Mykola Dementiuk books and e-books, in-print or out-of-print, look under Amazon for those currently available

Holy Communion is a rite-of-passage novel that follows a seven-year-old boy's first communion preparations and celebration. Throughout the four-day period the boy deals with cruel nuns, sadistic babysitters, his mother's unfortunate accident, a drunken father, plus a pedophile or two, but finds a way to cope in the midst of so much tragedy-first by indifference, later by defiance and rebellion. He also discovers that his urban surrondings in New York City give him autonomy, comfort, and satisfaction. Holy Communion is full of the boy's dispair and self-questioning, along with the author Mykola Dementiuk's powerful insights into the human condition.

"Mick Dementiuk writes stories of the day when Times Square was all about sex, drugs, and cold spit ... about coming of age inside the just-burgeoning hardcore movie houses of the 1960s. It's... vivid. Harsh, real, and yes, erotic." -Susie Bright. 

Here is a landmark book - the first print publication of seventeen stories by Mykola Dementiuk, one of the most distinctive voices in queer literature. Sixteen were published individually on the web as short ebooks; "Missy the Sissy" has never appeared anywhere before. Included are: "On the Prowl," "Times Square Cutie," "Eighteen Today." "Trio At the Movies," "Love for Sale" and a dozen others. Times Square Queers also features a moving and penetrating personal introduction about growing up queer in the 1960s, amid the sleazy porn theaters and bars crowding Times Square that had become a gay mecca. 

"Mykola's stories of ... the delights and depressions of young men living difficult lives in imperfect times... do a magnificent job of drawing us into the character's heads." Bibrary Bookslut. 

Mykola's New York is "...very gritty, with a cosmopolitan impersonality about it; impersonal relationships, impersonal sex, and the-devil-take-the-hindmost ethos. [His work is] eagerly recommended." -Gerry B's Book Reviews.

No one has ever chronicled the sexual adventures and misadventures of Manhattan's gayest men like Mykola Mick Dementiuk.

'Mick goes where others seem afraid to go—to the dingy and dirty side of New York City, to the world of hustlers and drag queens and those somewhere in between and he never fails to give us a good story. Dementiuk does not hold back and he writes about everything and is eroticism is quite bold." -Amos Lassen

“I recommend Mykola Dementiuk … Mick has been called “the bard of 42nd Street … his works are not for the squeamish nor for those who insist on fairy tale endings … he’s more a shot of Jack than a sip of champagne.” -Gay Book Reviews

LAMBDA LITERARY AWARD WINNER BEST GAY EROTICA

“Mykola Dementiuk goes where others seem afraid to go.” –Amos Lassen

It’s New York City in the 1950’s when Timmy discovers his own sexuality. But he’s aroused by men and women, which confuses him. Then Timmy meets Dickie, who likes to take young men under his wing, and Dickie's current young protégé, Shelly. But Dickie is abusive. His attraction turns to Shelly, but who wants nothing to do with him.

Timmy is also seduced by an older Polish woman, an acquaintance of his mother’s. Confused by his own desires, Timmy returns to his favorite activity – cruising the pathways of NY City’s Tompkins Square Park. Will Timmy accept his sexuality without fear or shame? Or does he risk losing himself to his own hungry desires?

“Dementiuk does not hold back, and he writes about everything, and his eroticism is quite bold. I believe that it is his boldness that makes Dementiuk such a wonderful read. We read it and it is over and we move on except for one small it is not easy to move on because everything is so real – and he never fails to give us a good story.” –Amos Lassen

An astonishing novel about the fate of gays, gypsies, Jews, and other outsiders under the Nazi regime that is a metaphor for the inevitable fate of all outsiders under the rule of dictators, whether of the right or of the left.

Vienna Dolorosa takes place during a one-day time period - March 12,1938, the day Hitler invades Austria - in an Inner City hotel managed by a transvestite and doubling as a brothel for men who like boys dressed up as girls. old from the perspectives of various hotel personnel and guests, brothel employees and clientele, a talkative Viennese official, German police, Nazi SS, and a darling street boy Petya. Not for the faint of heart, Vienna Dolorosa includes

“A look into the bizarre side of things, never mentioned due to the major events occurring otherwise. "Vienna Dolorosa" is a novel about Hitler's invasion of Austria, as told from the perspective of a transvestite brothel in Vienna. An unusual story filled with unsavory characters and the grittier aspects of humanity, "Vienna Dolorosa" is a skillfully written and intriguing tale, sure to please historical fiction lovers looking to read something different.” -Midwest Book Review

"100 Whores" documents Mykola Dementiuk's trysts with New York City street hookers during the 1960s and 70s in vignettes of one or two pages. Other stories in the anthology include five short whore stories plus "The Christmas Whore," a novella with an O. Henry ending. These additional stories come from the author's experience and psycho-sexual imagination, and we can live vicariously because of his realistic portrayals of the seedy side of Manhattan.

New York City in the late 1960's. Just in his twenties, Billy has left his life on the streets behind and now works in the stockroom at Doubleday's on 5th Avenue, a job he's held for over a year. But when he meets his supervisor, Timmy Jennings, at a Times Square movie theater one Friday night, what does the man think of Billy's life of easy sex? Billy's world is rocked when Timmy seduces him in the movie theater, then brings him home. Can Billy settle in with Timmy, his lover and protector, in his new home? Will he be able to manage his promotion to bookstore clerk even as it pulls him away from his friends in the stockroom and ensnares him in the tangle of egos and emotions on the sales floor? And can he come to grips with his newly-admitted queerness and let himself love Timmy?

A graphic dark, coming-of-age story set in New York's infamous Times Square during the 50s and 60s.Introduced to sexual feelings at an early age, protagonist Richard Kozlovsky continues on a path shared by many children who have been touched in a sexual way by an adult, a path of frequent masturbation, exhibitionism, and other precocious sexual behavior. Ricky grows up in spite of his hard life in a Catholic school, teasing by his classmates, and trying to survive on the streets of Manhattan with sexual predators at every turn. Frequenting the Times Square movie theaters as a teen, Ricky finds a way to supplement his meager existence and later meets the women who will introduce him to the world of women, intimacy, and love. In between he questions his sexuality: is he a faggot? is he a whore? where does he fit in?

It's love at first sight when Vinnie sees Sissy Godiva -- who used to be his high school classmate, Joey. She’s feminine and beautiful in her fluttery halter tops, tight leggings, and beehive hairdo. Vinnie sees her everywhere he goes in the Lower East Side that free-love '60s summer. He's half in love with her, though he isn't queer, “no stinking way.”

He tells his neighbor, Mr. Phillips, about her during one of their afternoon jerk-off sessions. When it turns out Mr. Phillips knows Sissy, Vinnie invites her over so they can all jerk-off together -- just three guys doing what they have to do, right? No touching. No emotions. Nothing “faggoty.”

But Vinnie finds himself being pulled closer and closer to Sissy, hanging with her and her trannie friends, visiting the Giddy Up! gay bar with her, having sex and waking up naked beside her in the East River Park. Sissy’s mercurial temper doesn’t make her easy to get along with, and Vinnie isn't a queer.

Are Vinnie and Sissy meant for each other? How can Vinnie keep her when everybody in the Lower East Side wants her? Is he just infatuated -- or is he really queer?

"There was a time (and still is) when gay men who frequented public bathrooms looking for sex were known as 'Tea Room Queens'. There is something exciting about the danger of having sex in a public place, and Mykola Dementiuk tells us all about it.

"That period of wild bathroom sex is somewhat behind us and one of the reasons could be, like Dementiuk says, the [comparative] lack of public bathrooms today. There was a time when bathrooms were used for more than just the calls of nature and people would come in, do what they had to do, practice a little masturbation (either alone or with someone else) and then disappear in to the city. Words were not spoken, nor did they have to be. There were men who would make the rounds of the bathrooms ('tea rooms') every day and usually without the need to actually use the facilities. There was something about the danger and the anonymity that turned people on.

"It was quick sex that ended as quickly as it began. It was easy enough, as we learn here: all a man had to do was go in and ...stand there. It was not long before the party would begin. Dementiuk takes us back to the golden days and captures it like it was. Like the way Dementiuk writes—a bit wild, a bit sexy and altogether wonderful."

It’s a new city, with new dreams…but will he be able to forget the old and start anew? A young man arrives in NYC and rents an apartment from Dee Dee Day…who gives him a little bit more than he expected—love, passion, sex with her…or is that with him?

Richard doesn't think he's one of those queers. Or is he?

When Ralphie kisses him in the park, then invites him home, new sensations open up in Richard's life. Soon he wants more than kissing -- he wants kissing, and something harder and stickier, too. But a young man on the verge of accepting his sexuality has much to learn about men, and there are all kinds of men in the world.

Follow Richard as he drifts from the park into the gay heart of Greenwich Village and back again. There he meets Mr. James, who might just be the man who will take Richard all the way.

Giving up the old for the new means drastic changes…a new apartment, new friends, new lovers, and maybe even, a new sex change? But has he changed that much to accept these changes so readily when he knows that there are even more drastic changes waiting for him?

 Another masterpiece of Times Square in its gay heyday by the two-time Lambda Award winning author.

I looked out the window on to 42nd Street. The crowd was still walking up and down the crazy, forgotten boulevard. Prostitutes, transvestites, hookers and hustlers of every sort, paraded and marched back and forth on the hectic sidewalk, looking for another trick as they struggled through the dawning hours.

Where would they sleep it off tonight, some shabby Single Room Occupancy where they could just pass out for a few hours of troubled sleep, or in a lavish soft Park Avenue apartment where they could relax and laze in the lovely passing warm morning hours?

New York is like that, seeming to be at one moment a successful businesswoman going after deals, while at other times a deranged whore, slut, trollop, grabbing and stealing whatever she could get from you. I suppose that's why I liked it, the uncertainty of what can suddenly happen, a kiss on the lips or a stab in the back, same difference. In the end, a shrug and another day is stretching, yawning or else going back to sleep.

I noticed the lettered reflection of the window before me, even this high up it showed off what the window contained inside but at this angle, they were all mixed up, a reverse from what they actually spelled. I smiled, the 42nd Street Club, as if someone had forgotten the Jerking-off part.

I smiled again and yawned. Yeah sure, but that's what I'm here for, Jerking-off!

 ON THE PROWL

Take a walk on the wild side with this brand-new novelette by Mykola Dementiuk, the Lambda Award winner for Best Bisexual Fiction for Times Square!  If you like your queer erotica with a taste of the darker parts of life in the Big Apple, then this is a book that will stay with you for a long-long time.  A sexual adventure with a large dash of Latino spice, ON THE PROWL is packed with wild, gender-bending characters looking for a good time ... and something more. Susie Bright says Mykola 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." 

A woman with nice big breasts is a compliment to the man at her side, but what if her breasts are even bigger than he imagined? Does the sweet compliment turn into a threatening curse? Or two threatening curses?

66 pages, Kindle Edition

First published March 15, 2011

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.

A walk in Central Park…ah the chirping birds, the thick trees, the ready easy sex. Now who would want to leave that, not a hard-up person, that’s for sure?  55 pages, Kindle Edition

First published March 1, 2011

All he thought he wanted that weekend was some flirting, some excitement and a little sex on the side, but he was trapped when he walked into Connie's arms. A young woman who happened to be not a lover, but a killer who used men like her empty bottles of booze, discarded as another was picked up and drained. Glug…glug…glug…

44 pages, Kindle Edition

First published October 15, 2010

Having left dangerous Times Square a young man finds living in Brooklyn more conducive to his needs until the landlord turns him into a domestic French maid…in more way than just one.

He tries having the daughter…then the mother… because mother always knows better…or does she?

76 pages, Kindle Edition

First published January 1, 2011

All students need teachers, someone to nurture and guide them as they grow up in their turbulent years. But what does a tough, NYC kid need that he already doesn't have? Perhaps a little love would be a benefit for both of them, teacher and student, both learning from one another. Is it possible for a young boy to teach and learn from his teacher? The men of Grand Street will learn these lessons, in more ways than just one. But will they get an A+ or a failing F grade? Find out for yourself in the Men of Grand Street.

First published January 1, 2012

It's the early 1970's, and adult movie houses are the go-to places for men looking for something ... different. "Pubes" loves beer and anonymous trysts, though going all the way isn't his thing. Then he meets Todd, a.k.a. "Kinky," who isn't like anyone he's ever known. The man has a few kinks Pubes hasn't encountered before now. When Pubes' drinking takes a turn for the worse, he finds himself lost and alone. Will Kinky even want him back

First published December 2, 2012

"I started going out early with girls and guys, not for sex because at that age, who the hell knew what sex was?"

With those words, Danny's coming-of-age begins. From the gloomy, stifling hallways of high school in the 1960's to the vast expanse of 1970's New York, young Danny explores the complexities of love and lust in the arms of Luba, a girl he believes himself in love with, and then in the company of various men, from whom he learns his true nature.
Raised by a poor, single mother whose upcoming marriage to a second husband threatens Danny's shaky world, Danny finds that accepting -- and ultimately embracing -- the unpredictability and promise of his future means letting go of the past and taking the leap of faith he knows he needs in his journey to maturity.

First published January 22, 2013

Another scorching story of gender-bending, sex, and the quest for freedom from the Lambda Award winning MYKOLA DEMENTIUK at his best. Turning tricks can be a very dangerous profession especially when you're a male crossdresser trying to come on to guys as a hooking female. Your outward appearance may be sweet and feminine but the masculine reality can get your face bashed in, if not something a lot worse. And passing as a female, well, very hard to do yet Connie was made for just that. Being a small framed boy at the age of nineteen and getting all dressed up she could easily pass as a hard-on inducer on the Chicago streets, the men going after her as much as she led them on. Her pretence at being naive and innocent, almost under age and pleading, "But sir, I have never sucked one before, I might do it wrong," only led her to be prodded to her knees and give them a blow-job, pretending to be tricked into doing just that for a few dollars but which was her original intent anyway, the men satisfied as they'd zipper up and scurry off while Connie would just get up and go on to the next unsuspecting customer...

81 pages, Kindle Edition

First published February 21, 2013

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

91 pages, Kindle Edition

First published April 20, 2011

Stories of meeting in bathrooms Published June 4, 2012

Medicus Castrare, chapter 22 of Vienna Dolorosa

 Medicus Castrare 

by

Mykola Dementiuk

chapter 22 of Vienna Dolorosa

Kurt was certain he had an erection. A morning erection; he could feel the stiff penis standing up from his groin, lifting the thin sheet about him, and wondered why morning erections were always so much harder and stiffer than any he could arouse during the day.

He opened his eyes and looked across the ceiling to a small window high up on the wall. The sun shone through the window, and though its bright light fell directly on his eyes and face, Kurt did not squint or turn away and stared into the sunlight as if basking on a park bench or in a country meadow.

He certain his penis twitched again, but it wasn't morning, more like early afternoon. What time was it anyway? Noon? Three in the afternoon?

He looked away from the window and scanned his eyes across the room. He no longer seemed to be in the basement cell, but on a long table in what appeared to be a makeshift laboratory room; obviously the daisy-patterned curtains open at the window were not part of the laboratory-decorating scheme, but maybe the crucifix on the wall was. 

His penis twitched.

Kurt looked at his groin and grimaced. The sheet lay flat across his belly and dipped into the open space between his parted legs. There was no erection; there was no penis. Like people who lose an arm or leg, and years later still reach to scratch an itch on the missing limb, so, too, Kurt felt his missing penis rise up to erection again and ache to be touched; would he, too, years later, try to clasp and jerk at a memory?

He shut his eyes and shook his head from side to side. This should not have happened; not the way it did. He should not have been summarily punished; not without any legal proceedings or judicial order, and certainly not by the police themselves, no matter what Paragraph 175 of the German anti-homosexual laws stated about the punishment for homosexuals. A trial should have held where he could defend himself, protest against the barbarism, the inhumanity, and at least then, if castration had been so ordered, it could have been performed by a trained medical doctor and not by some frightened medical student.

***

Unfortunately for Kurt, the student, showing off the skills and training of the venerable Viennese medical schools, performed too ably. He had injected Kurt with enough anesthesia to ease him into an immobile physical coma, while keeping him conscious and aware of the operation he was undergoing. The student performed expertly, making his painless and almost bloodless incisions beneath the scrotum, removing the testicular sacs, gliding them delicately into a small metal bowl.

But when he tried to stitch up the wound and the police realized what he was doing, the suture was snatched from his hand and he was ordered to continue the surgery, which he protested was not necessary now that the vital sexual sacs had been removed. To his credit as a future healer, he found the personal courage of his medical ethics to stand up to the police and explain that castration did not mean the entire elimination of sexual organs, the penis and scrotum, but rather, the simple removal of the two testicles from the scrotum.

The police weren't having any medical school scheisse crap and ordered the student to get on with it and do what was proscribed by law or face the consequences of being a homo-sympathizer, for which the punishment was most likely the same, and which they certain was codified somewhere in the German law books due to arrive any day now. 

"That's what controls the sex drive," the student naively argued, holding out the metal tray and indicating the little gleaming ballocks. "He won't even get an erection now."

The tray flew out of his hands. Someone hit his head; he fell and heard the clang of metal strike the floor beside him, glimpsing a blood-veined gray ball shimmer in the tray. 

He felt his trouser belt flapping open. "I'll do it!" he screamed, thrashing at the hands at his waist. "Let me go! I'll do it!"

A policeman laughed and knelt on his chest. "I'll do it! I'll do it!" he mimicked, snipping a pair of forceps before the student's face. He grabbed the front of student's shirt and hoisted him to his feet. "You do it!" he glared, thrusting the forceps into the student's groin. "Or I will!" Snip! Snip!

The student whimpered but quickly readjusted his belt, glancing at the floor for a torn-off trouser button, and spotted the mucous puddle of Kurt's testicles. One of the balls had been stepped on in the scuffle and lay smudged in a jellied pool, as the other ball, oval and gleaming, clung to its useless partner by a wrinkled whitish cord. The student gagged. 

"Do it!" ordered the policeman, shoving the student toward Kurt.

The student took the forceps from the policeman and set them down on an instrument tray next to Kurt's shoulders. "A scalpel is needed," he said coldly, holding up a thin long blade for the policeman's inspection.

"Get on with it," snapped the policeman.

The student looked into Kurt's open eyes. He knew the anesthesia was making his patient see everything in a slow dream-like uncomprehension, bewildered images seeming unconnected to other images, pointless, meaningless, as if one step behind the reality of the nightmare. 

The student bent over and examined Kurt's scrotum. A small puddle of blood had gelled under the open emptied sac. The student picked up a small towel and pushed it between Kurt's thighs.

"I'm getting quiet fed with this," the policeman glared at the student.

The student glared back at him. "The law says castration," he said firmly, picking up a sheet of cotton gauze and pressing it to the bleeding scrotum. "Not execution."

He turned his back on the policeman and looked at Karl. "I'm sorry," he said quietly to Kurt's open eyes, holding Kurt's hand and pulling it gently to the penis. The student circled his own hand atop Kurt's limp fingers and gently wrapped them around his flaccid cock. For a moment Kurt, staring at the student, held his penis, then the student let go and Kurt's hand dropped back to the side of the table. 

The student bent over Kurt's groin and lifted the tip of the penis with his thumb and forefinger, tugging at the flabby loose skin around the base of the cock. He deftly touched the sharp scalpel to the stretched separating skin and circled the blade twice, cutting into and pulling up the stretched separating skin. He wiped the bloody edge of the blade on the gauze of Kurt's scrotum, then ran the blade around once more on the skin and freed the penile-sheath from the groin, sliding the soft skin up the cock and pulling it inside out. He made a final incision at the tip of the cock to free the foreskin and held it out of the policeman. 

"Jesus Christ!" someone said, and gagged.

The student casually tossed the at the testicular puddle on the floor and leaned back over Kurt. He examined the raw penile muscle; it was small and shriveled and looked as much an object of sex and pleasure as did an aborted fetus resemble the end result of that sexual pleasure. The student sighed.

"I don't know much about this," he said quietly to himself, squinting and studying the penis. "I'm afraid I might damage the urinary tract."

He looked at Kurt; the man's eyes were open but his face had sagged into a drugged comatose indifference. He gazed back at the student as though uncomprehending and unconcerned over the entire situation; still, the student noticed a lone tear easing out of a corner of the man's eye and flow to his brown stubbled sideburn.

The student looked away, wiped the scalpel, and dipped it in a small jar of alcohol. Once more he lifted the raw penis, certain the drugged torso winced from his searing touch, then cleared his throat. Just as he had done with the covering sheath, he made a few rapid arcing incisions at the base of the groin, moving the blade underneath the cock, then quickly slicing over the top.

The blade cut easily, and the bleeding was intense, but the student wondered at his own expertise and indifference to what he was doing. They had never practiced castration, or mutilation, on the cadavers in school (the subject never came up), yet it was quite simple. Anyone with more than scant anatomical knowledge could discern the proper and improper way of going about it without inflicting too much damage.

Sure, it wasn't as though a brain tumor or cancer cyst was being sought out for removal, but then again, maybe it was. The man was a human being, but what he did with others was disgusting, and anyway, the law was the law. If the police were empowered to enforce the law, it was the student's duty as a medical practitioner to ensure that medical treatment to injured lawbreakers was dispensed as humanely as possible.

That's why he had chosen to intern in the clinic at the prison house and police station, caring for the prisoners who were constantly fighting and beating on each other and for the criminals brought in with various stabbing and gunshot wounds. This was the first time he had been called upon to create a wound rather than mend one.

But the man was a homosexual, caught on his knees with another man's penis in his mouth, in a public lavatory. If it hadn't been for his Party uniform, he probably would have suffered the same fate as his lover and been tossed out of a third-story window. The uniform saved him, but whether it would do him any good afterwards or not was in question. It was up to the student to keep him alive at least till then. 

The student cut, and wondered if perhaps, now that Austria was reuniting with the Fatherland, castration might not become a part of the medical curriculum. It might even lead to a whole new specialization. Medicus Castrare. Doctor of Castration. He might even be called upon to give the first courses. And to write the first textbook. 

The penis came off.

For a moment the student stared at the stared at the severed penis in his fingers as though surprised and unable to recognize what he was holding. Then he shuddered, gagged, and doubled over, dry-heaving and dropping the bloody cock back into Kurt's lap, where the damp warm clump struck Kurt's thigh and slipped down between his legs.

The policeman grabbed the student, spun him around and slapped his face. Kurt tried to move his thighs and shake the unbearable clump away. The policeman snatched it up and grabbed the student's throat, squeezing until the student's mouth opened and he gasped for air. The policeman forced the small red clump into the gagging student's mouth.

Kurt also gagged, and wretched, and saw the knobby bulb of th student's Adam's apple suddenly jut out over the policeman's fingers and just as suddenly ease down again as he swallowed. 

The policeman let go of the student and stared in disbelief into his open mouth. Kurt passed out.

***

When Kurt came to, he was alone, and the window seemed to be growing dark, or so he thought. Once more he glanced at his flattened groin, and he was certain of it: he had an erection. Just as on mornings he was greeted by his stiff cock boring into a bed sheet, a blanket, a pillow end, so too he was certain his penis was once more hardening and rising up between his legs.  

He squinted down at his torso. He was still clad in his Nazi Brownshirt, but his leather chest-belt was missing, the front and sleeve buttons torn off, the breast pocket gouged and ripped. Except for a white sheet covering his groin, his legs and feet were bare.

Kurt again felt the involuntary jerk of his stiff penis, and he pushed down the sheet to look. The blood-dried gauze taped under his belly button had come free in the moist tangle of pubic hairs and curled over itself, reveling the unevenly cut and blood-gelled curve of his rounded crotch.

He touched his stomach and edged his fingers down his groin, wincing at the soft clumps of gelled blood and stiff-pointed suture ends. Someone had sewn him up; the student? Unlikely, after what the policeman did. Kurt groaned and shook his head; they had probably brought in another student to finish the job. 

He moved his fingers lower and felt a few more sutures poking between the moist hairs and scabs. He reached the top of the now useless fleshy flab of his scrotum and realized he had unknowingly inched his fingers over the spot where his penis should have been. 

He screamed out. Though he had witnessed his own castration and mutilation, the anesthesia had somehow held him back from fully comprehending the reality of what was being done to him. Only now did the awareness of the barbaric loss breach into his consciousness and bestir him to anger and rage.

He screamed out again, gripping his empty scrotum, squeezing and pulling it in his fist. The sutures instantly opened, and blood splashed over his fingers and thighs.

He screamed, let go of the scrotum and slammed his fist down on the curved sutured groin. He struck once more, flinging his arm over his face and eyes, sobbing and shaking his head from side to side. 

In the doorway, a disheveled uniformed soldier stood placidly watching and stroking his own limp soft cock.

*

Read more, get the full ebook here:

Vienna Dolorosa: The Lambda Award Finalist Novel - Kindle edition by Dementiuk, Mykola. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.

 

42nd Street

 

THE NEW YORK QUEER MEGABUNDLE: 5 Complete Books by Mykola Dementiuk

Mykola Dementiuk – Sizzler Editions
 From the Lambda Literary Award-Winning Author!

No one has ever chronicled the sexual adventures—and misadventures—of Manhattan's gay men like Mykola "Mick" Dementiuk.

“Mick goes where others seem afraid to go...to the world of hustlers and drag queens and those somewhere in between, and he never fails to give us a good story. Dementiuk does not hold back; he writes about everything...and is eroticism is quite bold.” —Amos Lassen

“I recommend Mykola Dementiuk … Mick has been called “the bard of 42nd Street” … his works are not for the squeamish nor for those who insist on fairy tale endings … he’s more a shot of Jack than a sip of champagne.” —Gay Book Reviews

Vienna Dolorosa by Mykola Dementiuk, chapters 1-5

 Vienna Dolorosa

Vienna Dolorosa: The Lambda Award Finalist Novel - Kindle edition by Dementiuk, Mykola. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.

Comment by Victor Banis author --

This is in fact a beautiful novel, beautifully realized, a novel for those interested in history--not just history's glorious triumphs, but its sometimes-putrid underbelly as well. It is for those interested in the human condition, for it is in just such chapters of history that one sees humankind stripped of pretense, exposed, raw nerve endings and all. And, certainly, it is a novel for those interested in literature more than mere fiction. 

In the best of all literary worlds, this would have been published by one of the major publishing houses, hailed by the leading critics, the author assuming a place in the front ranks of authordom. Stephen Spielberg would be filming it at this very moment.

Comment by Bryl R. Tyne author --

If you love historical fiction and can handle horrifying and gruesome depictions of the depravities during Hitler's Regime, you'll want to read this book. Although I was mortified with some of the scenes, I will read it again. If only to remind myself that I too, am only human.

Vienna Dolorosa is a must read!

Vienna Dolorosa

March 12, 1938

by

Mykola Dementiuk

1. Friska Bielinska

THE BRIGHT MORNING SUN streamed through the lace curtains and moved across the large room and bed until a bright sliver of beam slashed over and warmed Frau Friska Bielinska's lips and nose and eyes. Frau Friska awoke and cursed. 

She moaned and cursed again and turned on her side, but the opposite window facing the rear courtyard, though sunless, was also glowing in morning brightness. Having been left open in the night for air, it now let in the clamorous day sounds of plates and dishes clattering day sounds of plates and dishes clattering in the café -kitchen across the courtyard. 

Is it breakfast they're serving? Lunch?

Frau Friska covered her eyes with the crook of her elbow and eased back to sleep, suddenly jerking upright at the clash of a plate stacked atop another and laughter from the café.

She yawned and glanced at an ornate gold clock and cursed again -- almost eight a.m.

"Scheisse! she groaned and spun her fist against her nose and mouth. She glanced at the beside her. He was sleeping peacefully, his lips slightly downturned, a stream of dried white saliva lacing from a corner of his mouth and down his chin, oblivious to the brightening room, the clamorous café sounds, or the cursing and shifting Friska.

She studied the boy's soft face and pulled off the bobbed black wig which had shifted off his head and lay matted in smeared makeup, lipstick and saliva at the side of his face. 

Frau Friska tossed the wig on a chair and rose from bed. She shivered and tugged at her twisted loose panty, pulling it out of her crotch and ass, and aligned the satin material over her stiffened groin. She quickly crossed the room and shut the double rear courtyard windows. The café clatter grew muted and dull, peaceful. Frau Friska glanced up at the sky -- blue and cold. She pulled the curtains shut, crossed her arms over her bare chest, and rubbed her shivering shoulders. She turned to the warm sunny window facing the street.

Vienna was a slow-moving city; early-rising but moving at a pace seen in other cities more at the relaxing close of the day than at the busy start. Yet in the past week and a half the city had erupted into a bustle of movement and activity unlike anything Frau Friska experienced since she had left Berlin five years earlier. At the time the Berliners seemed to dwell in a constant frenzy of street activity: street patrols, street demonstrations, street battles, street harassments.  

With the coming to power of Adolph Hitler and his National Socialist Party, the first clear manifestation of their power and authority was on the streets. Berlin started to systematically get rid of the elements that by nature, instinct, misfortune, or choice flock to any large cosmopolitan center and become as much a part of the city as the streetlamps and paved streets. Gaudy prostitutes and perfumed homosexuals were beaten, abused, abused, and arrested; drunkards and addicts dropped in their stupors and were disposed of in alleys and back lots; Leftists, Reds, trade unionists, and homeless unemployed tramps were openly savaged and slain on the street; Jews, Gypsies, and Eastern Slavs were fair game to anyone -- government officials, Party members, or any outraged citizen who happened to come upon in the streets, building hallways, stored and shops, or even in their dreams. 

Frau Friska considered herself fortunate to have been arrested and deported in the first wave of expulsions from Nazi Berlin and Germany. But being Ukrainian one never knew. Will it be the same in Vienna and Austria?

She shivered and lifted a lace curtain, draping it over the front of her bare chest. She squinted out the sunny second-story window. A group of teenage boys dressed in Austian Brownshirt uniforms stood before the museum entrance across the cramped Inner City street as one of their comrades leaned against a shuttered storefront gate, doubled over and vomiting. The other boys seemed to ignore their stricken friend, merely lolling about as though waiting for him to tie his shoe or straighten his tie and rejoin their group.

Fray Friska glanced up at the museum building: three-storied, gray and nondescript, of significance only that it was a confirmed residence of the Mozart on his hectic flight across Austria from dunning creditors and unpaid landlords, and where, it was said, he composed one of his masterpieces. Which one was a bit unclear and unconfirmed since he carried so much in his head and seemingly composed at will wherever he sat and brooded, drank and played billiards, laughed and made love. A small commemorative bust of Mozart frowned in a niche above the doorway, looking irritative and angered by the flapping corner of a massive red, black, and white Nazi flag striking the top of his head and brow.

Frau Friska also frowned. She liked the bust of Mozart: it was more boyish and innocent than the usual stolid Viennese depictions of the composer as some immature stunted genius imprisoned in the body of a boy and straining to break free and grow up. If only he had lived to be a man, went the common interpretation, what beauty he could have created then! Frau Friska didn't think so; being a beautiful boy and not cursed by age was beauty enough. 

She sighed and looked away from the bust to the young boys; she started, certain one of the boys just averted his eyes from examining her in the window. Frau Friska stepped back and let fall the curtain. 

She turned to the sleeping boy, his flattened blonde hair shimmering and gleaming in the beams of sunlight streaming the bed. She crossed the room and lifted the bulky goose-down cover; the boy's morning erection was stiff and solid, the crown on his puffed penis neatly outlined and stressed in the tight satin panties he wore.

Frau Friska moaned, tottering slightly, then fell on the bed and pulled down the front of his panties, gulping the stiff penis in her mouth. It filled her cheeks, and it was a lot better than lapping on the limp dick the boy couldn't get up last night.

A hand touched her thigh; Frau Friska squinted and saw the boy yawning at her and straining his hand to reach her leg. She moved up on the bed. The boy reached into her loose panties and circled his cold fingers around Frau Friska's erect penis, gliding it out of the loose panty leg and leveling it in his palm and on his wrist. He slid and pulled the hairless sheath back and forth; Frau Friska quickly ejaculated. The boy took a bit longer, finally coming in her mouth and bucking his groin in her face. 

2. Helmut

BY THE TIME HELMUT HEARD THE FOOTFALLS from Frau Friska's apartment upstairs he had been up for hours, supervising the morning staff -- the porters, the maids. He never liked what he felt was the pretense of playing boss, making his work assignments sound more like suggestions than commands, but there was little he could do but take over the hotel operations; Kurt, the usual morning man, had marched off the night before into the torchlight demonstration moving along the nearby Ringstrasse and had not come to work yet. He was probably still rousing up Jews, beating up beggars, cheering on speakers, or sleeping it off from too much exuberance, too much violence, or at the least, too much hastily drunk beer. 

Helmut glanced across the lobby to the front door and saw the boy vomiting before the Mozarthaus. It was a good thing Kurt was gone; he would certainly have marched over to the boys and berated them for disrespecting their uniforms, their youth, their Fatherland, their Fuhrer ... no, better Kust was off marching and boasting elsewhere.

Still, Friska must have had her reasons for keeping Kurt on at the hotel; Helmut would have let him go the first time he appeared in his ridiculous country-bumpkin lederhosen and white knee-stockings getup, emblematic of Party membership when all Nazi symbols were banned. In the past few days Kurt had come donned in the quickly legalized Brownshirt, leather chest-strap and swastika regalia which seemed to be worn now by the majority of Viennese males. 

Helmut detested all uniforms and the change of personality that went with them. As much as they represented authority, the greatest dullard or layabout, be he soldier, cop, or public official, once in uniform could wreak havoc regardless of legality or simple morality. The Great War had been staged and waged by men in uniform, and their blindness and incompetence had not only destroyed millions of lives but also the empire and dynasty which had ruled over those lives for generations. Now new uniforms were on the march. Helmut sighed; each time a new idea, a new life, a new hope, and promise is offered by men in uniforms, it can only mean death for those in civilian dress.

Helmut turned away from the puking boy and flipped a page of the hotel registry book. It had been fairly quiet but stressful night. The registered guests retired early, and only one of Frau Friska's personal clients showed up. Kaufmann the Jew. He had bolted out of the hotel at dawn but returned a few hours later and now was pacing nervously in the dining room at the far end of the lobby. 

Throughout the night some disheveled-looking couple or individual -- or at one point, about three a.m., an entire family -- pounded on the closed front door and demanded a room or at the least a refuge in the lobby from the chaos a few blocks away. Helmut finally dimmed the lobby lights and armed himself with a small revolver he once found in a vacated room. Though it contained only three rounds, he kept vigil left anyone break through the glass door and gain entry. 

Helmut studied the guest book. Of the six names only one sounded Germanic (or Aryan, as the current nominative would have it), von Belse. The rest were typical Jews: Blumfeld, Orehstein, Hessell, Wassermann, Gottlein. Not one of them was due to check out till Monday morning, having reserved their rooms for the entire weekend. Who could foretell this would also be the weekend Hitler decided to march on Vienna and annex all of Austria, putting an end to all talk of independence, plebiscites, sovereignty, self-rule?

Helmut looked back at the puking boy -- young, probably thirteen or fourteen, his shirt-front stained with vomit -- then glanced at the pacing Jew Kaufmann in the dining room. Wipe off the vomit, take off the uniform, slip on a dress, and what have you got? Something for old men to play with. 

Helmut frowned, shaking his head, and bent down over his registry book. Outside the vomiting boy gagged and spat out a few more times, then shuffled to rejoin his comrades. In the adjoining lobby room Kaufmann stroked his stubbled chin and glanced nervously at Helmut. 

3. Wanda and Suze

WANDA QUIETLY OPENED THE DOOR, peered into the cubicle, and saw the covered figure in the same position it had been in for almost an hour. She frowned, knowing that the pansy Herr Kaufmann left the room at dawn before anyone was up, but she shut the door behind her and walked up the carpeted hall. Fifteen more minutes, she thought, then she'd have to wake the boy up.

It had been an easy morning; only one cubicle occupied, the rest as clean as she had prepared them the day before. But there was Frau Friska's apartment to tidy up -- she couldn't enter until after nine -- and that would take at least an hour to do if not more. She probably wouldn't be done till almost eleven o'clock. 

She cursed, then spun around and strode back down the hall. I've got someone in bed, too, she mumbled, flinging open the cubicle door.

"Guten Morgen!" she shouted and swooped into the room, snatching at a towel on a corner bedpost and grimacing at a large bowl of spoiled water on the end-table and a pair of crumpled, brown-stained panties on a nearby chair. 

Idiots! she mumbled, and leaned over the bed, poking the covered figure on a raised shoulder. 

"Her, get up!" she said, then turned and tossed the dirty panties into the bowl of water. The figure had not moved. Wanda suddenly shivered. She looked at the open door and glanced about the room.

"Hey!" she said again, quietly though, prepared to explode in anger if the jesting figure sprang up at her in laughter. She leaned over and daintily picked up a corner of the blanket. "Wake up!" she snapped, flinging the blanket off and taking a step back. 

The figure remained still, turned on its side, one arm under its head, the other draped beneath the overly large bosom, its long white dress demurely tucked into and under the knees, the outline of heeled shoes molded under a corner of the blanket still covering them.

"Suze," Wanda smiled faintly, and saw the glimmer of a belt buckle peeking from under the long blonde wig. She walked quickly around the bed and faced Suze from the front. She stared in horror and raised her hands to her cheeks. 

The child's face was blue and puffy, its mouth twisted open, its eyes bulged out, its brow permanently wrinkled as though straining for comprehension. The belt buckle locked the throat, bulging flesh dripped over the leather strap, its end disappearing somewhere in the strands and folds of the blonde wig and pillow. 

Wanda darted from the room.

4. Kurt and the Jewess

THE FRINGES OF THE RALLIES on the Ring and Kartnerstrasses, bored with the droning do-nothing speechifying and pointless cheering, quickly broke off into splinter groups with their own provocateurs and rousers, fanning out across Vienna in search of beer, women, Reds, and Jews.

The crowds blocked the paths of automobiles, trolley cars, hapless pedestrians. They checked identity papers, clothes styles, nose lengths, word pronunciations, and beat up any resister as a Jew-loving anti-German Bolshevik pervert. Everyone on the street was fair game, for if they were not participating in the celebrations in support of Austrian unification with Germany, what were they doing riding or walking the streets if not hurrying to some Jew cabal? No, a fist in the face or a boot in the groin was a sure way to put a halt to any conspiracy. 

How many have I hit? Kurt wasn't sure; sometimes two or three in rapid succession, often egging other beaters on, but always getting a good last kick in the chest or head of a slumped sagging body. Still, the first time his flesh struck flesh was but a limp, hesitant slap on the cheek rather than a solid blow to the face. The slap was hard enough, and surprising enough to have pushed the old Jew face slightly to the left where someone's more solid fist was able to strike and shatter the frail cheekbone and crooked nose, but Kurt knew he'd better be more careful. The time of indecisive slapping was over; the millennium of clenched fists had arrived. 

Kurt happened to be at the rear of the mob when they came upon and surrounded an old Jewess near the Westbahnhof rail station. Yet it was hard to tell how old and Jew actually was, since they all dressed slovenly and beggarly. Whatever youthful faces they may have exhibited beneath their caftans and kerchiefs, their massive hats and shawls, were prematurely wrinkled by poverty, worry, fear, and paranoia. Just the fact that they were Jews made them seem aged and youth-less; any race carrying the burden of history, claiming to have been a witness at the start, would clearly exhibit the classic certainty of that history, the passage of time and inevitability of age. Yet this was also the classic fear of the Gentiles: that if the Jews have experienced History at its dawn, they might also be a witness to its end, an end out of control of Gentile hands. 

Kurt succeeded in forcing his way through the mob, snatching at a few remnants of the old Jewish woman's belongings which had been rifled and scattered through the crowd, a few of the men laughing and pawing the women's frayed undergarments, holding them up to the streetlights and ridiculing the under-washed menstrual stains, commenting on the stretched curves of yellowed petticoats and shifts, and tossing aside other ragged clothes and items they accused her of trying to pilfer out of the country. 

The woman sank to her knees, sobbing quietly, almost unresponsive to the taunts and snapped insinuations flung at her. She clutched at a small broken sewing kit which had been pulled out of her bag and crushed underfoot, a few on the needles with short colored threads still looped in place in a purple velour-backed compartment. The woman had seen the case grabbed out of her bag, snapped open, and discarded to the ground. It had no particular meaning to her, no value as a memento or heirloom, but she suddenly seized with its importance and a desperate need to reclaim it, even yelping as though in pain as a gray metal thimble shot out from the case at the stomp os someone's booted heel. 

Kurt pushed his way to the front of the crowd, pawing and laughing at the heavy linen stockings which had passed through the crowd, viciously tugging at the thigh-length hose and finally ripping them to shreds. The Jewish was now on her hands and knees, reaching for something on the ground as a few small boys in short pants and jackets darted around her and kicked her up-raised behind. 

"Like a dog!" someone laughed, and Kurt also dropped to the ground, snatching at whatever the woman was reaching for, then spun behind her and hiked up her skirts and petticoats and began his torso into her bottom.

"This is how Jew-dogs fuck!" he slobbered, howling and yelping, and pounded into the woman. 

The crowd picked up the chant of a small boy dancing around the pair. "Fuck the Jew! Fuck the Jew!"

Kurt ejaculated, but few in the mob recognized his sudden spastic shivering as sexual release. Kurt yelped and ground himself into the woman's covered buttocks as if he had penetrated deep into her, the just as suddenly bolted from her. He laughed self-consciously but acknowledged pats on the back as he melded to the rear of the crowd.

He did not wait to see or hear what other indignities the woman suffered but branched off into another group moving toward the Westbahnhof rail station up the street. His hat covered his semen-wet groin, his penis as hard and stiff as it had been since he first joined the demonstration and slapped his first Jew.

He opened his hand and gazed at a small metal thimble. A thimble? He shook his head, flinging the useless object away in disgust.

5. Petya gets dressed

THE BATHROOM WAS LARGE AND SPACIOUS (at least larger than anything Petya had ever experienced), the large enamel toilet bowl and sloped gray metal tub in one corner of the room, the upright sink and vanity table in another. Plush dark carpet remnants lay strategic spots on the floor, and one could pace about the room, stepping from throw rug to throw rug, moving from toilet to sink to tub to table without landing once on the bright white floor tiles in between. A frosted-glass, curtained window faced the front street.

Petya quickly removed his panties and stockings and left them in a heap on the floor on top of the white dress he'd worn and discarded the night before. He went to the vanity table and glanced in the mirror, remembering his grotesque image of the night before, the lipstick blotted about his mouth, his painted eyes and brows in Harlequin peaks and points, his usually curly hair pressed flat to his skull. Frau Friska had fixed his attempts.

He examined the vanity table-top. Jars, bottles and canisters of makeup stood neatly in a row, with creams and powders next to them. He went to the sink: a silver straight-edge razor lay on a small shelf next to a wet shaving mug. 

Petya looked at his clothes on the floor and snatched them up, folding the damp panties, straightening the stockings and dress and draping them over the cushioned backrest of a small chair before the table.

It had been exciting to be pampered and disrobed of his boy-clothes, adorned in girlish panties, camisole, dress, lip rouge, eye-darkeners, and black wig. But once made up as a girl, he couldn't get it up as a boy, frightened and resisting the flustered Frau Friska as though guarding some make-believe virginity the new unfamiliar clothes had forced him to assume. 

Still, he was grateful Frau Friska hadn't kicked him out but let him spend the night, dressed as a girl, cradled in her arms. It would have been difficult to return to the Danube canal or Leopoldstadt. The Brownshirts and marching crowds were everywhere, and he knew he'd be a much of a target as any Jew or degenerate they promised to rid the city of. 

Petya had heard snatches of speeches, listened to the rumors, stared at the illegal posters, and concluded that Anschluss not only meant Austrian unity with Germany but also an end to his way of life. 

Hitler had promised to put every German citizen to work, and Petya had immediately began toying with French identities; but knowing only a mispronounced word or two, he knew it would be ridiculous if not dangerous to profess as such, the French being enemies of the Germans for generations.

Maybe Czech or some other Slav name. He chose Petya, having heard it in some Russian film and thinking that if he were arrested once more, he'd be deported East rather than tossed into prison. Twice in the past year he had been picked up along the Canal in police raids to rid the Inner City of crime and perverts, and both times he had been sentenced to the boy's reformatory in Ems. Each stay at the reformatory provided him with new names and places to see back in the capital city -- the Redl Hotel reaching his ears only a week before as he was released to make his way back to Vienna.

Petya stepped into the empty tub and sat down, turning on the hot and cold metal taps. Frau Friska had demanded he wash even before entering her quarters last night -- not that she actually told him he smelled, but the look of disgust on her face was enough to dissuade him from any arguments. It was certainly a relief to be rid of the dirt and stench of a week of hiding and sleeping along the road on his way back to Vienna.

Not that he had to be so careful or cover his tracks too much, since he was only a day or two ahead of the first German armies Hitler finally sent into Vienna. The roads were already strewn with crushed flowers, sagging banners, empty wine bottles, raucous Brownshirts, over-exuberant celebrants, looting children, laughing whores, farmers on horseback, and villagers in regional dress. All streamed along the roadways to the capital city of Vienna, not one of them paying the least interest to a reform school juvenile. 

Petya turned off the taps and sank beneath the water, holding his breath as long as he could, then bounded up, panting for air and briskly scratching and rubbing his face. The makeup easily smeared and came off in the warm water, though he had to force a washcloth into the corners of his eyes and lips to remove the thick mascara and lipstick.

He dunked a few more times under the water, finished washing and stepped out of the tub, snatching at a large damp towel off a rack near the tub. A pair of similar towels were folded and stacked on a small stand at the side of the rack, but Petya hesitated soiling any of them and instead wiped himself with the already used one, catching a waft of Frau Friska's fragrance as he toweled his head and face. 

He replaced the towel on the rack and went to the vanity table, staring at his naked reflection as he neared the mirror. He frowned at hid folded panties and stockings; does she expect me to wear them all day?

Petya glanced at the makeup jars on the vanity table; he knew there were men who dressed as women -- the private clubs in Leopoldstadt were filled with them -- but they were obvious, grotesque in appearance, dressing in apparel which did nothing to reveal their innate femininity but instead exaggerated their ugly maleness: a mustachioed face under a blonde-tressed wig, a too-short, too-tight dress atop a male's knobby knees, woolen sock and boots. If by lucky chance the body conformed to the compactness of a woman's smaller frame, the silk hose seams were aligned, the shoes form-fitted, the makeup and wig proportioned in place. It was almost inevitable that the entire image would be perverted by that constant male-exaggeration of the female shape: the longing for a gargantuan bosom created pads and pillows puffed up at the chest and rising to the shoulders and face or curving downward to the erection-risen skirt at the groin, creating a monstrous obese pregnant belly rather than a handful-proportioned female breast.  

It wasn't so much that these wanted to be women, but to create themselves as the unattainable woman they could never have or find, a woman that existed only in their imaginations and masturbatory fantasies, in their lusts to escape themselves and the reality of their male existence. Being men, that saw women as something existing solely for the pleasure of men. Making themselves up as women and having themselves chosen as women by other men -- being courted, wooed, girlishly resisting but leading-on until finally won over, hastily disrobed, their pleasure spent, their lust sated -- they could step back into their pants and become the pleasure-seeking men once more: the conquerors, the self-assured, the masqueraders, the abusers, the ultimate enjoyers.

Even at the reformatory in Ems there were boys who instinctively took on female roles, acting submissive, compliant, servile, some going as far as adorning their faces with saliva-tinted lead pencils, using dyes of shredded blotters, smearing on tints from sodden book covers. They became girls for the other boys, yet once released from the reformatory naturally reverted to their boy-identities, which were as deadly and dangerous as those of any other street urchin. 

Petya had once participated in an attack on one such boy in the reformatory, pummeling his head and ejaculating in his mouth, the boy's darkened eyes blackened even more by Petya's fists, his blushed red cheeks cracked and broken by other blows, his tinted mouth colored in blood and pinkish semen. Petya picked up a jar of makeup: it would be easy to take the jar and post to the boy at Ems; use the hotel as a return address? In case the boy got out?

There was a double tap on the door. Petya quickly set down the small makeup jar and snatched up his panties; the door opened before he could step into them.

Frau Friske Bielinska, slim and petite in a demure but shapely black skirt and bolero jacket, came into the room. Her white ruffled blouse enhanced her small, rounded bosom, and a black pageboy hairdo tucked behind her ears framed the contours of her narrow high-boned face. She wore low-heeled shoes, her hose-darkened legs hairless and smooth -- unlike the hairy Austrian look. She looked as naturally feminine as any woman one could imagine or pass on the street. 

Frau Friska smiled faintly, looked about the bathroom, and held out a pair of short pants she carried on a hanger in her upraised arm; a pair of fresh white boy's undergarments and a brown shirt were folded over her other forearm. "Leave those," she said, gesturing to the panties and handing Petya his new clothes. 

He took the garments and stepped into the warm cotton drawers, sliding them up his legs. Fray Friska walked about the room, the rolled up a sleeve and reached into the soiled tub to pull out the plug. Petya blushed as he heard the dirty water gurgle and suck itself out, but he continued dressing, pulling on the brown shorts and knee-high white woolen socks. 

Frau Friska wiped her hands on the wet wall towel then pulled it off the rack and tossed it into a corner hamper, replacing it with a fresh white one from the nearby stack. She turned and looked at Petya. He was almost dressed, buttoning up the front of his Brownshirt, a child's equivalent of an Austrian Nazi uniform, the brown color they donned when all Nazi insignia and paraphernalia was banned by the just-ousted Schuschnigg government. She knew he's blend right on the streets.

Frau Friska stepped to the vanity table and picked up the small jar Petya had moved. She put it next to a dark-colored jar and studied the red-faced Petya, then moved to the door. 

"There are new shoes out here," she said, nodding to the living room, and scrutinized him once more.

Petya tucked in his shirt in his short pants and slung a suspender up his shoulder.

"Don't steal anything, alright?" she said finally, but she smiled and stepped quickly out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. 

Petya's face was as red as Frau Friska's red lip rouge. He glanced at the vanity table and cursed.  

   

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Vienna Dolorosa: The Lambda Award Finalist Novel - Kindle edition by Dementiuk, Mykola. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.