Sunday, March 30, 2008

The Chapman Report

The Chapman Report

Mykola Dementiuk

In 1962-63 I still remember the movie posters for The Chapman Report around Broadway which I saw one rainy afternoon. In the poster a high-heeled girl was sitting cross-legged and though her face wasn’t visible in the display it was clear that she was prepared to do something…to undress…to strip…to screw…or so I imagined…because at the time it seemed like she was in a rather short skirt just above the knee and just ripe for taking off, and holding a lit cigarette at that!

I recall how I hurried home and masturbated with the remembered sight of the luscious mysterious shimmer of her legs as a man was seated behind her and staring right at her. I must have seen that poster through the months as winter rolled into spring and my masturbating had intensified; it looked like the movie was going to run forever. I was just 15 and this was way before the Internet and even before DVD’s deleted a movie’s life span to just 2 weeks tops or maybe even 3 if it was a blockbuster like Indiana Jones or some such drivel.

On my usual wandering through the city streets in those days I’d occasionally pass by Mr. Dickey, who I tried to avoid, a neighborhood fellow who always stopped me and wanted to chat about what I was doing but would quickly end up talking quietly about sex. Well, whatever knowledge I had about sex came from my masturbation at home, in park bathrooms, Staten Island ferry boats and wherever I could be alone and play with myself.

Mr. Dickey -- if that was his real name -- was a funny man; he always wanted to know just a little bit more about me than I was willing to tell him. When I’d run into him he’d tenderly greet me and try to rub against me, commenting about my muscles and fortitude and if I wanted to come up to his apartment and show him a thing or two trying to put his arm around me…well that always got me running away from him…

“No, thanks,” I’d always say and scurry off…strangely my later masturbation would be a lot stronger and more forceful than just the usual boring repetitive beating, exploding, collapsing and exhausting myself.

One day up around Times Square, which I had taken to exploring, I turned red from embarrassment and tried to shield my face as there was Mr. Dickey, grinning and leering and coming in my direction.

“My, my,” he gushed. “So lovely to see you here,” and his voice went very low and hushed. “Tsk, tsk. In the adult area of the big city,” he leered and looked at me; somehow the fronts of our coats were pressed against the other and strangely I had grown as hard as I’m sure he was too; my face had turned incredibly red….

“I’ll bet you’re looking for a good movie to see, eh? I’ll treat you.” And he winked hopefully, turning to the movies on his right and across the street on his left. “Take your pick.” And his voice went low again, “my darling.”

As usual I wanted to get away from him, knowing what any contact with him meant, but being away from my neighborhood and little chance of seeing anyone I knew, I turned and looked over at the movie theater displays. My eyes immediately fell upon The Chapman Report, showing in a 42nd street theater but I frowned and shook my head knowing it wasn’t possible to see that film at my age; they still had moral codes in those days.

Mr. Dickey saw my sudden frustration; we were practically close to where our arms were in constant touch and rubbing to the others.

I told him, and he sadly but so knowingly caressed my arm --though I didn’t tell him about the actress whose legs I’d been dreaming and beating off to. I think he wanted to kiss me, and in another time and place, he probably would have.

“Yes, yes,” he whispered. “I know it’s not fair.” He brightened. “But I know where they will let you in,” he hinted, gesturing to Broadway. “Less people there and a little bit more expensive, but my treat,” again his voice went silent, “and more privacy, if you know what I mean?”

I looked at him but didn’t say anything; glad I was wearing a raincoat and hiding my erection. I followed him along up the street and we quickly came to the Loew’s theater on 44th street; the actress sitting with her legs crossed had been blown up to incredible size in the poster just teasing and luring the passers by.

“By the way,” whispered Mr. Dickey, “I’m your uncle and you’re nephew, if anyone asks; which I’m sure they won’t.”

I shrugged, but very nervous, and the ticket booth the female teller suspiciously looked at me.

“My nephew,” said Mr. Dickey, looking and smiling warmly at me. The ticket teller studied us then buzzed us through. I’m sure I breathed a sigh of relief and passed my way in.

We stood at the elegant red-decorated popcorn-smelling concession stand and I ordered popcorn and JuJu beans candy -- again Mr. Dickey’s treat -- and we made our way into the dark movie-screen auditorium. There wasn’t even a hint of nudity or any erotic activity on the screen, just constant talking but being in that sensuous place, like I imagined I was in, made me grow even harder.

We walked down the theater aisle to almost the front and I collapsed into a seat, unbuttoned my coat but left it on, glad I was sitting down. Slowly I nibbled on the popcorn as Mr. Dickey sat next to me, breathing very hard and deeply while staring at the side of my face.

I looked at the screen where Shelly Winters was having an affair, as Clair Bloom played an alcoholic nymphomaniac, while Jane Fonda acted out a frigid housewife and all aimed in the end to getting it and liking it. It was hard to focus and pay attention as Mr. Dickey moved his arm to my own and whispered, “It’s so nice here with you. Am very glad you’re with me. We can hold hands…it’s very dark here too…and no one will see.” And he paused, “you’re such a nice boy…”

I guess I shrugged since by then I had finished with my popcorn and felt his hand take my own. His fingers were gentle but very active, as if they were holding and caressing a toy bunny or rabbit, and I let the fingers persist in their motion and they caressed my hand and arm and moved to my lap. I was incredibly hard and when he bent down and his lips breathed in my ear at the side of my face his nearness and what was happening made me shoot off, the semen oozing onto my underwear and pants, imagining I was spewing onto Shelly and Clair and Jane all at once….

Needless to say I collapsed in that seat, exhausted and breathing very heavily then quietly whispered, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Mr. Dickey looked lovingly at me -- I was certain he knew what had just happened -- and whispered, “Oh please, hurry back. I can’t stand being apart from you,” still holding my hand before letting it go.

Quickly I staggered to the back of the theater, avoiding the stare from the ticket seller who had let us in maybe 30, 40 minutes ago, and glad I had my raincoat, and went outside…

It was raining…I walked downtown in the drizzle and went home…

Years have gone by yet every time I masturbate I think of Mr. Dickey…and wonder whether he’s still waiting in the theater…guess he is…alone….Hey, but I never did see the beginning or end of The Chapman Report, we came in the middlewonder how it went…guess I’ll never know….


Thursday, March 27, 2008

Masturbating at the Movies

Masturbating at the Movies

Mykola Dementiuk

Was in the ‘60s and I was cutting out of school, as usual, and wandering the streets of Times Square, much like everyone else was doing, old and young. It was a warm sunny day and I cursed my lack of funds. Some good films I wanted to see were released in those years, Cat Balou, Major Dundee, Cincinnati Kid, Goldfinger, From Russia with Love and others but my financial ill luck made me miss out on the majority. All I could do was walk along up and down 42nd street and just gaze at the displays of what I was missing inside. A few times to forget I had bent my head to stare into old nickelodeons in a few shops along Broadway, 3 flicks for 5 cents, which I could afford, and look at flicks from the ‘50s but they were kept in the rear of penny arcades and still nowhere as good as the real ones I was missing from seeing inside of movie theaters.

On one of my walks along the streets, I had wandered onto 41st street along 7th and 8th avenues, which faced the back of theaters, when a door was opened and a man stepped out. I easily stepped behind him into the closing door after him as he just walked on without looking back. I knew right away I had entered a movie theater but from the back I didn’t know which one. I quickly walked up the deserted hallway and the foreign sounds of the film made me realize I was in the Apollo movie house, which showed foreign movies.

Not bad, I thought, see some skin on some foreign babes, Sophia Loren or Brigitte Bardot, ooh la la! I had heard of them and the hot movies they made but still haven’t seen any that they did.

I immediately took a seat in the sparsely filled auditorium and got used to the lighting. Up on the screen was Sophia Loren climbing out of a bus window as the driver was helping her out and looking up her nyloned legs; her dress rode up her legs as she squeezed out. I was amazed at how hard I had gotten in like 30 seconds of sitting there and looking up at Sophia’s nylon hosed legs which were so close I could just sniff and lick them when out of a corner of my eye a figure in the same row I was in was clearly masturbating, his pants tugged down to below the knees and his avid cock in his hand and beating it off. I scowled from nervousness; I’d often do that in bathrooms when I knew no one was looking and I must have felt embarrassed at what he was doing and what I was seeing because I turned red and felt myself growing soft. I stood up and got away from the jerking fellow, walking up the aisle to the rear of the movie house, passing other guys in the rows and it looked like they also were beating themselves off!

Was it my perverse imagination or was I seeing things that weren’t there? Did I imagine that everyone in the movie theater was masturbating?

I shook my head and kept walking until I came to the balcony and took a seat upstairs. More close-ups of Marcello Mastroianni feeling Sophia Loren as she rode in a automobile next to him and again I was hard and surreptitiously squeezing my hard-on. When again I glanced in the corner of my eye and saw another man sitting in my row and rhythmically masturbating; where was his sense of embarrassment and shame? Again I wondered and felt like changing seats; I looked up behind him for a good seat to move into…when I saw still another guy masturbating out in the open and unconcerned of who may see him or not!

I shrank in my seat, thinking Wow, all around me are guys jerking off! I wondered if the fags knew about this theater…

Slowly my zipper came down and looking around me and knowing where I was I no longer cared who saw me, my dick was in my hand gently squeezing and caressing until I shot off….Oh wow!….I did it 3 or 4 times growing more open and bolder, comfortably just masturbating each time that afternoon and it felt very good about it. Of course I wasn’t that na├»ve to go and to do it in other movie houses in the evening or in the open when the place would get filled with fags just looking to get their hands and mouths on you but here at the Apollo in the afternoon with Sophia showing it off to Marcello it was comfortable and easy and seemed the natural thing to do....

Masturbation in the open, like sneezing when it comes upon you…that’s what it was….no big thing….I began beating again….

Many years have gone by but Sophia’s still my favorite actress with her nylons and big breasts that I have to pull my dick out every time I see her and just commence masturbating….Ah, those were the days…