she squeezed them.
I heard a hundred trumpets going off in my pants. A choir of angels rising from my loins.
She squeezed again and pulled her bra down just enough for me to see … them. She didn’t smile or open her eyes. She just stood there letting me soak it all in. Me, “Man With Newspaper,” “Man Who Needed Tissue Paper,” “Man Who Was Least Deserving Of Seeing Her Melons.”
Her bra still down her hands began to slide slowly down her stomach when a couple other girls entered her dressing room and she causally began to pull on her required outfit. I wanted those girls dead. My imagination was finishing up the journey of her hands. South-bound. The glorious south.
It’s funny to think that the entire episode took no more than thirty seconds and here it is years later and I can remember it all so vividly. I don’t remember the show at all but those wonderful boobs are seared into my memory.
It was at this point that I became aware I was no longer alone. I also realized that the aforementioned choir of angels was actually me ejaculating but due to the fact that my dick had become so hard and long that my jeans had no option but to direct it more up and down as opposed to left to right I had ended up, with gravity’s helping hand, shooting the ol’ baby batter on my left leg and sock instead of leaving a giant embarrassing wet spot in my crotch.
It was a great day.
And this is the first I’ve ever spoken of it. Nobody would have believed me anyway. Michelle never even acknowledged me ever again and to this day the one hundred red roses I had planned on sending her as a thank you remain undelivered.
Females are certainly an odd bunch.
Maybe she didn’t know who I was or thought I was someone else. If you’re waiting for a bunch of pithy references to the musical you’ve clearly misjudged this story. (Ok, ok, here’s one…) Whatever the case, luck was indeed a lady. A cute young lady with big cans.