Lambda Award winner for Best Bisexual Fiction, Mykola Dementiuk's masterful collection, 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.
Stallers: Tales of Times Square Cuties
Sizzler Editions (April 20, 2011)
ASIN: B004XFC5LU
A FASHION STATEMENT
I darted across the empty lounge and quickly stepped through the open door of the ladies' room. I took a deep breath and frowned, disappointed by the faint but ever-present ammonia smell. She'll make it pretty, I smiled, and bustled into a stall, clicking the latch behind me.
Just moments before I had paced the back of the theater, nervously peering out the lounge door and finally saw her enter the movie house, her large bosom thrust out, her walk exaggerated, her legs and thighs strong and thick. There had been some exchange of words at the ticket booth and I was afraid the old crone in the booth would enforce the No Unescorted Ladies policy and not let her in; though I'm sure she wasn't taken in by the lipstick and high-hair and knew quite well what the lady had between her legs.
But I finally heard the turnstile clicking, the crone gesturing, and watched her scraping her heels, wobbling towards the lobby doors. She wore a loose short skirt and I nodded contentedly at her black nyloned legs and red high heels but blushed, drawing back when she spotted me gaping out the open door. I hurried to the bathroom. I should not have been upstairs; that wasn't part of the scenario; even though she was late I should have been patient and awaited her in the bathroom stall, just as I had done all the weeks before. Would she now be angry and not come down?
I sat on the toilet and clenched my thighs, listening to the faint movie grunts and cries pushing in through the bathroom door. Still, I kept my hands off my cock, willing to be patient now that I knew she was so near; she provided me with enough fantasies to keep me occupied all week; I simply had to be patient a bit longer.
I did not wait long. Her high heels clicked loudly on the marble lounge floor and my cock jumped in my pants as the heel-clicks moved closer and entered the ladies' room. I stooped to the stall door and pressed an eye to the narrow slit between the door and panel frame, watching her shut the bathroom door behind her and click to large clear mirrors above the wash basins. I clenched my thighs and sucked my breath, catching the rising traces of her sweet perfume, each tincture pulsing thicker and sweeter through the door interstice, ridding the air of the too-clean bathroom smell.
She paused at the mirrors and flounced up the back of her beehive, then turned to examine her bosom from the right side and then from the left. Not satisfied with the position of the left side she reached into her blouse at the shoulder and jerked on the limp bra strap. The breast wobbled on her chest as she adjusted the strap until the loose bosom rose into proximate position with the other hovering buoyant one. I fell to my knees off the toilet seat and pressed my face to the stall door as if I could suck in the shaking tit through the narrow door gap. Content with her balanced bosom she smoothed the blouse and brushed at her shirt loose skirt.
Suddenly she bent over and reached down to align a twisted anklet bracelet and what should have driven me into a masturbatory frenzy at the clear view I had of her large fat ass beneath the rising and hiked up loose skirt only made me grimace and curse at the frustrating lurch of my dying cock from the unexpected new-style pantyhose covering her thick thighs and legs and the dimming the slither of panty G-string she wore underneath that inched into her upturned ass.
I thought of pouncing out of the stall and calling the whole thing off. I didn't mind this new fashion style of higher-rising skirts but I did object to the elimination of garter belts and nylons, which she usually wore, that were the crux of my masturbatory dreams. As fashion moguls dictated that skirts rise each season, from ankle bottom to pussy apex, the new look necessitated a utilitarian solution to convince women to purchase and wear the shorter skirts without turning them into porno magazine frumps. Hence the pantyhose, an all-in-one garment of panty and nylon melded together, easily slipped on, easily head up, – Wear it like a ballerina! – eliminating the need for a cumbersome garter belt with its awkward dangling straps and clinching rubber-button clasps. Ladies! No more Embarrassing Situations! Be the New Woman! Discover the Total Freedom of the New Look! (The freedom to open your leg and have hose cover your crotch?) Even the Sunday papers displayed full-page colored advertisement of before and after shots of seated women; porno garters on the left, demure New Look on the right. I cut out the garter left side, jerked off, adding it to my collection of woman/man cutouts from magazines and papers.
Still for a few months, before the short-skirt/pantyhose fashion was fully accepted by skeptical women, and hose moguls turned even richer by adapting and out-besting minis with micros, all you had to do for thrills was ride any street bus or subway and see the fashionable broads in their fashionable short skirts struggling to cover their gartered thighs as the gawkers in opposite seats sat with elbows on knees disbelieving that suddenly life all over the city was even more thrilling and lustful than any Times Square delusions. And though I never came in my pants on a city bus or subway, I often rode for blocks out of my way, gaping at nervous crossing and re-crossing dark legs, fascinated by the insistence of flustered dames to hide what they must have known would be seen by all. Yet wasn't the point of the New Look to show all to all? In the argument over the promiscuity of certain women's fashions the point is moot or should I say stiff? It's like pornography and erotica: one makes you go home alone and jerk off in your solitude, the other makes you take home a partner and make love together.
She adjusted her ankle bracelet and slowly straightened up, her short skirt sliding back down over her fat ass and thick hose thighs. My cock re-stiffened at the sight of her quivering skirt bottom: once more the image of skirt and legs stirred the fantasy of unattainable pornographic sex. I unzipped my pants and pulled out my cock before she surprised me with some other frustrating New Look. She turned and looked at my knees and jerking cock beneath the stall door then leaned back on the sink, her legs slightly outspread, her heavy aligned bosom pushed out on her chest. I pressed my lips to the door gap and darted my tongue into the narrow slit, running my eyes from her high-heel shoes, up her black leg hose, to her swaying skirt bottom, the tiny folds and creases in her short loose skirt, the wide shiny belt about her waist, onto her smooth blouse belly above the belt, the large high breasts and finally settling on a stitch of a bra strap molded under her tight blouse and rising from a lumped left bra cup across her shoulder.
I looked at her round puffy face: a glistening drop of sweat seeped down her forehead in a thin swift line, leaving a streak of separated makeup which melded into the arch of a black eyebrow. I rubbed my own sweated cheeks on my shoulders and pressed my eye back to the gap.
Every Friday the same scenario: posing, teasing, revealing, and finally, if it all fell in place and at the right moment, mutual orgasms and ejaculation from across the room, – though I sometimes think she faked it. And she looked ready: she licked her red lips and slowly raised the front of her loose skirt, pulling it up her disappointing hose-covered thighs, swaying the hem at the bottom edge of her groin and suddenly lifting the skirt to her waist.
It was an unexpected sight and my torso buckled in surprise as my hard cock lurched out of my hand beneath the stall door as if breaking from my body and surging to attach to hers. The incredible but possible scenarios streaked through my mind as I caught my cock and pulled back under my door.
I had never imagined such a sight: she stood with her skirt around her waist, her high-heeled legs outspread, her hairless hard cock and balls braced up the front of her belly and out of the skimpy panty Gstring, but trapped in the shifting mesh of the dark nylon pantyhose material. If ever a fashion was designed for the wrong gender this was it (at least males had something to show in the hose, whereas women didn't).
I tottered on my knees and struck my head against the door, straining my bulging eyeball into the narrow slit. She leaned further back on the sink and slightly pushed up her groin; the head of her cock peeped out of its uncut fleshy sheath as if probing the unfamiliar restrictive mesh. On one side of the stiff dick a thick nylon seam rose from the bottom of the panty crotch and wove up the center of the belly and disappeared into the folds of the raised skirt.
I settled into a steady even masturbation and watched her slither her fingers around the base of her balls, up the fat cock to the trapped round head. She reached under her rumpled skirt and groped for the pantyhose top.
"No!" I moaned, beating my cock furiously and pounding the door. She dropped her hand and once more outlined the large cock with her fingers. I screamed and fell back from the door and doubled over against the toilet bowl, my scum spewing over my fingers and onto my shirt and pants. I cursed at the abrupt ejaculation, but my penis remained stiff and I continued squeezing and rapidly stroking my cock as if trying pro-long the too-short masturbation. Would she wait for me to come again?
I heard the clicking of her heels scraping from the sink and towards my stall. I jolted at the raps on my door. Impatient little bitch, I thought, but let go of my cock and reached into my pocket for the money I had set aside every week. I glanced at the two folded bills – this week she was worth more and didn't even know it – then kissed them and rubbed them against my wet cock, lifting them to the door and sticking them into the narrow sweated door gap. They were pulled from my fingers as soon as they poked through the other side. I heard the heels return to the sink and I fell back against the toilet bowl. There was a splash of water and then the heels clicked to the front door.
A movie female groan drifted in through the opening/closing door; the actress was probably getting fucked in old fashioned nylons and garters. I thought of the New Look – tight panty hose around a hard cock. I began to jerk off.
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To purchase from Barnes&Noble, click http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/stallers-mykola-dementiuk/1112605681?ean=2940016317632
1 comment:
The Fashion Statement was written in the 1980s when I was putting my thoughts together about 42nd Street, which by then, was starting to reach its decline and eventual complete erasure, the Disneyfication of an alive throbbing city into boring dullness. It might be there in hectic name only but not in sexual spirit; it’s more of a useless cuming in your pants, so to speak... Fashion Statement was also published at the time by Paramour Magazine, now non-existent high class erotic magazine, which had such writers as Joe Maynard, Thaddeus Rutkowski, M. Christian and many others, and these three writers are still writing and publishing in 2014, so the spirit of literature is live and well, and not as bad-mouthed as the naysayers would have it be.
So thanks Eric for bringing this piece out again, just a glimpse of 42nd Street and how it used to be. God, do I miss it!
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