Monday, March 14, 2011
Mykola Dementiuk’s Stallers: More Tales of Times Square Cuties is a collection of stories of certain men who used to stand around in certain locations in Times Square in the old days where they knew they could always find another horny man and instant semiprivacy just a door away in which to act out their desires. These stories capture “when Times Square was all about sex, drugs, and cold spit … the just-burgeoning hardcore movie houses and girlie show of Times Square in the 1960s. It’s vivid. Harsh, real and yes, erotic, in a stomach-churning way. Genuine whoreporn from a time when things were not talked about, at all, in the twilight zone.”(Susie Bright)
Stallers: More Tales of Times Square Cuties
Renaissance Ebooks, Sizzler Editions (2011)
Excerpt: Just Like A Woman
It was Friday night and for decades this area of peepshows and dirty movies, loud bars and dangerous side streets, was synonymous with sex and cheap thrills. It was the place to come to get laid or blown or even watch a skin-flick while jerking yourself off. The purpose and logic, the thrill and enticement of the area was just that: sex, cheap and dirty and quick. On any night, the street scene was often the same: a red-faced geezer hurrying towards some dark side-street hallway with a young boy trailing behind him; nervous men in business suits skulking into dirty-movie houses or speeding out of porno bookshops with magazine-crammed paper bags tucked under their arms; ragged old whores roosting atop garbage cans and displaying flabby tits and busted-toothed grins to cars and passersby and sometimes actually negotiating a price with them. On the street, a young boy could lose his virginity to a manipulative wasted cunt as easily as to a scheming diseased dick up his ass. You took your chances when you got to Times Square, and you got what paid for; and more often then not, it was exactly what you were after anyway.
Excerpt: The Wet Skirt
The tip of her penis peeped out of her panties as she preened herself in the ladies' room of the Pix porno theater. She had left the bathroom door ajar but the steady parade of hand-jobbers and cock-suckers moving towards the men's room at the opposite end of the lounge barely even glanced in her direction and she slid out of her wet skirt and draped it over a stall door to dry.
She looked in the mirror above the wash basins and licked off a smudge of lipstick from her front teeth. As soon as my skirt dries she thought, I'll get out of here. Maybe go to the Bryant or to Grant's Bar where the other transvestites hung out. She knew it was a mistake to come to the Pix dressed as she was. The cock-suckers were after cock in pants, not in a skirt – and just moments ago she had sat in the balcony, crossing and re-crossing her legs, showing off her thighs, puffing up her bosom, and flitting her tongue, as in the seats around her dark figures groped at other legs in pants, bobbed heads on un-zippered laps, and totally ignored her sitting alone and waiting to give it away.
Excerpt: Soft Core
But she was not the sole reason I kept returning to the Pix. The majority of porno-houses on the block had made a swift transition from soft panty porn to hard core reality of the late 60s with exaggerated visuals and extreme close-ups of outspread vaginas, bloated cocks and stretched ass-holes, while the Pix, and its neighbor across the street, the Bryant theater, with their passé films of girls in panties and bras intimating at intercourse and hinting at fellatio, remained a sort of demure haven of soft core in the casual and ready hard fuck world along 42nd street and attracted a different shuffling clientele more interested in sucking each other off than in looking at the screen, whether it displayed covered asses or outspread panties crotches. At the Cinema 42, Caeser's Harem, Globe Sex World, the camera lens focused on interior visuals of lubricated vaginal and anal walls of some faceless woman, probing and lingering over every glistening vein and blown up gelatinous lump, while the Pix and Bryant still trembled at a bare thigh above a dark nylon mesh or the contour of a large breast pulsing out of a tight bra cup. There's definitely something to be said for the mystery and hint of early soft core porn: it treated the woman as an object to be desired, craved, and lusted after, a hint of stocking as something shocking, something heady but out of reach, a dream, a quest, a possibility, rather than a pliant immobile cadaver to be disemboweled, dissected, and discarded. "Open you ass, you cunt!" the director cries. "That's a wrap! Lunch!"
I had followed the young man from store front to store front, from movie alcoves to arcade windows and still he remained a few feet ahead of me, abruptly withdrawing each time I drew near, though not to deftly as he could have easily have lost me in the thick 42nd Street crowd. It was a tease and we both knew it.
I had spotted him coming out of Bryant Park and moving to the Pix movie house where he studied the girlie stills outside, then darted across the street and looked at the similar Bryant theater display. Though his park exit troubled me since there had been an increase in beatings, muggings, and faggot rip-offs that summer, not only in the park but the entire Times Square area by bully-hoods leading-on horny old queers, but he didn't quite fit the image of the lure-boy to bait me into some dark alley. Still, I'd better warn him to be wary of the park.
Excerpt: 18 Today
I had forgotten what it was like to be underage and trying to enter a sex theater, though the reminders of age were everywhere, plastered in between and around the arcade displays of big-breasted sex-starved bimbos as if hung there by some spiteful teaser: Sex-Sex-Sex-No-One-Under-18-Admitted! On one display the prohibitive words even appeared in a giant comic-strip bubble coming out of a giant bimbo's mouth: Sorry, boys, I need a MAN…No One under 18 Admitted.
I approached behind him and glared at the fat ticket seller: always in the same dandruff-sprinkled black dress; always the same stern eyes judging, deeming; always the same pursed red lips admonishing, No Drinking! No Sleeping! No Loitering in the Men's Room! while passing over an entry stub. I'm certain that here was the composer and designer of the Under 18 signs.
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