Thursday, December 23, 2010

Monday, December 20, 2010

Sex Fifth Avenue

I gave up dodging tourists at Sixth Avenue. They were gathered in loose overlapping clusters of gawking children, wary parents and grandparents observing that Radio City Music Hall is right there, and look, right across the street is NBC, where they make “The Today Show,” so the whole family might be on television right then and not even know it. You can’t predict which way the herd will shift in a moment of excitement or panic, so I relented to its meandering pace and bid my time.

A text came into my phone. Where are you? My lunch break is nearly over.

I’m a block away. I replied. I should be there in a few hours.

LOL. Take a picture of the tree.

In time, I arrived at the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. Only a half block to go, I thought, glancing up briefly. I kept a hand outstretched to avoid jostling the upward gaping surge. As I reached the end of the block, more faces looked past me and pushed forward, reassuring one another that the tree was just ahead, and look, there was that gold statue from “30 Rock.” Fifth Avenue was penned in by traffic cops operating improvised gates of yellow crime-scene tape. I fell in line and crossed the street within two light changes. I shuffled behind two older women in matching coats, clinging together for dear life.

Most people outside the store were hemmed behind velvet ropes, queuing to gaze at the holiday windows. I made my way past them, peering over their heads to get my own glimpse before making my way to the store’s revolving doors. A few cycles and I was inside.

I pressed my back to a wall and took out my phone. I’m in make up. I texted.

Wow, that really did take twenty minutes. Take the elevator to seven. Turn right.

I put away my phone and followed distracted shoppers to the rear of the store. The main floor was no less crowded than the sidewalks outside, as tourists took respite from the cold and allowed their wrists to be sprayed with various unaffordable scents.

Two elevators came and went before I found space in one. All the buttons had already been pushed. I edged to the back of the car, prepared to take the local to the uppermost floor open to shoppers.

As the elevator emptied and refilled at the sixth floor, I reached for my phone. Almost there.

Men’s Lounge, first stall.

A friend of mine had taken seasonal work at Sak’s Fifth Avenue. Knowing my penchant for sex in city landmarks, he offered to blow me in the legendary store. “Should we dare?” I asked. “I’ve had sex at Lever House and Lehman Brothers and each went out of business shortly after the act. I may have a curse.”

“I think Sak’s can survive you. Anyway, my job is over in January. I’m in the same position whether or not you curse the store.”

The elevator door opened on Men’s Clothing. At the right, the Men’s Lounge was indicated in elegant script. I peeled away from those shuffling from the elevator and entered a corridor. Rounding a few corners brought me to the door. I entered.

I passed the first stall. I walked to the rear of the lounge to survey the space. I stood at a long countertop slowly washing my hands, scouting the space behind me in the mirror. A security guard stood at one urinal. I’d want to wait until he left. Beside me, a middle-aged man was scrubbing the face of his teen-aged son with a paper towel as an older son watched. I’d wait them out too. I sat down, affecting the air of a husband worn out by shopping wife. I texted my friend. Waiting on the herd to thin.

Good. I don’t have long. I’m in the first stall. Door is unlocked.

I removed my scarf. The guard washed his hands, conversing with someone who also seemed to work at the store. They walked out together. The father discarded his shredded paper towel and took another, wetting it before returning to his son’s face. How dirty is that kid’s face, I wondered. Did he get it made up on the main floor, as a goof? His father seemed good-natured about his task, but determined that he, and not his son, would wash his son’s face.

The father wore a Pittsburgh Steelers sweatshirt. I took off my hat.

The father went through another paper towel before judging his son’s face sufficiently clean. He spoke to his sons as he washed his hands and then his own face. As he reached for more paper towels, he suggested that his sons take this opportunity to go to the bathroom. The eldest nodded and walked to a urinal. The younger went to a stall. Finding it locked, he moved to another. It was open; my friend’s stall was untouched. The kid’s brother finished and washed his hands. He joined his father waiting for his sibling. Minutes passed. Finally, he came from the stall and crossed to the sink. He carefully and deliberately washed his hands and, returning to his father’s task, washed his face.

I silently composed a letter to the mayor of Pittsburgh, commending him on the meticulous hygiene of his city’s citizens.

The family made to go, but not before the father zipped up his sons’ coats and then his own. I watched them leave with a wish that all their adventures in New York be as rich and bonding as that which I had witnessed.

Now, I was left to my own adventure. I walked casually to the first stall, turned the handle and entered. It appeared empty. His voice whispered from behind the door, “I worried they would never leave.”

“I think they owe rent to Sak’s.” I pulled off a coat sleeve. “How’s your time?” I hung the coat on the door handle.

“I have time.” He took my coat and hung it on a hook with with his own. He locked the handle. I nodded and silently unhooked my belt. His eyes followed as I unfastened my pants, unzipped and, with deliberate nonchalance, took out my cock. I leaned back on a tile wall, my stance wide, waiting. He was my sissy cocksucker. I was his anonymous pick up. Generations of men had set the stage of this lounge before us.

I declined to remove either my shoes or my pants. He removed his own, leaving on his shirt and tie. His cock curved out like mine. He spread his knees wide as he went to his knees and took me in his mouth. As he blew me, I looked around the stall. He had chosen well. The stalls were tall, so no one could peer from above. The walls and doors continued to the floor, so no one could peer from below. The doors themselves were louvered, so that standing, I could see feet walk by, but no one could detect us. With the door securely locked, we were in our own private room.

He stopped to look up at me. “Don’t come in my mouth.” I nodded. “And don’t come too soon.” I nodded again. He retrieved a small amber vial from his shirt pocket. “Poppers?” I shook my head. He unscrewed the vial, took a deep whiff in each nostril, and returned the top. I held out a plan to take the bottle. It would be more convenient to him in my hand.

He hungrily returned to my cock. I knew the poppers sent a rush to his head, and it felt intense to suck me. I forced my cock into him deeper, knowing he would intently feel his control ceding to me, his silent unknown stud.

I put my hand on the back his neck, combing my fingers through his black hair. I took care not to muss it too much. He would shortly be back on the floor, selling shirts and trousers to men like the Steelers fan, none of them the wiser that he had been on his knees in a bathroom stall drooling on cock.

He took another couple of hits from his popper vial and returned it to my palm. “Do you want to sit down?” he asked, nodding to the toilet. I shook my head. “Do you mind if I sit?” I shook my head. He stood, left the toilet seat and sat. I turned to return my cock to him. He jerked off as I fucked his face. He soon moved forward, falling back to his knees. I turned, leaning back against wall. I preferred him on his knees.

“Do you want to suck me?” he asked. I shook my head and handed back his poppers. My message was plain: shut up and suck my dick, cocksucker. He nodded, whiffed and sucked.

I was turned on by my use of him and by our illicit location. The lounge door opened and closed continuously. Feet paced outside our stall as men waited for a stall of their own. I was edging close to an orgasm when someone tried the handle of our stall. I felt that if the door opened, I would come immediately, unable to stop myself at the terror and thrill of discovery. He looked up at the sound. The lock remained secure. I pulled out of his mouth as the footsteps moved away. “That was close,” I whispered.

“Yeah, but it’s locked,” he said, his hands still on my naked thigh.

“No, I mean that I’m close,” I said. “Finish the job.”

He began to rise. “Let’s jerk off. I want to watch you come. Do you want me to do you?”

I shook my head and began to jerk. I was too close to rely on his hand. My cock was soaked with his saliva. I watched as he pulled his own cock, his eyes riveted on my hand and cock.

He came in deep spurts, creating puddles on the floor. I followed soon after. As my legs spasmed, I reached over his shoulder to brace myself on the opposite wall. I steadied myself as the wave subsided. I leaned back on the wall, my cock still bouncing for more. “Here,” I said, handing back his poppers.

“Thanks.” He returned the vial to his shirt pocket. “Hang on, let me clean up before you go.” He unrolled toilet paper onto our shared mess. Using a paper seat cover, he expertly mopped up the tissues and dropped the papers into the toilet. He quickly dressed before flushing. “Okay, thanks,” he repeated. “You go first.” I nodded, unlocked the door and left the stall. I heard it lock behind me.

I washed my hands and, for good measure, my face. Twenty minutes later, I was on the sidewalk of Fifth Avenue.

Crossing John Cardinal O’Connor Way to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, I looked back to Sak’s. Each year, I recalled, the store is wrapped in giant red ribbon, transforming the building into a giant gift box. Not this year, though.