The Bookstore Clerk Read online

  by Mykola Dementiuk

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2013 Mykola Dementiuk ISBN 9781611524437 Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License. All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * * by Mykola Dementiuk

  To Amos Lassen, a great scribe and my friend.

  Author’s Note Once upon a time, bookstores were everywhere. They were very numerous in New York City, some neighborhoods even boasting ten or twenty. In Greenwich Village, the East Village, the Upper West Side, and in between, they sometimes stood side by side, and people flocked in to read and buy books. Books were a way of life to many of us, but that’s all gone now. Some claim they’re “reading” when they read Kindles or Nooks. But is electronic reading the same as reading a real book, holding it, turning its pages, caressing the story word by word, really getting into the grit of the writer’s work? I think not; we’ve lost some of the wonder that comes from a story on a printed page, giving it up to electronics, the wave of the future, the wave of the NOW! Sadly, I am a Kindle reader, as well.

  This is a story of a bookstore clerk in the late 1960’s, a lover of books; nothing profound or romantic about it, just one guy getting by as best he could. You could say that books saved him.

  Chapter 1 It was the late 1960’s, and I was working at Doubleday Book Store as a stock boy on 5th Avenue and 53rd Street, traveling each day on the F train, which I caught a few blocks away from my rooming house on 3rd Street and 2nd Avenue. I’d catch the train on Houston Street, taking it up to 53rd Street, and Doubleday’s was right there, just one subway stop, really, and what could be better?

  The bookstore clerks would greet me, smiling and nodding, though others aloofly stared past me. Many of the female clerks would offer me a “Good morning, sweetie,” to which I’d mumble “Morning,” blushing and red-faced, and hurry down to the basement which was my work area: delivery, packing, stockroom.

  Which really wasn’t that bad. I had worked at other bookstores over time, Brentano’s, Scribner’s on 5th Avenue. But I’d been at Doubleday for over a year, and I could wear what I wanted, jeans and a T-shirt, unlike the upstairs staff who were required to dress in jackets and neckties while the female staff had to wear sedate and presentable skirts or dresses. After all, this was a bookstore, and a librarian’s attire was preferred. Yet sometimes a female clerk with an early date would dare to wear a low-cut or very tight blouse, which kept a few customers wideeyed and browsing longer than they might have. Mr. Jennings, the supervisor, would frown and have a word with the woman, but he never sent anyone home to change. And they always dressed modestly again the next day, which seemed to please Mr. Jennings. You could always tell when he was upset, because he narrowed his eyes.

  I’d walk down to the stockroom; there were six or seven packing clerks in the basement, all of them packing books, filing books on shelves or shipping them out to bibliophiles all over the country. When a delivery truck from a publisher dropped off a truckload of bestsellers, the stockroom boys would be busy for a few hours helping unload them to inventory or carrying them to the stacking area; tiring work but very gratifying, at least for me. At lunchtime some would scurry to delis for sandwiches or trek on up to Central Park and toke on joints before heading back to Doubleday. I went with them a few times and took a few hits of someone’s joint, but I always erupted in a fit of coughing and gagging; the marijuana cigarettes just didn’t agree with me.

  “You’re a fag pussy,” sneered Danny, another stockroom guy sucking the joint and holding it in.

  I shrugged but went to the park less and less with them, just watching as they returned all befuddled and giggling, very stoned.

  My weeks went by, but on Friday mornings the expectation of what I’d be doing there that night only increased as soon as the subway drew near the 42nd Street stop, dropping off its passengers. I knew I’d be back on 42nd Street that evening and hated how slowly the hours passed, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock…On and on, I’d be staring at the clock up on the wall, glaring at any clerk who had something to say, intruding on my expectant, horny thoughts of Times Square, of what I’d be doing there that night or who I’d be doing it with. I normally didn’t care about the other clerks, Danny being an obnoxious pest, laughing and sneering at everyone. I’d just let it go, let them sneer and laugh however they wanted, but on Fridays I would be sexually hard up; what else was there in life? Looking at their stupid expressions made me very tense; a few times I almost blew up at how they acted around me. But I didn’t, thankfully. I just gritted my teeth and kept on working, packing up book after book. Pretty soon I knew I’d be where I wanted to be, in Times Square, just looking for a hand or mouth ready to take me in.

  Ever since I discovered the ready sexuality of Times Square, I’d been drawn to the movie theaters, the sexual lust, the heady satisfaction—and the quick flight afterwards. That’s why I was drawn to those sleazy movie houses. Nothing was permanent. A few strokes, a quick insertion in a mouth, a fluttered sucking and swallowing, followed by a hurried spitting out and gagging. Usually I’d be gone by then; no way did I want to listen to someone gagging, especially when it was my scum that was being spat out. Ugh! I’d quickly scurry away as he gagged his guts out in the flickering darkness as still another masturbating stranger hovered in the nearby darkness.

  One day, just after I’d bought my movie ticket and was making my way to the lobby and to the concession stand so I could get an orange drink or cola with some candy, in the mirror behind the brightly-lit soda machines I saw, much to my surprise, Mr. Jennings, my Doubleday bookstore supervisor, entering the Pix movie house. I turned so he wouldn’t see my face. The Pix was once an elegant theater, with wide balconies and lush décor, but now it was slowly fading away, with peeling paint and scum-smeared bathrooms. I grinned to myself; seeing Mr. Jennings certainly was a surprise. He was always stern at work and I never thought he’d be at a Times Square porno house, but that’s exactly where he was, horny old Mr. Jennings. I grinned and watched him walk quickly to a stairway and disappear up into the balcony. I waited a few moments, eating some of my candy, but then I went up to the upper level. I knew that I wouldn’t see him in the darkness, but I also knew that he would recognize me if he was looking my way. I headed toward an available seat, making a scene when I spilled some soda.

  “Oh, shoot,” I said loudly, and some candy fell out of the box. If he hasn’t seen me by now, I thought, maybe he doesn’t want to recognize me. I shrugged and ate the candy, watching the dumb sex movie, same as was playing a week ago, with nylon-clad women who always brought in an audience—more or less the same audience every time.

  It didn
’t take long, a tit going into a mouth, a hand on an ass, when I heard someone entering my row of seats. I looked up; it was Mr. Jennings with a bemused, surprised smile on his lips. In the quivering darkness he fell into a seat beside me and whispered, “What are you doing here?” as he batted his eyelashes at me.

  I shrugged and quietly answered. “I don’t know; eating candy and watching the film, I suppose. What are you doing here?”

  Again he lecherously winked at me, gripping my knee. “Same as you, honey. Film any good?” he asked. “Or is it just filthy naughtiness?”

  Surprisingly, with his arm on my kneecap I felt myself getting even harder than I was before, my penis throbbing at his touch. I moved to relieve my cock, protruding in my pants.

  “You want some?” I asked, holding up the candy box. He looked at me.

  “Yes, I would,” he answered, pretending to reach for the candy, then reaching for my erection. I melted as I felt him struggling with the zipper. I quickly set the candy box down and easily pulled my zipper open. He instantly reached in and gripped my stiff erection, holding it out and pulling the skin up and down. I didn’t know how incredibly horny I was but in just a few strokes I erupted, doubling over, my semen shooting out onto his wrist and hand, still gripping my stiff, dribbling penis. I didn’t think that it could be happening this way; barely fifteen minutes ago I’d ejaculated onto another man about to suck me off, yet here I was spilling myself once again on another, Mr. Jennings. It proved that I must be sexually sick or I must really like him. I turned very red; good thing it was dark or Mr. Jennings would have seen how ashamed I was.

  “So sorry,” I muttered, putting myself back into my pants.

  He brought out some tissues from his jacket pocket and gave me one, wiping his fingers on another. I was about to toss the scummy tissue to the floor when he took it from me, wiped his lips on it, then flicked it aside.

  “Ooh, that’s gross,” I muttered, squirming from him.

  “Oh, bosh,” he said. “What’s so gross about it? I’d lick and suck you any time, kiddo.”

  I looked at him, narrowing my eyes.

  “You would? But you’re always so cold at work, so unfriendly, you know?”

  “Hmm. You mean, stiff?”

  I smirked.

  “Bet you’re stiff right now, are you?”

  He cleared his throat and look around, gripping my knee once again.

  “Let’s get out of here, let’s get something to eat and drink, all right?”

  “But you just came in.”

  He shrugged.

  “Saw the film yesterday, and the day before. Gets boring after a while.”

  I was surprised.

  “You were here? I was here last week,” I laughed. “Same film was playing then, too.”

  “It’s a good place to meet young men, old men,” he shrugged and winked. “Isn’t that why you’re here, to meet someone?”

  Once more I reddened but nodded. He squeezed my knee and we both got up, leaving the Pix.

  Chapter 2 On busy, people-filled 42nd Street I immediately saw that he was dressed differently than he’d ever been at work—he’d obviously been home to change. Gone was the business suit. He was wearing a light tan summer jacket with bright orange pants and white loafers, a loose light greenish shirt billowing under the jacket. He looked right for happy Miami Beach, not the angry, explosive streets of New York City.

  “Mr. Jennings, you’ve changed,” I said, smiling and looking him up and down.

  “What, this?” he shrugged, glancing down at his clothes. “Can’t expect me to be in business attire day and night, would you? Where’s the fun in that?” And he winked at me.

  Under his gaze I felt serene. I sighed as our shoulders touched occasionally, as we made our way down busy peopleand traffic-filled Broadway.

  “Oh, let’s go there,” he gestured with his chin, while holding me by the elbow. “I just love the new Nathan’s that opened up, don’t you?”

  Nathan’s Coney Island eatery had a new fast food restaurant on 43rd Street and Broadway that served frankfurters, french fries, corn on the cob, clams and other ocean-side delicacies popular at Coney Island. My mouth watered as we went through the doors of brightly-lit restaurant.

  “Have you ever been here?” he asked, standing near the clam bar. “You can get anything you like,” and again he winked at me. “My treat.”

  “Oh, Mr. Jennings, that’s very nice of you.” I felt warm and easy with him; if the restaurant wasn’t so filled with people I felt sure he would’ve kissed me.

  “Call me Timmy,” he said. “We’re not at work any more, so there’s no need for formal names, is there?”

  I smiled.

  “Yes, Timmy. I’m Billy.”

  “Yes, I know, Billy the Filly,” he smirked at me.

  I narrowed my eyes.

  “Why do you call me that?”

  This time he turned red and lowered his voice.

  “The way you walk, your ass held up high; you look like a horse in heat. The female clerks all call you Billy the Filly, a young buck in heat. That’s how I think of you, too. A nice name, ‘Billy the Filly,’ don’t you think?”

  I hadn’t liked hearing the name at first, but after Mr. Jennings told me what he meant, I started to like it.

  “So you have special names for us, do you?” I chuckled. “We have some for you, too.” I blushed and turned away.

  He looked at me.

  “I would love to hear what you call me. Something naughty, I hope?”

  I laughed, shaking my head.

  “Never mind, you wouldn’t want to hear what they say.”

  “Oh, really? But what do you call me?”

  I lowered my voice.

  “It’s them, not me. They call you names.” I was very red and lowered my voice, shrugging. “Fag, sissy, queer, cocksucker, you know. Asshole words that they don’t even know what they’re saying.”

  He looked at me and sighed, shrugging.

  “But you know what those words are, don’t you, like fag or cocksucker?”

  I turned red.

  “Mr. Jennings, I mean, Timmy, don’t say that, those are crude words.”

  He proudly looked at me.

  “I’m glad you’re not like them, Billy.” He grinned warmly and whispered. “After what we just did in the movie house, I’m glad to know you’re special.” He beamed at me, “You’re my special buck. Ride ’em, cowboy!”

  We laughed as we stood in line for hot dogs and french fries, simple but hardy, plus two plastic glasses of Budweiser beer.

  Most of the tables were loaded with customers, but we did find some vacant ones near the back by the pizza ovens, and we sat. The first sip of beer was surprisingly refreshing. I quickly grew to like it, the taste bitter but refreshing as we ate our franks and fries.

  We talked about work, the benefits and negatives of being employed by Doubleday’s.

  “But I’m always in the back in the basement,” I said, “I really don’t get to see what goes on upstairs.”

  He looked at me, chewing.

  “How long have you been there? A year, I take it?”

  “A little over; a year and two months,” I answered, biting into my hot dog.

  He looked at me.

  “Ever think you might be ready for a change?”

  I studied him; the beer was making me mellow. I stretched a leg, accidentally—or not so accidentally—touching his under the table. I pulled back, sitting up, but with the same leg he gently touched and rocked against mine; I tapped my leg against his.

  “A change in doing what?” I asked, our two legs rubbing.

  “Well, after a year in the stockroom it’s time to move up to the selling floor, don’t you agree?” He swallowed his beer and set the empty glass down. I did the same. “Would you like another glass of beer?” he asked. “Or we can go to my place. I have beer. We can relax and chat.” He winked and tapped my leg again, still holding his leg against mine. “H
ow about it, you curious about what you might learn?”

  I blushed but nodded and said, “Uh huh, curious. Very much so, Timmy.”

  “That’s my boy, Billy,”

  We got up and went outside, where we caught a cab and rode up to his apartment on 85th Street and Amsterdam Avenue.

  Chapter 3 Timmy had a fairly big apartment off Amsterdam Avenue but, in the evenings, he said, you had to be careful being out. “Muggers everywhere, which is why I always take cabs at night.”

  I shrugged. It was dangerous in my Lower East Side neighborhood as well, but actually you could get mugged anywhere in New York City, up- or downtown; made no difference, really.

  But I immediately loved his apartment. The table lamps and knickknacks added a warm, welcoming feel to the rooms. I instantly felt comfortably at home with him. I had never been in anybody’s house before, getting my sexual gratification in movie theaters and restrooms. But being in his home was a big step forward, and with Timmy I felt relaxed, at peace with myself, and especially with him.

  “Take your shoes off, kiddo,” he said, kicking his loafers off. “You want a beer or a glass of wine? I have hearty Burgundy.”

  I hesitated, then decided. “Burgundy; sounds mellow enough.”

  “Burgundy it is,” he said, and winked at me. I winked back.

  I took my shoes off and lazed on the couch, looking about the living room. The couch faced two windows above the street and at times you could hear cars passing by. Timmy returned, holding two glasses; he handed one to me. I took a sip, the wine biting at the back of my throat. But a tenderness came over me. Timmy sat on the couch and took a sip of wine. I took another sip.

  “So how about it, you ready to try it?” We had been discussing his proposal in the cab, of my leaving the stockroom and taking my place on the selling floor. “Where you deserve to be,” he added, taking a deeper swallow of his wine, and winking at me as if he meant something completely different. I looked at him, taking in the wine; I was feeling giddy, what with the beer I’d had earlier.

  “I don’t know; I really don’t have clothes for the position, just jeans and shirts, nothing formal like I would need, suits and ties, you know.”