Cranking it
By Lizzie Frank
On Broadway
A Horny Boy’s Evening with Miss Saigon I’m not afraid to admit it: like much of the class of 2022, Hofstra wasn’t my firstchoice school. In fact, it was completely by accident that I even ended up at Hofstra at all. I wanted to go to the local welding college; I wanted to be an artist. But due to an unfortunate condition in which beating my good meat until I reach a state of chafed euphoria causes me to make large and unwise banking transactions, I inadvertently deposited for my first year at Hofstra and have been here ever since. It’s not all bad, though. I’m not much for the classes and homework and all that the local gene pool hath wrought, but some of those Explore Next Door trips can be really fun! Just yesterday I got to see Miss Saigon on Broadway, and boy was that thot provoking! From the very first moment of the trip, I found myself enthralled. Going into the real New York City was a blast! And not just because I saw a guy concealing his hand suspiciously in Times Square. The shuttle ride, the train ride, getting completely and permanently separated from my group, and the arduous walk from Penn Station to the theatre was, in total, about an hour and a half, which is the perfect amount of time to listen to my Sexy Bruno Mars playlist and get myself mentally prepared to enjoy whatever it is thespians do to each other. Hell, locking eyes with that man in Times Square was really just the cherry on top of what was already
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becoming a pretty sweet trip. At the very least it felt uniquely informative, exciting even! How many people would just walk around with their hand down their pants like that?! Turns out the number has got to be pretty high, because I saw at least 3 more guy doing the same thing just on my walk to the theatre. Each of them a sickly kind of handsome, all of them intent on looking me right in the eyes. Now if there’s one thing that turns me on other than a nice rack of boobs, it’s some sweet gothic architecture. As an aspiring welder’s apprentice, these are the kind of things I really enjoy. That Miss Saigon theatre has some of the prettiest wooden inlays I’ve ever seen, and I’ve no doubt they were put in place by someone who knows a thing or two about wearing a heat-resistant mask over their face. Gosh, to stop myself from yanking my pud right then and there, I had to resort to picturing that time my grandfather filmed 2 skunks fucking on our porch. Even then I was barely able to contain myself! I had to mentally fast forward to later in the day, when Nana threw herself onto his casket as it was lowered into where the pool used to be, just to stop from calling it quits right then and there and tearing through the break-away crotch I’d recently soldered onto my joggers. By the end of the first act, the blood was pumping through my heart almost as quickly as it was pumping through my penis. I was thrust into a world of war, poverty, and singing, not unlike that of my new life near Manhattan, and I was frankly overcome with emotion, or whatever being super horny is classified as. I don’t know anything about the Vietnam War, but if it’s anything like Miss Saigon portrayed it as, it sounds hot and very much worth romanticizing. There were prostitutes! And bombs? And the guys didn’t even have to sign up, they got scooped and sent over by surprise, like a cool bachelor’s party in a movie. I had no idea Vietnam the War was so rewarding and good. At this point, given how well I’ve described my experience, you probably can’t blame me for having felt so sexually passionate. So it should be no
surprise to you that when the lights came up at the end of the show, I was really, truly jerking it. The woman next to me must have been pretty into it as well, as she kept telling me that her husband was going to “lick my ass,” and “eat the shit out of me.” I tried my tried my best to thank her over the crowd’s near-deafening applause. Soon after, the ushers hoarded me into the exiting crowd, and before I knew it I was back on the streets of the Big Apple, one hand stuffed down my pants and the other doing a hearty thumbs-up. On my walk back to Penn Station, I saw the same man I had seen upon entering the city, and decided to give him a wave with my free hand. He waved too, and as I moved closer to him I realized we were wearing the same grey Hofstra sweatpants. Who was this man? And why did he appear to be behind the glass of a closed Citi Bank? Was he a teller, or perhaps the bank manager? Was he an HU alum? Was he trapped? I moved in and placed my face to the glass, and he did as well, both of us still cranking. Something was building inside me, something I knew I could no longer fight. What was going on? “Are you open?” I shouted against the window. “I...I think I’d like to take out a loan.” I had to stop myself, but I couldn’t. My eyes were closed now, but not even the putrid memories of Nana’s revenge on the beasts that took her husband could slow me down. Would the man behind the glass answer me? Could he hear me? I looked again after a moment, and found that he was not only still matching my pace, but that he now shared the teary-eyed euphoria that was quickly fogging the glass between us. “Please respond!” I shouted again. We were down on our knees now, our hands pressed to each other’s through the glass, like a prison inmate bidding farewell to his very horny dad. At once we each tore through the inner-seams of our sweatpants, and I could see that he, like I, was wellendowed and not too much into trimming. I was growing desperate -- desperate to fulfill my most horrible urges, and desperate to fight them off. I thought once more of the Broadway theatre, of the inlays and the lighting and the long-divided land it so strived to replicate. I broke down. “I need to purchase a blowtorch,” I said, pleading through gritted teeth as once-faint sirens grew closer and louder. “I need to purchase Vietnam.”