"Not too pretty, huh?"
Nemiroff looked at him and a tiny tear came to his eye. "Oh, c'mon," Marshall said. "She couldn't have been that bad." He really wanted to comfort Nemiroff now. "Listen," Marshall went on, "don't let it get you. Even I've fucked a dog once in a while."
Nemiroff put down the beer and walked out of the bar. Even alcohol wasn't going to help tonight.
The very first moment Nemiroff entered the arts and crafts room he knew he was in serious trouble. When he stepped inside, all Nemiroff saw was someone dressed in tight green Capri pants, an open yellow blouse tied around the middle, and open-toed pink sneakers with tiny pink painted toes peeking out.
"Excuse me," Nemiroff said, "but where's Mr. Green?"
The pink toes danced across the floor and stopped in front of Nemiroff. "I'm Mr. Green." He grabbed Nemiroff around the neck and kissed him hard on the lips.
Nemiroff was stunned. "What are you, queer or something?" he asked, pushing Mr. Green away. Mr. Green just giggled and danced around Nemiroff. He pinched him on the ass. "Cut it out," Nemiroff said, trying to stay out of his reach.
"Oh, you silly goose," Mr. Green sang, "come in and sit down. C'mon, kiddies." He motioned to the table in the center of the room. Nemiroff marched his group to the table. "Now," Mr. Green went on, "is everybody comfy?" He danced around the table and pinched every one of them. "I'm Mr. Green and I'm your arts and crafts teacher, but from now on I want you to call me Miss Helen."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Nemiroff asked.
"Now now"—he shook his finger at Nemiroff— "none of that pooh pooh language." He threw himself on Nemiroff and kissed him again.
Nemiroff pushed him off. "Now listen, Mr. Green . . ."
"Miss Helen," he interrupted. ". . . Miss Helen or whatever the hell you are," Nemiroff stammered. "If you ever try that again I'll kill you." Nemiroff walked to the far end of the table.
"Oh, isn't he something?" Mr. Green said. He picked himself up off the floor. "You boys certainly have a vicious counselor." He was standing at the opposite end of the table. "And I just love tough men."
Nemiroff wasn't expecting it. Mr. Green dove across the table and wrestled Nemiroff to the floor. He tried to bite Nemiroff on the ear. Nemiroff pushed him off and ran around to the other side of the table. "Cut it out," Nemiroff warned, "and start teaching these kids some arts and crafts."
"Oh, all right if you don't want to play," Mr. Green said, dancing over to the other side of the room. "Now all of you sweet little boys have to make at least five projects before the end of the summer." He winked at Nemiroff, who had picked up a wooden hammer that was used for softening leather. Nemiroff waved it menacingly at Mr. Green. "And I have to make you," Mr. Green screamed.
Mr. Green was off like a shot toward Nemiroff. He leaped halfway across the room, landing hard on Nemiroff and knocking him to the ground. Mr. Green was going after Nemiroff's ears again. Nemiroff was beating Mr. Green over the head with the hammer. Mr. Green gave up first. "Oh, you're a real fighter," Mr. Green said. Nemiroff was searching the room for something a little bit more deadly than the wooden hammer.
That night Nemiroff decided to go to the local saloon and mingle with the real people. Maybe Marshall had a new story. Maybe he could even find some action with a gentile girl.
As soon as he walked in the door, Nemiroff noticed the girl sitting over in a corner. She had long, straight black hair that framed her sunburned face. She was all alone, playing a guitar and singing to herself. Nemiroff noticed how nicely her right breast fitted into the curved body of the guitar. He watched it shake as she strummed the guitar. Nemiroff became hypnotized. He picked up his glass and walked over to the girl.
"Hi," he started, "do you play that thing?"
The girl looked up at him. "No, I just carry h around to hold up my right tit."
Nemiroff fell
Nemiroff looked at him and a tiny tear came to his eye. "Oh, c'mon," Marshall said. "She couldn't have been that bad." He really wanted to comfort Nemiroff now. "Listen," Marshall went on, "don't let it get you. Even I've fucked a dog once in a while."
Nemiroff put down the beer and walked out of the bar. Even alcohol wasn't going to help tonight.
The very first moment Nemiroff entered the arts and crafts room he knew he was in serious trouble. When he stepped inside, all Nemiroff saw was someone dressed in tight green Capri pants, an open yellow blouse tied around the middle, and open-toed pink sneakers with tiny pink painted toes peeking out.
"Excuse me," Nemiroff said, "but where's Mr. Green?"
The pink toes danced across the floor and stopped in front of Nemiroff. "I'm Mr. Green." He grabbed Nemiroff around the neck and kissed him hard on the lips.
Nemiroff was stunned. "What are you, queer or something?" he asked, pushing Mr. Green away. Mr. Green just giggled and danced around Nemiroff. He pinched him on the ass. "Cut it out," Nemiroff said, trying to stay out of his reach.
"Oh, you silly goose," Mr. Green sang, "come in and sit down. C'mon, kiddies." He motioned to the table in the center of the room. Nemiroff marched his group to the table. "Now," Mr. Green went on, "is everybody comfy?" He danced around the table and pinched every one of them. "I'm Mr. Green and I'm your arts and crafts teacher, but from now on I want you to call me Miss Helen."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Nemiroff asked.
"Now now"—he shook his finger at Nemiroff— "none of that pooh pooh language." He threw himself on Nemiroff and kissed him again.
Nemiroff pushed him off. "Now listen, Mr. Green . . ."
"Miss Helen," he interrupted. ". . . Miss Helen or whatever the hell you are," Nemiroff stammered. "If you ever try that again I'll kill you." Nemiroff walked to the far end of the table.
"Oh, isn't he something?" Mr. Green said. He picked himself up off the floor. "You boys certainly have a vicious counselor." He was standing at the opposite end of the table. "And I just love tough men."
Nemiroff wasn't expecting it. Mr. Green dove across the table and wrestled Nemiroff to the floor. He tried to bite Nemiroff on the ear. Nemiroff pushed him off and ran around to the other side of the table. "Cut it out," Nemiroff warned, "and start teaching these kids some arts and crafts."
"Oh, all right if you don't want to play," Mr. Green said, dancing over to the other side of the room. "Now all of you sweet little boys have to make at least five projects before the end of the summer." He winked at Nemiroff, who had picked up a wooden hammer that was used for softening leather. Nemiroff waved it menacingly at Mr. Green. "And I have to make you," Mr. Green screamed.
Mr. Green was off like a shot toward Nemiroff. He leaped halfway across the room, landing hard on Nemiroff and knocking him to the ground. Mr. Green was going after Nemiroff's ears again. Nemiroff was beating Mr. Green over the head with the hammer. Mr. Green gave up first. "Oh, you're a real fighter," Mr. Green said. Nemiroff was searching the room for something a little bit more deadly than the wooden hammer.
That night Nemiroff decided to go to the local saloon and mingle with the real people. Maybe Marshall had a new story. Maybe he could even find some action with a gentile girl.
As soon as he walked in the door, Nemiroff noticed the girl sitting over in a corner. She had long, straight black hair that framed her sunburned face. She was all alone, playing a guitar and singing to herself. Nemiroff noticed how nicely her right breast fitted into the curved body of the guitar. He watched it shake as she strummed the guitar. Nemiroff became hypnotized. He picked up his glass and walked over to the girl.
"Hi," he started, "do you play that thing?"
The girl looked up at him. "No, I just carry h around to hold up my right tit."
Nemiroff fell
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