Electroboy

by Andy Behrman

  Private Dancer

  The dichotomy of my smart yuppie lifestyle on the Upper West Side and my career stripping and getting jerked off in a seedy Times Square theater is surreal at times. When I take the subway downtown, I stand next to passengers dressed just like me wondering where they’re going and if they would believe me if I told them where I was going. I think I can do anything and be anyone. And being a stripper and hustler seems entirely logical. I have no idea what is going to happen next in my life, but this feels right for now.

  The risk of hustling gets me high. Most of the situations I get myself into demand very little of me sexually. I try to be careful, to simply function as an exhibitionist. It is my role to arouse these men, and I don’t mind showing off my body. Most of them ask me to undress and masturbate for them while they jerk off; others just sit and stare. But soon I realize that I am really the voyeur—watching what’s going on between the customer and myself. Sometimes my mood changes and I get so depressed by what I’m doing that I feel like I’ll get stuck doing this forever. Fortunately, it’s only a few nights a week and a couple of times a night. One night I head to the Edison Hotel with a customer, a guy in his midthirties in town from Miami, and he seems friendly. I’m in a pretty good mood, and we’re just talking about living in New York versus living in Miami, the pros and the cons. He wants to enter the hotel separately and have me meet him at his room. Fine. He opens the door as if we’ve never met. “C’mon in,” he says. Soon he’s naked and playing with himself while I’m taking my clothes off for him. The eleven o’clock news is on, this nice guy from Miami is jerking off in this crummy hotel room with bad overhead lighting, and I’m undressing. I should have gone straight home tonight and gone to bed.

  A few regular customers just want to take me out to dinner or find out more about me, which feeds my narcissism. I never reveal anything about myself, and the dinners tend to be quite routine and boring—I end up doing more listening than talking. I am Dr. Myron Levitt.

  One night after the last show I meet a man at the theater who seems to be what I term “a safe bet”—respectable, well-dressed, in his midforties, and Ivy League–educated (so he later tells me). He’s a psychiatrist who lives on Fifth Avenue in the 70s. He asks me out and tells me not to worry about money. We can go out for a drink or to his apartment, my choice. As usual, I go for the bigger option. We take a cab to his apartment, walk into his stark lobby, past his doorman, who, I realize, is probably used to seeing him bring home guests. His wife and kids are on vacation in Nantucket. He proudly shows me around his apartment, which is filled with spectacular Asian art pieces. I don’t remember if I tell him I’m in law school or an actor—I mix them up. I prefer the anonymity and enjoy the game. I am nervously awaiting his plan for me. And then he tells me that he is into what he calls breath control, which involves playing with gas masks and plastic bags, the Hefty lawn kind. He explains that he is fascinated by choking and strangling fantasies. I am a bit naïve, and scared to death. Are we going to be playing out these fantasies? Dressed or undressed? I must seem hesitant, because he tries to reassure me by telling me that I don’t have to take my clothes off. Is that supposed to calm me? He leads me into the bedroom—there are photos of his wife and children on the night tables. I hesitate and tell him that I don’t think I’m interested. But I do end up playing a little, because I’m somewhat curious and he’s promising me money. When he goes into the closet and pulls out the gas mask—the World War II kind that looks like a horse’s head—I must look shocked. I take my shirt off anyway and fold it neatly on the bed, then step out of my jeans and throw them across a chair. He puts the mask over my head, and I see myself standing—just in my briefs—in the mirror. The sight horrifies me. He asks me to take off my briefs, and I strip down. I find it frightening that the seemingly nice, healthy doctor with strangling fantasies is actually treating patients with mental illnesses. I tell him I can’t go on with this anymore. I laugh nervously and he smiles. We both feel a little embarrassed and sorry for each other, and I get dressed. He offers to take me out to dinner, which I definitely don’t want to do, so instead I make us scrambled eggs and toast and try to turn the experience into something normal—there’s nothing more normal than some breakfast food for dinner. Wondering if I’ll leave this apartment without being strangled or taken out in a Hefty bag with the garbage, I talk with him a little about his practice—he sees mostly schizophrenics and manic-depressives. He tells me that he feels overwhelmed by their mental illnesses and the burden of being responsible for their well-being twenty-four hours a day. He says the anxiety hardly allows him to function. I can’t believe that he is so weak. Is Dr. Levitt this weak? But quite honestly I am more interested in his fascination with choking and strangulation and am curious to get him to talk. Was he aroused as a small child by a choking episode? Does it have something to do with losing his breath while having an orgasm? Does losing his breath get him high? He prefers complaining about his patients. I never see him again after this night. I also never look at a psychiatrist again without thinking of a gas mask.

  There are others. Plenty of them. A rather obese man in his late forties approaches me after a show, introduces himself as Scott Zohn, and asks for a private session with me. Standard. He seems nice enough though not very attractive, and I tell him that I have a room down the street at the Fulton Hotel. He tells me that he wants me to come back to his office at Time magazine. He’s a theater critic there. I’ve read some of his reviews before, and he strikes me as a little nervous after he discloses his identity. We take the elevator to his floor, and he leads me through a maze of desks and into his office, which overlooks the city. He leaves the door slightly ajar and instructs me to pull my jeans down to my knees, show off my ass, and then jerk off on his latest review. How I get myself excited I don’t remember, but I come on the magazine pretty quickly while he plays with his cock. I am embarrassed and self-conscious imagining that everybody outside knows what I’m doing in his office—but obviously not too embarrassed to return a few more times to visit him to pick up a few $50 bills. I later learn from an editor at New York magazine that I am not the only boy asked to perform this ritual.

  It didn’t take much to get me onstage, and soon I feel as comfortable as Brent getting the crowd aroused, walking into an audience of horny and appreciative businessmen who applaud and have cash to burn. Brent teaches me how to hustle a client, and I am letting guys give me blow jobs and jerking them off for $50. This becomes a routine activity for me, a business deal, like fund-raising. I am making $500 a day (including hourlong private sessions) and have built up a decent clientele—doctors, lawyers, businessmen—most claiming to be heterosexual and liking me because I am, too. There is quite a bit of confusion here. I am drinking too much, taking amphetamines, and doing coke again. I love the idea of being good during the day and bad at night. The incongruity thrills me.

  After the last show one Friday night, there are only a few guys hanging around looking to hook up, but none of them turn out to be serious customers. So a group of four dancers walks over to Howard Johnson’s in Times Square for something to eat. I always get the same thing: a clam roll and a chocolate shake. I stare and count the hundreds of people as they pass by the big picture-frame window. When the check comes, Jason, the med student, picks it up, turns it over, and says, “Who made the most money today?” Everyone responds at the same time: “You did.” So he ends up paying the tab. We walk out onto Broadway. “I’m not ready to call it a night, guys,” says Jason. I’m not either. “Let’s head downtown,” I say. Corey takes his vial of Dexedrine from his jacket pocket and gives me a handful. He keeps promising me he’ll get me a hundred. “I need something to wash these down with,” I say. They just speed me up and make me feel on top of things. Donovan, the kid from Alberta with the weird-looking curved cock, is staying at a friend’s apartment in the West Village, and he invites us back there to party. We stop at a Korean deli and pick up four six-packs. I make sure one i
s an Amstel Light. The apartment is a shabby one-bedroom on the fourth floor of a walk-up. The furniture is scarce and worn, old newspapers and magazines litter the floor, the ashtrays overflow with cigarette butts, there are empty beer bottles on tables and dishes stacked high in the sink. “Sorry, this place is kind of a dump,” says Donovan. “Where’s your friend?” asks Corey. “He’s living with his girlfriend in the East Village,” says Donovan. Jason is looking through the kitchen cabinets and then opens the freezer and finds a brand-new bottle of vodka. “I’ve struck gold,” he announces. He pours four healthy shots, one for each of us, and we gulp them down. And a second. Donovan disappears into the bedroom. The three of us are sitting on the two couches drinking our beers when Corey comes up with an idea. “Should we bag this place and go to the titty bar my ex-girlfriend works at?” he asks. We don’t feel like it. Donovan appears with his hands behind his back and a grin on his face. “I have a surprise for you,” he announces. He pulls out a thick plastic bag of cocaine, enough to keep the party going for another three days. “Where’d you get all that from?” we ask him. He tells us a customer gave it to him for being “extra special,” but he won’t go into details. Who cares? Jason goes into the kitchen and cleans off a mirror that’s on the table. I’m wasted from the vodka and beer. But I open another bottle. Jason dumps a pile of coke on the mirror that looks like a scoop of cottage cheese. High-quality rock. I start chopping it into a fine powder and separate out eight 3-inch lines. Donovan brings a straw from the kitchen. I snort the first line and am immediately anesthetized. I’m sensing that I’m going to be staying in this apartment overnight. Everyone else takes his turn. Feeling euphoric, I open another beer. “Let’s really pace ourselves tonight,” says Corey. “Why? We have enough to last a lifetime,” I say. I just want to do more and more as fast as possible. I lean over the mirror and do two lines. I’m telling everyone how great I feel, while Donovan is just lying on the couch. I love this stuff. I convince Jason to do a line with me. “Slow down, buddy,” Corey tells me. Wetting my fingers from a glass of water I put on the table, I pick up excess coke off the mirror and rub it on my gums. Donovan gets up, lowers the music, and heads to the bedroom. Then I show Jason and Corey my favorite trick. I take a tiny bit of coke on my index finger and drop it into my eye. It burns for a second, but it rushes straight to my brain and I get an instant high. “You know, you’re an asshole,” Corey says. Jason is lying down, ready to pass out. Corey is still doing lines with me but tells me this is his last one. But I don’t see an end in sight. It’s 8:00 A.M., almost eight hours after we started this party. Corey and I are finishing the last couple of lines. Jason is gone. Donovan is sleeping. I figure I should get in a cab soon and go home and come down from this high. This day is shot.

  My first homecoming at Wesleyan—returning to campus for the first time since graduation, seeing old friends and friends who are still there—provides another bizarre contrast. We go to all the frat parties. Most of my friends are in law school, business school, or graduate school, or have entered the business world. Dressed in impeccable stolen Armani, I feed them all the bullshit line that I’m making an independent film while I am really pimping and prostituting and hanging out in dark porno theaters in Times Square. Very impressive.

  One night, a husband-and-wife team from Philadelphia meets me at the Follies and escorts me back to the St. Regis Hotel. They are friendly, in their midforties, and they offer me a drink when we get upstairs to their deluxe suite. I have a glass of champagne with them, and we share a joint. He asks me to undress, and I quickly remove my clothes and lay them on the bed. She stands next to me and starts playing with my hair while he pulls me toward the bathroom door and ties my hands behind my back and explains that this is how they like to play. I’m too scared to try and get dressed and call this whole thing off and leave the room, and I’m too curious to protest. After I’m tied securely to the inside of the bathroom door with rope that she pulled out of a dresser drawer, they both, fully clothed, begin fondling me and kissing me. After about twenty minutes they tell me they’ll be back soon, and they leave. After about an hour goes by, I realize that this is a disaster, that these people may never return and I may be in big trouble. I can’t undo the knot. I don’t know when to declare this an emergency. I don’t want to scream. What am I going to tell the person who finds me in this condition? I promise myself that this is the last time I’ll ever do this. At 3:30 A.M., three hours later, I hear a noise at the door of the suite and it’s them, drunk and giggling and surprised to find me there. They untie me and give me $300 and hurry me out of the room. I rush to the elevator and through the lobby past the front desk, hoping that nobody notices me. This event instills in me a modicum of self-preservation, and I ease out of the exciting but dark world of prostitution.

  Three’s a Crowd

  May 17, 1985. Upper West Side.

  It’s the last day of classes at Yale. Allison moves in tomorrow. We’ve been looking forward for months to living together and having all of our things in one place. I make lots of room for her things, clear out space in the closets. She has no idea about my other lives—and I’m almost glad that these identities will wither away.

  I tell myself the crazies will most likely go away, and I won’t stay out, or be allowed to stay out, until four or five in the morning, roaming the streets and dabbling in all kinds of lascivious behavior. Her presence will keep me under control. I’ll be on her schedule. Of course, real mania is marked by delusional thinking.

  Less than a week after Allison moves in, we realize that there is no way we can live together comfortably in a studio, no matter the ceiling height. We both hate living in one room. We’re on top of each other. She’s drying off after her shower in the “living room” and I’m trying to squeeze by to make breakfast. Having another person around all of the time without a break is driving me crazy. I’m used to going out at night, picking up The New York Times, and taking hourlong walks down Broadway to Columbus Circle and back without telling anyone else where I’m going.

  I don’t like the way Allison has organized the closets. She doesn’t have a system. She doesn’t think she needs one and doesn’t think a closet needs to look good. First of all, I don’t like keeping the hangers from the dry cleaners. They look awful. That’s why I bought all the black plastic matching ones. “We’ve got plenty of them, let’s use them,” I tell her. She ignores me and mumbles under her breath, “Do what you want to do.” One Sunday afternoon, while she’s eating breakfast in front of the television, I clean out her closet, making sure all of her shirts and blouses are buttoned at the top button and facing in the same direction. Skirts and pants in the middle section, dresses to the left. I refold her sweaters and stack them neatly on top of the closet, and it looks like a housekeeper has come in and done the job. “What are you doing over there?” she asks. “You are sick,” she says, smiling. “Anything else need to be done?” I ask her. “No,” she says. “Just sit down with me and watch TV and relax. You’re driving me crazy.”

  I start looking at ads in The New York Times for one-bedroom apartments on the Upper West Side. We’ll have to increase our rent by about $500 per month at a time when I have very little money in the bank, but I won’t let that minor detail get in my way. But when it comes to an apartment, for some reason I place no limit on what I will spend. I want Allison to have a nice place to live. The first place we look at is in a renovated landmark building at the Level Club on West 73rd Street, between Broadway and West End Avenue. The apartment is a simple one-bedroom for $1,650, which is extremely expensive, but I’m fully confident that I’ll be able to pay the rent. I’m also counting on Allison to pitch in. I am sold on the marble lobby alone. I push for this apartment. I know it’s out of my league at the time, but go ahead and sign a one-year lease, thinking that somehow I’ll probably be able to buy an apartment in the building within the year anyway. I imagine I’ll find some executive-level position soon and make a six-figure income and my fina
ncial problems will be solved. I know it is a choice that makes Allison nervous, but I do it anyhow. I like that it makes me feel a little stressed and edgy. It’s a risk. Signing the lease creates the sense of danger and excitement that I thrive on. So what if we’re evicted.

  In the meantime, with the very little money that we do have saved, we spend a week relaxing on the beach at a resort off the coast of Venezuela. After we return, we are visited by Brad, a friend from college, and the three of us are sitting around our apartment watching television. Brad and Allison have always been a bit flirtatious with each other and are putting out some sexual energy sitting on the couch next to each other. It’s exciting watching my friend and my girlfriend interacting like this, and I’m curious about what’s going to happen next. Brad has always told me about his attraction to Allison, and she’s told me about her interest in him. Now I’m aware of a strong sexual energy between all three of us. It’s very quiet except for the television, which is reporting a big hurricane in the Caribbean. Brad leans toward Allison. “Is it okay?” he asks me. “Sure,” I say. She reaches for him and looks at me for my approval. I nod. Now here I am, the voyeur boyfriend, and I’m watching in amazement as things unfold. But after he leaves, Allison is quiet and doesn’t want to talk much about it. Somehow, I’ve crossed a boundary by allowing this to happen. I don’t think she ever has the same kind of trust in me again. But we never speak about it.