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The final stretch (continued)

BY CHRIS WRIGHT

It’s a dreary Thursday afternoon, and I approach the Copley Theatre, where the Boston auditions are being held, with, I think, understandable trepidation. I could use a Xanax right about now, washed down with a pint or two of Jim Beam. " Nut bags, " Lewry had said. What does that mean? Am I like that? Am I like what? The thing is, I have no idea what, or who, to expect. I only hope nobody masturbates.

In the lobby of the theater, two auditioners sit on a small bench. A third stands nearby. They seem normal enough, but you can never tell. I go sit beside the most non-nutty-looking person I can see: a guy wearing a baseball cap, a sensible sweater, and a grave expression. His name is Steve. " I’ve done streaking before, " he says. " I like my equipment. " A 46-year-old computer worker from Manchester, Steve thinks he may have a shot today, but he has his reservations. " I’ll tell jokes naked, " he says, " but I don’t want anyone to touch me. "

Considerably more breezy is Mitch, 24, a delivery man from Worcester. " I saw ads for this, and I heard ‘Aaaah!’ " he says, making a choir-of-angels sound. Mitch, who wears tinted glasses and a sporty T-shirt, has also been known to streak from time to time. " I’m a die-hard advocate of public nudity. " Standing next to Mitch is Ray from Roxbury, a bearded, large-figured 32-year-old who sometimes works as an artist’s model but who is currently unemployed. He is wearing a garish tie-dyed T-shirt beneath a black suit jacket. " I’m here because I have to do something to get myself out of a rut, " Ray says. " I feel like I’m not doing enough that’s fun. "

Over the next 10 minutes or so, three others show up: Sean from Boston, a stocky 32-year-old with a sweeping scar on his face and a penchant for speaking in monosyllables; Ken, 42, an unemployed engineer from Central Massachusetts, who has a comb-over; and Donald, who looks like he could be a hit man but who says he’s a grad student. " I’ve had girlfriends, boyfriends, " he says, " group sex, you name it. " Later on, Donald will stand on stage, apply lipstick to his penis, and have it give a soliloquy.

After Donald, I need a smoke, so Dan Lewry and I sneak outside for a cigarette. Ray follows. " I can’t kid myself, " he says. " I can’t do those things. " Lewry takes him aside. " When I first got this job, I went, ‘Oh my God, I can’t do that!’ I still can’t do all the tricks. My Loch Ness Monster has a very short neck. " But Lewry at least had some previous experience with public nudity. Before he was a penis puppeteer, he did bum puppetry, imitating Marlon Brando in The Godfather using only his buttocks and a wig — stuff like that. In any case, the pep talk works. Ray stays.

By the time the audition actually starts, there are a daunting number of people in the theater: PR people, press people, theater people, random people. Oddly, the jittery Ray is the only one of the six hopefuls who chooses to audition completely nude (the rest of us go naked from the waist down). " Let’s shuffle them, shall we? " says Morley, as the men organize themselves into a line on the stage. " It’s workshop time. " With this, he and Lewry demonstrate some of the installations the guys will be expected to perform today — the Hamburger, the Windsurfer, the Eiffel Tower.

Though I have every intention of auditioning, I’ve chosen to sit out the workshop. I’m having too much fun watching — or maybe I don’t want others to have too much fun watching me. It is, to put it mildly, a strange scenario: the puppeteers offering their packages for scrutiny, saying things like " get a nut on either side of it " in straightforward, academic tones; the rookies standing in a row, clutching and plucking at their own genitals, watching the demonstration seriously, intently, like medical interns observing open-heart surgery.

To be honest, the students have a long way to go. There are Hamburgers that look like curly fries, Loch Ness Monsters that look like Loch Ness Slugs. But this stuff is harder than it looks, and it looks hard. The guys, bless them, are giving it all they’ve got. The fumbling is insistent, fraught. Some of the men breathe heavily while they work, as though entering the final mile of a marathon. All the while, Morley maintains that calm, encouraging tone: " Hold your balls out. That’s right. "

The workshop over, it’s time for the individual rounds, wherein the guys will be invited to go through what they’ve learned and to show some tricks of their own. This is where the real pressure starts, particularly as Morley’s beautiful girlfriend, Komala, is sitting in the front row with a little clipboard, keeping score — particularly as I’ll be one of the people being tallied.

But there’s a while yet to go. First out of the gate is Ray, whose burger is a bit of a pickle, but who earns bonus points for speaking in the voice of William Shatner, and then loses them again for squidging his tool into the shape of a cobra and saying, " You don’t want to do this too long or it’ll become a spitting cobra. " Next!

Next comes Ken, the comb-over guy, who is — I shudder to say — shaven. " Let’s have a look at that burger, " says Morley. If nothing else, Ken is a game old bird. In fact, so rigorous are his efforts that there is a moment when Ken’s burger seems about to do him harm. " Thank you, Ken. "

Steve starts out promisingly enough. As Morley says, " Those are fair-sized buns you’ve got there. " But Steve is soon stricken by what Lewry describes as " the worrier mode, " and things go downhill. " My wiener is usually longer, " he says, before exiting the stage.

This is how it goes throughout — no one is much better or much worse than anyone else. Sean seems to be giving a demonstration on the correct way to knead dough. Mitch, frankly, is much better at " falling down on purpose " than doing dick tricks. Then there’s Donald and his talking member. " The most disturbing thing about that is that your penis has the voice of Mickey Mouse, " says Lewry. Next!

Next? Jesus, I’m next.

I climb up on stage, drop my pants, and look out at the faces arrayed before me: the grave-faced PR women, the clipboard-toting girlfriend, the Boston Globe reporter, my fellow aspiring puppeteers. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see my old headmistress, Mrs. Fletcher, sitting in the audience. Shouldn’t I wake up right about now? No. Unlike the others, I don’t talk during my performance. I am all business, somberly and silently going about my craft, creating unspeakable abominations. Until I get to the Hamburger. My Hamburger, I have to say, is not that bad.

But then, I’ve had practice.

A few days prior to the auditions, I join Lewry and Morley for a pre-show glass of wine. After the show we drink some more wine, and then more (at least I do; the puppeteers have another show to do tonight). They entertain me with anecdotes and quips — " I know his dick better than he does " ; " The last time my mother saw my penis was in the bathtub, and she’d like to keep it that way. " More wine. Then, when Morley asks me if I’d like to join them on stage for the second show, something strange happens — the word " yes " worms its way out of my mouth.

So it is, a few minutes later, I find myself in a strange bathroom, trousers around my knees, standing next to a man I’ve known for a matter of hours, his trousers around his knees. " Grab your nuts like this, " Morley is saying. " Pull your dick down with your finger. " George Michael got arrested for this. The fact is, though, I need Morley. He is the Master. I am his Grasshopper. But then, before we’ve really got it down, it’s time for the guys to go back on stage. They leave me in their dressing room, alone, swigging white wine from the bottle, chain-smoking cigarettes, a Puppetry of the Penis book in one hand, a very questionable burger in the other. Half an hour before showtime. I check the handbook:

HAMBURGER

1. Place the testicles on your fingertips.

2. Roll the penis between the testicles.

3. Turn on a 90-degree angle.

4. Squeeze the testicles and hold like a hamburger.

5. Scream in agony.

Okay, I added the last one. It’s actually amazing how much punishment the male organ can take. Here I am, subjecting myself to the kinds of manipulations one would expect to experience in Third World interrogation rooms, and the only pain I feel is emotional. Even so, my genitals want no part of this. With every twist and tug they retreat, affronted, further into my body. I imagine them looking up at me, terror and confusion in their voices: " We trusted you! "

Terror and confusion: the word " Hotdog " rings out from the stage. Hotdog comes before Hamburger. It’s my cue. I wrestle my testicles from my chest cavity and head out.

I’ve always wondered why people being led to execution don’t go kicking and screaming, why they don’t at least try to resist. Walking toward the backstage area at the Copley, I think I know why. It’s that providence-in-the-fall-of-a-sparrow thing. Fate. Acceptance. Grace. Perhaps it’s the wine, but I feel calm, even uplifted. I roll my penis like I’ve been taught to do, tug on my scrotum in the prescribed way, and then I hear that sound technician: " What are you doing? " The rest is a bit of a blur.

According to those who saw the show, I pushed through the curtains, flipped my cape back, and stood there, legs akimbo, like Liza Minnelli. I have a vague memory of reaching down between my thighs, but for the most part I recall the moment the way one sees snatches of dreams. Faces. Lights. Two naked guys. Morley and Lewry tell me later that I got a big round of applause. They say my Hamburger was very passable. Maybe they’re just being kind. In any event, I don’t think I’ll be joining the show. There were more than 600 people in the audience the night I got up on stage. Six hundred people laughing at my penis. That’s enough for one lifetime.

Chris Wright (and his penis) can be reached at cwright[a]phx.com

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Issue Date: March 20 - 27, 2003
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