Monday, October 28, 2013

Pursuit short story by Mykola Dementiuk

Pursuit is a complete short story from Stallers: More Tales of Times Sqare Cuties by Mykola Dementiuk, a masterful 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. Susie Bright says Mylola Dementiuk's Times Square stories capture perfectly "the day when Times Square was all about sex, drugs, and cold spit ... the just-burgeoning hardcore movie houses and girlie shows 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." 

Sizzler Editions (April 20, 2011)
  • ASIN: B004XFC5LU


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.

I lingered by the girlie photos and pulled out a wad of bills, hoping he read my offer of paying his way and made a show of counting each bill, a ten, two fives, five ones. We stood near a big-breasted bimbo poster, but he just glanced at the money and at the Admittance sign on the ticket booth window and pulled out and looked into his own wallet, making sure I saw the empty flaps.  Then he shrugged and walked away from the theater, cramming the empty wallet into his tight pants pocket.

God-damned fucking whore! I smirked, but kept right behind him as he casually moved west along 42nd Street, then crossed at 8th Avenue and sauntered back east on the other side of the crowded street.

A few times I came close enough to once more flash the wad as he stopped at porno-shop window displays, studied tiers of engineer and cowboy boots at the Army/Navy store, and once practically into his hands as he lifted his lips and stared at a large store-front hamburger/fries menu before a dingy and empty diner tucked next to a bright movie alcove.  But just as he turned and continued along the street I'm certain his smile was growing broader with each pause, our eye contact more knowing and sure, his walking and halting more cunning and luring.  He had me, I smirked to myself; he knew it and so did I.

It was a Friday evening and the Times Square crowd was dense and boisterous, though in a partying mood, ready and alert for the slightest attraction, amusement or arousal.  Once, some garish old high-heeled drag queen, her drooped cock and balls clearly evident at the side of her tight red pants, tottered and pushed through the hooting and laughing crowd, while a few streets away on Broadway, a prostitute in a daring New Look micro short skirt which seemed nothing more than a strip if cloth pasted around her groin, was being led into a patrol car as the crowd hooted and shoved to seize a strategic spot to peer up her opening legs as she stooped into the car, erupting into cheers and arguments as to whether she was wearing any or not and poking and leering at each other as to the freebie's the cops would now get at the station house.

For a moment I thought I had lost him in the thick crowd but his white pants and t-shirt made it easy to spot him making way with the lookers as the cop car spurted its siren and cleared a path down the street.  He was laughing along with the other bystanders and shrugging to questions of panties or not but I noticed his eyes were eagerly scanning the faces as I was searching for his.  We saw each other. And did he blush?  Or was that just a streak of red flared cop-light moving across his face?  He smiled, and I turned and I continued my pursuit of his tease, moving up Broadway, crossing more streets, pausing at windows, and each time being enticed to follow still further.

On 47th Street, Broadway separates from its brief link-up with 7th Avenue as though having been assisted in its frenzied traverse of Times Square and begins the long oblique stretch uptown, a garish mainline for all the dull dim-lit parallel streets that slink along and only liven up when they cross its path.
The young man turned off Broadway and moved up 7th Avenue.  The crowds lessened somewhat and the store-front displays quickly melded to suit the tastes of a more constant and stable clientele: Chinese vases, frames and art works, fashion clothes, out-of-print records and old Broadway show posters and memorabilia.  Still, a few neon-lit porno-shops dotted the avenue here and there as though a memory of what lay a few blocks below, but their somewhat muted exhibits of jerk-off thrills were garishly intrusive and out of place.  And I certainly had no intention of going too much further.  50th Street would be my limit; the way this was going we'd both be walking the streets till dawn, playing, teasing, leading-on, laughing and running away.  Yet maybe I had it all wrong; maybe he wasn't leading me on and I was simply following my horny imagination.  What if he turned and socked my face?  What if he turned and screamed, "Faggot!"  No, 50th Street would be it; that would be my limit.  He can look at every store window from here to the Bronx for all I cared; for me 50th Street would be my limit then it was back to 42nd.

He stopped at a porno-shop window.  And of course, this being uptown they couldn't settle for displays of big tits and open cunts, that was a dime a dozen back on Times Square (or three magazines for five bucks). No, here the exhibit was strictly class, not porn, but nude studies, not jerk-off inducers, but art appreciation of the human body: naked little boys sitting on rocks, naked little girls lying on a beach, naked old couples and their naked young children sitting by a pool – the human body at natural and healthy play. I sneered, and wondered if 50th Street was worth the wait.

The young man walked past the nude studies and entered the long store front alcove.  Near the paint-covered front door, well off the street, the display window was plastered with photos and magazine covers of transvestite drag-queens.  For added enhancement and inducement, a pair of dusty panties with bra and black mesh stockings lay at the bottom of the window display as though some big-dicked transvestite had just disrobed and waited inside the shop.  I stood next to the young man.

"They look like real women, don't they?" I said, and gestured to the TV photos.
The young man glanced at me and shrugged, then looked back at the exhibit.  It was as though we had been walking and holding a conversation and paused; now we continued out talk.

"This one had an operation," he said, pointing at a magazine cover and shaking his head.  "They shouldn't show her with the other ones."

I glanced at the transvestite model: long blonde hair, sculpted face, perfect cleavage, narrow ankle-length black dress gown.

"You mean she had her cock cut off?" I asked.  "What a waste!"  I shook my head.
The young man sniggered and nodded.

"I saw that magazine," he frowned, glancing at my groin, "and it was nothing but cunts, new made cunts," he grimaced, and suddenly looked up at me.

I also grimaced and looked at the transvestite model then back at the kid and for the first time noticed there was something feminine about him too.  He was small-framed and thin and wore his pants tightly around his hips, totally out of the current young style of baggy peg-top waists and fat-ass look.  His face was smooth and clear, the lips thick and pouty and his blue eyes seemed avid and eager with thin eyelashes narrowly arched on his forehead above his eyes.  His blonde hair was also much longer then the current short mode and he wore a tight V-neck t-shirt which naturally drew the eye down to his chest. I suddenly envisioned him in a bra with cleavage, his face made-up, his legs nyloned and long.  I smiled and looked back at the magazine covers.

"This one is real," he said, pointing to a black transvestite.  "She has a dong down to here," he gestured to his knees.  "And that's when it's limp," he giggled.

I knew this was a perfect cue to bring the chase to an end, to toss out a feeler as to his own dong-size, yet something was wrong about the whole conversation.  I saw his darting eyes from my face to the magazine covers and hardening each time he looked away. I again felt that inarticulate inkling of suspicion, mistrust, and fear.  Why had this taken so long? I wondered.  There were TV photos in any of the shops along the way.  What was this chase and pursuit, if not an attempt to lure me away from the crowds and lights?  A few more blocks and it would be easy to tease me down a deserted street, into a dark construction site, a dim-lighted parking-lot or a shuttered doorway.  It had happened before: a slow tease, a long pursuit, a blooded mouth, rifled pockets, a kick in the groin, the spat out word, "Faggot!"  The memories came fast and clear and I stared at the kid. Had I seen him before?  Did he look the type?
"I'll bet you have a big dong too," I dared, nonetheless, glancing down at his groin, the crook of his white pants and thighs smoothly aligned and narrowed below his zipper and between his legs with no sign of actual cock and balls.  He may have objected to having it cut off, I thought, but he clearly didn't like showing it either.

"Wouldn't you like to know," he replied, and maybe it was his expressionless face, with no longer any pretense at the expected flirtation that once more hinted at something not right, but I looked at the transvestite photos and took a step back towards the street.

"Twenty bucks!" he suddenly blurted and moved after me.

I stopped and glanced at the opposite window from the transvestite display and looked at some pseudo-literary blatantly imitative books and novels:  Tropic of Tropics, Hard Candy, Lord Chatterley's Love-girls.

I looked back at the kid and asked, "Where?"

"Around the block," he answered.

I studied him and fingered the wad in my pocket.  We could've had this solicitation and talk anywhere along the way, I thought again, and kept my wad in my pocket.  Suddenly, a big-breasted girl in tight pants surged into the alcove, glanced at us and giggled, then snorted at the nude studies in the front window and stepped back out.  I saw a winded man hurrying past and give us a glance, clearly in pursuit of the girl, as he continued behind her to Times Square.  That was always the right place to go, I thought, no matter what.

"There's a parking lot down the street," the young man said.

I shrugged, then nodded and gestured for him to go and that I'd follow.  He quickly moved out of the store alcove.

Should've flitted your eyes, I thought looking after him, that'd make you look real.

I glanced back at the magazine covers and the transvestite who had it cut off.  A dong down to here, eh?  That I'd like to see…

I moved out of the store alcove and looked up the street.  The young man was a few doors down, waiting before a ladies' clothing store, a headless bra and girdle-clad mannequin in the window behind him.  I glanced at his slim waist and tight hips.  A dong down to where?  Well, maybe packed and stashed in a girdle, I supposed.

I turned downtown.  To Times Square.  If I didn't lose him in the crowd and he moved to pursue me it would have to be in either the Pix or Bryant.  Back where we started.  I wasn't going to any alley or parking lot.  But only where it was safe.  In the movie theaters on 42nd Street.   I turned and looked up 7th Avenue.  The young man was racing after me.  I saw he was pissed.  Ahead of me I spotted the big-breasted girl step into another porno-shop alcove as the winded man moved in behind her.  I turned onto Broadway.  The neon lights spasmed above and around me.  I immediately felt safer.

Mick Mykola Dementiuk
Lambda Literary Awards Winner 2013/Gay Erotica, 2009/Bisexual Fiction


Victor J. Banis said...

Absolutely brilliant, Mick at his considerable best. I think all of us of a certain age have done the "pursuit" - and thought pretty much the same thoughts. Which of course is what makes Mick the writer he is, he definitely captures that slice of life that was his - and that most of us knew as well.

At times I think I'm done reading - but it is material like this that reminds me why I was reading in the first place.

Lloyd Meeker said...

I was in NYC only once in the early seventies, and too terrified even just to pursue. Mick's writing recreates what I didn't dare touch for myself, as if I were transported back. Thanks, Mick!

Anonymous said...

Quite evocative.
Though I was in NY occasionally in the 70s (a school trip or two and then some visits on my own or with friends), I never really knew about that whole scene. It would've been something. But you manage to bring it to life and give us all a taste of what things were like.
Joe De Marco

Mykola ( Mick) Dementiuk said...

Thanks alot guys. Sorry I have been this late in getting back to you. You know you are my favorite readers and I'm touched that you all responded. Makes me feel good this late in the writing game, and a little choked up as well. At least you have the courage to do so.