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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 31
At four o'clock or so I was headed to Tompkins Square Park. It didn't matter who or what I'd find there, I'd walk into something, that's for sure.
A noisy walk along Avenue A, with two women arguing in front of me, with each accusing the other of something, but who knows what it was...
Until I saw Shelly, standing in a crowd of people and viciously eyeing me. He was waiting for the light to change, a useless wait because no one cared what it was on the Lower East Side, they just went and walked.
I turned red from his bitter glance, but he huffily turned, crossed and walked away. I was sad but turned and went after him.
On Eight Street he walked by the Temperance Fountain and seemed to be headed to the Men's Room. I smirked and slowly sauntered there too, but by the time I was about to enter he was coming out.
Must have been a quick peeing or maybe there was no one inside?
He glared at me. "Hah, figures," he said, "this is your home from home, is it?"
"Look who's talking?" I answered, "sissy..."
"You're the sissy. I know all about what you will be doing next week, you're the real sissy."
"Oh yeah? Well, it takes one to know one, doesn't it?"
We glared at each other. "Get out of my way, sissy," he hissed and hurried down the path to benches near Tenth Street. He took a seat and fumbled with a cigarette, probably a menthol kind, I smirked.
His cigarette kept shaking in his mouth as he edged a match flame to it. Feverishly smoking and rocking his crossed leg he stared at me coming closer. "Sissy..." he quietly mumbled.
"We both are," I shrugged, and fell to his bench. I knew he had tried to hit me, but I no longer cared.
He angrily blew out his cigarette smoke
"What were you talking about yesterday," I mentioned, "what counselor did you mean, and how come?"
He snorted and puffed his cigarette; the way he was speedily smoking he'd be done in no time.
"Mama knows all about me," he said.
"She does, knows all about Dickie?"
He glared at me. "Grr, his name's Freddie, Freddie, Freddie, how many time must I say that to you, Freddie!"
I winced or pretended to wince, "Alright Freddie, she knows all about...Freddie?"
He quickly nodded and took another angry puff of his cigarette.
"Not about him," Shelly continued, "but she suspects there may be someone who is deluding me with sissy talk." He looked sadly at me, about to cry. "That's why I told her you're the sissy, anyway we're moving, going away."
"Going away, how come, where?
"She doesn't want people to know what I am, a sissy, just like you are. So, we're going to move to the Bronx, she has relatives there, and my counselor agrees. Mama says it will give me a good start, that I'll forget the sissy things that have sucked me into on the Lower East Side, this homo area." He looked at the park from Tenth Street, "Think I'll forget this place?"
I looked at him, obviously a sissy sitting there, just waiting to get picked up, and twirling a pack of cigarettes. I shrugged, "Tell your mama you don't want to go, you have friends here."
He snorted. "Like who? Mama knows I have no one, just her. Except for sissies like you." He wiped an eye.
"That's right," I said, taking him by the hand. "I'm here almost every day." I turned red. "Doesn't that mean anything?"
He shook his head. "But we're moving," he blurted. "Go where people know mama and who don't know what I am, a sissy. She has to keep me hidden, it's too embarrassing if someone finds out. And my counselor fully agrees with her."
He fingered his pack of cigarettes. "Here, take these, I can't have them, not with mama around." And he shoved his half-empty into my hands. "I'm sure they'll be sucked deeply with you around, you know how to suck, don't you? Anyway, you're learning."
He snorted but kept looking at me, fluttering his wet eyes and faintly adding, "My sweet sissy..." He peeked my cheek, stood up and walked away.
I did not go after him. I regretted I never kissed or never made it with him, except in the library, I suppose. I lowered my eyes and sat flicking my fingers on the pack her left behind.
Sissy, I thought, why'd he call me that? Was it so obvious?
I shook my head and looked at the cigarette pack. Three cigarettes remained. Did he smoke them all? But the way he had been smoking, one right after the other, it sure looked like he had.
I flicked the almost empty pack, and one came out part way, as if teasing me to suck it up. I put it in my mouth then reached for a book of matches he had inserted in the cellophane paper around the pack. I felt nervous doing that but also very adult- like, too.
I sucked in the flame and breathed out. Smooth and gentle, it felt as if my throat was being caressed and tickled by smooth fingertips. I drew on the cigarette again...and almost gagged.
Across the park on Ninth Street sauntered Dickie, looking back at some young men who just passed on the pathway. But he was always looking at young men, actually boys, they were his choice and pursuit. Shelly was young once but now he had grown too old, and it was my turn.
Old, but by whose standards? Shelly was eighteen, I was seventeen. He was out, I was in. But for how long? Maybe three months like Shelly, when I learned how to suck and swallow and, of course, take it up the ass, like a good girl should...
I blinked me eyes, Dickie had spotted me and was looking in my direction. What are the rules, am I supposed to hurry to him or just shake my leg and smoke my cigarette, Shelly's cigarette?
I sat there nervously puffing the menthol smoke. Now, how do they do that, making smoking look so cool and refreshing?
Dickie started walking towards me. I flicked the half-smoked cigarette away; shards of lit embers sparked from the tip, as faint dying smoke flickered out. I glimpsed Dickie's shoes stop before me.
"Hello, Timmy..." I heard.
I looked up; he seemed nervous, unsure of himself.
"Yeah, hi," I answered. He took a seat beside me, I slightly moved away.
"Don't be like that," he pouted, edging his hat back. "Sit closer."
I didn't move, so he edged closer. I lit another cigarette.
"I thought you didn't smoke," he said, curiously looking at me.
I shrugged, blowing out smoke in his face. "Just started," I said, looking at the single cigarette remaining in the pack. "Shelly gave me his."
"Shelly?" he said, looking around. "He was here?"
"Uh huh," I nodded, taking another cigarette puff.
"Gee, I thought he'd be gone by now, today's the first, isn't it?"
I looked at him. "Now, how the hell would I know, I guess, what's the big deal, anyway?"
"Well, the first of the month Shelly had to move. Which was perfect for me." He lowered his voice though no one sat near us. "You're in, he's out. Shelly knows how it goes." And he made a move to grope my crotch. I quickly pushed his hand off.
"Get off of me, you creep!" Again, I moved down the bench. He sat sadly looking at me. "What happened with the boy yesterday," I asked, "in the bathroom? You did something to him, admit it."
He shook his head but shrugged. "Thought he was a sissy, it's not my fault he wasn't. But most kids that age are, look at you..." He scratched his chin and looking around the benches, as if he was getting bored with me. He focused on me again.
"You want to go to my place, Timmy, for a little quick one? I'm expecting a sweet negligée you can try," he winked and licked his lips.
Needless to say, but the conversation with Shelly and now with Dickie had my crotch stiff and hard. Still, I shook my head.
"I won't be coming up there, anymore," I said, standing up. My erection was clearly discernable in my faded dungarees, an obvious bulge. He eyed it.
"C'mon, just a fast one, you can leave right after that," he said, very hungry for my body. "And this weekend, on Sunday, you can come up and spend the entire day with me, how about it?"
I looked at him, one part of me desperate to follow him to his place, while the other part desperate to run away and flee. I shook my head.
"No," I said, and turned from him. He angrily stood up.
"Don't think I can't find another sucking lover, younger than you are. They're a dime a dozen here in the park. "
He haughtily stood there glaring at me. Across the park a young boy strode past, in shorts and T-shirt, looking like the small boy Dickie had been admiring just a day ago.
"By this weekend, I'll have two or three boys trying to suck my cock, which you don't even know how to do yet." He glared at me. "But I don't think you'd have been a very good cocksucker at that." He looked at me, shaking his head. "Oh, fuck you, you asshole!" he spat out, then turned the other way to the restrooms and the little boy in shorts.
I hesitated but didn't light my last cigarette. I turned and walked home.
Chapter 32
Late the evening, mom came home from Jerama's Funeral Home. Boy, that was fast, she was killed that morning and by the nightfall they already had her in the funeral casket.
After having some tea, mom sat at the kitchen table and sadly said, "You're right, the sweet kid was a...prostitute," the word was hard to come out.
"A hooker, mom," I added. "The guys say they hookers, if you want to know the real word for prostitute."
"Don't say that," she said, getting up and starting to refill her teacup. "Did you something to eat?"
"Some spaghetti from last night," I nodded. "Heated it up, it wasn't bad."
"You should have seen the fancy women that came by the funeral home, most of them were stoned or already drunk."
"Oh, mom, do you think I don't know what goes on in the Lower East Side of New York City?" We looked at each other.
"She may have lived in the Bronx, but she came down here to get some money. Anyway, I'm not a little kid anymore, I'm seventeen."
She snorted. "And I suppose, that's what makes you a man, is that right?" We looked at each other. "It takes a little more to be a man than just being grown up, even some grown up men are just losers and real jerks, and they have kids with wife they're responsible for. When you're grown up, don't be like them, please?"
Whatever it was, I nodded. Because I knew such men, actually, grown-up kids. I had come across them in the neighborhood, adults who get pleasure in shaming and using others, as if they were little kids.
What was the pleasure in that? But obviously they gloated over it as they stood there so victorious.
I yawned.
"Go to bed," said mom. "It's late."
It was a little after nine, but I yawned again and went to my room.
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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