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THE FACIALIST: The Lambda Award Winner for Best Gay Erotica by Mykola Dementiuk – Sizzler Editions
The Facialist
A Sexual Story of the Lower East Side
by Mykola Dementiuk
Chapter 29
At that time of day, the Second Avenue Park was crowded with old-timers sitting next to other old-timers, gesticulating as they conversed --probably no hearing aids; those things sure cost money.
I walked around the park two or three times and couldn't find a seat. Oh, sure, there were seats here and there, but they were much too near to the old-timers, who, of course, didn't want a young snotty kid sitting and listening to their gab.
Then I saw a spot, just vacated by other old-timers, and leaving one still sitting there. He curiously looked at me as I sat down, then crossed his legs and turned my way, facing me not far from where I had taken a seat.
What an old codger, I thought, but I was growing a bit nervous from his staring at me so steadily. Probably should have gone to the library instead and maybe get into another argument with Shelly? Nah, leave the sissy alone...
"Nice day," I heard, and as if coming to, I shook my head.
"Huh, wha..." I said, blinking my eyes.
"I said, it's a nice day," he repeated and frowned, glancing in the other direction. He turned back to me. "Good to get away from your hard work, if that's where you're coming from?" And he winked.
"Yeah," I nodded, winking back at him. "Hard work is no good, you need some play time."
"Oh, yes, play time. Hm, do you work around here?"
I shook my head. "Just sitting, that's all."
He started getting up slowly and taking some steps towards me. "I'm Louis," he said, sitting down next to me and holding out his hand. "How come I never seen you here in the park?"
"Shelly," I replied, shaking his hand. My God, why did I say that? "I'm usually down at Tompkins Square Park, that's a nice, big park. Just came in here while I was walking on Second Avenue."
He smiled. "Yes, it is," he thoughtfully said. "Big park, but walking is nice, too." He looked at me, eyeing me carefully. I was getting paranoid from his scrutiny and feeling a bit tense. "Are you looking for something while you're walking," he asked, "or just looking?"
"Just looking," I shrugged, hoping I had gotten the stress and intonation correctly. He beamed.
"I thought so," he said, rubbing me on the kneecap. I grinned. But at that moment, coming up the trail, was the other old man I had talked with the day before, who had rejected me in the restroom. All three of us were looking at the other as if we knew each other, but we said nothing. The approaching man glared at the old codger and me but stepped up his pace and hurried past.
I shot off in my pants, doubling over.
Wow, that was three times I had cum in barely an hour or so. I was certainly a pervert or worse. And in my pants too... But I love that feeling of cumming, the blindness, the forgetfulness, the devil-may-care attitude that says, The hell with you!
"You know each other?" he asked, looking after the old man.
"Huh, wha..." I answered as if I was coming too. I cleared my throat. "We talk now and then," I shrugged, shaking my head, but breathing very heavily. Probably thinks this is the man who bit me up, I snorted.
"I thought you did," he shrugged, and again gripped my kneecap. "But it's not my business who you know or don't know." I turned and glanced up the trail, but the old man was no longer there. Must have gone to the restrooms, I smirked.
"Is something funny?" the man asked, thoughtfully. "You seem to be not breathing very well. But smiling, too."
We looked at each other; my breathing had relaxed and slowed.
"You seem a nice boy," he continued, "and so new to the park. Bet you have many friends in Tompkins Square."
I wanted to laugh.
"A few..." I sighed, lowering my head.
As if we had something in common, he lowered his voice. "Feels like you're a virgin, are you?"
His eyes seemed very distant, far away, staring at me.
But was I a virgin or was I slut, hungry for anything and ready to put it out? Before Dickie or after Dickie, that was my question? And what about Shelly, before him or after him? And of course, Pani Stetz, can't forget her!
I shook my head, surprisingly brushing his hand off my knee, and stood up. "Sorry, have to go..."
"Wait, why are you going?" he asked. "We were just chatting, getting to know each other." He gripped my hand. "Please don't go..."
Isn't that what Dickie had first said, please don't go? I stood there looking at him, he didn't seem like a bad old man, was he?
"I just don't want to sit here anymore," I shrugged, "was going to continue to Tompkins Square, that's all."
I looked down at him as he bit his bottom lip and blushed. "You're such a naughty boy," he now lisped, shaking his head, "tsk, tsk, and wet down there too..."
"Huh, what wet?" Then I noticed that my thrice-spilled scum had finally saturated through the dark denim material of my pants and shone up at my crotch. I fell to his bench, feeling stupid.
"Aw," he shrugged, "but these things happen, if you're careless or just hot." He scratched his face, "Now which was it, careless or hot?"
I looked at him. "I guess both, careless and hot." I breathed out; I was exhausted. "But I guess I'm always hot, anyway."
"Hmm," he pondered, once again feeling my knee and reaching for my crotch.
An elderly woman walked by, looked at us, shook her head and passed by.
But I did nothing to resist, just sit there with my moist damp dick getting bigger under his touch. But then he quickly moved his hand off my crotch as another man looked but walked past.
Still, I sat there, not caring anymore of who saw what. How many times could I cum, I wondered, five, six, seven times. And doing it right in the open too!
"You want to go to my place," he whispered, "I live on Nineteen Street?"
Once again, he reached for my damp crotch, melting from his touch of my scum smeared stain. He raised his fingers to his nostrils and took a whiff, "Hmm, so very lovely..."
I shrugged but once again I felt the spasm seizing and rocking through my body, clenching my teeth, my eyes shut as the scum poured out of me into my already drenched pants.
I had cum again! So, what was that five or six times? But can I cum so fast? Defiantly a pervert!
"My God, young man," he blurted, finally understanding what was happening. "Control yourself!"
Still, I was at peace, barely opening my eyes. But then it hit me, I was on a park bench, in the open with a man sitting beside me and pawing me too... I pounced up from my seat.
"Wait..." I heard the man say. "Wait..." but I ran out of the Second Avenue Park.
Chapter 30
Damn, I was wet, drenched in my own scum and perversions that were getting me nothing but shame and ridicule. No matter where I went there was always the possibility of an erection, with an explosive cumming hovering nearby.
I fled down Second Avenue, trying to stay near the buildings I passed. I imagined each passerby knew what I was ashamed of. It was a futile walk, shame and accusing looks everywhere. Or so I imagined. That's him, he's the masturbating boy!
Still, somehow, I made it to my front door and surged in. I breathed out in relieve. What will I do? and started making it up the stairs of the First Avenue apartment. I stepped to my doorway and turned the lock, pushing it open.
"Mom," I said, surprised at seeing her home, "I didn't know you were home?"
She looked sadly at me. "Little Shosha passed away this morning. Mrs. Johnson received a telegram from Shosha's mother," she shook her head. Mrs. Johnson from upstairs, a nosy old creep who knew everyone's business; we still didn't have the ability to access to phones in those days, she did, had more money coming in...
"Bad accident," mom continued, "a truck hit her on the Bowery," she stopped, looking a bit thoughtful. "Now what was she doing on the Bowery, I'd like to know..." She looked at me, wiping her eyes. "There's a service tomorrow at Jerama's, we have to go..."
"Aw, mom, do I have to?"
She nodded her head. "Yes, you have to. How would if we didn't go? Don't be ridiculous, now wash up and I'll give you something to eat."
"You want to know what she was doing on the Bowery," I angrily erupted, "I'll tell you what she was doing, she was selling herself to any bidder who drove down Delancey Street to the Bowery, that's what! Thought she was going to do it in the Bronx, but no, she came back here..."
I crossed my arms over my chest, as if proving my point. Mom looked at me as though a secret had been revealed; she had suspected how much Shosha had quickly changed from sweet little girl to a brazen short-skirted Delancey Street hooker.
"So, you don't want to go?" she sighed, looking at me.
I shook my head, thinking of all the people would come just to stare at Shosha. "No, you can go without me." We looked at each other. "Where's it going to be?"
She shrugged. "At Jerama's, where else?" Peter Jerama Funeral Home was the only Ukrainian funeral home in the area, a bastion of the neighborhood. Over the years, people have thronged individually into the area, but Peter Jerama always carted them out. People who lived elsewhere were also buried by him.
"What happened, her slimy pimp get to her?"
"Stop it, I can't stand you talking like that!"
"I know, sorry, mom. But she was a teenage hooker..."
Mom glared at me, but sighed, "Who knows what will become of us in life, or even if there in a life?" and she sadly shook her head.
"You should've seen in the evenings," I said, "showing off on Delancey Street, where all the truckers come off the Williamsburg Bridge, lining up truck after truck. She even tried to get me once before she recognized me..."
"What?!" she said, wide-eyed, staring at me incredulously. "Go to your room!" she exclaimed. "Right this minute, young man! The nerve of you to say such a thing about your Aunt Shosha..."
"I heard they call her Slut Susie, mom, and at five dollars a pop, not bad at all." I turned red, remembering I had asked for only a quarter.
But mom had angrily walked out from the living room and slammed her bedroom door. I shrugged and went to my room, where I sat down on the bed, scratching my damp crotch.
I slid down my zipper and surprisingly my scum seemed to have dried somewhat. But damn, what a mess! My wet scum, overloaded with endless spurts of sperm, had saturated my white underwear, leaving a blueish tinge spread over the material. It wasn't watery but scum, dewy scented and desirous. I again wanted to jerk-off, but with mom home, I couldn't.
In a bit, I heard mom moving about the house. I pulled up my zipper and sat; the front door opened and slammed. Now what was that all about?
I was still, once again lying back on the bed, daydreaming about my active day. Drunken Pani Stetz, who was a beauty to me. The outraged tenant at Dickie's apartment building calling me the masturbating boy, which I was. Along with the dreamers in the Second Avenue Park, and on and on it went. Seems my day was very busy...
I un-zippered and removed my pants and underwear and tossed them on the floor. But boy was a I hot! I gripped my cock and thought about Shelly. He's out, I'm in. I shook my head. What rot Dickie spreads, nothing but a pack of bullshit...
By then my cock was rigid and eager for a cumming. But what was that fifth or sixth time I had cum? 'The masturbating boy' is right!
I moved the skin up and down, with a tingle of pre-cum already rising up my shaft. Then it gripped me, another ejaculation! My eyes clasped shut, one hand gripping the side of the bed, as my other circled the fingers around the spewing cock. And damn, I was thinking about Shelly...
I smeared the dewy-scented scum on my chest and belly and tried to remember how many times I had cum that afternoon. Still, no matter what, my ejaculation was fantastic!
I got up and gathered the bluish underwear with the moist dungarees and went to toss them in a bag mom had for doing the laundry. It felt great to be half-naked and walking about...
But I dressed in a fresh T-shirt and another pair of faded dungarees and ate some bread mom had lying in a bag on the kitchen table. Mom was always angry when I ate that way, saw dad doing it some years ago dipping his fingers in the white part while ignoring the brown crust around it. I felt guilty in doing that but still I kept doing it.
I put the brown crusted remains back in the paper bag and trotted downstairs.
More to come on the upper right...or you can read the eBook now, click here:
THE FACIALIST: The Lambda Award Winner for Best Gay Erotica by Mykola Dementiuk – Sizzler Editions
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