Pix Movie House

Countless times I would pass the Pix movie house on 42nd Street wishing I had a few extra coins to get past the 99 cents admittance fee. But my pockets stayed empty as they always were. So I just walked and walked...
 

Searching Men

 A crowd of men gather under a neon-lit marquee advertising sex films on 42nd street in 1967. (Bettmann Archive via Getty Images)

When I discovered 42nd Street in the early 1960s of course I was too young to enter the movie houses I wanted to and all I had to do was look at the marques displayed outside. Wasn't long before someone was standing beside me, offering me a cigarette as we chatted about the movie playing inside. One thing led to another and I followed him down the street. I love how easily we faded in a crowd...

Memories of 42nd Street

In the 1960s & '70s I was always on 42nd Street at all the movie houses, popping into Grant's Bar for a hotdog or burger or a drink, and going off for another quickie adventure. This photo of Raquel Welch above Grant's brings the memories back...oh, I miss those tumultuous times.  But the times are gone now, 42nd Street is nothing like it once was, rather blah... Hope to put up more pics of Times Square, the pics are nor mine but the memories are...
 

The Electric Guy

 

The Electric Guy

by Mick Mykola Dementiuk

originally published in Paramour 1995 and Selected Tales Synergy Press 2006

I'd been too long at my job, and under a lot of stress and frustration, but since I'd been doing it for almost five years, what would have been the sense in looking for another? I actually did like my job. As an electrician's helper there really wasn't all much to do: replace burnt out fuses, change old light bulbs, set up wiring for projections. But being a guy working in an all-girls' high school, I knew it wasn't the job itself that was causing the stress, it was the circumstances – all young girls I couldn't get at. Nonetheless, each morning as they arrived for class I would put aside the want ads and set off on my rounds, checking fuses and bulbs, breakers and wires, but mostly faces and breasts, legs and asses. Electrical problems? Hell, the way some the girls looked, they should have carried Warning: High Voltage! placards around their necks.

My favorites were the older girls, the juniors and seniors. I had witnessed most of them maturing from insecure, fearful, baby-faced freshman into the brazen slut/flirts they mimicked from the prime-time TV soaps. It was as if they were gradually taking on their proper, intended female roles in a culture ruled by men with money, power, and sex (that is, for the men, money got you power, and both got you sex; for the women, of course, the path was reversed). I had neither power nor money, but I had the frustrating thrill of seeing schoolgirls parading past me, clicking their heels, their padded bosoms thrust out, their uniformed skirts as short on their thighs as Catholic propriety and outraged nuns would allow. When they crossed the line, the nuns would send them home to put on longer skirts, to tame their teased hair, and to remove the makeup and lipstick slathered on their faces like 10^th Avenue transvestite hookers....Look for another job? Was I crazy? Why drop from purgatory into hell, when there was a remote possibility of dropping into heaven?

But those occasional glimpses of heaven were a torment indeed. The girl's room redolent of hairspray and perfume, with mirages of shimmering bras and panties, bobby sox and nylons. Girls, girls, and more girls would arrive during class breaks bringing their longings and heartbreak, frustrations, insults and bickerings; they'd share overheated and over-puffed cigarettes as they spit out their insults and jealousies, complaints and desires, gossip and lies.

But never mind all that (or the hair-clogged sinks or tampon-plugged toilet bowls – that was the janitor's problem, ha ha!), my greatest thrill in the girl's room was the graffiti-covered walls and doors of the toilet stalls. Here was intrigue and and innuendo that would take not only Sherlock Holmes to unravel, but also a Sigmund Freud to discern what was true and what was a delusion of thwarted adolescent lust.

Cindy wears falsies! Read one such marking. Someone added, She's also a lezzie! And someone else added, Yeah, you should know!

Karen fucks Father O'Malley! read another. No she doesn't, she fucks Sister Olga!

Susie fucks her father! read a third. Followed by an eager boast, So do I!

Then I read a marking at the bottom of one stall door (it wasn't there yesterday); I was flung against the stall wall as if backhanded by the powerful arm of sudden possibility, of hope, of expectation so close at hand. Donna gives the electric guy handjobs! it read, and underneath that, a mere shrug. So what, I give him blowjobs!

My first thought was to rip out the stall wall and take it home as proof that the girls liked me; my second was to pull out my dick and cream on Donna's name whoever wrote that she did me better; my third was to seek out Donna and the other girl for a real handjob and blowjob (one could jerk me off as I shot off in the other's mouth); and my forth was to get some paint and cover up the writing before a nun saw it and told the priests that I was the gleeful, unrepentant recipient of glorious, unbridled, feral sexual ministrations from the teenage Catholic schoolgirls they sought as hard to protect.

The following day the graffiti was even ore explicit and detailed. I can't get the electric guy's dick in my mouth it's so big! wrote someone who signed her name Connie, with someone else complaining, I haven't been able to sit all week from his dick up my ass! And underneath that, as if a missive sigh of regret, I wish could fuck the electric guy but my Spanish teacher says I'm only allowed to fuck him or else I'll fail...followed by the outrage, Puta! He says that to all the freshmen!

The next few mornings the graffiti conversation continued wherever there was a space on the walls and door, and focused on the merits and abuses of other teachers, male and female, nuns and priests, who either fucked or fingered or felt up and were blown or licked by the students who then failed and had to repeat the class. Was it true the girls weren't passing because the teachers to hold onto and use them for another year? How had I missed out on a racket of free and available sex? Was the graffiti I was reading all true? Or had I blinded myself with the girl-scribbled handwriting, the varicolored markings, the gushings about too-big dicks shoved into too-tight teenage cunts and believing it all, about the girls, about the teachers, about myself? But if I knew I was certainly not getting any, why did I believe the others were?

One early morning, before the girls arrived for classes, I went to the bathroom, hesitated then wrote on a stall door. The electric guy fucks here at 10:15 am! I stepped back and looked at my offer, then bent down and wrote, Don't miss it!

The next few hours were a frenzy of fear, anticipation, dread, and hope, yet did I really expect a line of cock-hungry teenage sluts outside the girls' room at the designated time? What did I envision, a frenzy of name-calling and face-scratching catfighters desperate to get their cunts around my cock? I had chosen a time when the girl's would be in their second period class, yet only a few minutes after the 10:12 class had begun, when late stragglers wouldn't to too conspicuous lingering in the halls or in the girls' room they bustled off to class. I propped up my ladder around the corner at the end of the hall where I could tinker with a circuit breaker box high on the wall but remain out of ground view of any girl rushing to get to me in the bathroom.

Who would it be? Was there really a Donna who pretended to given me handjobs, or some anonymous angel who was pretending she could she couldn't sit down after sitting on my eager dick; or some sex-starved bimbette who only wanted what her fellow were getting? A few times I almost fell off the ladder trying to peer around the corner at the imagined sound of a heel clicking toward the girls' room, but 10:15 came and went and I remained the only one in the hall, without a girl in sight.

Maybe they were taking a test, I thought. Maybe they being lectured on the dangers of unprotected sex and the proper use of condoms. Yeah, sure, in a Catholic school. Then I heard it...the faint squeak of an opening door...was it a hot and horny girl coming out of class for what she knew would be awaiting her in the bathroom?

But when I looked around the corner, the girl (I didn't see her face) was coming out of the bathroom and not going in! My God! What an idiot! I cursed myself. Had she been in there all along, waiting for me to come in?

Idiot! Idiot! I had missed the opportunity of a lifetime, every man's secret lust and dream, to fuck a teenage girl, and when would that chance ever arise again? There had been the girl, willing and wanting to fuck me, and I wasn't there... What loser graffiti would now follow me stall to stall, from school to school, from little girls' room to grown ladies' room? The electric guy is a faggot! The electric guy is a pussy! The electric guy can't get it up!

I wanted to leap off the ladder, run after the girl, explain I'd been delayed, feel up her tits, yank up her skirt, pull down her panties, and fuck her right there in the hall, but I turned to the stairway next to the girls' room and I heard her heels skip down the stairs.

My God! She had cut class just to fuck me and we could've been fucking 'til class period ended!

I wanted to cry. I didn't know what I wanted; I didn't want to be there. But then again I heard the squeak of the bathroom door and My God! Was someone showing

up after all? Was it a girl, her panties wet with pussy juice in anticipation of how I'd fuck her? Had she waited in class, staring at the clock and dreaming of my cock inside her cunt, my hands on her bumpy little tits, her curious tongue in my mouth? Had she decided she couldn't wait any longer?

It was 10:30. I snapped head around the corner, thinking I'd catch a glimpse of a skirt and legs entering the girls' room, but instead I saw a head peering from the bathroom out into the hallway: a man's head, a bald head, my boss's bald head. Was I surprised, enraged, disgusted? Not at all; it was the electric guy, wasn't it? The real electric guy, the head electrician, I was but a mere helper, changing fuses, dragging wire, standing on ladders, and helping him get laid!

The electric guy fucks here at 10:15! His helper stands on a ladder in the hallway!

He skulked out of the girls' room and entered the stairway. I hear his heavy boots skipping merrily down the stairs. Hell, wouldn't I be skipping merrily after having fucked a teenage girl?

I sighed, came down the ladder, and made my way to the girls' room. What was the point of going in there now? What would I be checking on, burnt out, wasted fuses? The spent cum of a burnt-out cock?

I entered. Perhaps it was my own frustrated long or over-exaggerated imagination, but I was certain the place smelled of sex: pussy and cock, sweat and scum, gasping breaths and shrieking orgasms. I stepped into the graffiti-marked stall where I had set my boss's appointment for a morning quickie. A new addition marked the door and I instantly my recognized my boss's chicken-scratch handwriting.

Donna fucks like a pig! it read.

I sighed, and took out my own marker. The electric guy sucks!

That afternoon, I quit without even handing in a written resignation. I tell you, the stress and frustration were killing me.

****

Pubes

 

Pubes

by Mick Mykola Dementiuk

short story published in Hair, Synergy Press 1997

The idea of a hairy cunt was the most disgusting thing that Joey could imagine. It was sickening to walk the streets or ride the subways or stand next to the sluts at work and think that under each skirt and dress, inside every pair of jeans and shorts, a matted clump of moist and twisted pubic hairs lay matted to the flesh and cupped in panty cloth in an almost deranged and frantic, spiderweb-like embrace.

Damp...twisted...mangled...sticky...ugh! The thought of hairy cunts made Joey wretch. The thought of any kind of pubic hair brought on waves of nausea and disgust.

So that's why he kept Maggie clean. No pubes in the house. Not for him. Daily he inspected himself, checking around his crotch and underarms, holding a mirror to his balls and his ass. A weekly shave was all it took to keep the insidious pubes from sprouting too readily into their distinctive curly stiffness. The two of them were as hairless as a newborn babe or as their own pre-adolescent brat, Peggy.

But for Joey to go through a day without coming across a pubic hair was like going through a day without pissing or shitting. In real life it is practically impossible not to come across a pube no matter how careful you are. They come with the mail, tucked into grocery bags, skimming on the sides of cool milk cartons, or trapped

between printer's plates and preserved forever on a newspage, twisting there obscenely around the face of a president, the words of a dictator, or the short-skirted legs of an advertising model.

Joey spent a lot of time coming across pubes, and spent just as much time being sick and disgusted. Just as he couldn't stand the idea of imagining the hairy sluts on the streets around him, so too he began to look at his daughter Peggy with greater interest, suspiciousness, anxiety and dread that she was growing up faster and quicker than she seemed to be just a week ago.

“Y'know, she's getting big,” Joey said one morning after Peggy left for school.

Maggie nodded, and continued with her coffee, concentrating on the new hair style of the female anchor on the morning TV news.

“I mean...big enough for...y'know what...” Joey quietly added.

Maggie looked away from the TV. “What?” her eyes narrowing.

Joey cleared his throat. “I suppose you explained to her how much I can't stand...y'know what.”

“You leave her out of your sickness!” Maggie snapped.

Joey sucked up his coffee and swirled the warm liquid in his mouth. Something tingled against his teeth and checks and settled on his tongue.

He gagged and retched the coffee out on the table. What was he retching for? A pube? Oh God, no! He gagged again and leaped to the kitchen sink, desperately washing out his mouth and face in cold water. He spat again. Nothing.

“I'm warning you!” Joey growled, coughing and trying to clear his throat.

Maggie snorted. “For your information, NO!” she said. “She's still too young for...pubic hair...”

Joey dry-heaved and ran out of the room.

“Pubic hair! Pubic hair!” Maggie shouted he him.

In the bathroom Joey gargled with mouthwash, spat out the imaginings of pubic hairs, then lowered his pants and sat down on the toilet. He ran his fingers down his hairless belly to his hairless crotch and shook his hairless dick and dangling hairless scrotum into the bowl.

What the fuck is the point of body hair, anyway? What are we, a bunch of monkeys or something? Hairy to protect us from the elements? If it's so cold that even underwear doesn't help, put on fucking long-johns!

He peed and farted and strained out a poplet of shit, then wiped himself and pulled up his pants. He flushed the toilet, watching the water eddy, gurgle, and be swallowed by the bowl, then raised the toilet seat – that always drives the bitches nuts!

Suddenly Joey jerked back in disgust. A pube! A fucking pube! A tiny fucking pube pasted right there on the bottom of the toilet seat!

He forced himself to his knees and carefully scrutinized the repulsive intruder. Will I never be rid of them? The fucking things are everywhere!

At work the men's room was cluttered with the fucking things – he could just imagine what the ladies' room looked like! The worst ones were from black Henry, almost like a fine black powder of hair. Black Henry and his fucking obsolete black Afro! Like a headful of pubic hairs!

If Henry used the men's room Joey wouldn't go in there after him; he'd shit and piss on the roof if he had to! What the fuck was the fucker doing in there anyway? Pulling out his Afro pubes one by one over the sink?

Joey stormed out of the bathroom and grabbed Maggie by the wrist.

“Get in here!” he screamed, dragging her to the bathroom. He flung her towards the toilet.

“Look!” he shouted. “Look!”

Maggie stared at the toilet, then back at Joey; she saw nothing.

“It's your daughter!” Joey shouted. “Your daughter!”

Maggie looked back at the toilet bowl. She finally spotted the pube on the underside of the raised seat: brown, stuck to some clammy moisture, pasted with ground-in piss and shit. She smirked and bit her lower lip. No, Peggy doesn't have pubic hair, but Billy has all of his.

She turned to Joey. “Wasn't your brother here the other night?”

Billy hesitated, then shouted. “My brother's not a pig!”

“Yeah! I suppose your whole family is as nuts as you and shave their asses every week!” Maggie shouted, pushing past Joey.

“Get back in here!” Joey screamed, grabbing Maggie and shoving her back into the bathroom. He went out and slammed the door behind him.

“Clean it up!”he screamed from the hallway, but his voice became an almost desperate stammer, pleading, beseeching. He pressed himself against the door and begged, “Please clean it...”

Alone in the bathroom Maggie picked up the tiny pube and freed it from the toilet seat. She examined the damp brown hair, then lifted the front of her dress and inserted her hand into her panties, pressing the pube against her fleshy bare pussy lips. Billy! she thought, and sighed – Billy's hairy cock and balls, tapping, pounding, beating, fucking her baby-bare virginal cunt, his pubes itching, scratching, scraping, tearing her smooth-shaved flesh into orgasm after orgasm – Billy!

Billy was the best fuck Maggie ever had, and being shaved by Joey made Billy's hairiness all the more erotic and exotic. She would bury her eyes and nose and mouth into his scummed and pussy-juiced cock, licking...slathering...biting his pubes, nibbling his balls, sucking...fucking his cock orgasm after orgasm.

“Uhh!” Maggie yelped, and shoved her fingers and Billy's pube deeper into her cunt. She shuddered and clutched the sink till the orgasm passed. Billy, Billy, Billy! Billy's pubes were like pornographic photo's viewed by a horny young boy who just wants to leap atop the unattainable images and meld into the filthiness of the illicit posings. But unlike the young boy's dreamy, jerk-off madness, Billy's pubes were readily available to her, atop her, behind her, before her, inside her. I'd better watch it: Joey might begin to wonder why his brother is dropping by so often, leaving pubes all over the place.

Maggie lowered her dress, grinning at the idea of making Billy look for his pube – hot..hot...cold...cold...hot...ooh! getting hotter...boiling!! She grabbed some toilet tissue and wiped the underside of the toilet seat. She sighed. Peggy will start sprouting soon, if she isn't already, and shedding as well.

But Joey better not dare! And if he did she'd get him locked up. He would certainly be certifiable if he tried shaving his own daughter. That would definitely get him out of her hair, and get her more often and thicker into Billy's.

She pushed open the bathroom door.

“Christ! she screamed.

Joey was at the end of the hall, bent over the laundry hamper, scraping at a pair of Peggy's panties.

“Look!” he flared, holding out the small white panties. “Just look!”

“You freak!” Maggie surged at him, her eyes suddenly widening at the etchings of brown pubes in her blonde daughter's panties.

Billy! she thought, Oh God, Billy, no!

His pube burned like a pornographic claw inside her. ***

The Guessing Game

 The Guessing Game

published in Paramour 1996

by 

Mick Mykola Dementiuk

It had been a week since he had guessed correctly but since she only him one guess a night there was a limited number of panty colors he could guess at, the odds of hitting it correctly sooner or later should have been in his favor, but they weren't, and once again he had guessed wrong.

-Blue! he stammered, thinking they had to be blue, it was time for blue anyway. Yesterday was cream colored, the day before was red, before that black, and it was pink four days ago... Yes! Today blue!... Besides, there was only one blue pair left in her dresser drawer, and dirty cream colored, red, black and pink ones in the laundry hamper, so they certainly had to be blue! 

-Blue! once again he gushed, but no matter how logical and calculating his reasoning, still none to sure of himself. Because all the deductions, the snooping through through drawers, through laundry baskets, had led him to wrong conclusions before. He had counted, tabulated, sorted and sniffed, clean ones and soiled too, every pair in the house --there must have been over two dozen-- and still for the past week he couldn't come up with any pattern she followed to put on which pair with which outfit.

Didn't a black dress with black hose and black shoes presuppose a black pair of panties? No, she'd wear green ones! 

Wouldn't white tennis shorts on a Sunday afternoon blend in perfectly white with panties underneath? Of course not, stupid! A shimmer of tiny red, circling, outlining, dipping into her highlighted attention-focused little ass was the preferred style!

So how could he ever guess what color she'd be wearing, or the logic behind it? 

-Blue! he gushed once more, and winced. For the look of disappointment was evident in her eyes, her mouth grimacing in disgust.

He groaned, and felt his still expectant penis weaken, falling more useless.

But they had to be blue! They were blue this morning (he had peeked as she dressed) when she pulled pink skirt, smiled at him, and departed for work!

But he knew they weren't... Who the hell knew what color they be? How many times did a woman change her panties in a day? Five? Six? 

What was a pair of panties anyway? A strip of colored cloth, two, three inches of elastic, stretchable material. You could squeeze one in your palm and clutch it all day, like a sacred talisman or holy amulet, a good luck charm, take it with you wherever you went,  to business meetings, to restaurants, to 12-Step programs, and who would be the wiser?

They were practically invisible. He had never checked her purse but he was certain if he had he'd find a few pains in there too, in between the makeup jars, the lipstick tubes, the eyebrow pencils, the bulging wallets and checkbooks, the subway tokens, the brushes, the sales coupons, the Tampons, the other panties...

Hell, the things were so tiny they could be shed and replaced in an instant! How convenient! Take them off on a hot summers day. Step into a hallway, lower the damp sticky ones, powder the ass and cunt, and step into a nice cool fresh pair of dry ones...Voila!

That's what the fucking panties in the streets were all about! Everywhere you looked panties were lying the on the sidewalks, in the gutters, an top of garbage cans, draped over fences, stuck on poles, everywhere you turned some cunt bitch was unobtrusively tossing something invisible over her shoulder.

God damn it! Hot sweated cunts changing their wardrobes in the middle of the day in the middle on the street in the middle of the whole fucking city!

Of course they weren't blue! Who could possibly know how many colors they had been that day? The fucking things changed by themselves every fucking minute of every day! Like magic! Nothing up the sleeve? Nothing around the cunt either!

She sighed, looked at him sadly, and shifted her weight on the sofa. He scowled and clutched his crotch. It had come to this, his failure of guessing correctly at least gave him the consolation of peeking under her skirt to verify his wrong assumption, the frustrating consolation of gaping up her long nyloned legs, of eyeing glimmer unattainable moist flesh, of staring in disbelief at whatever-colored panties clasped the bloated bulb of her unpossessable cunt...

It was always the same scenario: she sat cross-legged on the couch, he knelt before her, guessed at a color, watched her uncross her legs, peered under her skirt, and spasmed in his pants. 

Even if he had guessed correctly and been rewarded with his first fucking in a week he knew he couldn't have gotten it up for a second time. The anticipation, the fear, the anxiety probably brought on the force of his ejaculation as quickly and rapidly as did any abstinence or sexual stimulus of gaping under a female skirt. 

For a week he had creamed his failure at guessing correctly in his pants, and he was ready for another failed creaming right now. 

She uncrossed her legs, the rustling whoosh of brushing nylons tearing at his soul and groin, and slightly pulled up a corner of her skirt, raising one leg up on the couch.

He gaped at her bare crotch! 

You fucking bitch! he screamed. You stinking lying whore!

She smirked, and shrugged.

-It was almost a hundred degrees outside, she said.

-You bitch! he cursed again, and stared at her bare 

pantyless cunt. (When did she shave that? But then, when had he last seen it?)

-It was hot, she shrugged, and smirked again. Unbearably hot.

He leaped off the floor. 

-That's not fair! he screamed. You cheated!

This was certainly outside of the ground rules of their guessing game. This was cheating. He knew it, and so did she. They agreed there'd be no trickery of any kind, no  arguing or bickering over color-shades or tints, blue would always be blue, and not seaside marine. Red was red, and not majestic scarlet. Purple would be purple, and not evening magenta. Pink pink, and not pussy blush, or whatever the cunt-clothes-catalogs she got in the mail called it. And if she wore tiger-stripes or colored spots of polka dots any color on the panty he guessed at was valid to take in the entire panty and he won. And got laid, too.

But pantyless? And hairless crotched? This was outside the rules. This was cheating, And it wasn't fair!

-You cheated, you bitch! he cursed, and leaped on her. I'll give you panty pussy, you cunt, you whore!

She giggled as he unzipped his pants and was in between her legs, fast, and she didn't even resist, for she wanted him too, pulling him in her. Oh God, it had been a week without him too!

And he was in and out, in and out, back and forth, back and forth. Her ankles on his shoulders, her ass at his balls, his cursing mouth Bitch! Whore! Pussy! Cheater! 

spitting at her grunting yelping teeth and lips Oh God! Yes! Fuck me!

She screamed, he yelped, they came, and he collapsed atop her heaving chest, her legs falling down his arms but circling round his ass and waist and holding him in...

They gasped into each other's ear, they kissed. Perhaps the guessing game had gone on too long?

He gently stroked a breast: the bra cup under the blouse seemed stiff; was it new? Blue? He leered. Since the blouse was red, her fashion logic probably called for green...

He dared to ask, she smirked.

-Guess, she teased.

He guessed; she frowned.

-Guess again...

****

The Girl on the Cardboard

                       The Girl on the Cardboard

By Mick Mykola Dementiuk 

from 100 Whores, Synergy Press 2010

He could see she was sick — pale, pimply faced, her eyes unfocused and watery, her mouth lax and droopy. But sitting like she was on the park bench, her short skirt high on her lap, her bruised legs slightly parted, and her tight blouse showing off a small but cleaved bosom, he didn’t care how young or old or sick, his dick hardened at the sight. 

He almost didn’t see her at first, or the other girl standing before her — their bench was off the promenade — for as he came up the East River he was enjoying the view of Manhattan, the midtown skyscrapers gleaming in the distance from the early afternoon sun. 

It was the first pleasant day of late winter in 1970. Though scattered dark patches of dirty snow still clung to the thawing ground, it was warm enough to walk with his coat un-zippered, his scarf loosened, his gloves and ski-cap in his pockets. 

He almost didn’t see her because the other girl was in the way; whereas the seated girl was some kind of pornographic dream come true — he could just imagine the smell of cunt oozing up the promenade — the other girl wouldn’t make anyone look twice, except in curiosity of what they were looking at. 

Unlike the seated girl, sluttish and inappropriately dressed no matter the warm weather, the other girl, smoking and gesturing angrily, was clad in tight black jeans and knee-high leather boots with a denim jacket over a black turtleneck sweater (she was certainly ready for any kind of weather). Her black hair was cropped close, Elvis/butch-like, and combed in a pompadour that flitted over her forehead like a loose whip. 

He didn’t hear much of what the dyke was screaming about, just snatches of: You’ll do what I say! or: I need the fucking money! or: You’re nothing but a fucking whore anyway! It was only when the dyke spun around that he caught a full glimpse of the girl on the bench. His penis instantly tingled in anticipation; where had he last 168 seen someone looking like that? In a porno magazine? In a frenzied jerk-off fantasy inspired by porno images of females in porno poses he could never imagine witnessing in real life? 

The dyke scowled, then saw him, and brightened. She said something to the seated girl, who merely glanced at him and frowned, then shifted on the bench and stretched out one leg, her skirt rising higher, her thighs opening and showing off a swatch of something black — pantyless?! — her breasts curving rounder and higher in her V-neck blouse. A winter coat lay folded on the bench beside her, and when he came closer and saw her sickly face, he knew right away she should be in bed, alone, sleeping her illness off, healing, taking care of herself, or at least wrapped in a coat instead of sitting like that. . . . Still, no matter the weather he wanted to rip her clothes off and fuck the shit out of her right there! 

The dyke bounded towards him. She was probably seventeen or eighteen, but her face was already hardened in that typical clichéd dyke-anger of lesbian animosity, jumpiness, and hatred of the male sex. 

He always distrusted homosexual posturing as not so much a real lifestyle from an honest expression of sexual need, but just that, a posturing, a cowardly choice bred by fear of the opposite gender. 

It was so easy nowadays to come out of the closet and declare one’s gayness. Maybe because of that easy openness young people of both genders were taking on gay lifestyles because it was much simpler to be gay than to confront the fears, tackle the rejections, grow, accept, and overcome the teasing humiliations that always hover about when attracted to someone of the other sex. 

A boy who came on as a loser with girls would in time acquire the necessary skills to charm a prospective date. But now, a few snubs and rejections and he outed himself. Girls, as emotional or sexual partners, were out of the picture forever. And the girls? Whatever innate hoyden drive and tomboy stance kept the boys afar also reaffirmed the girls’ feelings of difference and only 169 brought them together with similar others the boys kept away from. 

At seventeen or eighteen the approaching dyke had already begun to seem like a burnt-out middle-aged lezzie. He didn’t know what to expect: a request or an order — for a cigarette, the time, some spare change — but he knew it would have something to do with the sparsely clad girl seated on the bench. 

Hey, you! the dyke snapped, her voice gravelly, hacking. Looking for some action? Her smirk was a taunting sneer, one corner of her mouth uplifted, the other downturned, her small yellowish teeth pointed and fang-like. He glanced at the girl on the bench — she had crossed her arms over her breasts and was swiftly stroking her bare shoulders before the dyke looked back. In his open winter jacket the weather was comfortable; dressed (or undressed) as she was, she was probably freezing. 

Maybe, he shrugged. Whaddaya got? 

The dyke’s lips tightened. She looked up and down the promenade. It was deserted, so he was the best she’d have to deal with, at least for a while. She scowled and gestured to the girl on the bench; the girl dropped her hands off her shoulders. 

For ten bucks, said the dyke, the cunt is yours. . . . 

His eyes widened and leered, and though the dyke’s sneering somewhat softened, it was also more contemptuous and loathing, as if she knew she hit a soft spot, right in his hard spot. 

What do I get for ten bucks? he asked. If there were any affection between the two he wanted to hear it from her lips as to what she was selling out her lover for. 

The dyke snorted angrily; fifty-fifty, she grunted. 

A what?  

Her eyes spun upwards, her mouth scowled, and she shook her head slightly. Boy, am I a walking confirmation of male stupidity! he thought. 

Half and half, she finally explained. Suck and fuck. She’ll blow you and then you stick it in her, okay? 

He looked at the benches, the thawing snow-patched ground, the spare leafless bushes, the barren baseball fields between them. Where am I supposed to do this fucking? he asked quizzically, certain she was beyond exasperation with him and was about to tell him to fuck off! and turn back to the girl. 

Look! she snapped, her arms akimbo, her legs outspread, her eyes squinted, her lips tight. She gestured to the girl. There’s a paper by the tree, she said. You fuck her on that, alright? 

Paper? He craned his neck to look at the trees behind the seated girl. 

The dyke’s fists went to her head. She groaned, and ran her fingers over her backswept hair. Cardboard! she groaned. She put cardboard on the ground! It’s for fucking! You wanna fuck her or not? Gimme ten dollars! Or go fuck yourself! 

Cardboard? He could imagine the dyke forcing the girl to pick up cardboard boxes en route to the park like some homeless person preparing a bed for the night, or like this alley-whore kid-tramp squatting down for a quickie at ten dollars a pop. Cardboard? How old was that cardboard and how long had it been there? How weather-beaten and scum/pussy-stained? How dogshitted and dog-peed? Certainly she didn’t gather fresh cardboard each time she came to the park. Was the weather-tattered cardboard he spotted in other desolate sections of the park former whoring-tryst sites as she made her rounds along the river? 

He looked at the bare trees and bushes by the baseball fence. None of them would shield the view of any chance passerby – we’d be fucking in the open. In the 45 minutes or so he’d been in East River Park he’d only come upon two people: a skanky woman with tight pants and a dog, and a beaming bald man walking sprightly in the same direction. The man definitely would have passed the girl and dyke. Was the old guy ten dollars poorer, poorer but happy? 

Who do I pay? he asked. 

Me! the dyke ordered, and snapped her fingers twice. He reached for his wallet, pulling out two fives — a wrinkled dirty one at which the dyke snorted — and turned them over to the teenage dyke pimpette. She pocketed the bills in her jacket breast pocket, and he glanced at the other green bills peeking out. 

I’m gonna walk around the baseball field, she said coldly. That takes fifteen minutes. She gestured with her thumb at her friend, and said, You should fuck her by then. Without another glance she turned and started walking upriver, as if leaving nothing she cared about. 

He looked after her for a few seconds, then approached the girl and smiled awkwardly; she didn’t smile back. 

She was a small light-skinned girl, yet for all her haggard/burnt-out/hooker-like appearance she had a baby-fat softness. On her chin, neck, and tits there was a sense of youthfulness that could not be dispelled by her make-up or low-cut blouse. She was probably even younger than her pimp-girlfriend and should have been looking forward to the end of her school year (what? . . . grade school? . . . high school?) rather than sucking and fucking strangers in the park. 

But in our disposable society why was this surprising? Whether it be plastics or cardboard, children or relationships, we discard each at our whim and replace them with others as meaningless and easily disposable. Who was she? A vague memory in some teen mother’s past of when she herself was a girl? A notch on some teen father macho/stud when he finally proved he was no longer a boy? Single mothers, absent fathers, soulless apathetic children, and we have only the extinction of our culture to look forward to . . . and that culture deserves to be quickly disposed of and forgotten. 

He un-zippered his pants, pulled his dick out, and the baby-whore was on him before he could even say, Suck it, bitch! 

But she wasn’t a very good cock-sucker, gagging as soon as his cock went past her teeth, and when she tried to swallow it a second time, the gagging was even worse, her dry-heaves like a shudder from her soul, trying not only to expel the pubic-tinged cock-smell of urined sweat, crotch blisters, and asshole itchings, but the stupid entirety of her whoring life and existence. . . . Yet her shaking tits sure looked nice when she heaved. 

I can’t, she said, shaking her head and looking up at him through teary eyes. He had one hand on her shoulder and moved it to her head. 

I can’t, she repeated, her eyes wide, fearful, trying to shake off his hand. 

It’s okay, he shrugged, stroking her thick in-need-of-a-shampoo blonde hair, tucking the almost-matted strands behind one ear. 

They stared at each other, her eyes curious but alert, then she turned to look up the promenade: the dyke was only half-way up along the fenced baseball field, but he knew it would take longer than the fifteen minutes she said she’d be back in. 

He looked at the girl: his stiff dick was poised inches from her pimply face and she looked like she might try to suck his cock again. Another dry-heave broke in her throat; she doubled over and spat out a mouthful of watery saliva. 

Hey, it’s okay, he said again, and touched her shoulder, feeling a bit ridiculous trying to consol the teenage cunt with his dick an inch or two from her face. 

Let’s just fuck, he suggested suddenly. 

The girl frowned, sighed, (Listen, you skank! he thought, I paid money for this!) then stood up, looked up the promenade again, and went around the bench to the bare bushes standing near the baseball field. 

She lowered herself to a large flat piece of rain-crisp curledged cardboard — Westinghouse, the cardboard read — and he snorted, Yeah, and I’m the loneliest guy in town. He was right between her legs as she tugged up her skirt and showed him her ugly pussy. 

He turned away: he’d never liked the sight of cunts. A cunt was one of the most grotesque and disgusting pieces of human anatomy left unfinished by Nature, and most likely the most underdeveloped part of human physiology. Nature was still trying to formulate and evolve into something useful, that is, something that could elicit not only hedonistic pleasure but also creativity and life. With a woman’s cunt Nature had failed miserably because men couldn’t leave Nature (cunts) alone to change and evolve an unfinished work in the solitude and isolation required of all evolution. Whereas pleasure was a fleeting digression, creation (birth) was brutal and lengthy and it tainted the moments of ecstasy and orgasm (life) by the proximity of smirking reality. 

He never entered a cunt without a guilty conscience, as if the brief euphoria of possession and the using of another human body as a jerk-off pump to ejaculate into was meant to deter Nature from its confounding task of evolving human life into a state of solitary perfection. Nature had no interest in bringing anyone together, whether it be a relationship, a couple, a family, a tribe, a nation. If every woman on earth went unfucked for a decade they would definitely begin to alter because Nature would step in to fill the void. Hell, they might even close up totally, or lengthen into a mimic of male appendages, so what then? Most likely evolution would come full circle; and cocks, male and female, would stretch and curve towards the nearest orifice — one’s own asshole — and our original primal hermaphroditic destiny would be complete. We’d be as one, because by then we would be only one, having no need of the other. 

Still, it wasn’t so much the natural repellant ugliness of her sex that made him focus so long on her cunt — that was expected — but because of the bruises and welts around it, on her stomach, her inner thighs, her legs, and probably on her ass as well. She’d been beaten, that was clear, and by whom he could easily guess, but by what? a strap, a belt, a stick? He couldn’t tell, but she’d been beaten very hard. 

Fresh blood-clotted bruises shone next to fading tawny ones, and he suddenly realized her ugly cunt was even more massive and bloated than it naturally should have been. It wasn’t that she was so sex-crazed and cockstarved that her pussy pulsed in desperate horniness, but that it, too, had suffered the punishment of . . . what? The fucking dyke’s boot kicking and stomping? 

He descended, and entered as easily as if he were sliding into his own greased jerk-off fist. There was hardly any resistance at his entry: her face not even wincing at the pulse of his incision, her cunt as pliant and open as a jar of Vaseline, jelly-like, easy and smooth, loose, open, pleasure-less. 

She opened her eyes; they were unfocused, preoccupied, distant.

Are you in? she asked. He nodded, and increased the speed of his pounding so as to see her breasts jiggling in her blouse beneath him. They were round and puffed, and even on her back they hovered upward and showed a spirit of life and youth that was a contradiction to the abandoned flatness of her teenage whore life. Could there be hope for her? He doubted that; in a year or two they’d be as emaciated and sagging as the breasts of any crack addict selling herself for a two-dollar crack hit. 

How much did you pay her? she suddenly asked, and for the first time a look of curiosity but fear crossed her face, as if afraid of his answer. 

Ten dollars, he grunted, hoisting himself up on his hands so as to get a better look at her from above. She winced. 

I knew it, she said quietly, and bit her lower lip. 

Does she cheat you? he asked. 

She says she only gets five, she said slowly. 

And how much do you get out of it? 

The girl snorted, sneered, and looked at him as if he were an idiot. 

Ha, nothing! She scowled, and turned to look at the baseball fields. The black figure of the dyke was now crossing the end of the field and would soon be turning down the highway side. 

He was steadily pumping in and out of the girl; there was more than enough time. How many guys do you do a day? he asked. 

The girl cringed, her face reddening. 

He was surprised: was it shame and was self-consciousness still possible? 

Probably twenty, she said quietly. And more on weekends. 

It was Friday, still early afternoon, and he had to ask: What number am I? 

She stared at him, her eyes narrowing as if calculating and counting. 

I don’t know, she shrugged. Six or seven, I think. . . . 

He was pumping faster, ready to come. But she takes care of you? he grunted through his humps. 

The girl nodded. 

She knows the park-lady who takes care of the GIRLS bathroom by the track fields. She lets me sleep there at night. 

He looked at her curiously. He knew they locked the track-field restrooms at night (he had tried the doors, GIRLS and BOYS) to keep the vandals out of the last remaining comfort stations in the park (a few portable toilets were used when a temporary construction crew moved in for repairs of a roadway or railings), but he wondered what the park-lady got out of it. 

And in the morning you start all over again? 

She was quiet, then said, With the park-men, three of them, they let me out, but only one fucks me, the other park-men say I’m too young so I only have to suck them off. . . . 

She gagged (a memory of a cock?), but he yelped and finally ejaculated. It was a strong ejaculation, one of the most powerful he’d ever experienced in a female, their bland conversation of sexual humiliation and abjection stirring him to an awesome feeling of power and superiority over her. 

He, too, wanted to beat and lock her up, or at the least, remain atop and inside her as long as he could, keeping her pinned to the cardboard and dirt. He knew that tonight he’d be in a jerk-off frenzy imagining her asleep on the cold and dank GIRLS restroom floor. 

Whore! he thought, but he’d have locked her in the BOYS room instead so she could wallow in the lingering stench of boy cocks and shit and scum and un-flushed urinals inches from her sleeping face and mouth. What do whores dream? Surround yourself with anything twelve, thirteen, fourteen hours a day, and it will permeate your soul and existence to where all else but that is excluded as irrelevant and insignificant. What had she said, Probably twenty cocks a day? So that had to average out to at least two an hour. Two cocks an hour in your mouth and cunt (fifty-fifty) and who would not dream that cocks weren’t a permanent extension of their being, their self, their existence, their consciousness, their soul? What do whores dream of? Certainly not of themselves. . . .

He began fucking her again. She squinted at him, confused, probably thinking he had already shot off, then looked up the baseball field. The dyke was now halfway down the highway pathway, walking quickly and undoing her belt from around her waist. 

A belt! he thought, a fucking belt! 

He increased his pumping. But the first ejaculation was nothing compared to the eruption and speed and contempt of his second one. He even spat on the little whore’s face, knowing he had cheated and won over both of them, the cunt and the dyke, by screwing the garbage twice but paying for it once. 

Ha! Ha! He hated the girl, and if she slept in the GIRLS room tonight he wished he could pour gasoline into the place and burn it down. 

He shuddered, and pulled out even more easily then he had entered. The girl lay still, her legs open, her cunt as ugly as ever, only her puffed breasts still alive and rising up and down with her breaths. 

He grabbed each tit and squeezed, painfully and brutally, and he wanted to lower himself atop the pornographic nightmare and fuck her again. 

The dyke stormed around the baseball field, just steps away from them. He got up and took a step back, alert, wary. She didn’t even look at him but surged toward the girl on the cardboard, her thick leather belt wound in one hand and striking the loose end flap against the open palm of her other hand. He zippered his pants, walked backwards to the promenade, and leaned against the railing. 

You fucking whore! the dyke spat out. 

The girl on the cardboard instantly arched her back and raised her lower torso, aiming her red and bruised and wet vagina at the dyke. The dyke raised her arm and swung the belt down . . . even from the distance of the river railing, probably ten or fifteen yards, he felt the pain between his legs as if he, too, had been struck by a vicious belting. 

The girl dropped down on the cardboard, crying, groaning, weaving her shut legs back and forth as the dyke continued belting her legs and ass and ordering her to reopen her cunt again. Slowly, the girl did so, whimpering, her eyes wide, pleading, No, please! I swear I didn’t enjoy it! But the dyke struck again. 

He sighed, turned away, and walked upriver, the belt-smack sounds melding with the river-slap echoes striking the concrete retaining wall below the promenade...

****