Auditioning for the Harem

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A pocket-palladium, the Monde Elegante nightclub was the premier show club in the city. Also one of the oldest. The neighborhood when it was built was a genteel part of town occupied by the comfortably well off. Passing years had changed the demographics and the median income of the area, and the Monde Elegante had deteriorated, too. The building could use a paintbrush.

Its Art Deco trim and balustrades, cutting-edge in its day, had become symbols of urban decay. Passers-by noticed that what once looked like sculptured concrete and granite was in fact painted wood, and as years went by, even the illusion of quality wood disappeared as paint cracked, panels rotted and split, and decorative features broke off and fell away.

Nevertheless, by virtue of its fame as the finest music-song-dance club in the city, the Monde Elegante had a loyal clientele. The sense of grandeur returned, once the patrons passed through the ornate doors. Inside, gold banisters, maroon velvet overstuffed chairs, chandeliers dripping with crystal prisms, and other Belle Epoque elements whisked visitors out of Kansas and off to Oz. Outside, the heat of the city and the stench of uncollected garbage assaulted the nostrils, but inside, clean, cool air was like a visit to the Alps, and even the less well-heeled, whose black coats and ties were likely leather jackets and waiter’s neckties, could pretend, just for a few hours, that they had money.

In the dressing rooms of the Monde Elegante, Dick Crosscir adjusted his costume and added finishing touches to his makeup. An athletic, powerful dancer at the peak of his prowess, he had moved up through the ranks at the Monde Elegante to become the star male dancer of the troupe.

Crowds oohed and aahed at his superhuman leaps; he almost seemed to fly. Female dancers loved to pair with him–he lifted them, even tossing them in the air, and he did it so easily he made the women appear light and fairy-like. Newspaper critics constantly wrote about him as a “cross between Nijinsky and Hulk Hogan.”

Unlike most slender, streamlined male dancers, Crosscir was muscled like a heavyweight fighter. Critics rhapsodized about his legs, “…two mighty, giant oak limbs that could catch a feather in mid-air or gently kiss the ground as if he walked over it without touching it.”

In body, he was a monster. A massive chest that meant no costumes in the Monde Elegante’s vast wardrobe would fit him. Many onlookers wished he would go without the custom-tailored, puffy-sleeved, period tunics–the bulging muscles over his broad shoulders and outlining his chest like an armored castle made many in the audience reach down in the darkness to tickle either clitoris or hardened cock.

The roles in which Crisscir was bare-chested brought in the biggest crowds. When he appeared as Trojan warrior, warfaring Viking–or as the malevolent Othello, skin darkened, cavorting about the blushing Desdemona–most in the audience breathed faster, thinking either I wish he would fuck her or I wish he would fuck me.

At 6’3″, Dick Crosscir was a dancing paradox. Favorable critics wrote that he “…was an incredible, awe-inspiring locomotive so poised and balanced, the great machine pirouettes on a single wheel…” and even the negative reviews stated that “…the performance suffered from uninspired choreography and amateurish dancing in the chorus line, although Dick Crosscir almost saved the performance with such athletics that a few women were observed to faint away at the sight…”

Less well known was the equally impressive prop between his legs. Blessed with stupendous genes, Crosscir had a penis actually a liability to a dancer–so long and thick it required a jockstrap with a reinforced pouch to crowd it into an angry coil while he performed.

It was “less well known” only to the general public, however; among a certain crowd, Dick Crosscir was extraordinarily well known as one with a trail behind him of men forever ruined for the attentions of any other. Not only was his package of Olympic proportions–a gold medal cock never bettered by anyone he saw naked–he was also one of those with a “nailhead,” an organ not only huge but with a cockhead so broad, his penis looked like a giant nail. The shaft was plenty thick, a good 2½ inches, but his cockhead flared a good inch wider. Going in, it would bring a scream from anybody–and it would resist coming out. A man who spread his legs for Dick Crosscir would start out screaming, end up dazed, star-struck, and begging . . . and spend the rest of his life reminiscing.

Crosscir was also locally famous for his passion for bananas, his favorite fruit. He nibbled at them constantly backstage. The club maintained a bowl of them for his convenience, his apartment had them in several more bowls, and a favorite come-on line of his was to swallow a length of banana suggestively while giving a come-hither look at his next conquest.

From the time Crosscir became the club’s premier male dance lead, every night he had two or three dance numbers centered bolu escort bayan on him. Agents from New York and Los Angeles often stopped in at the Monde Elegante to catch his act. The old banana peels he threw aside became collectors’ items for his fans.

The club’s owners, however, were infected with the usual virus, greed, and were arrested in a tax-evasion fraud. After a series of trials, retrials, appeals, and legal maneuvers, the two were forced to sell the club and move out of state.

The new owners brought with them a decidedly more sensual orientation. Whereas once the Monde Elegante staged dance and music productions of almost Broadway quality–sections adapted from famous musical comedies, even songs from “West Side Story” and “Showboat”–some disgruntled employees began to complain that the Monde Elegante had turned into “Cabaret.”

Even gruntled employees like Crosscir, who enjoyed showing more skin, were dismayed that the focus shifted to glare almost exclusively on traditional female T&A.

Costumes that once “covered” were redesigned to “bare.” Choreographies that once called for quick, high kicks tended more to slow, leg-spreading squats and splits. Production numbers like “I Like To Be In America” were replaced with original compositions like “As My Baby Has Me” with bump & grind arrangements featuring a lot of skin. Male dancers were merely chorus-line horny suitors for the strippers headlining the numbers.

Crosscir’s “starring” numbers began to feature him as only a male foil for a female strumpet with lots of crotch-bumps, breast fondles, and simulated intercourse set to music. The more the Monde Elegante settled into Monde Degradante, the more the feature female dancers’ names became clever: Terri Cloth, Bumpi Knight, Gigi String, and Orgasmia.

A new star rose to the top, a girl named simply “Anastasia.” She had the usual big tits, pouting looks, and ability to do the splits, but customers packed the place to see her dance because her body moved in such disjointed, impossible contortions. Onlookers either gasped at the sight or moaned in sexual hunger. Whereas Crosscir’s star abilities consisted of magnificent strength and grace, Anastasia’s were simple double-jointedness and an instinct for the whorish. She was occasionally seen to dildo herself with a banana from the bowl kept for Crosscir.

Dick Crosscir was looking for another gig by the time his great chance appeared.

On his visit to the United States, the Emir of Faindema was scheduled to visit the city, and as his emissaries hinted that the emir had “exotic” tastes, the US State Department booked the Monde Elegante for a performance for the emir’s entourage alone.

The new owners rubbed their hands with glee, and so did Anastasia, looking for a possible gig as the emir’s consort for a few years–just long enough to get her own Learjet. Everything was set up–Anastasia would perform a dance number with a chorus line of hearty males, a routine choreographed to be so steamy and erotic that the stage managers had bets down on how many onlookers would be seen to have orgasms.

But on the evening of Anastasia’s greatest performance–including a stunning “wardrobe malfunction” planned for the climax of her act–as she left her apartment on her way to the club, she slipped on a banana peel (a classic pratfall made famous by Charlie Chaplin and immortalized by such greats as the Keystone Kops, Laurel & Hardy, and the Three Stooges). Her rendition was not so humorous–she went cartwheeling down the stairs, ending at the bottom bruised, battered, and with a broken leg.

Before the news reached the club owners, the Emir of Faindema was in attendance, seated in the middle of a large group of his servants, concubines, and miscellaneous hangers-on. What the emissaries of the emir had not told the State Department, however, was the degree to which the emir’s tastes were considered “exotic.”

As the production worked its way up to the gala performance of Anastasia’s orgasmic number, the emir could be seen to yawn, converse with those seated near him, and to look at his watch.

The club owners, once they got the news from the hospital, almost passed out, but they recovered enough to yell curses on Anastasia.

Dick Crosscir had locked himself in his dressing room, and when the owners pounded on the door, finally breaking it open, they were surprised to see he was already made up and in costume. “Dick, you’ve got to help us!”


When the Great, Spotlight Performance took place, a clarinet in a low register began with a wavering note slithering out from the orchestra pit like a python looking for prey. Instead of the steamy, estrogen-dripping appearance of Anastasia, however, from the wings flew Crosscir, who appeared with a mighty leap into the spotlight like a jet fighter landing on the USS Ronald Reagan. Those first, solid, athletic moves soon developed into graceful, expressive motions that wowed the audience. He was dressed–if that escort bolu was the term –as Pan, erotic God of the Forest, moving gracefully, undulating, sinuously over to a smooth, white rock that looked suspiciously like a bed.

He lay back on the rock, spreading his legs, lifting his hips to the sky, and in a movement that in Anastasia’s act would have offered her symbolically to the emir, in Crosscir’s version watchers got a stunning look at the monster bulge between his legs.

The emir sat up straight in his seat, his eyes glued to the stage. Crosscir arched his legs up over his head in a motion that for Anastasia was a mere transition to the next contortion, but her male replacement slowed the movement just slightly–presenting the Emir of Faindema with a clear vision of what a dark and stormy night with Dick Crosscir could be. The emir stared at the stage, snapping his fingers angrily at those near him who dared to whisper among themselves.

Pan’s costume was a small thatch of ivy around his hips, a clever design that conveyed the idea of leaves and foliage while at the same time conforming to every curve of his body. The emir’s eyes pored over every inch as Crosscir cavorted on the stage, but when Pan reached down and ripped off the leaves, underneath wearing only a tiny white posing thong, the Monde Elegante owners were aghast–“My god, what’s he doing??” But they saw the emir’s hand drop between his legs. Later some argued that he could be seen rubbing himself.

In Crosscir’s athletic leaps and jumps–movements beyond Anastasia’s abilities–he showed himself to be a powerful woodland creature, a wolf, a stag, a cougar, and in one amazingly erotic scene, a bull buffalo. With movements even more like copulation than Anastasia’s, the climax of Crosscir’s performance started as the orchestra filled the hall with raging, fiery music, frenzied intertwinings of sex-mad instruments, and the emir and his entourage watched amazed at nothing less than a huge buffalo bull mating with another, mounted on him like Nature itself in copulation, and the absence of “plunging organs” was hardly missed–a special-effects rainbow connected Pan and his lover with nothing less than a cock of titanic, buffalo size. The emir fanned his face–Pan’s sensual undulations brought the temperature in the house to 100 degrees.

At the end, Crosscir had one more climax: in his twist on the “wardrobe malfunction,” Pan stepped up to the front of the stage to take his bows, and the string on the posing strap came loose. The white bag slipped from his crotch, and Dick Crosscir stood in the spotlight with an erection that would have made headlines if he weren’t in a private performance. Backstage onlookers gaped.

As the posing strap fell from Crosscir’s loins, to the aroused emir, the movement appeared to be in slow motion, a white cloth twisting and rolling like falling through honey, sensually baring Pan’s pubic hair, then his giant cock, then his huge testicles. The emir–and everyone in the room–was stunned. The news would finally spread like wildfire through the general public that Dick Crosscir was hung better than any buffalo, putting to shame the actors in sex videos sold in the sordid shops in the neighborhood.

And he was erect.

In itself a miracle, that he could cavort so energetically onstage for so long and still keep his hardon, the sight was even more astonishing in that Crosscir’s cock had been coiled up inside a very strong jockstrap that looked like a simple posing strap. Once released, it snapped up to point at the sky like an air-bag in a rear-ended Corvette.

The emir was heard to gasp something that later was sworn to be the Faindeman equivalent of “12 inches!” Crosscir’s hardon was the prince of cocks, and as he stood in the spotlight, trying to appear shy, the room erupted in pandemonium. The emir hissed orders, and those about him moved closer, blocking a clear view of him, but watchers from the galleries later swore they glimpsed the Emir of Faindema jacking off. Several male members of the emir’s entourage wearing light colored trousers bloomed wet spots in the fronts of their pants.

In his dressing room a few minutes later, the owners burst in, pushing open the already broken door. “What the fucking hell did you think you were doing out there??” But before Crosscir would answer, a tall, majestic man with a meticulously trimmed beard stepped into the room. “His eminence, the emir, would like to request the presence of Mr. Crosscir at his lodgings this evening for dinner.”

Both owners gaped open-mouthed, and before either of them could regain his composure, the visitor pressed a $1000 bill into the hand of one of them, “At 9:00?” And he was gone.


Crosscir had never eaten lobster tail. The wine was delicious. He looked at the bottle: Montrachet 1978. Later he would look for it in Kroger supermarkets–and never find it.

The emir himself–“What is your name”; “You may call me “Emir”–was 45 or so, of medium bolu escort height, healthy-looking, and immaculately groomed. Not a hair out of place. Not a single mole, blemish, or pimple on his face. Smooth voice. Perfect English.

As Crosscir expected, the conversation gradually moved on from dancing and the theater to sex. He knew the power of his cock. His entire dance had been a build-up to showing his stunning manhood to the emir (whose “exotic” tastes were better known in the gay community).

The Emir of Faindema was Crosscir’s ticket out of the Monde Elegante. Having been in similar conversations–actually a form of foreplay–Crosscir gave all the right answers: “No, no girlfriend” . . . “I don’t know, always liked boys, I guess” . . . “Yes, I think you are handsome” . . . “Yes, I’m attracted to you,” etc.


The bedroom in the emir’s hotel suite was bigger than Crosscir’s apartment. By then Who’s In Charge had been established: “Remove your clothing, Mr. Crosscir.”

Rather than rifling his clothes off like they were on fire, Crosscir took a page from Anastasia’s more sluttish technique. Very discreetly he flexed his muscles, spreading his shirt tight, then moved his hand to pull open the shirt’s buttons. Not ripping them open but slowly. Innocently. Virginally. Finally barechested, he smiled to himself as he saw the emir’s eyes burning into him.

Crosscir’s hand touched his pants button as he heard a lighter. He looked up. The emir lit a cigarette with a gold Zippo and looked back at him again. Pulling open his pants and the fly, Crosscir smiled at the emir, who smiled back and removed the cigarette from his mouth. “Magnificent.” His voice was like a lion’s purr.

Crosscir’s mouth was dry as he pulled down his pants. He had spent literally hours deciding what underwear to show in the anticipated strip-down before the Emir: the posing strap/jockstrap from the performance? No, too derivative, as if he knew he would be stripping for the emir and wanted to remind him of the wardrobe malfunction.

A dirty, cum & piss-soaked Bike

0 jockstrap? Although Crosscir had often used such underwear as the coupe de grace in a seduction, no, it was too dirty gutter-rat, too homeless-bum for the likes of the emir.

A pair of C-IN2 shorts with a built-in cockring to thrust out his bulge like a softball? No, too obvious.

Fruit of the Loom Tighty-whities? No, too proletarian.

In the end, Crisscir’s dropped trou revealed a simple white pair of cotton boxer trunks: an innocent guy just out of the US Navy, unsuspecting of any sexual hanky-panky as part of the emir’s invitation to dinner.

The emir stared, visibly sweating. Crosscir knew from long practice that his best “appearance” in a strip-down was to yank off his underwear in one sudden move. The coiled spring of the erection would snap up to slap his belly–fully 12 inches above his crotch–a spicy sight that supercharged the erotic feelings of unsuspecting viewers as well as wafting the testosterone musk of his crotch through the room.

Crosscir smiled to himself. The emir was putty in his hands. Indeed, staring at the explosive appearance of the dancer’s cock, a stunning sight in any case, the royal onlooker could not keep himself from moving his hand to the royal crotch to grope sensually.

Finally he said, “Now I want you to look on my rainbow, my lusty Pan.” Lowering his embroidered silk jockey shorts, the potentate revealed his flesh to his new toy, and Crosscir’s mouth fell open in shock. The emir’s desert-ram was big and long–perhaps not as big as Crosscir’s–but in appearance it was like nothing Crosscir had ever seen. He sucked in a breath. Ohmigod, it’s a screw!

The emir’s cock was a manly 9-inch organ a good 2½ inches thick. His glans, extremely pointed at the tip, spread out to a broad flare in a series of spiraling grooves, making his cockhead in effect a widening augur of male flesh. Beyond the threaded head, the thick cockshaft was decorated in tattooed Arabic letters and geometric patterns on warm Cappuccino-colored skin.

The incredible organ thrust up from a bed of black, myrrh-annointed pubic hair, and the fragrance was base, earthy . . . and intoxicating. The emir smiled. “Since the discovery of oil in my country, drilling is the lifeblood of my people.”

Crosscir could not hold back his astonishment. “God!”

The emir smiled again. “May He be praised. ” He looked down. “The surgeons and tattooists in my country are the world’s best. With this ‘enhancement’ my organ has a greater area of pleasure than the organs other men. And I always succeed”–he looked back up at Crosscir–“in drilling past anyone’s objections.”

The tawny column of the emir’s manhood held designs that looked like tiny badges, like the swastikas painted on the noses of P-51s in WW II. Conquests. There were dozens, hundreds.

Crosscir suddenly realized that, hypnotized by the eerie, erotic hieroglyphs as if they were some devilish sex spell, he had detoured slightly from his seduction of the emir. Hornier than he intended to be, he couldn’t help himself when he spotted a clear ooze–precum–on the sharp, threaded head of the emir’s organ. Oh, no, god! Look at that stuff! The one thing Cresscir loved better than bananas was the salty, almond taste of a man’s precum.

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