Greaseball Theater

A geezer, that's what my sister said he was. She knows about stuff like that, geezers and stuff. Me--I'm a ticket boy. And I'm good at it. I can half a ticket so fast you'll hardly have to break stride. When I'm working, the line is never more than three or four people long.

Once the show starts and the lights are down, I'm the flashlight guy. I walk the aisle with my thumb on the switch. The carpet is so thick no one can hear me coming. Usually it's no problem, I just make sure nobody is whacking off, or trying to get a piece in the back row. Not that it bothers ME; I'd get my own piece in the back row, if I had some chick that would give me some.

When the film is over and everybody is zipped up and all, I wait by the door for them to file out. I nod and give 'em this big plastic smile, like I really like the assholes. Once everyone is out, I have to police the joint, get rid of all the empty cups, the popcorn boxes, and the occasional rubber if I didn't do a good job with the flashlight. That's when I saw him. And that's what this is all about.

The lights take a little magic off the velvet curtains and the velour seat covers. The flawed, funky red paint on the walls is suddenly visible. He was midway toward the front, on the left side of the center seats. His head, sporting a large bald spot, laid back on the top of the seat. I recognized him. He was a regular. Came in once a week come hell or high water. At first I thought he might be dead, because he wasn't snoring. His chest was moving, so I shook him.

"Hey! The movie's over Mister. I didn't know his name; you don't have to know someone to tear their ticket. Time to go home."

He jerked a bit, then opened his eyes wide and looked right at me. Like I said the back was bald but he had hair in front that covered less than he probably thought, brown hair that was graying at the temples. He wasn't a wino: no beard, no spittle. He sat up in the seat a bit, removed his glasses and used his palms to rub both eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I guess I dozed off. Dreaming."

"No harm. I just have to clear everybody out when the movie's over."

"Sure, sure," he said. Yawning as he stood and wiping his eyes again, he moved passed me and made his way up the aisle.

It takes me about twenty minutes to clean the place. I wear latex gloves cause you never know what's on some of these popcorn boxes and drink cups. People got all king of shit--you know. And I damn sure ain't picking no rubber with my bare hand. So I make them provide me with gloves, out of their own pocket--not mine.

Two blocks from the show is the Ocean Boulevard Deli, a burger joint run by greaseballs. Just from walking in the place, you can comb your hair back slick and dark. But if you close your eyes so you don't see all the shit and the jerks, the cheeseburger will knock your dick stiff. That's what I have after I'm off on Friday nights.

The joint is not very wide; there's barely enough room for the small tables that sit against the wall in front of the counter. The place is long, though, and further back it opens up wide enough for booths and a row of four place tables beside them. I wait at the counter for my cheeseburger cause they don't have a bitch to bring it to you, then I'm making my way into the back for a seat. The joint is crowded on some Fridays and I'm particular about who I sit by--I mean I don't want to sit next a greaseball or nothing like that. So I'm checking it out. There are no empties but lo and behold who do I spot alone in one of the booths--the geezer who fell asleep in the show!

"Hey there, Pops. You mind if I take a seat here?" I asked him.

"Please do," he says kind of proper like.

"I don't like the front," I tell him. "People stand there to order, their ass right in your face."

He's nursing a cup of coffee. I don't see a plate, so I'm thinking he didn't eat.

"Yes, this is much better," he agrees, but he talks funny, like he's some kind of art guy or something.

"Didn't I see you in the theater before," I ask him.

"Yes, I come every Friday."

"You come to catch up on your sleep?"

He laughs a bit, like somebody said something funny.

"No, I usually don't sleep there, but I nodded off tonight--didn't I?"

"Didn't bother me," I tell him, "but why come every week if you're going to sleep?"

"Well, I come to meet someone; at least I hope to meet someone."

"A chick? You mean like pick up a date?" I say.

"No. It's someone I knew once. We watched a movie there, a love story, a love story that ended funnily. We became dear friends, but had to part. The relationship couldn't continue, she said, so she went away. I go there every Friday, hoping she will walk in."

"This must be some chick for you to go to all that trouble."

"Oh, she is--was--is."

"What's so special about her?"

For a second--in his eyes--I thought he was pissed. Then his whatchacallit, his expression changed, like he was looking at something a thousand miles away and he started talking.

"We first met in a room, a room full of people. But we had things in common: we both liked books. She had favorite authors and so did I, but while I read mysteries, thrillers, she read about relationships. It wasn't genre romance she was reading; there was sometimes a suspense flavor to the plot; but there was always an interaction between a man and a woman and all the mysteries that come with that. There were all kind of people there, but for all I knew we were the only two in the room.

We became closer. In discussing the books, we came to see that we shared some of the same questions, the same challenges, and the same shortcomings in our own lives. I think talking to me was easy for her. She was beautiful so the conversation inevitably led to sex. We agreed to meet.

There's an inn on Fourteenth Street. Neither of us had ever seen it; we simply found its location. Though part of a national chain, it was not perfect; the building was older than I would have liked. Even so I waited for her in the lobby.

A group of some sort, women and kids, was partaking of the lobby breakfast. My eyes split time between looking left, past them through the wall of windows that looked out on the drive-up area and then to the right at an October football game on the television--usually an obsession of mine.

Suddenly she was there, walking along the wall of windows. She is not "model" beauty, her body is not voluptuous, but there is an aura about her. Her shoulder-length brown hair and her trim but rather straight body on anyone else would be neat but not particularly noticeable. Though anxious, I willed myself not to move and waited until she walked through the lobby toward me before I stood. I hugged her briefly.

There was nothing special about our room, though it did have a Texas-sized bed. We were barely inside the door before I stole the kiss I had wanted in the lobby. One kiss led to another, to another, and to not wanting to stop kissing. Between long loving kisses, we exposed her bra and soon I was sliding her pants down her legs. Her underwear was black. She tanned so there were no lines beneath the bra. Her breasts, the first time I saw them, absolutely took my breath. Her nipples, the color of an unripe plum, were so gorgeous against her skin. With my breath on her nipples, the slender little buttons leaped out, searching for my tongue. So long they were. I envision now, what I did then, making a tube with my tongue and pulling at the right nipple from the aureola out to the tip, caressing it, trying to tease it off it's tit.

I stripped her panties over her knees. She took such care with the treasure between her legs. Her tan left her without any lines, but she had used a sticker that produced a pale butterfly on the left side of her groin. Her pussy hair was trimmed, shortened a bit for she said it grew incredibly long, and shaved along each edge to form a narrow strip.

I licked. Light sneaked in around the window drape, revealing all her nakedness. I could open her lips and see where to aim my tongue. Her clit was a button I massaged it with the tip of my tongue; I licked it with the wide flat of my tongue; I sucked it--all to make it swell. South of that I could see the narrow entrance to her hole. It held my tongue on all sides when I slipped it in. I curled it against the roof and licked out, over and over, wanting her to cum in my mouth.

Maybe she wanted to suck my dick--I wasn't sure. Though I had showered earlier that morning, I wanted it to be clean for her, so I pulled her to her feet and toward the bath. When I kicked out of my pants, my cock stood straight in front of me, so hard a cat couldn't scratch it. In the bath, I soaped her. Her ass, the most perfect part of her beautiful body glistened as the soapy water ran off of it. Soap made her hard nipples slick. They stretched and popped as I pulled on them.

As I sat in the tub, she put soap on her hand. Wrapping her manicured fingers around my cock, she stroked. The first two were long gentle slides. I was so hard there was no loose skin. Not a minute into her task, she put more soap on me and began stroking fast. I stopped her as I almost came. She was very close to having cum dripping down her cheek and spending the rest of the afternoon cuddling.

When I held her wrist to keep from shooting off, she laughed. It was a spontaneous, devilish laugh. It was the first time I had heard her express what I thought was pure, uninhibited, unbridled joy.

We moved to the vanity. The entire wall above the vanity was mirrored. I bent her over. She put her hands on the edge of the vanity. I rubbed my cock between her lips, found her hole and slid it, hard and long into her cunt. She was so hot and wet. I fucked her, holding the cheeks of her ass in my hands while we looked at each other in the mirror. Her blue eyes were always intense, but here they looked straight into my soul.

I felt a load of cum building in my balls, so I moved her, sat her up on the vanity and I entered her again. From this angle I could shove up and felt the end of my cock pushing against the back of her pussy. From there, we moved to bed. For the first time, our bodies lay totally against each other. She wrapped her legs around me. I pumped, pushing in between those neatly trimmed lips, my cock curved and hard sliding up in her. I kissed her neck and face and shot all that was in me, so deep from with in me, as if she had gripped me in her hand, twisted me, and wrung me dry. There was not a sperm left in my body; it was all in her.

I don't think she came. For all the ecstasy she gave me, I don't think I was able to return her love. That haunts me. So I wait. I wait for her."

"That's quite a story, Pops."

He looked back at me; his eyes were seeing me again. He didn't have that faraway goody look.

"So, why don't you get another chick?" I asked him.

"That won't happen."

"Why not. My sister says they all look alike in the dark. She knows about stuff like that, about fucking and stuff."

"She don't know," he says as if he knows my sis. "How old is your sister?"

"She's thirty-three."

"Someday she will learn that when you find love, even a little bit of love, that you cannot toss it away. It is a rare and precious thing."

"Well, Pops, I hope you find her, or she finds you. Whatever. Here." I slipped him one of the tickets I had not torn, one of the few I had sneaked into my right pant pocket.

"See you Friday," I said. Outside, I took a comb from my back pocket and slicked my hair back. Fucking greaseballs.