Masturbating at the Movies

Kisser, A Masculine Femininity

2012-01-30T00:48:00.000-08:00

Just received my new cover for Kisser, A Masculine Femininity, soon to be released novella from JMS Books, about a young man learning what love can really be, affection, caring, sincerity, well...plain and simple Love. We seek it every single day, but if we find it do we recognize it for what it is?

Beer Drinking Marty

2012-01-24T05:05:00.001-08:00

Beer Drinking Marty

by Mykola (Mick) Dementiuk

Marty was pissed. He left work and immediately stopped into Smiler’s food store and bought a beer, gulping it down. Ah, that felt better. He had to get another job, that’s for sure, one that wouldn’t wear him down as much as this one did with stupid reports and asinine proposals. He instantly stopped at another deli for one more can, or as Kris Kristofferson sang, he had one more for desert. How does that song go? Oh yeah...

Well I woke up Sunday morning,
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes,
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
An' I shaved my face and combed my hair,
An' stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.

Marty smiled and walked on. Incredible how your mood changes after a little beer, and he grinned to himself as he was back outside, smacking his lips and throwing the can away, irregardless if there was a garbage can or not.

Years ago, he had heard from people who had lived through it, before recycling was the norm, beer drinkers just chucked their empties wherever they pleased and no one said a word otherwise; everybody did it. The city was more heartfelt then it became. And on the Lower East Side there would literally be mountains of empties after a weekend of watching some ball game or just drinkers hanging about in front of store bodegas which survived on the amount of beer that they sold. Too bad Marty didn’t live back then; he’d be the center of beer drinking attention.

Marty chuckled to himself. Center of attention is right, I’d rule the city! He laughed and stopped in for another store for another can. The new store took up a corner of the city block, 34^th Street and Lexington Avenue, its well-lit brightness showing off a very clean and new environment that instantly made Marty scowl from his displeasure.

Too bright, he thought, but what the hell, I’ll just get a can of beer and leave.

He smiled at the pretty store clerk standing at the cash register, who grinned and nodded her head at Marty as he went to the back where he assumed the refrigerated items were kept. Row after row of water bottles, sodas and fruit juice of ever kind, but not a beer can in sight. Marty scowled even more. Maybe they still didn’t get any cases in, Marty thought, and went to the front of the store.

“Where do you keep your beer,” he brightly said, grinning at the pretty clerk, “I don’t see any?”

The bright smile on the store clerk’s face faded and dropped.

“Sir, we’re a Christian store,” she said, slowly shaking her head. “We don’t sell beer but we do have good bottled water or fruit juice.”

Marty looked at her, almost stunned. Christian store, the Bible belt right here in New York City, you gotta be kiddin? He turned around, shaking his head and walked out of the store. Where are the beer drinkers that used to flood the city? Marty thought, sadly walking along the street. Beer drinkers that left their beer cans after them…Mountains and mountains of cans…

On the Sunday morning sidewalk, he sadly hummed to himself, Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.

New York is certainly changing, and changing a hell of a lot.

'Cos there's something in a Sunday, Makes a body feel alone.

It wasn’t a Sunday but a Friday evening. Stupid Christians, I suppose Jesus must be grinning in heaven, he thought.

And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin' city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin' comin' down.

Marty walked crowded streets until he saw another food store. Dare I go in and see if they sold beer or not, or was the entire city going Christian? Marty stepped in…

Then he saw a sign in the back. Cerveza, it read. Marty grinned and raced to the refrigerated beer cans, instantly feeling better. Ahhhh… New York isn’t bad when you have a can of beer. He opened one as they used to do back in the beer drinking days, right in the bodega and again he smacked his lips, gulping the luscious beer down. The Spanish store clerk smiled… Marty felt right at home and drank, glug, glug, glug…

***

For Marty Wombacher, we gotta get drunk one day ;)

Melanie’s Coffee Maker

2012-01-23T07:32:00.000-08:00

Melanie’s Coffee Maker

by Mykola (Mick) Dementiuk

A cold morning, which was a bit weird since this winter had been a mild one with temps at night in the lows 30’s and the days enjoyed in the 50’s. But today’s January day was different, barely reaching 12 degrees in the morning, and with the wind chill it feels almost like zero or lower.

Melanie shivered and checked her thermometer.

Damn, 49 degrees, what the hell was the landlord doing? Ripping us off, that’s for sure, she thought.

She wrapped herself in a Brooklyn College t-shirt and sweat pants and bustled through the kitchen to make some coffee, her favorite, cappuccino, made in a new coffee maker, K-cup by Keurig, a bit expensive but the taste was heavenly, as good as restaurant brands and at least she could have her morning coffee without anyone looking at her or bothering her. She remembered how every morning she would see them making coffee at the Whole Foods and when she asked the clerk how it was made, he sluggishly and sleepily answered, “Machine…”

Melanie frowned and shook her head.

“I figure that, but what machine, how?”

The clerk yawned. “This machine, I don’t know what’s it called, Coffee Maker, I suppose.” And he yawned again and looked like he was going to drop.

Melanie again frowned. “What the hell is the brand name? It must have a name on it.” By then she was pretty pissed off.

The clerk bent down to the machine, trying to figure out exactly what is said.

“Looks like Keurig, whatever that means,” he muttered, stuttering the pronunciation

“How do you spell it?”

“K, E, U…” he spelled it out for her as the machine spat out hot water over the cappuccino coffee K-cup; Melanie wondered if it was a legal practice to use the K-cups for individual sales but didn’t think so.

As the machine brewed, spitting out water on the coffee grounds as a heavenly aroma filled the coffee shop air.

Ah, cappuccino…, Melanie thought, biting her lips but instead turned around and walked out of the coffee shop.

“Hey, four-fifty!” the clerk shouted after her, naming the price of coffee for a cup.

Melanie didn’t say anything but thought, Screw you! And decided to head up to Macy’s and get her own coffee maker, she walked firmly out. Was the best decision she made in the New Year. Now if only the stupid heat would come up, she thought, taking a sip of cappuccino and banging on the pipes.

“Damn landlord!” she spat out and had another swallow of her cappuccino. Ah heavenly…

***

A little story for my friend Melanie N ;)

Marty and Melanie’s Walk on the Mild Side

2012-01-13T04:55:00.000-08:00

Marty and Melanie’s Walk on the Mild Side

by Mykola (Mick) Dementiuk

Marty looked down at the Village Voice paper he was holding before the closed restaurant and muttered, “Shit!” That was the third restaurant in a month that seemed to be going good when all of a sudden it was gone, Out Of Business. He frowned, thinking about a blog Marty After Dark he still had to write and turned his collar up, heading in the direction of Downtown. He smirked as the melody spun around in his head.

When you're alone and life is making you lonely
You can always go - downtown
When you've got worries, all the noise and the hurry
Seems to help, I know - downtown
Just listen to the music of the traffic in the city
Linger on the sidewalk where the neon signs are pretty
How can you lose?

He smiled and started singing it aloud. In New York it didn’t matter, hoards of people walked along the street, day or night. It truly was a 24 hour town. Marty belted out another verse, amazing how old memories come back when you need them, Downtown, downtown, downtown… Of course he couldn’t sound as good as Petula Clark but to him he started sounding even better.

The lights are much brighter there
You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares
So go downtown, things'll be great when you're
Downtown - no finer place, for sure
Downtown - everything's waiting for you.

By then he was traipsing down St. Marks Place after stopping in for a frankfurter and a bottle of Bud, which the server happily served him as he still was singing the song, seemingly to himself.

“Cool song,” the Arab server said, smiling and grinning at him.

Marty took a large bite of his delicious frankfurter and smirked at the Arab; he swallowed more Bud.

“Times have changed, my friend,” said Marty, “changed drastically. Everywhere the stores are closing, wonder what’s happening?”

The Arab didn’t know what he was talking about, having arrived from Yemen just a week ago.

“Things always change,” he said, shrugging at Marty. “One day here, the next day gone, pft!” and he snapped his finger together and looked at Marty, who sadly looked back at him but finished his frankfurter. He had a few more swallows of beer, pulled his collar up and went back outside. It was chilly.

It was almost 10pm and there was nowhere to go just around the block to the St. Marks Bookstore, one on his favorite places. Almost weekly he paid a visit to the shop usually walking away with 4 or 5 books. The usual bookstore clerk Terry was nowhere around.

“He’s sick with the flu,” said a bored frizzy haired female clerk at the register who just went back to her reading of a book after answering Marty’s question.

Though she was cute and very attractive Marty no longer cared what she was reading; he wandered down the aisles, still humming the song, Downtown. He wandered right into Melanie, an old friend and blogster East Village Corner, Musing by Melanie, her head lowered and reading a book.

“Whatchya reading, cutie?” he asked, winking at her.

Melanie looked up at him, slightly shaking her eyes in confusion, “Oh hi Marty, what are you doing here?”

Marty frowned.

“Can’t I be in my favorite bookstores but I could ask you the same thing?”

Melanie stepped close to Marty and gave him a hug. Marty melted from her touch; he liked it when women hugged him. Next to his ears Melanie whispered, “Look at those two boys, I think they’re trying to steal something.”

Marty gazed down the row of books seeing the two boys, maybe 16 or 17, when one seemed to shove something in his pants under his jacket. Marty frowned; don’t they know about the tight security there is, an alarm would go off as soon as they neared the exit door. He shook his head. Wish he had another beer, he thought, focusing on more important things.

“I had a friend at one time,” Melanie quietly continued, “one of his favorite escapades was stealing books, like Henry Miller’s Rosy Crucifixion,” and she shook her head, staring at Marty.

Marty looked at her.

“I don’t get it. What’s Rosy Crucifixion; is that one on his works?” He knew who Henry Miller was but Rosy Crucifixion was a new one on him; he couldn’t get rid of the memory of more Bud.

“You know,” said Melanie, “The trilogy, Sexus, Plexus, Nexus. Those are very big books, too.”

“Yes, well,” said Marty turning away from the boys. “I always meant to read it.” Marty and Melanie sauntered down the row of fictional books to letter M, looking for Henry Miller. It was a snap, about 10 of his titles looked down at him.

“Did your friend succeed in getting the titles or was he stopped?”

Melanie shrugged.

“Security was very loose in those days. You just had to wear heavy bulky clothes and if you could get something underneath you were home free.”

Marty picked up a copy of Miller’s Sexus, almost 500 pages in the Grove Press edition.

“Wow, he stole this?”

Melanie nodded.

“And the next day he got Nexus, then Plexus, all huge books. I remember how happily he smiled when he showed them off, he was gleaming.”

“Yeah, those non-security days were really something,” said Marty flipping through Sexus. “Did you read this?”

Melanie shook her head. “No,” she said, picking up a copy of Plexus. “If it’s so huge it must be good.”

“What your friend say, the one who stole the books?”

Melanie shrugged.

“Haven’t seen him in years, he disappeared, you know.”

Marty set his book back on the shelf as Melanie set her book down too. Suddenly, a loud metallic sounding alarm went off. At the front off the store the two boys threw down the books they were trying to steal and fled out side. Marty and Melanie shook their heads as they looked at the boys running off across the avenue with loud laughter coming from their direction.

Marty and Melanie made it to the front of the store. The evening store manager was there with the pretty frizzy haired clerk; he was frowning and shaking his head as she boringly yawned at the confusion.

“That’s the third or fourth time this week,” he said, to no one in particular, “that they tried to steal the book.”

“What book is that?” asked Marty.

The store manager held up Patti Smith’s Just Kids. Marty exploded into laughter, he had already read the book, was a great book at that.

Outside, the wind had picked up; seemed like an early winter was coming.

“You want to go and have a beer?” Melanie asked.

Marty bit his lips but shook his head.

“I’m good,” he said, thinking about the beer he had at home. “Think I’ll get home and get to sleep; early day tomorrow and still have to write my blog. Think I have an idea.”

They said, "Good night...", kissed and disappeared in opposite directions, Marty still humming Downtown as a story formed in his head…

***

http://www.MykolaDementiuk.com

The Men of Grand Street

2011-12-13T03:09:00.000-08:00

Got the prototype cover of my new e-book The Men of Grand Street. I love the unpolitical correctness of him smoking and saying, "The hell with you!" Captures the story full force. Amazing that was accepted by Noble Romance, should be out in a week or so. Fiona Jayde did the art work.

Stallers, Tales of Times Square Cuties

2011-02-06T08:37:00.000-08:00

STALLERS: MORE TALES OF TIMES SQUARE CUTIES by MYKOLA DEMENTIUK

Lambda Award winner for Best Bisexual Fiction's masterful collection, stories of certain men who used to stand around in certain locations in Times Square in the old days where they knew they could always find another horny man and instant semiprivacy just a door away in which to act out their desires. Susie Bright says Mylola Dementiuk's Times Square stories capture perfectly "the day when Times Square was all about sex, drugs, and cold spit ... the just-burgeoning hardcore movie houses and girlie shows of Times Square in the 1960s. It's... vivid. Harsh, real, and yes, erotic, in a stomach-churning way. Genuine whoreporn from a time when things were not talked about, at all, in the twilight zone." Book reviews by Crystal describes the Times Square stories as, "Dirty, naughty and very real." Art: M. L. Mars

via Sizzler Editions

Times Square Cutie

2010-10-08T04:23:00.000-07:00

Lambda Award winner for Best Bisexual Fiction's masterpiece of Bi-Noir! Bad boy Billy is a cutie – and he loves it. Women and men want him – and he wants them. In fact, Billy's gender is a bit fluid too. He's a boy when he's with his lover Rebecca; and a girl when crossdressed in the arms of a hunky man. Truth is Billy's so hot – he's to die for. And before tonight is over, several will. A chance meeting with Rebecca leads to not-so-bright Billy agreeing to help her steal money from her rich older lover. Discovering his dead body, the two make away with his money. Possession of all that money makes Billy horny and he begins to make love to Rebecca. But as they finish, two of Billy's less savory male friends come by and soon Billy and Rebecca switch partners, each going off with one of the men. When Billy's two friends discover his ill-gotten loot, it leads to a moment of horrific violence. And only one will walk away to tell the tale. An unforgettable novella from the author of Holy Communion, Times Queer, and Variety: The Spice of Life. Cover art: Jade.

via RenBooks

Murder in Times Square

2010-10-06T14:18:00.000-07:00

Cover of my next ebook "Murder in Times Square" due out next year 2011 from eXtasy Books

Red by Victor Banis (review)

2010-08-30T13:15:00.000-07:00

Reviewed by Mykola (Mick) Dementiuk

I recently came across Victor J. Banis’ ‘The Final Curtain’ in an anthology of collected gay stories “Red,” with authors William Maltese and JP Bowie. In his story Banis goes back to a mode of writing that was so popular in the late 19th century to the beginnings of the 20th century: of relating a story within the story itself, as in the writings of Edgar Allan Poe, Arthur Conan Doyle, W. Somerset Maugham, Joseph Conrad among many others.

Banis weaves his tale in a peopled bar with gay men about with the lead character sitting alone in the back and looking up at no one. The story that he relates hooks us in and we’re caught up with what is happening…but can it be retold? How does Gaylord fade away while Nick still has the sin of his disappearance upon him? Or does he? Banis doesn’t tell us but like all great storytellers he pulls us into the story till we’re at the end, more intrigued and puzzled but strangely fascinated to read it over and over again --it holds you that much. Some short stories can be more intriguing than horrendously long novels and Banis has a winner here.

Banis has painted numerous tales over the years, “The Why Not,” “The Man from C.A.M.P.,” “Longhorn,” “Lola Dances,” “Angel Land,” and the best non-fiction book written in some years “Spine Intact, Some Creases,” among countless others. This short story ‘The Final Curtain’ again shows him at his best, playful but serious as he still experiments with his creative powers and melds another tour de force made so alive and active by his talent. A short but mighty read! I recommend this wholeheartedly.

via Alan Chin
http://www.vjbanis.com/
http://www.mystericale.com
http://www.mlrbooks.com/upcoming.php

Blood Noir

2010-08-14T08:09:00.000-07:00

Blood Noir

book by Jesse Fox

reviewed by Mykola (Mick) Dementiuk

A very nice edge-of-your-seat thriller with crossdressers, over-eager cops, psycho killers and two gay lovers…or are they?

Alex is a photographer who takes off for Seattle leaving behind his gay lover Harley in St. Louis who discovers something isn’t right. Strange incidents begin to happen, accidentally severed car breaks, people snooping about, and a mysterious woman following Alex onto the plane bound for Seattle. But by then the reader’s suspicions are raised and heightened.

And it’s a very nice, suspenseful novel at that. Starts off in a lazy almost lyrical way but soon you have a serial killer on the loose and what a killer he is…or is that a she? The reader will have to solve this puzzle but with the pace the narrative is kept up you have little time to slow down.

And it gets more complicated as the novel progresses, with police men, FBI agents, literary book representatives but the novel is well written with Jesse Fox doing a commendable job in successfully bringing it all together.

I like complicated novels that have you thinking on your feet but this novel is very satisfying, whipping out new facts as you so hungrily turn page after page.

I highly commend the author. Great going, Jesse, Blood Noir is a definite winner! I enjoyed it.

275 pages-$5.99

Dark Roast Press

Lambda Award

2010-06-02T09:18:00.000-07:00

Lambda Award given out May 27, 2010 mine arrived yesterday June 1, 2010 for my novel "Holy Communion," in Bisexual Fiction. Along with my other works, "Vienna Dolorosa," "Times Queer," "Selected Tales," "Baby Doll," "Dee Dee Day," "Cruising for Bad Boys,' etc.

http://www.MykolaDementiuk.com

Flippancy

2009-08-25T07:47:00.000-07:00

Flippancy

Alexander Motyl

Reviewed by Mykola (Mick) Dementiuk

If I had been told what “Flippancy” was about I would have shrugged and yawned and gone my way but looking at the surprising first paragraph I was sparked to sit up in my seat and pay better attention. I was hooked too. Because what the characters decide, ‘he’ and ‘she’, has less to do with the fate of a potential candidate for tenure but their own survival as a sexual couple.

Alexander Motyl paints the prospects of ‘he’ and ‘she’ in an almost philosophic mien, reminding me of Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir with an uptight Simone about to leave the exasperating but smirking Jean Paul. Is this a game that he is playing with her? Does ‘she’ suspect it is nothing but a game for his philosophic amusement?

The novella opens up a few days after September 11 when ‘he’ and ‘she’ have returned from New Orleans, finger-screwing throughout their flight while at the same time the World Trade Center was being destroyed. Talk about neurosis setting in but ‘he’ seems unperturbed by the events and looks bemused though it all. As usual, in her Simone garb, ‘she’ is outraged; anyway their relationship had been going nowhere for past six years.

Still it’s time for their colleagues to elect a prospective candidate for tenure, both highly qualified and respected. They are almost at a tie when ‘he’ proposes they flip a coin to pick a winner. Silence befalls the befuddled learned academic group as they stagger out, agreeing to vote next week on a candidate.

Motyl shows us her in a room with him and thinking of her wasted life that seems to have frittered by. It’s a portrait of a highly educated woman now seemingly at a loss of what to do, pursuing her relationship with him or ending it and changing her life. Needless to say, ‘he’ answers in bemused riddles. At the appointed college meeting ‘she’ too decides on flipping a coin just as ‘he’ did last week and the other professors agree. But is it so easy as a mere flip?

Motyl, a college professor himself and author of “Whiskey Priest” and “Who Killed Andy Warhol” two highly acclaimed full-length novels, has hit upon another winner with the short novella “Flippancy.” It has enough sexual arousal and intellectual tension to keep the pages flipping, so to speak, and turning until you get to a resolution, which eventually and surprisingly comes. I highly recommend it because I thoroughly enjoyed it. You might even decide to on a flip of a coin…

http://cantara.squarespace.com/flippancy

City of Night

2009-07-21T08:22:00.000-07:00

City of Night

Mykola (Mick) Dementiuk

In the early 1960s I picked up a battered used copy of City of Night by John Rechy, who was to become my ideal of a street-smart hustling writer, one I very much grew to admire. On the cover was the image of a man in a raincoat standing in New York’s nighttime 42^nd Street…and I imagined I waited behind him as he crossed the street and made his way to a nearby hotel…Because that’s what was done on 42^nd Street, two fairies going after each other, wasn’t it?

Yet until then, before John Rechy, I hardly even glanced into a book, much less tried to read one, having dropped out of high school when I was old enough to do so, but this book had me intrigued. Not only did the cover entice me in, but a few pages into the reading of it I found out that Rechy hustled his way from El Paso to Los Angles to New Orleans and into New York’s Times Square. I wanted to do just that, and boy, was I hooked! Reading it as if spellbound day after day after day…

Because from where I came, New York’s Lower East Side, this book was just typical faggot drivel which lauded the uptown way of life with its wimpy sick Times Square compared to the dangerous gangster streets which I was more accustomed to. But I stole into those same wimpy streets at night and secretly began to prowl through them, entering darkened movie theaters, standing, watching and following stranger after stranger into bathrooms, where for just a little while our fingers would meet and we would share our hardships with each other, then disappear into the darkened softness of the night. Was I looking for a John Rechy in the darkness or someone as good looking as him? In either case, the city of night had become my feast of delirious pleasure…one that I longed for and chased after…

But unfortunately the 1960s fled by much too quickly with its hippies and radicals heralding us into the ‘70s and the ‘80s. Eventually I had to take a break from all the chaos I was dwindling into and try to return back to life, which meant going back to school…and strange, but I did just that. College was a bitch, considering I had never gotten out of high school, but getting an equivalency diploma was a good start and I was on my way. By the end of five years I had become someone who had been a drop-out and now was a Columbia University graduate…big deal, right?

I began dreaming of my old haunts in Times Square, the movie theaters, maybe I could go back to what once had been?…But of course I couldn’t…Though I had avoided those midtown streets during my college years, I dared to enter them now, only to discover that AIDS had decimated and almost erased it all. Had I been destined to live and die as one? How did I avoid the decimation? It could be seen on the men’s thin, gaunt faces as they staggered the streets and slowly dwindled into nothingness — becoming just another name on some forgotten AIDS memorial quilt…

Locked in myself I began to drink heavily and where once it was sex that controlled me, it now was booze that had its hold over me. Sucking up to alcohol one Christmas night in 1986 I picked up a razor and automatically slashed my own wrist…the most natural thing to do…and that night in Bellevue Hospital the other natural thing was to have the shrink say I wasn’t that dangerous to myself or others, which he did…

Drunks are born liars, I’d heard him say, looking at me…and that morning, after being tossed out of Bellevue, I picked a pen and no matter how hard it was to hold one with a freshly slashed wrist, that’s exactly what I did, held a pen and wrote…

Which I’m still doing now…well, with a keyboard…I went through Holy Communion, my first novel, about a little boy facing himself, his past and future, followed by Stallers, Tales of a Masturbating Idiot, a book of interrelated tales about Times Square. But when I came to Vienna Dolorosa, a novel which I wrote every morning for the next three years, it was as if I were possessed by a wonderful spirit that held me until it was done. Vienna had freed me, in a way that alcohol could never do…

That was followed by Baby Doll, about a transvestite teenager who could pass perfectly and almost does, East River Stories and countless other tales. Little by little I was getting published by various small magazines, Paramour, Aphrodite Gone Berserk, Avalon Rising, Eidos and others. With the little money I was making from publication I could treat myself to a dinner…that’s about it. Ha! Typical. Was able to survive with various other jobs as a stagehand, apartment cleaner, gofer, whatever…Just as long as my writing was being done every morning.

Then in May 1997 I had a stroke that knocked me on my ass into a coma for three weeks, waking up to find myself like a little baby boy who didn’t know what was what and becoming so infantile that I was making kaka and pee-pee all over the place…Sure had a hell of a lot of relearning to undergo…

With the stroke I lost the use of my entire right side of my body, my right leg, right arm, right eyeball, with my mouth drooping to the right no matter how many physical exercises I performed. In time my body slowly, very slowly, came back to me and one night I awoke from a dream-filled sleep with the words Times Queer in my consciousness and on my lips. My entire Times Square life had been shown to me in a dream and now 42^nd Street was bringing it back…

Though I hadn’t touched a pen or paper since the stroke three years earlier, that morning I sat down at the computer, which I had been using to teach myself to play games on, and started setting that dream down, typing it one letter, one word, one paragraph at a time.

Two years later I was able to renew my friendship with Sally Miller of Synergy Press, who had published one of my stories in the early nineties and who now agreed to publish Times Queer as a chapbook, with my take on Rechy’s novel but with a tragic twist at the end. A few years after that she brought it out as a paperback, along with my other writings:

http://sallymiller.com/adults.htm#2

Next year, 2009, Sally Miller will be publishing 100 Whores, a look at the street smart women and men who had an effect of my life, emotionally and psychologically. And in between, M. Christian, ‘literary streetwalker’, periodically puts one of my stories and tales on his Frequently Felt blog; this is just one of them:

http://frequentlyfelt.blogspot.com/2008/08/blowjob-queen-my-mykola-dementiuk_29.html

And what about that wonderful Sexual Outlaw, John Rechy? Every now and then I look at City of Night and wonder if I hadn’t picked it up and read it years ago, what would’ve happened then? Interesting question…probably teem myself with the drivel of the working class or force myself to live in the straight necktie world? Who knows?

Ha! Fat chance…Not me, because I found through experience and tears that life isn’t as bad as I expected or had been foretold it would be…

No, life is much better than before…a lot better! And even though I walk with a limp, hold things improperly and see things doubled-vision, change does come about if you let it…and in more ways than one…Just as long as you do it! I did it, you can too…Write, write, write! That’s the most important thing, writing, and more writing! Because what else is there, but writing? Do it whatever hours you chose; I do it from 5am to 7am, it works for me, other hours might work for you. (Of course that doesn’t count the time you put in to your editing.) But you never know…just do it! Anyway, that’s the best way out of this farce and sham of a life…

And the City of Night? Is it still out there? Of course it is, amongst my memories of movie theater rows, darkened bathrooms, up and down various stairs into the bliss of shyness, of touching, of groping, of feeling…

Oh my, it’s beautiful inside of darkened theaters! Just wait till you dream and feel it on your own…And I’ll be standing close to you…drawing nearer…very near…shyly looking and hoping…but nervously approaching…and luring you to follow into the city of night…Oh, my, what darkness! But what a wonderful city! The city of night…

My new novella, ‘My Father’s Semen’, will appear in “Cruising for Bad Boys” edited by Mickey Erlach due out June 2009 from STARbooks Press.

Also you can reach me via: mydem@comcast.net plus I’m under Amazon.com or take a look at my web page:

www.mykoladementiuk.com

Spine Intact, Some Creases

2008-12-31T11:27:00.000-08:00

Spine Intact, Some Creases

by Victor J. Banis

reviewed by Mykola (Mick) Dementiuk

“Holding hands in the darkness at the movies could be an intensely erotic experience.”

I was maybe 15 or 16 years old and sneaking into various Times Square movie houses. Did it in through the back doors on 41^st or 40^th Streets, with someone leaving and me sneaking in; occasionally, I’d meet the brute of a man who simply refused to let me in and slammed the door after he left. But such a prim and proper disciplinarian was rare and I’d get in for free, most of times, with some hurrying-away movie viewer fading out of sight. I’d go in and watch a western or a war-entrenched movie and feel good afterwards. This was years before rampant sex tore through the area…And as I’d sit there, watching some battle with Japanese or Germans or some cowboys fleeing from the sheriff, I’d grow alert when someone sat down in a vacant seat next to mine. Mostly an older man, yet occasionally someone just a little older than I was; who was hoping and looking for some company…or so I thought.

These trysts never did go any further than mere holding hands and looking dreamily at each other, but after an hour or so I’d say, “Be right back…” and hurry off, pretending I was going to the bathroom or concession stand when really I was disappearing into the 42^nd Street crowds. I think maybe it was four or five times that happened and I’d leave, still erect, and wander my way home where I masturbated for weeks on end with that cowardly memory…Why did I run? Why was I so horny and hot after?

I often thought of those anonymous faces over the years, those tricked, led-on, abandoned and forgotten so despicably and shamefully, when a single line in Victor Banis’ book brought it all back, “holding hands in the darkness at the movies could be an intensely erotic experience…”

How many times did I pass by the theaters in my later years and remember holding hands, feeling myself protected and cared for when all of a sudden that old fear came back to and I so stupidly faded off in to the crowds? Too many, too many…way too many…

Victor J. Banis, whose bibliography at the end of the book is amazing, --and boy, the wealth of material he has produced under various names and guises is truly remarkable--has produced such a book, a book of memories and lost times gone forever with just a flicker of remembrance. And gratefully Victor Banis has done it all and tells us just how he came to do these things while playing a truly rich and rewarding life experience.

Banis explores the “loneliest of all minorities,” --being gay in the straight world-- in the 1950s and 1960s when such tumultuous change loomed on the horizon. Back in the 1920s and 30s he notes, one didn’t give much mind about one’s sex yet in the 40s one paid attention since everyone was horny and hungry for it. But by the 50s it was frowned upon and put down, with yellow journalist Walter Winchell calling “a vote for Adlai Stevenson is a vote for Christine Jorgenson” until it exploded in the 60s coming out all decorated in vibrant drag, so to speak, --in 1968 it erupted in a tirade of protest-full celebration that was to become Stonewall, never to be the same again.

Banis begins his biography by becoming a writer of gay stories that were published in Switzerland and then under various names in America. His fame, or ill-fame, grew until it exploded in a suit brought against him and his publisher by the US Post Office for obscene material, and this at a time when the government was after Henry Miller and Barney Rosset and others. The suit against Banis was gratefully dismissed, after they dragged it as long as they could and Banis, in need of a break from the stupidity that has always been a part of American history, got that break by traveling across Europe, and seeing and experiencing Sweden, Switzerland, Italy and Franco’s Spain.

Once back home, he did a book tour that took him across the country, meeting with Hugh Hefner and other stars in Beverly Hills, --Nina Foch, Elizabeth Montgomery, Natalie Wood, Linda Ronstadt amongst others. His neighbor at the time was Sal Mineo, who eventually was slain in a botched homosexual robbery.

But most of all was Banis’ writing; as he did it each and every day for 365 days a year then just started all over the next year and did it all over again…as he’s still doing it. Among the many books he has written (under his name) The Why Not, Longhorns, Angel Land, Lola Dances among others, and under various nom de plumes a wealth of titles, for male and female readers alike.

As a writer he is truly amazing! Plus for other writers who are still undergoing the process of slow learning he recommends “On Becoming a Novelist” and “Art of Fiction” by John Gardner as required reading (I would add William Zinsser’s “On Writing Well” also, it helped me.)

But most of all, Banis advises, write to suit yourself, in this way you’ll be able to write what you want and sleep well at night…and the hell with what they have to say against you…

A well-worthy book, instructive and filled with memories of people, from Hollywood stars and starlets, to those who wrote for them like Victor Banis, writer extraordinaire…

Read it, ponder it, learn and write…write…write…

###

Hardup Janet

2008-12-26T09:06:00.001-08:00

Hardup Janet

Janet was a pretty girl who had the ungainly name that could get her in trouble in those years:

Have you got a hardon? Not yet.

Are you gonna get one? You bet!

Who you gonna stick in? Janet.

How’s it gonna come out? All wet.

Sung by the whore house…Quartet…

We would laugh at her as Janet would fume and curse and spit out, “Idiot! Idiot!”

I was in the 8^th grade and lusting after every girl in school and out of it. Janet was in another school but this was NYC and even in a building where they lived kids went to school in

opposite directions. Sometimes I saw her come out of her building and head up 2^nd Avenue -- I always lusted after her, and I had the notion that she was doing the same.

One morning after jerking off, I walked past her building a little earlier, thinking I’d get her because she was ripe for sticking it in, or so the song did say…I kind of was sure she was the one who had inspired the song…

I entered the lobby -- the building was still sleeping, stretching out as if getting ready to go to work. What to do now? I thought. She has to come down the stairs and there I’d be, looking up her dress with my dick out ready for her mouth to gulp it down. God! Was I hard just thinking about that moment…I pulled my dick out.

Then I heard footsteps, high heeled ones I was sure, maybe with just a toe hold on each little shoe. Oh God, I slowly pulled my dick out and held it before me ready for her to descend the stairs….

A guy appeared at the top of the stairs and I heard him say, “What the fuck?!”

I was out of that building, running down the street as I was zippering up and trying to hold my school bag with the other hand. In no time was I on another street and spent the rest of the school day real pissed at my rotten luck….

I saw Janet a few days after that…I mouthed the song and laughed as she glared at me and disappeared down the street…

I still feel like an idiot…even now…

###

Ukrainian Christmas

2008-12-25T13:13:00.001-08:00

Ukrainian Christmas

Ukrainian Christmas fell on January 7^th unlike the American December 25^th. It was the old tradition our parents respected and adhered to, but more and more we began to follow the American routine.

Oleksandr had a thing for Sosya. He had gotten her a present, but what? We didn’t know, still we were sure that on Ukrainian Christmas he’d be standing with his gift before him. Needless to say, that Christmas Eve, on the last of a school day, she thought he was jerk and tossed his gift the trash from which Oleksandr retrieved it and skulked away.

It happened like this: January 7^th fell on a Friday that year and though we had off from school we still had to show up for Holy Mass that day. It was nice having the rest of the day for gift-giving and family visiting. But smirkingly, we all had our eyes peeled for Oleksandr and Sosya.

Sosya was already there, sitting patiently in the girl’s section, when Oleksandr walked in and trod to the boy’s section in church. Their pews were filled with students and mass begun, was celebrated, and came to an end. Everybody was getting up and leaving the church when Oleksandr’s voice rang out, “Xryctoc razdayetsha!” Christ is born!

People stopped in their place and looked at each other, then smiled, greeted each other and went on with what they were doing. But Oleksandr did not wait for Sosya, he disappeared in the crowd of people leaving the church.

Weird, but Oleksandr left Sosya alone after that, not buying her gifts anymore.

Do people change that suddenly? Overnight?

Guess they do…

###

Fat Sonia

2008-12-19T10:26:00.000-08:00

Fat Sonia

Sonia was a fat girl whom everyone made fun off, how she dressed, how she walked, how she ran….

I don’t know how she got me hard but the possibility she could be the one made me gentler in my approach to her. I stopped laughing at her and actually began to be somewhat defensive when the guys started taunting her, which of course turned the laughter onto me.

“Hey Kolya”, they’d taunt, “Your girl friend is looking for you!” as their smirking and hooting began to make me feel embarrassed and mad at them.

“Fuck you!” I’d spit out defensively to get away from their insults, which I’m certain Sonia was seeing too.

One day, after the usual name calling I was getting from my so-called friends, I turned the corner on Avenue A and there was Sonia standing in a doorway of a building and looking at me; I knew it wasn’t her home -- she lived a few more blocks by the river -- and I turned red from seeing her.

“What’s your game, mister?” she said, frowning at me. “Why are you so nice?”

I suppose after all these weeks I answered, “I don’t know, I guess I like you.” And again I blushed and felt very uncomfortable.

Her glaring face lightened and she faintly smiled at me. And for a moment we liked each other and I smiled back…when I saw her eyes look over my head and again she frowned.

“Idiot jerk!” she spat out. “Get away from me! Stop following me!”

I heard laughter and spun around to see a few of my old friends laughing.

“Hey, Kolya, you like fatsos, don’t you?” they’d laugh. “Let’s see if she can lay down next to you? Hell, she can’t even stand up!”

But by then Sonia had stormed off as the laughter echoed after her but I wonder if for a moment before they appeared Sonia wouldn’t take a chance and get friendly with me…aw, hell I’ll never know….

###

Nighborhood Fag

2008-11-13T06:11:00.000-08:00

Neighborhood Fag

Vinnie lived in the neighborhood and it was clear what he was, a fag, that the kids taunted and made fun of him as he skipped by on the streets. But the taunting was good natured and it was interesting how red and embarrassed I’d turn as we all called after him “Faggot!” then run away down the street, laughing and teasing each other to go back to him.

Vinnie was a hairdresser who ran his business from his apartment, just one flight up the stairs. Many older women paid him a call and his place was always packed with women gossiping and waiting their turns to get preened over.

I had heard he’d pay an easy five bucks for just sitting there as he’d blow you but I never knew a guy who did that; at least no one admitted that they did it. I sure was glad that no one saw how hard I had gotten, as they’d laugh and smirk over how much money Vinnie would give them.

Hell, but five dollars? I said to myself, intrigued over the easy money I could get. I wasn’t getting that nowhere else, that’s for sure.

I knew Vinnie took off on Saturday afternoons -- learned this from the guys -- so at 3pm I was standing in the outside doorway next to his, watching a woman leave his house; I knew that this was a customer, her hair was expertly made up that it looked like she was going out for the night, dancing and drinking…or something, but defiantly screwing..

I smoked two more cigarettes -- that should have given him enough time -- and entered his building.

The smell of perfume and hairspray was prevalent with each step I took up and neared his door. But the smell of women who had been there made my approach more enticing and alluring. My dick was hard and eager and if I just concentrated on that, how women smell, I’m sure I would let him suck and kiss me all night long, as long as my eyes would be kept closed. If I can’t see what he’s doing than it ain’t happening, right?

I listened; faint music hummed through the door which only added to the sexual tension I was feeling. I gently knocked on the door, waited an instant then knocked again, louder and firmer. I heard gentle footsteps shuffling to the door -- I thought of things feminine. The door opened…

Vinnie stood in a robe; his face creamed and adorned with makeup, something I had never seen a man in before and for a moment was surprised.

“Oh, my,” he said, all flustered. “But I can’t do you now, sweetie,” looking me up and down, but he gushed, “I’m waiting for my beau.” And he winked at me. “Come back another time, sweetie, like tomorrow, late afternoon.”

There was nothing to do but shrug and turn around and head back down…

But I still recall the scent of perfumes that were prevalent through the hall as I passed through the door and went back outside…

A pity I never dared to go back…

###

Staten Island Fairy

2008-10-28T02:06:00.000-07:00

Staten Island Fairy

I had wandered into the Ferry Terminal in my usual walks through the city. I was supposed to meet Olena in the Village but again she didn’t show up. I was pissed and found myself walking downtown. I had no idea where I was going but the walk was very pleasant and interesting. The buildings, the stores, the people were all new to me and I just walked on, heedless of where I was going.

I knew NY was surrounded by water and many times as I walked glimpsed docks and ports on my way until I came to the tip of Manhattan. But the place was peopled by crowds rushing inside of a terminal. The signs read Staten Island Ferry, so I shrugged, threw in a dime into the turnstile and found myself on the deck of a huge ferry boat.

Damn, where was I going? I wondered.

I took a seat with the rest of the crowd, as they read newspapers, but it got quickly boring so I stood up and walked around the deck. Wandered from end to end all around the boat and found myself going into the bathroom to pee. One guy stood at the urinals but he didn’t look at me so I unzipped and pulled my penis out. Ah, it felt good, peering on water as the ferry churned along…

I heard movement and out of the corner of my eye saw the guy moving away from the urinals he had been standing at. I shook my dick a few times and turned around. The guy was standing, leaning back against the sink, his dick out of his pants and hard as hell. I watched him pull the skin back…And strangely I blushed, but didn’t know why, and I felt my own dick begin to harden in my jeans. Again I saw the guy’s penis bounce up and down as he stood there and licked his lips. I stared at the dick as if fascinated then shook my head, turned and walked out of the bathroom. Outside I found a seat but far away from the bathroom…

I didn’t see the man when the boat docked on Staten Island but I turned about and took the next boat back…I quickly found the bathroom and held my stiff penis before the urinal. I heard someone enter…my face was very red…

###

Handjob Time

2008-10-14T10:49:00.000-07:00

Handjob Time

Sitting in the back of the Sheridan it was too crowded so we sat up front, with our heads aimed still higher to see the picture that was playing -- a dumb Jerry Lewis comedy crap -- but we weren’t interested in that, we came here with one purpose in mind…

Olena to my left as we started making-out and feeling each other, and what I like about these movie theater kissing and hugging was feeling her up her skirt and getting a glimpse and touch of nylons and silk and frail little stuff...And the way my hand was probing up her skirt, inching higher up her hose and feeling the garter straps having shifted about her spread legs, I wanted to push even further but her panties were in my way.

And Olena used to act like she was a little girl victim, her lips pouting, her sighs deeper, her legs spreading, until she spasmed and pushed me off, like she hadn’t known someone might be watching, her face red and nervously looking about to catch an eye of an surprised observer. I think she’d be looking to show off more…

And of course I’d be left with a frustrating hard-on that had no sense of going down…until one day after she had orgasmed or cummed or whatever you call female spasming, and then sat looking around and lit a cigarette, blowing out her smoke but saw my dick was still hard and eager so she reached for it and started jerking me off as she sat there puffing on her cigarette and boringly looking at Jerry Lewis again made a fool of himself.

It didn’t take long, the thrill, the emotion, the lust, the heat, the openness of sex all combined together and made me spurt out my jism in an explosion of madness and peace. I felt as I was in heaven at that moment, like I had been blessed with being a son of God that had just ascended into his throne into Heaven…and all just from sexually cuming.

“Jesus!” I heard her flare-up. “Right in my hand!”

I had spurted out and the jism rose up her fingers and to her hand reaching up to her elbow…like beautiful pastilles draping her tender skin…and she was mad as all hell!

“Disgusting!” she said again. “That’s gross!” then she stormed off, I guess to the ladies room to wash her sticky hand off, but I didn’t care. Anyway, she didn’t come back; I waited, thought about her, then just shrugged and lit another cigarette. Hey, it wasn’t bad, I thought, about time she did it to me anyway.

Jerry Lewis appeared again and was funnier as I looked up, laughing at the movie…Ha Ha! What a laugh!...But Olena stayed away….

###

Wet Skirt (A Napkin)

2008-05-27T12:56:00.000-07:00

The Wet Skirt (A Napkin)

by Mykola Dementiuk

**published in Eidos. Volume 8, Number 2, 1995, Boston, MA**

The tip of her penis peeped out of her panties as she preened herself in the ladies’ room of the Pix porno theater. She had left the bathroom door ajar but the steady parade of handjobbers and cocksuckers moving towards the men’s room at the opposite end of the lounge barely even glanced in her direction and she slid out of her wet skirt and draped it over a stall door to dry.

She looked in the mirror above the wash basins and licked off a smudge of lipstick from her front teeth. As soon as her skirt dried she’d get out of here, she thought. Maybe go to the Bryant or to Grant’s Bar where the other TV-kids hung out. She knew it was a mistake to come to the Pix dressed as she was; the cocksuckers were after cock in pants, not in a skirt --and just moments ago she had sat in the balcony, crossing and re-crossing her legs, showing off her thighs, puffing up her bosom, and flitting her tongue, as in the seats around her dark figures groped at other legs in pants, bobbed heads on un-zippered laps, and totally ignored her sitting alone and waiting to give it away.

Once a figure paused briefly in the aisle leading to her seat and she leered hopefully and uncrossed her legs, suddenly grimacing as the unexpected friction of panty and tight skirt against her stiff belly-propped-dick loosed the eager impatient scum from her cock and shot on her belly and groin, staining the lap of the bright pink skirt; --the figure moved towards a shadow in the aisle below.

Still she felt a special attraction and fondness for the Pix porno theater, and though it seemed to be getting harder and harder to attract men dressed as a girl, the Pix was usually the first stop she made on her weekend excursions she made to Times Square.

She still remembered the urinal she stood at and had her wrist gripped and pulled to a cock in the urinal beside hers and how she stroked that first cock and tensed at the pleasant surprising splutter of strange semen on her fingers; and she fondly recalled the fire-exit corridor where she first hesitantly and fearfully fell to her knees and dipped her head to a groin, but kept her mouth clenched, her eyes shut, and shivered from the sudden splash of a dick prodding her lips and scum on her cheeks and nose; and how could she forget the back row of the balcony and where she finally dropped to a lap and slipped her teeth over a cock and was surprised and impressed by the instinctive naturalness of her first blowjob and spontaneous swallowing of a stranger’s scum?

Yet the Pix was not only the place where she had discovered and experienced male sexuality, her own and others’, but where she had also first dared to show herself off as a woman in quest of that male sexuality.

Just as her cocksucking had evolved in progressive hesitant steps from a handjob to a licking, a swallowing, so too her masquerade and appearance had ripened from an early daub of crudely applied makeup and lipstick in a men’s room stall, to the boldness of stepping out of the ladies’ room in high-heels and blonde wig and earring and bracelets.

But since she was careful not to overdo these early attempts at femininity, dressing in demure sedate clothes, sometimes wearing the same outfit week after week --a frilly blouse with a shy teasing hint of budding bosom and too-tight jeans was her favorite-- she easily and quickly attracted hands and mouths and cocks on the seats around her (the hint and tease of maturing girlishness only exaggerating and highlighting the boyish features and enticements beneath) until by the time she lowered her head to suck her first cock, her appearance had sexually ripened to where her boyish face was prettily disguised in elaborate makeup which was still clearly discernable, even in the dark balcony shadows, to the figure caressing her neck and pulling it down towards his lap.

But it was this continuing evolving audacity of forcing the masquerade to fruition, of creating a tight-bloused bosom, of wearing a short show-off skirt, of teasing with visible black nylon-tops and white garter-buttons, of donning a wig and putting on makeup, that only distanced her from the figures around her. Though some still sat and had their cocks stroked and sucked, they seemed less and less interested in moving their hands up her skirt and stroking hers.

The boy playing at being a girl was seductive and lurid, but the boy having become a girl was an unattractive disappointment, a freak, an oddity, and as much as the girl prowled the dark winding halls leading up to the balcony, or paced and exhibited herself in the mezzanine aisle separating the masturbators in the lower loge gaping at the simulated sex on the screen from the cocksuckers in the upper balcony squinting at the outspread legs among them, it became more and more difficult to entice anyone to pause beside her or motion them into an empty seat.

The masturbators seemed repulsed and outraged by her deceptive and ludicrous sham, and the cocksuckers insulted and angered by her cruel betrayal. She had become her own fantasy, and though the fantasy longed for fulfillment from others, she was not part of theirs. It was just like jerking off: once you come the fantasy fades, and you’re as alone as ever.

She looked in the mirror and reached in her purse and pulled out a small bottle of makeup cream and gently daubed it on her high cheek bones and upturned nose. She puffed up the sides of her blonde wig, careful not to lift her arms too high and dislodge the neatly positioned bosom on her chest, then flecked a pinky at an eyelash that had gelled with another and freed the two pasted hairs.

She grabbed the waist of her garter-belt and tugged it up her stomach, the long thin straps hoisting the black hose snuggly up and around her thighs (she didn’t want to look like some frumpy schoolgirl with no idea how to dress), then stuck her fingers between her ass-cheeks and pulled out the shimmer of panty that had crawled and stuck into the wedge of her ass. Just the sight of herself in the mirror was thrilling and she sucked in air and moved her hand across her belly, her cock eagerly plopping out of her leopard-spotted bikini panties.

She spilled a daub of makeup onto her palm and smeared it on the uncut fleshy tip of the cock then stuck her hand into the panty and massaged the tight crimped balls. (When she first started dressing up she thought it would be more realistic to tuck in the cock and balls between her thighs and legs, but it was extremely painful and uncomfortable to sit still for long and even more wrenching to have someone struggle to reach for your dick tucked in your ass, so she simply aligned the cock on her belly and walked with a hard-on pushing out in her tight short skirts.)

A driblet of lingering scum peeped out of the moist penis-hole as she squeezed her balls, hovered momentarily, than oozed over the head of the cock and onto the panties. She reached for a paper towel and snapped it from a wall dispenser between the mirrors and dipped it to the cock-head and wiped off the scum drop, then crumpled the napkin and tossed it towards an open trash can in a corner of the bathroom; the wadded towel missed the can and fell to the floor. She gasped, and saw a figure pull out of the half-open doorway.

She looked down at her cock and into the mirror, certain her mirror-reflection was in clear view of the open doorway and tucked her dick back in her panties. Maybe the figure only saw her ass, but this was a ladies’ room and she certainly didn’t want any confused trouble.

She tossed her makeup bottle in her purse and slung it over her shoulder and returned to the toilet stall, her ankles wobbling, her heels scraping the tiled floor. She inspected her skirt, the scum stain still dark and wide, then heard a shuffle of steps and spun around, snatching the skirt off the door and covering her groin.

The figure had entered the ladies’ room and shyly looked at her and grinned and moved quickly to the trash can. He stooped down and retrieved the discarded paper towel and held it to his face, unfolding and inspecting the wrinkled napkin and taking deep breaths of the meager scum stains. Though she frowned at his thinning hair, his red pock-marked bloated cheeks, the large belly draped over his tight pants waist, she knew it was better than nothing, and smiled back.

Slowly she moved her wet skirt off her groin, making sure he saw the cock-bulge between her legs, and draped it back over the stall door. She licked her lips and he darted his eyes from her crotch to her evenly bound breasts and up her neck to her pretty face and hair and slowly back to her groin, all the while inhaling and biting the wrinkled white paper towel.

She jerked her shoulder and looked at her purse and hung it over a corner of the door and smiled. He moved towards her but stopped and watched her dip her thumbs in the waist of her tiny panties and tug down the front. He gasped as her stiff black penis jumped out of the leopard-spot lacy fabric.

-Will you give me more, he meekly asked, blinking his eyes and holding the napkin out to her. She looked at him and shrugged, then took the napkin and gripped her cock with one hand proceeded to briskly jerk off.

Perhaps it was the strangeness of the situation, the oddity of his request, the peculiar way her taut penile-skin lapped at the dried makeup covered cock-head or simply her own constant horniness and need for release, but with just a few swift strokes she felt that pleasant familiar tightening tension gripping at the pit of her ass and the semen surging out of its sac and past her balls and up her cock, the watery pre-cum liquid suddenly arcing explosively in a swift projectile beyond her fingers and shooting and spilling to the gray tiled floor.

-No, the figure shouted, and dropped to his knees, grabbing her napkin hand and pulling it to the cock in time to catch the heavy white sputtering scum. She cupped the napkin beneath the head of her penis and pulsed the thick semen onto the porous paper, making sure no more driblets sprinkled out past her hand. The figure gently squeezed her wrist and she drained her cock as much she could and he took the napkin from her and carefully raised it to his face and took a deep breath of the fresh scum smell, then tilted his head and poured the semen in his mouth, as though tossing back a much-needed shot of liquor.

She suddenly gagged and coughed but jerked her panties back over her cock and turned to her stall. She remembered a man who had prowled the balconies and collected scum in a small bottle so he could drink it at home and she wondered if he was the same one.

She glanced at her skirt: the dark scum stain was still visible but she pulled the skirt off the door and entered the stall and sat on the toilet seat, sliding the skirt up her legs, adjusting her penis against her belly and quickly zippering up and snapping the skirt side button shut. She brushed at the damp stain on her lap, slung her purse over her shoulder and stepped out of the stall.

The figure was stooped on the floor and wiping the pre-cum drops off the bathroom tiles while lifting the napkin to his mouth and hungrily sucking in the meager droplets with his tongue and lips, then searching and wiping more.

She stepped around him, but he suddenly straightened up and contritely looked at her and began stuffing the wet napkin in his mouth, his lips spluttering with wet saliva and scum, his cheeks bloated and puffed, his jaw grinding and chewing and pulsing as if trying to say something.

She grimaced and shook her head then turned towards the door but the figure moaned behind her and she turned back and saw him un-zippering his pants and pulling out his cock. It was stiff, but quite small for his bloated body and she sighed and thought it would’ve looked and felt so much better if he wasn’t so fat.

He began to masturbate and she moved back to him as he held out a hand and she gripped it and helped him rise clumsily to his feet, still gnawing and chewing the napkin crammed in his mouth.

She stepped back and leaned against a bathroom wall. He moved before her and pressed his belly to her waist; she felt his small penis rub on the stain on her lap and her own penis slightly stiffened and pushed out of her skirt. He bobbed his head to hers and she put her arms around his stomach and grimaced at the napkin crushed and shrunken and gaping out of his filmy mouth, but she opened her red lips and their mouths kissed and she felt the sodden napkin being pushed and shoved towards her teeth and tongue. She pursed her lips and sucked in tattered fragments of the soggy tissue.

Suddenly the figure stiffened and buckled, and she felt his waist shiver but she clutched the flabby sides of his belly and succeeded in biting off half of the napkin and sucking into her mouth.

He broke his face from her and she watched as he swallowed heavily, his throat rising and falling as though over a lump, then he fell to his knees, one up-stretched hand squeezing and mauling her hard round breasts, the other hand groping between her ass and thighs.

She quickly glanced down and saw a fresh large shimmer across her lap and slowly and warmly penetrate the skirt to her panties and groin, but the figure was already desperately licking and sucking his semen off the skirt and lapping his tongue on the few spattered driblets running down her black nylon hose.

She closed her eyes and contently chewed on her napkin, swallowing the grainy flecks of wet tattered tissue and spun her torso against the figure’s face as he moved his mouth over the hard penis bulge in her wet skirt. She tried hiking the skirt up but the figure clutched the hem down and groaned and nibbled on her cock-bulge and she tenderly stroked back his sweated thin hair, and suddenly grimaced and bit down on the small shrinking napkin.

Once more she ejaculated into her panty and belly and pink wet skirt and the figure kept his face pressed to her lap and was now drinking in her scum mixed in with his own. She glanced at his shiny head and the remaining fragments of her napkin. It would take hours for the wet skirt to dry. But at least she wouldn’t be waiting alone.

###

Just Like a Woman

2008-04-16T11:38:00.000-07:00

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 42^nd 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 42^nd 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 42^nd 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….

###

Trans Pix

2008-04-08T13:05:00.000-07:00

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 42^nd 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….

Getting into Heaven

2008-04-04T12:23:00.000-07:00

Getting into Heaven

Mykola Dementiuk

If I could get into Heaven (into Uschi Digart) and stick my head between her tits I would be in heaven right away because Heaven was more than a masturbatory fantasy, she was my ideal of what women should be, dumb as a big-titted, short tight-skirted bimbo…and in the 1960s and into the ‘70s that’s exactly how I saw women in the porno soft-core films I pretty much viewed daily and nightly….And Uschi Digart fit the bimbo model to a tee. Getting into Heaven, her 1970 classic, showed her off as she was: dumb but ready and eager to serve guys on her knees, on her back, open mouthed and open legged, anywhere, any time, with a guy on top of her getting what he wanted while she was a good little girl who listened and obeyed and studied her acting lessons…where else? On the producer’s couch….

What man wouldn’t want a woman like that? Well in the ‘60s, before woman’s liberation took hold, all women were like that. Nurtured by the male sex-dominated world they lived in and eager to serve their masters. Hell, I was dominated too. I played my role as a man and was constantly demeaned and insulted by newly liberated women. What the hell? I knew no better...neither did they….

But I recall an Uschi Digart-wannabe/could-be type or so I thought, where I worked at the time, a bookshop on 5^th Avenue that catered to rich male shoppers. Well Uschi -- such as I secretly thought of her -- always had to go and help the men looking for books, bending over or climbing ladders to reach a selection they wanted. One day Uschi came down to the basement, where I toiled in the mail room, all flustered and irate.

“Gimme a cigarette,” she stormed, jumping up and taking a seat on the wooden table where I had my packages to mail off; I could see from her shaking legs in a short skirt and her weaving bosom that she was angry and I sure was glad my face didn’t reveal what I was thinking from gaping at her boobs. (Uschi Digart, the porn movie starlet, was a 44-26-35, I knew her size by heart, but our bookshop Uschi was at mere a 40, I imagine; big in any regard, so you see what I mean?)

“Jerk just told me to wear nylons and a garter belt the next time he comes in,” she fumed, taking quick puffs of her cigarette. “Like hell I will! Said he wants a better and nicer view when I’m up on top of the ladder,” her cigarette was sucked in rather deeply. “Only then would he buy anything, the bastard!” She stubbed her cigarette out and reached for another in my pack.

I dreamily wanted to grin, thinking of her on a ladder and her nylons and garters, if she would wear them, peeking out as she reached for a book.

Damn, I cursed to myself, but I had seen Uschi Digart doing just that in one of her films! And the guy and I must have seen the same exact film in Times Square, where else? And in the same theater….Damn!

“He’s an asshole!” I shrugged, and she looked at me as she bounced off the table, jiggle jiggle…her cigarette remained stuck in her mouth.

“Tomorrow,” she said, stubbing it out, “I’m not going to wear a bra anymore. Fuck that shit! I’m a liberated woman!” And she went off fuming back upstairs to the bookshop which awaited her. I dreamily stared after her short skirted buttocks jiggling under her skirt….Wonder will she get rid of her panties too, I thought, I guess she will, wickedly smirking and went on wrapping packages and parcels.

That evening I was at my favorite porno movie house gazing at Uschi Digart in Getting into Heaven but strangely I kept looking at guys as they passed me by thinking that they might be the guy from the bookstore….Was that him?... No, maybe that guy…Or this one?...Looking and staring…I wanted to tell him something about Uschi, our buxom clerk, but strangely a few of the guys leered back and took a seat nearby….I kept on looking at the Uschi movie, rubbing myself and dreaming, as they inched closer…..

Goldfinger

2008-04-03T11:25:00.000-07:00

Goldfinger

Mykola Dementiuk

I had been secretly seeing Olena because she was engaged to this guy and she or me didn’t want the information to leak out; the thing was he was in Vietnam, defending his country, and it wouldn’t do any good if someone found out she was a two-timer -- most of all with me….

Earlier, in the neighborhood I had seen him pouncing on guys he suspected were taking advantage and double-crossing him and I sure didn’t want to be the one with a black-eye from his fist.

But Olena was easy, too easy, very innocent and naïve, and a flirt. Tell her that she’s a nice girl and that you really like her and she would melt in your arms as easy as…well, like taking candy from a baby. Because it was her little girlishness that lured her into trouble around guys, that’s why Ray, her fiancé, kept her under lock and key, or at the least some kind of control once he wasn't around. He was very possessive and jealous but he hadn’t been at home for almost a year, fighting in the jungles of Vietnam, and I easily got close to her and kept it as quiet as she did too.

It was her idea we see Goldfinger; James Bond still wasn’t very well known but she had seen an earlier film of his, Dr. No, and was dying to see another one; but a midnight showing at the Paramount in Times Square? Well, I didn’t know about that….

“Oh, c’mon,” she pouted and her little girl’s voice said, “We can make doity in the balcony.” My cock rose as she said this, her eyes flirting, the breasts standing up, having increased in size and the little girl had become a rabid horny slut that I had every intention of filling up. She winked and said, “Anyway, there won’t be many people at that time of night, OK?”

I leered at her and said, “Yes, OK, I can’t wait,” pressing my hard dick against her.

That weekend, a Sunday night, we got up to Times Square around 11:30 pm. Right away we saw the mobs of people going in to see the ‘spy-lover’ and she was very disappointed, finally thinking that in a slow scene we could kiss and make-out but with the number of people going into the Paramount it was unlikely that anyone wouldn’t see what we were doing.

It was not until the movie began, with its haunting music, “Goldfinger, he’s the man, the man with the Midas touch…” that she relaxed and concentrated on her popcorn and forgot about me as she didn’t intend to do. But I didn’t care; I forgot about her too and got wrapped in the drama and tension as well. Laughing and shouting and gasping at the actors as they tried to stop the gold of Fort Knox from getting stolen by the Chinese hoodlums. There was Pussy Galore, Goldfinger's lovely secretary, and Odd Job, his evil Chinese derby-hated henchman, who everybody loved, and the evil Goldfinger himself who got killed as he fell out of an airplane in the end leaving James Bond with Pussy to cascade down to earth ….Man that was the best film I ever saw!

I rode Olena near her home, each one talking and jabbering but we finally separated on the subway platform near where she lived. Sadly the following week Ray was back from Vietnam and a few months after that him and Olena got married. She had 2 or 3 kids in rapid succession, one after the other….I avoided running into Ray in the neighborhood but wondered if he ever found out about Olena and me, but there was nothing to find out; James Bond got in the way…which I'm glad he did.

I still come by Times Square, once in awhile, but it’s so much a different place….The movies, the peepshows, the hookers all have been sanitized and cleaned up….Even the Paramount has been shut down a few times and reopened into its old boring splendor that can never take the place of the old house…Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra sang in the old hall...Oh well…think I’ll go now….

“Goldfinger, he’s the man, the man with a Midas touch…Such a cold finger....” Shirley Bassey sung that, Elvis and Frank didn't.

Some memories and tunes never die….

She Came on the Bus

2008-04-02T03:02:00.000-07:00

She Came on the Bus

Mykola Dementiuk

After a week of moronic working downtown -- though my wages were bi-weekly and I still hadn’t been paid -- it was always a thrill and delight to head up to 42^nd street where some of the frustration from the week could be worn off. Coming up from the subway I’d feel a tightening in my belly as the stiffness and hardness grew in my jeans because I never knew who would touch or kiss or suck me and then disappear into the night…

I loved rising up from the subway and seeing the feast of flickering lights that hung over each theater and the provocative names luring viewers into better times within…The Filthy Five, Promiscuous Sex, Sex With a Stranger and others. But week after week, when I got out of the subway, disappointment again surged across my face. From the Bryant Theater was suspended the now-repetitive week-after-week marquee She Came on the Bus, a black and white oldie that I used to love, but once again I was pissed…it was a repeat that by now was going nowhere at all….Those usual soft core films the Bryant showed seemed to add an allure that other movie houses didn’t seem to have. I liked the soft-core-ness of the Bryant; because intimate closeness of screwing, a cock pounding in and out of a vagina just didn’t do it for me. Give me some distance; show me her whole body, dressed in nylons and garters and slowly disrobing to arousal in ecstasy, in bliss, so I could jerk-off in peace or a hot frenzy…which I’ve done countless times at the Bryant….

But week after week the same repetitions were destroying my hunger for them. I had seen the film countless times, spending hours in that theater, and I felt reluctant of offering any more money into the greedy pockets of some cigar-smoking owner/gangster….

I sulked and walked up and down 42^nd street, past the Globe Theatre on Broadway, the Lyric, the Times Square and other houses then crossed the street and continued my walking on the other side, past New Amsterdam and Empire among others, gazing into girlie stores, peep shows and the eventual hamburger joints until I came back to the street where the Bryant stood. Angrily I thought I’d go back and start my procession all over again when out of the corner of my eye I saw something pink was swaying the Bryant.

My God, a girl! I thought, frozen in my tracks. And going to see a soft core flick!

I hurried up the street; impatiently waited for my penny change from the teller-- why do they do these things? I wondered, charge a buck 99 when 2 bucks would be easier to take? I had no idea -- but still gazing after the tight pants pink girl as she walked up the long mirrored walkway and disappeared into the theater.

Finally, the teller buzzed me in and I pounced into the theater. I love the hazy smoky darkness of movie houses because never mind what’s was going on the screen the activity was right here in the theatre aisles! But the pink girl had quickly faded into a seat somewhere….

I walked down the murky aisle, passing the back rows crowded with men, and in the middle rows her pinkness stood out from the darkness around her….But already a man was sitting next to her!

My God, that was fast!

I instantly took a seat in a row behind them and set my coat over my lap. On the screen, thrill seekers invade a house of a suburban housewife and inject her with drugs then rape her. They go off and steal a bus and pick up two good-looking women who are on their way into the city for clothes shopping. One woman is terrified while the other submits to the kidnapper while trying to get an upper hand over him. Not much skin but decent breast exposure which I liked in those days. I’ve sat through that film over 50 times and still think it's moronic garbage but one that always eventually gets me in as it did this time.

I’ve seen the film dozens of times, coming in the middle, coming near the end, which was the style in those days before they made everyone patient and orderly as they waited in some lobby to get into and see a movie. Well, not in those days, nosiree….

I moved my jacket over me and proceeded to rub myself. The soft-core action wasn’t arousing me it was the man next to the pink girl before me. Her topless shoulder was seemingly jerking up and down and it was clear what she was doing, giving the guy a hand-job, when he cringed and bent forwards and I heard a high-pitched groan and sigh as he collapsed in his seat.

What a great feeling to know I was beating my own cock as the pink dream was beating his. I spasmed at the same time as he did it too; our two yelps sounded very provocative that the girl even turned to look at me, Oh my God, she’s a man dressed as a girl! But what did I expect, I thought, grinning at her as she leered and turned her back on me. Her cumming fellow had suddenly gotten very embarrassed and stood up and disappeared back up the aisle.

I smirked; the boring film was about over, the characters promising that the wheels of sex would take them to their desire. And I almost yawned when another man walked right into the seat next to her. I giggled; this was even better than watching a dull sex movie, which it was, and it soon ended but began to roll again.

I could take another beating-off, I suspected, but I stood up and went to the men’s room. Pinky, the dream queen, will still be here when I got back, I knew; but if she wasn’t, well, I had no money to spend on her anyway, that’s why jerking-off had to suffice…next week I would….

The bus rolled into view on the screen. I laughed and headed to the bathroom. Strangely I was very happy and peaceful….

The Chapman Report

2008-03-30T09:16:00.000-07:00

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 42^nd 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 44^th 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 middle…wonder how it went…guess I’ll never know….

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Masturbating at the Movies

2008-03-27T15:20:00.000-07:00

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 41^st street along 7^th and 8^th 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 naïve 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…

Whomp…Whomp…Whomp….

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