The Bookstore Clerk

by Mykola Dementiuk

  “Oh, bosh,” he answered dismissively. “What size are you? You’re small, but with some tailoring my old suits will be a perfect fit for you.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Let’s go to my bedroom. You can try them on.” I shrugged, downed the little remaining burgundy and tried to stand, but I tottered backwards.

  “Oops,” he giggled, holding onto my hand, “Someone’s had too much to drink.”

  “I know,” I said, feeling very dizzy. “And now he thinks he’s going to try on a suit and tie,” I shook my head but successfully stood up and wobbled after him.

  “What you need,” he said, holding my shoulder, “is to get into bed and rest a while,” and he leered at me, “with someone cuddling right beside you.” I felt his lips close to me. But then I collapsed onto the bed, immediately passing out and sleeping. Even a little alcohol will do that when you’re not used to it.

  I awoke in the night—I don’t know how long I’d been out— my clothes had been removed and tossed on the floor helterskelter. Timmy was at my crotch, sucking my limp dick while jerking off his own. Like me, he was without any clothes but the hardness of his penis stirred me awake. I sighed loudly and he looked up at me; my cock quickly hardened. I saw his eyes brighten when he recognized that I was awake and growing harder. I wiggled my fingers and he instantly gripped my hand and squeezed. The warm feeling of his hand atop mine only added to the incredible sexiness I was feeling; I would do anything for him, even wear a suit and tie if he wanted.

  Without releasing my penis from his mouth I felt his torso shifting about, his legs moving closer to my face. Oh, no, I realized, he thinks I want to suck him, too! I turned my head slightly away from his penis which now throbbed close to my mouth. Sixty-nine was what he intended to do, but I had never sucked a man before and was very scared to do so now. Just then his penis spat out its scum, lashing my forehead and the sides of my face. It was cool and refreshing, and I suddenly felt I wanted it, too. I opened my mouth, sucking it in. His penis stayed in my mouth, throbbing and jerking as it relaxed. After a few moments it shrank down and I let it fall from my mouth. Surprisingly, I had not been repelled by sucking his penis; amazing how simple it really was, as if I was made for just that!

  He sat up and looked at me.

  “You have dollops of cum on your face,” he gestured with his fingers.

  I shrugged.

  “I don’t care, let it stay.”

  He smiled and looked at me.

  “It’s better if you rub it in, that way it will penetrate deep inside you.”

  I shut my eyes.

  “Oh, yes, please, rub it on me, all over my face.” And I felt his gentle fingers rubbing his scum deep on me. I had quickly become one with him, erasing my being in his existence. The feeling was heavenly!

  “Stay with me tonight,” he whispered, “please. Don’t go anywhere.” He bit his lips and looked at me.

  I instantly nodded.

  “I have nowhere to go; I feel as if I’m at home with you, where I belong.”

  He hugged me. “You’re home, baby, where we missed you so very much.” He sadly shook his head. “I have no one else. You’re the only one in my life.”

  His sweet kisses were a balm to my soul. Never before had I felt such love fill me as he again shifted to my crotch and presented his hard penis to me. I greedily opened my mouth, sucking it in and he did the same. The wonder wasn’t what I was doing to him, sucking his cock, but in what he was doing to me, sucking mine. Sixty-nine was glorious!

  Through that evening and night I told Timmy of my past, how my father left and my mom wasn’t much into care-giving. How I had to grow up quickly on the tough Lower East Side streets, getting my education by a swift kick in the ribs or a punch in the mouth; by the time my high-school education should have been underway I had pretty much had stopped going to school. It was easy for the truant officers to lock me in a reformatory for chronic absentee kids: nothing but a worthless truant. Stayed there, more or less, until I was sixteen, seventeen, almost two years, but by then I had learned how to really read and write, and had begun to learn how to behave myself, not letting myself be influenced by the street kids trying to drag me into prison or even worse. My life on the street had taught me one thing: that it’s no life at all. Little by little I was accepted back into society, had a place to stay, a rooming house, and a job which kept me out of trouble, except for visiting the movie houses of Times Square, where I recognized Mr. Jennings, Timmy, my supervisor, who was to become my utter dreamboat.

  Timmy held my shoulder, patting me every now and then, as I related my sad story.

  “I don’t want to go back there; reform school for kids is very much like prison is for adults.”

  He looked at me.

  “Why? Did someone say something about your going to reform school?”

  I shook my head.

  “No, but the fear is always with me. I’m always afraid something could go wrong and there I’d be, back in the reformatory.”

  He sternly answered.

  “Not while I’m around. If anyone threatens you, they’ll have to deal with me, and I’m a formidable force.”

  We looked at each other. Yes, I thought, this was what I needed, someone to protect me. That’s what I had been craving and seeking my entire life, a protector. And I thought I had finally found him.

  Our lips met and I melted into him.

  When I awoke, it was about ten a.m. It being a Saturday, I was off from the bookstore, though Mr. Jennings was on duty. He’d woken up before 8 a.m. while I’d stayed in bed. Saturday was a busy day for book sales. We’d discussed it last evening.

  “Just relax,” he had said, “it’s your day off, why do anything? I’ll be back after five.”

  I stretched, enjoying the lovely pink and lavender sheets— feminine, I thought, or at least definitely queer. I frowned. That was dumb; can bed sheets be indicative of one’s sexuality? So I was queer, I knew that, but the crew in the bookshop stockroom didn’t; well, they’d find out soon enough. Downstairs the stockroom boys knew everything about the upstairs crew, who was straight, who was queer and who was certainly a sick pervert—mostly someone that they didn’t like. It was the usual workers’ gossip. Mr. Jennings was definitely a queer, besides the other fags employed there. I reddened, shaking my head. Just a queer, I thought, that’s what I was, a queer.

  I snorted, throwing the covers off and shuffling to the bathroom. The day was very dark, with rain falling against the windows. Good that I had it off; I had no real rain gear, not even a flimsy raincoat or umbrella. I always made do with my jeans and denim jacket; but I’d get a winter coat from somewhere.

  I peed, looked at a photo of Mr. Jennings with a man beside him, both of them smiling. Similar photos were scattered about the rest of the house, in the bedroom, the living room, the kitchen, even in the bathroom. Must be a very close friend, I thought, but knowing about Timmy’s sexual tastes I could just imagine how close they were.

  I frowned; where would that leave me? If he had a boyfriend or girlfriend, or whatever they called each other, how would I fit in?

  I grunted, “Shit!” Angrily didn’t flush the toilet and left the bathroom.

  Outside thunder sounded through the streets. I looked out of the third-story window, a tree-lined street on the upper West Side, the rain probably keeping people indoors. I scratched my balls and fell onto the living-room couch. There was a television set in the corner, and chairs and other cabinets around the room. And there were pictures of Timmy and the man on the coffee table and hanging on one wall. I was sure there must be other photos around the apartment. I looked closer at the one on the side table. Oh, yeah, he had mentioned that he was gone. There were even two dates, “1935–1967.” I felt bad. Whoever he may have been, he now had passed away. I felt stupid for thinking bad thoughts about him. I immediately got up and returned to the bathroom, flushed the toilet. I shook my head. When will I ever learn that life is life, there’s nothing you can do
about it.

  I went back to the bedroom and fell into bed again. It sure felt nice being naked in his apartment. I at first felt hesitant about walking about the rooms bare, but he was doing it too, with no sense of shame, as if it was the natural thing to do. Well, it was, wasn’t it? I grinned, shrugged and did the same. I lay awhile, playing with myself. But no, I shook my head, I wasn’t going to do that.

  I got up and put on my clothes, thinking I should get moving. I was still unsure if I should accept Timmy’s offer of moving in with him or keep my room in that dive rooming house I lived in. Hell, it was twenty-eight bucks in rent and I had one more day.

  I opened the closet; suit after suit hung there, all waiting to be worn. He had offered me three suits. He’d said the jackets had to be taken in and the pants shortened, but I felt very uncertain about wearing them. I wasn’t a suit person, never had had one in my entire life, and now he was offering to dress me up in them. I wondered about that: do men actually pick clothes for their partners and dress them up as if they were women? Would I be playing the part of the female in this relationship? Oh, hell, I just didn’t know.

  I looked out the window. A few people walked along the street; a man with a closed umbrella passed by, so it had stopped raining, at least for now. I took the light-colored tan jacket Mr. Jennings had said I could wear and put it on. It was slightly too big but it would do in case it started raining again. I set the spring deadbolt on his door—he had given me a key so I could get back in—and went down the stairs.

  Walking on the wet sidewalk was nice in Timmy’s jacket; a few times drizzle passed overhead but nothing really unbearable. On 57th Street, I thought of going east and passing by 53rd Street, where Doubleday’s bookstore was, but instead I continued walking down Broadway and making my way to the movie-theater-filled streets around 42nd Street. Girlie magazines and photos in stores winked at me as I passed by, each one so enticing and alluring that I quickly felt my erection pulsing and throbbing very stiffly in my pants. I know the sexiness of the various models wasn’t to my tastes, but the audacious way they posed quickly had me aroused. That’s why I had gone to the Pix theater last night; it was just a girlie movie that was playing, but the girlie film brought Timmy into my life.

  On Broadway and 7th Avenue, the Crossroads of the World Restaurant had stood for decades. But now it was a video porno store, giving peeks and thrills for twenty-five cents. It was around noontime and men entered the store and hovered near the booths, stealthily looking around and slipping into a booth, yet constantly glancing at other men who were doing the same. I’d quickly found out on my excursions to 42nd Street that a woman’s body on the screen or in the peep-show booths meant little to the men skulking close by; they were just waiting for another man who would come them into a booth with them. I noticed three men leering and trying to draw me into one. Strange, horny, homo men staring at movies of naked or halfdressed women. My erection was hard and very eager for a touch, but I blinked my eyes and walked through the sexy magazine section, past the rows of booths, and found myself exiting the shop onto Broadway again. The sun was peeking out among the clouds and I continued walking down Broadway.

  I like to walk the city streets. Walking’s my favorite means of transportation when I don’t have to go to work, otherwise I’d be lazing along wherever my walking might take me. And pretty soon I came to Madison Square Park on 23rd and 26th Streets, where 5th Avenue opens up, showing an expanse of green surrounded by tall buildings of every kind, straight modern ones reaching up to the sky or older ones not so very eager to reach up there. I liked this part of town. Maybe because the park gives a sense of peace in a busy part of town, very much like Bryant Park up around 42nd Street, nice little restful spots in the big, noisy city.

  I sauntered over toward the wide row of park seats that ringed the entire small park—there were a few old-timers sitting and looking around. But I always feel strange in parks teeming with people, as if everyone is looking my way and focusing on me, prey to be attacked and maybe easily devoured. I collapsed onto a seat, adjusting my stiff, eager penis, and saw a man approaching, holding an unlit cigarette. He was hard also; I could see his stiff penis as it pushed against his pants, standing out like a beacon in his tan slacks. I blushed and turned away. Did I look so obviously so homo? Guess I did. But no, I can’t do that, I thought, not when I had gotten so close to Timmy the night before, it would be like I was taking advantage of him, cheating on him. I shook my head and turned away.

  I heard footsteps. I turned back; the tan-slacked man was only a few feet away, his hardness evident before him.

  “Do you have a light by any chance?” and he gestured with a cigarette before his open mouth, drawing it in and out of his open lips; the gesture was unmistakable. I had responded to just those movements in parks, or movie theaters, or libraries to men who either wanted to give a blowjob or get one in return. I shook my head.

  “Nope, sorry, don’t smoke.”

  He sadly looked at me.

  “A pity, you look like a young man who did.”

  I shrugged. He tapped the unlit cigarette against his lips and teeth and sat down on the same bench. I was

  uncomfortable.

  “Lovely day today, wouldn’t you say?”

  I nodded.

  “Sure is, after last night’s heavy rain.”

  “Oh, really, we didn’t get much at all. Must be from out of town, are you?”

  “Nah, I was up around 85th Street this morning. They had rain up there, a lot, too.”

  He nodded.

  “That explains it; New York is very big, too big, if you ask me.” He stared at me and again tapped his cigarette on his lips; the erection in his pants was definitely protruding. “By the way, I’m Timmy,” and he held out his hand. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

  A spasm of uneasiness tore through me His name was Timmy? Nervousness and discomfort and all kinds of bad feelings shot through me. Timmy? I shook my head and bolted up and hurried down the path. Timmy, just like my Timmy—

  “What the fuck?” I heard behind me as I ran out of the park onto 23rd Street.

  I ran past the 23rd Street Metropolitan Life clock tower, past book shops and clothing stores on the other side of the street, nearing Park Avenue South when I turned around, but no one was coming after me. Timmy, come on, why did he have to be named “Timmy?” Could have been Joe or Sam, maybe even a Moishe or Abdullah, but no, Timmy. I shook my head and continued walking till I got to 2nd Avenue, periodically turning to look behind me. A joke is what it was.

  The sun was out and near 17th Street I saw trees on both sides of the avenue, the 2nd Avenue Park. It’s a small park with hospitals on one side, churches and a temple on the other. Another peaceful spot in a very busy city, just like all the parks. But Saturday was peaceful. I shrugged and walked into the park on 17th Street.

  Almost immediately I saw men sitting on park benches, some reading books or magazines, others talking, still others just staring. How did my eyes alter so suddenly? I knew what they were waiting for, what they looking at. Once, they were just plain old men causally relaxing, but now they’d suddenly become rabid sexual predators. How did I see this now, when I’d been so blind before? Didn’t I know what was really going on?

  I shivered but walked on past the park, coming nearer to my rooming home on 3rd Street. It was just a small tenement off 2nd Avenue. I entered below street level, two steps down under the front steps, going to my room near the back. I sighed at the shutting door, always my way of relieving the frustrations of the day. But now I was smiling and humming a tune, “Be my, be my baby; Oh, oh, oh,” I couldn’t remember the rest of the words, but just kept repeating them over and over, “Be my, be my baby.” Already the song was an oldie and I’d heard it on a pizza-shop radio I’d passed on the street; it stayed in my head: “Be my, be my baby.”

  I opened my closet. The only other things in my room were the bed, a chair, a small table, and a lamp. A year in this room w
ith these furnishings and nothing more, what a joke. I took two shirts, a pair of jeans and underwear, and put them in a paper bag. Then I moved the single bed to the side so I could see the edge of the linoleum against the wall. I bent down and lifted the corner, where I’d stashed my bank book under the linoleum. Months ago I had carried it everywhere I went: the bookstore, the grocery store, everywhere. Until Ramos, a Spanish stockroom boy at work, mentioned that’s where he always put his, and that gave me the idea of doing the same. So for almost six months that’s where it lay until I pulled it out to make my sometime deposits. I took the bankbook, just 84 dollars I had saved up, and shoved the bed back into place. Good old Ramos, who always winked at me as if he meant something else, which I’m sure he did. I sighed, looked around the room, and went to see the landlord.

  Mr. Ihor, a Slavic gruff of a man, was at his desk, looking me over with one eye while the other was shut. I don’t know what causes that, but he certainly needed glasses.

  “You come to pay rent?” he eagerly leered at me, in his Russian-Slavic accent.

  “Nope,” I shook my head, “Have to check out.”

  He frowned, shaking his head.

  “For what, you think I rich man?”

  “No, I just have to check out, that’s all. Have to move.”

  He looked bitterly at me, rose up from his desk and to his full size. I don’t think I’d ever seen him stand up from his desk. Now he looked large and intimidating. He looked at a notebook on his desk.

  “Twenty eight dollars is rent, you pay now?” And he rubbed his hands together as if bringing a close to the conversation.

  Again I shook my head and turned, saying, “No I have to leave, goodbye!” What would be the point of arguing with him?

  “Svoluch! (Scumbag!) You can no do this!” I heard behind me, as the front door shut behind me.

  Outside it was almost three o’clock. Svoluch was a typical Russian word I heard in the rooming house; I turned and walked away. The avenues and streets were crowded as I made my way to the subway, changing at 42nd Street to a train going up to the upper West Side. Had enough walking for a day, that’s for sure. I had no difficulty getting back to Timmy’s third-floor apartment but as I was about to close the door I heard, “Timmy, got a minute?”