I was wondering how long I was going to go on being polite to the guys who kept bothering me.
In return for my very uninterested glance, I got a dazzling friendly smile. Well, I thought, at least he’s not wearing makeup.
The kid immediately moved over, with a movement that was mostly hips, into the seat next to mine, shoulder against my shoulder, legs (with knees together) leaning against my legs; he touched my thigh with a hand as feminine as any I’ve ever seen, the nails long and neat under clear polish. “Do you want to have some fun?” he said in a surprisingly girl-like voice, with just the faintest accent – not foreign so much as simply from some other part of the country, or even of the city. Then, almost as if the question was a joke, he leaned towards my ear to hide his dark, Oriental eyes from me and laughed in a way that, I’m not kidding, made me think of small bells.
“Look, sweetheart,” I said, “you’re working. I’m just here to pull on my own prick a little, all by myself. Why don’t you go find somebody else to hit on?” I like to be polite to any working man or woman, but I also know that, sometimes, with the desperate, you have to be firm. “I don’t bring any money with me when I come into these places,” I said. “So even if I fall asleep after I come and you or one of your friends slips back and slits my pockets, all you’ll find is my subway token home. Believe me.”
I felt his lips brush my ear: “Not for money!” came the intense whisper, still on the edge of laughing. “Just to have a good time! You know . . . you and me!”
The Oriental kid sat back now and took a finger and drew it diagonally across the sweatshirt’s chest – “Cross my heart” – and then diagonally the other way – “and hope to die! I just want to have a little . . .” He shrugged. “. . . fun!”
As the grey cloth gave under that slender hand, I realized there was something under that sweatshirt. The breasts there were about as large as tea-cups stood upside down. And the first thing I thought was: on a guy as slender as that, they’re just too big for even the most intensive hormone treatments. While, at the same time, I also figured any transsexual who’d actually saved the $6,000 I’d heard the operation costs these days would have certainly gotten them bigger.
I frowned. “Are you a girl . . .” I asked, disbelieving, looking closely at the young, Oriental face with the straight black bangs inside the grey hood.
For answer, the lower lip pulled in between the teeth in an effort of concentration and decision. Quick glances left and right; then the delicate hands hooked into the waist of the sweat pants while he (or she; at this point I was really befuddled) lifted hips a little from the theatre chair and slid the elastic waist down the substantially full hips (no panties) until the black bush of pubic hair pushed over the rim. “Touch me there! Go on! I like it! Touch me . . .!”
I touched . . . well, yes, her. In the hot closure between her legs, soft with dark hair, my fingers bunched up in the crevice, opened up when she moved her legs apart some, and my middle finger found the warm lips and slipped through them to find that always surprising inner heat.
Now I know what a pussy put in by a plumber feels like. (The working girls call it a “roll and tuck job.” And that’s $20,000 or up.) I’ve had my hands and my dick in more than one. Scar tissue is scar tissue; and it feels like a scar. Also, neither KY nor Vaseline – there since leaving the house that morning – has the same texture as a lady’s natural moisture.
Her hands came together to press mine further in, and the elastic of her sweat-pants pulled over my wrist.
“Hey, look . . .” I whispered. “If you got some pimp waiting in the back of the theatre to beat the shit out of me when I don’t come up with any bread . . . I mean, I’m not kidding you: I’m broke! You can go score with somebody else–”
She moved her thighs on both sides of my hand. “I know. But I don’t want any money! I already crossed my heart, didn’t I?”
“Well, look . . .” I took a breath; and, yeah, moved a finger.
“Please,” she whispered. She put her mouth up against my ear again. “I gotta get somebody to eat my pussy for me!” Her thighs kept moving around my hand, and the lips of her cunt rubbed, with them, on the sides of my two middle fingers, which, without even trying, I was working deeper into the tight, the narrow, the wet, the hot. “I really want it . . . I’m so hot! You like to eat pussy?” she asked me, breathlessly – with, between “to” and “eat,” a catch in her voice as if one or another of my knuckles had brushed the same spot that, minutes before, had made Mai-Lyn twitch.
I took a deep breath myself. “Fine wines,” I said. “French food . . .? There’s nothing I like better! Hey, who are you? What’s your name?”
Her voice caught again, only this time there weren’t any words around it. She pressed my hand still harder, and whispered, her lips still tickling my earlobe: “My sister just bought this theatre. You want to meet her?”
“Huh?” I said, turning to look at her. (Really, I’ve always been kind of curious who owned some of these scum-bag houses, but I’ve just assumed it was organized crime; certainly not the sister of some seventeen-year-old Oriental nymphomaniac.) “Your sister? What do you –?”
What she did to stop my question was, with her diagonally-lidded eyes wide, stick her tongue in my mouth. Then her eyes closed. And maybe, for a moment, I closed mine too. Cool lips moved on mine. Her hot tongue moved over and under my own, while moments of air came between our mouths, which we both kept pushing closer, in order to drive the cool spots from between them. I got my other arm around her. Moments later, when our mouths dragged apart and my face was in her neck (the hood of her sweatshirt had fallen back, and I could hear her breathing in time to the work I was doing between her legs with my hand), I growled into her collar: “Oh, honey, I’m gonna eat your pussy till you shiver like the San Francisco earthquake! I’m gonna tongue your clit till you’re crazy enough to run all the kooks out of Bellevue! I’m gonna eat your cunt till you can’t even fucking walk! I’m gonna suck your goddamned pussy till –” but didn’t finish, because suddenly we were both going after each other’s tonsils again.
When one or the other of us stopped to breathe, she whispered: “All right. You come meet my sister, then . . .” and pulled back, both her small hands flat against my chest. Her straight hair was long, I saw, now that her hood had fallen; it was held on one side by the kind of long, white barrette little girls wear. On the other side, it hung down by her face before it went back in her collar.
On screen, panting Mai-Lyn pulled at her cunt-lips, while Seka’s paler, pinker tongue caressed and caressed the wet snatch Mai-Lyn held further and further open.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go. Now. Please . . .!” She glanced around again. “We can’t do it here!”
Which was kind of a surprise, because God knows enough of these crazy queens do a lot worse. But then, this was a real girl.
I looked around too, for the first time since she’d sat there.
Two black guys in the row behind us, a Puerto Rican in the row in front wearing just his undershirt, and a red-headed white guy, narrow-shouldered, about nineteen, and with glasses, who’d slid into our row two seats away, all had their scrawny little peckers out, beating off for all they were worth, getting off on me making out with this crazy Oriental chick. (Actually, one of the black flashers wasn’t so little, either. But never mind.) “Ah, shit!” I said, loudly. “Yeah, come on. Let’s go!”
While the red-headed kid tried not to catch the head of his dick in his zipper, I pushed in front of him, holding her by her arm.
As soon as we hit the aisle, she was a step, three steps, five steps ahead. Hurrying behind her, I watched her hips working as she half walked, half ran towards the back of the theatre: her sweatshirt was no longer tucked into her pants, and bare flesh showed across the top of her buttocks, so that, even in the dim light, I could see two inches of the crack in her ass. Her black hair had come out of her collar and swung against her shoulders. I wondered
how I could have thought she was a boy or even a transsexual. Though, Lord knows, enough of both work that place!
At the back of the Cameo, the men’s room is left of the entrance: The door is always open, and the pale yellow light falls out from the steps leading down to the very busy, very smelly urinals.
Right of the entrance is the soft-drink machine; next to that stands the water-cooler, and beside that is a door that’s almost always locked. It says:
Ladies
In most porno theatres, ladies’ rooms are pretty superfluous; though, if a couple does come in and the woman really wants to use it, she can sometimes get the key from the cashier or the manager – unless they decide she’s a pro.
About a year ago I was in the theatre when the men’s room broke down and got locked up for the day; so, with a handwritten sign on a paper towel scotch-taped to the door jamb, they opened up the ladies’ room for male use: a set of steps down a narrow, paint-peeling stairwell to a cubicle one-quarter the size of the men’s, with a sink and single stall at the bottom.
The pipes over the ceiling had dripped a lot. And it stank.
The girl went right to that locked door and from the front pocket of her sweat-shirt got out a key. As she was fooling around with it in the old lock, I went up behind her, slid my hands under the back of her pants to hold both of her buttocks and, while I kneaded them, began licking her neck. She laughed and turned the door-knob.
The door opened, and the first thing I saw was that the light inside was very red. She moved into it, and practically pulled me, stumbling, in behind her – till my hands came loose from the elastic.
She reached past me and yanked the door closed sharply, while I blinked, surprised, looking up and down. Somebody had done a hell of a lot of work on this place since the men’s room broke.
We were at the top of a stair, yes. But it was three times as wide as I remembered. The walls were covered with that red-flocked wallpaper like they have in Tad’s Steak Houses, only the design was more complicated and, as I looked around, I was pretty sure it was also a lot more expensive. Brass banister rails were fixed to the walls. And the only smell in the place was as if somebody two or three days ago might have burned a little incense there. The stairs themselves ran down beyond a kind of beaded curtain made with lots of transparent glass globes on gold chains, so you could just see beyond it. The scarlet carpet here on the upper landing, which ran off under those hanging baubles to cascade down the steps, had a nap long enough to attack with a weed-whacker.
“What the fuck . . .?” Not very original. Still, it’s what I said.
She stepped away from the door, looked around, turned to me, smiling, and began to push her sweatpants down over her hips, wiggling them, with her beautiful Oriental pussy coming into view over the waistband that slanted left, slanted right, till at last the pants fell around her ankles. She stepped free, first with one bare foot (leaving her sandals somewhere in folded material), then with the other. Arms crossed over her stomach, she pulled up the sweatshirt from beautiful tits that were bigger than I’d thought, under that loose grey.
Smiling, she shook out her dark hair and slipped, naked, between the beaded curtain, starting down.
I didn’t slip. “Hey –!” I crashed through clattering globes.
Five steps below, she’d stopped, turned back, and, with one hand on the polished banister, watched me. She moved a finger from her tit up towards her neck and back, breathing hard.
There was some kind of light right beside her – more brass, with all sorts of crystal hanging around it; but, though she was clearly lit, I couldn’t see much beyond her.
As I started down, she leaned forwards, reaching out with both hands and just . . . well, caught my crotch. So I stopped. “I want to suck you . . .” she whispered. “I wanna suck your beautiful penis . . .!” (Only girls say “penis” with that uncertain excess enthusiasm compensating for a conditioned embarrassment, which, for the duration of the word, leaves them a-quiver someplace where they cannot know the judgment upon them.) She got my belt open, pulled apart the top button on my jeans, and slid my zipper down. “I want to suck you and make you feel so good . . .!”
“Eh . . . sure,” I said, wondering if I should help with the undressing; but she slid my pants down my hips and pulled my underpants down. The next thing, she was on my cock like a covey of hot, frenzied oysters. I let her suck; and she sucked very well. I caressed her black hair, rubbed her neck, then reached down to play with her tits. A breast in each hand, I rolled her nipples between the sides of my fingers. Now some women, when you play with their tits, it doesn’t do shit. Others, well – she was one of the others.
Kneeling on the steps at my feet, her body began to quiver, then got real still (just her tongue going inside her mouth over my dick), then she’d quiver all over again, moving her head forwards and back. She sucked and shivered at the same time – while I kneaded her breasts I could feel her tongue vibrating at the base of my balls. I mean, while she sucked me her shoulders blushed!
I could’ve come any time. But after about a minute, I said: “Oh, baby, let me get my face in that pretty pussy.” I pulled my cock from somewhere deep inside her head. (Really, that’s what it felt like.) As I stood up, her breasts slipped out of my hands.
My pants down around my thighs, I kind of hobbled around her, running my hands over her sides, her tits, her ass; then kissing them, then licking them, while she stretched out along the banister, one arm above her head, one hand back to follow me around; she kept trying to touch my ear.
Behind her, I turned, sat on the carpeted stair, and wedged my head up between her legs. She lifted the outside one to the step above, and I ate pussy like crazy. There was the faint smell of soap, the faintest taste of salt, and a faint odor of some toilet water or perfume she must have dabbed earlier that day on some other part of her body. With my nose full of soft cunt-hair and her thigh hot against my left ear, she started to flex pussy-muscles around my tongue; I licked, now deep inside her, now lifting the little knob of flesh at the folded roof of her cunt, now trolling through the sparse forest of her pussy, and digging deeply, then lightly, then doing it all over again, while she breathed, then moaned, then grunted; the muscles of the one leg against my ear actually shook, as though some musician had plucked the nerve that ran the length of her thigh like a harp string, while she whispered: “My . . . sister! Oh, yes, my . . . sister! You come back here, a lot! Yes. We’ll do this lots and lots. My sister, she’ll love you . . .”
Now a funny thing happens to your cock when you take it out of a hot mouth: it feels a little cold. Now and then I kind of played with it, which felt good, but what I really wanted was to make her freak out, and mostly I held on to her legs and licked.
She was pretty nearly over her hump.
Me too.
But suddenly, something hot and soft was on my dick, and a hand was leaning against my leg. Someone from down below had crawled up the stairs to suck me!
Given we were in the hall to a porno theatre ladies’ room, I thought some queen who’d been downstairs had come up to lend a mouth. Not that I mind who sucks on my crank as long as I’m getting mine, but I kind of wanted to know who it was and say, “Hey, motherfucker, I see you . . .”
I pulled my head out and looked down.
Another oriental face looked up, eyes smiling, with my dick a couple of inches in her face. This woman was about 35. Her lips around my cock were red as the skin of polished delicious apples. Her eyelids were blue with make-up, her cheeks coloured with rose blush, and I could see that she wore black stockings, and black, high, high heels. Her nylons were held on by a black garter belt. She kneeled on the step below me, the stiletto of one heel pointing back into shadow. Her heavy breasts were full and naked.
With red nails long as those of Seka or Mai-Lyn, she took my dick softly and lovingly in her hand and licked it, now and again gazing up at me with eyes lidded by that Oriental fold pulled down over her eyes’ inner corne
rs – or perhaps she gazed, I realized a moment later, at that other pussy still hanging inches over my head.
The first girl came down a step to stand beside me, her hand on my shoulder, her leg against my arm. “My sister!” she panted. “See! She likes you!” Then she said something in chink. And between licks, her sister said something in chink back. (I bet it was something like: See, he likes you too, with the answer: Far fucking out!) “I told you she would . . .” came down to me in English.
I thought about saying, “Eh . . . glad to meet you. Real nice porno theatre you got here,” but it didn’t seem appropriate. I said instead: “Suck on daddy’s dick, mama!” and reached down for her fuller, swaying tits. “Suck on it and make it dribble!” At the same time I nuzzled over toward the crotch of the younger one, leading with my tongue.
The older one did (suck my dick, that is), and I got my face back home into pussy-land, feeling the nails on the older one’s hand flex against my belly like a kitten’s claws, while, with those on the other, first she tickled the delicate place behind the sack of my nuts, then must have reached back between her own legs to do a Mai-Lyn.
Her mouth’s engine seemed to roar around my cock. And the pussy over my face worked my jaw till the base of my tongue was sore.
The three of us kept getting closer, till they were embracing above me. I ducked my head, took a breath, slid down a step, and stood up. Touching a shoulder of each with each of my hands, I moved around to look at them from the side, close enough to see the faint down on the younger one’s cheek and the grain in the rouge on the older one’s; my breath shifted gears in their ears’ cartilages. Turning, brushing, pressing, one pair scarlet, the other pink-white, their lips moved centimetres apart. Their tongues travelled over and around each other, more than crossing the distance between.
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