Monday, March 3, 2014

Missy the Sissy novella excerpt from Times Square Queer by Mykola Dementiuk

In Missy the Sissy, a novella from Times Square Queer by Mykola Dementiuk, no place ever looked the way 42nd Street and Times Square looks now, except in the tourists' eyes. They flock to the area and eat ice cream as they relax in beach chairs while they plan their next tourist stop in the new New York. Beach chairs in Times Square? Perhaps in some old filthy movie-maker's vision of  his latest x-rated sexploitation feature.

I shake my head…But those days are gone now. Still Times Square wasn't like that at all. Filthy, dirty, dangerous and sexy, yes, but without stupid beach chairs. It was a place where, when night came, you took your life in your hands and held on very dearly because anything could happen. And of course, many times it did. But one day the do-gooders erased the old Times Square and wiped it clean, setting up a feast for Holy Bloomburgia, the sacred mayor of New York. It took its place in City history and moved on, with little remaining. But the old memories, the aura, the danger, the pleasure, the sex always lurked around a corner. A man would come into the area very erotically hard-up and leave satisfied, sighing with pleasure, or else he'd barely make it out, shuffling and crawling out for dear life yet always another would take his place. And there were many others, boys, girls, men and women all willing to be used and taken  by those who lived on the edge….

I lived on the edge. This is my memory of 42nd Street as it was in the old days. The names and faces don't mean a thing now because they are always interchangeable and replaceable…. Too clean now, too false, too phony, too unreal….

Missy the Sissy (Times Square Queer)
Sizzler Editions (February 12,2012)



Missy the Sissy loudly tapped a spoon on her glass announcing she had something to say. As usual, we were at Grant's Bar on 42nd Street drinking, bullshitting, flirting, just wasting our lives away. Sissy was an extremely passable transvestite, who dressed and acted like a schoolgirl, which, of course, got her many dates and bed-partners, but her act and role play was more than just real, she was, after all, goofy and very childish, hopping into bed all the time with whoever she was attracted to but if she wasn't she'd always get her money that way.

Sissy stood up and cleared her throat.

"I'm pregnant," she quietly announced, "going to have a baby."

Imagine the stunned silence of the group as the incredulous looks went from face to face finally breaking into hoots and hollers and laughter. Sissy sulked, pouted and angrily hissed a few times, "Oh, yes, I am," as she'd angrily storm out of Grant's Bar.

After the smirking, sneering and the dismissive Jesus Christ's I still had to wonder; she was a great looker but still she was a guy. Come on, Missy the Sissy pregnant? Forget it, good for hand-jobs or blow-jobs but what's this crazy game of being a potential mother? I shook my head. Well, no way, impossible!

Still, the few times I had been with her she was a perfect woman, acting real and not fabricated since she was dressed as one. Childish, perhaps, but still able to present herself as a flirty woman, which she was. We cuddled as lovers and she certainly played the part to the hilt. Bending over and performing sixty-nine, I even forgot her penis wasn't an error but a divine organ of femininity. Sissy was a perfect woman! And when we went out to get something to eat the store cashier smiled and even said, "Thank you, miss." She was ecstatic and so was I; at least she could pass, unlike the other Times Square transvestites who simply couldn't. It was great being with her when she played the role but by the evening her stubble was beginning to show itself as well as other masculine traits, like the muscles on her arms readily stressing themselves and showing off masculine in her feminine blouses, whether she wanted them or not. With the dawn coming to the area, and without her makeup and a good shave, she was just another 42nd Street fading hustler/faggot but then so was I….


It was about a week before Missy the Sissy came back to Grant's looking older and wiser, and more mature, even more prettier than the usual flirty playful girl she really was. And the amazing thing was that she wore a debonair pink maternity smock around her body with a blonde wig on her head. She was certainly color conscious and I had a hard-on before she sat at our table, with the other guys around us, smiling but fidgeting nervously.

"Nice to see you, Missy," I said. I got up to hold a chair out for her as she tiredly and slowly sat down.

"Thanks, Eddie," she said. "You were always the gentleman."  She looked at the other riff-raff sitting at our table. Her face quickly sneered at them.  "Not like these low-life scum."

I saw Paddy and Matty turning red and looking away. I expected some kind of rebuttal from Paddy but he quickly finished his drink that he'd been nursing for some time and left. A nervous looking Matty simply shook his head and without looking at Missy the Sissy or a word to me also got up and sashayed out.

"Assholes!" Missy cursed after them.

I shrugged, and said, "Oh, the hell with them. They don't mean anything."

I never thought of her as being boyfriend/girlfriend but at the moment I wanted her very much. I liked the new and unexpected state of mind I was feeling with Sissy, with those other times I guess we fell into it but now I felt a horny romantic desire and lust for her. I didn't want her because she was an easy transvestite hand-job/blow-job queen but I wanted her in that she was a woman and I drooled after her, just looking at her. My dick was pulsing in my pants, and it's too bad she sat across the table from me or else my hands would be on her pretty fast. As I'm sure she wouldn't care, it would be a sign of love, the pawing, the fumbling, the quick soft cumming that would bind our lust for each other even more.

I drooled after her but asked, "What's with the maternity dress?"

"Oh, this?" She slightly blushed and quietly said, "I'm pregnant."

I tried keeping a straight face but smiled.

"Yeah, I know, I was here when you announced it, remember?" I said. "But who's the father?" I asked, knowing whatever she said was going to be a made-up lie.

She turned red. "Yes, you were here, Eddie, I forgot." And she took a sip out of my glass then quietly muttered, "It was rape, you know." She lowered her head but then perked up.  "But I don't care; I'm going to keep it anyway." And she softly and dreamily added, "I'll be a mother.… Just imagine that?"

I frowned; she was too pretty to be so dumb and childish. She maybe really had been raped by some sick weirdo and loved it, too.

"Creeps!" I muttered, shaking my head. "I hate the asshole rapists."

And at that moment I did; the fictional rapists and her as the innocent, naive rape victim; why it happens almost every day in New York and I wanted to kill them all, perform lobotomies and castrations and make them suck it up afterward

I saw her looking at me.

"I mean it," I continued. "If anyone hurts you, I'll fix 'em good."

That's the way it should be, I thought to myself, feeling smug and self-satisfied.

She changed the subject. "You know I'm going to have my baby very soon," she added.

I almost coughed out the drink I was taking.

"Huh, you're what, so quick?"

She looked at me, with a smug smile on her face. "You know it's almost due," and she nodded her head.

I smirked. "Ain't it gonna be a little early, I mean very soon…well…you won't be nowhere near the nine months it usually takes."

It was my turn to be smug and I certainly was, watching her face drop, her entire demeanor crumbling. She glared at me and said, "You just watch it, mister, I'll show you!" And she got up and stormed out of Grant's, swinging the glass door viciously open. I shook my head and mumbled, "Jesus!" after her.

Good riddance! I thought. What a nut job she turned out to be. Some ditsy crazy transvestite… Maybe I wanted to get laid again but not with this ditsy homo queen. Well, no thanks! I had it with her…

I finished my drink and also left Grant's Bar. Outside was a typical 42nd Street crowd, hustlers, whores, queers and all kinds of riff-raff out after sex or the almighty dollar in trying to rip someone off. I headed for the subway when I saw Missy the Sissy's arm being held as she was escorted down the stairs by a chubby red-faced guy. He had a bag under his arm as I snorted. Probably porno magazines he had just purchased in the Times Square adult stores. A perfect pick-up for her, I thought, smirking. At the bottom of the stairs, she paused, all out of breath. I took a chance and hurried down to her, while smirking at her escort.

"Why Sissy," I said, "Are you all right?"

The escort took a few little steps back from us, looking nervously from her to me. I suppose not knowing whether to let go of her hand or not. Missy the Sissy angrily frowned. Did she know this was a game I was starting to enjoy?

"Why can't you leave me alone?" She made a face at the guy, like she was summoning help, but the guy was too nervous to respond or else too cowardly to do so.

"Sissy," I said again, smirking. "I thought we were lovers, didn't you just say the baby was mine?"

"Don't call me Sissy!" she angrily said. "My name's Missy, and don't you forget it!"

But the guy had freed himself from her clutch and was ready to flee away from us, anyway.

I winked at him. "Okay," I said. "Anything you want…Missy."

I smiled at her but was certain the guy had read the taunting smirking in my eyes. Either way he shook his head, like he was agreeing with something that I had suggested

"Hope you're alright…..Ma'am," he said, uncertain what to call her, then turned and went through a subway turnstile, quickly bustling away in the crowd.

Missy the Sissy's face dropped, looking at him disappearing into the subway passageways.

"Maricon!  Puta!" she cursed, with other Spanish gibberish that she hurled at me.  I smiled at her, wondering if I had done the right thing. Probably not, I thought and turned, disappearing into the walkways the guy had just faded into.


I first met Missy the Sissy in the summer of '72. Was a crazy time back then with lots of freaky sexual experimentation or just plain old simple dirty playfulness. You'd kiss, feel each other up, suck and fuck, then disappear forever. That's how it went….

Missy the Sissy was certainly playful, which may have appeared to be sexually permissive on a young transvestite but in actual fact she seemed not to be aware of what was going on. With Sissy you had to explain things, like that first day I got her in my Hell's Kitchen rooming house and was practically rolling her panties off, when she blurted, "What are you doing? You said nothing about wanting sex."

Was she dumb or simply naïve; was this an act she was putting on? Nope, Sissy was immature. Her legal age may have been 19 or 20 but in actual fact she was obviously 9 or 10, very naïve; a regular goofball.

She had first mentioned that she had been to the post office that afternoon to mail a letter when I asked her, "You get any nice stamps?"

Her eyes went wide, "Why yes, you collect stamps, too?"

We were at Grant's Bar and I nodded, sipping my drink. I told her about my meager stamp collection I had in my room.

"Wow, can I see?" she gushed. "I promise I'll be very careful with it," and she winked an eye as if she meant something else. My dick pounced into a hardness that pressed outward in my pants.

"Sure, anytime you want, I'll show you."

She pushed her seat back, nodding her head.

"I'm ready, let's go. Anywhere near here?"

I was surprised.

"What, now?"

She frowned.

"You don't want to?" she said, plopping back down in her seat. "I thought you wanted to show me your stamp collection but if you don't want to.…" She picked up the empty glass she had been drinking from and held it, twirling whatever invisible contents it held as if expecting something else.

"Damn, Sissy, you're fast," I said, but also pushed up from the table. "If you want to see it, I'll show you." I winked at her and held out my hand.

She turned very red but took my arm, stood up and we walked out of the bar, heading round a few blocks to my Hell's Kitchen rooming house.

There was no conversation about sex just her telling me she had a nice stamp collection back when she was a kid, just a few years ago.

"Had a lot of stamps from Soviet Russia," she said, nodding her head as we climbed up the stairs. I was impressed; that's one country you could hardly ever get anything from.

"Are you Russian?" I asked.

She blushed.

"Nah, Spanish," she shrugged and said, "But I collect them wherever they come from."

What was she talking about, hinting at something sexual while collecting lovers? I smirked and we climbed up the stairs to an upper floor. We made it to my room, which was just a room looking out onto a shaft of garbage thrown out of windows, beer, soda cans and empty bottles with wrappers of every kind.

"Sorry, no view," I said.

She shrugged.

"I don't care, let me see your stamps, please…," and the way she said it, plopping on the bed I only had one thought in my head.

"You wanna see my stamps?" I hissed, opening a drawer of my clothes cabinet and bringing out a slim stamp album, maybe a few stamps pasted in it here and there. "Here they are."

And the way I held the album, at my crotch, I was certain she saw the hardness pushing out but I glimpsed her eyes widening at my scant stamp collection. She flicked the few meager pages — even USA was barely filled — but by then I had crouched down to her knees and was peering under her skirt. A beautiful sight, if there ever was one. Her legs and thighs were all cleanly shaved, much like a real woman, and at that moment she was nothing but real to me. Why was I thinking that she wasn't? Adam's apple be damned! I thought, stooping down even lower, Missy the Sissy had become my ideal woman!

As she turned the almost empty pages my hands were going up her legs.

"Huh, what are you doing," she suddenly asked, but didn't make a move of resistance. "I thought you were showing me your stamps?"

I no longer cared, I stood up.

"I am, baby," I said, unzipping and reaching in for my penis. "First class, special delivery, all for you.…"

I stood there cock in hand and suddenly felt stupid. She looked at it and sighed.

"So that's why you brought me here, not to see your stamps but to make doity," and she blushed but shook her head, her eyes still looking at my erection.

"Doity," I asked, "What's doity?"

"Oh, you know, when two people kiss and suck they make doity. You never made doity?" She turned red.

I suddenly realized what she was talking about.

"Oh, you mean dirty, making love is doity. I like that." I leered at her, again dropping to my knees and gently rubbing her knees. "I'd love to make doity with you."

She giggled, shutting the stamp album.

"I'd love that, too." She pulled me atop her. We kissed.… It was simply divine!


That summer Times Square and 42nd Street was an almost daily occurrence and constant visitation rite to me. I seemed to be always there, entering movie houses which lined both sides of the street, going after sex that I could always find and easily get it anywhere in Times Square. Male or female, I was after both. This was long before the prevalence of bisexuality made itself a constant in society of the time. Picking up guys, picking up girls, it didn't matter to me, I was after them both. Sex, that's what I was after and assumed they were after mine, for what else were they doing on 42nd Street if not trying to get laid, by male or female, which I was trying to do, also.

Of course, this new freedom brought about more police control over the area. Times Square had not turned into a free-love hippie commune, not yet it hadn't, but cops were everywhere, patrolling in two's or three's, stopping in at the scene before it got out of control, which many times I, too, had seen it quickly erupt into. A mini-skirted girl showing off her legs for probably the first time in her life would get masses of hard-up men suddenly appearing and following after her down 42nd Street with snide catcalls and remarks.

"Hey, baby, how about some dick to suck on?" Or: "Ooh, mama, I love your mouth, you make a mighty fine cocksucker!"

Of course these crude remarks shouted out at some innocent naïve schoolgirl who was dressed provocatively but who now bustled along trying to get out of the pervert area before a city-wide gangbang erupted always brought about the quick and ready appearance of city cops on the street scene.

"Break it up," I'd hear the cops order. "Get a move on."

I'd seen this many a time, as I'd also erupt into hoots and catcalls while some female who was daring to show more than we'd ever seen before in public. Sure, many times a porno movie house of 42nd Street displayed just that but still not parading it on the city streets and avenues as women seemed to be doing more and more.

I gripped my dick as I watched the short-skirted bimbo fade away, giving myself a good tight squeeze. Ooh, that feels better…

Instantly, I froze, my face turning pale, my body weakening. Looking right at me was an old classmate, Billy Gilhooly, or Officer William Gilgooly, whom I haven't seen in a number of years. I knew he had become a policeman but I didn't know he was also working in Times Square as a detective or undercover. I fell stupid with him eying me. I winced as he approached and stood before me, his arms folded at the chest in that superior cop way.

"Well, well, if it isn't little Eddie Jawolski, ladies' man about town, eh?" he winked and nudged a man beside him, whom I assumed was also an undercover cop. "And right here on 42nd Street." He shook his head. "What you do, just stepped out of the Pix or Bryant?" The other cop snorted and stepped away. The Pix and the Bryant were two porno dive movie houses on 42nd Street, which I've been to many times. You had to be pretty hard-up sexually to go in one of them.  Did he see me going in or coming out at one time? Probably both.

I fumed, hating the asshole cop attitude about him. An air of superiority which all cops seemed to have but Billy had that ever since I had known him in public school, always acting like he was better than anyone else. But I suppose cops need that attitude; you wouldn't want to be arrested by a wimpy guy like me, now would you?

"I wasn't going to no Pix or Bryant, just gonna get something to eat at Grant's."

Again that huffing snort from his nose got me bitterly angry.

"Grant's, eh, what you going to eat there, some big and juicy Polish kielbasa?"

I had enough of his bullshit and turned away, opening Grant's door; the loud restaurant/bar immediately altered my mood. The door swung shut behind me as Billy stood smirking outside.


I ordered a drink — gin and tonic — and the hell with pig cops and thought about Sissy. Over some weeks I had learned that she came from the Bronx and easily traveled on the A or D subway line down to Times Square. She lived with her older sister, Isabella, who worked at Consuela's House of Beauty where she was a hair stylist. Sissy had worked there, too, but not for very long, maybe a week of two, until she was caught swiping jars and canisters of makeup and creams, and stashing them in her wide purse. Consuela caught her in the act.

"Aye, muchacha little girl, this is the end of you!" screamed an outraged Consuela and showed her the door.

But Sissy didn't care.

"Puta," she answered and casually left the shop. In the time she was at Consuela's she had stolen enough makeup, creams, hairspray to last her many months but when an outraged Isabella arrived home that evening she spat at Sissy, "Maricon, maricon!"  Sissy was forced to return her stolen goods--two shopping bags full--which she resented very much.

That's like taking air from my gasping man, Sissy thought, and knew she had to get back at her. Straight people, nothing but pussies. I'll get the cunts,

Isabella at the time was six months pregnant by a man who had disappeared once she told him the news — typical male attitude, she fumed but continued working at Consuela's House of Beauty. It was a perfect place for a young Hispanic woman to work. Consuela took on attractive women who looked good in the beauty parlor windows as they combed, teased and set a woman's tresses in the proper way for them to look good so they get a date with some handsome man who would put a ring on her finger. That was the goal and quest of the majority who passed the shop in those days, a marriage proposal. Which Isabella almost had until she shyly mentioned it to her young man, well, the young man wasn't that young; he had a stable of young girls with babies that he'd already left far behind. Isabella found this out as time passed but each day she felt herself growing closer to the little infant growing up within her. The baby inside was hers and not some renegade loser's but hers.…

But Sissy started spending less time at home, getting picked up some queer hungry business man and stashed in some hotel room dive across the river in New Jersey for a few days, only coming back wasted and drained from all the sex she had. She would drift back home to her sister's where she would get some rest then reappear back in Times Square, looking like she was ready for anything, which I'm sure she was.

In time I started seeing Sissy less and less, her excursions taking her away from my own interests which were mostly staying in the Times Square area and getting what I could down here, which seemed to work pretty well. I'd always meet someone who was ready to give me favors, why? I have no idea, but men seemed to come to the Times Square area knowing full well they'd be taken for the things they were ready to give up. Many a man I'd meet would be ready to give their coats to me, if I so asked, which I'm sure Sissy suspected the same from her men. Some men are after fake women as some are after fake men, in the end it's the same thing, confused fakery on each side, about which I was very confused, too.


About a week later I had just left Grant's, sick of the usual transvestite bullshit I was hearing--like who sucked who and who was getting fucked by you know who--until I had enough and just had to leave. Which I'm glad I did.

On the street outside of Grant's stood Kathy, who called herself Princess to the johns she would get. It was still early evening before any serious transactions were taking place. But she smiled when she saw me, a half-bored kind of smile, more like an acknowledgment that you were there instead of a greeting. Still, she looked incredibly pretty, wearing a short black mini-skirt that signified one thing to men onlookers, that she was available. A purple sleeveless blouse was in contrast to the short blonde hairdo she was wearing, but I had seen her as a redhead, a brunette, and a black-haired one until I forgot which color was really hers.

"Hi, Kathy," I said. "How ya doin' girl?"

She instantly recognized me and pointed at the cigarettes in my shirt pocket. I quickly gave her one. It felt great to be with her, a real woman and not a wannabe-fake with a dick to get in the way. I could smell the perfume Kathy had on and it revived me from the boring sameness I had grown used to, way too much worn by some transvestites. Kathy's perfume was there but not overpowering the way some transvestites seemed to wear it, as if saying, "Pour a little more on me, baby!" Until you're finished pouring the entire bottle on her.

She shrugged. "Dull as hell here," she said. It was amazing how quickly she took puffs on her cigarette; I was half done with mine when she tossed her finished one into the water trickling by on the street below.

"How's Danny?" I asked about her pimp lover, whom I haven't seen in some weeks.

She snorted.

"Ha, busted, the asshole's in jail!"

I shook my head, not that I cared, but I guess it was the thing to do.

"Why, what the cops pin on him?"

Again she angrily snorted but asked for another cigarette.

"They told him to move and you know what he told them?" she snorted.

She nodded her head like there was nothing further to say, and I could just imagine Danny telling the cops what to do with it until they probably busted his head or ass in dragging him off to jail.

I brightened, that suddenly changed things the way they were; with pimp Danny out of commission that quickly made Kathy more desirable and more available. Ever since I had known her, when we met at a truancy center for school kids — what a place to meet! — I've had my eye on her, but there were boyfriends followed by pimps and I could never get her alone. For three years I've had the hots for her, in one way or the other, and now that I found out she was available, I felt myself boiling like crazy, my penis immensely stiff in my pants.

"Motherfuckers!" I cursed, and shaking my head. "Cops, they suck, and big time, too." But I did look around to see if any cops were standing by and overhearing what I was saying.

She snapped her fingers and pointed at my shirt pocket. I reached in and gave her another cigarette. My God, was she smoking them fast! Like she was sucking in fresh air, the smoke seemed to have calmed her. But she shrugged and said, "Three years he got, they immediately attach more time if you talk back at them. And you know Danny, he has some mouth," and she nodded and again threw the half-smoked cigarette into the gutter. I was nodding my head but I noticed she had no remorse or regrets over what she just told me, like she had steeled herself and moved on. I felt very glad and hopeful.

"Hey, you wanna get something to eat?" I said. "My treat."

Again she shrugged. Was she so uncaring?

"I don't care, if you want," she said, looking at me.

"We can go to Horn and Hardart down the block," I said. "Or the new Nathan's on Broadway."

She yawned. I didn't say anything, but suddenly turned red from a glimpse of Missy the Sissy, greatly pregnant and crossing 42nd Street on the corner. I moved in front of Kathy, certain Missy the Sissy wouldn't recognize me from the rear…but she did.

"Eddie?" I heard. "Is that you?"

There was no way out of it; my face was a deep burning crimson. I looked at a smirking Kathy and turned around.

"Sissy," I said, feigning surprise. "How ya been?"

An angry Sissy glared at me.

"My name's Missy," she flared, and stamped her foot on the concrete. "I've told you that a million times and you still forget it. Missy! Missy! Missy!"

Kathy burst out laughing, shaking her head.

"What's so funny, you horrible bitch?" glared Missy the Sissy.

An angry Kathy said, "You want to know what's so funny? Your stupid costume, you asshole nut! Who the hell is gonna believe a faggot's gonna have a baby! Gimme a break!"

"Oh yeah, Eddie believes me, don't you, Eddie? He even said this week he wants to see the baby, and I'm gonna to show it to him. Isn't that right?"

Kathy had narrowed her eyes and was looking carefully from Missy the Sissy to me. I don't know what color I was at the time but I tell you I certainly felt a dirty brown, exactly like shit. In the few years I had hung out of 42nd Street I was able to keep things separate, one from the other, the faggots from the whores, the druggies from the alkies, the hard core from the soft core. It made things easy that way…until now.

"Stupid faggot!" Kathy said.

"Oh, yeah," Missy the Sissy stood her ground. "Stupid lesbian!"

Kathy flared in anger. "Who you calling a lesbian?" she raised her voice.

Missy the Sissy didn't miss a beat. "Why you…" she said. "Lesbo, creepo, that's what you are."

Kathy had put in a stick of gum in her mouth and stood with her short-skirted nyloned legs, one foot tapping the ground, a bitter smile on her face.

"You call me a lesbo one more time," said Kathy, "and I'll cut your dick off and shove it up your ass, you faggot motherfucker!"

I don't know what it was, the smirking but sinister tone of voice as if daring Missy the Sissy to follow up on Kathy's threat, but Missy the Sissy just stood there, uncertain of what to do. She turned to me, shifting her fake pillow-stuffed belly around.

"You going into Grant's?" she confusedly asked me.

Kathy incredulously looked at me.

"You know this idiot faggot?" she asked. "Keep him away from me."

I again turned red and quietly said, "Know her from Grant's."

I stood between them.

"And we were up in his apartment, too!"  Missy the Sissy loudly said. A few guys walking down 42nd Street slowed in their walk to look at her, uncertain what they were looking at, pregnant woman or else grotesque male farce.

I don't know if I blushed again or not but all I wanted to do was run away from them and as fast as I could.

"Tell her," said Missy the Sissy, pointing her finger at Kathy.

I sheepishly said, "Tell her what?"

She looked at me like she didn't know what to think, her face a dazed puzzle much like Kathy's, dazed and confused.

"That we're lovers!" she said. "Every time we cuddle together at your apartment, we cuddle, we kiss, we even fuck!" She stood glaring at Kathy who glared back at her but shifted her eyes to me. "But everybody knows that, that faggots fuck, there's no secret there, is there, Eddie?"

I coughed, wanting to flee away from them as Kathy suddenly exploded into hysterical laughter, her eyes tearing.

"Eddie!" Missy the Sissy demanded. "Tell her, tell her!"

I cowardly said, "Tell her what, that you're both crazy? I ain't nobody's lover! Aw, hell, I'm getting outta here! You're both crazy! Goodbye!"

I turned and left them on the street, but I heard hurried footsteps behind me. I turned to look back; Kathy was hurrying to catch up with me as Missy the Sissy stood forlornly before Grant's Bar. At that instant, I regretted what I had done. I never felt so low and despicable, like the lowest of the low or maybe even worse, much lower, that I was pathetic garbage deserving only a face full of mucus-drenched sputum. I was worth nothing; I hated myself.

"Hey, baby," said Kathy. "Wait up, will ya? Take me to eat, hon."

She caught up to me, as I looked back at Missy the Sissy disappearing into crowded Grant's Bar.

"Sick fag!" she muttered, shaking her head. "Sick fucking fag!"

I was too angry, just glaring at her and kept walking away.

"Oh, the hell with you," I heard her say, "Go back to your faggot lovers, you stupid asshole!" cursed Kathy.

She crossed Broadway and disappeared in the crowd. I felt like an idiot fool. I cursed.

"The whore!" I said to myself, frowning more at the thought of Missy the Sissy than at Kathy, a real stinking whore.


I kept walking. I thought about going in to the Pix or Bryant movie house — at 99 cents was well worth it, you'd get a blowjob there, that's for sure--but kept sauntering to a real park, Bryant Park, which was in the back of the New York Public Library. It was just a block wide, a park filled with people chatting to other people or just reading paperback books or newspapers and just sitting there while staring off into space as life went by. What could be better?

I plopped on a bench and thought about what had just happened, being preoccupied by a queer/faggot instead of the real thing, a woman spreading it for a few dollars then spreading it again with another. So Missy the Sissy said she was a lesbian, big deal, who isn't sexually adventurous? Whore, faggot, gay, straight, in the end it all amounts to the same thing, the peopled fucking world and you can't change it one bit. Nosirree!

I scratched my head and looked around. Evening was quickly coming on and the park was slowly emptying of roosting people while the night crowd was already picking up. Just the usual evening bunch, guys after whores for a trick or two, while other guys were after other guys for a hand-job/blow-job. That's what makes the world go around. I kept sitting there undecided which I was going to be that night, a whore's trick or some guy's trick. I had the money for a woman but I also could've used a guy just as well; in either case, I was hard-up for both of them. I rubbed myself and saw two guys approaching up the path. This was going to be easy, I thought, would be interesting, too. I have never gone off with two guys, could be very kinky as well, I smirked to myself.

But I bolted upwards as I recognized one of the guys. I sat straight up, glaring at him as he approached with the other guy. One was Billy the undercover cop and I assumed the other was a cop as well, playing their undercover game of enticing whores or faggots into bad deeds, which would only get them arrested in any case. A smirking Billy recognized me and nudged the other cop, who was also dressed in blue jeans and t-shirt which were too big on them — I later learned they had to keep their guns hidden from us street types.

Billy paused at my bench, looking around the park, and said to me, "If you don't want to get rounded up you'll beat it. There's going to be a bust here. Get my message?"

I looked at him, nodded my head, and left of the park. I didn't care what they were was going on, I just got out of Bryant Park and made my way through the crowds back to 7th Avenue and 42nd Street.


In Grant's Bar I was disappointed to see Missy the Sissy sitting with Harold the turd, a slimebag I wouldn't give the correct time too in case he might corrupt that too. I hated him and his sleazy attitude on life, like it was there for the taking, no matter whose it really was. Like a spoiled brat, that's all he was. It's as if everything was his and if you were the owner, goodbye, adios, mañana, cause you were the owner no more. I had seen people arrive with coats who had suddenly misplaced them because Harold the turd happened on the scene. As a matter of fact he would take the coat off your back and straighten your shirt while doing it. A goddamned thief if there ever was one.

I boldly walked to their table and plopped down. Harold the turd looked at me with a smirk on his face. Missy the Sissy blushed, like she had just shared something with Harold the turd.

I glared at him.

"Oh, you're back," said Missy, and started twirling her drink over and over, avoiding looking at me.

I stared at her, wondering what she had told Harold. I wasn't long in waiting, a smirking Harold the turd said, "So you're pregnant," he said to Sissy, "That's just great!" Then the clincher… "But you know who the hell is the father?"

The snide, laughing look on his face knew there was only one answer and he knew what it would be.

"Father?" said Missy the Sissy, as if waking up. "Don't you know? I just told you, it was rape. No one knows." Her voice blushed as she reddened and looked at me, whispering, "But Eddie promised he will take care of the baby with me," and she drank from her glass. "The little baby will need a lot of caring after…."

Harold the turd burst out laughing, I turned red.

"Stop it!" I said. "You know I can't be the father!"

I gave an awkward sneer to Harold the turd, who kept smiling and showing his gold-plated front tooth; I thought he was trying to look like a pimp which, of course, he wasn't.

"Oh yes, you are!" proudly said Missy the Sissy, rubbing her fat belly. "Ain't he, little baby?" she said to the large lump in her belly, and as if in answer to her question the belly moved, a slight jerk up and down. "That's right, you tell him, baby," she whispered, nodding her head up and down.

This was too much for Harold the turd, who fell into a coughing fit and spat out a hysterical, gagging jumble of "Goodbyes," which were hard to make out, but he was out of Grant's Bar.

I glared at Missy the Sissy.

"Why the hell are you telling lies for?" I said, "you know I can't be the father."

"It don't matter," she shrugged. "You're still the father, no matter what you say. I call you daddy."

She fluttered her eyelashes and took a sip of her drink — a screwdriver that I'm sure Harold the turd bought for her--and looked at me above the glimmering liquid. She had that pinkish rosy look that pregnant women share with each other like they were part of something mysterious yet grand, which I suppose it is. Damn, but she wasn't pregnant! This was just some new makeup that Missy the Sissy got a hold of that made her look like that. But why was she so smug and sure of herself. The sticking bitch!

"Okay," I said, sitting back and smiling, "If I'm not the father, then tell me how's the baby gonna come out of, your stinking ass?" My smile grew wider. "You need a cunt to give birth and you ain't got one!"

For a moment she looked puzzled, her mouth drooping open and looking very lost almost confused but then, almost instantly she brightened.

"What do you think I have?"

We stared at each other.

"You tell me," I said.

"I asked you first," she said, then winked her eyes. "Ladies first…."

I didn't want to say it, but then I did.

"Well, you ain't no lady, you're a stinking guy with a cock between his legs," I laughed.

And at that moment I regretted it but knew there was nothing I could do about it. She looked at me, then finished her screwdriver and pushed herself up from the table.

"You're going to regret this," she glared at me, turned and left Grant's. Needless to say, I already did.


The next day it rained and I mean poured, one of those deluges that showed something is being swept away from the world and never coming back again. Was certainly the wrath of God. I was stuck in my rooming house in Hell's Kitchen; the downpour was too much to even go outside. I just looked at some old magazines, jerked off a few times and listened to a do-wop station on the radio, letting the day pass me by. By early evening the rain seemed to ease up but I was still undecided whether to take the chance and go up to 42nd Street. But by nightfall I was walking in the scant drizzle up 8th Avenue just gazing at the shady strollers when at a newsstand I saw the news headline in the Daily News, Prostitutes and Homos Busted in Bryant Park.  Whew, so that was it, good thing Billy had warned me, no matter how distasteful we were to each other.

Approaching Grant's I knew something was wrong--not that many people were at the bar or at the eating stands and the tables were practically empty. Perhaps the rain storm kept them away? I shrugged. Then I saw Kathy near the doorway, she stood smoking a cigarette, her face a haze of sweat, boredom, and trying to get a another guy--she certainly looked beat, I felt she had just had a client and now was looking for another one.

"What's up, girl?" I said, trying not to remind her of my walking away from her just a few days ago.

She snorted and looking like she was going to explode in laughter. "Your fag put on some show, didn't he?"

I looked at her. "What fag, are you talking about Sissy?"

She chuckled. "As if you didn't know.…" She unrolled another stick of gum and added that to the ballooned gum she already had in her mouth. "Gave us some show the other day," flicking the wrappers away.

"Did something happen?" I asked, looking around. A few people had gone inside Grant's but quickly came back out.

"Weren't you here?" she asked.

I shook. "No, was busy," I lied about the queer date I had, spending all day with the fruity fellow. "You tell me."

She looked at me, and then shrugged. "You fag girlfriend got busted when you were gone."

"Wow, you kidding!" I said, "For what?"

Again she grinned at me. "It was obvious with the kid she was carrying along."

"What kid," I said, "you know that's just pillows, a deluded fantasy."

"Little mama wannabe stole a baby and brought it here to show off." And she laughed very loudly that a few guys stopped and looked at her. She puffed out her chest and leered back at them.

"Oh, no," I said. "Where'd she get the kid?"

She looked back and shrugged. "Swiped it from her sister, who had a baby just a few days ago and brought it here to show it off." She shook her head. "You fags are a riot, I tell you." She flicked her cigarette away and again puffed out her breasts, showing off more volume to the eye-ballers giving her the eye. "But the sister was right behind her, as if she knew where she was headed, right down to Times Square." Kathy grinned and lit another cigarette. "She's gonna be gone a long time, that's for sure," and she nodded her head but all the time looking at some old guy who had neared and stood not too far from us.

"But it was her sister's," I feebly said. "They'll let her go, won't they?"

"Yeah," she snorted, "in maybe five to ten years." The old guy had now approached; it was clear what he was after.

"Shit, you think so?" I said but believing her because I knew that it was true. Sissy wanted a baby, well, she had one, but for a very short time. Kathy wanted a man with some money and he now stood right before her. Amazing, that in life you always get what you're after, whether you're aware of it or not.

I slowly shook my head as Kathy walked off to nearby hotel with the old guy following behind her.

Evening was coming on and Grant's seemed to be getting crowded again.… I stood and watched.… Another day and night on 42nd Street.


Some weeks later I saw Billy the detective as him and another cop were walking along 42nd Street, between 6th and 7th Avenues. Billy had that sure appearance about him, as did the other cop, too, but I'm certain if their holsters weren't filled with ammo I would wonder how sure they would feel about themselves.

Billy saw me and snorted.

"Eddie, Eddie, still here," he said, shaking his head.

I shrugged.

"Where else am I going to be but here, Times Square?"

"42nd Street," corrected Billy, "that's your home, 42nd Street."

I nodded.

"Guess it is, 42nd Street, that's my home," I repeated.

By then the other cop had nodded at Billy and continued walking on 42nd Street, quickly losing himself in the crowds. Evening was coming on and the crowd was growing, with more and more people coming out of the subways.

Billy looked at me.

"You like it here, don't you?" he asked. "I wonder what you see in this morass of people?"

I studied him.

"Morass, I'm not familiar with that word, sorry.…"

A frustrated Billy looked at me.

"Means a confused situation or a real mess."

I shrugged.

"It's not confusing to me; it looks like a party crowd, ready for anything."

He boringly looked at me.

"You want to party, don't you? You think every place is a party there for your entertainment?"

I smiled.

"Sure, why not? Life is a party, live until you die, what else is there to do?"

He looked at me and shook his head, "You just don't understand, do you?"

"Guess not," I sighed, thinking he was going to get rid of me when he changed the subject,

"Saw your girlfriend same days ago, still creating a mess everywhere they put her in."

I perked up.

"Sissy? What is she doing now, surviving in jail?"

"I suppose you could call it surviving but prison isn't like a jail it's a prison with different set of rules and regulations. In the first place, he's a guy not a girl, bound to have problems with that, but she'll find herself a sugar daddy, whether she like him or not." He looked at me, "She did kidnap a little kid," he shook his head. "That's hard to forgive or forget."

I frowned.

"How long you think she'll be in, a year or two?"

He smirked.

"He'll be in a long time, kidnapping a baby? Well, maybe five years at the least."

"Holy shit, that much?"

He nodded.

"Best you forget about him or her. Get on with your life."

Either way Sissy was going to be there for a very long time. And with the changes New York is always undergoing it's very doubtful whether anything will still be recognizable when she gets out.

"Damn, but a little kid," I said, "was it a boy or a girl? Did you get the name?"

Billy nodded.

"A beautiful baby girl, just born about a week before it happened…."

He shook his head and smiled at me.

"Milagro, means miracle in Spanish. And she was that. I never will forget the innocent little baby. And you know, through the whole ordeal she was smiling like this is where she belonged."

He shook his head; I stood looking at him.

"She probably was, belonged right here on 42nd Street. Wait till she grows up, she'll turn the
street upside down if not the whole city!"

I stood grinning at him and Billy grinned back. Hell, he wasn't a bad cop after all; just a role he was playing on the crazy streets of Times Square, as I was playing my role, too. I saw him straightening up and again scowling at me.

"Well, we have to keep moving," he said. "No hanging out in doorways."

"Sure," I nodded, grinning. "I follow orders."

The other cop approached and the two stood looking at me. I nodded at Billy, he nodded back at me and I crossed the busy avenue. I continued walking along crowded 42nd Street.

I smiled to myself; Sissy was a nut case but then so was I.

I shrugged and faded into the crowded lights of 42nd Street. The bright city lights shone around me….


Victor J. Banis said...

Ah, Mick, brilliant as always - I expect nothing less from you.

Lloyd A. Meeker said...

Sometimes looking at the world through your eyes terrifies me, Mick. I can understand enough of your hard-edged existentialism to feel how protective I am of the moral conventions I rely on as a frame of reference. Even though the depth of your writing gives me no choice but to follow you there.


Mykola ( Mick) Dementiuk said...

I had to be kind to the cops, they weren't a bad bunch, even in Times Square.

Mykola ( Mick) Dementiuk said...

Lloyd, I try not to 'existentially' exist, just be yourself. It's alot easier too! ;)