Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Just Like a Woman

Just Like a Woman

by Mykola Dementiuk

I kept trailing her up Broadway and hoping she would turn down a side street, away from the crowds, so I could approach and smile and start a conversation, but she continued walking uptown, seemingly oblivious of the bemused staring pedestrians, some gaping in disbelief, others smirking and whistling, and still others taunting and threatening to turn her into a real woman.

It was Friday night and the streets were crowded with revelers and thrill-seekers and the bars and clubs interspersed amid the movie theaters along the avenue were all brightly lit, enticing and tempting with loud music pulsing from jukeboxes or live bands playing inside. At most of the establishments tough-looking men stood beckoning to the milling curious passersby chanting, No Cover! No Cover! and gesturing to the photo-plastered doorways around them with provocative pictures of half-naked models pouting out from behind shiny protective glass and offering unimaginable thrills from their seductive and tempting well-studied poses.

I had first spotted her as I had just exited one such No Cover club and stood grimacing at the photos in the doorway; there was nothing like that inside, I wanted to complain to the No Cover man, --just a skinny sag-titted girl who had clumsily crawled up on the bar, danced past a few drinkers hungrily gaping up at her G-string, and as much as she tried to coordinate the long tassels covering her nipples to sway rhythmically with the music, only succeeded in awkwardly flapping her saggy breasts against each other and tangling the long tassels of one nipple in the studded rhinestone pastie of the other.

No, nothing like the pictures at all, I grimaced, and heard some whistles and laughter and turned and saw “her” coming up the avenue.

She was tall and her body was large and solid and she wore a strange furry and feathery vest which only accentuated her broad shoulders yet covered and concealed whatever bosom she had molded underneath. Her tight red pants, slightly sagging and loose around the hips, did not have the natural fleshy show-off roundness and buoyancy one expected of a woman parading Times Square, but she made up for it by the over-exaggerated swagger of her flat limp ass and her loud clicking high-heels as she moved confidently through the noisy Friday night crowd.

Her ashy blonde-streaked hair was puffed up in on out-of-style beehive roost, and her long jingling show-girl earrings, more common in a chorus line or in the come-on doorway photos, dangled from her ears and struck the sides of her face as she confidently pushed into the crowd, certain a gauntlet would open and a path would be cleared no matter how dense that crowd might be.

At times her long gait briefly faltered as she lost rhythm with her ungainly swaying, one foot falling too quickly onto the concrete, her ankle sagging and twisting in the overstrained high-heeled shoe, but she always recovered and pulled her vest tighter around her bosom and sped up the street, her heels scratching and scraping the hard asphalt beneath them.

She neared the girlie-covered doorway and I gaped at her heavily made-up face: thick rouge, lipstick, and eyeliner, and all applied with detailed care and precision, --yet I noticed at the side of her throat the line of makeup, perhaps through oversight or a smudged mirror, ended abruptly and did not blend naturally into the neck, clearly revealing the red pock-marks and bright seared blotches of recently shaved stubble.

Getta loada this! I heard the No Cover man laugh. But I had already noticed; for she swayed up the avenue seeming to disregard the gawking and staring and hooting that circled about her, her cock and balls had somehow stealthily eased themselves free of whatever panty or girdle she wore to keep them in place between her legs and fell down the side of her inner thigh, suspended and outlined in her bright red pants in a large and puffy unmistakable numeral 9. I saw this, and waited for her to pass, then stepped out of the doorway and began my pursuit of her.

No Cover! I heard the man call after me, gesturing to the milling crowd. No Cover, gents! Real live beautiful girls’ right up the stairs. No Cover! No Cover!

She moved quickly through the crowd and up the avenue and crossed streets and for a moment I thought I had lost her somewhere uptown but I brightened and sped up as he spotted the top of her bee-hive bob across the street and continue up Broadway.

The crowds had thinned somewhat --most of the excitement being closer to 42nd street-- but her swish and sway remained as exaggerated as before and heads continued to turn and smirk and call out for a real good time. A few times she had flushed angrily from some malicious taunt and would turn to confront her tormentor but his face always gelled in the safety with other conspiratorially smirking faces, and she’d end up simply fluttering her long black lashes, pouting her bright red lips, and wiggling her flat red ass up the street, followed by even louder and raucous hooting and taunting.

It was Friday night and for decades this area of peepshows and dirty movies, loud bars and dangerous side streets, was synonymous with sex and cheap thrills. It was the place to come to get laid or blown or jerked-off, or even watch a skin-flick and jerk yourself off. The purpose and logic, thrill and enticement of the area was sex: cheap and dirty and quick. On any night, the street scene was often the same: a red-faced geezer hurrying towards some dark side-street hallway with a young boy trailing behind him; nervous men in business suits skulking into dirty-movie houses or speeding out of porno bookshops with magazine-crammed paper bags tucked under their arms; ragged old whores roosting atop garbage cans and displaying flabby tits and busted-toothed grins to cars and passersby and sometimes actually negotiating a price with them. On the street, a young boy could lose his virginity to a manipulative wasted cunt as easily as to a scheming diseased dick up his ass. You took your chances when you got to Times Square, and you got what paid for; and more often then not, it was exactly what you were after anyway.

I followed the woman across a street and saw her pausing in the middle of the clock to gaze at a mirrored doorway covered with photos of half-naked girls, just as the one he had stepped out of in pursuit of her. This far from 42nd street there wasn’t even a No Cover man outside, just a bold pink-lettered poster hanging above the photos: Girls-Girls-Girls-No Cover!

I came closer and saw her preening in a slither of mirrored glass around the girlie photos. She puffed up the sides of her hair and flicked her tongue around her bright red lips and I paused behind her as she opened her vest, sucked in her pot belly, and thrust out her unbalanced and knobby bulging blue knit-bloused bosom. She saw my smiling image in the mirror and darted her eyes down my reflection and suddenly gaped and stared at her own bulging crotch; a deep red flush raced up her neck to her jaw and cheeks and nose and she wrapped the furry vest across her chest and quickly turned and raced up the avenue, her gait no longer an exaggerated show-off swagger, but a rapid and purposeful flight.

I frowned and looked after her, my own hard penis tightening and pulsing at the side of my own inner thigh. Certainly she didn’t think she had tricked anyone with her makeup and hairdo; certainly she didn’t imagine that earrings and high-heels were all that it took to pass as a woman; --yet the image of appearing as a woman was indeed what had mattered, what she had strived for, what she had probably spent hours preening and dolling herself for, what she had dared to risk insult and ridicule, and possibly injury for, only to see that imagined female image shattered by an intrusive pair of male genitalia, her own cock and balls.

Still, hadn’t she felt them creeping out of her panties and down her leg? Or had the masquerade been so successful, as least in her mind, and the image so complete that the pleasant oozing of bulbous flesh at the bottom of her groin experienced as a sort of divine female orgasm?

I watched the blur of her red ass and legs turn off the avenue and I raced to the corner and saw her entering a side-street building and I again briskly raced and reached the doorway just as the door slammed shut behind her. I paused and peered through the portioned glass door and saw her stooped over and tugging the inside of her pant leg.

I pushed the door open and entered the hall. She jerked around and pulled her hand out of her pants and stared at him, her mouth open, her eyes wide. I smiled and walked towards her and she braced her back to a wall and eyed me warily.

For a moment, we looked at each other, then I suddenly reached out and grabbed her between the legs and squeezed her cock. She jerked aside and pushed off my hand but I quickly maneuvered behind her and dipped my hand under her ass and strained to reach the puffy cock and balls from beneath. She slightly sagged and lowered her torso, then spun around and leaned back against the wall.

-Where did you come from? she blinked, and raised her hands to his chest. I bobbed my head and kissed her mouth, our tongues darting against each other, our teeth clicking. She circled her hands under my arms and clutched my shoulders and raised her leg up my calf and clasped me tightly to her. She pounded her groin against my thigh and I groped her and squeezed her cock and felt her torso grind faster and faster until she desperately buckled and shivered, as I held on, my tongue deep in her mouth, her semen oozing out of her dick and spreading through her pants and into my palm. She buckled as few more times, then sagged down my chest and pulled her mouth off mine, gasping and smearing lipstick from my lips to my cheeks to my throat, nibbling and kissing and sucking my neck. Slowly, she relaxed and regained her breathing and dropped her leg off my calf and straightened up and pushed me away.

-Boy, was I hot! she blushed, and glanced down her pants and grimaced. The large wet semen stain had quickly spread at the thigh of her red pants and she cursed and said, What’ll I do now? and brushed at the edges of the dark wet stain. A fat thick globule of pasty scum shimmered in the center of the expanding stain. I reached out and cupped her moist cock and balls and she stiffened and sucked in air, then pushed my hand away and giggled as I raised it to my face and rubbed the damp palm against my mouth and jaw.

-Oh, stop it, she said, and slapped my wrist. I grabbed her hand and our fingers entwined and they looked at each other and I tried to pull her hand towards my own hard crotch but she wriggled her fingers free and glanced down at her thigh and grimaced.

-I have to do something, she said, I can’t go back out like this.

I nodded, and looked at the glass covering doorway then moved around her, blocking her from view of the outside, and reached for her waist. She pulled away but I persisted and stooped down and said, I’ll fix it, and fumbled for her side pants button. She peered over my shoulders at the door, then let me unsnap the button and slide down the zipper and open the pants at the side of her hip. I reached down her belly and into her pants and she gasped as my fingers caressed her warm damp flesh and soft panty girdle. I wriggled my fingers in between her stomach and girdle and maneuvered them down to the crinkly pubic hairs at her groin. Her fleshy stomach quivered and she held my shoulders as my fingers inched deeper and deeper and groped out of the girdle and leg-hole and slid down her thigh and strained for and grasped her wet cock and balls. I heard her suck in air and gasp as I tenderly pulled up and retrieved them back into the panty girdle.

She shifted her weight and leaned on the wall and opened her legs and I gently positioned the sticky wet dick beneath the loose scrotum and pushed it in between her thighs, the head of the penis cuddled by her clammy and hairy flat ass cheeks. I tweaked each tight little ball on the side of the limp prick, then slowly and carefully moved my hand up from between her legs and up her belly, as the restraining panty girdle closed firmly behind him.

For a moment I hesitated, my thumb circling and probing her belly button, and looked at her wide eyes, then reluctantly moved my hand out of her pants. She faintly smiled and kissed my cheek, and let go of my shoulders and tucked her blouse in her pants and tugged up the pants zipper and looped the button shut at the side of her waist. She puffed up the bottoms of her phony breasts with the back of her hands and leered and blinked at him.

-Thanks, she mumbled, and I blushed, and she reached up to my face and smudged the lipstick smear on my cheek and neck. I glanced at her red-daubed finger-tips and tried to catch them with my mouth but she also giggled and jerked her hand away, and I pulled out a handkerchief and she took it from me and wiped my face and throat.

-Oh, look what I did, she girlishly pouted. A hickey! And I reached up and hesitantly touched my lipstick smeared throat and looked at my fingers. Will you give me one too? she leered, and fluttered her eyelashes, and I opened my mouth and licked her lipstick off my fingers, then bobbed my head to her neck, but she giggled and braced her hands atop my chest and pushed me away.

-Later, she said, and held out his handkerchief. First buy me a drink, ok?

I nodded and looked to the door, then wiped my neck with the stained handkerchief and crammed it back in his pocket and said, Sure, let’s go.

She looked at the door and frowned, then forced a smile and asked, How do I look? and I answered, Beautiful, and moved for a kiss, but she giggled and sidestepped around me and darted her tongue along her mouth.

-Lipstick ok? she asked. I nodded, and she smirked and we walked to the door and I pulled it open and saw her glancing down her groin; the stain was dark but seemed to be blending into a natural shadowed highlight on the bright red pants.

-There’s a bar down the block, I said, but she grunted, and placed her arm in the crook of my elbow and pulled me out of the building hallway.

-This way, she said, and led me back up Broadway. Her sway and swagger quickly returned, her hips spinning from side to side, and I fell in rhythmic step with her as she parted her furry vest and tightened her belly and thrust out her lopsided bosom. We rounded the corner and she pulled my arm closer and we moved towards the crowds and walked to 42nd street.

I saw someone smirk and poke at the person beside them but I stared straight ahead at the Broadway lights.

-No Cover! I heard a man yell, and pulled her hand tighter to my chest and concentrated on her clicking and scraping heels fall in step with my own. I knew my stiff dick was pushing out at the front of my pants; I wondered if hers had stayed put. I heard someone laugh….


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