Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Trans Pix

Trans Pix

Mykola Dementiuk

I liked the Bryant Theater with its soft core pictures that had the moviegoers masturbating in the rows while their raincoats covered their laps but across the street, which I often went to also, the Pix movie house had more room and space and a balcony upstairs where you could disappear into your own self-satisfaction then start all over again until you got it right or had to use the bathroom. Which was just as spacious but the bathrooms were located on a lower level, women’s the right, men’s on the left, of course it didn’t seem as if they were used by the distinguishable sexes anymore because you never knew what you were going to find there.

I hurried down the stairs into the large waiting room with large elegant chairs against the wall but even at a distance you could already see the chairs were scrappy-looking, the paint was peeling and flaking from the walls while the corners hadn’t been swept in a while leaving hairballs of dust to trail after a walker as he passed -- it seemed like Times Square was on the slow decline and no one gave a hoot about it…

I shook my head and was about to enter the men’s room when a movement caught my attention from the ladies' room: a man was standing half-in/half-out of the ladies room doorway and rubbing the front of his pants. He was an elderly father-type, in his 50s or 60s, and his face was red, his mouth hanging open, pressing and squeezing himself in his crotch. I coughed and he angrily looked at me like I was disrupting his attention to something I didn’t see. He mumbled something to himself and stalked across the large room to a telephone booth against the wall in a side center -- he fell into a seat and shut the door behind him. I could see he still was doing something to himself through the glass-portioned door…jerking-off, I suppose.

I shrugged and was about to enter the men’s room when loud heels pounded across the tiles…I love that sound, mysterious and foreboding, sounds like your female killer is making an approach and there’s nothing you can do about it. At their nearness, as usual, I froze, biting my lower lip as if from fright…Oh, what a deadly sound, I thought…sending tingles down my spine and into my lower back.

Click, click, click click…

I looked up at the approaching high heeled female; she wore white high heels with dark fishnet stockings and red hot pants that were held up by pink suspenders with a white sleeveless turtleneck. Her face was made out in Cover Girl cream and her eyes were lavished with eye shadow and mascara. She held out a long black wig in one arm as she clutched a purse in the other. Strangely she didn’t look in my direction but went to a corner table, set her purse down then gently and tenderly fluffed the wig out. I dropped into a seat against the wall, lighting a cigarette and staring at her.

She had a short hairdo, obviously a guy, but I didn’t care, this was 42nd Street and when you come here you took your chances and you got what you expected, whether they be in rough cowboy boots or dainty feminine high heels. It mattered little to me and I openly squeezed my crotch and watched her…

She stood before a mirror on the wall and tried the wig on, the hair falling down to her shoulders, and twisted the wig on her side to set it centered on her face. She was remarkably feminine and the back of her red hot pants looked exquisite to where the fishnet stockings disappeared in the crook of her bouncy ass and legs. My mouth watered as she turned around before the mirror to look at her wig from the rear when I saw the puffy numerical 9 in her crotch held there by the stockings and hot pants. What a hardon! I thought, and dreamily smiled at her when she turned back to the mirror, combing the strands of hair which so lavishly decorated around her face.

I was about to say something in appreciation of her, when the telephone booth door folded open and the man stood up holding his dick out and furiously masturbating. We looked at each other, the three of us, then she snorted and shook her head.

“He gets to be like that every time he’s left alone,” she lisped to me. “I can’t take him anywhere any more.” She frowned at him and said to the man, “Now is that a nice thing to do? So bad, tsk, tsk.” She went across the lounge up to him and stood before him. “What am I going to do with you?”

The man in the phone booth suddenly bowed his head and let go of his dick. The girl clicked her heels and held out her hand.

“C’mon, let’s go,” she said, with a sense of frustration in her voice. The man zippered up then sheepishly took her arm and followed her up the stairs. The clicking of heels faded....

I looked up the stairs, scratching my jaw, then shrugged and went to the men’s room to take a leak…I wonder if I missed any good parts…in the movie…or in here….

1 comment:

sallysynergy said...

Great story!I can just see it happening as if I'm there with you.