Monday, September 3, 2012
My Father's Semen excerpt by Mykola Dementiuk
Cruising For Bad Boys
STARbook Press (June, 2009)
Just as Joey had told me, 42nd street was lined with movie theaters on both sides, but each theater was boarded up and shut, and the marques, rather then showing off some future attractions, had strange markings and readings which seemed like ominous end-of-the-world-is-coming: Life in not a rehearsal…This is not the end... I walked on, not knowing what any of them meant.
Joey had told me he had survived in all-night porno theaters, where he said he made money letting guys do him. The bad thing was when he made what he thought was enough some black guys ripped him off in the bathrooms or lobby or even right in the seats. 42nd street was very dangerous, even though it looked pretty tame now. The street looked like one of those Hollywood stage sets, when the actors and directors all went home for the night, leaving the people to hurry after them.
I kept walking across 42nd, not knowing which was to turn on 7th avenue, up or down, so I crossed over and quickly found myself on Broadway, where a few steps down, I read the strange sounding Hotalings, an out-of-town newspaper store. Unfortunately, they wanted a $1.25 for a Cincinnati paper, kept behind the counter.
Try the library, the store clerk suggested. Then shrugged and added, They’re probably closed for Christmas.
Still, I asked, where is it?
Look for lions in the street… he smirked, but I didn’t understand.
I continued on 42nd street until I came to 5th avenue. Of course, the lions that guarded the building were another symbol of New York, as much as were the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building. They always showed them in some movie of TV show, either with birds sitting on them or Christmas wreaths around their necks, which is just what they were wearing now and sitting like sentinels to keep the ignorant and stupid out. That’s the kind of library I’d be proud of entering, not that prison-looking piece of shit in Cincinnati that practically had no books published before 1985, as if literature began with Tom Clancy, reached its shining hour with Stephen King, and was slowly mellowing out with Anne Rice. Oh, God!
It was Susan who got me to admit I liked poetry, and brought me two paperback books by Allen Ginsburg Howl and Kaddish. Man, were they weird! But I loved them, reading each one and hoping she had other book let me read. Before that I liked songs by Led Zeppelin, Metallica, even Meatloaf, but since I couldn’t play any instrument except air guitar I couldn’t really compose much music and quickly forgot what gibberish I did compose.
I had a NYC map, actually a NY Subway map I had ripped out of a NYC phone book in the Cincinnati library, in my knapsack but I didn’t care about the rest of the city, the boroughs, but only Manhattan because it was easily laid out in a grid and most of the avenues and streets were numbered in sequence and it would be impossible to get lost as uptown meant high numbers and downtown meant the low-numbered streets. Easy, no? Well, it wasn’t really all that simple, but I felt good about where I was going, downtown, as if I’d been there lots of times.
It’s funny to walk in a strange city and feel that you fit right in, well, I didn’t feel different I felt I belonged there. Looking at the Empire State Building was beautiful and immense! It surged up to the sky its top lit by red and white lights for Christmas that even shone over the clouds and mist fogging atop the high building. As I kept walking I kept turning around to look at the tower above me, like a beacon landmark that even is I got lost would be my direction back home.
A few blocks away from the college buildings I saw a man struggling with the heavy locks of a metal gate he was trying to open.
Mother fucker! he mumbled, then reached for a bottle and downed a drink. Two gift-wrapped bottles were under each arm and he went back to forcing the locks to open. Must have been frozen with the cold outside, I thought. I again looked at the man, a red and white fake fur Santa Claus hat roosted on his head. I smirked.
Same shit all the time! he said, and took a step back and kicked the lock and gate. Goddamed piece of shit!
It didn’t do much good, and once more he started fumbling with the locks.
Fucking piece of shit!
He suddenly saw me and turned. His eyes were glassy wet and his face was unshaven and haggard, but the stench of alcohol hung heavily in the air around him.
Hey, he mumbled. Can you give me a hand, buddy? Hold this... And he conspiratorially winked but warned, No sneaking a drink, ok?
I slung my backpack on one shoulder and took the two boxes of liquor, the open box seemingly a lot lighter than the closed one; it was obvious he had been nipping from it and soon would begin on the closed one just as well.
Piece of shit! he repeated to the stubborn iced-over locks. I shouldn’t even go in. Serve ‘em fucking right if I didn’t clean their fucking pig-sty! Let ‘em come in and find it like they left it. What am I a fucking animal, cleaning up their dirt?
He suddenly succeeded in freeing one lock, shoved it in his coat pocket, and just as easily freed another one. He winked at me and his face had that familiar look I knew so well, his eyes going down my pants, and I wondered if my lips looked as wet and rapid as did his?
Go on, he winked. Take a drink if you want; my other jobs left me presents, not like this cheap piece of shit company.
He uplifted the barrier and started freeing the doors and I reached in one of the liquor boxes and lifted out the bottle. Only a quarter or so of the gin left, and he winked at me, took the bottle and drowned it. Yes, I wondered, why was gin always the preferred drink of those trying to make me? Is there a particular drink for every perversion? If faggots have gin, do whores drink bourbon? One time in Cincinnati a guy dressed me up as girl and made me sip blackberry brandy while he just had a beer. And what does the S & M crowd drink, vodka? What about the guy that killed a little girl in Cincinnati? What does he drink, probably Shirley Temple’s? Oh, what the hell do I know? And without a care he just tossed the empty bottle in the street outside, rolled down the gate behind us, and we were in.
He let out a deep sigh of relief and reached for the bottle I was holding, ripped it open and this time just took a sip and tiredly sat down in a row of seats. He looked at me glassy eyed, as if trying hard to remember who I was, then his cheeks puffed out and he belched. “Bouah! Bouah!” Again his eyes drooped but I was glad to be in a warm place, if only for a short time.
I looked around. It was dark -- just a Coca Cola sign shone brightly on one wall -- and after his little gagging I didn’t expect any real movement from him. But what did I think was going to happen? Well, maybe because the way he looked at me I felt I should play this out to the end. But that’s always been my problem, thinking that the look of sexual desire and lust in the eyes of strangers could be more than just a look of sex, but also a longing for love. Sometimes I’ve always felt I should never disappoint someone hungry for me, as if their hunger for sex should be appeased and rewarded by my giving of myself to them…and how easily I have given myself to others. But what sexual satisfaction or sharing would I get from the drunken Santa whose need for a bed was to sleep it off and not screw me in?
Santa let out a few more retches but they were mostly dry heaves. I moved to another table. My feet were wet, my shoulders also were wet, and the hood of my jacket was sodden and did nothing to keep the snow off my head. Santa slowly got up and shuffled behind the counter. Then he stopped, staring at me as if unable to recall who I was or what I was doing there, but the sight of his liquor bottle brought back some kind of recollection as he sheepishly grinned, wiped his mouth, and said, Shit, I shouldn’t have drunk it so fast…
I grinned and snorted, but said nothing, as he looked at me.
But I was glad to be in the store where it was incredibly warm; and the fragrant smell of pizza dough, cheese and sauce hung aromatically in the air like a welcome treat from the bitter slush and cold outside. I took off my wet jacket and set it on a stool backrest, thinking, maybe I could stay here? Maybe he’d give me a job in the shop?
Is this your store? I asked.
Santa didn’t look at me but rubbed his face and sat back down next to his bottle of booze, and started fumbling the package trying to rip it open. He did, and brought the bottle out. Suddenly I changed my mind about being here, the smell of alcohol and vomit was quickly over-powering the sweet smell of sauces and pizza dough.
Again I asked him if the store was his.
Wha…? he slurred, looking at me. What…?
I sighed; I was familiar with this time-lag, the almost slow-motion response of drunks, being told lots of times to jerk someone off when I just did, and them not understanding why it was taking them so long to ejaculate. Drunks don’t know that their sexual strength goes with each drink they have…
Are you the pizza guy? I asked.
He contemptuously snorted and lifted the bottle. It was a brown colored liquor and I knew if he started mixing it atop the clear gin there’d be real trouble.
Neah, he said, I just come in every morning and clean the place up.
He held the bottle and looked at it, then pushed himself up from the stool and went behind the counter and retrieved a bottle of beer from the store refrigerator. He cracked the top off and took a deep swallow, letting out a sigh of satisfaction. I don’t know how people can drink beer after drinking gin and setting off to drink whickey. He took another swallow, then reached into the refrigerator and pulled out another bottle of beer, then returned to the table and held out the beer bottle to me. I opened it and took a small swallow. I never liked the taste of beer, and since I was tired and hungry, the taste repulsed me even more.
What happened to the side of your face? he asked, slowly sipping his beer.
I looked more closely at a wall mirror and saw the left side of my face was huge, puffed up and bruised looking, where the mugger had stuck me.
I got mugged, I simply said, but I noticed he wasn’t paying me any attention, nodding out…again until he jerked up again.
Good beer, I simply said, raising the bottle and pretending to move it into my mouth.
He did the same, took a sip, then set the bottle down on the table and sleepily looked at me. This was it, I knew it; the whole point of me being here with him. He moved so his legs were open and smiled. There was no choice. I got down to my knees and smiled back at him. Slowly, I tried pulling his pants down under his ass and down his thighs. The rancid stench of dried urine on his underwear surged into my nostrils and I hoped I could get away with giving him a hand-job and didn’t have to take his smelly cock in my mouth.
I sighed, but kept smiling, and lifted the limp penis and gently began stroking it back and forth, doubtful I could raise his drunken cock to erection. Then I heard the snore and looked up. His arms were crossed over his chest, his pants were down his legs, the Santa hat rakishly roosting on his head and he was asleep.
I held onto the cock, gently pulsed it in my hand, because if I let it go and made a movement he’d instantly stir awake. Being as drunk and plastered as he was there’d be no trouble in keeping him that way; as long as I kept quiet.
I examined the cock I was holding. Limp, but just as cock-looking as any I’ve seen. What was the fascination some people had for detailed examination of a cock, or a cunt? I didn’t understand those incredible close-ups of a wet cunt or scummy cock in porno videos and magazines; bodies aroused me, not detached orifices or severed photos of something entering them. Entire-body photos turned me on, especially photos of women with men, as I’ve always imagined myself to be the woman under the man, but whenever I looked at pages after page of cocks and cunts I grew quickly disappointed.
I gently let go of the limp dick, settling it to fall down to the loose droopy balls between Santa’s open legs. I had been gently holding the soft penis for almost ten minutes and I was certain Santa was in a deep sleep, probably dreaming of erections and liquor bottles and spotless pizza shops. This one certainly wouldn’t be cleaned up, I smirked.
I reached into Santa’s coat pocket in a side chair and gently pulled out his ring of keys, careful not to jiggle too much. It took almost five minutes inserting the various keys into locks until I hit upon the correct one; the lock snapped open. I was about to go out but then I went to the refrigerator where he had gotten the beer, and looked at the food. My mouth quickly grew wet and I wiped my lips. But I settled on a 2 lbs package of ricotta cheese and two bottles of orange juice. I stuck that in my knapsack and put my damp jacket back on. Santa was still snoring, his exposed dick hanging limply, and I shrugged, recapped the bottle he was drinking from, and took that too in my knapsack. Suddenly, I felt sorry for Santa; he probably would lose his job for sleeping half-naked in the pizza shop and not cleaning up the place. What a Christmas surprise he would be? I snorted, and went out, frowning that it was still raining and snowing.
I scooped up a handful of slushy snow off a parked car and washed my hands and fingers of the uriney smell. Again I felt sorry for the drunken Santa, but then said, Fuck him! Christmas is a time of revelation, lots of things come out in the open. I’m sure that Santa was a good cleaner, after all, he had the keys to the place, but after this he’d be left keyless out in the cold. Like me…
To purchase, click http://www.amazon.com/Cruising-Bad-Boys-Mickey-Erlach/dp/1934187488/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1337254891&sr=8-1