Sissy Godiva

by Mykola Dementiuk

  I looked down at the shorts I had on. They weren’t mine. Damn, wearing another man’s underwear, totally gross! But what was the alternative, walking through the streets utterly naked?

  “Oh, big deal, put them on, at least till you get home. Then you can change into whatever you want. And here’s a raincoat I found.”

  “That’s disgusting! I’m not putting on something from the garbage. What you think I am, a bum? I am what I want to be. Sissy Godiva, that’s who I am.” She looked dreamily at me. “Don’t you remember last night? We threw our clothes into the river.”

  Damn, she was absolutely right! I remembered it now, throwing my T-shirt in, and then she threw in her little bra and skimpy nylon pants. I tossed my trousers in and we watched everything float down the river, away into the darkness, our giddy laughter following them.

  She shrugged. “It was your idea, not mine.”

  I dropped down beside her, still clutching the raincoat and green panties. “Put them on anyway,” I sighed. “At least it’s something till you get home.”

  She shook her head. “I’m right where I want to be, nice and naked here in the park. You go home if you want to, I’m going to sleep. But pick me up tomorrow after six. I should be home by then.” She curled back up on the grass and started to suck her thumb. I watched her for a moment, bit my lips in indecision, then put the raincoat on top of her and the green panties nearby. She looked content lying there.

  I ran for the park exit as the sun rose, bringing Saturday morning.

  But as I walked through the quiet streets of the Lower East Side, I regretted leaving Sissy sleeping alone and naked in the East River Park. Would she be safe, I wondered. Probably, I told myself. She’s probably done it before. It was getting hot already; I read seventy-five degrees on a coffee-shop thermometer. I wiped the sweat off my forehead as I passed some people who looked at me incredulously, shaking their heads at my near-nakedness. Asshole beatnik hippie, they were probably thinking. Oh, screw them! I got to my building and ran up the stairs. Mom opened the door at my knock.

  “What the hell!” She stared at me open-mouthed. “Where the hell are your clothes?” She looked down at the shorts bagging on me. What could I say, I lost them? “You come home without any pants! My God, you really are a queer, aren’t you?” She looked bitter.

  “Mom, no, I’m not!” I almost winced. Lies, lies, lies. “But I have a few friends who’re queer, so what?” I shrugged. “They’re okay, you know? I was at a party that turned into a stupid strip party. Who knows what happened to my clothes.”

  She shook her head and studied my face, slowly calming down. “But what made you want to do that, take your clothes off? Kids your age are still very pliable. They just jump into gay things without knowing what they’re doing.”

  “I’m not a kid, Mom. I know what being gay means. It’s not for me. Not for me.”

  She still looked nervous. “I just don’t know. Just get out of those stupid shorts or I’ll have to think you really are queer!”

  I snorted and went to my room. I pulled off the underwear and tossed it into the trash, then lay down on my bed, instantly thinking of Sissy Godiva lying next to me. I began jerking off. Like hell I was gay!

  I slept some. Mom had gone in to work overtime but she came home after three with pizza. I had no taste for it and got dressed. I wanted to go outside for a bit.

  “You’re going to see your homo friends,” she said. “Isn’t that where you’re going?” She bit into her slice angrily, looking at me.

  “Oh, Mom. They’re just friends, that’s all,” I said, looking the other way.

  She finished her mouthful and crumpled the pizza paper. “Friends,” she said, looking angry, “or lovers. Which one is it?”

  Damn, what is she talking about? I turned to look at her.

  “Mrs. Marshall was looking out her window last night and saw you on FDR Drive,” she said. “On the overpass walking with that queer boy Joey, Sophie’s son—Sophie’s the cashier at the East Side Cafeteria on 1st Avenue. You know that FDR Drive is a sleazy place to meet fruity men. What did you do in that park with Joey? The men who go there are after one thing—other men. Are you after that, too?” I’d dropped into a chair and lowered my head. I didn’t want to look at her.

  Mrs. Marshall was a nosy, gossiping woman Mom knew back when I was in school. Last year her son Bill used to drop in on Pips occasionally. I used to see him on the stairs. One day Pips heard me in the hall and opened his door, and there was Bill, totally naked and sitting on a kitchen chair, smoking and grinning and waving at me. I reddened and ran down the stairs, but it made me curious. The next week I saw Bill leaving Pips’ apartment again, but I heard he’d joined the Marines and was getting ready to ship out to Vietnam.

  “You’ve got to take my place, partner,” he said, winking at me and at Pips, “and do what I was doing. You got that?” Pips stood in the doorway, totally naked.

  What could I do but stand at attention before the departing Marine and answer, “yes, sir!”

  Bill explained that he got Pips his cigarettes. And he winked, “besides other things.” Two days later, he left for his basic training. And, I suppose, the Vietnam War.

  “Oh, Mom, it was nothing like that.” I looked up at her. “It was hot and we were just out walking by the river.”

  “Stop lying!” Mom spat out. “And holding hands? Mrs. Marshall knows what kind of sissy boy that Joey is, have you sunk to his level? Answer me!”

  I stared up at Mom. Was there even a point in answering? I shook my head.

  “I was just consoling her, she was upset—”

  “Her? She was upset?! Oh, my God, you really have gone to the other side!”

  I stood up.

  “So what if I did? But I’m still not a queer, I just like her, I mean him, that’s all,” I folded my arms and sat back down, biting my lips and feeling nervous.

  “You’re just like your uncle Harry. The same thing happened to him,” she sighed.

  “What? Who’s uncle Harry? You never mentioned him.”

  “Because I didn’t want to,” she said, sounding nervous again. “When I was a girl in Chicago back in the forties they kept these things quiet, hushed up, looked the other way unless it came out of the closet on its own. And your uncle Harry just didn’t come out of the closet, he tore the doors off the hinges. But, you know, the forties and fifties weren’t the free-love sixties. Your uncle Harry was arrested along with a few other men—who knows what they were doing. He was carted off to jail and the other prisoners beat him and raped him and did whatever they wanted with him.” She looked sad. “Less than a year later he died in prison. The prison board said it was natural causes, case closed. Natural, my foot! What do they think rape is! Even if he wanted it, it’s still brutal. Sometimes deadly.”

  She sighed, wiping her eyes.

  “But by then I was married to your father. He died so young.” She sighed again. “We’d moved to New York, begun a new life, and I forgot about uncle Harry. That is, until last year when you brought it all back. It made me remember.”

  I looked at her.

  “Why? What happened last year?”

  She cleared her throat, looking uneasily. “When you carried Joey out of that fire in Mr. Phillips’ apartment. He was naked, and you were, too. And you had an erection while you were carrying him out.” She blushed but went on. “And there was something very sexual about your saving him. You two seemed close, somehow. Am I right?”

  I bit my lip. “Yes, Mom, very close. I like her very much.”

  “That’s he, Vinnie. Joey’s a he!”

  “So what? She’s more of a woman to me than anyone else is. I don’t care what people say. We were meant to be together and that’s how it is.”

  I stood up, suddenly feeling unburdened. I realized I didn’t care about Mom’s or society’s rules. As if “society” decided how you should live your life. What a lot of crap their rules are! Do this, do that, don’t step on
anyone’s toes, and if you do, apologize profusely. Her story about uncle Harry opened my eyes. Suddenly I couldn’t live by the stupid rules about the proper way to behave. I had to choose my own rules, which meant loving Sissy Godiva openly, since she was a girl. No one passing her on the street would think she wasn’t a girl, anyway. Now she would be mine and we would be together!

  Mom blew her nose. “So you really are a queer?”

  I winced. “Yes, Mom. A gay, queer guy. Just like Sissy Godiva.”

  “Who?”

  I reddened. “Joey, Sophie’s son. I know her as Sissy Godiva.”

  Mom sniffed. “I’m scared. You’re getting to be just like uncle Harry, a pervert going after little boys, and in New York City.”

  I felt myself redden, remembering a boy back in school. A man had come onto the playground and talked to him and touched him, unzipped his pants. An elderly woman saw them and shouted at the man, and he ran. But the boy stood there with his little pecker out, as if waiting for something else to happen. I watched it happen, and felt like I was waiting, too. His parents quickly put him in another school. I never heard what happened to him.

  “What do you mean, Mom? I’m not a pervert going after little boys.”

  She studied me. “Aren’t you? I thought those queer men were always after little boys.” She shook her head. “But you go to those adult theaters in Times Square and lose yourself in those sick films, don’t you?”

  I shook my head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never been to Times Square and I don’t have sex with little boys. Sissy Godiva’s the only one I’m attracted to.” I folded my arms and looked at her smugly. She stared back at me.

  “Sissy?”

  I felt myself turn red again. “Oh, Mom, that’s the name she likes. Everyone calls her that, I told you. And I don’t go into any dirty movie houses, there’s nothing there for me. Sissy Godiva is the only one I want, and she wants me.”

  She shook her head and stood up. “I just don’t understand. Young people are growing up much too fast these days. I just don’t understand. Don’t understand.”

  I watched her as she walked away. She stopped at her bedroom door. “Think I’ll lay down for a bit, my headache is coming back again. I just don’t understand you.” She disappeared into her bedroom and shut her door.

  Neither do I, Mom, neither do I.

  I sighed and looked at the wall clock. Four forty-five in the afternoon. Then I remembered what Sissy had said: “meet me around six tomorrow.” I brightened. It was getting close to six.

  The East River Park was two miles of grass skirting the river. It was a favorite spot for strollers, bike riders, kids, and lovers. I didn’t care for it; it was too wide open for me. And on weekends it was filled with jocks doing sports. That’s who I’d left her to, horny jocks? Damn, where the hell was my head?

  But when I turned down Avenue C and 2nd Street, I saw her starting up the stairs to her building. Whew, she was home. But where the hell had she been? She was wearing the black raincoat, but it barely covered her bottom. Then I saw Kid Paulie running toward her, just a building or two away, crouching as he ran to get a look at her ass. Was she even wearing those panties I’d left with her? Damn! She reached the door with Kid Paulie right behind her. What was I going to do, go after Kid Paulie? I raced up to the building.

  “Get away, you asshole!” she spat, and they started struggling on the stairs. “You bastard, creep!” she shouted.

  Kid Paulie slapped her, then dropped to his knees, shouting, “You’re a fucking bitch!” Sissy ran up to the door and he yelled, “you fucking faggot!” Though the last was a bit fainter, because she’d kicked him in the balls.

  I ran after Sissy and was on the third step when the basement-apartment door opened below me and a woman in an apron rushed out. She looked up at me and Sissy, and saw Kid Paulie still on his knees holding his crotch.

  “Ai!” she squealed. “What are you doing? Get down here, right this minute!” Kid Paulie groaned at her. “I said, now! What do you want with a faggot sissy? Are you sissy, too? Get in here!”

  Kid Paulie looked angrily at Sissy Godiva and mumbled something to her. But he picked himself up and started staggering down the stairs. He stopped and was about to say something to me when the woman snapped again, “get in here, now!” When he reached her she shoved him inside the apartment, then looked up at me before slamming the door behind her.

  I ran up to Sissy. She was trembling and upset. I put my arms around her and she cuddled into them as I walked her inside.

  “He’s a creep,” she spat. “Always wants a blowjob, which I refuse to give him.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “And he lives just one floor below me,” she frowned. “What the hell can I do about that? Nothing. Sooner or later I have to give him a blowjob, if I know what’s good for me. No two ways about it. Ah, Jesus.”

  “That was his mother?” I asked. She nodded. “Maybe you should tell her how’s he’s always bothering you, make him ashamed, you know?”

  She shook her head. “That won’t do any good. She’s as much of a loser as he is, and it’ll make him angrier. Oh, what’s the use. I’ll figure something out.”

  I looked around at the four apartment doors. “Which one’s yours?”

  She jerked her chin at a far door. “Listen, I don’t think I’m gonna go out again tonight,” she said and yawned. “I’m really tired. Hey, but meet me tomorrow morning about nine. We’ll do something, okay?” She yawned again.

  But then I realized she was a faggot, and so was I. A stinking faggot, what do you expect from them? I was angry at myself and glared at her.

  “Yeah, had a rough day? Been out sucking cock?” I stepped away. “How many did you do, three, four? More? Six or seven?” I yelled at her, “you’re nothing but a stinking faggot whore, that’s what you are!”

  She looked down and went to her door. “I know.” I looked back and saw her watching me as I started down the steps. I spat on Kid Paulie’s door as I reached the sidewalk.

  I felt disgusted with myself. I walked a few blocks, turning at Houston Street and heading farther east. The area got worse, Bowery bums on the sidewalks like the empty bottles of cheap wine lying next to them. I must have passed ten or fifteen winos before I found myself on Broadway, which was almost deserted. It was busy and crowded other times, but it was quiet on Saturday evenings; not many people lived in the area. I walked the empty street lost in thought. It was a little busier when I crossed store-filled 14th Street, but then it got quiet again.

  On the corner of 17th Street was a bookstore with the unusual name of Books and Magazines Read to… Had part of the name fallen off? Who knew? But the place was still open; a few men were standing in the store, reading magazines. I’d been there a few times and it looked inviting. I went in.

  The musty smell of old paper hung about the store, but there weren’t any books, just a rack of Reader’s Digests and similar magazines. The only book I saw was a paperback in the clerk’s hands, which he put down as he watched me enter. He went back to his reading when I shut the door behind me. I liked it: deserted Broadway outside and the almost-empty store around me. I walked slowly through the racks of magazines: Look, Life, Time, and Newsweek, with a few electronics magazines. I flipped through one or two as I made my way to the rear of the store, which was why I’d gone in. I looked back at the clerk; he was still reading his paperback, indifferent. I picked up a well-worn magazine named Girls. I was edgy and careful, as if I was holding a real girl, not a magazine. The girl on the cover wore a plunging negligee that exposed her large bosom. I flipped the magazine open and felt my eyes bulge. There was the cover girl, the negligee almost off her, revealing her luscious right breast as the silk pooled around her. Oh, Christ, was I hard! All I wanted to do was jerk and jerk, whip it out and jerk off right in that store!

  But I took a deep breath and turned the page, suddenly aware of a man standing close to me. He had short hair and glasses. I looked up
at him and he smiled. I felt myself blush as I smiled back at him, then closed the magazine and put it back.

  He winked at me and whispered, “I have a better one, look at this.” He held out his magazine. It showed two women in bras, panties, and nylons, one holding a lighter for the other, who had a cigarette in her mouth. I almost shrugged and turned away, but something caught my eye. I looked closer. In their panties were obvious lumps that real women didn’t have; these were men masquerading as women!

  I stood back, terrified, the lump in my own pants seeming to have grown bigger and stiffer. The man winked again and turned the page. The two “women” were sitting on a couch, one’s arms around the other’s shoulders as she dipped her head for a kiss. The hardness in their panties was even more obvious. The man flipped the page again. My mouth fell open and I desperately wanted to see more. They were kissing now, but a penis had slipped out of one’s panties and stood up before the other “woman.” On the next page, I knew, the penis would be in the “woman’s” hand.

  I ejaculated. I felt my face contort and my legs went weak as my semen shot into my pants. Sure am glad I wore my dark jeans, I thought, otherwise the splotch would have been highly visible.

  I opened my eyes. The man was standing a little closer, his arm touching mine, rubbing his sleeve against my bare skin. He smiled wickedly; I’m sure he knew what had just happened to me. I thought about Sissy Godiva. If she could do it with three or four guys, or whoever she did it with, then what difference did it make if I was friendly with just one. Faggot whore? So what. Wasn’t I one, too?

  I smiled at the man, feeling myself blush, and reached out to turn the page. He leered at me and flipped the page, our fingers touching.

  Both transvestites’ cocks were out, their faces glued together, their hands buried in each other’s bosoms. I felt weak and I was sweating.

  “Whew,” I said, “it’s hot in here.” Wiping my forehead I turned from the man and took a step away. He was right after me.

  “I was thinking of getting this magazine. You think it’s a good one?”