Monday, December 30, 2013

The 42nd Street Jerking Off Club excerpt by Mykola Dementiuk

The 42nd Street Jerking Off Club by Mykola Dementiuk is another masterpiece of Times Square in its gay heyday by the two-time Lambda Award winning author!

The 42nd Street Jerking Off Club
Sizzler Editions (2013)

And this being
42nd Street I felt very at home there, experimental sure, no matter what it may have looked like, but my resistance was quickly falling apart.  I frequented many places on that street and I looked upon it as just one more place to discover and participate in.  He smiled but didn't say anything as we passed by the various movie theaters on that street, the Victory, the Sylwan, the Apollo, Times Square Theater and others of that ilk when he stopped before an Army/Navy store entrance alcove.

"It's in here," he said, and going to the windowed front of the store, various items on display in the windows, shirts, pants, boots, a cornucopia of choices.

"This is it," he said again, opening up a glass door at the side of the alcove; three names were painted on the glass.

"Which one is yours?" I asked, as he was opening the door.

"42nd Street Club," he answered, pointing to the name, and he whispered, "But it's really the 42nd Street Jerking-off Club, have to keep the name shortened out of respect for my neighbors, you understand, don't you?"

My eyes flew open, amazed by what I just heard.

"You're kidding, right?"

He chuckled.  "Why should I be kidding, it's the
42nd Street Jerking-off Club.  Every Friday and Saturday we hold our meetings, well, they're not really meetings.  You should attend one and have a look."

We rose up three flights of stairs and he began to open the front door; a lettered sign was painted on the door:
42nd Street Club, nice but not exactly right.  I was already aroused.

We entered, as a large window hung over
42nd Street, an auditorium-like space filled with chairs, books, magazines and newspapers of every kind, mostly the sexual kinky kind, with a movie projector at the rear.

"Would you like something to drink," he asked, "I have some soda but if you would like something a little stronger I have rum, gin or whisky, take your pick?"

"You have any vodka, that's always my drink of choice?"

"Oh heavens, no, I don't.  I'm terribly sorry.  Forgive me.  I must get some vodka, I always forget."

"Of course, I forgive you.  It's not your fault.  I'll have some gin," I shrugged, "it works just as well, booze is booze."

He smiled, as I did, too, both of us blushing and ashamed of something.  He poured out the drinks – he was having gin, too.

"Any particular magazine you would like to look at?  I have all sorts..."
I took the drink he gave me and took a sip.  "Nice, gin always has a pleasant, relaxing aroma, unlike vodka which has a vicious bite to it."

I set the drink down and picked up a magazine.  Girls at Play was the cover, showing girls tossing a beach ball in the sand fully nude.  I picked up another one, Nylon Flirts, half dressed girls in various poses showing off their nylons and skirts as they walked, climbed ladders, did house chores in their nylons or just sitting on the stairway with their skirts high up their legs, their nylons inching up their thighs.  My eyes bulged; it looked just like the library cutie we had just seen on
Fifth Avenue, sure looked like her.  We glanced at each other.

"I love that magazine," he nodded at the one I was holding, "even the title, Nylon Flirts, can get you aroused; it does to me," and by then he was rubbing himself and lowering his zipper.  Hey, he did say Jerking-off Club, didn't he?
I blushed but looked down into the magazine.  God was I hard!  I couldn't help but be aware that he had pulled his pants off and was lowering his Jockey shorts.  Oh no, what was he going to do?

I picked up another magazine from a pile around the office; there were stacks and stacks of piles everywhere!  If you ever talked of
42nd Street as piles of dirty magazines, well, this office was certainly it.  Magazines of every kind were on exhibit, half-dressed women, half-dressed men, made no difference to me, I hungrily looked at each.

I sat down at the other end of the couch from him, still flipping through the pages of one.  "What's that one?" I asked nodding to the one he was looking at.
He showed me his cover, Secretary Sluts.  A pretty woman wearing glasses (who else, an ugly one?) sat at an office desk with her legs braced up, her skirt was also pulled up and revealing her garters straps holding up her black hose, her frilly blouse slightly unbuttoned exhibiting her pink bra holding in a very sizable bosom but she looked very occupied and perplexed over some office chore.  I also un-zippered and pulled my dick out.  Of course, in the ensuing pages as she had shed item by item of her clothes, holding her pose throughout the office, at her desk, before the typewriter or at the water cooler until she was totally shed her clothes and whatever problem she was faced with it, it had now been solved!  Beautiful, the work ethics of a modern woman!

I ejaculated, the force twisting my eyes to clamp shut, my mouth grimacing open as my teeth clenched shut.  Whew, that was a powerful one!

I eased my eyes ajar.  Jamesy sat holding a box of tissues out to me, his own hard dick before him.  I gratefully took a few and wiped the stickiness off; I noticed there were two or three other boxes of tissues about the place, near the sofa, at the corners and one on a chair at the doorway.  So this was a real jerk-off room and he was more than prepared for the cuming.  I again wiped myself.  I liked this club!

"Thanks," I said, ready to pull my pants up.

"Don't mention it," he shrugged, "glad you're satisfied." He flicked a page of his magazine and looked at me.  "I still have a way to go."

"Why's that?"

"I'm older," he nodded, turning a page.  "It takes us older men a littler longer than it does when you're so young.  How old are you, in your 20s?"
I wanted to agree, tell him I was in my 20s but he seemed an honest looking fellow; I told him the truth.

"I'm 21, just turned it a few days ago."

"Wow, very, very nice," he smiled, nodding his head.  "I'm impressed, Happy Birthday cutie!" and he winked at me.  "I've never had a young boy like you in this room.  And your birthday was a few days ago?  That's wonderful; did you have a nice one?"

I shrugged, "The usual, nothing much."
"No party or cake?" he frowned.

I shook my head but snorted.  "Neah, I guess I'm too old for that party stuff.  Anyway, that's for kids."

He shook his head.  "Oh, you're never too old for a piece of cake.  That's what makes birthdays so special.  For one day out of the year, you can be a little kid again.  Don't you think that's wonderful?"

I looked at him and throughout our little conversation, I realized he was still stroking and beating his penis off like it was the natural thing to be doing.  And maybe for him it was but my own penis had again hardened and seemed to be ready for another massage; I slowly stroked it.

"Yeah, I guess," I shrugged, "Birthday's can be great if you have someone to tell you Happy Birthday, but if you don't it's just another shitty day," and I beat off my penis a little faster.

He sulked, looking at me.  "But that's just horrible," he eased himself closer on the couch and masturbated right next to me; I masturbated beside him.
Two men masturbating in
a 42nd Street room, what's wrong with that picture?
"You should never be alone, especially on your birthday."

"Why, you've never been alone on your birthday?"

"Well ... I try not to."

I waved my hand.  "We've all been alone; it's time to get used to it."
He lowered his head and his masturbation grew a little slower.  I felt strangely sorry for him.  I had no right to make him feel bad.

"Hey, you have any other magazines besides these girly ones?  I wanna see something different, you know, like them spanked or tied up, or even boys as girls, you know?" I turned red.

He instantly brightened and got up, going to a pile in the corner.  "Why yes, I have these boy magazines with these transvestite ones, you want to see them?"
I grinned, my penis instantly getting harder and bigger.  The idea of transvestite magazines had me aroused, those were something which I rarely ever saw, even in Times Square, sure there were many in the shops of the area but because of what they were – risqué publications – they were held in cellophane wrappers in the windows or behind the counters as if only for the connoisseurs who already knew what he was getting, a man dressed up to look like a woman.  The notion had me almost instantly stiff.

How many times did I see myself as a woman ... that is a transvestite woman?  Countless times.  Even on some date with a gal going to a hop I was instantly fascinated by her perfume, the clothes she had on, and the femininity that permeated her entire existence.  I dreamed and longed for femaleness, not to be near and around it but to take on her clothes and put them on myself, as if I was that woman.  The few girls I did go out with instantly found my shyness irksome, as if I should be doing something better besides spending time with them.  Of course, I was the other, the queer other, wanting to be alone with my tugging dick while wearing her feminine clothes.

"Come back, baby," he whispered bringing me to, "You're so far away..."
I blinked my eyes; he was right, I had drifted off into the idea of women's clothes, which I had decorated myself with while still being a man.

"Sorry, just lost in my thoughts, you know?" I blinked my eyes.
His hand was stroking my hand as I looked at the new magazines he held out to me.  There was Transvestite Girl Talk, Trannie, TransLiving and others each with an obviously made-up man on the cover taking on the role of being a woman.  That's what I liked about the older magazines they did not steal a woman's look by operation but stood showing themselves off in panties with a cock bulge right before them.  If you wanted one you had to know she was a he right from the start, no pretense at what she wasn't.

His hand had inched lower and circled my penis, slowly stroking and beating, and I did likewise to him.  Two men in a room, jerking each other off; what could be better than that?

With his other hand, he held the magazine as I flicked it page by page while our dicks were beaten off.  Only once had something similar ever occurred, in the flickering movie lit
Bryant Theater when I was eating popcorn, a man sitting beside me and jerking off suddenly pulled my hand onto his hard cock.  With his other hand, he clutched a box of Juju Beans.  I was surprised because what could I do?  I jerked him off as he was jerking me off, too, while holding and looking at our snacks.

But the photographic montage in the magazine, the way the pictures were cut and set up, was of one girly dressed-up man in the bliss of pretending to be a woman.
Jamesy set the magazine down and picked up another one.  I no longer was fascinated by the title it's what was being shown that had me mesmerized, as if I was the one in the photos.  In my delusions, I was dreadfully confused; was I the man or the woman?  I so much wanted to be decorated in the feminine clothes but there was another at her side, a female/man beside her and his hands were all over her.

I beat Jamesy's dick, as he beat mine.  In the magazine, the tranny woman had her legs outspread as he was feeling her up, his hand on her cock just as Jamesy's was on mine and I was on his.  I shuddered and exploded in ejaculation, all twisted up again but the magazine took whatever strange discomfort I was feeling to a sense of lost passion over what I was doing.  And though I had just ejaculated I did not feel I had done something wrong to be ashamed of, as I usually did, but that Jamesy would understand me perfectly, the same thing as was happening to him.  Two men shooting off their loads, ah bliss!

He smiled, I blushed but smiled back at him, still holding and stroking his hard penis.  And soon, very soon, I could feel his explosive tension rising up his cock, a tightening of his body from his hands to his chest and belly as the semen erupted and chaotically torn through him erupting in a splurge of instant satisfaction and peace.

I was happy seeing this in him; a sense of contentment filled me; peace was upon me, we were one.

No comments: