The A.V. Club

A Novel by J.K. Ermon (jokermon)

Chapter Two: Frank's Big Announcement, Jack's Big Fall, and Blowjobs in America

This is a work of erotic fantasy fiction for the entertainment of adults only. Everything in this story is imaginary and is not meant to represent any real-life people, events, or medical conditions. It contains explicit futanari (hermaphrodite) content. If that's not your thing, or if reading this type of material is unlawful where you reside, don't read it. All characters in sexual situations are 18 years of age or older, even if it seems otherwise for dramatic or narrative purposes. Please enjoy this story responsibly and do not repost without permission. This story is copyright©2016 J.K. Ermon.

~~~

Frank had a big announcement for us the next morning at school.

It hadn't been a bad day to that point. I got a little flak when the orange Special Education minibus pulled up next to me as I was walking by the portables. Some forgettable wit joked, "Hey Halverson, your ride's here!" and he and his friends cracked up like he was Buddy Hackett playing the Catskills. I didn't acknowledge him. Jabs about riding the shortbus were bush league. I'd been verbally abused by masters in my time.

A thickset blonde girl in a green cardigan disembarked. It looked like she was the only passenger. She had coke-bottle glasses but no other signs of impairment, either mental or physical. One of the idiots gave her an ironic wolf-whistle. She threw him a disinterested glance as she went into the nearest portable. She looked resigned and bored. I wondered what her story was.

I made it to homeroom and got through first and second period without incident. I thought the same thing every nerd does while negotiating the minefield of High School:so far, so good.

During third period study hall, Mark and I were inventorying equipment in the audio/visual storage room when Frank walked in with great purpose.

"She's coming," he announced.

"Who's coming?" asked Mark without glancing up.

Frank pushed his bulky horn-rimmed glasses back into place by their taped-up bridge. For him, this was an indication of great excitement. "She.The one from the movie yesterday. Polly Pole."

"Jesus!"I hissed. Hearing him say that out loud here appalled me. The door was wide open and there were students walking to and fro in the hallway. "Keep your voice down.And shut the damn door."

Frank did so, abashed. He had a burly build with a large, blocky head that looked out of proportion to the rest of him. Back in Middle School, that, plus his oversized hands and feet earned him the nicknameFrog Boy Frank.

Mark was staring at him. "She's cominghere?To PointPleasant?"

"No," Frank shook his head as he rummaged through his book bag. "Alexandria. Just over the bridge." He pulled out a folded, mimeographed sheet with heavy block type. "She's doing a tour of the sausage joints up in northern Kentucky. She's going to be at a place called Ogilvie's this Friday."

My eyes snapped to Mark's. We were both electrified. I knew that place, and so did he. It was one of those outrageous Kentucky strip joints that hosted back-room dickgirl shows.

Back in those days Ohio was a very conservative state, even by 1960's standards. People who wanted to partake of fun things like pornography, gambling and fully-naked strip clubs were obliged to travel over the state line into decadent, freewheeling Kentucky. Alexandria wasn't quite Tijuana, but it was close enough for us.

Mark and I had been to Ogilvie's before. We'd gotten in with no trouble. This was after I almost chickened out on the drive over. I had all kinds of paranoid imaginings about getting turned away or even arrested at the door. Security wound up being non-existent. You'd only get kicked out if youweren'tspending money at the bar. Mark was both shameless and fearless -- he'd been there a bunch of times.

He swore up and down he'd once seen an entire little league baseball team in there, still in full uniform. They'd been proudly holding up a championship trophy as a beaming, drunken coach bought them pitchers of beer while butt-naked strippers writhed onstage two feet away.

Just my luck, when we got there, the DG show had started early. The back room was locked. That was how it went. Once the dickgirl shows started, they were strictly private. Mark was lucky; on a previous occasion he'd made it inside. He assured us the shows were everything we'd imagined.

"Road trip," he said with absolute conviction.

I looked at Frank. "Where did you get that?" I asked, pointing at the paper in his hand.

"It came with the films."

That perked me right up. "Theycame today?"

"Of course they came. I just got back from the drop. There was this flyer and a little newsletter besides. And a couple letters from my pen pals."

Frank regularly corresponded with several emergent women around the country. People did that back then, traded handwritten letters with people they'd never met, nor might ever meet.

He pulled another mimeographed sheet from his pocket and handed it to me.

The 'drop' was a private post office box we rented under a fake name. We were currently operating as a Mr. Eusau Connaught Knightley. Don't blame me for the name, Frank picked it. He was our Correspondence Chief.

The sheet read:

Greetings to my beloved loyal fans! I am doing great and hope you all are too. This is just a friendly reminder about my upcoming shows. Please see the attached sheet for dates, times and venues.

I look forward to seeing all of you in person. I will pull out all the stops to give you the best show you've ever seen. I can't wait for you to see every inch of me in the flesh. For an even more thrilling and personal experience, I will be available for "private shows" in and around these locations within a maximum travel time of forty minutes. Please arrange for any such bookings in person, as I will not be available by telephone.

The standard rate for a ninety-minute private show is fifty dollars, with a ten dollar deposit payable at the time of booking.

I handed it to Mark, and his eyes quickly scanned it. I watched them light up.

"Shazam!"He cackled. "Fifty bucks? We can do that, easy! And the Ogilvie isn't even half-an-hour from Jack's place."

His eyes held a wild light behind their round wireframes that was both infectious and worrisome. If I was a teenage Don Knotts, Mark was a young Dustin Hoffman. He had curly black hair and a corpse-like complexion with bad acne. His jokes were always hamstrung by his ghoulish appearance. The bullies, with dour unoriginality, simply called himthat mouthy Jew bastard.

"Imagine it," he breathed. "Our own private DG strip show,livein Jack's basement."

"Just hold up there, Captain Marvel," I said. "Jack's Mom'll kill us."

"Whaddeya mean? She'll never know. Who's going to tell her, you?"

"Hell no! But let's just..." I caught myself and zipped it. I reallydidwant to see Polly Pole in person, either at Ogilvie's or at Jack's basement, and to hell with the risks. I just didn't like Mark's reckless momentum.

"We need to tell the others first. Put it to a vote."

Mark and Frank were both staring at me like I was crazy.

"Do you think anyone's gonna voteagainstthis?" Mark's voice was incredulous.

He kind of had a point. I was always the one advising caution. I got that from my parents and I hated it. My folks treated life as something to be approached with great trepidation. Every decision needed to be rethought a dozen times. I hated that their timidity had rubbed off on me. I hated that my friends thought me a wet blanket. Whenever some awesome and crazy idea came up, I would catch myself nay-saying out of pure habit.

My Grandfather hadn't been like that. He had died in a drunken car wreck when I was thirteen. I missed the old bastard. My mom's father had been a hard-drinking WWII veteran with a missing leg, a foul mouth, and a devil-may-care attitude. He was the one who taught me how to fish and how to shake a man's hand so he'll respect you. He also taught me how to swear, which upset my mother to no end.

I cleared my throat uncomfortably. "Jack might not be cool with having a dickgirl porno stripper in his mom's house."

~~~

As it turned out, Jack was the most vocal proponent. Both for going to Alexandria, and once there, seeing if we could induce Polly Pole to put on a private show at the AV Club's Sunday meeting.

We told him and the others about it during lunch hour at the losers' table in our little corner of the cafeteria. They were so excited, they had to struggle to keep their voices down. We quickly nailed down our plans for Friday night.

"AV Club...assemble," chortled Donnie. His full name, believe it or not, was Donatello Salvatore Alexandru Corso. He was two-thirds Italian, one-third Romanian and our resident gearhead. He was the only one of us who took vocational tech voluntarily. He loved cars and engines. He was also a calculus wiz with a bright future in engineering, but unfortunately, in 1967, he was five-foot-six with a long face and a long nose that made him look like an olive-skinned Narnian marsh-wiggle. His nickname wasMoon-Faceor justMooney, because in profile his face resembled a cartoon crescent moon.

Donnie, Jack and I all had AP Physics after lunch. As we headed to class, we passed two kids making out against the lockers. It was Cliff Garrity, a linebacker for the Grant High Minutemen and Stephanie Bauer, the cheer squad captain. She was the prettiest girl on the team, and had the largest breasts. I often wondered if that's why they made her captain.

I didn't know about the others, but she and her crew featured prominently in my nightly wet dreams. We paused at the door to our class and furtively watched them kiss.

"You think she sucks his cock?" asked Jack in a hushed tone.

"Of course she does," said Donnie, equally quietly. "That's like, the rules."

"I wish those rules applied to us," I sighed.

One of the lesser unforeseen ripples of Comet Seahag's impact was upon dating. High school girls throughout the country found they were in competition with the Hag-born. Boys who could go out and have any kind of wild sex they pleased with different dickgirls every night of the week weren't about to bother much with regular girls who wouldn't put out. Or so the High School girls thought.

Without any kind of summit or anything, they all decided,en masse,that they had to do more to snag (and keep) a boyfriend.

Boys in America began getting more head. To an exponential degree. In fact, the forties through the seventies became known as the Golden Age of the Blowjob. Female-on-male oral sex quietly became part of the social landscape of adolescence.

If a girl liked a boy and agreed to go out with him, she was consenting to more than just a milkshake and a movie. She would suck him off. She would do this every time they went out, and often at odd times during the day. They did this to earn and keep a boy's affections and interest. When you asked a girl out and she said yes, it was a big deal.

The 'malt shops' sung about so nostalgically in old doo-wop songs were actually coded references to the make-out spots where kids would park on dates. These isolated places were calledmalt shopsin crude reference to all the slurping and swallowing that happened there.

Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons recorded one such ditty,Malt Shop Girl,the b-side of their 1963Walk Like a Man single.It had a playful, Calypso-type feel. Somehow the FCC never got wise to all the pretty blatant double-entendres in it.

I heard it from Johnny who heard it from Joe

The malt shop's where she likes to go

I heard it from Stevie who heard it from Rob

The malt shop's like her full-time job

Ooh, Malt Shop Girl,

You're so sweet,

Not just a customer,

You're the creamiest treat.

The girl goes out so smart and dressy

But slurps her milkshakes loud and messy

Licks her lips once she gets done

And asks me for another one.

(and I sing...) Malt Shop Girl,

You're so nice,

If you treat her real good,

She'll treat you twice

She's as pretty as a dream

Working that straw on a tall egg cream

Gonna marry that girl and I won't roam,

We can have a Malt Shop in our very own home.

(background call-out: "and my friends can come over too!")

Ooh, Malt Shop Girl,

You're so fine,

I bought her a ring

So now the shop is mine!

When girl groups sang about boys who were their 'lollipops' or other candy-related imagery...well, it was self-explanatory.

If the malt shop had a nice view and was in an area where cops didn't patrol, you could find five or six cars parked there on a Friday night. It was rumored sometimes girls would hop from car to car, but I never heard that from a reliable source. Allen would frequently spy on malt shops with his binoculars (aside from his distaste for swearing, he was the craziest and bravest of us all) and never once saw that happen.

Schoolgirls came to pride themselves on their fellatio skills. Girls who could hold onto a boy for the longest were sought after by less fortunate girls for tips.

Unfortunately, the Blowjob Bonanza never trickled down to boys like us at the bottom of the social pyramid. Even Mark was denied. He once quipped, with his usual crass wit, "Miss Fleischmann's refusal to gulp down my cum has always been a bitter pill to swallow."

I noticed Jack was looking at the couple a little more openly. I could tell he was imagining what Stephanie might do on a date. I was thinking the same thing, but I knew it was a fruitless line of inquiry.

"Jack, disengage," I said out of the corner of my mouth. "They're gonna notice."

He didn't respond. His mind was someplace else.

Jack was technically the best looking of us. He was blonde and slim and still baby-faced in his Senior year. He had blue eyes and good teeth. He was also undersized and almost crippled by asthma. Worse, he had the smallest dick of us all; when we gave him the treatment, instead jacking him with our fists, we had to make rings with our thumbs and forefingers. Fully erect, he was three and a half inches long on a good day. He had zero confidence, and it made talking to any girl he found remotely attractive problematic. He would desperately rack his brains for the right thing to say and then blurt out the wrong thing. Girls found him cute until his awkwardness repelled them. The bullies called himGasper, the Friendless Ghost.

The second of three bells rang, indicating the next period was about to begin. Donnie went inside. At the third bell, all the classroom doors were shut. If you were tardy and got shut out, you had to find a hall monitor who would escort you to the Vice Principal's office. It was this big shameful production. If Mr. Briggs was in a bad mood, you'd get sent back to class with a stinging ass from the paddle he kept in his desk.

When people my age talk fondly about their school days, they're choosing to overlook a lot of stuff like corporal punishment. I was glad when they finally banned it in '77.

I stepped into the classroom and noticed Jack wasn't following me. I turned, and to my horror saw he was still standing and staring at the necking couple with a dreamy look on his face.

"Jack,"I hissed.

That got through to him. He nipped inside just before the third bell.

"Did Cliff see you?" I asked in a whisper as we took our seats at the back.

"I don't know. I don't think so." He looked distracted and a little irritable. I knew what he was feeling. Sometimes it all gets to you. I didn't know what I could say to make it better.

"What happened?" asked Donnie.

"Tell you later," I whispered. Class was starting.

~~~

Sixth period was Economics. Donnie and I dove into diminishing returns and Keynesian theory. As usual, Linda Carruthers, Grant High's sole member of Students for a Democratic Society, got into it with Mr. Friel about the impact and utility of the WPA during the Great Depression.

She was the closest thing we had to a hippie at Grant High. She wore Quaker dresses like Joan Baez and grew her jet-black hair very long and straight. Her clothes weren't terribly flattering, and that was a shame, because she was quite pretty, even when her face was filled with righteous indignation (which was often). Donnie couldn't look away whenever she remonstrated with our teachers. I was tempted to break his balls a little about his hopeless crush, but didn't. I'd been there too often myself.

Frank and I had AP Biology after that. As usual, his hand kept going up for every question Mrs. Cheevers put to the class, and as usual, she ignored him until every other option was exhausted. When she drew a problem on the board, he solved it almost instantly. I got it five seconds later. When he showed his work to Mrs. Cheevers, she was a little nonplussed. His answer was correct, but more efficient than the one from her teacher's textbook.

"Well done, Franklin," she said grudgingly.

Frank didn't beam -- he wasn't a beamer -- but I could tell her reluctant praise tickled him pink.

After class, Heidi Miller approached us. She was a squat redhead with heavier glasses than Frank's and a pale, freckled, double-chinned face. Rumor had it she was a lesbian.

"I thought your solution to Mrs. Cheevers' problem was quite elegant, Franklin," she said.

"Thank you," he answered. He looked as nonplussed as Mrs. Cheevers.

She stood there as though she were expecting him to say something else. He just looked back at her.

"Well, goodbye," she said, and hurried away.

"Goodbye," he said after her. Then he looked at me.

"What was that about?"

I shrugged. "Maybe she likes you."

Frank's immobile visage did not betray surprise nor any other human emotion. "Really?"

AP Chemistry followed, the sole class all six of us attended. Jack was absent, which was our first clue something was wrong.

My last class of the day was English. Before I get there, Mark came running up to me in the hallway.

"Code red!" he hissed. "Code red."

That meant one of us had been attacked. I don't mean that in a melodramatic or figurative way; I'm talking about actual physical assault. Bullies in the sixties were savage. Stitches and even broken bones weren't uncommon.

"Is it Jack?" I asked as I raced after him. "Where?"

"Basement," Mark puffed. "Storage room. It's Jack."

Grant High's basement level had classrooms at one end, Phys-ed changing rooms and storage rooms at the other. I'd lost count of the number of times one of us had been dragged into one of those dank closets for a beating.

We came running around a corner and stopped short. Allen, Frank and Donnie were standing around an open storage room at the end of a cul-de-sac. Donnie looked freaked out, Allen looked grim and Frank had an expression of mild concern. Frank's expression terrified me the most.

"How bad is it?" I asked as I joined them.

"We don't know," Allen said. "He...won't come out."

"What?" I asked.

"He's wedged himself in behind some storage crates," Donnie sounded almost panicked. "Way at the back. He's just...refusing to budge."

"I tried to talk with him," said Allen. "But...he's hyperventilating pretty bad and he's not making any sense. We may need to call an ambulance."

"Where's his inhaler?" I asked.

"They took it," said Frank.

"They?" I asked.

"Cliff Garrity, of course," spat Allen. "And a couple of his varsity Sardaukar."

I winced. It made sense. Snatching away Jack's inhaler was usually the first step in a beating. Watching him gasp for air was pure comedy gold to these assholes.

The A.V. Club Ch. 02

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