In 100 Whores, Memories of a John, by 2010 Lambda Award-winning writer Mykola Dementiuk, we are treated to a voice of rarely heard transgressive fiction, the voice of a sexually confused young man who visits New York City street whores, hooks up with men and boys in Times Square movie theaters, yet all the while attempts to have normal relationships with men and with women.
The first 100 stories are short, just like the experiences that inspired them. Revealing the inside secrets of picking up a street hooker and what happens after you do, Dementiuk is sparse with words but prolific in his sexual contacts. Following “100 Whores” are five short stories, full of unexpected action, humor, and unforgettable characters. The novella “Christmas Whore” concludes this volume of reality-based fiction with a longer treatment of bisexual angst and “queer” behavior.
The unusual story lines provide psychologically intense views of a disturbed young man in a not-so-pretty world of poverty, menial work, and sex pick-ups of a strange nature. All the stories take place in New York settings, including Times Square, Midtown, East River Park, and the Lower East Side.
100 Whores, Memories of a John
Synergy Press (July, 2010)
ISBN: 0-9758581-8-1
Excerpts:
From #4 - Variety Photoplays:
Variety Photoplays stood on 3rd Avenue between 13th and 14th Streets as if boasting to all the shoddy and riff-raff abodes down below 6th Street on the Bowery. The old movie house was a denizen of vaudeville and burlesque followed by monster and cornball comedies that weren’t so funny any more, but it was my favorite place to go when I didn’t have much money to spend on girls. You could always see a picture from a few years before keeping you somewhat up to date. It wasn’t that expensive, either.
Up front you would be left alone, except for the guys going in and out of the bathrooms, which were in the front. The prospective urinators disturbed your picture watching, but in the back rows or upstairs your cock stood up at the ready, to be used and lavished by the queer guys hanging about, ready to take you any way you let them.
I had done it a number of times but always as a last horny resort, my longing being for women. But a mouth is a mouth, I figured, as long as it was smooth with fragrant aftershave; you just closed your eyes and let the feeling take over.
One early rainy afternoon, the other kids still in school, I went to the balcony where I saw a blonde hairdo shining from the seats. Instantly my penis was stiff and I was ecstatic. No one sat next to her, but hell, even with a boyfriend (if there was one going off to get her a Coke), the risk would have been worth it.
I nearly took a step back when I entered the seat next to her: an obvious guy made up as a girl, his stubbled face covered by makeup so thin that it seemed to force the shadow of his chin that much clearer and certain. I shrugged and settled in the seat next to her; there was no threat of a boyfriend returning, I was sure of that.
We looked at each other and she had a nice-looking blowjob mouth. My arm went round her shoulder, and somehow her shoulder strap came undone and fell down on my arm. That increased the stimulation I was getting from her and pretending what she was.
Suddenly, I heard loud female heels pounding behind me and a rough female-mimicking voice exclaiming, “Well, Miss Pretty, I was sitting there!”
I looked at what I saw standing there, a caricature of a female but obviously a man made-up, no matter how weakly, to look like a girl. Two girlfriends at a picture show, I thought. Where else but at the Variety?
I smirked and got up.
“Aw, don’t go,” said the queen, who was pushing her way to the seat I was leaving. “This was getting interesting.”
“Please, stay, baby,” gushed the first heavy-voiced mimic, joining her friend.
I blushed and made my way outside. Evening was slowly coming on and the whores were everywhere.
From #9 – Delinquent:
Man, she was young! Even younger then I was, and at seventeen I thought I was a full-grown man but she was what? maybe fourteen, fifteen, but certainly not a whoring woman.
Plus there was an aura of play about her, like she was dreaming of lollipops and dolls and little girl’s clothes, which I was sure she wasn’t going to find on 3rd Avenue and 13th Street.
I stood on the corner watching her pace about. Our eyes met a few times but I just stood there, let the whore come to me, I thought. Pretty soon that’s what she did.
She was heavily made up with lipstick and mascara that lined her mouth and eyes like some character from a comic book; she didn’t look real at all.
“You looking for a woman?” she said, not looking at me but at my mouth. I wanted to say, Yeah, you know of one? But I just grinned.
“Twenty dollars, mister.” she said, “Take it or leave it.”
As she talked I noticed her glance down the street several times; a teenage thug stood there, sucking on a cigarette.
Shit! I looked the other way. “Where at?” I asked, “The hotel? . . . ”
“Ah, no,” she hesitated, biting her lower lip. “Let’s go there,” nodding in the direction of her boyfriend thug, I assumed.
No way was I going to walk the street toward him! “Sorry, sister,” I said and walked away.
“Motherfucker!” I heard behind me and a torrent of Spanish curses. I did not turn around to see if her boy-friend thug came up the street. I quickly and quietly went home and jerked off.
From Christmas Whore:
“SO YOU’VE BROUGHT YOUR FAIRY LOVER home, you turd,” said Judy. I hadn’t even heard her come in: I was too busy ejaculating onto Sunny.
A smart smile played on her lips, but I saw nothing but hatred. It was difficult to get caught like that, and all I could do was step away from Sunny and pull my cock back in my zipper, feeling like an idiot.
“What fairy?” I said. “Sunny’s not a fairy . . . ”
Judy looked at the nervous Sunny and snorted. “Skinny, but I suppose you like them like that,” she said. “And wearing my clothes too,” she snorted again. “A little too big on her, at that.”
I’d had enough of this. “We just came for my radio, that’s all. If you don’t mind, we’ll get out of here.”
“Like hell, you will,” Judy said. “Not in my clothes, you don’t. Or maybe that’s what you really wanted anyway. . . . ” She smirked at Sunny. “You know he likes women’s clothes. He loves to shoot his scum all over them. He likes them better than the woman in them. Isn’t that right?”
I got very embarrassed. “You’re crazy.” I left her closet area and went to get my radio.
“Crazy?” she said, coming after me. “For six months all you did was rub against me. Now you got your transvestite girl friend in the other room, are you rubbing against her, too? Or do you go to Times Square for that?”
I said, “Fuck off!” and was about to leave the room when I saw Sunny standing in the doorway; I guess the fact that she was so skinny made Judy take her for a transvestite.
“You rubbed against your sister?” Sunny said, looking very ill at ease.
Judy broke out laughing. “Sister? Oh god, that takes the cake! A brother fake-fucking his fake sister!”
“You’re not brother/sister?” said Sunny.
“Why? Did he tell you we were?” asked Judy.
I was very red-faced as Sunny nodded her head.
“Is that what he tells his fairy friends?” asked Judy. “And you’re stupid enough to believe him.”
I could see Sunny bristling, her lips tightly clenched and her face growing pale from anger. “I told you,” she said, looking guilty. “I’m not a fairy, alright?”
The two of them exchanged glaring looks, like they were measuring each other up for final purchase or exchange or a good fight; I didn’t like their looks one bit.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I said, but they just kept looking at each other and strangely they both turned red and looked away. What the fuck is going on? I wondered. Certainly lesbians, if not worse — like man-killers, I bet.
100 Whores
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