Condoms
from East River Stories
by Mykola Dementiuk
She kept fingering and rubbing the two little aluminum packets in her pocket since she walked out of school and headed for the East River Park.
Two packets, two condoms; one she got from yesterday's School Nurses office, and one from todays. Two condoms, but she needed five, one for every day of the school week to prove she'd been to school each day, and five for the week to show she loved him and wasn't cheating behind his back.
What a lamebrain idiot! she snorted and stepped up the highway overpass. Certainly, a lamebrain if he thought that's how life was in the big city...
A few speeding cars honked their horns as the drivers peered desperately out their windshields for a glimpse up her short skirt as she flitted across the overpass, smirking and swaying her loose skirt and stuck her tongue at the honking disappearing cars.
She like being admired by guys, the wide-eyed looks they gave, their gaping mouths, their stiffening groins; she was good-looking, and she knew it!
But that's exactly what got her in trouble the week, as usual: being attractive and attracting, and wanting to please whoever was attracted to her. It was as if the giving of her body, her fingers, her hands, her lips, her mouth, her tits and cunt was a reasonable recompense for someone's merely glancing at her and taking an interest.
Of course, they took an interest. Who wouldn't with the way she looked: flirty, teenaged, available. Being attractive she was deluded into thinking she was immediately liked, as if attractiveness and beauty are the icebreakers for trust and budding love.
As if in imagining she was liked she had to repay their liking of her with a handjob, blowjob, quickie-fuckjob.
And she never really questioned why she was so popular with the boys...or men, outside of school... She knew she was very well-liked, that much was obvious, and left it at that.
She came down the overpass and turned on a path to the river, breathing a sigh of relief at the deafening churning eating chewing honking farting traffic-rush softened and muted behind her.
The park quiet and peace was welcome, soothing, and she strolled slowly and contentedly, enjoying the morning sun and solitary park stillness, giggling and waving at the obscene-gesturing and crotch-grabbing crew of a passing tug as she gestured back by squeezing her breasts and raising the front of her skirt --the tug blared its horn in salute and chugged down the river.
A frantic flock of seagulls spun over the tug's wake, swooping, charging, dropping into the river for morsels of fish or garbage or whatever it was the tug churned up from the murky river water.
Looks like a gangbang, she smirked, then frowned, once more fingering the two condoms in her pocket. Two, she sighed, all I need is five.
She walked along the promenade, the tug and gulls eventually disappearing around a curve of the shoreline below the Williamsburg Bridge, and finally sat down on a bench behind the vast fenced-baseball fields that took up the park for a stretch of five or six blocks below 6th street.
She felt safer with the fence behind: she could watch her sides, and no one could approach from behind. That came in handy when she was alone, able to take her pick of the gawkers, able to study them as they studied her. Able to shift her skirt for one, shielding herself from another. Smiling and flirting with some, glaring and scowling with the rest. And worrying if a final lowlife loser could be creeping up from behind.
Being a pretty girl, she was well-aware of her prettiness and how that prettiness can enhance and be enhanced by male handsomeness. All the guys she went out with and most of the guys she allowed near her were guys she did mind being seen with.
They were good-looking, just like her, but if the self-gloating beauty of two partners is the only basis for libidinal and physical attraction than that egoistic beauty is but a silent chasm that may unite the two in great lovemaking, at the bottom of the chasm, but not much else in the walls that rise and keep them apart at the top.
Two good-looking bodies are two jealous and two selfish egos that only come together in self-centered interests wanting and demanding something from the other yet never able to give truly of themselves.
A relationship based only on physical attraction is doomed to collapse because its grounding is unsettled and uncertain, and as carelessly fleeting, as a stiffening penis or bloating vagina.
What good is physical attraction after the orgasms have been spent? What good is male stamina when there is no longer desire? And good is sex when life demands otherwise?.... And she spotted him before he spotted her...
He came slowly up the promenade, smoking a cigarette, looking out at the river, and tapping his fingers on the metal river railing as if in rhythm to some inner melody.
He was as old guy, but she couldn't actually gauge the age of anyone outside her generation. There were two age groups: those her age (in their teens), and old people (not in their teen). And the guy coming up the promenade was an old guy, which meant he could be either in his 30's or 40's, or maybe even in 50's or 60's, but her certainly wasn't in high school anymore.
She squinted, confirmed his pudginess, frowned, and looked up and down the promenade. It was deserted, not a stroller or bicyclist in sight, but as long as she wasn't seen with him, he would have to do.
She let go of the condoms in her pocket and crossed her legs, pulling her skirt even higher at her thighs than it naturally rose on its own. She rocked one leg and watched his approach, certain his eyes suddenly widened and jolted awake at the sight of her.
She always enjoyed these first hesitant dances: the sighting, the circling, the approach, the wariness, the tease, the come-on, the baiting, the bobbing, the biting, the capture and the reeling in.
Only a few times had she acted the whore, spitting out a price as if yawning a Take-it-or-leave-it threat, but there was no fun in whorish-aloofness, and she liked to pretend she was being won over, slowly, carefully, patiently, as if she was a naive schoolgirl pretending surprise and fear at the sight of a bloated cockhead rather than an over-experienced over-eager blowjob queen desperate for her lips to get on one.
Her favorite line, just before a cock slid past her teeth, was I'm-not-that-kind-of-girl (gurgle gurgle), when her fingers, throat, mouth, face and body screamed, Yes, I fucking am!
She rocked her les, her low-heeled pump falling off her heel and dangling freely from her toes. She stared at the approaching chubby guy.
He walked slower now, still clinging to the railing, but getting an eyeful of her bare leg she knew was exposed from her loose shoe up to her hips.
At her age she knew he' d be wary, but she freely smiled, glad she had pulled off her pantyhose before cutting school, certain that if someone saw she wasn't wearing any nylons they'd conclude she didn't have any panties on as well.
Male logic, she smirked, or was it female?
The old guy smirked back.
Mistah, she called as he neared, got a cigarette? And gesturing to her mouth, the bobbing vee-ed forefinger and middle finger before her open lips, with the gesture so unmistakable. The old guy bustled into his pocket and bolted away from the river railing.
The girl's lips remained tinged in a pulsing smirk, but her eyes kept his in hers as she slightly pulled back her shoulders, pushed out her bosom, and continued swaying and rocking her legs and hips.
The old guy read her eyes perfectly, knowing if he looked anywhere but into her eyes that's the last he'd see of her. She smiled wider, very pleased he understood the tease and game. He may have been old, but he certainly wasn't senile.
No school today? the old guy asked, lightening her cigarette and his leg up on the bench.
The girl eyed him up and down, pausing at the bulge in his groin, then took a deep sighing draw on her cigarette and blew the smoke up at him. He glanced away from her chest.
I cut, she giggled, shaking her bosom, and the old guy dared to glance at her thighs beneath her short skirt hem.
Yeah, he nodded, scratching his chin. School can be such a drag...
A drag? the girl blinked up at him. Must be some kind of expression from his generation; well, at least he didn't call it a bummer. She snorted. What would say if she suggested, Let's fuck! Answer with, Groovy!
Not afraid of getting an Absent card in the mailbox? he asked.
Neah, she shook her head, scratching the underside of her left breast. I checked in at Homeroom; everyone shows up for Homeroom, then take off, doing what they gotta do.
But her face reddened, blushing, her lips contorting into a sneaky smirk, conspiratorial and secretive, her eyes darting about him, from his face to his groin, as she uncrossed her legs then crossed them anew, and quietly said, Ah school, that's where they give out the condoms...
He swallowed, and she saw his erection nudge in his pants, a large bump he made no attempt to cover or disguise, his upraised leg only stretching the pant leg tighter over his trapped nudging cock.
Everyday? he asked.
The girl looked up from his crotch and again blushed. She bit her lower and nodded.
Uh huh, she sighed, fluttering her eyelashes, a sly smile on her lips.
She knew by now she was driving him crazy, and she was enjoying it. He had a clear view down her blouse, a lush look at her legs, her lifted skirts nothing but a swatch of cloth across her groin, her bare thighs rocking and rubbing against each other and beginning to slightly drive her crazy too.
She wasn't exactly a cockteaser, but she liked leading guys on, with her innuendoes, her come-ons, and with their ever-present uncertainty and fear that always lingered in their eyes.
Sure, she kept glancing at his crotch but what if she leaped up and ran for the cops when he pulled down his zipper to show her a little more? Sure, she was puffing out her tits but what if she screamed Rape! when he put out a hand for one? And sure, her skirt was short and he could practically see her twat but what if she kicked him between his legs when he tried for a closer look or feel?
Uh huh, she breathed out, we get them at school.
She retrieved the condom packets from her pocket and held then out in her palm.
One condom a day is what they gave out in my public school. While my boyfriend at his uptown Catholic prep school receives none. She snorted. All to stop kids from getting venereal disease or worse. Gimme a break!
She finished her cigarette and flicked the stub away. She glanced at the condoms is her hand.
One a day, she thought, and she to save them for him, to prove she was true and loved only him, and mostly to prove she wasn't fucking anyone else. Condoms as proof of love?
The thought always made her laugh.
Didn't he realize that guys in public schools get condoms too?
Yet each Saturday she had to show him the required five, unknowing she had already used her school dispensation in her walks around the city. A guy here, a guy there. What a girl supposed to do otherwise?
She uncrossed her legs, the fresh air a welcome relief against her clammy thighs and stretched a leg showing off a wedge of her pink crotch. The old guy practically snapped to attention, flicking away his own cigarette, dropping his leg off the bench and moving before her. A sprinkle of black pubic hairs sprayed the edges of the pink cloth on her. The girl did nothing to close her legs as he stepped in between them.
And you got one today? he quietly asked.
The girl nodded, continuing to flick the packets in her palm, her fingertips barely an inch from his stiff lump at his crotch.
And one yesterday, she added, smirking at his quizzical calculating look in his eyes.
Didn't you go to school on other days?
Oh, I'd never cut homeroom, she giggled.
They looked at each other.
Oh, I used the other ones, she finally said, shrugging. To guys I met, that's what they give them out for, to be used...
He cunningly smiled, reached into his own jacket pocket and pulled out two of his one aluminum packets.
I got some too, he leered.
Her eyes flew open.
Two and two makes four, that was grade-school arithmetic, she knew that much, but if she could get his two added with hers, she'd only one more to go.
She reached for his condoms.
Can I have them? she asked, taking them from his hand.
He shrugged.
Only if you intend to use them...
Oh, I do! she nodded. Safe sex, y'know.
He smirked, licking his open mouth.
Is that what they teach you in school? he asked. Safe sex?
He put his hand on her shoulder, moving it to the side of her neck and into her blouse, fingering a slit of white bra-strap that peeped from under the blouse.
Oh, sure! she giggled again, slightly shrugging and freeing the bra-strap to ease them over his fingers. Like me teacher says: Always wear a condom! Don't leave home without it!
They both laughed, and he nudged her legs even wider apart.
What else do they teach you? he whispered.
His other hand now lay on other shoulder, circling the back of her neck, her face a mere inch from his crotch, her mouth agape, her eyes wide, avid, staring up at him in feigned little girl uncertainty and hesitation, pretending she didn't know what else to do.
The moment was perfect: she leaned her face into his groin. Just as she thought, the moment was too much for the old geezer.
He yelped, grunting, buckling, but she was out of there. Skirting her legs out before him, leaping off the bench and flitting down the promenade.
She only heard his desperate groan and plea to come back, but she didn't turn around to see him doubled over on the bench and ejaculating in his pants.
She sped down the promenade, under the Williamsburg Bridge fingering the four condoms in her pocket.
Four, she smiled, and I only need one more. Only one...
****
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