Wet Skirt (A Napkin)

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Just Like a Woman

Just Like a Woman

by Mykola Dementiuk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The crowds had thinned somewhat --most of the excitement being closer to 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

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

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

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

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

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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