PAY TOLL By Mykola Dementiuk

 

In some twisted way I was inspired, as it were, to write Pay Toll after the news of Dr. Joel Steinberg and his abuse of his wife Nedda Nussbaum hit the news in 1987.

PAY TOLL

By Mykola Dementiuk

Each day as he circled the children’s playground the little girl appeared sexier and more enticing than the day before. He was certain she had spotted him also and was leading him on (little cock-teaser!). He wanted to pull her off the swings, yank her off the monkey bars, or pounce atop her as she fell to a squat on the dropping see-saw.

Each evening was a frenzy of masturbation to images of the little girl — how she dressed that day, how she ran, how she fell, how she contorted her body at play. Each morning, when the park was desolate and still, before the little girl arrived with her mother and before the playground filled with other children and mothers, he masturbated onto the seats of the swings the girl would sit on, the handles of the see-saw she would clutch, onto the protective rubber matting beneath the monkey bar she would fall from.

Yet how could he get her alone, away from the other children and gossiping mothers? Get her alone to touch her bare legs and thighs, to caress her slim waist and belly, to stroke her flat halter-covered chest, to suck her sweated neck and brow and face?

In his fantasies he never got as far as actual penetration, but he could imagine stripping off her shorts, sliding down her panties, opening her skinny soft legs, touching his fat penis to her hairless crotch and erupting onto her flat belly and little girl pussy.

That seemed enough for his fantasies; would it be so in reality? Isn’t penetration of the cunt validating proof of possession, acceptance, love? But cunt? Could he really call the little girl a cunt? Wasn’t the pejorative reserved for the real thing, the real cunts who called themselves women? The slime in dresses and heels and makeup and pant-suits and leggings and minis that masqueraded themselves as feminine? The dirt that teemed the streets and television screens and magazine covers professing their freedom and independence and exhibiting their store-bought tits, their sewn-back faces, their cellulite-sucked-out asses and bellies, as though their appearance was the norm for the rest of society to emulate and admire?

Those were the cunts, the real cunts, the women, the whores, the skanks, the fucking cunts! He had always done without them, and done without them quite well, thank you. But little girls? . . .

He sighed, and felt bad about thinking of the little girl as a cunt; she wasn’t, not yet. . . . Anyway, he wouldn’t hurt her, not like he would have some of the other cunts. He would simply touch her, hold her, press himself to her little cunny — that was it! that’s what she had! a little cunny! — and they’d be friends . . .

Scattered throughout the East River Park were the few remaining remnants of concrete buildings and structures which had been built long before and served as maintenance and comfort stations for park workers and park visitors. For years the buildings were strictly maintained and patrolled, the restrooms supervised by porters and matrons who made sure that strict hygiene was upheld and that no hanky-panky got past them of someone sneaking into the wrong restroom to spy on and surprise piddling visitors.

But over time, with the various fiscal crises and budget crunches the city periodically went through, it was deemed superfluous to staff the park facilities with special workers. The bathrooms were left unlocked and unsupervised with only sporadic checks and patrols by scant park staff, who also collected garbage and made cursory appearances of repairing broken benches by posting Work-in-Progress signs, but who mostly showed up now and then to maintain a façade of bureaucratic and governmental interest and control over the park.

As expected, the negligence in the upkeep of the comfort stations led to even greater vandalism and destruction: plugged up toilet bowls overflowing with water, urine, semen and shit; feces-smeared walls with graffiti instructions of what to do with one’s cock or cunt or ass. The devastated bathrooms became homosexual and prostitute trysting spots which in turn attracted pimps and muggers and druggies who ripped into walls and floors and further ravaged the already devastated structures.

Of all the buildings sprinkling the East River Park, the 10^th Street comfort station probably suffered the most damage, and as with other stations in the park, the LADIES' room more despoiled than the MEN's. Was there a recognizable hint of gender in the concrete and stone, in the tubing and piping that had feminized itself into an inner sanctum where only females were allowed? Of cement and brick turning emasculative but welcoming of the soft females who entered?

Even in rubble and ruin does the scent of femaleness rise up from the dust as an insult to men as something unattainable, teasing, smirking, to be ground in by a boot or demeaned by semen-laced urine? Fuck your femaleness! Fuck your cunt walls and stalls! Screw your whore sinks and doors! Rip your fucking swallowing bitch skank pussies out! . . .

Of course the destructiveness of the park comfort stations went on simultaneously with the wreckage of the playgrounds which surrounded them. The see-saw, the swings, the benches, the chess tables, all were vandalized and destroyed, the metal carted away and sold for scrap, the wood burned and tossed into the river, the concrete smashed to gravel and dust. The park resembled a desolate battlefield of someone’s hate and rage rather than a green sanctuary in a apathetic concretized city.

But as in the usual fiscal crises and fiscal recovery, political administrations changed, campaign promises were kept, and the money was somehow funded for the park to be rebuilt: new paths laid out, new benches set, new playgrounds created, new seedlings planted, old whores and junkies rooted out. The construction crews brought in their own portable toilets, metal sheds with push-button flushing chemical water that even in cold weather attracted bugs and rodents and remained as smelly and noxious as any waste left standing.

At night a few of the Porto-Johnnies were overturned by neighborhood kids, and one was somehow dragged to and tossed over the river railing, immediately creating a hazard for the boat traffic as the shit-box bobbed and floated past the Williamsburg Bridge and Brooklyn Navy Yard. It almost made it into the open harbor before a tugboat latched on to it below the Manhattan Bridge and triumphantly hauled it to a Brooklyn pier.

Still, the Porto-Johnnies were heaven-sent for the mothers with children in the newly rebuilt playgrounds, as work on the regular comfort stations stalled for one reason or another. Two Porto-Johnnies were specifically set aside for children at the 10^th Street playground — a BOYS sign pasted on the door of one, a GIRLS sign on the other — and a third Porto-Johnnie, for adults, was set up away from the playground, on a nearby path veering from the highway walkway into a clump of thick bushes and emerging on the open river promenade.

From the playground only its curved white top and grilled ventilation port-hole were clearly visible, but from inside the Porto-Johnnie the air-vents gave a whole view of not only the noisy playground, but the quiet seclusion and calm around it, and of anyone approaching and entering the calm. It was the perfect site to observe children.

He had seen the little girl use the GIRLS Porto-Johnnie many times, watched her run to the metal box, her tiny blouse askew on her shoulders, her little shorts twisted around her torso, her belly puffed and curved outwards. He’d watch as she opened the door to the Porto-Johnnie, peeked inside, cringed her nose at the chemical/shit smell, and finally entered to make the pee-pee and wee-wee which had roused her to jump up and leave play and run to the bathroom.

He watched in controlled tension of erection, imagining the little shorts sliding down her legs, the tiny panties freed from her groin and cunny, her little ass-cheeks roosting and squirming atop the toilet seat that he had so diligently and lovingly ejaculated on and smeared over with his scum each morning.

Unfortunately the little girl was never the first one to use his prepared and readied Porto-Johnnie. Some fucking mother or other in a fat-thighed mini skirt, her obese ass shoved into stirrup leggings, dared to open the GIRLS door and lather up his scum with her cunt.

GIRLS the sign read, didn’t it? Didn’t that imply LITTLE GIRLS? So where did these decrepit old bitches and cunts get the idea that meant them? Illiterate cock-sucking slime!

How many times had he groaned in disgust as some corpse-like whore ready for the graveyard announced to her equally cemetery-stalling friends that she was going to the Little Girl’s Room? GIRLS? This piece of shit in a LITTLE GIRL’S ROOM?

The fucking cunts hadn’t been girls in generations, yet still persisted in calling themselves such; pot-bellied, droopy-assed, sag-titted, over-madeup, over-the-hill Long Island Lolitas dragging their little daughters to the park and obviously training them well, daughters who in not so many years would also think and look and act like their mothers, that is, like old whores trailing after a vestige of their failed youth and beauty . . .

Yet the fact that the old bitches thought of themselves as young girls and trespassed and occupied the GIRLS Porto-Johnnie only made the real little girls run past the BOYS room — Wouldn’t want to catch anything there! he once heard a cunt-mother warn her little cunny-daughter — and use the lone Porto-Johnnie away from the playground, protected by a cluster of bushes, but as welcoming as any to a child in need of relief . . .

At times the little girl also ran to the more distant Porto-Johnnie, sometimes unaccompanied, but usually with other little girls, and they always participated in the child game/ritual of each girl in line paying an invisible toll to whatever little girl came out of the toilet.

Pay toll! his little girl would say, leaning out of the Porto-Johnnie and holding out one hand to the next girl awaiting her turn — he didn’t even bother to focus on the way the other girl’s green shorts were curled into and stuck between her small ass cheeks — his little girl’s other hand scratching her urine-wet crotch through her shorts. Where do they wipe when there’s no pussy hairs to wipe? he wondered.

I don’t have to go! the second little girl would huff, and they’d laugh and race back to the playground.

He soon became aware that the mothers of the girls only noticed their daughters’ absence when the girls came running back. Where were they? he was certain one cunt mouthed to the other as they looked at their daughters, then shrugged and went on with their gossip.

Pay toll! he dreamily listened to their chirping voices, his little girl’s voice somewhat husky and deeper than the other’s, more throaty and mature, its fullness surprising for her four- or five-year-old face and frame.

Pay toll! her husky voice dreamily taunted and echoed in his skull from dawn to night, a repetitive obsession that never left him anymore, masturbating or not, her voice always deepening, growing huskier with each request for payment of a toll as he responded with another thrust in her mouth, her outspread legs, her bent-over torso; splashing her face, her chest, her belly, her legs, her feet, her toes with his scum; her voice becoming real, becoming more real each day. She was as real as the imagination which created the images of trust and caring, tenderness and longing, an imagination which created a togetherness that hinged on her need and love for him, on his kindness, his compassion, his dick, her insatiability and her husky throaty little girl’s voice crying for More! Oh, God, mister, more! Oh, God, please pay toll!

He stepped into the Porto-Johnnie. It was an airless room smelling of chemicals and cleansers but overpowered with the stronger stench of shit and piss, the flush valves always either breaking and clogging up or quickly running out of the blue disinfectant which never really did all that much to cover up the pervasive smell. There was hardly any toilet paper, and if there was, it was either strewn about the floor or an entire roll tossed into the toilet. As usual, the walls were covered in typical graffiti drawings of over-exaggerated cocks and cunts and offers of sucking one off or phone numbers of cunts willing and eager to open.

He snapped the lock shut behind him and leaned back on the door. There was hardly enough space in the cramped room for someone to lower his pants, roost on the upraised toilet box, do his business and leave. He had, however, often observed couples in the evening (usually male/female, sometimes male/male, a few times even female/female) enter the Porto-Johnnie and remain locked inside, sometimes for an hour or two, their giggles and laughter and grunting and moaning like an insult and taunt as he’d pace by and curse and only imagine what could possibly be going on inside.

He stooped over and examined the dark toilet seat. Dark ground-in sweat stains of asses and thighs and dried sprinkles of urine covered the seat, but he leaned his elbows on the toilet box and slightly raised the U-curved seat, resting it on his shoulders. His eyes shut, he imagined the little girl’s sweated legs around his neck and face, his lips kissing and exploring her thighs, his hands and fingers clutching and holding her little soft buttocks. He opened his mouth and ran his tongue down one end of the U-curve to the center, from her ankle to her little cunny . . .

He ejaculated without even having touched himself, one fist pounding and beating the wall behind the toilet seat, his open mouth groaning and biting the curved U-seat, his teeth marks clearly visible in the indented plastic and wood as he fell against the door in exhaustion, in tears, in disgust, in frustration and rage.

When she finally did come running across the overpass, with another little girl running beside her and their adult cunt-mothers trailing after them (two smelly old women cunts!), he watched from his hiding place, certain the little girl was keeping an eye out for him, as she had eyed and teased and led him on for weeks now.

She wore a tiny red t-shirt and red shorts that seemed more like cotton panties, tiny shorts that snuggled around her torso and groin, circling her thighs in an almost even line with her little V-dipped crotch; tiny shorts that yesterday were blue, the day before lavender, before that pink, green, orange. In the two weeks he had cataloged her outfits, he was certain she hadn’t worn the same ensemble twice.

It’s how females are trained, he marveled; they start learning it when they’re babies: to wear different clothes constantly and never appear in the same outfit twice, or definitely not to repeat something longer than anyone could remember having seen them.

The mother was no different. Since she was the little girl’s fashion-conscious source, she, too, never wore the same outfit more once but showed up each day in different minis, culottes, khaki pants, stirrup leggings, loosely worn man’s shirts, or tank-tops, in sneakers or heels, her hair puffed up or on her shoulder, in a pony-tail or flat on her sides.

The varied different ways women were able to make themselves up was a mystery to him; the surprising changes were discomfiting. When he once nervously dared ask a co-worker to see a movie, he almost didn’t recognize her when she showed up for their date looking nothing like the person he worked with. He was caught all flustered and tongue-tied, feeling embarrassed, disgusted, stupid, betrayed . . .

But he was more then prepared for the daily changes and surprises in the little girl and her mother, taking notice of their clothes and hairdos, the mother so he could observe her every movement away from the girl, the little girl so he could position himself for her movements towards him.

The little girl leaped up from the sandbox and gripped the front of her crotch, tugging at her shorts. She mumbled Pee-pee! to herself, looked at her mother on a far bench, and ran towards the GIRLS Porto-Johnnie. She tugged at the door — locked, in use. She jumped back in alarm as someone kicked the door from within — most likely a cunt mother whizzing and shitting like the old bag she was, ugh!

She darted past the BOYS Porto-Johnnie — Wouldn’t wanna catch anything in there! — gripping her crotch as if trying to hold it in until she got to the lone Porto-Johnnie away from the playground.

He beamed, afraid but happy, letting go of his own crotch, desperate not to erupt again too soon and spoil what he had waited and expected and longed for: being alone with the little cunny . . .

Her sneakers pounded the blacktop as she surged towards the Porto-Johnnie. He stepped off the toilet box lest she see him peering out of the vent-holes and gently pushed open the slide lock of the door just as she started to yank it open from the outside.

She gasped in fright, but he smiled and held the door ajar, his open hand held out at his waist.

Pay Toll! he chirped merrily (just like all the kids did). He was certain her eyes widened longingly at the sight of his stiff penis. Pay Toll! he beamed again.

For a moment the girl hesitated, glancing from his hand to his exposed penis and back to the bush-hidden playground, eyeing him warily (flirtatiously and seductively, he would later say), her lower torso swaying from side to side (as if in heat, he would explain), then made the pretense of reaching into an imaginary pocket in her shorts. Just as she had done with kids before, she retrieved an imaginary coin.

He sighed in relief (she wanted to play, he would later argue, and knew what was going on). She placed the invisible coin in his clammy hand, watched him shudder as he clasped his fingers over hers and pulled her into the Porto-Johnnie, shutting the door behind them.

Huh?! the little girl spun about as he slid the door lock shut.

You must pay a real toll, he said calmly, bending over to kiss her forehead. The girl tried to squirm away.

Do you have a penny in your pocket? he asked, pawing her hips and running his fingers over her buttocks and into the damp dip under her legs.

No, the girl whimpered, shaking her head, her eyes wide, afraid.

Or a nickel? he asked, his voice rising higher in pitch, almost girlish and childish, his fingers reaching under the little girl’s t-shirt, tapping her flesh and circling her brown nipples.

Or two nickels? he screeched (disbelieving the sudden high pitch of his voice), raising her t-shirt to her neck, a perfect noose and leash with which to grab and hold her from behind.

Huh uh, the little girl shook her head.

He no longer saw her fear and confusion, but simply hated her.

Do you have to make pee-pee? he asked, his voice an eerie crescendo of its normal tone.

No! the girl yelped, and again shook her head.

He let go of her t-shirt, slid his hands down her body, and easily tugged down her tiny red shorts and white cotton undies.

Why does that whore-mother of yours dress you like this? he cursed, and snapped the little garments down her legs to her sneakers.

The little girl bent to reach for her shorts but he grabbed her underarms and flung her up on the toilet seat, punching her once in the face, but that was enough to knock her out, her head striking the back wall of the Porto-Johnnie, her body limp and almost dropping through the toilet seat before he caught her and held her up, pee slowly seeping out from her legs.

What good are you? he grunted, and spat on her, tugging her shorts and panties over her sneakers.

No pennies, no nickels, no titties, no pussy, no nothing! You’re nothing! he slapped her, and spun her over and around. Her head fell into the bowl, but he clutched her by the t-shirt at the back of her neck and balanced her shoulders on the toilet seat, her splayed legs like tricycle handlebars around his hips.

You’re nothing! he repeated. Garbage! he screeched, grinding himself in, but the tight resistance of her hairless cunt blocked his entry and he could barely pierce past her pussy lips before he erupted into a splutter of shaking, cursing, flailing at her back and neck and waist and arms laying limp around the toilet seat, his penis spewing out scum on her impenetrable vagina and just-as-tight little ass.

Whore, he said simply. Cunt whore, and viciously punched the release-valve flush-button at the side of the toilet seat, cursing at the pain and bruises to his knuckles, ignoring the hissing and swirling of the bluish chemical spilling into the scummy, uriney, shit-globbed and disinfectant-stinky bowl but blocked from escape by the little girl’s head plugging up the exit flush-hole at the bottom of the bowl.

Fucking bitch! he cursed again, trying not to get his shoes wet in the filthy water spilling out of the bowl. He pulled slightly at her body and lifted her head up, freeing the blocked waste, the water gushing down. He steadied the little girl’s naked body against the back wall, her head dangling into the bowl, her shoulders balancing her over-turned posture, her splayed open legs bent at the knees and precariously keeping her level and leaning upright.

He looked at her scummy cunt and cringed in disgust. He shook his head, sighed, then zippered his pants — his penis hard and unsatisfied — and snatched up her damp little red shorts and white panties. He took a deep breath of the clothes (smelling like shit and disinfectant), grimaced, and rolled them up in a ball. For a moment he listened warily, then stepped out of the Porto-Johnnie, letting the door swing free and shut unconcernedly behind him.

He walked up the pathway to the highway overpass and didn’t even bother to glance at the whore-mothers sitting and gossiping on the playground benches as he flung the little girl’s shorts and panties into a garbage can at the playground entrance. Ω