Monday, August 18, 2014

Trysts: Tales of "Tea Room Queens" excerpt by Mykola Dementiuk

A quickie from Mykola Dementiuk!

Trysts: Tales of "Tea Room Queens"
Sizzler Editions (July 31, 2014)


How many men had I jerked off and been jerked off by? Countless. Men come, men go, but there are always other men coming closer, stepping nearer to reach and hold and clutch my penis as I clutch theirs, as if it were a holy talisman sacred to only God. What is creation? It is God, which stems from the penis, aiming at itself, going round and round and round . . . .

I entered the restroom already hard and stiff, and within moments, the bathroom door opened, and I heard another man coming to the urinals. I didn't look to see his face; what would be the point? Was he relieving himself or cunningly looking at me? Of course, it was hard to tell. Bathroom trysts lasted for as little time it took to jerk off or do the same to another standing next to you. A tap on your wrist or an eye movement and a greedy hungry hand pulsed in, took hold, and stroked until you both erupted in cacophonous but controlled spasms. You zippered up and went your own way. I'd never met a man for longer than the time it took to reach ejaculation. Sure, there had been a few who held on a little longer, but in the restrooms it was just for that, a soothing rest, a sweet coming, and a fading back to where you were once before. I often wondered how they would have acted outside, back in the real world . . . .

I heard him enter the restroom, my penis stiff and eager. I looked up, expecting the usual, a typical morass of men who used public restrooms, but I was stunned by his bulky size as he, smiling and nodding, towered over me. He stood at the urinal next to mine. I instantly went erect—my body not my organ—and zippered up and flushed, turning away from him.

"Caro mio, please don't go," he whispered, seemingly all out of breath. "I just got here."

I was struck by the Italianism, but this was Lincoln Center, the operatic capital of the world. I turned to the urinal again.

"Bravo, such a sweet boy . . . ."

I was surprised by his daintiness of talking, also feminine. I looked up at him, his face red, and he was breathing very hard, a raspy, strained, wheezing, in an attempt to take in air.

"You're a big man," I meekly answered, slowly un-zippering.

A look of satisfaction appeared on his face, an easing, a peaceful serenity of acceptance.

"I've seen you many times before," he said, breathing in and out heavily as his fingers pawed at my crotch. I had barely pulled my zipper down but he succeeded in finishing it for me, lowering the metallic teeth, and reaching for my stiff dick. "But you're always so fast. I couldn't keep up with you."

I furrowed my forehead. What was he talking about? I've near been this far uptown; Lincoln Center was certainly out of my way.

"Always in a rush." I shrugged. "You know how it goes."

He nodded.

"Yes, yes, the early bird gets the worm, eh? You have a very nice worm there, if you get my meaning?"

I moved my hand over to the urinal and reached in for what I thought would be a huge dick, but was puzzled by its scant obtrusiveness. Where I had expected a big cock from a very big man, I found a wee little one, hard but barely the size of my pinky finger. I looked up at him, my hand trying to cling onto the wee stranger. I had pity on him.

"I know I'm small," he said, nodding, "but I am the maestro, with a passion raging within me. I need a young man, like you, who can comfort me and ease me in my periods of tension, before or after shows."

He was beating my cock in quicker and quicker movements, the bright aura of the vacant men's room almost oppressive in its brightness, which I'm sure was a natural to the big man. I let go of his tiny dick and gripped the flush valve, as if undecided whether to flush or not. The flush valve became his dick, which was hard and stiff, its moistness spreading on my fingers. My semen instantly shot out to the urinal; I flushed, gritting my teeth and clamping my eyes shut.

"Bello," I heard him mutter. "Bellisimo!"

My ejaculation was powerful, gripping me with the bright power of the light around me. I steadied myself, still holding onto the flush valve.

"What's that mean," I muttered, "Bello. . . ?"

"Bellisimo, simply beautiful, as you are." He smiled and sighed. "I've been looking all over for you, and here you are."

But I had zippered my pants and stood looking at him. "Why were you looking, for what?"
He also zippered up and flushed his urinal.

"I want you to be my good friend, mio caro. And I will please you in return. Can you do that?"

"Your friend, but we just met?"

He was shaking his head as he joined me at the sinks, pretending to wash his hands.

"All you have to do is please me, as only a young man can do, and I will please you in return. I have other young men for my other needs, but now you can join them. Imagine that, you will be Pasquali's assistant. Please, say yes, you will?" And he looked at me, biting his lip.

I looked at him, a huge robust man, it was very intimidating standing next to him. I wiped my hands on a paper towel.

"What do I gotta do?"

He smiled and breathed out.

"Eccelente, fortissimo!" He clamped his three index fingers together and gave an exuberant kiss to them. "Just come to the stage door and ask for Pasquali, tenor at the opera. You will be bustled in." He winked at me and stood proudly before the mirror, straightening his collar, and announced, "Ciao, I'll be waiting." And he exited the men's room.

I looked in the mirror and thought about it. A life as an opera tenor's assistant, giving him hand-jobs and blowjobs to his wee little dick whenever he needed it. And knowing him in the brief time I suddenly knew him, I was sure it was going to be many, many times. That would set me up for a new life, one of travel and seeing places I still hadn't seen before or even dreamt of ever seeing, I think . . . .

I grimaced. Who was he kidding? Opera, my ass! I'd still be handling dick, over and over, until he had his fill of me or would find someone else to replace me, as I was doing, standing in someone else's shoes. I'd be leaving the bathroom world for good. Might get fancy clothes and prestige but at what cost to my pride? But could I please him? I doubt it.

I shrugged and left the Lincoln Center men's room. It was a mistake in coming uptown; I should've known better. I didn't belong here. I headed back downtown. The wind was blowing, but I turned up my collar, smirking and thinking about Pasquali. What an asshole!

1 comment:

Lloyd A. Meeker said...

There's no one like our gritty, grainy, cinema verite artist Mick, turning his lens on anything without flinching! Great stuff.