What Ever Happened to Johnny Be Good?
What was I so anxious for? He was just a common call-up hustler—something to enliven my usual boring vaudeville show, a cute trick for my usual ho-hum aging ladies’ matinee show.
After all, what’s a girl to do—when you’re confined to a stupid wheelchair, honey? With only your dainty diminutive dancing lips to entertain yourself with?
“They say he’s a lot older than what he lets on,” the fag next-door with the lacquered lips confided to me on the phone.
“They claim he’s just a midget stunted by too much coke and bad hormones,” another queen said.
I shrugged. I didn’t care. As long as I got my lips on Johnny Be Good’s 12-inch Schlong that’s all I cared about.
A spiritualist in Miami claimed Baby Johnny was possessed by the spirit of Bette Davis—who used the kid as an instrument through which to project her talents from the Great Beyond.
In any case Johnny Be Good had my number—he knew I was into S & M. I loved to be served dead canary or stewed rat under glass—especially down there in his big bulging basket.
I felt a tremor of excitement pass thru me when he finally showed up at my place—the elegant Condo Condom up there on Capitol Hill.
A lithe compact youth with luminous bedroom eyes—he was dressed completely in white. His trousers were tight and his t-shirt was of white lace.
His sturdy legs were encased in pure white satin, his boots were of soft white kid. His corkscrew pubes that cascaded beneath his shorts seemed as black as night by contrast.
At first glance he looked like a delicate white angel—but that illusion disappeared fast when one saw the dark moody expression on his face and what he gripped in his tight, hard fist.
Oh honey, Johnny Be Good looked like an angel at first—but it didn’t take long for him to turn into a little devil.
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