Streisand for a Night

This tale leaks all over the map -- a pinball machine, unclassifiable: straight boys and gay sex, exhibitionism and cross-dressing, but predominantly celebrity-prompted, starting and ending with famous actresses, drooling over, emulating and impersonating. So here we go...

*****

All this happened a long time ago, in the legendary year of the 1984 Oscars. Back then in the pre-internet era the Academy Awards represented an amazing, celebratory, singular event, even for the miserable crew of Animal House college boys who shared my dwelling. Dazzling films of remarkable quality were up for awards that year, beauteous actresses on show for display. Escapism, for a night at least, represented a promising activity for us all.

My normal life at university then was unremarkable in many ways. Midwestern US state institution, not even the main campus but a second-tier satellite campus where they had shunted the vet school and the accountancy majors. All of us were blue-collar grunts, trying to make something out of not much.

The following event occurred during my final year, our motley foursome scrum having infested an off-campus house, the condition of which pretty much resembled what you would expect from a bunch of male, ne'er-do-well seniors just about to graduate.

Cheap, run-down house, a mile from campus, in a neighborhood that had hit its prime thirty years ago. We had a shabby couch and patchy walls, but Rod had supplied a television, and the fridge was always stocked with beer, often not much else. At least we each had our own single rooms.

Gary was our Apha-male, although that's not saying much. He was six feet tall with dark curly hair, clean-shaven, with a perpetually dazed look in his eyes, a finance major with visions of grandeur but quite lacking in all but the most primitive communications skills. His main claim to prestige consisted of keeping us furnished with a near-constant supply of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. We didn't ask his source or contribute to funding, we just were happy to indulge whenever the urge struck.

He was the one who got things started that Sunday night back in '84. The Oscars were on, which back then happened in April, and we all found excuses to absent ourselves from course-work to watch the television and hoot and make rude noises about the actresses in plunging gowns who traipsed across the stage, and what we would do with them had we been their escorts, laughable as that scenario would have been.

We were gathered on the couch or the various chairs about, swilling PBR and grunting out our opinions. Dolly Parton handed out one of the awards that year, and you can imagine she came in for what we regarded as blindingly imaginative commentary.

When the movie Yentl came up for consideration, Daniel announced how much he would enjoy impaling Barbara Streisand with his raging, manly prick. "Up to her eyeballs," he said while humping his hips around, "she'd have spunk coming out of her nose."

Danny was tall, skinny, dumb as a fence-post, with dirty blond hair, but he was raw-boned and a decent guy in a naive, rustic way.

Rod from upstate, crude and abrasive in his flannel shirt and jeans, his dark beard stubble a couple days old, hooted in derision.

"She wouldn't take no uncircumcised cock up her kosher cunt, you dumb fuck."

Danny looked surprised.

"Whattaya mean?"

"She's Jewish, for fuck's sake. Only a circumcised cock is going to work. You think she's not fussy about such things?" Rod gave him a withering look.

"How come you're so sure I'm uncircumcised?" Dan gazed defiantly around the room. "You sneak around the place looking at dicks when nobody's paying attention?"

His expression challenged the others, then he flashed a look at me with a warning "Don't you dare say anything" expression, assuming I was the only one who knew.

Of course I did know something about the surgical status of his penis. I should perhaps have mentioned that my sexual activities back then at university were elastic, confused, fluid, enthusiastic, eclectic, opportunistic, and inclusive. With very few long-term relationships on my record (in truth I wasn't even remotely ready for one) I guess I regarded sex as an "improv" activity. "Any port in a storm," "carpe orgasm," and all that.

At that time I would try almost anything at least once if the opportunity presented itself. I do admit to enjoying the sight of an erect penis, ever since I saw the first one besides my own, and I also didn't mind doing something to one when the occasion arose, so to speak.

I had frigged Danny to completion one memorable Saturday night back in November when we were the only ones at the place, horny and desperate for release, and he was more than a little drunk. His foreskin had slid up and down marvelously over his cock-head before spewing sperm all over my fingers. I cannot precisely recollect how we managed to maneuver ourselves into that particular situation. Dan had enjoyed the attention but neither reciprocated nor said a word about the event later, pretending it never had happened.

I guess I am what they call an enabler or something. I like solving problems. While an erect penis is not a "problem" necessarily, I do not mind contributing solutions. As far as I am concerned, the majority of my own life has been centered about solving my own penis.

But things, of course, are inevitably more complicated than that. I oversimplify.

But while Dan knew I had some knowledge of his prick, he shouldn't have been surprised that others might have had some intelligence on the matter. There had been plenty of comings and goings from the shower and bathroom for us all in our tight quarters and it wouldn't have been remarkable that his organ had gotten glimpsed a time or two. Obviously Rod was in the loop.

Well, the whole argument got out of hand at that point, not the first time that a minor disagreement ran off the tracks for us, especially when we were all well-lubricated with beer. Everyone threw in their two cents, yelling and disputing.

"She wouldn't get past a first kiss with you anyway, with your back-woods beer breath," taunted Gary.

"Or if you're testicles were the size of tennis balls!" added Rod.

"You could try a couple Yiddish words on her, to warm her up," I suggested helpfully, hoping to redirect the conversation a little. "You know any?"

Dan gave me a nasty look. Of course he didn't know any Yiddish, I should have known that. I'm not even sure he even knew what "Yiddish" was.

"Let's see the cock," shouted Rod. "Prove the point! Cut or not-cut? Would Streisand take you or not? She ain't gonna take no penis with a sheath over its business end!"

We all stared at Dan, who stood with his hands on his hips, glaring back at us.

"But a cut cock doesn't automatically prove he's Jewish," pointed out Gary sensibly enough. "Even if it turns out he is cut, that doesn't mean Streisand's gonna go all slut on him."

"Right, but an uncircumcised one means you're Definitely Not Jewish," retorted Rod with impeccable logic, anxious to get his claim settled.

This stellar rhetoric is a fair example of the heights of epistemological excellence our debates often achieved.

"So if you claim you're circumcised, you big stud, prove it," challenged Gary. "Show us the goods."

You could see Dan trying to calculate the odds, whether to fold his hand or bluff his way along.

"So who here's uncut?" said Dan, finally, exasperated.

Dan was the only backwoods guy among us, from rough farm country up by the Canadian border, all the rest of us from the grungy former mill-towns or rusted industrial cities that characterized our state. I could easily have told him that everyone else was circumcised, since that was the norm for the non-rural (at least non-Catholic) middle class in our region at that time. And, of course, I had empirical evidence on everyone else too, one way or another.

It suddenly occurred to me that I was perhaps the only one with this knowledge. So I just sat back with a smile to see how all this would play out, entirely amused at Dan's predicament and how he would try to extricate himself.

So the argument went on for a little while and Dan wouldn't back down, said it was time to verify. He was clearly banking on at least one other uncircumcised penis. He insisted on global proof.

Gary said, "Okay, fair enough, even draw, everyone has to show."

So we all flopped our dicks out. Dan looked a little undone, all these other naked cock-heads out in the air with no scabbards like his.

So then Gary expostulated about how Streisand would slaver her lips over any of the other three manly cocks now out in the open, Jewish-friendly if only in a de facto way, but not Dan's peasant, backwoods organ with its unsightly foreskin and hopeless, non-kosher condition.

I should probably tell you how I knew about the condition of the cocks of Rod and Gary.

Back in January, a nasty cold night, Gary had rented a VHS machine for the weekend and of course we had stocked up on some porn from the rental place. Dan was gone that weekend, which explains why he didn't know about everybody else's cocks.

So that Saturday night we viewed one film after another, the beer going down fast and everyone checking out the action. I had been in a wrestling tournament earlier that day (three matches in four hours) and was beat more than the others, so after the second film, seeing I believe Traci Lords (her meaty swaying tits unmistakable) suck off two guys in succession, I retreated to my room and solved my penis-problem solo and fell into an exhausted sleep immediately.

Later that night I got up to pee out all the beer I had consumed and saw that Gary and Rod were still watching porn in the living room. They were completely oblivious to my presence, and from just behind the hallway door I saw their dicks out, each of them stroking pretty erect members. Pants were discarded on the floor, along with a pile of empty beer cans. I wondered how many times each of them had wanked that evening.

Well, for whatever reason, Gary wasn't happy enough just doing himself and sprawled back on the couch and gotten Rod to come over to stroke him. Rod did not look uninterested. Gary had a good size dick, big head, handsome dark hanging balls, and Rod was running his fingers all along his shaft while Gary spread his legs wide.

Gary must have been pretty close, who knows what they had been talking about or what arrangements they had made before I spotted them, and Rod brought him off quickly. I couldn't see the ejaculation, only just knew by Rod's hand movements and Gary's facial expression and hip-heavings what had happened.

Ha! I thought to myself, this apartment is more interesting than I thought, and I sneaked back to my room before detection occurred. But I'd seen every penis in the house, erect at that.

Anyway, back to the Oscars. Picture our dismal living room, shabby carpet, beercans out on tables and window shelves, the guys standing there still watching the television. All the cocks are sticking out of jeans, not fully inflated but standing out pretty good.

Gary gets going about penises and what they are good for and how he'd thrill to stuff his great manly, stiff prick up Amy Irving (Yentl), how her cunt would grip him fiercely and pull forth his semen. He yanks his jeans down to his knees and then he starts stroking his erection. We are all eyes, looking at him.

He seemed to enjoy the attention but after a few minutes of getting his thing pretty stiff, he gets this petulant expression on his mug and looks around the room.

"Hey, ain't any of you guys going to join in? There is dicks-aplenty here. And enough visual stimulation among the actress crowd," pointing at the television, now showing Cher in some impossibly revealing outfit.

So we all get to stroking and then things get interesting.

Gary got into one of his oratorical fits, not a common feature, but usually an amusing if fractured affair. He starts talking about our place, which we have compared to a fraternity more than once.

He starts talking about how we are "the Brotherhood of the Phallus" and Dan looks mystified and Rod tells him "'Penis' to you, numb-nuts" and we all laugh and pretty soon our "fraternity" has a real name, "Delta Phallus Erectus."

So then Gary starts talking about cementing the brotherhood, bonding, and this alarms the others a bit. Gary is pretty drunk but Rod's eyebrows are going up and down, and he is not looking all that happy since maybe he knows where this is going and he might find himself frigging Gary's cock again, maybe in public.

And Gary is going on about our phalluses and how noble they are, stiff with potential, expostulating all sorts of random stuff that managed to pop into his head somehow. He says that we need an exhibition of our manhood, that each member, "each charter member" he says, should show the Brotherhood something to do with his prick that maybe we don't normally do, that a penis needs to exhibit "leadership," requires attention, needs its manliness authenticated, shouldn't be shy but be forceful, dominant. To be honest, he was getting pretty far out there.

We all look at each other.

"What exactly are you proposing, Gary?" Rod is dubious, uncomfortable.

"A stunt. A penis stunt. Like if your cock was an exhibit at the county fair, what would you do that would grab everyone's attention?"

"Tit-fuck Dolly Parton in public?" suggests Dan sarcastically, and we laugh but Gary didn't find it funny.

"No, nimrod. Like you are on stage, your stiff cock is out and everyone is watching. Something special. Something captivating. Something to make the girls lick their lips and wish you would do something lovely to her with your tool."

So after some talk, we decide that everyone will do something to demonstrate the virility of their own prick, something not normal and the others will have to watch and learn and then follow along.

So Gary says he'll start and he pulls his pants all the way off, and we do too, and he starts doing jumping jacks. Well we all think this is the funniest thing we have ever seen, Gary's big old cock-head going up and down, banging into his navel on the upstroke and wagging down heavily on the down-stroke like a garden hose with a heavy nozzle attached.

But we couldn't keep our eyes off his stiffly bobbing cock -- it was mesmerizing. So next thing we are all doing jumping jacks and I have to tell you it is not so easy. If you do them all vigorous-like it actually hurts. If you dick is real hard anyway, and mine was. You need smooth motions so you are not wrenching the attachment point of of your prick to your body.

But, if you are careful, it does feel good. Your cock-head feels like it weighs four or five pounds and having it wave through the air is arousing.

After long enough to get everyone warmed up a bit, Gary turns to Rod.

"So, what can you show us, fuzz boy?"

Rod had dark hair, I already mentioned his beard stubble, but he was pretty hairy just about everywhere, his head hair curly, unruly, and somehow always three weeks past looking like a proper haircut.

Rod looked around, obviously with no notion of what to do, then squatted down and did what we used to call a "duck walk." Knees bent fully, a fairly awkward side-to-side waddle, but his erection bobbed around fetchingly as he circled the room. We all hooted in amusement.

So we all had to do it too, making a circuit, trying not to laugh at how ridiculous everyone else looked.

"Your turn Captain Wrestler," Gary turned to me.

The first thought that popped into my mind was one of the conditioning routines we used to do on the mat before practice. As a wrestler, the worst outcome of a match is getting pinned, where your opponent forces your shoulder blades down flat on the mat. You lose majorly, and look stupid doing it, completely dominated.

So one of the first exercises you learn is the "Bridge." By lying on your back then arching yourself, keeping the top of your head on the mat while you push with your feet, you keep your shoulders from touching the ground. Then in practice you shift your body around so your neck supports your body's weight from a variety of angles, simulating what defensive moves you might need in a match. It develops strong neck muscles (some guys had absolutely massive necks) and we used to routinely do this "bridge" maneuver every day in practice for four or five minutes at a time.

So I lay down on the floor, tucked my feet underneath me and with my head still on the ground, I bridged up, making for the oddest looking arch you have ever seen. It makes your groin the highest part of your body, and of course this position highlighted my sky-thrusting erection.

Everybody laughed and we all did it, amusing to see folks try it for the first time.

Gary in particular looked enticing, his big heavy cock humping upward, balls all drawn up, while his body strained in the uncomfortable position.

"Okay, Mr. Foreskin, your turn." Gary almost taunted Dan.

Dan didn't hesitate, maybe he had been thinking of what he would do all along. He turned the television sound down completely, walked deliberately over to what qualified as our sound system, which was a thirty-five dollar boom-box, and started playing whatever cassette was in there. It happened to be Led Zeppelin's "When the Levee Breaks" and he started dancing to the music. I don't know if he knew that was the song on deck, and it wasn't all that easy a tune to dance to, but it had a big driving beat and he outdid himself bobbing his cock around and wagging it to the music.

We are all laughing to beat the band at this stage, and so we ended up with a room full of now half-naked college seniors with serious, erect cocks waving and bobbing, those defiant aroused appendages synchronized to a heavy rock beat. Gary is smiling big time, Rod is hollering and even Dan looks pleased. The vision of that Led Zeppelin-inspired three minutes of dancing cocks will never leave me, what made me think of this story to begin with.

So we turn off the music when it's over and stand there looking at each other. Everyone still has a shirt on, we are basically bottomless with no clothing on below our waists, just a holy phalanx of now serious erections.

Gary's cock is pointing pretty much straight up, even given his heavy, swollen-looking cock-head. Dan's prick-tip is poking free from his foreskin, his cock extending perpendicular from the thin, blond hairs that surrounded his crotch. Rod's cock is medium-size, with an angry-looking reddish head, standing straight out from his heavy-duty groin thicket.

I cannot reconstruct perfectly how the next transition went, recalling only Gary's oratory, his call to Brotherhood, the phrases "all for one, one for all" and "do unto others as you would have them do unto you" and "solidarity" (then a popular word in the news as the motto and name of the recently formed worker's union in Poland) which we all laughed at, looking at our own entirely solid erections.

I wasn't sure how all these pent-up "problems" were going to be handled, although it was clear that something needed to happen somehow, but I detected some resistance to a group effort, I suppose not surprisingly. No one objected explicitly to this, but the trend ended up going towards separate interactions for the grand fraternity.

We drew lots to pair off with a "brother of the Phallus."

I had already done Dan, and between Gary and Rod I would have preferred Gary, just for size reasons, and got lucky enough with the drawing.

Rod and Dan retired to Dan's room, site of his earlier pleasure on my part, and I was happy enough to follow Gary to his room.

I will tell you up front that I am not now, nor have I ever been, a good negotiator, almost always willing to make life easy by going along with someone else's lead. This has proved later immensely valuable in marriage, and all sorts of business relations, sometimes to my detriment in the short-run, rarely the long.