MYKOLA DEMENTIUK
What he liked most was to grab her in public: a tweak of her ass on a crowded street, an over-the-shoulder tit-grope on a trolley car, a crotch-claw as they waited on line at the grocery store. And of course he liked it most when he caught someone eyeing her body, admiring, imagining and lusting after her curves, her flesh, her tight-pantsed-ass, her mini-skirted soft thighs, her low-cut bosom-squeezed blouses, her pouty red blowjob mouth, her little-girl-wide mascaraed eyes, her high hair-spray-teased hair, and of course, decorated to his demands. And particularly liking it when his hands and fingers instantly went to the stared-at desired curves as though gloating, "It's mine!" And boasting, "You can look, but only I can touch!" And she hated it.
She hated it so much that she had gotten so used to it, that she no longer jumped at his sudden grabbing, no longer spun around in embarrassment to shield herself from whoever might be looking, no longer glared or cursed him for displaying and treating her like some bar-top dancer or alley whore. She simply hated it. She hated everything about her show-off sexiness, him for showing her off, the wide-eyed men (and women) for drooling at the free-show they were getting and most of all she hated herself for letting his possessive displaying showiness get so far that she was now being forced to respond to his grabbing's by squeezing and groping his crotch each time he smirked at someone gaping at her tits or cunt or ass. "Where would it end?" she wondered, "Probably like dogs on the street, fucking in public."
Yet their sexual relationship had always been a public one. When they were younger, there weren't that many places available to do it in, they mostly had to content themselves with sex in a darkened Golden Gate Park, in movie theater balconies, in construction site Port-o-Johnnies, but even this was limited to hand-jobs, blowjobs, tit-sucks and finger-fuckings. They had to get it when they could: on the run, on the sly, and if all they got from each other was a pawing or a groping, that's all they had to be satisfied with until after the wedding, that miraculous liberation day when things would be different, better, private, intimate, adult-like. Older, they didn't know much better and he saw nothing wrong with squeezing her tits at the altar once told he could kiss and caress the bride ... well, not that way! And if he saw nothing wrong in showing off his ownership of her in public it was just as natural for him to consider it his right to decide which outfits he'd display her in.
"Put the red ones back on," he'd order, after she slithered her tight ass in black pants, in pink pants, in white pants (he wasn't in the mood for minis or short-shorts). The red pants were the tightest of all and the hardest to pull up, ankle to shin to knee, the stretch material more squeezing than giving, more like pantyhose than pants. Red pants up her thighs and hips and waist, fitting her like the ooze of fantasy scum he was certain all the eye-ballers would be creaming on her in their dreams of what they'd do to that ass. Red pants that crimped her in a clutch of material like a giant tongue pressed to her torso from her ankles to her waist, from her buttocks to her crotch, the pants-tongue licking each inch of flesh as she paced, moved, stepped, tottered and shook on heels, each inch of skin sucked by the tongue, each opening panting skin pore drooled and lathered into. Red pants rising up her body, shimmering over and under her ass, vee-cinching her crotch, but still warm and damp from the previous fitting and display just moment ago... She hoped he liked them; they were just as difficult to pull off.
"Yeah," he'd grunt, finally satisfied with the look, as if her look was a perfect complement to his own, from his thinning hair, to his jowly face, to his potbelly, to his own too-tight pants molding the bulge of his little dick and balls. Like Mutt and Jeff, like Laurel and Hardy, like Him and Her. As a short guy he made up for it by the towering blonde beside him – not that she was all that taller, only about an inch in her stockings yet more than two or three in her high heels (which made his mouth exactly breast level and he sure took advantage of dipping into her cleavage when the grabbing and pawing wasn't enough). But as they had gotten older he seemed to be rounding out to a rounder shape while she kept up her slim form, except for a slight widening of her hips, which only increased and doubled his attentions to her ass. Still, she supposed he did love her, in his own way; didn't his attention and interest and concern in her looks prove it? After a few years of marriage most men couldn't care less what their wives looked like. Yet if only there were other things to do, like a job, or friends, or a drive down Highway 1 along the Coast. But the jobs and friends ended a long time ago (who would want her around an office or around their husbands looking like that?). And the go-nowhere drives down the Coast, to show her off to who, the Pacific Ocean seagulls and fish?!
No, he took care of her: took her on walks, on trolley car rides, to parks, to movies and museums, to wherever there were people who looked, who gaped, who disbelieved, then back home to bed where he showed off his real love for her and fucked the shit out of her. But then that hadn't been too good over the years either. As much as he relished in showing her off to others, so too he wanted her shown off to him, in teasing poses, in beckoning gestures, in longings for his dick, in cries of, "Fuck me! Fuck me!" While he jabbed his dick into whatever posed opening aroused him at the moment, her bent-over ass, her spread-out cunt, his drooling mouth, jabbed in, plopped out, "Fuck you, you whore! Fuck you, you cunt! Fuck you, you bitch!" Fucked and came and left her as unsatisfied and desperate as the pornographic poses pretended to simulate she was.
Their first stop out on a Friday night was usually the local Clancy's Irish Bar in the Tenderloin for a few drinks – beers for him, Shirley Temples for her, with just a splash of gin – a hard-drinking bar where boilermakers were the norm and where a woman alone was most likely an alcoholic hooker, and a woman with a man was probably no better either. But they were known at Clancy 's and for the hooker they presumed her to be, there was always room for them at the crowded two-deep bar – three-deep or more if an important game was on – and the Friday night regulars always gravitated nearby to order their drinks and get their Friday-night peeks of her cleavage and a possible fleeting brush of their shoulders against her arm or leg – though it was questionable how many of the besotted Friday alcoholic regulars would be able to do any more given a chance with pussy like that then fall flat atop her with flattened belches, flattened grunting, flattened shriveled alkie dicks.
Once in the pass-keyed ladies' room, which the bartenders also used since it was better maintained than the filthy sputum/vomit/urine/shit/ammonia drenched men's room, she came upon a woman dressed as provocatively as her – like a slut – on her knees before a man leaning back on a sink and sucking his limp dick. As soon as she entered the ladies' the woman broke from the man and sputtered, "I'll give you half of the money, sweetie, if you can finish him off. I can't!"
The man grabbed the cocksucker's head and snapped it back to his limp dick. "Keep sucking, you skank!" he ordered. "And you," glaring at her, "Get over here and lemme see those fucking tits!" She fled, but much later, back at the bar, she saw the limp-dicked man glaring up at the television screen as much as he had glared at her, and the cocksucking woman sitting at the other end of the bar, picking her teeth and tongue, dry-heaving every time she swallowed.)
Clancy's was even more crowded than usual this Friday night, the World Series playoffs were on and each of the two home-area teams – San Francisco Giants and Los Angeles Dodgers – had their raucous followers and it was already a forgone conclusion as to who would boast the best baseball team in the world. "Go Giants!" or "Go Dodgers!" meant little in differentiating the teams and team loyalty which had become nothing but brazen civic boosting, each night's news report leading off with the most important news story of the day: where the competing team players partied the night before.
She had hoped for a few Shirley Temples, a few showoff ass pats and squeezings, "That's my doll!" he 'd gloat, but he had gotten as enthused in following the game with the other bar patrons that she knew they'd be here past midnight and it'd be too late for a movie by then. But even if all she could expect at the movies was to take an aisle seat as he pulled up her blouse and groped and mauled and mangled her breasts for the entire length of the hour and a half or two hour film, sometimes leaving her with her tits hanging out for ten,
fifteen minutes while he went to pee, to get soda, get more popcorn.
But she steeled herself over the years to concentrate on the film and ignore whoever was gaping or rubbing themselves from a nearby seat, and he always seemed to return just in time to keep someone from getting too close to her seat or her tits, but at least the Friday night films broke the moronic pattern of weeklong doing-nothing, just painting your face to look pretty for some bored barstool roosting.
She took a sip of her Shirley Temple and frowned, certain the straight-faced bartender had spiked the almost alcohol-free concoction with more gin than usual but certainly not enough to overpower the innocent grenadine, ginger all, and cherries brew. Still, with the smell and noise and atmosphere of alcohol all around her it was easy for her husband to shout, "It's your imagination!" as he 'd taste her drink, slobber a kiss in her neck, grope at her crotch and return to the cheering of the home-team. And he was probably right; it probably was her imagination, because who would conspire with a bartender to get her drunk? Was her husband a teen kid trying to get laid by plying his girlfriend with booze?
But a woman in a roomful of men had a right to be suspicious, to be wary, self-conscious, alert, and even if her husband sat right at her side with his hand like a leash on her leg or her waist, he was still a man, a man in a room of other men: boastful, showoff, egoistic, obnoxious, strutting and drunk. Yet if men were all that, how was she, and the three or four other under-dressed women in the barroom of men (a men's room) any different from them? The adjectives of obnoxiousness and brazenness could be applied to them as well. Sure, a woman was a compliment on the arms of a man, as a man in her arms was an affirmation of her worth and attractiveness, but would it ever be enough to simply have each other without flaunting it to the universe? When did the showoff exaggeration become a taunt at those who lusted after it? When did her decorated beauty become a gibe at those who couldn't look as good? But in a barroom of men, even if they spiked her drinks, who was she competing with, the other made-up mannequins shown off by their own horny showoff men? And whether she was true to one or like a barroom hooker went with dozens, because she pretended to an appearance to suit a man, to overstress a body image and form that a man defined was feminine, she would never experience the vital melding and coupling of a true women with true man, that of spirit with flesh, of mind with soul, of her free and acknowledged sexuality with that of man's, a man free and at peace with his own sexuality and spirit, a man free and joyous and willing and wanting and needing to share it with a woman... And until then she'd be but a cunt fit for a dick, a pussy ready for a fucking, a slut out for a cock, a whore with her john, a woman shown off by a man, a wife with her husband...
And the crowd went wild...
As was expected, one of the home teams won, the cherished trophy stayed home and the chaotic excitement of the Dodgers or Giants on the television screen was almost exact image of the frenzy of cheering, screaming, jumping that erupted in the bar. They overturned stools, dropped drinks, doled out in lost bets, crashed glasses, spun in the delirium of a victory that represented more than just a sports rivalry that probably a mere handful actively followed throughout the entire season, but the repressed pride of their soulless, unlived lives, freeing them to erupt in a cacophony of whoops and roars and bellows that in some primeval primitive past would have exorcised demons or, at least, summoned a goddess...
And in a corner of the barroom, the goddess arose...
She was chubby and drunk and as she climbed the barstool her mini-skirt rose up her ass and at least three or four pairs of hands were clutching at the meaty panty-streaked ass and thighs to steady the goddess until she succeeded in standing once, wobbling her tits, screeching a drunken "San Fran..." at the crowd, before tottering off the stool into the waiting eager hands and fingers of the men below. Yet almost immediately, from another corner of the room, another goddess arose... This one was younger and pony-tailed, thinner and prettier – out-of-place in the drunken Tenderloin – and wearing the winning team jersey and hat and waving a team banner as she screamed and roosted on the shoulders of her boyfriend wearing an identical team jersey and screeching as much as his girlfriend's raised blue-jeaned thighs clasping his cheeks allowed.
By then she had lost her spiked Shirley Temple (but had guzzled someone else's real drink), had been pushed away from the bar, lost sight of her husband, been hugged and grabbed and crotched and petted by countless hands and glared at the cheerleading tramps who wove above the crowd. The chubby pig was the barroom blowjob queen and the other some kid probably underage to be in a bar anyway.
"What were they showing off?" she wondered. "What did they have that I don't? What's a fat drooping stretch-marked ass compared to my smooth high round one? And who cared about some baby-tits in a too large jersey when I could show them great ballooned raised ones? They wanted a goddess? I'd show them a real one! Enough of these fat whores and schoolgirl teasers, I'd not only show them what a goddess looked like I 'd show them where the goddess lived, right between her legs, right in heaven!"
And even in her very tight red pants it was an easy two steps to a table top – one on a fake leather-cushioned chair and one to the table top – and she stood above the crowd, even higher than the jerseyed girl, and she raised her arms, shook her bosom and screamed "San Francisco! San Francisco!"
For a moment the crowd hushed and turned to look, and she didn't disappoint. She beamed at them, tugged up her blouse up to her neck, dipped her thumbs into the lace-frilled bra cups and shook out her moist round breasts out. The men spun and surged; the goddess was making herself available and her followers were there to worship and adore...
But for an instant she tensed in fear as she spotted her husband. He stood above the chubby mini-skirted whore kneeling on the floor, her short skirt hiked up and spun like a belt around her waist, with her husband's dick in the whore's hand as she sucked another off. The two aroused men stood leaning on the bar, their blowjobs and handjobs incidental to the drinks they each clutched. She met her husband's gaze and he sheepishly turned red, looking down at her exposed breasts. She recognized the tensing of his neck and jaw and face muscles contorting before the force of his ejaculation. She looked away and shook her tits, spinning atop the table, and screamed, "San Francisco! San Francisco! San Fran..."
Things went black, then bright, the bartenders flicking the lights and beating the bar for order. And in the blackness of her shaking and spinning and jiggling she broke a heel, lost her balance, and toppled into the reaching, pawning, groping crowd of men.
The only thing that surprised her was how easily the tight red pants were ripped off and how smoothly she was entered and fucked on the floor of Clancy's Bar, over and over and over ... just like a goddess. ****
