Carol Ch 12

For the whole ride, Carol was in a frenzy of excitement. She couldn't stop talking. Though it was warm in the cab, her whole body shivered.

"I never knew bars could be so much fun. But then, I haven't gone to many. Do you still have my ID?"

"I do have it." I told her. " You were great. You were

perfect.

"

"Did you see me up there? I was like a go-go dancer. That must be the best invention of Western Civilization. Maybe even Middle-Eastern Civilization too -- and

they

made Algebra!" She laughed. "I was so hot, I almost felt sorry for all the guys. Shit, they

wanted

me!" She rapped on the window separating us from the cabby. "You hear that, driver? A whole

buncha

guys made me naked! They were gonna fuck me but you showed up!"

Okay, so she was a little bit drunk.

She turned back to me, "We should do that every Friday, don't you think? Go out and torture men? Make me a legend? Do you think they'll think about me tonight?"

"They will

never

forget you." I said. "I think you ruined their night. No other girl will be as good for them."

"I ruined women for them! The women in that bar turned out to be my bitches!" she crowed. "Fuck my work-study job. I really should just be a stripper, huh? A go-go dancer in a club? I should just work for tips, giving body shots. Naw, I like the stripper thing. I wanna

grind

on guys all night. My personal mission will be to have them shoot off accidentally on my leg as I

grind

them."

She looked at me. "

Grind

, I tell you. Will you look into stripper jobs for me?"

"You're more than a little bit drunk," I declared.

"Oh, T," She sighed. "Look at me, I'm shaking! Remember 'stripper jobs' for later, willya?"

There was ten minutes of this, and I was running out of ways to agree with her. She was high from all the attention -- she said she didn't really remember anybody touching her, only the faces, the guys trying to get her name, and asking for her number.

* * * * *

The glory hole

We stopped in (what once was) a sleazy part of 42nd Street. The facades of the adult bookshops and clubs were all papered over, and had signs like 'Books' and 'Adult Video Inside.' I paid the cabby as Carol slid out of my grasp.

She stood on the crowded sidewalk, ignoring the people gawking at her as they walked by. Her eyes were on the facades. I knew which shop I wanted, and I took her hand and led her through the doors.

Inside, it was like any other store. The same cold racks of merchandise, the same fluorescent lights. It smelled different, however, and the patrons seemed distant from each other, if not outright furtive. The man behind the counter -- my age -- watched Carol like a hawk as I exchanged some cash for tokens.

Carol growing subdued as I led her through the aisles. Men of every description turned to watch her pass. Old and scruffy, young and t-shirted, business suits -- the whole range of manhood. Carol met their gazes without guile, eyes going from one face to the next as we went past them. She smiled experimentally every now and then.

We entered one of the middle booths at the back of the store, and I flicked the handle to read "occupied." The video screen had no volume controls, so when I dropped some tokens in the small room filled with the wet slapping sounds and groans of sex. Some woman was getting double-penetrated on the video screen, which was behind a scuffed-up acrylic cover.

"What a weird, weird world," said Carol, as she took the room in. She nodded at the video, "When am

I

going to try that?"

I was thrumming with anxiety. This was as new to me as it was to Carol, and I was operating off secondhand lore and not experience. The tokens, the video player, the very booths -- all stuff I'd only read about. But I had to seem sure, for Carol's sake. I had to seem comfortable, so she wouldn't pull out of our 'scene' and realize -- well, what a weird, weird place we were in.

Wordlessly, I pointed to the hole in the wall. It was about the size of a softball, and rimmed with duct tape. There was graffiti all around the hole: "Sssuck here," and "Cock-suckers only," and "Whore hole." It opened into the next booth over.

Carol bent at the waist and peered through. She turned back to me with a distant look in her eyes. Her voice was small as she said, "Empty." The other booth was still empty.

"That's okay. It won't be for long," I said, trying to make my voice normal. Beyond and above all my nervousness, I was starting to get turned on. Turned on in a serious way. Even the fact that Carol was in the booth felt dirty and exciting. Imagining what might happen next was almost too crazy: visions, smells and sounds flooded through my mind like a brick wall of fantasy, I couldn't get past it, I couldn't get any details.

I could sense that I was starting to lose my grip on what was sane and healthy. Maybe I already had. But the night had a

script

, dammit, and we were going to check-mark each adventure, or go home feeling like we wimped out.

I pulled a permanent marker from my shoulder bag, and uncapped it. Carol watched as I found a spot on the wall. I wrote: "Carol was here." And then I added the date.

We stood in silence as the marker ink dried. Its scent was peculiarly clean, in the stuffy, odd-smelling booth.

Then we heard the door open. Light flickered in the hole, and then it went dark again. Tokens chunked into the video player. I met Carol's eyes. Like me, she was listening intently.

I took her hand, and guided it to the hole. She didn't resist, or help, as I tapped her fingers on the rim.

Before long, a masculine hand appeared at the hole, and took her fingers. I let go of her hand, and she let the anonymous stranger on the other side play with her fingers. His fingers drifted over hers gently and slowly. The stranger would know she was a young woman, based on the smoothness of her hand. His hand was wrinkled and callused, above forty.

I stood beside Carol, watching as closely as she did. And then I tapped her knee. Her eyes flickered to me, and she nodded silently.

She stepped in front of the hole, and kicked off her clogs. She sank slowly to one knee, and then the other, so her face was level with the hole in the wall.

The man on the other side said, "Wow, you're pretty."

She brought her face close to the hole, and his hand left her hand, to run along her chin. His thumb stroked her lips.

"You want my cock?" he asked gently.

Carol nodded, her cheek cupped by his hand.

His hand disappeared through the hole again. I moved to Carol's other side and unfastened the brooch on her hip, like a magic-show assistant getting her ready. Her knees were on the grimy, dirt-streaked floor. I slid the dress off her shoulders and dropped it in my shoulder bag.

We both heard the zipper on the other side of the wall. When I turned back, she was waiting at the hole, her fingers on the edge and her hands hanging off.

The cock appeared through the hole.

It was thick, and dark. With strange curves, knobbed at the end with a big head. It was lush with hair.

Carol looked at me again, eyebrow raised. If she thought I would save her, or back out, she was wrong. She told me later that she was only looking at me to make sure I was okay. I'd never seen her work some stranger's cock before.

She

was prepared, she'd done it before. She only hesitated to see if I was sure. And then she took the cock in a gentle grip.

As she stroked it, in long, gentle pulls, she told me, "I had a lot of fun tonight. The dinner was wonderful."

"I'm glad," I said. I was breathing heavily.

"And the bar -- that was so fun. Thank you, Tyler." She was pumping the cock towards her face.

"You're welcome, sweetheart," I said.

"And now this. You're so nice to me, letting me..." she trailed off.

I swooped in and kissed her, the fool. Didn't she know this was for

me?

Her mouth was already wet, the way it got before she went down. Her lips were soft, warm, her tongue wet. I stood again with the imprint of her lips on my lips, her moisture in my mouth. I knew what she would be applying to that cock.

She opened her mouth and leaned forward on the penis. It seemed to strain at her as it felt her breath, and when she closed her mouth over it there was a long, low groan from the other side of the wall.

I watched, awed, as she went to work on the cock. Her face sank down the shaft, her lips distending over the thick tube. Her fingers, gripped in an O, pulled the skin greedily to her mouth. The hair tickled her fingers, then her nose, then her fingers again, as she yanked on the penis.

Of course I'd seen her suck cock before, but never from this angle. I was amazed at how much she took in, how smooth her movements were. She worked it like an artist, always keeping lateral pressure on the skin of the shaft, always working her tongue over and under the head. She left moisture on the skin, so that the air would hit it, and then sucked it back in with sunken cheeks.

She held the cock sideways, letting the stranger thrust against her cheek as she nibbled up the length. Then she drew back and nibbled up the base, to the scrotal sack. Her tongue came out, she lathered his sack, the hair getting pressed into swirls with her tongue. Then it was back in her mouth. She owned that cock.

Barely able to take my eyes off of her, I dug around in my shoulder bag with one hand. I pulled out my new Polaroid camera, and then agonized over trying to load the first cartridge of film into it.

She was going for speed, not endurance, I had to act quickly. If it had been

my

penis, I would have shot in the first ninety seconds. Age has its benefits, however, and the older man on the other was lasting longer.

I finally loaded the camera. It whined, and then blinked -- it was ready to shoot.

My first shot was from far away. It had all of Carol in it -- kneeling naked in a dingy little booth, her mouth by the hole, a tube of cock in her mouth. Her eyes blinked in the flash, but she didn't turn away. The picture ejected, and I dropped it on the ground to dry.

The next picture was up close, when Carol had pulled away. The cock was in her hand, her mouth was open over the head. Streamers of saliva connected her lips and tongue to the shaft. Her eyes were open -- staring at the prick in her face.

My own cock was struggling against my slacks. I wanted to touch myself, or even re-arrange myself. But I was so close to the edge, I knew I couldn't. In fact, I closed my eyes for a moment, and tried to think of something else, to pull back from the brink. I thought about pigeons. The sounds of her sucking made me stop again -- I didn't want to forever associate those wet, lurid sounds and my extreme turn-on, with pigeons.

I opened my eyes when the stranger groaned. The cock was pumping through the hole, almost slipping from her death-grip. She capped the head with her mouth, and let it ride in and out between her lips. She kept a steady suction on it, her cheeks indented, and then it cut loose. With a watery sound, she sucked the cum out of the stranger's cock. It shook in her hand, and she stooped her head to stay on it. The stranger's hips were dancing. A seam of white cum appeared between her lips, but she didn't let go until he started going flaccid.

My third picture was of the cock sliding out of her mouth, the cum between her lips glowing in the flash.

The stranger left without another word. I don't know why -- I would have said thank you at least.

Carol stayed on her knees as the stranger zipped up and left.

"Holy crap," I breathed, as she showed me the load in her mouth. "You must be the best cock-sucker in the world."

She swallowed, and then showed me her empty mouth, fresh and clean again.

I said, "It's a crime, everybody not getting sucked off by you. You're committing a crime, baby, if you don't blow every man in the fuckin' world."

"I know," she said. "Crime this, rule that. From now on, let's just see what I'll do without all that stuff. I'll probably do anything."

There were new noises in the next booth, and she put her fingers in the hole again.

This time, there was no talking. The cock just appeared, and Carol had it in her mouth as it slid through the hole.

She told me later, that she wanted the mysterious men on the other side to think the hole

was

her mouth. She wanted them to imagine her mouth was a hole, in a booth in a store on 42nd Street, that they could visit and ejaculate into. She didn't like talking to the men, because she thought it made her different from the hole. Still, people talked. All kinds of voices, implying all ethnicities and origins of men.

They wanted to know her age, her name. They asked if she was having fun. She answered everything honestly, she didn't keep any secrets from the strangers who ended up in her mouth. One man left knowing her name, her University, and that she lived in Queens. Another asked for her phone number -- I whispered that she should make one up.

She only prompted conversation when a cock appeared through the hole, and it had a condom on. She said she didn't like the taste, and would they take it off. The man on the other side had no problem with that.

* * * * *

Carol gives to NYC

It was one in the morning. We were in a cab, riding back to my apartment after an unknown duration in the glory hole booth. Time is meaningless in those little rooms -- unless you factor in all the video tokens. I just fed the machine until we were empty.

Suddenly, Carol turned to the driver, and gave new directions, for the Village around 6th Avenue. The neighborhood near the University.

When I looked askance at her, she was staring at my face. Her voice had a doomed sound to it. "There's only one way to end a night like this."

"What's that, kitten?" I asked.

"We need to give me to the world."

I peered at her, and she nodded to me. "What are you saying?"

She said, "I'm getting out of the cab. Will you take my dress and keep it for me?"

"I don't understand," I said. "Why should we get out?"

"Not

you.

Just me. Don't say anything." She kissed me quickly, and then grasped me in a desperate hug. "It's something I have to try. Trust me?"

"Of course I trust you," I said.

"This is the next step. Or, it should be. It's the next thing. One more way to escalate. I have to try it. I feel... sort of pointless. Like I don't matter. I want to see where it goes."

"Are you--" I grasped for words. This was coming out of left field for me, I had no clue what to do. Not for the first time, I felt like Carol and I were really zooming out of control. "Should I follow? Are--?"

She shook her head firmly. "Don't follow. You're not a part of this. Do you understand? This is just for me. It's

my

stupid thing. Remember, long ago, you said we could work on what

I

want? Well, I finally found something. It has to be solo."

"What do I do?" I squeaked.

She seemed surprised at the tone of my voice. "Be strong, that's all I ask. I need to know that you're being strong." She leaned in and whispered. "It will help, if I can believe you're back at your apartment, jacking off to me. To what I'm going to do. Don't be worried."

"You'll get arrested," I said.

"Yeah, I know. I'm going to be hand-cuffed and powerless. I'm giving myself to the city. You know how I've always talked about it. It

has

to happen. I'm just drunk enough, and I'm just sexed-up enough, that this is the perfect time."

The cab pulled up to a crowded corner. Carol was staring bleakly out the window. "I'm going to try to make it to the park. I'm going to dance in the middle, where the fountain is. Oh, crap. What's with me?"

In this part of the city, there were endless clubs, shops, and coffee houses. And there were endless crowds into early morning. If the Village had a nightlife center, it was here, between the East and West Village, straddled by the NYU campus, revolving around Washington Square Park.

She had already slipped out of her shoes. She slid out of my grasp and opened the door. Sounds of the city flooded the back seat -- traffic, snatches of conversation, footsteps on the sidewalk. My eyes were on

her

, the crowds moving on the sidewalk were undifferentiated clusters of movement and color.

She stood beside the cab, sheltered by the door. The cab driver, silent through the whole trip, had turned in his seat and was watching her. In her dress, she was captivating, even after the whole long night.

Her hand went to the brooch at her hip, and she unclipped it with one steady movement. She closed it quickly and tossed it into the cab. It thudded on the vinyl seat next to me. Then she opened her dress -- the cab driver going "Oh shit oh shit oh shit!" -- and slid it down her shoulders. Her breasts were high, and glowing in the spray of headlights from the traffic.

She tossed the dress into the cab. Without even looking at me again, she slammed the door shut, and started up the block.

She took medium-sized steps. It wasn't her long sexy walk from when she was happy or turned on. It wasn't the mincing step she had when she was doubtful. They were medium steps, and I couldn't read them, but her ass jogging as she moved. The curves of her breasts were visible from the back, more so when she raised her hands to her hair and let it out, shaking it free from its pile and throwing the pins to the side.

People on the sidewalk noticed her quickly, stepping aside to watch her pass. There were predators out there -- there always were. She picked up a cluster of teen boys. One man she passed reached out and stroked her thigh, moving as if he was in a dream.

She was swallowed by the crowds. She didn't look back once.

The cab driver and I craned our heads until she was gone from view, absorbed by the lights, noise and people of the Village. We could still see evidence of her passage, from the people across the street from her turning and pointing.

Eventually, she was completely gone, as if she had never existed. The cab driver wanted to follow her, but couldn't, as she'd gone the wrong way up a one-way street.

It was the single most unsexy thing I'd ever seen. Possibly because I was consumed with anxiety for her. In another time, I would look back, and think it sexy. For now, the fact of it was like a stream of ice-water down my back. She was gone. She had departed from me, and was doing something for

herself

. I felt like it was a big mistake. Girls can make

big

mistakes, I worried.

Eventually the cab driver and I jointly realized there was no reason for us to stay there. I told him where to go.

"She's not an ugly bitch," he said.

I sighed. "I know. You see her ass?"

"Yeah," he said. "If it was me, I wouldn't have let her go. Bang! All night long."

"Been there, done that," I forced a yawn. "Anyway, she wanted it. I want what she wants."

"Still," he said. "That was pretty fucked up."

In part to distract myself from what had just happened, I continued the conversation. "She's a pretty fucked up girl."

"Really?"

"Yeah. She fucks anything that moves. I'm okay with that, I guess. She wants to."

"Cabron," he said. "If a girl is a slut, the best thing is to get away. Fuck her silly and get away. Leave her with your friends."

"There's a thought," I said. "You know -- she'd probably give you a blow job."

"Girl like that is good for one thing," he said.

"If you give me your number, I could probably get her to suck you off."

"Really? You'd do that?" He was vastly amused by the idea.

"Sure. I like a challenge." I passed one of Carol's glory-hole pictures through the grille. "For you."

He savored the picture: he didn't know a

thing

about her. How she wrote poems and scented them with perfume, and left them in restaurants. How she'd go into a blue funk when she heard of a disaster hitting the third world. How she bought water for dogs chained outside stores in the summer heat.