LITMIR.BIZ

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the women screeching, Bart eating it up, not a bad-looking guy in a greaseball way, probably late twenties, big smile on his silver-streaked kisser, loving the noise, the tacky glamour.

      The music on the sound system changed, soaring strings, electric piano, same pounding bass. And Bart got down to the serious stuff, taking off his silver duds. The vest came off, then the boots. He took longer with the shirt, unbuttoning, dropping one sleeve, pulling it back up, teasing, the women getting off on the tease. The shirt fell into the pile of clothes collecting at the back of the stage, and Bart went into a muscle-flexing routine, shooting the biceps, rippling the muscles across his chest. He had an exaggerated build, courtesy of barbells and a Nautilus machine — manufactured muscles.

      Now it was Bart and the silver sequined pants. They came off in a flash, in a single, wild flourish. The move had something to do with zippers down both pant legs. Bart stood before us, arms raised, muscles shiny with sweat, nothing on him except a pair of brief briefs in silver and black stripes. The crowd went nuts.

      A new tape came on, pumping and metallic. The rhythm went thump, thump, thump, pause, thump, thump, thump, pause. At the pauses, Bart, deep into it now, concentrated expression on his face, dropped into stances that looked like variations on Rodin’s Thinker poses. He held a pose through the thumps, struck a new arrangement of legs, arms and torso at the pauses. The thumps, pauses, and poses kept up for five minutes.

      The act might have been wearing thin, in my opinion, but Bart, Mr. Show Biz, knew where he was taking the audience. He was going for it all.

      He whipped off his briefs. And there was no codpiece underneath, no jockstrap, no Kleenex.

      “That’s what’s called a throbbing member?” I shouted at Annie.

      “His mighty machine.”

      “Instrument of pleasure.”

      “I wish he’d cover the damned thing up.”

      “Way he’s whipping himself around,” I shouted, “a hernia clinic will be his next destination.”

      Bart pranced naked along the edges of the stage. All around us and further back in the huge room, women stood on chairs and shrieked. Behind the racket, I could make out music of the Sturm und Drang sort. The pandemonium lasted three or four minutes until a skinny guy in black pants and a white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest entered stage right. He was holding a cloak in front of him. It was done in the same silver striped motif as Bart’s long-gone knickers. Bart went into an extended bow, and the skinny guy draped the cloak over his crouched form. Bart whisked himself off stage. The skinny guy stayed behind and gathered up Bart’s discarded togs.

      The room had a buzz, coming down from Bart’s act. At the next table, the matrons wearing the baseball caps looked hot and breathless. They ordered another round of beers.

      “If Bart’s gay,” Annie said to me, “a heck of a lot of women in here are wasting their sexual fantasies.”

      “What do you say we go backstage?”

      “Going to be kind of fascinating to find out.”

      “What’s that?”

      “Which is Bart’s real audience,” Annie said, “sexually speaking.”

      Chapter Eight

      The busty young woman was swathed in gauze.

      “No civilians are supposed to come back here,” she said to Annie and me, flat-voiced.

      We were in the corridor behind the Eroticarama’s stage. It had a linoleum floor and pink lighting.

      “On business,” I said. “Bart’s expecting us.”

      The young woman shrugged. She was chewing gum.

      “Which is his dressing room?” I asked.

      “With the star back there.”

      “You the next attraction out front?”

      “Uh-huh.”

      “Kind of a dance of the seven veils? That your specialty?”

      “Four.” The young woman tightened the gauze across her bosom. “Four veils come off and I’m bare-assed.”

      “Right.”

      “Which is the point of what they want out there.”

      “Bare, ah, assed?”

      “Yeah.” The young woman parked the gum behind her ear and walked toward the stage. Her walk had a roll to it, as if she was getting herself into an Arabian Nights mode.

      “Bare-assed,” I said to Annie.

      “Not exactly the style Salome had in mind.”

      The door with the star was on the right at the end of the corridor. Under the star, which was silver and frayed around the edges, someone had taped a piece of plain notepaper that had “Bart the Bulge” hand-printed in block letters.

      I raised my arm to knock on the door. Annie wrapped her hand around my fist. “Wait,” she said.

      “But I’m geared to strike.”

      “Just go where I lead.” Annie’s voice sounded firm. “I think I got an inspiration for how to do this.”

      She gave the door four sharp raps.

      It opened about a quarter of the way. The skinny kid who’d picked up after Bart on stage was holding the knob on the other side. Up close, he had a case of acne that might have been terminal.

      “Hi, I’m Annie B. Cooke, channel eleven television.” Annie spoke in a no-nonsense tone. “We’re researching an in-depth item on adult films. Would Bart be available for preliminary discussions?”

      Someone called from inside the room. “Let her in.”

      The kid swung the door wide. Inside, the dressing room had cramped dimensions and smelled like a cross between a Gold’s Gym and the men’s cologne counter at Holt Renfrew.

      Bart was sitting at a chair in front of a table and mirror against one wall. He was still wrapped in the cloak, and he’d been wiping the silver glitter off his cheeks and eyelids. Without the stage face, the strut and poses, he looked younger, vulnerable almost.

      “You’re from TV?” he asked Annie. It had been his voice, an easy tenor, that ordered the opening of the door.

      “Annie B. Cooke, and this is my associate, Mr. Crang.”

      “I knew it hadda happen, TV come to me,” Bart said. “Can’t pass up a star, what the hell.”

      There was a third man in Bart’s entourage. He was probably in his early thirties and definitely weighed in the mid two hundreds. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt in reds and yellows, and he looked like he hadn’t smiled in a decade.

      “Yes,” Annie said, “I’m keen on exploring the mystique of adult films.”

      Bart grinned. “Annie you said your name is? Okay, Annie, I don’t do adult. I do porno, and I do it good, and I got a lotta people, my audience, who take it serious.”

      “Well, yes, point well made. I agree the form has been with us long enough to claim a status as a semi-legitimate art.”

      “Since the beginning of movies practically,” Bart said, nodding. “You’ve done, what, some research already?”

      “Certainly enough to be aware of your position in the field.”

      “Hey, all right.” Bart looked to the large guy, who offered no response I could detect.

      Annie and I remained standing. Mainly it was a matter of the three chairs. Bart occupied one. The big guy sat in another, tipped on its back legs against the wall. And Bart’s costume was stacked on the third, the silver shirt and pants, silver vest, the silver-striped briefs. The briefs rested

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