Bathroom Trysts by Mick Mykola Dementiuk
Copyright 2012 Mykola Dementiuk
currently published under Trysts: Tales of "Tea Room Queens" TRYSTS: Tales of “Tea Room Queens” by Mykola Dementiuk – Sizzler Editions
Times Square Queer | Columbia Alumni Association
Dedication
To Elisa Rolle, Lover of Gay Literature Blurb
It was Elisa Rolle, book reviewer based in Italy, who first gave me the idea for Bathroom Trysts when she had a brief review of a book about sex in public restrooms. The notion fascinated and intrigued me; what could be better? The idea comes from Laud Humphreys, American sociologist and author of Tearoom Trades: Impersonal Sex in Public Places. I was reminded of my own brief trysts back in the early 1960s when I was a young man, stopping in the various public restrooms all around New York City.
Gay rights was still unheard of, but uptown, downtown, the city was a little more understanding of a man’s needs than it is today, and not just in relieving himself but in brief masturbation shared with another stranger who afterward disappeared back into the city. How many stops did I make in these restrooms, whether I had to go or not? Hundreds, maybe thousands, five, six times a day if not more. I would eagerly, but nervously, enter each time I saw a restroom in subway stations, in park playgrounds, in building hallways, in big stores, all the while seeking release, and in my case, a hurried sexual release, as it was for other men, too, I suppose.
Ah, the bathroom smells: ammonia, cleansing solvent, the endless splashings and dribbles of urine . . . psss . . . the sound hovers in my memory. Sensations come again. A man could just stand there and relieve himself forever . . . as another man stands beside him gazing lovingly at the sound of slurping penis.
But who were the players in these brief trysts? Closeted men having a look or a grope at another closeted man, then going back to their meaningless straight lives. I was such a man pursuing things I never cared for, with time on my hands, searching, hungering for someone who could stick something better and bigger in my fingers . . . if only for a brief while.
Wish my memory was a little stronger, men’s faces more memorable and appealing, with definitely a little more physical action than there is, but there isn’t. A hand-job is a hand-job, nothing more, nothing less. We were but strangers reaching toward each other, momentarily holding and clinging, then, just as quickly, letting go as we hurried back to where we came from.
I sigh, as I sighed then, shrug and go on. All I can do is try to remember.
Bathroom Trysts
The Serenity of Aloneness
Mykola Dementiuk
Word had gotten out among the local boys that I'd been seen entering the Sahara Theater on a Friday night when it was thronged by closeted queer guys sitting next to other closeted queer guys. The Sahara was a popular movie house on Third Avenue, but if you weren't a queer, you wouldn't be seen anywhere near the place. I was, thinking I would not be recognized, that my overcoat would shield me. Yet someone saw me creeping in, and thereafter, I faced scorn, laughter, and snide remarks when I walked by neighborhood boys whose sexuality was no different from mine, actually, still up in the air from our confusing teen years.
This was the early sixties when things were not as sexually open as they are today but painfully hidden, undercover really, in darkened movie-house balconies, which were ideal places to have a quick, anonymous tryst. That was the norm in those years: a grope, a jerk-off, possibly an embarrassed kiss, and off you'd go your own way, still unknown to your also unknown and disappearing sexual partner. The anonymous sex in these places was ideal for someone separate from others but still wanting and willing to touch and to feel and to grope. I was a groper, one of countless thousands in New York City.
But the darkness was still too open, too visible, that I began to imagine the man approaching me came from my own neighborhood, and I would be instantly recognized as soon as I faced him or re-entered the city streets. I would have to avoid the queer movie theater and hit places far from my home; at least, I imagined I would have to do just that. I walked through the endless city streets, morose and dejected. On and on I walked . . . .
* * * *
The first time I had secretive shared sex with another man was in the men's room in Union Square Park. I had entered to pee and immediately went to the last door-less cubicle, ignoring the few men standing the urinals and not caring if anyone saw me or not. This was a public restroom, so why not; I had to relieve myself, didn't I?
Yet, where did I get the reckless courage to do that, and how did I know it was going to be a men's room? Ever since I was young, I seemed to know something was going on in men's rooms across the city, in cubicles, before the urinals, with the sound of flushing, spraying water, the uneasy, shuffling steps coming closer and nearer . . . .
Somehow, I knew to wait with my penis stiff and avid. If I could put down and name an emotion to a man waiting in a restroom cubicle it would be that of sexual hunger, because man is always sexually starved, ravished really, and salivating in the restrooms, the beautiful, sexual dining room of his feeble, hungry, lustful soul.
And as I sat there, my pants lowered, pretending to pee, it was a great eager feeling, having my dick pushed up and exposed, rising so stiffly from between my legs. I knew I should be aiming my penis into the tank beneath me, but I leaned back against the flush valve and gripped my hard dick. What a grand feeling! Masturbating in the open . . . well, at least in the protected openness of a men's restroom cubicle, but what could be better? I had found my destiny.
Then I heard it, shuffling footsteps approaching across the restroom floor. I opened my eyes and gaped in fear and giddiness at the open doorway, not knowing who or what could be coming my way. Oddly, I felt myself more aroused than I ever had before, my senses starved for the stranger.
Come on, hurry up, I thought to myself as I stared at the man standing in the doorway.
He was a red-faced man curiously looking down at me. He glanced back at the restroom and lifted his fingers to his mouth in a gesture of silence, to which I avidly nodded, intrigued by his having taken me into whatever secret conspiracy that had suddenly befallen us both; I continued to jerk off slowly.
He inched into my stall. Being a tall, bulky, chubby man, he took up the space of the cubicle, towering over me. He again smiled, stooped slightly, and gripped my small but hard, erect penis. Euphoria came over me. I dropped my hand, shrinking even lower, as if my entire being was melting and shedding from my skin and its very existence. Without realizing it until it was happening, I'd let myself go, almost instantly spasming, feeling myself coming, the gook spitting out from my dick and spraying upward toward the man.
I looked up at him, scared, frightened, with droplets of my scum festooned on his dark pants. "Oh, I'm sorry," I whispered, face hot and very embarrassed, looking at my semen sprinkled on our legs. "So sorry . . . ."
I heard the bathroom door opening, and another set of footsteps echoed through the almost empty bathroom; the sound of pee splashing filled the room. "Reach behind you and flush," the man barely whispered and nervously gestured behind me.
I did so, and a mighty whoosh echoed through the cavernous men's facility. The man stood, still holding my penis, and gestured I flush again. With my arm behind me and me gripping the flush valve, I pulled, and again, a phlegmatic whoosh echoed throughout the room. I heard footsteps from the urinals, and the man rinsed his hands at the sink and exited the bathroom. Whoever it was had disappeared back into the city.
We both breathed a sigh of relief. Instantly, the man relaxed as he reached into his pants and pulled out his own bulky organ. He stood before me with the large muscle aimed at my face. I shut my eyes and tried to turn away as something kept nudging against my cheeks and trying to pry my lips open. Whatever it was, it found an eager opening and surged into my mouth. A stroke and a pulse inside, and it began to withdraw, then pulsed back in. Repeatedly, I allowed my mouth and throat to follow that movement, as if I was mesmerized by it, losing myself by the growing, abating, growing again, and surging within me. And never once did I feel any strangeness from what was happening in my mouth. Something was pushing in and pulling back out.
A plunge, and my eyes flew open, a crinkle of hairs smudged against my face and a lush, creamy, dewy-scented aroma flickered into my being; if it wasn't for that scent, I probably would have been repulsed and repelled, but I melted, my eyes closing in dreaminess as he plunged again, deeper down my throat. And in what seemed like an instant, the organ began pulling out, and I heard it go plop! as it left my mouth, and that surprising sound brought humor to my eyes; I thought the man was acting funny. I liked him; I thought he liked me, too. But it wasn't funny to him; he nervously looked at me as he drew his penis back inside his pants and zippered up.
"Your face is all smeared," he said, pointing at my face. He wiped his hands on some toilet paper and then dropped it on the floor.
"Oh," I said, looking away from him.
He nodded, looked down at me for a moment, sighed, and then turned and disappeared. I heard him trod along the bathroom tiles, listened as the front door opened and closed behind him.
I felt his scum on my face and rubbed it into my pores. The aroma didn't repel me at all. I was still very hard and eager.
The bathroom door opened again . . . . He must be coming back, I thought as I listened to the steps coming in my direction.
I looked up. A different man warily looked down at me.
I gripped my penis, as if offering it to him, moving it up and down, my tongue licking the remains of the previous man's scum from my face, and me not caring what might happen next.
The men's room, I thought, of course, what better place to be in!
The stranger stepped into my stall; I leaned back, opening my legs even farther . . . .
* * * * *
Of course, these loss of virginity events didn't occur that often. I was very careful, wasn't as open, and hardly ever went into a cubicle. Still, the times I did were gratifying and satisfying, but I grew to accept the openness of the urinals, that was always my preferable destination.
At Penn Station, a busy demarcation point in Manhattan's railroad terminal, with trains pulling in and going out, once again, I stood in the men's room, not knowing why or how I'd spotted the man. Maybe it was the look he had about him, but I felt myself instantly blush and pressed myself closer to the continuously gushing urinal. Perhaps three or four men stood between us, but they peed, shook their droplets off, zippered up, and went on their way. But I seemed to be taking a little longer, as was the man, who had moved a urinal closer to mine, once they were freed. Amazing how that was done, with no sign of it about to happen. He now stood next to me, smiling, listening to the train departure times being announced as more men bustled out of the men's room.
"Train time, eh?" he said, looking down at my penis. A man stood at the sinks rinsing his hands and looking back at us.
"Yeah." I shrugged. "But my train ain't here yet."
Was that a glimmer in the man's eyes, or were my own eyes playing tricks on me in my imagining sexual glimmers where none existed? The man standing next to my urinal took a brief step back and pushed his coat behind him displaying his stiff meaty penis. My mouth fell open, and I stared at it, so eager and vibrant, actually afraid of what I was looking at, a firm adult man's cock, one that, at my nineteen years, would still take me some time to grow into, but I couldn't wait, I wanted to touch and feel it now!
I glanced at the man by the sink, who picked up an attaché case and came to our urinals. The three of us stood there, each holding his dick before him . . . or so it seemed. All I did was stroke my hard stiffness as I stood in the middle with the two men beside me, probably doing the same to theirs.
The man with the attaché case slightly nudged me back from the urinal as the other man stood leering at me but continued to masturbate. I shrugged and reached to clasp his dick and do to him what was being done to me, also at the same time reaching for the other's dick and also stroking it. The unresponsive man was satisfied as was the man beside me who was satisfying me, too. I was masturbating two men, a dick in my right hand, another in my left. Just the idea of what I was doing gripped me and tore right through me. I ejaculated without touching myself, and the feeling was sublime. Standing at the urinal I felt myself oozing and melting as one man erupted and came followed by the other man who did the same, all three of us coming. They began to break loose, pulling their dicks from me, first one man, then the other one. I sadly let go and watched as they sheepishly left the men's room. I sighed and exited the restroom after them. But they had vanished in the home-rushing crowd . . . .
* * * * *
As the months rolled by, I often grew careless at whom I displayed myself too, my stupidity leading me to a few near dire situations.
It was on the west side of Central Park around Sixtieth Street or so. I was smoking a cigarette and braced against the surrounding wall that seemed to go on around the entire park. The notion intrigued me; imagine setting up a park and building a waist-high wall around it, and not for a few blocks, but for miles and miles, from around west Sixtieth Street up to One Hundred—or so—Street and looping it over and continuing on the east side of Manhattan all around the park. Whew! The thought was too much for me.
I must have visibly smirked at the idea, shaking my head in disbelief, when a man, whom I had not seen before, smirked also, and said to me, "Something funny, young man, want to tell me?" And he smiled.
I shook my head as if coming to, grinning back at him.
"I was just thinking about this wall." I tapped against the concrete waist-high barrier behind me. "It goes around the entire park, on and on."
He glanced at the short wall disappearing farther uptown. "Yes, indeed, it does. You're a very perceptive young man, aren't you?"
I looked away. "I try," I said, glancing up at him. "Very hard, too, sir . . . ."
That kind of perked him up; I noticed more eager zest about him. I knew the sir would do that and smirked to myself, puffing on my cigarette before flicking it over the wall, into the bushes beneath it. The man knitted his eyebrows and stood before me, angrily shaking his head.
"What a foolish thing to do," he said. "Don't you know about the water shortage in New York City? I'd like to have you put up against this wall and give you a proper spanking, as you deserve." He dropped his own cigarette and carefully stepped on it, rubbing and grinding his foot atop it.
"You're right," I said, setting down my leg, my hard-on evident in my pants. "I was acting stupid and careless, sorry."
"Yes, you were," he said, looking down me, and shaking his head. His face shone with some kind of hunger; he wanted something. "Don't let that happen again, young man. And you must listen to what you elders say; you will listen, won't you?" His hand tapped mine.
It was clear what was going on then, on the west side of the park, a rich part of town, but also a very kinky environment, one I'd been overhearing rumors about the toilet places in the past few months. I didn't know if they were true: a snippet of a conversation in a Times Square restroom, an overheard chatter in the subway about how Central Park can be sexy at night but very dangerous, too, if you like that kind of stuff. I had passed through the park many times during the day but never went there at night. Sometimes, scary rumors fill your being with fear, and yet, here I was, flirting along the edges and borders of the unknown, about to step right in.
"Sure," I answered, nodding. "I'll be careful." I shifted myself against the wall, once again raising one leg, my stiff penis suddenly evident to him.
The man's eyes widened as he cleared his throat. "I have to use the bathroom," he coughed, looking at me. "You think it's still open?"
I shrugged, glancing downward at the stairway leading to the men's room door; it was early evening but still light.
"I seen a few guys go in and come out, so it must be open." I'd been there earlier, but there wasn't anyone there; I knew it was empty.
He looked at me; I noted a sly cunning expression.
"Well, I think I'll use the restroom." He lowered his voice, "Come after me . . . if you dare." He winked then turned and descended the stairs to the restroom.
I stood leaning against the wall looking after him. Now what was that all about, dare? Did he think I don't know what queers do with each other? I saw him enter the restroom, waited a moment, smirked, and followed after him.
The dingy lit restroom held no comfort; a user came in, did his business, and just as quickly bustled out. It was more than just utilitarian; it was solitary, alone from a world that no longer wanted a part of you. This park restroom was the pits.
I let the door go and warily stepped into the bathroom. A stench of the fragrant to me restroom odor went flying through my senses; ammonia, disinfectant, and urine saturated my being. I breathed in and out, my senses relaxing and easing. I glanced toward the urinals; the man wasn't there. But in the corner of the restroom by the toilet stalls, the man peered out of a booth, holding his head barely out of a stall. I looked back at the shut door and tiptoed to him. I sidestepped him and moved into his stall, as he now stood and blocked the entranceway. He did not look as gentle as he had before, but actually stern and bitter, as if I had done something to him.
"So you like walls around parks?" he hissed. "You think they will shield you in? Well, you're in a wall now. Let's see how you like this—" And he swiftly struck me in the belly, doubling me over. "That's right, boy, get down where you belong, you little cocksucker." With one hand, he released his penis, while with the other hand, he firmly clutched me at the back of my neck. "Suck that cock, boy; suck it good like you were meant to do!"
He pushed himself to me, his cock striking the sides of my face—left, right—as he attempted to gain entry into my mouth. I was all out of breath from his surprising blow, but I continued holding my jaws and teeth clenched. No way would I release my mouth to him! I wanted to run, but I couldn't, as again, he tried to force his penis into my mouth. He began to hit me on the head, pulling at my hair.
"Open your mouth, you fucking pussy; open wide, bitch!"
He'd just tightened his grip on my hair when I heard the front door swing open and someone shout, "Closing time, eight o'clock, everybody out!" A clatter of a ring of keys bounced off a wall. "Anybody here?" he called again. "Come on, go home!" A loud clatter sounded, yet again.
The man with his dick exposed froze and looked down at me. Without any sign, I bolted up and viciously shoved him out of my way, fleeing from him and out of the restroom. The park man glared at me in surprise. "Hey, what is this? Go home, it's late."
The other man peered out of the stall. I painfully darted up the stairs, away from the Central Park restroom.
"Hey, what's this?" repeated the park man.
I continued to run.
* * * * *
Some weeks later, I was in the Staten Island Ferry terminal, after having drifted through the rainy city streets, simply watching the people passing in. Back then it was easy to take a ride. A dime would get you through the turnstile at the terminal, and you could spend hours lazing about, reading discarded papers, or just looking at the Staten Island people going back home. No one ever bothered you; the people were in constant motion, always boarding ferryboats to where you were pretty much left alone. And if the terminal got too boring to pass time in, you could always take a ferry ride and look at things from the other side of the island.
Still, I had spent many a time reading papers in the terminal, and the rainy day outside made me glad I did so. People would come in soaked and wet, saturated from the rainstorm pouring down outside. I like rainy days, always had, especially when you could look at them from the inside. It was early afternoon, and eventually I would be heading home. But I felt that a ride on the ferryboat would do me good, after all, I'd paid my entrance fee, a dime, which already had gotten me into the terminal.
The wide ferryboat entrance doors slid open, and people were making their way aboard; I let go of my newspaper and followed them onto the ferry.
Though wet and fog-covered, the skyline of Manhattan was an awesome sight behind us; it pierced through the clouds, pushing upward to stand so boldly erect, floor by floor making a last grasp skyward before it turned and sneered down at us as if to say, "Petty man" . . . then it shook its head and looked elsewhere. New York was like that, unknown and unknowable, a stranger to its millions of strangers, each year's coming upon you with a newness and uniqueness that even it can't foresee or foretell; that's why I love it so much!
I smiled to myself at the fading skyline and instantly felt the redness fill my face, suddenly aware a man holding a newspaper but curiously gazing at me was looking my way. Whenever I felt myself being gawked at, I got very embarrassed as if being observed at doing the wrong thing. I never knew how to present myself to people, as if I was a little kid just waiting for the adult others to tell me what to do.
The man nodded, and for some strange reason, I nodded back at him.
"Going home?" he asked, coming nearer to my bench.
"Not really," I shrugged, "just taking a ferryboat ride."
He sat next to me, crossing his legs and folding the paper next to him. I was very nervous with him looking at me.
"You like ferryboats; that's nice to know," he said, lowering his voice. "I like ferries too," he continued, nodding his head, "very much so."
His eyes held a cunning sparkle. We were seated on an inner lower level, while most of the people were on the upstairs levels. He looked around, clasped my leg at the knee, and squeezed it; I became incredibly hard and wanted him to touch me more.
"Yeah, ferries are nice," I said, reaching for a cigarette. The flame wouldn't take; my pack of cigarettes had gotten damp from being outside in the mist as I was looking at the skyline before I came in.
"Have one of mine," he said, flicking open a gold cigarette case and holding it at his crotch. I was amazed; was that a bulky hard-on I was seeing in his pants? I swallowed and reached for a cigarette, dislodging my own hard cock. If I stood up it would blare out and blast before me, just as his was doing.
"Thank you," I mumbled, sucking up the flame he was holding out to me. I stretched and saw him again looking around.
"Do you know if the men's restroom is nearby?"
I nodded.
"On this level." I gestured with my head. "There, where the man just came out." We watched a man quickly walk out of a restroom, hurry down the row of aisles where we were sitting, pass us, and continue up a stairway. Another man hurried out the other way.
"So you do know where it is," he said. "You've been here before. Excellent! Well, I have to use the restroom." He refolded his paper. "If you have to go, do it after me." He winked and lowered his voice. "It won't look too good being seen walking in together . . . if you know what I mean?"
I nodded, he smiled, and I watched him go to the restroom, turn back to look at me, nod again, and vanish inside. I took a puff of the cigarette, stamped it out, and went to the restroom after him.
The ferryboat's engine seemed to churn loudly beneath us as I entered the lavatory and noticed the man standing before a double unoccupied urinal. He seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, beaming at me when he saw me striding right up next to him.
"You came," he said, grinning and winking as if there was another meaning, and pushed me back from standing too close to the urinal. His hand circled my stiff penis and began to beat it, slowly up and down. He nudged himself back and showed me his own large penis, too. I was mesmerized by the sight; its hugeness seemed to call out to me. I took it in my hand and slowly wrapped my fingers around it. Its bigness and bulkiness were very nice; I wanted to lace my lips with it. The tender warmth I felt on the skin and flesh was sweet. As I used to do to myself, I stroked his flesh, not rapidly but a slow progression, falling into the steady beat, which he was also doing to me. Two cocks masturbated together as one was heavenly, the feeling absolutely divine. When a spasm gripped me, tearing me into non-existence, my eyes clamped shut with a heavenly peace and relief upon me. I had come, and when I opened my eyes, I saw that he had come, too. But he'd changed, more thoughtful and worried at probably being seen together. Without a word and hardly looking at me, he re-zippered and quickly left the restroom. I sighed, waited a moment then pulled my zipper and also went outside.
The ferryboat had docked and was emptying of people who filled the Staten Island streets making their way home. Then I saw him walking out of a lower level and toward a waiting car. A woman sat in the driver's seat, and a small child stood up beside her. I kept walking in their direction. The man got in on the passenger's side, hugged the child, and leaned to kiss the woman when he saw me . . . . Was that a look of remembrance and embarrassment over what had just occurred? His face looked very red as the car drove off and then disappeared.
I re-entered the terminal and took the next boat back home to Manhattan. A drizzle was still falling and the wind was picking up.
* * * * *
Restroom in the public library. There were a few, Donnell on Fifty Third Street, Lincoln Center in the 60s, and my favorite, the main branch of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue and Forty Second Street. The place was enormously huge, people going up and down the stairs, carrying books to check them out, or returning them. People also sat at some seat or table, where I, too, wasted my time. I'd used to spend hours there, pretending to be some bibliophile searching for some secret knowledge. Hah, what rubbish! During this quest for learning, I'd remain alert and ready, my eyes seeking a quirk, a look, a hand movement or gesture that would say, "Leave all the books behind you and follow me . . . ."
And like the apostles, we'd be teeming around the men's room as if it were our savior on the third floor, going in, one after the other, taking a whiz, and then returning to our supposed pursuit of literature. I saw countless men, hoards of men, going in after each other. But who was watching me if anyone?
At the entrance to the men's room, you couldn't help but notice the ever-present smell of different scents in the air. Urine, you could never disguise, or the various disinfectants and ammonia used, poured in countless gallons over years and years. Even in such a huge restroom as this was, the odor was pervasive. It's a biting smell, often displeasing, but once you spend some time in the facility, you get used to its pleasant, relaxing odor. The bite isn't a bite but more like a chew, a gnaw you became aware of once you'd finished and exited the men's room; only then you realized its absence.
I relieved myself, breathing in and taking a slow look about the place. Three or four men stood peeing, and one who had just rushed in peed desperately as if it was the end on his world and he'd been holding it in until now. Two other men stood at the sinks, one washing his hands as the other stood combing his hair. Behind me, I heard a cubicle door open and a man quickly stepping out, disappearing through the opening/closing door.
Wait a minute, are my eyes deceiving me or was that a female sitting and remaining in the stall?
The cubicle door shut and closed from inside. So someone still is in there . . . .
I zippered up and went to wash my hands, still looking at the door where I'd seen another set of legs moving about. Holding the paper towel from drying my hands, I stepped near the shut door of the cubicle. Inside, someone moved. I could see their form through the interstice. I heard the faint click of the door being opened. As if it was a natural thing to do, I braced the door open with my shoulder and stepped in, closing the door behind me.
A crudely decorated man looked up at me, dressed in only a garter belt and nylons with a loose bra hanging from his chest, his hard wet penis sticking out before him. A feeble, tilted wig roosted atop his head, and he had badly rubbed-in makeup on his face; I suppose the lack of a mirror made the cream so awkward, but the slutty appearance made my dick spring up and harden even more.
"Oh, goody, a young student at the library," he—she drooled, "I always wanted one of those."
Almost instantly, he pulled my zipper down and fumbled for my cock, all the while jerking himself off. He gulped and sucked as if my cock was manna from heaven, which to him, I suppose it was. But he had a strange movement of his hands, tickling and tapping my balls from beneath, which increased my horniness and made me ready for an explosive coming even before I’d started. Barely seven or eight suckings, certainly less than ten, and I felt my cock erupting, the semen rising up my shaft, directly into his—her mouth.
With both my hands, I grabbed his fake hairdo, spewing out, "Aw, cocksucker!" and exploding within him.
My semen shot in his mouth and came out of the sides of his lips. Again, I felt that wave of coming, and I shot out once more, but this time, a little less forcefully. Another trickle of scum dribbled down his chin as my penis plopped out of his mouth. In a daze, he looked at my cock, his wet, smeared mouth hanging open and ready for another mouthful. I zippered up, looking at him, and clicked open the locked door.
"Sorry I said what I said." I sounded lame even to my own ears. "But you were good, real good."
The man blushed, shrugged, and whispered, "That's okay; I'm used to it."
I opened the door, two men stood by the doorway as if waiting for me to leave.
I left the cubicle, and one man quickly stepped in after me, shutting the door behind him. I looked at the nervous impatient man.
Did he lose his turn? Hope he didn't have wait too long.
I nodded at him, but he turned away. I merrily left the New York Public Library and skipped down the stairs.
* * * * *
In the chilly winter, I had stepped into the park on the East Side around Twentieth Street just to take a leak. Was walking around most of the day applying for jobs wherever they had a sign hanging in some front window: dishwasher, messenger, stock boy; it all meant a few dollars, which I never had anyway. I just needed anything that would put a little bread on my table, anything that would keep my stomach from constantly growling.
Still, I had to use the bathroom but wow, an open one! The relief in taking a piss was awesome, still, it was weird to find an open restroom in the cold of winter; they normally would have been closed off as soon as the temperatures prevented strollers from wandering into the park. I was grateful for the solitude and isolation, reminded me of better days. I stood there holding my dick as I heard someone enter the restroom. My wary alertness leaped up, as much as my hard-on stood up straight, bumping the cold urinal before me.
I glanced at the stranger; it was a uniformed park man, and I thought he was going to tell me to get out. I exhaled, no danger with him, but he curiously smiled at me, undoing his zipper, and stood in the urinal right next to mine. I grinned to myself; there were four urinals in the bathrooms. He could have stepped before one at far end, but no, he chose to be right next to mine.
"A cold day," he said, shivering and looking at me.
"Brutal." I nodded, looking back at him, realizing I too shivered. "How come this place is open?" I asked. "You don't usually see restrooms open in the winter."
He shrugged.
"Park commissioner lives nearby and always comes in to take a leak before continuing on his way to City Hall. Ordered them to stay open. Hey, I don't make the rules; I just follow them."
By then he had turned and faced me, leaning against the urinal, his erect hard cock pushing out before him. I also turned to face him, our two cocks rigid and very eager.
"Wow, he walks from the twenties down to City Hall, that's really something."
"Well, you know these stay in health types, always exercising."
He put his hand on my cock, gently rubbing it back and forth. I inched closer and did the same to his, gripping his bulky stiff muscle.
"Yeah, nothing like being in shape," I said. "Especially when you walk that far to work." I lowered my head, still holding and beating his cock. "Wish I had a job to go to"—I shrugged—"but it's hard in these times."
He moved closer to me, our two cocks lapping against each other's. We let go of our dicks and let them rub against each other. They did it admirably, each cock tapping against the other, as if they were kissing.
He nodded. "I know it must be tough without having a job, how do you make ends meet?"
Our arms were around each other, our faces were also close, so close that I felt his warm breath on my bitter cold face; the warmth was very relaxing. I also breathed out on him. Our mouths fell atop each other, kissing and sucking. I felt the gripping in my penis and the quick and speedy semen barreling up my cock, exploding in a spray of warmth and heat I had forgotten I could feel. The man still held onto me for a few seconds but was also suddenly gripping my shoulders as he spat out his own semen on my cock and on my pants. We held each other, my head on his shoulder, his head resting atop mine.
He straightened up, as did I, and put his penis back in his pants. I did the same to mine, regrettably knowing I would have to leave.
"Hey, kid, that was awesome. You really know how to treat a guy right," he said and winked and reached in his back pocket, removing a wallet. He waded through a pile of bills and pulled one out, it was a five-dollar bill. My eyes widened. He held it out to me.
"Oh my God, you don't know what this does to me!" I took the bill. My head fell against his shoulders, and I hugged him, wanting to cry.
"That's all right, kid." He hugged me back, then opened his wallet and brought out another five-dollar bill. He winked again. "Come back tomorrow and we'll see what else we can do, all right?" He kissed me on the cheek, and we were about to leave the restroom. In the doorway he paused and said, "Only come earlier in the day, I'm always here at the park station, after ten o'clock." And he winked and cleared his throat. "Now, I'll leave first, okay?" He motioned to a small building that was just outside the restroom where I had seen him standing before. "When you come tomorrow, I'll follow to see what you're doing, got that?"
I nodded and watched him leave. I waited a few moments and left after him. In the doorway to his park building I saw him standing, his hands in his pockets, and smoking. He nodded as I walked past, my dick once again growing hard and rigid, as probably his was too.
I went home and had a nice dinner, but I never went back to the "park commissioner's" restroom. Sometimes I wish I had . . . . Hey, maybe he's the mayor by now?
* * * * *
I was busy walking all over the city, had a messenger's job that I kind of liked, but the constant motion of hurrying and catching subways then rushing after them always left me in a kind of daze. I must have looked stoned or drunk many a time as I hurried about.
One day, I had to make a delivery on Tenth Avenue in the thirties to some seedy, old worn warehouse. I liked the dejected mood of the area; it looked like anything could happen there. Had no difficulty climbing the stairs, having the package signed for, and making my way back down, but on about the second floor, one of the doors was ajar and I saw a young guy, about my age, nineteen or twenty, standing before a toilet bowl and loudly peeing. I looked at him and knew I instantly reddened from the heat rising in my face. Who was he, I wondered, to be standing so boldly and unconcerned about taking a piss, the owner's son? I looked up and saw that he'd turned to face me and held out his dick. He winked, I blushed some more and darted down the stairs. But as I scurried away, I felt my dick hardening. Why was I running away? He was in a restroom but not a public one. Must be after the same thing I was, a mutual masturbation. I shook my head and went outside, drifting for a few more blocks.
And as if knowing I'd appear with my sexual tension, I walked right into a small park, a comfort station inviting me in. I grinned, my dick hardening and getting ready for release. I knew I'd jerk off there because at this time of the day, there would hardly be anyone in the place, but as I entered, I was surprised to see two men in a corner at the urinal tanks, obviously peeing. I grinned to myself thinking back to the many months I'd spent visiting restrooms all over Manhattan; these were no casual urinators, that's for sure. I turned to them; they each stood at a urinal away from me and also looked at me. I blinked my eyes in surprise. At the far end, beside the man, stood a young boy, possibly thirteen, fourteen years old, and he wore a vapid dreamy expression from sexual fulfillment or lustful hunger, and this being a restroom, I was sure it was a hunger.
How many years had it been for me, one, two, three? I was fifteen, sixteen when I'd started going into restrooms and having myself pawed and groped and doing the same to the other dick. He touched me; I touched him, easy as pie. Because what were they, these men with an available, ready hard-on, desperate for another hard-on, too? Men come, men go as they paw and grope and hurry out with their satisfied pricks into the busy streets.
I sighed, flushed and zippered up, turning to leave. The two pee-ers continued to stand before their urinals. The boy looked at me with his hungry, lusty, empty look and seemed to smile at me, turning red. I shuffled out.
"He isn't like us," I heard the man say, "And he's stoned, I think, drugs, you know . . . ."
"Oh, he was?" said the boy.
I stepped outside, imagining the boy being groped and felt up.
I shrugged and hurried to a place where I could jerk-off in seriousness.
* * * * *
Still, winter months were better for trysting in public restrooms of the parks; bulky clothes meant you could stand before the urinal with another standing beside you and who could tell what was going on? Peeing in public had become almost like peeing in private, sort of. And more and more, I visited the restrooms of the city.
The subway station on Broadway/Seventh Avenue and Forty Second Street was a morass of tunnels and walkways to rival the other station down on Broadway and Thirty Fourth Street, also filled with tunnels, ramps, and walkways. Architectural gems of design they may have been, but the countless hoards of people passing through the walkways to their destinations set off a tired, weary looking mien about the entire fabrication. Of course, a traveler had to relieve himself, and what more convenient place to do it than a restroom neatly located right in the subway walkway.
The restroom on Forty Second Street was placed right as you came up the ramp from the RR subway on the Broadway line, which traveled up to Astoria or down to Brooklyn, traversing busy Forty Second Street.
I bustled into the restroom. All morning I'd been delivering envelopes and packages, hardly even taking a break, and by early afternoon I sure needed relief; good thing I was on Forty Second Street.
The restroom was filled with pee-ers, waiting casually their turn or sweat-faced and biting their lips as if they couldn't wait to stand and pee before a urinal. Surprisingly, a man instantly came and stood next to me awaiting his turn. He looked at me and nodded; I felt myself turn red but also nodded, my penis already buckling upward. I moved to a urinal and pulled my dick out; instantly, the man did the same but his overcoat, which had been braced over his arms in a casual way, covered his arm that now inched toward my penis aimed into the urinal before me. I inched closer to the side, but to a casual observer from behind me there would have little clue of what was going on.
I stood still, my penis encircled by his hand, and I felt the quick, rapid motion of a hurried jerking off session. A few strokes, ten, fifteen, and I instantly felt myself rumbling and barreling to release. God, it was beautiful! For an instant, I lost myself, shutting my eyes and coming like I had not come before. Glorious peace and serenity filled me; I was content.
I heard the man next to me flush his urinal and turn to walk away. I also flushed, re-zippered, and desperately turned behind me. Men stood, still awaiting their turns at the urinals, but what had he looked like anyway? Who was he, and where was he?
I rinsed my hands, closely looking at every man I saw, but nowhere was a sign of masturbatory recognition. Sulkily, I wandered out of the restroom.
* * * * *
There is nothing like a female in a man's body, the sissification is awesome and so incredible the explosive horniness becomes out of control when you're with her or with him.
I did a double take when I first saw her walking into the restroom; that was obviously a man dressed as a woman, I thought, but wait, she's coming right to me! And shyly, head bowed, taking the urinal next to mine, she eyed me and whispered, "Can you come on my face, please?"
I grinned, looking at her, the crudely hung dress about her, the shoulder length hair, slightly puffed up and curled, giving off a pleasant appearance to her face, which showed a clear sign of faint stubble protruding from about her lips and chin. This was back in the days when all sorts of foolish notions took a hold of women's magazines, and they expressed that men's cum had miraculous powers and potency to make you appear young, a veritable fountain of youth. But she looked like a prominent cocksucker, male or female, I didn't care; I wanted her mouth around me with my hands on her—him.
"You want it on your face, eh?"
I took a step back, showing my uncut penis with the skin pulled back as much as it would go. It seemed her entire body blushed. I could feel the throbbing of her flesh right near me, but she dropped to the ground, regardless of who came in and tried to swallow my hard cock. Her movements caught me by surprise, I instantly took a step back out of the way, but she tried once more to go for my dick, rubbing it against her face and once more propelling her mouth to circle and swallow it.
We were in the Second Avenue Park on Fifteenth Street, and I had just wandered in to take a leak. You could hear the traffic and children playing outside; at one point a dog even started barking at some threat or someone coming nearer his owner. Still on her knees, she came at me with her open mouth, but again, I moved out of the way. Her face was filled with a sexual hunger, but her mouth appeared downturned and very sad.
"You don't like?" she asked, moving her hand in her pocket and pulling out a few bills. "Here, I give you money . . . ."
I looked at the two or three folded dollars and shook my head.
"I'm not after money, but someone might come in and they might see us."
She shook her head.
"So what, I'm a girl, ain't I?" She fluttered her eyelids looking at me. "Anyway, I just want a face creaming. I'll suck you 'til you're ready to cum, then do it all over my face, please?"
"Are you a real girl?" I asked, going for her breasts; a feel of that would convince me. Again she darted out of the way. Maybe she was, maybe she wasn't? I had never been sucked by a real female, saw and stared at them countless times in the shops along Times Square, but even her expressions were feminine. Again, she held out the scant money.
"Please, a face creaming," she pleaded. "That's all I want. I don't bite."
I stared at her, her mouth ready for a sucking. I nodded. "Okay, but let's go in the stall; it'll be better that way."
She instantly brightened, slouching and standing, and moved to a door-less stall, still holding out the meager few dollars. I took it as she sat on the toilet seat and again lunged at my cock. I stood rigidly and watched my cock disappear in her mouth. She was an expert cocksucker, swallowing and drawing away from my cock, draining it and sucking it again. I felt that simmer of boiling liquid deep in my body and quickly rising upward. I gripped her head, the scant dollars dropping away, and exploded into her mouth.
God, it's beautiful! The semen dribbled out of the sides of her mouth, but still she held on to my cock and even tried to swallow it deeper.
I was drained, my cock weakening and finally plopping out of her mouth. With one finger, she wiped at the scum that had smeared her mouth but I realized she wasn't wiping if off but rubbing it in, which she continued on her face, nostrils, and forehead. I looked at her and again felt myself getting hard and harder, my penis again rising to stiffness, aiming at her mouth. She jerked away.
"What are you doing?" she asked, stooping down and grabbing her money. "You had your chance. That wasn't a face creaming at all. You came in my mouth, that's not the same. I wanted a face creaming."
I looked at her, my brows crinkled on my forehead. "You wanted scum; I gave you scum. Let's do it again, okay."
But she had pushed herself up and exited the stall.
"You cock-sucking bitch!" I cursed. But she had quickly walked out of the restroom. "Faggot whore!" I spat after her, hearing her footsteps clicking away from the restroom.
I dropped on the toilet seat and started jerking off, cursing at the memory of this half-boy/half-girl fake who had intruded into my life.
"Bitch!" I quickly ejaculated for the second time, but it wasn't the same. I was angry. I left the Second Avenue Park restroom. She was nowhere around, and kids were playing outside. I stalked out of the park.
* * * * *
How many men had I jerked off and been jerked off by? Countless. Men come, men go, but there are always other men coming closer, stepping nearer to reach and hold and clutch my penis as I clutch theirs, as if it were a holy talisman sacred to only God. What is creation? It is God, which stems from the penis, aiming at itself, going round and round and round . . . .
I entered the restroom already hard and stiff, and within moments, the bathroom door opened, and I heard another man coming to the urinals. I didn't look to see his face; what would be the point? Was he relieving himself or cunningly looking at me? Of course, it was hard to tell. Bathroom trysts lasted for as little time it took to jerk off or do the same to another standing next to you. A tap on your wrist or an eye movement and a greedy hungry hand pulsed in, took hold, and stroked until you both erupted in cacophonous but controlled spasms. You zippered up and went your own way. I'd never met a man for longer than the time it took to reach ejaculation. Sure, there had been a few who held on a little longer, but in the restrooms it was just for that, a soothing rest, a sweet coming, and a fading back to where you were once before. I often wondered how they would have acted outside, back in the real world . . . .
I heard him enter the restroom, my penis stiff and eager. I looked up, expecting the usual, a typical morass of men who used public restrooms, but I was stunned by his bulky size as he, smiling and nodding, towered over me. He stood at the urinal next to mine. I instantly went erect—my body not my organ—and zippered up and flushed, turning away from him.
"Caro mio, please don't go," he whispered, seemingly all out of breath. "I just got here."
I was struck by the Italianism, but this was Lincoln Center, the operatic capital of the world. I turned to the urinal again.
"Bravo, such a sweet boy . . . ."
I was surprised by his daintiness of talking, also feminine. I looked up at him, his face red, and he was breathing very hard, a raspy, strained, wheezing, in an attempt to take in air.
"You're a big man," I meekly answered, slowly un-zippering.
A look of satisfaction appeared on his face, an easing, a peaceful serenity of acceptance.
"I've seen you many times before," he said, breathing in and out heavily as his fingers pawed at my crotch. I had barely pulled my zipper down but he succeeded in finishing it for me, lowering the metallic teeth, and reaching for my stiff dick. "But you're always so fast. I couldn't keep up with you."
I furrowed my forehead. What was he talking about? I've near been this far uptown; Lincoln Center was certainly out of my way.
"Always in a rush." I shrugged. "You know how it goes."
He nodded.
"Yes, yes, the early bird gets the worm, eh? You have a very nice worm there, if you get my meaning?"
I moved my hand over to the urinal and reached in for what I thought would be a huge dick, but was puzzled by its scant obtrusiveness. Where I had expected a big cock from a very big man, I found a wee little one, hard but barely the size of my pinky finger. I looked up at him, my hand trying to cling onto the wee stranger. I had pity on him.
"I know I'm small," he said, nodding, "but I am the maestro, with a passion raging within me. I need a young man, like you, who can comfort me and ease me in my periods of tension, before or after shows."
He was beating my cock in quicker and quicker movements, the bright aura of the vacant men's room almost oppressive in its brightness, which I'm sure was a natural to the big man. I let go of his tiny dick and gripped the flush valve, as if undecided whether to flush or not. The flush valve became his dick, which was hard and stiff, its moistness spreading on my fingers. My semen instantly shot out to the urinal; I flushed, gritting my teeth and clamping my eyes shut.
"Bello," I heard him mutter. "Bellisimo!"
My ejaculation was powerful, gripping me with the bright power of the light around me. I steadied myself, still holding onto the flush valve.
"What's that mean," I muttered, "Bello . . . ?"
"Bellisimo, simply beautiful, as you are." He smiled and sighed. "I've been looking all over for you, and here you are."
But I had zippered my pants and stood looking at him. "Why were you looking, for what?"
He also zippered up and flushed his urinal. "I want you to be my good friend, mio caro. And I will please you in return. Can you do that?"
"Your friend, but we just met?"
He was shaking his head as he joined me at the sinks, pretending to wash his hands.
"All you have to do is please me, as only a young man can do, and I will please you in return. I have other young men for my other needs, but now you can join them. Imagine that, you will be Pasquali's assistant. Please, say yes, you will?" And he looked at me, biting his lip.
I looked at him, a huge robust man, it was very intimidating standing next to him. I wiped my hands on a paper towel.
"What do I gotta do?"
He smiled and breathed out.
"Eccelente, fortissimo!" He clamped his three index fingers together and gave an exuberant kiss to them. "Just come to the stage door and ask for Pasquali, tenor at the opera. You will be bustled in." He winked at me and stood proudly before the mirror, straightening his collar, and announced, "Ciao, I'll be waiting." And he exited the men's room.
I looked in the mirror and thought about it. A life as an opera tenor's assistant, giving him hand-jobs and blowjobs to his wee little dick whenever he needed it. And knowing him in the brief time I suddenly knew him, I was sure it was going to be many, many times. That would set me up for a new life, one of travel and seeing places I still hadn't seen before or even dreamt of ever seeing, I think . . . .
I grimaced. Who was he kidding? Opera, my ass! I'd still be handling dick, over and over, until he had his fill of me or would find someone else to replace me, as I was doing, standing in someone else's shoes. I'd be leaving the bathroom world for good. Might get fancy clothes and prestige but at what cost to my pride? But could I please him? I doubt it.
I shrugged and left the Lincoln Center men's room. It was a mistake in coming uptown; I should've known better. I didn't belong here. I headed back downtown. The wind was blowing, but I turned up my collar, smirking and thinking about Pasquali. What an asshole!
* * * * *
In my days of endless bathroom visits, uptown, downtown, Kings or Queens counties of New York, even New Jersey, I'd always come home to my roots, so to speak, where I'd feel safe after a chaotic day pursing the feeble coins that seemed to take care of my existence. Of course, I never made enough, each paycheck lasting as far as a week or so, before I'd be penniless again just waiting for another paycheck to be doled out. I always was short changed. I could never build for a future, any savings I had would quickly disappear. I was always back where I started from, round and round and round it went, endless . . . . Anyway, public restrooms weren't really that, you had to be a part of their public before you could be accepted.
It was very early morning in Rockefeller Center, long before the morning rush hour started. I had stepped in to take a leak at the restrooms on Sixth Avenue, they had just been cleaned, and everything looked spotless. The paper towels were stacked in their dispensers, as was the liquid soap held in bottles over the sinks. I peed, rinsed my hands, and stood looking in the bright, shiny mirrors around me. I heard a sound. I looked up to my left and saw a man inching out of a bathroom stall, his pants lowered to his feet, his socks held up by leg garters—definitely a man of the olden style of dressing—with a white shirt and necktie around his neck. I wanted to laugh. Did he have to be reminded to pull his pants up? A man's busy day can't be that busy?
I shook my head and went back to washing my hands.
"Psst!" I heard. "Psst, boy . . . ." It was the pants-less man. "Come here, boy . . . ." And he winked and smiled. "Want to make a few dollars?"
Obviously, he knew no one had come in to use the restroom; he had been watching through the door interstice all along, knowing our privacy would be intact, at least for a little awhile. I crumpled the paper towel I was holding and casually strode over to him.
"What I gotta do?" I asked, knowing that my freaky grammar would sound askew and out of place in Rockefeller Center.
He drew back into his stall. I inched after him, drawing the door closed behind me. He dropped to the toilet bowl, holding out some bills and looked up at me.
"Sit on my lap," he said, tapping his hands on his lap. "That's all you have to do. Just be a good boy and sit there." Again, he tapped his lap.
I shrugged, took the money, and sat down. It was awkward sitting there, like a little kid, but that's exactly what he wanted. I moved my weight around, settling down on him but that seemed not to bother him.
"Put your arm around my shoulders," he whispered, "and hold me . . . . Be a good boy."
I did so.
"Hmm, very nice. Such a sweet young boy. You like your daddy?"
I figured what the hell, I'd play along; he did pay me.
"Yes, daddy, very much. You're the bestest daddy I ever had!"
I knew he was smiling, I could feel the warmth and weight of his face.
"How much you do love your daddy?" he nervously asked. I pushed myself off his chest and looked at him. "Show daddy, he's waiting . . . ."
What the hell was he expecting, a hand-job, blowjob, what? I stooped down and kissed him. His arms went around my body and desperately clutched me. Our kissing wasn't an amateur rubbing of our lips together but a full open-mouthed, salivating kiss against the other's lips. I'd been kissed by other men, a warm peck on my lips or the side of my face, but never an open-mouthed swallowing of the other. I was incredibly stiff and hard. I moved my zipper down and tried to pull my penis out. He broke from me and pushed me back.
"What are you doing, young man? How dare you? Is that all you think of me, that I'm just a queer play thing?" He looked at me, fuming, his angry frowning mouth staring at me. "Get up and leave, right this minute!"
I was confused. What the hell was this?
"But I didn't do nothing," I said, standing up from him. My pants zipper was still open. "I thought you wanted this." I reached in and pulled my cock out, waving it before him. He fumed.
"Leave this instant, young man. I'm not a sex toy you can play with. I'm not a queer, like you are. Leave or I will call security!"
I shook my head, zippering up and pulled open the door.
"You're nuts; that's what you are. A real queer nut case!" I slammed open the cubicle door and got out of the stall.
The front door flew open and a uniformed man entered, he was big and bold and staring right at me.
"Trouble, sir?" he asked, momentarily gazing at the cubicle I had stepped from but looking right at me.
I saw the man peer out and shake his head.
"This boy won't do; you have to find another one . . . ."
The security guard looked at his watch.
"It's getting close to the morning," he said, "not much time left, sir." And again, he stared at me.
"I understand," said the man, and he re-entered his stall, closing the door behind him.
"Let's go," he said to me. "Show's over."
He opened the door, waiting for me to pass through. We looked at each other.
"Next time just sit there," he shrugged, "just sit. That's all you have to do."
I looked at him. "Just sit?"
He nodded. "Just sit . . . ."
I looked at him then trudged out of Rockefeller Center; the morning crowd was starting up.
* * * * *
How many men? Countless men. How much desire? Feverish desire. If I added them up, how many would there be, a few hundred, maybe a thousand? And each face, much like the other faces. But really, just a profile, almost faceless, a rub, a satisfaction, and they disappear. Teeming restrooms, solitary ones, all very much alike.
Cubicle after cubical, urinal after urinal, man after man, they'd come, stand, pee. Grope after grope, they'd move back into their meaningless lives, satisfied for an instant, a moment that quickly passed, faded, disappearing except in memories.
I remember one urinal walled off from the toilet bowl in a room apart from the other. Why had they built it like this, I wondered, in separate rooms? Probably plans gone awry, but as I stood peeing, I heard the door opening directly behind me, and a man entering. Damn, I was sure I had snapped the locks shut.... Perhaps he didn't know someone was at the urinal? An honest mistake; honest, my ass, that's all there was in the room, a urinal. I looked back over my shoulder to show him I was still here and was almost done, but I saw his penis freed of his pants and rapidly rising before him. He was stiff; I shrugged, same story as I felt his hands and arms on my back and his heavy breaths on my shoulders. Even when I turned to him, a dribble of urine cascaded down my legs, and I felt our two hardening penis's rubbing, one against the other. Barely thirty, forty seconds—less than a minute—and I saw him clenching his eyes shut.
"Aw, fuck!" he groaned, as my fever seized me, and I also shot out on his tan slacks, both of us shooting and rubbing against the other. I think we held each other a little longer than it took to erupt on each other. For maybe once in our lives, we sensed the possibility of friendship and compassion, but then he saw the stain on his tan slacks at his thigh, and it was obvious what that stain was.
I pushed myself off him, seeing him rubbing at the resistant stain as he only increased its size. I zippered up, looked at him, and without a word turned and left the tiny restroom.
Outside a woman was seated at the bar, holding a drink, and did a double take when she saw me coming out and walking to the door. Did she know it was only for one person at a time, and was that her husband, boyfriend, or companion?
I wondered, looking at her, and chuckled, knowing she would have to wait a bit longer to see him again. I felt good and went through the revolving doors back outside.
* * * * *
It happens in all sort of ways, a look, a glance, a hurried bustle to a restroom, and there you are standing before a urinal and pretending to pee as he reaches for your hungry, aching cock. What is the feeling at that instant, compassion, tenderness, or lust? Whichever it may be, there is a mutual sharing and a oneness that you have never felt before. You stand apart, but at that moment, barely an inch or two separates the two of you, and you savor his groping, as you, too, reach and grope his penis.
What do you feel at that moment, lust or soothing togetherness? Whatever it may be, it is a shared victory, as meaningless as it may be, but each man victorious in a city of cold strangers, each going his own way and never once looking back. But alas, you have stepped out of your bounds and touched, each reaching for the other until you become one. You have married and melded and united much as wedded people do, but better, as a stranger, you will remain a stranger, yet still allowed to inch to another and momentarily lose your coldness and suddenly discover your communion with the universe, for it shows that you can be one. At that instant, two have become one, and as one, they ejaculate. Ah, bliss, serenity, awesome ecstatic peace . . . .
You each let go, suddenly relieved that no one has spotted you and seen what you were doing. He flushes, you flush, and without looking at each other's blushed and reddened faces, you leave the restroom and disappear into the heartless, cold city. Ah, beautiful, the serenity of aloneness . . . .
* * * * *
Sometimes I do wonder about the anonymity I've fallen into. I'm as unknown as they, too, are unknown to me. Does any one of them question this: that we share ourselves in passion, in heat, a few strokes, and an explosive ejaculation, then return back to what we were before? How many anonymous men have my hands stroked and beaten as they did the same to me? Was each stroke just a meaningless stroke, acting like the scum you shoot out and spill against the urinal, to be flushed and dribbled away forever? Will I ever share myself with another who wants me for what I am, and not just a hard penis aimed into a urinal?
In the lighted darkness, I come and go. Still anonymous, still unknown, still flushing needlessly forever . . . . A footstep enters. My stiffness rises, expectant, weary, alert . . . . A stroke. Another stroke. Ah, bliss . . . .
* * * * *
By the late 1960s I was relying on public restrooms less and less for my sexual comfort and started going up to Times Square movie houses, which would be flocked with men gazing up at the huge bimbos showing off their tits and asses for the hard-up jerking off audience before them. Of course, these men's theaters would be filled with men, seat after seat, with their coats on their laps and obviously jerking off. I, too, would be jerking off, as I'd stare up hungrily at the screen or just sat there as another man took the seat beside me and started the feeling up process—which I eagerly welcomed.
Everyone knew what was going on in these theaters, men staring up at naked women but feeling each other up. There was a contradiction in intents and purposes here; in the early days of sexual liberation, when gay was still an uncertain word, these men weren't gay but men just sharing their bodies with another body, which just happened as you were, a male. But isn't that what men were doing in the bathrooms too, men wanting other men, or at least their penises? How many times have I stood with another man standing beside me, and suddenly, I would feel his hand reaching and groping my already hard and stiff dick before me? Way too many times, that's for sure. But men come, men go; restrooms stay, whether opened or closed; the need is always there. But what about women's bathrooms, do similar scenarios go on there? Hmm, interesting conjecture, but one that won't be unfathomed here; I'm leaving that to some woman to pursue.
* * * * *
In the darkness, I take a seat and see heads around me, staring at screens or rising from a person next to them. I smirk; it was obvious what they were doing bent over. I light a cigarette and look at the man approaching my aisle. No different from the restrooms, but at least we can be seated here. I smirk and blow out smoke as he sits beside me. I stretch my legs, my hard stiff penis pushing upward in my pants. I wait . . . . I feel his hand upon me, inch by inch . . . . I do the same . . . . Ah, bliss!
~The End~
About the Author Lambda Awards Winner 2009/Bisexual Fiction for Holy Communion and 2012/Gay Fiction for The Facialist. A Ukrainian born in West Germany, Mykola (Mick) Dementiuk, grew up and survived on New York's tough Lower East Side streets, which are now a bare echo of what they once were. He is the author of Holy Communion, Vienna Dolorosa, Times Queer and 100 Whores (Synergy Press). His other writings in e-book are Dee Dee Day, Variety, the Spice of Life, Murder in Times Square, Times Square . . . in Brooklyn? Queers of Central Park, and A Sucker for the Circus (eXtasy e-Books), Times Square Cutie and Stallers, More Tales of Times Square Cuties, On The Prowl, Times Square Queer: Tales of Bad Boys in the Big Apple (paperback) (Renaissance/Sizzler e-Books), The Men of Grand Street, (Noble Romance Publishing), and Kisser, A Masculine Femininity (JMS Books).
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