Summer Fantasy

Wake up hard as hell, my dick tenting the bed sheet like it's trying to pitch a friggin' camp. I peel off the sheet, strip of the PJs, and stare at the ceiling. It's not even 10, and my room's already an effin' oven, the damp August heat pressing down on me like a horny priest. An old table fan just pushes the hot air around and fills the room with a static hum.

Everyone's gone off to their 9-to-5, got the place to myself. I yank my sorry ass outta bed, stretch, stagger down the hall, pee, stagger back. The sign on my bedroom door slaps me upside my effin' head. Gabriel! I stand there a beat, scratchin' my balls, then go in and flop back down, grab hold of my hardon, start a slow jerk.

Gabriel, that's me. To some, Gabby. Gabs to the few friends who think they know me. Nobody really does. Named after my great grandfather. Named after that effin' angel. I'm anything but. I guess there are a few babes and a few guys that would say I'm an angel, if ya catch my drift.

Twelve years of catholic school and then two years away at college. Design and art. What the fuck was I thinking? Now I'm back in my childhood bedroom in Dorchester, the crucifix above my bed watching me beat off every morning. The irony isn't lost on me. I lay here, guilty as sin, Jesus lookin' down on me.

The thing about growing up Catholic is that guilt. That guilt follows you everywhere, even into your own head. Especially there. Sister Mary Francis would say I'm going to hell just for the thoughts I had last night--about the guy at the corner store with the tight jeans, and then later, about the girl on the T with the see-through blouse. But hell seems worth it when I'm in the moment, when I'm watching someone's lips wrapped around my cock or when I'm buried deep in someone else's heat or when I'm workin' my meat like I am now.

And the funny thing about guilt is, it's kinda' like the weed I'm about to smoke. In time, exposed to enough of it, you work up a tolerance. Damn, I've felt guilty so many times I've built up an immunity. Most things, minute, ten max, forget about it. Pleasure trumps anguish every time.

Maybe I was just letting off steam after 12 years of Catholic school. Thing is, left to my own devices, I just can't resist my vices. I was partying more and studying less. This golden boy crashed and burned. Lost my scholarship. It was time to call it quits. That's one guilt I can't shake off. See, I'm not a total asshole!

Shit, I've been this way since foreva', or at least as long as I can remember, getting turned on by pictures of tits in National Geographic or adds for underwear or bikinis in the Sunday paper. Later, finding out about Playboy and Penthouse. Shit, I couldn't help how good it made my cock feel.

Then, when I was around ten, me and some friends found a stack of porn mags in a dumpster at the freight yard, shit got fuckin' nasty. We sat down at the tracks, smokin' our Winstons, passin' those porn rags around, our rascally, prepubescent minds blown by the explicit images. That's when I realized I got hard looking at both the men and women. The other guys never knew. Nobody did. Not until college, when I finally acted on it. What can I say. Babe, I was born this way.

I thought about some of my favorite images in those old porno mags. Images of hard cocks, spread pussies, threesomes, blow jobs, cum splattered bodies, wet, open mouth, tongue kisses, chicks gettin' fucked every way imaginable all shuffled through my head. Fuckin' A, man, those were some good times. We were such fuckin' hooligans.

Enough with the brain yoga, it's wake-n-bake time! Haulin' my ass outta bed, I rise and stretch, muscles popping. I grope for my toiletry bag in the top drawer of my desk, then with my dick gripped tight, I drag myself down the hall to the shitter. The cool touch of linoleum against my bare feet is a brief respite from this hellish heat.

Flick of the switch, the bathroom fan groans to life. I splash some water on my face and size myself up in the mirror--eyes looking like stoplights from too much weed and not enough sleep. Nineteen years old, blonde hair sticking to my forehead, pinkish tan lines from yesterday's trip to the Charles marking my skin.

Unzipping the bag, I fish out my pathetic stash, the discards that I've bummed off friends or roaches I've snatched. Packing a small pipe with just enough green for a couple of hits, I spark it up. Strokin' my hard-on, I hold in a lungful of smoke until my head spins before exhaling into the fan's draft. Rinse and repeat, then douse myself with dad's Old Spice to mask the dank smell. Leaving behind only the hum of the fan as evidence, I tuck away my gear and shuffle off towards breakfast.

In the kitchen, I haul the gallon of milk outta the fridge, take a few gulps to cool down. I make myself a quick breakfast of eggs, Pop-tarts, and iced instant coffee. Sitting at the table, I stare out the window and watch the cars and the people pass by, fantasizing about the day ahead. Unemployment gives you time. Too much of it. After college, I spent a few weeks looking for work before giving up. Now I spend my days wandering the city, secretly hunting for thrills while telling my parents I'm job hunting. They're disappointed but patient. Good Catholics.

After cleaning up, it's back to the bathroom to brush and wash my face. For a moment, I think about just staying home, getting high, and jerking off. But today feels like it could be something. The heat, the restlessness in my bones, the way my skin seems too tight for my body--it all points to one of those days where somethin's gotta give.

In my room, I rifle through my drawers for something to wear. It's too damn hot for much. I pull on a pair of cutoff jean shorts, frayed at the edges, so short they're damn near crawling up my motherfuckin' ass. Up top, a beat to shit BC tee, the neck stretched out and hanging loose. No underwear. Goin' commando! I like the feeling of the rough denim against my junk, the possibility of someone catching a glimpse.

I eyeball myself in the mirror on my closet door. The shorts make my package look bigger, my tanned legs look longer. The tee's loose enough to flex the tan I've been frying myself for. I look hot as shit. Fuckable? Hell yeah. I snatch my wallet and keys, cram them into my pocket with a couple crumpled bills I've been hoarding. Ain't much, but it'll get me through the sloppy-ass day I've got lined up.

Out the door, the wet heat hits me like a slap. August in Boston is brutal--humid, sticky, the air thick enough to chew. But I love it. The heat makes me a little looser, a little more desperate. Skimpy clothes stick to skin, revealing shapes usually hidden. Inhibitions melt away in the summer swelter. I love it!

I walk the few blocks to Ashmont station, sweat beading on me, my mind already racing with possibilities. The city is my playground, and I know all the best spots. Like Filene's Basement, where the air conditioning makes nipples hard under thin fabrics, and where sometimes I catch a MILF or some dude watchin' me as I walk along the racks. Boston Common, where college boys play frisbee shirtless and secretaries eat lunch with their skirts hiked up for relief from the heat. And of course, the Combat Zone--those few blocks downtown where the rules don't apply, where sex is currency and desires aren't questioned.

The train pulls up, and I get on, feeling the artificial cool of the air conditioning wash over me. I take a seat, spreading my legs just enough to be comfortable, just enough to draw eyes. The car is mostly empty--a mix of housewives headed downtown to shop, and kids like me with nowhere better to be.

My mind drifts to my final destinations: Filene's first, then the CZ and The Scene, a God forsaken sleazy dump with the cheapest private viewing booths. A quarter gets you five minutes. Last time I was there, I watched a flick where a woman serviced ten men in succession, their faces contorted in pleasure as they took turns with her. Damn, if I didn't cum twice for just fifty cents! Gobbled up all that nasty fuckin' cum!

I'm getting a goddamn boner just thinkin' about it, squirming in my seat, enjoying the pressure of the denim against my stiffening cock. There's a fucked-up rush I get being horny as hell out in the open, teetering on the edge of polite society and straight-up filth.

Damn train lurches forward, the familiar rattle vibrating up through the vinyl seat and into my tailbone. I settle into a corner seat, the plastic sticky against my bare thighs. The car isn't packed--Tuesday mid-morning means no rush hour crowd--but there's enough people to make what I'm thinking dangerous. That's when I see them, sitting right across from me: two hot honeys, dressed like they just crawled out of a music video. My mouth goes dry, and I feel that familiar tightening in my groin, like a fist slowly closing around my insides.

The train rocks side to side as it picks up speed, the wheels screeching against the rails. The sound should be annoying, but today it feels like the soundtrack to my racing pulse. I shift in my seat, angling my body for a better view of them.

One's a redhead, her hair a copper waterfall down her back, catching the fluorescent lights every time the train jerks. The other's blonde, but not like me--platinum, almost white, cut in one of those new wave styles, shaved on one side, long on the other. They're dressed like Madonna wannabes--the redhead in a black lace top that's practically see-through, her black bra visible underneath, a short denim skirt riding high on tanned thighs. The blonde's in some kind of oversized mesh shirt, slipping off one shoulder to reveal a hot pink bra strap, tight white shorts hugging her ass like they were spray-painted on.

I'm not the only one who's noticed them. An older businessman in a wilting suit keeps glancing over his newspaper. A teen boy with a Walkman has turned down his music, his eyes fixed on them from behind dark sunglasses. But the girls either don't notice or don't care. They exist in their own bubble, a world where they're the sun and we're all just planets in their orbit.

The redhead leans over to whisper something to her friend, her top gaping open. I catch a glimpse of cleavage, the shadow between her breasts dark and inviting. The blonde throws her head back and laughs, the sound cutting through the rattle of the train, her throat a long, elegant line. As she laughs, she places her hand on the redhead's thigh, just below the hem of her skirt, her red-painted nails stark against the tanned skin.

It's innocent, maybe. Just friends being physical. But my mind doesn't do innocent. My mind takes that touch and runs with it, imagining those red nails sliding higher, disappearing under denim, the redhead's breath catching, her legs parting just slightly...

Fuck, this boner's tryin' to escape. Too soon, I choke it back and look away, like a goddamn saint. But then the blonde shifts in her seat, crossing one leg over the other, and I'm drawn back like a magnet. Those shorts? Riding up her ass crack, revealing the curve where thigh meets ass. I'm picturing my face in there, running my tongue along that line, tasting salt and perfume.

The train takes a sharp curve, and everyone sways. The redhead falls against her friend, their shoulders touching, their faces close enough that I can see the blonde's tongue dart out to wet her lips. Are they together? Lovers? Or just friends who know how to put on a show?

It doesn't fuckin' matter. In my head, they're whatever I want them to be. And right now, I want them to be curious, adventurous, willing to take a random guy--me--into a bathroom stall or a darkened alley and let me worship them. Nah, scratch that. Let's just rip it up right here, right now, in the fuckin' open, for everyone to see.

My dick is rock hard now, straining against my cutoffs. I'm glad I chose the corner seat, where the angle hides my lap from most of the car. I press my thighs together, trying to create some friction, some relief. But it's not enough. I need more.

The redhead stands up as the train slows for a station, reaching for the overhead bar. Her skirt rises dangerously as she stretches, revealing the bottom curve of her ass cheeks, a hint of white panties. The blonde looks up at her, saying something I can't hear, and then--holy shit--she reaches up and tugs the skirt down, her hand lingering on her friend's hip. Their eyes meet, a silent communication passing between them, charged with something that makes my breath catch.

The doors open, a few people get off, a few get on. The girls stay. So do I, even though this technically woulda' been my stop if I'm going job hunting like I told Ma. But today isn't about jobs. Today is about following the heat, the want, that feeling in my gut, wherever it leads.

As the train starts moving again, the redhead stays standing, swaying with the motion, one hand on the pole, the other playing with a strand of her hair. The blonde sits below her, her face level with her friend's hips. They're like something out of a Playboy centerfold, posed just right to make men ache.

And I do ache. My balls feel heavy, tight against my body. My cock is throbbing in time with my heartbeat. I can feel the dampness where pre-cum has leaked through my shorts, creating a small dark spot. The danger of being caught only makes me harder.

I let my hand fall casually to my lap, fingers brushing over the bulge in my shorts. The touch sends electric currents up my spine. I do it again, slower this time, pressing down slightly, feeling the shape of myself through the worn denim.

The redhead looks around the car, her gaze sweeping past me without stopping. But the blonde's different. She catches my eye for just a second, her mouth curving in a slight smile before she looks away. Did she see? Does she know what I'm doing? The thought makes my dick jump.

I slide my hand further into my lap, cupping myself fully now. If anyone's looking directly at me, they'll know what I'm doing. But the car's attention is on the girls, not on the scuzzy guy in the corner with his hand in his lap.

The train lurches again, and the redhead almost loses her balance. She laughs, steadying herself against the pole, her body arching in a way that makes her breasts push against the lace of her top. The blonde reaches up to steady her, her hand on the back of her friend's thigh, higher than it needs to be.

In my mind, they're putting on this show for me. In my mind, they know exactly what they're doing to me, to every man in this car. In my mind, later, they'll find me, pull me into an empty car, and let me taste every inch of them.

I'm rubbing myself openly now, my hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes over my shorts. The risk is intoxicating. Anyone could look over. Anyone could call me out, have me arrested. But I can't stop. Not with the redhead now bending down to say something to her friend, her top hanging open, giving me a clear view of her bra, the swell of her breasts pushing against black lace.

The blonde responds by running her hand up her own thigh, adjusting her shorts which have ridden up again. Her fingers linger at the edge of the fabric, and for a wild moment, I think she's going to push them underneath, to touch herself right here on the train. She doesn't, but the possibility is enough to make me throb.

I unbutton my cutoffs, careful to keep the movement small, hidden. The relief is immediate as my cock pushes against my zipper, begging for freedom. I can't take it out--that would be too much, too obvious--but I can slip my hand inside, feel myself skin to skin.

The zipper comes down tooth by tooth, the sound lost in the noise of the train. I slip my hand inside, wrapping my fingers around my shaft. I'm burning hot, already slick at the tip. I start to stroke slowly, my thumb gathering the wetness and spreading it down.

The redhead finally sits back down, next to the blonde, their thighs pressed together. They're looking at a magazine now, something with Madonna on the cover, their heads bent close, shoulders touching. The redhead points at something on the page, and they both laugh. The blonde's hand comes to rest on the redhead's knee, casual, possessive.

I'm slowly jerking off now, my hand moving steadily in my open shorts. I keep my movements minimal, my expression neutral, like I'm just some guy riding the train, thinking about nothing special. But inside, I'm a storm of need, each stroke bringing me closer to the edge.

The train announces the next stop--Andrew. Three more until Park. I don't have much time. The girls will probably get off there too, I'm guessin', heading to the common or into the heart of downtown. I need to finish before then, need to see this through.

The redhead shifts in her seat, her skirt rising up again. She doesn't fix it this time, letting it stay hiked up her thighs. The blonde notices, her eyes dropping to her friend's legs, her tongue darting out again to wet her lips. Their faces are so close they could kiss. In my head, they do, their mouths meeting in a slow, deep kiss while their hands explore each other's bodies.

This is driving me fucking wild, I'm close to spillin' it. My dick's fully hard, throbbing in my hand, the head of my cock pushing out of my fist with each stroke. I can feel the pressure building at the base of my spine, my balls drawing up tight. I ease off, not wanting to finish yet, wanting to draw this out until the last possible moment.

The train pulls into Broadway. A bunch of townies get on, rowdy and loud, and run down to the other end. In the racket, the blonde looks around again, and this time, her eyes find mine and stay. She sees my arm moving slightly, sees the flush on my face, the parted lips. She knows. Yeah, man, she friggin' knows.

And she smiles--a slow, deliberate curving of her lips that says she approves, that she's enjoying the show as much as I'm enjoying hers. For a heart-stopping moment, we're connected, conspirators in this public act of rebellion.

Then she turns back to her friend, whispering something in her ear. The redhead glances over her shoulder at me, her eyes widening slightly before a smile spreads across her face too. She giggles, turning back to the blonde, their heads close together as they whisper, occasionally glancing my way.

They know. They both fuckin' know. And they're watching me, egging me on. The realization is too much. I feel the orgasm building, no stoppin' it now. I'm trying to keep it in check, stop it, but it's like trying to hold back a tsunami with my dick.

The train pulls into South Station, the suit gets off. Aside from the townies at the other end of the car, we are alone.

Alone, it seems the girls feel free to start showing their real slutty sides. The redhead tosses a leg over the blonde's, so she's spread open. Just those tiny-ass panties barely hiding her mound. Damn, that cameltoe's begging to be fucked, and I see a wet streak running right down the middle.

With a sly, filthy grin, I whispered "More."

They smiled, then locked eyes, and bam--the blonde grabbed the redhead, pulling her in. They went at it, mouths wide open, tongues tangling, like, full-on. Holy shit, that made me blow my load. I came, hard, my whole body clenching as I gripped myself. It was so intense, almost painful, and I bit my lip to keep quiet. My eyes were glued to them, and they were watching me, these matching looks of amusement and pure, hot arousal on their faces.

Cum spills over my fingers, soaking through my cutoffs, pooling on the vinyl seat beneath me. More than I expected, too much to contain. A muffled groan escapes me, disguised as a yawn. Fuck, man, it was awesome! The filth, the cum, out in the open on the train in front of these hotties. Wicked awesome!

The aftershocks ripple through me as the train pulls into Washington. One more stop until Park. I button my shorts with shaking hands, aware of the dark, wet stain spreading across the front. There's no hiding it now. Anyone who looks will know exactly what I've done.

The girls stand as the train slows, snatchin' up their shit. The redhead whispers something to the blonde, who laughs, her eyes flicking to me one last time. She reaches into her purse and tosses me a tampon. "Maybe this'll help," she giggles. Then they're moving toward the doors, hips swaying in perfect rhythm, leaving behind a cloud of cheap perfume and missed chance. They look back and laugh.

Train pulls out. There's just seconds till the next stop. I stay seated, my heart still racing, cum cooling on my skin and soaking into my clothes. The vinyl seat beneath me is smeared with it, a clear, sticky puddle marking my place. Evidence of my vice. I use the tampon to blot it up, but there's too much.

The train pulls into Park Street as I try to figure out how I'm going to walk through the crowded station with a cum stain the size of a baseball on my shorts. But as the doors open and the girls step out, I find myself standing, following them, drawn by some force I can't resist.

I pull my t-shirt down as far as it will go, trying to cover the evidence, and step onto the platform. The cool air of the station hits me, but does nothing to calm the heat still coursing through my veins, the memory of the blonde's knowing smile burned into my mind.

I clutch at my cutoffs as I stumble out of the train, my palm pressed against the wet stain like I'm stemming blood from a wound. Park Street Station's a maze of bodies, all pushing and shoving, and I keep my head down, paranoid that everyone can see what I just did. The evidence is right there, a dark bloom of shame against faded denim, still warm and sticky beneath my fingers. I need somewhere to hide, to clean up, to become invisible again--but the moment I step out of the station, Boston slaps me with a wall of heat so thick it feels like walking into soup.

The August sun beats down on the concrete, creating shimmering mirages above the pavement. Sweat immediately beads on my forehead, trickling down my temples and neck. The moisture on my shorts is already drying in crusty patches, gluing my sack to my jeans, that pull when I move. Each step is a reminder of what I just did, a sticky memory of pleasure now tainted.

I snake through the crowd on Tremont, keeping one hand casually positioned over the stain. Office workers on lunch breaks, tourists with maps and cameras, students with backpacks--everyone's moving with purpose, too focused on their own discomfort in the heat to notice mine. Still, I feel exposed, branded, as if those two girls from the train phoned ahead and told everyone to watch out for the pervert with cum-stained shorts.

I hang a right onto Winter Street, heading toward Downtown Crossing. The buildings provide strips of shade that offer brief respite from the sun. A woman in a business suit passes me, her blouse dark with sweat between her shoulder blades, her face set in a grimace of determination. A group of teenagers loiters outside a store, passing around a can of soda, their legs bare and brown in the summer heat. I catch a guy checking me out--mid-twenties, tight polo shirt, designer sunglasses pushed up into his carefully styled hair. He holds my gaze for a beat too long, a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Any other day, I might stop, might start a conversation that would lead somewhere dark and satisfying. But not with these shorts, not now.

I reach Filene's and push through the revolving door, stepping into blessed air conditioning. The cold hits my sweat-slick skin like a slap, raising goosebumps on my arms and making my nipples harden beneath my thin t-shirt. I take a deep breath of processed, chilled air and feel my pulse begin to slow.

Filene's Basement is my destination--down the escalator, away from the bright lights and perfume counters of the main floor. The basement is where they keep the discount merchandise, the overflow, the items that didn't sell upstairs or from other stores, just laid out for bargain hunters. It's also darker, cooler, more crowded. A place where I can blend in, where I can let the stain on my shorts dry completely before venturing back into the heat.

But first, I have to work my way past all these perfume counters to the mens room at the back of the store. I pause and take a few deep breaths. Makeup slathered MILFs everywhere, giving me the once-over, smirking at the fucked-up kid with glued-together shorts and a guilty look. One of them, spilling over in a low-cut blouse, smellin' like roses and fancy soap, dolled up like a porn star, gives me a smile that sends a jolt straight to my spent dick. "Can I help you?" she purrs, her voice dripping with suggestion.

Fuck, she's hot! She's got that statuesque look, a mane of feathered hair and legs that go all the way up. She waits for an answer, eyebrows arched, her head cocked to the side like she knows she's derailed my plans. I try to focus, but all I can see are those legs, how they'd wrap around me, how that mouth would feel. I stammer something about needing the restroom, and she points, fingernails long and red.

But I'm not moving. Not yet. My feet are glued to the spot because this chick is just standing there, watching me with a smirk that says she knows exactly what she's doing. The way she looks, the way she smells, it all makes me forget why I'm even here, makes me forget my own damn name. I hesitate, torn between the pulsing need she's stirred and my shorts glued to my sack with crusty cum.

She's about to say something more, but I snap out of it, smile, and blurt out a thanks. I make it past the counters and into a quieter section of the store. The smell of perfume gradually fades. I find the restroom door, a blessed sight, the little man symbol promising relief. It's empty--thank friggin' God! I grab a bunch of paper towels from the dispenser, soak some with water, and lock myself in a stall.

Haulin' off my rank tee, I sling it over the wall, then peel down my sticky cutoffs, gritting my teeth as my sack unsticks with a painful yank. The stain's spread like a Rorschach test, a godless mess of shame and horniness. I clean up as best I can, wiping down with the wet towels, trying to look less like a poster child for a misquided puberty. Finally, the piss I've been holding comes out in a long, agonizing stream. I moan with relief.

I drop down the toilet seat and sit, my naked ass feeling the cool porcelain. Leaning back, I spread my legs and enjoy the feeling of my exposed, naked skin. Suddenly, the rest of the world doesn't exist--no moms, no cockblocking grandmas, no teasing bitches. Just me, cooling off in the Filene's john. My dick, hard again, stands straight and proud. I stroke it, slowly at first, enjoying the cool air on my naked skin.

Lubin' up with spit, I start to work myself harder. My mind races with images: the blonde with the knowing smile, that leggy chick with the perfume, the redhead tossing me a tampon. It's an X-rated highlight reel, looping back to my first porn crush, Tracy Adams. I imagine her as she arches her back, huge tits in the air, moaning my friggin' name. Tracy's mouth on my cock, taking me in deep, her warm, wet lips wrapped around me. I close my eyes, the pressure building, pushing me toward the edge.

I get lost in the fantasy, lost in the cool air on my warm body, the feel of my hand working fast and desperate. Tracy riding me, her hair flying, her lips forming an O. My pulse is loud in my ears, racing, and it's like the whole world is about to explode. I go faster, harder, my grip tight. God, I'm so close. I'm hovering at the edge, panting, my fist a blur on my cock.

Breathe deep, slow it down, let the pressure back off, I tell myself. I picture Tracy, her tits bouncing, that wide-eyed look when she sees my load ready to shoot. She grins, disappears from view. I let out a gasp. I'm not gonna hold much longer. I stop, let my hand rest on my sac, slick with spit and sweat.

Taking a couple breaths, I try to hold it down. My sac tightens, and Tracy's back, riding me harder, faster. I can see her tits through a sheer bra, perfect, huge, nipples barely covered. The fantasy's thick, so real I can friggin' smell her. I start again, beatin' it slow n' easy, creepin' toward the edge. I picture that leggy chick from the perfume counter, biting her lip, watchin' me go off. I'm back with Tracy, back on the train, back in my bedroom, endless loops of lust and images, the whole world gone except for the beat in my ears and the tightness in my balls. So wild, so fuckin' close, no holding back... and I stop again, edging, hard cock's screamin' with need.

I pant, feel my cock throb. I stroke and stop again, closing my eyes. I lose myself to the pictures in my head, fantasies, and memories at the same time. Tracy arches, ready to take it, purring my name, waiting for my load. Lips in a perfect O, tits jumping, pussy soaked. She's my first, my fave, the one I've always wanted, and she knows how friggin' close I am. I'm shuddering, knees weak, not gonna stop this time. Her face blurs with other faces: the blonde watching me on the train, that hot babe in the store, all of them blowing me, riding me, getting me off. I'm pushing hard again, pulsing with the beat in my ears, too close to stop, past the point of carin'.

Breathing heavy, I lose myself completely. I need to cum, need to let go, need relief. I hang on for the last possible second then... fuck... YES... I lose it. It's like a dam breaking, pressure exploding, my cock and chest and brain all going off at once. My body shakes, all those teasing sluts are there with me, and I blow my load. Almost fuckin' scream, lost in the slap of air and the wet of my hand.

Fuck, I cum hard, my whole body shakin', sweet pleasure shooting through every nerve. I almost lose my balance, almost slide off the seat. Jizz flies everywhere, splattering the stall wall, the floor, my arms and chest. Pinching my foreskin, I contain the last of it, and feel the pressure as it builds up.

After the tremors die down and I'm done shooting my wad, I dump the load in my hand. It's thick, white, and glistening, like some unholy pudding. I don't hesitate, bring my hand to my mouth and suck down that warm, salty slime, savoring every last drop.

Here comes that pathetic minute of guilt. Fuck, Gabs, I say to myself. You made a mess of it again. You've wasted time. Look at yourself. Blah, blah, blah!

Get over yourself, man! I lean back, relax, watch my hard dick slowly soften. God, that felt so fuckin' good! Using my hand, I wipe myself off best I can and swallow the cum, think about how happy my dick makes me. Then I slip on the shorts, sling the tee around my neck, and head for the sinks.

Running the cold water, I splash some on my chest and pits, then wipe off, leaving a mess all around me. Once I'm done, I slip the wrinkled tee on.

Back in my clothes, I check myself in the mirror. The reflection is pure scumbag: hair wild, cheeks flushed, t-shirt clinging to sweat-damp skin. I slick my hair back with water, the way I remember Tracy Adams doing with cum in one of her movies. Less obvious now, almost human.

A dad walks in with his kid and flashes me a dirty look. Distracted by me, he heads for the stall I was in and slips on my splattered jizz, letting out an angry FUCK! I almost burst out laughin'.

That's my sign to exit. I beeline it to the escalator, running my hand along the rubber handrail, feeling the vibration through my palm. At the bottom, I'm greeted by racks of men's shirts, rows of trousers, tables piled with sweaters no one needs in this heat. A few determined shoppers rifle through the merchandise, hunting for deals. A bored saleswoman arranges a display of ties, her eyes vacant, her movements mechanical.

I wander through the men's section, pretending to browse. I pick up a shirt, check the price tag, put it back. Run my fingers along a rack of jackets, pausing at a navy blazer that looks like something a politician would wear. I'm killing time, waiting for my shorts to dry, but also building up to what I really came for.

After ten minutes of aimless browsing, I casually make my way toward the back of the store, where the lighting is dimmer and the merchandise more intimate. The lingerie section of Filene's Basement isn't large or particularly well-stocked, but it's always been a fascination for me. Racks of bras in every size and color, tables of panties wrapped in plastic, mannequin torsos modeling teddies and slips--all at discount prices that make them accessible to secretaries, housewives, and rando pervs like me who want to feel sexy without breaking the bank.

Today, the section is nearly empty. An elderly woman browses a rack of nightgowns, her glasses perched on the end of her nose as she examines the price tags. And then I see them--a young couple, barely twenty, standing awkwardly by a display of Frederick's of Hollywood panties that have been marked down 80%.

She's so fuckable. Petite little angel, with mousy brown hair cut in a bob that frames a She's so fuckable. Petite little angel, with mousy brown hair cut in a bob that frames a heart-shaped face. Her sundress is simple, yellow with tiny white flowers, cinched at the waist with a belt, the hemline hitting just above her knees. Nothing provocative about it, but something in the way she stands--slightly pigeon-toed, her shoulders hunched forward as if to minimize her breasts--makes heat pool in my groin again. Looking around at the sexy shit, she seems a bit uneasy, like she's never been in a place like this. But there's also a hint of dirty excitement in her gaze, like she's dying to try it all on.

Her boyfriend hovers behind her, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his face a mask of discomfort. He's tall and gangly, with messy hair and glasses, dressed in khaki shorts and a button-up shirt with sweat stains under the arms. He shifts from foot to foot, eyes darting around as if afraid someone from work might see him standing among racks of women's underwear.

I pretend to examine a display of men's undershirts that's been inexplicably placed at the edge of the lingerie section. From here, I can watch them without being obvious. The girl picks up a pair of red satin panties with black lace trim, examining them with a mixture of curiosity and embarrassment. She glances at her boyfriend, who offers a weak smile and a shrug that seems to say, "If you want them."

She puts them back, moves on to a pair in electric blue. Her fingers trace the fabric, and I imagine those same fingers tracing my skin, curious, tentative. The boyfriend checks his watch, sighs loudly. I dislike him immediately. If she were mine, I'd encourage her, help her pick out something that would make her feel beautiful, then peel it off her with my teeth later.

"I'm going upstairs to check out the electronics," I hear him say, his voice carrying in the quiet of the basement. "Come find me when you're done." A quick kiss and he's outta' there.

Relief washes over her face as he walks away. Alone now, she seems both more relaxed and more vulnerable. Wasting no time, she walks over to a table of panties, then glances around as if to make sure no one's watching. She makes like she's lookin' shit over, working her way along, till she's at the corner. She scopes things out, then press her mound against the corner. A look of pleasure and release spreads across her face as she slowly slides her mound over the edge.

Damn, seeing her there like that? Total mindfuck. This sweet-looking thing, all hot and bothered, ready to get down and dirty. Usually, it's those dudes, dragging their chicks in, wanting them to dress like cheap whores. The girls just gotta suck it up and wear whatever the fuck the guy picks. But this? This was the flip side. That dude who bolted looked like he'd rather be sucking on exhaust fumes.

Fuckin' A, that girl's got it goin' on. Knows exactly how to handle her business. I'm tellin' ya, I can see her now, back at her place, dolled up like a porn star, legs wide open, slammin' a dildo deep into her soaking cunt.

She moves to a rack of bras, running her fingers along the hangers, pausing at a black lace demi-cup. She checks the size, then glances around again to make sure no one's watching before taking it off the rack.

I shuffle my perverted ass over to some men's robes, figurin' they'd give a bit of cover and disguise my pervy intentions. This rack's got a prime view of her bouncing around the lingerie, and, holy hell, it's working wonders. My dick's doing the cha-cha against my jeans, rubbing up against the crusty-ass fabric like it's trying to drill a hole. I'm practically leaking pre-cum just watching her size up those bras, imagining how they'd look filled out... and then ripped off. I'm about to blow a gasket right here.

She holds the bra up, giving herself the once-over, like she's judging her own goods. Without her boyfriend, she's got a totally different vibe. She seems more confident, more willing to explore. I can see her fondling her tits as she makes like she's checkin' the fit. She puts the black bra back and selects a red one instead, repeating the process. I imagine her back in some dark corner of the basement, strippin' and trying it on, standing in front of the mirror in nothing but the red bra and matching panties, her skin pale against the bright-ass fabric.

My mind takes off and starts runnin' wild. I imagine walkin' by, seeing her bare-assed and vulnerable. She gasps, tries to cover herself, but I'm already there beside her. She starts to protest, but something in my eyes stops her. In her eyes, I see my own lust reflected back, the want that's been building all day as she fingered lace and satin, imagining herself as someone bolder, with someone bolder, someone who can give her what she wants, give her something her boyfriend can't.

In this twisted fantasy, I ain't sayin' shit. Words'd ruin the moment. Instead, I sink to my knees before her, on the dirty, littered floor. Her breath catches as I run my hands up the backs of her skinny calves, feeling the smooth skin, and the light dusting of hair she missed when shaving. My fingers reach the sensitive skin behind her knees, and she shudders, one hand flying out to steady herself against the wall.

I look up at her, asking permission with my eyes. She swallows hard, then nods almost imperceptibly. That's all I need. My hands continue their journey upward, tracing the curve of her thighs, feeling the muscles tense beneath my touch. I reach the edge of the red panties and run my finger along the elastic, watching goosebumps rise on her skin, feeling her shiver.

Real slow and deliberate, like I'm unwrappin' a goddamn present, I hook my fingers and start pullin' those fuckers down. She steps out of 'em one foot at a time, leaving them crumpled on the floor beside my knees. I lean forward, pressing my face against the soft skin of her lower belly, breathing in the scent of her--soap and sweat and arousal. My hands circle around to cup her ass, feeling the firm roundness, pulling her closer to my mouth.

The first touch of my tongue against her makes her gasp, her hands flying to my hair, gripping tight as if to anchor herself. I lick slowly, deliberately, savoring the taste of her, the heat of her. She's already wet, already wanting this, wanting me. I find her clit with the tip of my tongue and circle it gently, feeling her thighs begin to tremble on either side of my head.

Her pitiful boyfriend is forgotten. The store is forgotten. There's only this--my mouth on her, her hands in my hair, the small, desperate sounds she's tryin' hard to squelch. I slide my hands up to her waist, then higher, pullin' the cups of the red bra down to free her breasts. They're small but perfect, the nipples hard and dark against her pale skin. I reach up to roll one between my fingers as my tongue continues its work below.

Fuckin' little slut gets into it. She spreads her legs wider, givin' me better access, and I take full advantage, plunging my tongue deeper between those silky, wet folds. She snaps, lets out a strangled yelp, and her hips start raging out of control, slamming into me like she's possessed.

I can feel her getting closer, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. I slide one finger inside her, then two, curling them upward to hit that spot that I know will drive her wild. She's soaking wet, her muscles clenching around my fingers as I thrust them in and out. I can feel her orgasm building, her whole body tensing up as she gets closer and closer.

I'm sucking on her swollen clit like a goddamn starving baby latched onto a nipple, only this is way, way better. Babe's grinding hard against my face, like she's fuckin' it, achin' to get off. I let her have it, slurp on that hard, little nub, matching her rhythm. Her breathing changes, becomes more ragged, more desperate. She's close, so close--

"Excuse me?"

The voice bursts my fantasy. I blink, disoriented, to find a saleswoman standing a few feet away, her expression a mixture of concern and suspicion. "Can I help you find something?"

I realize I've been standing motionless at the rack of robes for God knows how long, staring at that young chick who is now eyeing a display of slips, completely unaware of the elaborate porno I've worked up around her. The hard-on in my shorts is obvious, the stain probably still visible if you know what to look for.

"N-no," I stammer, feeling heat rush to my cheeks. "Just, ah..., browsing. Doin' some early Christmas shoppin'."

The chick's eyes narrow a bit, given' me that angry hen look. She nods and moves away, keeping me in her peripheral vision. I take that as my cue to leave. Turning quickly, I head towards the exit, my fantasy girl already forgotten as embarrassment floods through me.

I need air, need to get fuck outa' this effin' store before I get my ass hauled outa' here by security. I move quickly past the racks and the counters, up the escalator, through the main floor. I push through the revolving door, leaving Filene's behind me, and step back into the furnace of downtown Boston. The sun's high overhead now, turning the concrete into a goddamn griddle. The heat rising from the pavement matches the heat in my face, and the lingering arousal in my body.

I take a sec, lettin' my eyes adjust, feeling sweat immediately bead on my forehead. My shorts are completely dry now, the stain a stiff reminder against my thigh, but I don't care anymore. I've got other things on my mind--namely, the streets that wait for me a few blocks away, where sin is sold in broad daylight and nobody gives a shit about what you've done or who you are.

The noise and heat get to my head. I stand for a moment, disoriented by the transition from fantasy to reality, from cool darkness to blinding sun. Then I set my feet in the direction of Tremont Street, toward Boston Common and, beyond that, the Combat Zone. The day is still young, and my hunger is far from satisfied.

I cut across Downtown Crossing, weavin' through the lunchtime crowd--secretaries in sleeveless blouses fanning themselves with menus from fast food joints, businessmen with suit jackets slung over shoulders, ties loosened. The air smells of hot asphalt, car exhaust, and the greasy sweetness of street vendor hot dogs and fried dough. A guy selling newspapers from a stand shouts headlines about Reagan and the Soviets, but nobody's listenin'. It's too hot for politics.

Boston Common spreads out before me, a patchy expanse of green in the heart of the city. I follow the path past the fountain where kids are splashing despite the NO SWIMMING sign. Their mothers sit on nearby benches, legs crossed, paperbacks open but unread as they keep one eye on their children and another on the clock. A group of college boys throws a frisbee, their shirts discarded, torsos gleaming with sweat in the midday sun. One catches my eye, holds it for a beat too long. I look away fast. Not what I'm after today.

The Common's always been a boundary of sorts--on this side, tourist Boston with its Freedom Trail and colonial landmarks; on the other, edging toward the Combat Zone, a different kind of history being made in peep shows and dirty allies. Movin' toward Tremont Street, I feel the shift in energy, the slight loosening of social constraints with each step.

Tremont's busy with the usual mix of shoppers laden with bags, office workers rushing back from late lunches, and tourists. But as I continue walking, the crowd thins out. The storefronts change from upscale boutiques to discount electronics shops with metal grates over the windows, even during business hours. The well-dressed pedestrians give way to more colorful characters--a man in a threadbare suit talking animatedly to himself, a group of punks with spiked hair and safety pins through their ears, an old woman pushing a shoppin' cart full of aluminum cans.

Before long, I'm crossing Boylston and then a block later, turning left onto Lagrange. Just like that, I've left civilization behind and entered the Combat Zone, the CZ. Boston's open secret, its very own little Sodom and Gomorrah. In the daylight, it doesn't look like much--just a few blocks of run-down buildings with neon signs that aren't yet lit, their promises of GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS and LIVE NUDE SHOWS temporarily dormant. But there's an ungodly charge in the air, an electric current of carnal possibility that slowly seeps into my veins like heroin from a needle.

The street's quiet--too early for us sinners. A few guys loiter outside the Two O'Clock Club, smokin' cigarettes and eyeing passersby with contempt. An old cleaning woman mops the entrance to one of the peep show parlors, her face set in stone, eyes focused on a middle distance where none of this exists. A taxi drops off a businessman who straightens his tie before slipping into an unmarked door, his wedding ring catching the sunlight as he reaches for the handle.

And then there are the workin' girls. Even in the daylight, even in this heat, you'll find a few out here hustlin'. Most are clustered further down near the corner of Washington Street, but a few have staked out spots along Lagrange. One leans against a street lamp, her pose so perfectly designed to showcase her assets that it could be a still from a noir film. Her hair is a platinum blonde shag, stiff with hairspray that somehow hasn't melted in the heat. She wears a tight, little red dress that hugs every curve, high enough to show the lace tops of her stockings. Her face is a mask of makeup--heavy black eyeliner, false lashes thick as spiders, lips painted a glossy crimson that matches her dress.

As I approach, her eyes--sharp and assessing despite the relaxed pose--lock onto me. She straightens slightly, adjusts the neckline of her dress to show a bit more cleavage, and smiles. Not a real smile--a professional one, the kind that promises everything and means nothin'.

"Hey, handsome," she calls out, her voice raspier than I expected, cigarettes and late nights embedded in every syllable. "You lookin' for a little fun in these parts?"

I feel a flush creep up my neck that has nothing to do with the heat. Despite my adventures, despite what I did on the train just hours ago, there's something about being directly addressed by a workin' professional that makes me feel like the Catholic schoolboy I once was. But there's a thrill too, a forbidden excitement that makes my heart race.

"M-maybe I am, babe," I stammer, my Boston accent thickening as it always does when I'm nervous. "I might just need a tour guide tonight."

She laughs, a genuine sound that transforms her face, makes her look younger, almost innocent. "Tonight? Honey, it's barely past noon. You got somthin' against seeing the sights in the daylight?"

I take a step closer, gaining confidence. "The best things happen in the dark, but I'm not p-particular about timing." I run a hand through my hair, still damp with sweat. "What's your name?"

"Whatever you want it to be, for the right price." She pushes off from the street lamp and saunters toward me, hips swaying like a metronome. Up close, I can see the fine lines around her eyes that makeup can't quite disguise, the slight sag of her jaw that suggests she's older than she first appeared. But there's something magnetic about her--a hard-earned wisdom in her gaze, a survivor's pride in the set of her shoulders.

"How much?" I ask, not because I'm actually going to pay for it--my few dollars wouldn't cover more than a quick hand job in an alley--but because it's part of the dance, the ritual of these encounters.

"Fifty for a straight fuck, seventy-five if you want to get creative." She reaches out and runs a red-painted nail down my chest, leaving a trail of goosebumps despite the heat. "You look like a creative type to me."

Before I can respond, another voice calls out from across the street. "Don't waste your time with Maggie, sugar. She'll rob you blind and leave you hanging!"

I turn to see another woman strutting toward us, this one younger. Black, with legs that go on for days below cutoff jean shorts. Her halter top is lime green, tied so loosely that one deep breath might liberate her completely. Her hair is a crown of tight curls, her skin gleaming with sweat and glitter in the sun.

"Fuck off, Tanya," the first hooker--Maggie, apparently--spits. "I saw him first."

Tanya ignores her, focusing her attention on me. She stops a few feet away, sizing me up with a professional's eye. "You don't want to be paying no fifty dollars, baby. Not for what she's offering." She winks at me. "I can show you a better time for thirty-five, and I guarantee you'll be coming back for more."

I look between them, trying not to grin like fuckin' an idiot. There's something intoxicating about being fought over, even if it's just for the contents of my wallet. "Ladies, ladies," I say, spreading my hands. "No need to fight. Maybe I'm j-just out for a walk. Enjoying the, uh, scenery."

A third voice joins in, this one from behind me. "Scenery, huh? That what they calling it these days, boy?"

I turn to find myself face to face with yet another working girl, this one older than the other two, with a world-weary face and eyes that have seen it all. Her bleached blonde hair is cropped short, her makeup subtle compared to the others. She wears tight jeans and a tube top, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth.

"You got a lot of friggin' scenery to choose from around here," I say, feeling more at ease now, settling into the back-and-forth.

She inhales a lungful of her smoke stick, puffing out the fumes above my noggin. "You ain't cut from the same cloth as our usual riff-raff, kiddo. Too green, too easy on the eyes." She squints at me, "And too friggin' skint."

I chuckle at that 'cause she's hit the nail on the head. "Just gawking today. I was hoping there might be some free samples up for grabs."

"Window peeping, boy?" Tanya teases, closing in on me with her scent--some bargain bin perfume--flooding my nostrils. She leans in and grabs a handful of my package, quipping, "You know what they say about looky-loos. They always end up shelling out eventually." Her breath reeks of weed and booze.

"Not if they've got their wits about 'em," Maggie interjects. "This one seems sharp to me. College boy, am I right?"

"Used to be," I confess. "Taking a bit of a breather now."

"Taking a break or looking for trouble?" the older woman asks, flicking ash from her cigarette. "Because this street's got plenty of the latter to offer."

"Maybe a little of both," I say with a shrug. "What's life without a bit of t-trouble now and then?"

All three laugh at that, a chorus of different tones--Maggie's raspy chuckle, Tanya's musical giggle, the older woman's dry cackle. For a moment, they're not hookers and I'm not a potential john. We're just normal people sharin' a joke on a hot day.

"I like you, kid," the older woman says, a genuine smile softening her features. "But take some free advice--don't spend your money on what we're selling. Save it for something that'll last longer than fifteen minutes in a back room at the Liberty."

"Speak for yourself, Doreen," Tanya scoffs. "My clients get their money's worth."

"Thirty seconds or thirty minutes, it all costs the same," Doreen shrugs, taking another drag. "That's economics 101, baby. Am I right, college boy?"

I'm about to reply when a black Cadillac with tinted windows rolls slowly down the street. All three women straighten up, their postures changing, their faces sliding back into professional masks. The car stops a few yards away.

"That's our cue, college boy," Maggie says, already moving toward the car. "Business hours."

"Maybe I'll see you around," I call after her, suddenly reluctant to end our conversation. I was enjoying the attention.

She throws a glance over her shoulder, that professional smile back in place. "Maybe. Just bring more cash next time."

As the women head for the car, I continue down Lagrange, a strange mix of emotions churning in my gut. There's the obvious arousal--three attractive women paying attention to me, flirting, even if it was just for potential business. But there's something else too, a kind of respect for their frankness, their hustle, the way they navigate this world with a combination of toughness and humor.

I've always been drawn to the Combat Zone. Not just for the obvious reasons--the porn theaters, the strip clubs, the glimpses of flesh and promises of pleasure--but for this feeling of being somewhere real. These streets don't pretend. They don't sugarcoat their carnal cravings with polite bullshit like the rest of Boston's stuck-up prudes. Here, want is want, business is business, and everyone's just trying to get through another day.

As I reach the end of Lagrange, I pause, looking back at the three women buzzin' around the Caddy, negotiating through the driver's window. In another life, we might have been friends. In this one, we're just ships passing, each makin' our way in these hazardous winds of desire and need.

I turn the corner, heading deeper into the Zone, toward my real destination for the day: a private booth with its promises of air conditioning and anonymous release. The conversation with the hookers has left me energized, confident, ready for whatever comes next. In these streets, I'm not shy Gabby from Dorchester with the Catholic guilt and the uncertain future. I'm just another body seeking pleasure, no better or worse than anyone else here.

Ya' see, there's a freedom in that anonymity, a weight lifted that makes me stand straighter, walk with more purpose toward the porn shops at the end of the block. In an odd way, I feel more relaxed here with the strippers, hookers, pimps, johns, and drug dealers than I do back in the hood.

That feeling of freedom is short-lived. I reach the corner of Lagrange and Washington, anxiety hits me, and my heart starts thumping against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Standing here on the corner, exposed in broad daylight, I suddenly felt like I was wearing a sign saying "PERVERT" in letters bigger and brighter than anything on the theater marquee across the street.

Across the street stood the Pilgrim Theater, its marquee advertising "CONTINUOUS ADULT SHOWS" in blocky letters that have faded under years of sun and neglect. A few bulbs are missing, giving the sign a gap-toothed grin.

Nomaly, I would have headed for one of the shops and a private booth. It's cheaper. Like I said earlier, fifty cents, and I'm done. But today, for some reason, I was feeling different. Today, I was feeling bolder. Maybe it was that fucked up scene on the train or at Filene's. Today, I decided, it was time to go for it and check out the Pilgrim.

My eyes dart around nervously. This is the most dangerous part--the moment of commitment, the crossing from curious passerby to confirmed deviant. What if someone sees me? What if one of Dad's friends from the bar is driving by? What if a former teacher from Saint Anthony's spots me? Dorchester isn't that far away, and Boston can be a small city when it comes to Catholic connections.

I shuffle my feet, pretending to wait for the light even though there's barely any traffic. The heat ripples off the asphalt, creating a wavering mirage that makes the theater seem to float, an oasis of forbidden pleasure. Sweat trickles down my spine, pooling at the small of my back, my tee's stickin' to my skin. I can feel the dried cum on my shorts rubbing against my thigh, smell it on me, a reminder of my earlier deviances.

The Pilgrim's not much to look at. A rundown three-story brick building with dirty windows, the first floor painted a faded red that's peeling in large flakes, revealing layers of previous colors beneath, like geological strata of desperation. A poster in the window advertises "Swedish Sorority," the image showing a blonde woman with impossibly large breasts spilling out of a torn sweater. Next to it, another poster promises "Leather Discipline" with a dark-haired woman wielding a whip over a man in a dog collar. The glass of the entrance door is painted over and smudged with countless handprints, as if the ghosts of all previous patrons are still trying to push their way in.

I'm so focused on the theater that I almost don't notice the two elderly Chinese grandmas who've stopped a few feet away from me. They're tiny, barely reaching my shoulder, with identical perms of steel-gray hair and floral blouses buttoned to the neck despite the heat. Shopping bags from Chinatown markets hang from their wrists as they converse rapidly. Then one of them notices where I'm looking.

She nudges her companion, a sharp elbow to the ribs that stops their conversation mid-sentence. Both sets of eyes turn to me, then follow my gaze to the Pilgrim. The disgust that washes over their faces is so synchronized it might be comical if it weren't directed at me. Their mouths pucker as if they've simultaneously bitten into something rotten, their eyebrows arching toward their hairlines.

"Aiyah!" one of them exclaims, loud enough for me to hear clearly. She says something else in Chinese, but her tone needs no translation. It's the same tone Sister Mary Francis used when she caught Tommy Flaherty drawing dicks in his math notebook.

The other grandmother shakes her head slowly, her eyes never leaving my face. She makes the sign of the cross--unexpected from a Chinese woman, but Boston's full of Catholic immigrants of all backgrounds. The gesture hits me like a physical blow. Even here, in the Combat Zone, judgment finds me. I can't escape the church, can't escape the weight of disappointing expectations.

I look away, my face burning hotter than the summer air warrants. My hands are suddenly too large, too visible. I shove them into my pockets, which only serves to draw attention to the front of my shorts. I pull them out again quickly, crossing my arms over my chest instead, then dropping them to my sides when that feels too defensive.

The grandmas are still staring, still judging. I want to tell them I'm a good person, that I go to Mass sometimes, that I help my mother with the groceries and mow old Mrs. Pelletier's lawn for free. But the words stick in my throat, because none of that changes what I'm about to do, what I want to do.

A car honks as it passes, a beat-up Chevy with the windows rolled down. The driver, a middle-aged man with a Red Sox cap and sunburned forearms hanging out the window, slows down enough to shout, "Fucking faggot!" before speeding off through a yellow light.

The words hit me like a slap in the face. It's not the first time I've heard that word, not by a long shot. But it lands differently today, maybe because of the grandmothers witnessing it, maybe because part of me fears it's true--not the hateful way he meant it, but the fact that I do sometimes want men as much as women. That I contain multitudes of desire that would make both the driver and the grandmothers cross to the other side of the street if they knew.

The light changes, but I don't move. My legs feel leaden, my courage evaporating in the heat. Maybe this is a sign. Maybe I should just go home, take a cold shower, apply for jobs like I promised Ma I would. Be the good son they think I am, or at least try to be.

But then I think about what waits for me at home--the quiet desperation, the suffocating sameness, the crucifix watching me from above my bed. I think about how alive I felt on the train this morning, how real and present in my own skin. I think about the hookers on Lagrange Street who saw me clearly and didn't turn away in disgust.

The grandmas have moved on, shuffling down Washington Street toward Chinatown, their shopping bags swinging in counterpoint to their steps. The driver is long gone, his slur hanging in the air like exhaust. It's just me and the Pilgrim now, facing each other across a street that feels wider than it should.

I take a deep breath, feeling sweat trickle down my temples. Then I step off the curb, my decision made. Let them judge. Let them stare. Let them think whatever they want about the blonde kid in cutoffs crossing to the theater. They don't know me. They don't know the fire that burns inside me, the need that drives me, the complexity of who I am beyond this one moment, this one choice.

The few steps across Washington Street feel monumental, as if I'm crossing a boundary more significant than asphalt and painted lines. With each step, I shed a little more of the Gabby my parents know, the former altar boy, the directionless college dropout. By the time I reach the opposite curb, standing in the shadow of the Pilgrim's awning, I've become someone else--someone braver, more honest, more real.

I pause for one last moment of hesitation, my hand on the door handle. Through the scratches in the painted glass, I can make out a dimly lit lobby, a ticket counter, the promise of cool darkness beyond. My reflection stares back at me, distorted by the dirty glass--blonde hair wild from the heat, face flushed, eyes bright with anticipation and fear.

I push the door open, stepping across the final threshold into the air-conditioned darkness of the Pilgrim. The door swings shut behind me with a soft whoosh, sealing me off from the judging eyes of the world outside. For better or worse, I'm here now. And I'm ready for whatever comes next.

The lobby of the Pilgrim hits me with the smell of industrial disinfectant, and a dank, musky smell I can't quite identify. The air conditioning is barely working, still, it raises goosebumps on my arms after the furnace of Washington Street. I stand for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dim lighting that feels like a mercy after the harsh sunlight. The carpet beneath my feet is clean but worn in patches, its pattern long ago obliterated by spills and foot traffic, now just a matted expanse of muddy red.

Off the street, I can relax. I try acting cool, slow things down, and look around.

Large posters line the walls, protected by frames whose glass is smudged with fingerprints. Taboo American Style, Behind the Green Door, Debbie Does Dallas--some of porns best classics. The women on the posters stare out with expressions meant to be seductive but that mostly look bored or slightly pained, their hairstyles and makeup placing them firmly in the past. Some of the posters are even signed by the porn stars. Some are peeling at the corners, curling away from their backings like they're trying to escape.

A concession stand sits dark and abandoned to my right, its counter dusty, the ancient popcorn machine empty and unplugged. No one comes to the Pilgrim for refreshments--at least, not the kind sold at concession stands. A rack of magazines, sealed in aged plastic bags that partially obscure the explicit covers, stands next to it. Swedish Erotica, Puritan, Lui--explicit shit you won't find on a 7-Eleven magazine rack.

I don't think this is the kind a place anyone loiters in, at least not for long. Before I know it, this big guy shows up outta nowhere and's just standdin' there watching me, givin' me the evil eye. My cue to move along.

The ticket counter is a small booth with a half-circle cutout for transactions. Behind it sits an elderly woman with hair dyed an unnatural shade of auburn, piled on top of her head in a style that must have been fashionable when Kennedy was president. Her face is a roadmap of wrinkles, with deep canyons around her mouth from decades of smoking. She wears a floral blouse buttoned to the neck, a small gold cross visible at her throat--an incongruous touch given her place of employment.

She looks up from a paperback novel as I approach, her eyes magnified by thick glasses with frames the color of butterscotch pudding. There's something both grandmotherly and completely unwholesome about her, like she should be baking cookies instead of selling tickets to pornography.

"Hi, sweety" she says, her voice surprisingly gentle, almost musical. She slides a bookmark between pages and sets her novel aside. I catch a glimpse of the cover--a Harlequin romance with a bare-chested man embracing a woman in a torn dress. Even the ticket lady needs her fantasies, I guess.

"Oh, Um, H-hi," I stammer, sliding a five-dollar bill through the cutout. "One, please."

She takes the money with hands spotted with age, long red nails clicking against the counter. "First time here, sweety?" she asks, peering at me over her glasses.

I feel heat rise to my face. Is it that obvious? "No, m-ma'am. I've been here b-before."

She makes a humming sound that could mean anything as she counts out my change. "You look awful jumpy for a regular. The cops haven't been around in weeks, if that's what you're worried about."

"I'm not jumpy," I protest, even as my fingers drum a nervous rhythm against the counter.

She slides my ticket and change across to me, her red nails lingering on the bills. "Whatever you say, sweety. Show's already started, but don't worry--there's not much of a plot to miss." She winks at me, a gesture so unexpected from a woman her age that I almost laugh.

"Thanks," I mutter, scooping up my change and ticket. As I turn away, I catch her picking up her romance novel again, resuming her own vicarious pleasure as she prepares to facilitate mine.

I'm about to head straight for the auditorium doors, but my bladder has other ideas. The combination of nervous energy and the tall glass of iced coffee I had with breakfast is making itself known. Plus, I could use a moment to collect myself, to transition from the bright, judgmental world outside to the dark anonymity waiting beyond those doors.

A dimly lit sign indicates restrooms down a short hallway to the right. I follow it, passing a pay phone with a stack of escort service cards fanned out beside it, most featuring the same half-dozen women in different poses and promising "Full Service" and "No Rush." An assortment of vending machines line the wall; soda, snacks, cigarettes, and a machine with shit like napkins, condoms, lube, and cigarette lighters. I pause a beat to look shit over, then move on.

There's a big 'Out of Service' sign on the door to the men's restroom. I push it open, greeted by the sharp smell of urinal cakes and something ranker underneath. The fluorescent light overhead buzzes and flickers, threatening to plunge the room into darkness at any moment. The walls are covered with graffiti. There is only one metal sink with a metal mirror above it, and three empty spots where sinks are missing. All the urinals are gone.

Past the missing urinals, four stalls, all without doors, line the wall. I head for the farthest one, needing the privacy more than the facilities at this point. The toilet seat has cigarette burns along the edge, and someone has carved "REAGAN SUCKS COCK" into the tank lid in blocky capital letters.

I'm unzipppin' my shorts, about to enter, when I notice it--a small foil packet on the floor, torn open, a clear viscous substance leaked onto the tile. Lube. Recently used, by the looks of it. I should be disgusted, should find another stall. Shit, any normal guy would. But instead, I feel a strange thrill run through me. Evidence of someone else's pleasure in this grimy, sleazy place excites me. I step over it and piss.

My other hand falls to my thigh, fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin. I came in here to piss, but now that I'm done, my cock has other ideas. It's been semi-hard since I entered the theater, the anticipation of what waits in the darkened auditorium keeping me in a state of constant arousal. Now, in this dirty stall with evidence of another man's activities at my feet, I'm fully hard again, my hard cock standing out straight, needing my attention.

I wrap my hand around it, feeling the familiar weight, the heat of it against my palm. I shoulda' just pissed and gone--the show's already started, and anyone could walk in. But there's something irresistible about the forbidden nature of this--jerking off in a public bathroom, surrounded by the remnants of other people's secret pleasures.

I begin to stroke slowly, my eyes fixed on the lube packet. I imagine the man who used it--was he alone, preparing himself for something or someone? Was there a couple in here earlier, unable to wait until they got somewhere more private? The possibilities multiply, each more explicit than the last.

My hand moves faster, my breathing growing shallow. The insecurity adds to the excitement--at any moment, someone could walk in, could see me here with my cock in my hand and my shorts at my knees.

Pre-cum beads at the tip of my cock, slicking my fingers as I spread it down the shaft. I spit down to lube my cock even more. My balls tighten, drawing up close to my body as the pleasure builds. I close my eyes, let my filthy imagination take over.

Images flash behind my closed lids--the girls on the train, the shy chick in Filene's Basement, the hookers on Lagrange Street. I imagine them all together, a tangle of limbs and mouths and hands, all focused on me, all wanting me.

My eyes look down at the packet of lube, and I imagine the slick, cool feeling of it slithering down my crack, like I'm bein' made ready for some slippery action. Then, in goes a single finger, slow and steady, giving me a gentle stretch. It's a gradual build-up, this in-and-out motion, getting me all worked up. And then, BAM! Another finger jumps in, going deeper, making me catch my breath in a soft little gasp. I groan, "Fuckin' A, man, that's it."

He yanks his fingers out, then BAM, a heavier pressure follows, the familiar fullness of a big cock sliding into me. No polite "may I?" or nothin'. The damn thing fills me completely, a stretching warmth that makes me arch my back. He moves within me, a slow, steady, fuckin' in-n-out that sends shivers down my spine. His arms wrap around me, pulling me close, his strength a comforting weight. His breath, hot and damp against my ear, whispers some dirty-ass promises I can't quite make out.

I spin around, and there she was--the cute little fuck doll from Filene's. Eyes bright and eager, body bare and inviting. She presses her soft, wet lips to mine. We kiss light, soft and wet at first, then bam, we were full-on making out. Tongues going at it, a crazy dance of desire, and her hand? Yeah, it was already down there, stroking my wet, hard dick like she knew exactly what she was doing. Then, just like that, she dropped to her knees, eyes glued to mine, and started licking me. Teasing me, you know? Before she took me all the way in. Her mouth was hot, wet, and man, it felt so effin' good. She pulled back, her eyes dark, and started working on the head, lips and tongue doing their thing. Pure magic, I tell you.

The feeling is so intense, man. He's ramming my ass like he's trying to dig for oil, while she's got my dick buried deep in her throat, like a goddamn pro, taking me deeper and deeper. It's this crazy-ass mix, like, stretched out and full back there, and then this insane sucking, pulling thing happening up front. My head's spinning, man. He's pounding away, hard and fast, and she's just... working miracles with her mouth. I can feel him moving, hard and fast, while she works her magic, pulling and sucking. All that wetness, her slick mouth, and the hard press of his cock? It's driving me fuckin' nuts, like I'm about to explode.

I'm close now, my hand a blur, the wet, slick sounds of my stroking echoing in the empty bathroom. My thighs tense, my toes curl in my sneakers. Just a little more--

BAM! The bathroom door bangs open. FUCK! I freeze, my hand still wrapped around my cock, my breath caught in my throat. Footsteps approach, stop, followed by the sound of a zipper and then liquid hitting water.

I stand still, not daring to move, my heart pounding so loudly I'm sure the other occupant can hear it. My erection begins to subside slightly, the interruption dampening my arousal. The man flushes, runs the water briefly at the sink--not long enough for any actual hand washing--and then leaves.

I exhale slowly, realizing I've been holding my breath. The interruption has broken the spell. My hard-on has softened to a semi, and the need to piss has returned. I relieve myself, feeling oddly disappointed and relieved at the same time.

After flushing, I pull my shorts back up, fastening them over my still-sensitive cock. I exit the stall, avoiding my reflection in the scratched mirror as I wash my hands. My face would show too much--the frustration, the lingering arousal, the slight shame that always accompanies these moments.

I dry my hands on my shorts, leaving damp handprints on the faded denim. It's time to enter the theater proper, to take my seat in the darkness and lose myself in the explicit images on screen. To finish what I started here, surrounded by strangers seeking the same anonymous release.

As I exit the bathroom, I pass a middle-aged man in a business suit heading in. Our eyes meet briefly, then slide away, the unspoken covenant of this place--I won't acknowledge you if you don't acknowledge me.

I pause in the hallway, taking a deep breath. My cock has finally settled down enough that I can walk without discomfort. I'm ready now, centered in a way I wasn't before. The nervousness has dissipated, replaced by a focused anticipation. Whatever's playing in that theater, whatever strangers share the darkness with me, I'm ready to embrace it all.

I check the fly on my cutoffs again, even though I've already fastened them inside. It's a nervous gesture, a double-check that I'm decent before facing the world again--even if that world is just the decadent lobby of the Pilgrim. My skin feels electric, charged with interrupted desire. The air conditioning raises goosebumps along my arms, but I'm burning up inside, a furnace of want that not even the cold air can touch. I smooth down my t-shirt, run a hand through my hair, and try to look like someone who wasn't just jerking off in a bathroom stall.

The hallway stretches before me, dark carpet absorbing the feeble light from fixtures that haven't been dusted since the Nixon administration. The walls are lined with more movie posters, these ones older, from the days when porn had to pretend to be art to avoid censorship. In front of me, at the other end of the lobby, I see the set of double doors that I'm guessing lead to the auditorium, a red exit sign casting a bloody glow over the threshold.

I head for it, my sneakers silent on the carpet. Through the walls, I can hear the muffled sounds of the movie--exaggerated moans, the occasional grunt, dialogue so wooden it could give you splinters. A rhythmic bass line throbs beneath it all, the kind of cheesy saxophone music that's become a punchline everywhere except places like this, where it serves its purpose with sort of comic sincerity.

As I approach the lobby again, the ticket woman is no longer alone. Some guy's leaning against her booth, one elbow propped on the counter, his body angled toward her like their best pals. He's tall and rangy, maybe fifty, with salt-and-pepper hair cut close to his scalp and a mustache that belongs in a 1970s cop show. He wears dark slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt with a tie loosened at the neck--the uniform of a man who works in an office but doesn't matter there.

They're talking in low voices, the woman's occasional laugh floating across the lobby like a ghost. There's an intimacy to their chit-chat that makes me feel like I'm intruding, even though I'm the paying customer and they're the employees. I hesitate, unsure whether to ask about the door, or to just figure it out myself.

The guy says something that makes the woman swat at his arm playfully, her long red nails catching the dim light. "You're terrible, Eddie," she says, loud enough for me to hear. "Just because it happened once..."

He laughs, a dry sound like paper crumpling. "Once is all it takes for a reputation, Marge."

I try to skirt around them, keeping to the shadows along the wall, but the woman--Marge--spots me. Her magnified eyes lock onto mine through those butterscotch glasses, and I feel pinned in place, a specimen on a slide.

"All set in there, sweety?" she calls out, her voice carrying in the empty lobby. The man--Eddie--turns to look at me, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in my appearance. I'm suddenly aware of how I must look to him--young, slightly disheveled, cutoffs that reveal more leg than most men's shorts in 1982, the lingering flush of arousal on my face.

"Y-yeah," I stammer, taking an instinctive step back. "Just headed in to the, uh, movie."

Eddie's gaze is assessing, professional in a way that makes me think he's more than just a friend of Marge's. Security, maybe, or management. Someone who keeps an eye on the patrons to make sure they're not causing trouble. He takes in my blonde hair, my tanned legs, my nervous posture, and a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

"First time here?" he asks, his voice a gravelly rumble that matches his weathered face.

I shake my head. "No, sir. Been here a few times."

Marge leans forward in her booth, her floral blouse gaping slightly to reveal skin freckled with age. "You want the fourth row, sweety," she says with a wink. "Lucky row today. Trust me."

Eddie chuckles, a private joke passing between them that I'm not privy to. "Marge has a sixth sense about these things," he says to me, his initial scrutiny softening into something almost avuncular. "Been working here since the place showed mainstream flicks."

"Twenty-seven years," Marge confirms with a nod that sets her auburn hair wobbling precariously. "I've seen it all, sweety. And I mean all." She cackles at her own joke, a sound that transforms her face, erasing years and hinting at the younger woman she once was.

There's somethin' unexpectedly warm about this exchange, somethin' almost normal in this abnormal place. They're just two people doing their jobs, real chill with each other, the way you get when you've known someone for ages. And they're talking to me like I belong here, like I'm part of this world rather than an intruder or a pervert to be judged.

"F-fourth row," I repeat, a small smile finding its way to my lips. "Got it."

Eddie straightens up, adjusting his tie in a gesture that seems reflexive rather than necessary. "Enjoy the show, kid," he says, then turns back to Marge, effectively dismissing me.

Walkin' towards the entrance, my step feels lighter than before. That brief interaction has shifted something in me, eased some of the tension coiled in my shoulders. In their eyes, I'm just another customer--not a deviant, not a disappointment, just a guy looking for some entertainment on a hot summer day.

A large, long list of NOs, a defamation on its ancient facade, is nailed on the front. I ignore it, like I always do with shit like this. The auditorium door is heavy, requiring my whole weight to pull it open. As it swings toward me, a waft of warmer, staler air escapes--the breath of a darker, more private world. The sounds of the movie grow louder, more distinct--a woman's voice rising in a crescendo of pleasure that sounds too perfect to be real, a man's deeper groans providing counterpoint

Fourth row, Marge said. Lucky. I don't know what the fuck makes it lucky, but in this moment, I'm willing to believe in luck, in signs, in the wisdom of an old woman who's witnessed nearly three decades of secret pleasures in this large, dark room.

I step through the door, letting it swing shut behind me with a soft thud that's swallowed by the sounds from the screen. That red exit sign? Throws this creepy-ass shadow right in front of me. For the first time since I walked into this dive, I feel a sense of anticipation untainted by anxiety. Whatever's waiting for me in that fourth row? Fuck it, I'm ready.

The darkness kinda wrapped around me, like a lover's embrace, familiar and intense all at once. I move down the aisle, guided by the flickering light from the screen, toward my designated spot. Toward whatever luck Marge has foreseen for me in this God forsaken den of anonymous desire.

The sound overwhelmed me--exaggerated moans, the slap of flesh on flesh, dialogue so sparse and stilted it might as well be in another language. It's way more intense than those cheap, dinky booths I normally go to.

The air is thick in here. A mix of disinfectant, cigarettes, and weed, barely masking years of spilled bodily fluids.

As my eyes adjust, shapes emerge from the darkness--the outlines of seats, the scattered silhouettes of heads, isolated individuals separated by empty spaces, each in their own bubble of private desire. I count maybe a dozen men in the auditorium, spaced as far apart as the seating allows.

Figure that theater etiquette here isn't about considerate silence or keeping feet off the seats. It's about pretendin' you're solo, like that heavy wheezing rows back of you ain't even there, ain't got nothing to do with what you're about to pull. I rake the joint, spot the empty fourth row that Marge was pushing. From here, I get why it might be considered lucky--fare enough from the door, and the balcony shadow giving some cover..

I move down the sloped aisle, my hand trailing along seatbacks for guidance. The thin carpet muffles the sound of my steps. I reach the fourth row and slide into a seat near the center, settling into the worn cushion that has cradled countless anonymous bodies before mine. The seat to my right has a tear in the upholstery, stuffing poking through like a wound. To my left, an empty seat bears a dark stain of indeterminate origin. I keep my arms close to my body, trying to touch as little as possible while still allowing myself to relax.

The screen flickers, and a hot, thick wave washes over me, stealing my breath. This ain't no dime-store skin flick. This is... something else. Something dark and slick. The set's the goddamn pit of hell, bathed in blood-red light, black cloth clinging to the walls like death. Twisted symbols, painted in what looks like blood, stain the floor. And in the middle of that inferno, a massive, round bed. A writhing mass of bodies, slick with sweat. Men and women, tangled and twisted, limbs locked in impossible positions, a fleshy, pulsing knot of heat. Their moans, low and guttural, fill the room, a symphony of raw, animalistic pleasure.

This chick, with her big, firm tits, dark hair streaked fiery red, and black lipstick, is the goddamn epicenter, with everyone else circling her like she's some kind of sex goddess. She wears nothing but a spiked collar and red, knee-high leather boots, her pale skin a canvas for intricate temporary tattoos--pentagrams, serpents, occult symbols that would give Sister Mary Francis a heart attack.

The men surrounding her sport various costume elements--one wears devil horns, another has his face painted to resemble a demon, a third has leather wings strapped to his back. The other women are similarly adorned with hellish accessories--one with a forked tail attached to a belt, another with red contact lenses that make her eyes glow unnaturally in the lighting.

It should be ridiculous--it is ridiculous--but there's something about the scene that grabs me, something that speaks to the primal part of my brain that equates sex with sin, pleasure with damnation. On screen, Red arches her back as two guys attend to her, one at her mouth, the other between her legs. She reaches out, grasps the breast of a wild looking blonde babe who's straddlin' the face of a guy. Blondie's got her hand tangled in his hair, fuckin' his mouth with her pussy, and he's got his hands on her ass, pulling her to him. Some other chick with hungry eyes, crawls over and takes the guys dick in her mouth. It's a mad, twisted dance of lust, everyone feeding off each other, a raw, endless cycle of pleasure.

I feel the familiar heat building in my balls, my cock hardening against the confines of my cutoffs. The interruption in the bathroom has left me on edge, primed and ready. I shift in my seat, spreading my legs wider, creating space for my growing erection. The darkness feels like permission, like absolution. No one can see me clearly here; I'm just another shadow among shadows.

My hand falls to my lap, resting lightly on the bulge that strain my shorts. Through the worn denim, I can feel the heat of my own flesh, the insistent pulse of blood that makes my cock throb in time with my heartbeat. I begin to stroke myself through the fabric, a gentle pressure that sends shivers of pleasure up my spine.

The orgy has shifted. Red kneels before a muscular stud with a chest so oiled it reflects the crimson lighting, making him appear to be sweating blood. A horned mask, black and devilish, hides his eyes, turning him into a primal beast. He grabs her hair, yanks it back, and rams his thick, rock-hard cock into her wet, waiting mouth. The camera zooms in, tight on her lips, painted black and stretched around his cock, her eyes, heavy with kohl, burning with a raw, filthy hunger. A low moan escapes her, a sound thick with want, as she swallows him deep.

My hand moves more insistently now, rubbing up and down the length of my shaft through my shorts. I'm fully hard, the outline of my cock clearly visible beneath the denim. In the darkness, with all attention fixed on the screen, I dare to unbutton my cutoffs, the soft pop of the button coming free barely audible over the soundtrack of moans and cheesy synthesizer music.

Damn, the stereo sound of her going to town on his dick was straight-up nasty, filled the room, a wet, sloppy symphony of pure, unadulterated filth. Her mouth was working that thing like a goddamn champ, slurping and sucking, making those wet, meaty sounds that could wake the goddamn devil. Her tongue was a goddamn artist, painting his dick with spit, teasing and tormenting him until he was practically begging for release.

The slurping got louder, wetter, more desperate, like she was trying to swallow his soul, a testament to the raw, animalistic hunger that was driving them both wild. Spit was dripping off his dick like he'd just dipped it in a goddamn fountain, running down her chin and all over his nuts. It was a straight-up, nasty-ass scene, and they were both lovin' it.

My zipper comes down tooth by tooth, the sound covered by a particularly theatrical cry from one of the women on screen. I slip my hand inside, beneath the waistband of my shorts, and wrap my fingers around my cock. The contact of skin on skin sends a jolt of pleasure through me so intense I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.

Alright, action! Dude's got Red by her fiery locks, shoving his dick down her throat like he's trying to unclog a goddamn drain. Her eyes are bugging out, she's thrashing like a fish on a hook, and the red lights are making his face look like he's about to explode. Then, BAM! His whole body turns red, tenses up, he starts shaking like he's possessed, and he unloads a tidal wave of cum down her friggin throat!

Fuckin' A! He grunts, a beastly roar as he blows his load. He yanks his dick out, lets go of Red's hair, and she's left there, gagging and coughing up his load. A thick rope of his jizz dribbles down her chin, like some nasty-ass milkshake. Red's face is covered in his spunk. She's got that 'I'm pissed' look, but also a 'holy shit, that was amazing' look, like she just ate the best fucking dick ever.

I yank my meat out, settin' it free. In the flickerin' screen light, I can see the head glistening with pre-cum, already slick and ready. Spit in my hand, then smear it down the shaft, makin' it nice and wet for the ride. My dick's throbbing, veins poppin' out like blue lightning, the screen light makin' 'em flash like some sick light show.

The camera's doing a slow creep across this goddamn orgy pit, a writhing mass of flesh and filth. It's like a goddamn zoo, with every hole getting stuffed, licked, or pounded. The lens lingers on this chick, ass up in the air like she's offering it to the devil himself, just as this massive cock slides in from behind. We get a front-row seat to the pounding, every thrust, every moan, every goddamn jiggle.

I just settle back, get comfy, and let my imagination run wild. I'm picturing myself in that dude's shoes, gripping that babe by the waist, slamming my dick in and out with those long, slow, deliberate strokes. I'm working my dick, spitting a little more to get things nice and slick, matching my strokes to his on screen. Every thrust, every groan, I'm feeling it deep in my balls. I'm picturing her moaning my name, begging for more, her body writhing beneath me. I'm so close, I can almost taste it.

Then the camera's off again, showing couples going at it like rabbits, threesomes getting tangled up like goddamn pretzels. It stops on another chick, face buried between some broad's legs, getting her muff eaten like it's the last goddamn meal on earth. The camera keeps moving, more fucking, more swapping, more goddamn depravity, before finally circling back to Red.

She's getting absolutely railed, eyes rolled back, lost in the sauce. Just as she's about to peak, dude yanks his dick out and unleashes a creamy geyser all over her mound.

But she's not done yet. The crowd lifts her up, like some kind of goddamn sacrifice, and carries her to an altar. Her legs spread wider than the gates of hell, held open by these two sweaty, muscle-bound hunks with big dicks. And here comes Devil Doll, strutting in like she owns the place, rocking nothing but horns and a glistening, red strap-on that looks like it could pleasure a goddamn dragon. She's aiming that thing right at Red's sweet spot, ready to deliver some grade-A, fire-and-brimstone fuckin'. Fucking hell yeah.

Hocking up another glob of spit onto my dick, I start to work my dick with a purpose, my palm working its way up and down my slick rod in a steady beat. I hock up another glob, spit it down, work it over my hard dick. Shits's drippin', run down, soakin' my balls, down the crack of my ass, wettin' the seat.

Devil Doll swipes her fingers through the puddled cum, then smears it all over Red's swollen pussy lips. She wipes up some more, slathers that red monster, making it glisten. With a predatory grin, she positions the dildo at Red's entrance, and with a forceful thrust, sinks it deep, starting to fuck Red with long, powerful strokes.

The camera's all up in the action, showing every glistening thrust, every moan, every twitch. Then it pulls back, and you see the whole goddamn orgy pit--freaks rubbing themselves raw, groping each other like they're trying to start a goddamn fire. It's a goddamn zoo, a twisted reflection of what's happening on the 'stage'. Like, everyone's getting off on everyone else, a goddamn circle jerk of the damned. It's so wrong, it's right.

This ain't no bathroom quickie. Nah, this is a goddamn ritual, a spiritual offering. I know the score -- fast and furious ain't where the real party's at. It's the slow burn, the build-up, the goddamn tease that sends you straight to a glorious hell and back. Yeah, the journey's where the devil hides the good stuff.

The camera finds the Devil Dude. He's down low, face buried between the legs of this petite little thing, all dolled up in some kind of slave-girl getup. They're locked in a 69, and he's going to town on her wet, juicy pussy.

The auditorium fills with the sound of his wet, sloppy slurping, like he's trying to drink her dry. He's lapping and sucking, his tongue working overtime, teasing and tormenting her clit. She's squirming and moaning, her little body bucking against his face. Her moans get louder, more desperate, as he hits that sweet spot.

I'm enjoying the show, takin' it slow, finding a groove that makes the pleasure creep in slow and deep. When I feel that first goddamn pulse at the base of my cock, I ease off, hand sittin' right at the root, giving it a tight squeeze to hold back the motherfucking point of no return. This is the gritty skill of edging - pushin' to the edge of blasting off, then pulling back, over and over until the pleasure becomes so raw and intense, it's like pure ecstasy and torture all rolled into one.

Sweet little thing's body convulses, her pussy clenching around his face, and she erupts in a massive, shuddering orgasm. Her juices flow freely, a torrent of wetness flooding his face. He laps it up, a satisfied grin spreading across his demonic features. She's a mess, panting and twitching, completely spent. Devil Dude lifts his head, a thick string of her pussy juices hanging from his chin, and gives the camera a wink.

My breath deepens, as I get into the groove, pumpin' my fist and holdin' back when that goddamn pre-cum twitch hits. On screen, it's like they're fuckin' to my tempo, speedin' up and slowin' down, a dance of delayed gratification.

Up on the screen, Red's now humping some dude, her pussy milking his big dick, while she's also downing some other babe's wet pussy. The camera's cutting back and forth, big dick in, wet pussy out, like some kind of depraved tennis match. Then, bam! Another chick dives in, going to town on his balls. Red's pussy's practically overflowing, dripping like a busted faucet. And that dude's dick? Forget about it. It's glistening with her juice, a thick, white foam building up at the base, and shining like chrome as it slides in and out.

Back to the cum rush in my own body--the tightening in my balls, the tingling that spreads from my cock up through my gut, the way my thighs tense as I approach the edge. I slow my hand again, squeezing the base of my shaft firmly, denying myself release. The denial itself is a kind of pleasure--a sweet ache, a delicious frustration.

The fucking in the flick is getting intense. Red's going to town on his cock, her cunt pumping like a fucking machine. Man, seeing that big dick up on the big screen, all veiny and throbbing, is making my own junk twitch. The dudes close to blowin', grunting like a pig. Then, BAM! He arches his back, grabs Red's hips, and pushes deep into her, spasming as he pumps her full of his cum. When he's finished, Red slides off, cum's just pouring out of her, coating his dick and balls like some kind of unholy glaze. And then, get this, that chick at his balls starts slurpin' up that gooey mess like it's a goddamn gourmet meal. She's swallowing it all, eyes glazed over, like she just finished licking the world's best, warm, cum-filled dessert.

Jesus Christ, that scene had my dick singin' a goddamn opera. Almost blew my wad too. But I've been edging since puberty, learnin' to ride that wave, livin' in that sweet torture chamber. Like fillin' a water balloon 'til it's about to break. The longer you hold back, the bigger the goddamn eruption. Damn, I'm so worked up, I'm practically living that porn in my head while I'm edging myself, like I'm on autopilot.

Back in the flick, shit's gettin' crazy. Our chick Red's the center of attention again, surrounded by the cast of sinners focused on gettin' her off. They're going to town on her, hands, mouths, cocks, toys--she's bucking and moanin' like she's blissed out. But it's a goddamn performance, nothin' real about it. And here we sit, a room full of horny bastards, jerking off to their little show, gettin' our jollies, an extension of the freak show up on the big screen.

My free hand moves to cup my balls, rolling them gently between my fingers, adding another layer of sensation to the mix. I'm leaking steadily now, pre-cum flowing from the tip of my cock in a continuous stream, making my hand slick as it moves up and down my shaft. The wet sounds of my stroking are lost beneath the soundtrack of the film, but to my ears, they're thunderous, obscene, perfect.

The guy with the horned mask shows up again, grinnin' like a starving beast about to feast. He's slick with sweat, a goddamn mountain of muscle, tuggin' on his monster cock, eyes glued to the freaks using her like a goddamn playground. He's got a whole crew of sex-obsessed freaks worshipping him, touching his body, reaching for his dick, licking his skin, and planting wet, sloppy kisses all over him.

I spit some more, slobber my dick up real good, and match my rhythm to his, my hand moving in sync with his on-screen movements. There's a raw, animalistic power in this, across that screen--him in his fucked-up world, me in this dump, both of us pumpin' our fists to the same goddamn scene.

Red's cries grow more frantic, her body tensing visibly as she approaches her scripted climax. The horned guy's breathing becomes ragged, his hand moving faster on his dick. I know what's coming--the money shot, the visual payoff that these films are built around.

My own orgasm is building again, more insistent this time, a pressure at the base of my spine that threatens to explode outward. I'm still trying to edge, to delay, but my body has other ideas. The pleasure is too intense, the need for release too great. My hand moves faster, my grip tightening slightly, my breath coming in short gasps.

On screen, the horned fucker's hoverin' over Red, his big dick pointin' right at her face, while the rest of the freaks keep workin' her like a goddamn puppet. She looks up at him with those kohl-rimmed eyes, her black lips parted wide in anticipation. He throws his head back, a raw, primal yell, and unloads on her face. Every pump of his dick sends another hot stream flyin', coverin' her like a goddamn Jackson Pollock. That shit just keeps coming and coming.

That's my queue. I'm pushed over the edge. My orgasm rips through me with an intensity that makes me see stars, my back arching off the seat, my thighs tensing as waves of pleasure crash over me. Cum flies from my cock in thick spurts, splattering the seat, the floor, my hand, my shorts--marking my territory in this dark corner of anonymous pleasure.

I keep jerkin' through the after-shivers, squeezin' every last drop of that good shit, 'til the pleasure's a goddamn fire. Only then do I slow, hand coated in my own slimy jizz.

In the raw, jagged moments after I've blown my load, my chest heaving like a fuckin' animal, my heart starts to slow its frantic pounding, and I'm left there, breathless, staring at the mess I just made. The screen's glow catches the pearl rivers streamin' down my leg, and I grin, real wide, like that fuckin' cat in that fuckin' story. Hell yeah, I did that. My goo, thick as sin, clings to my thigh like it's tryin' to hold on for dear life. Without even thinkin'--just a primal, guttural instinct--I drag a finger through that slick stuff. Up to my lips, slurp, suck it clean. The familiar taste hitting my tongue. Sharp, salty, a little bitter'. It's mine, all mine. This is my weird-ass victory lap, my 'fuck yeah, me' moment. There's somethin' about this down and dirty, somethin' that makes me feel like I'm the only bastard alive, lost in this perfect, filthy high.

Plastered all over the screen, the orgy keeps on, they're fucking inventing new ways to fuck right there, bodies twisting into kinks no one's even named yet. Here? The heat's definitely cooled. That raw, pulsing intensity? Now it's just a soft hum against my skin, if you catch my drift. I've found my release, spent my desire in this dark room among strangers doing the same. Watch my dick droop, I finger a glob of my own spunk, and suck that shit down. Fuck yeah, I'm proud of myself.

Slumped back, a warm glow's spreading as I'm watchin' the rest of the show. Fuck yeah, the afterglow. Pure joy. The fourth row was lucky, I guess, just as Marge had promised. And that whole damn orgy? Just the right kind of filth to get me off.

Guilt? Nah, that shit ain't invited. Shame? Fuck that too. My messed up, pervy head doesn't go there. Just this raw, stupid grin and pure, animal bliss. Hand's back on my dick, slick and warm, and I ain't movin' a muscle. Nothin' but pure post carnal bliss.

My heartbeat gradually slows, the pounding in my ears subsiding to a gentle thrum. Sweat cools on my skin, raising goosebumps, despite the warmth of the theater. On screen, the hellish orgy continues, bodies twisting and merging in increasingly elaborate configurations, but I watch with the detached interest of a sated observer. The hunger that drove me here has been temporarily quieted, leaving room for other feelings to seep in--a trace of shame, a whisper of guilt, the Catholic residue I can never quite wash away.

Red's now takin' on three big cocks; in her wet pussy, another hard cock up her ass, and one fuckin' her mouth. Her moans have taken on a mechanical quality, her eyes occasionally flicking off-camera as if checking for direction. The artifice of it all is more apparent now that my own need has been satisfied--the cheap set dressing, the moaning voiceovers, those phony orgasms, covering up their pain faces.

Yeah, it's trash, but I'm getting a boner anyway. My dick, still sensitive from blowing my load, pulses when they show a big dick going into some soaking pussy, super slow. Man, it's the fuckin' curse and blessing of youth--being able to get it up again so soon after blowing your load. At nineteen, my recovery time is measured in minutes, not hours. If I stayed, I could easily squeeze out another load.

The thought brings with it a flush of something that's not quite shame but isn't pride either. Sister Mary Francis would call it the devil's whisper, this persistent desire that refuses to be satiated. In catechism class, she taught us that lust was a deadly sin because it was never satisfied, that it would consume us from within if we gave in to it. "The lustful man is like a starving dog," she used to say, her thin lips pressed into a disapproving line. "The more you feed him, the hungrier he becomes." Will fuck, sister, if I ain't got a big effin' appetite.

I didn't get it back then, at twelve, but I do now. Each orgasm brings temporary relief, but the hunger always returns, sometimes stronger than before. It's like scratching a mosquito bite--momentarily satisfying but ultimately making the itch worse. Shit, sister, like they say, "the worse the itch, the better the scratch."

Enough with the mind fuck off ramp, back to the here and now.

My cum is cooling on my thigh, sticky and uncomfortable now that the pleasure has faded. Some of it has soaked into my cutoffs, adding to the earlier stain from the train. I'll have to do laundry before Ma sees these shorts, or she'll have questions I can't answer. The thought of my Mom finding evidence of today's activities sends a jolt of real shame through me, cutting through the pleasant haze of post-orgasmic calm.

I shift in my seat, suddenly aware of my surroundings again. The seat beneath me is hard, the springs pressing into my tailbone. The air smells of disinfectant and bodily fluids, both old and fresh. A few rows behind me, someone coughs--a wet, phlegmy sound that reminds me I'm not alone in here. Other men sit in the darkness, seeking the same temporary relief I've found, each in our own bubble of desire and release.

The screen flickers, and the scene shifts again, diving deeper into the guttural chaos. Now, we're in some twisted throne room, straight out of a depraved nightmare. Red is now a satanic Slut Queen seated on a massive throne that looks like it's been carved from the bones of the damned, her fiery hair cascading down like flames from hell itself. She's rockin' a crown of twisted, black horns, her pale skin glistening under the sickly red glow of the infernal setting.

Circled on the floor around her, the orgy continues, a mess of fucking, cock sucking, pussy eating... A mass of naked, sweaty bodies, groveling at her feet like filthy, desperate sex slaves. They're offering up their bodies like sacrifices to her insatiable hunger, begging for her touch, her dominance, her mercy. To fuck or be fucked by her. It's all so over-the-top, so absurdly theatrical, but there's something primal and guttural about it that hits on a deep, almost ancient level.

Even with the jizz still sticky, my dick's already twitchin' again. My cock begins to harden, responding to the visuals, even as my mind remains in that floating, detached state. This is what I love about pornography, about sex in general--the way it bypasses the rational mind, speaking directly to the body. In these moments, I'm pure animal, pure instinct, freed from the complexities of thought and moral judgment.

But the renewed arousal feels different this time--less urgent, more like a background hum than a demanding screech. I could feed it if I wanted to, could slip my hand back into my shorts and coax myself to another climax. The devil's whisper, as Sister Mary Francis would say. But this time, although I feel that urge to answer, I stop.

I'm fuckin' done, for now. The journey from Dorchester to downtown, the girls on the train, the bathroom at Filene's, the lingerie section at Filene's, the hookers on Lagrange, the bathroom here, and now this--it's been a full day of sensory overload, of feeding the hunger that never quite goes away. But even insatiable desires have their limits, at least temporarily. Besides, I tell myself, I can jerk off when I shower.

So, I shoved my half-cock back in my shorts, zipped that bastard up slow. The fabric's scratchin', but I kinda like it, a souvenir of the good times. I wipe my hand on my thigh, cleaning off the last traces of cum as best I can.

On the screen, shit's gone nuts, and everything is about to blow--Red's like a freakshow queen, everyone's moanin' in ecstacy. It's all staged, a load of bullshit, nothin' like the real deal. The camera pulls back to show it all, a vision of hell that looks more like a damn heavy metal album cover, all flash and no fire.

I've seen enough. The spell is broken, the hunger fed. It's time to return to the world outside, to the heat and light of a Boston summer afternoon, to the person I pretend to be when I'm not in places like this. I stand, my legs slightly unsteady beneath me, and make my way toward the exit, leaving behind the evidence of my pleasure splattered on the seat and floor.

Pushing past the heavy door, the sound from the screen is gone, replaced by the relative quiet of the lobby. My eyes struggle to adjust to the brighter light, and for a moment, I feel exposed, vulnerable, as if everyone can see what I've been doing. But Marge is engrossed in her romance novel, Eddie nowhere to be seen, and the lobby is empty except for me.

I shuffle through the lobby toward the exit, already preparing myself for the transition back to the outside world, back to being Gabby from Dorchester, the good Catholic boy who should have been out looking for a job. But the other me--the one who jerks off in public, who tastes his own cum, who feeds the hunger that never quite goes away--he's coming too.

"So, did you get lucky, kid," I hear her voice call from the ticket booth.

I stop and glance back across the large, empty space. My eyes meet her's peering over the glasses. "Yeah, I guess you could say I did," I yell back.

"Good. Have a nice day, sweety," she says, then gets back to her book.

I push through the heavy doors of the Pilgrim and step out onto Washington Street, the late afternoon sun slapping me across the face like an angry lover. After the dark, comforting womb of the theater, the city's heat is a physical shock--but not an unpleasant one. The moist air wraps around me like a blanket, embracing me, welcoming me back to the world of the living. I stand for a moment on the sidewalk, my eyes adjusting to the brightness, my body adjusting to the temperature change. Sweat immediately begins to bead my forehead, but I don't mind. There's something cleansing about it, like the heat is burning away the seediness of the theater, purifying me with fire.

But damn, if the Zone doesn't look like shit in daylight. All that neon trash, just sad, empty fronts when the sun's blazing. A stripper chick's hosing down the sidewalk, water turnin' to steam when it hits the ground. Two suits stand puffin' smokes outside a book store, their faces plastered with bored contempt. A taxi cruises real slow, the driver scanning for potential fares--lost tourists or suit lookin' for a cheap thrill.

For a beat, I think, Fuck it, one last dance with the devil, up Lagrange, and the appreciation of hookers. But nah, I begin walking up Washington Street, toward Downtown Crossing and away from the zone. The stiffness in my cutoffs has faded, the cum stains from both my adventures today now dry and less noticeable. My body feels loose, relaxed, like all the tension I've been carrying has been released along with my seed. Skin's buzzin' in the heat, every breeze, every bit of cloth, feels like a goddamn caress.

The filthy sidewalk is crowded with late afternoon commuters--office workers heading home, shoppers laden with bags, tourists consulting maps with sweat-streaked faces. I weave through them, my pace unhurried, enjoying the sensation of being just another anonymous body in the flow of humanity. No one looking at me would guess where I've been, the shit I've done. The thought brings a small, secret smile to my lips.

A group of teenage girls passes me, all bare legs and summer tops, smelling of drugstore perfume and bubble gum. They giggle as they pass, one of them glancing back at me with appraising eyes. I feel that all too familiar twitch.

I reach the edge of Downtown Crossing, the shopping district's bustling with late-day activity. Filene's department store looms ahead, its windows reflecting the slanting afternoon sun. I pause, remembering the lingerie section in the basement, that cute, little slut examinin' red panties, the pornographic fantasy I constructed around her. It seems like days ago rather than hours, as if my visit to the Pilgrim has created a fold in time, separating my earlier self from the present one.

For a brief moment, I consider going back inside, revisiting the basement to see if they have any of those Frederick's of Hollywood panties in my size. I've done it before--bought women's underwear under the guise of getting a gift for a girlfriend, then worn them in the privacy of my room, enjoying the silky feel against my skin, the forbidden thrill of crossing boundaries. But not today. I've had enough thrills for one afternoon.

Instead, I continue up Winter Street to the Park Street station, where I'm more likely to get a seat. The commuter crowd has started, everyone eager to get home after serving their 9-to-5. I join the stream of bodies flowing down the stairs into the underground world of the subway, fishing in my pocket for my token, the temperature dropping noticeably with each step.

The station is a hive of activity--people scranblin' to catch trains, others standing in clumps studying the system map, a cute chick playing guitar for scattered change, the garbled, tinny announcement of arrivals and departures echoing off tiled walls. I make my way down more steps to the south bound Red Line platform.

The place is getting jammed, everyone jockeyin' for position as a train approaches, its headlights cutting through the tunnel darkness like the eyes of some great mechanical beast. The screech of brakes fills the station as it slows to a stop, doors sliding open to release a wave of passengers before absorbing those of us waiting.

Shuffling into a car less crowded than most, I managing to find a seat near the door. The vinyl is warm beneath me, and I have a momentary flash of the seat I left behind on my way in, marked with my pleasure. I wonder if someone has sat there since, unknowingly sharing in my intimate moment.

The doors close with a familiar pneumatic hiss, and the train lurches forward, haulin' my ass back toward Dorchesta' and my digs. I lean my head against the window, watching the darkness of the tunnel interrupted by flashes of light as we pass stations. My reflection stares back at me--tousled blonde hair, flushed face, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. I look like what I am--a young man who's spent the day in pursuit of pleasure and found it.

The rhythm of the train is hypnotic, rocking me into a state of peaceful contemplation. Today has been good--better than good. The girls on the train this morning, the lingerie section, the hookers on Lagrange, the Pilgrim with its hellish orgy and the final, perfect release. Each experience builds on the last, creating a tapestry of sensation that I'll revisit tonight in the shower, perhaps tomorrow morning in my bed, and in the future. Till the memory is replaced with more current carnal escapades.

We pass through stations--South, Broadway, Andrew--the train emerges from the tunnel into the open air, the late afternoon sun beams through the windows, warming my skin. I close my eyes, turning my face toward the heat, savoring the sensation. There's something about summer in Boston that heightens everything--makes colors more vivid, sensations more intense, desires more urgent. The heat breaks down barriers, melts inhibitions, creates a world where anything seems possible.

Each stop brings me closer to Ashmont, to the neighborhood where I'm just Gabby, the unemployed college dropout, the fuckup who lives with his parents. With each stop, I feel myself transforming back into that person, shedding the devil-may-care adventurer, the seeker of risky pleasures, like a snake shedding its skin. Back to that familiar, shy, 19-year old kid that everyone knows so well.

By the time we reach Ashmont Station, I'm put together--just another rando heading home after a day in the city. I exit the train with the others, out the turn style, and begin the short walk to our triple-decka' on Adams Street. The street's alive with early evening activities--kids playing street hockey, a couple of old men sittin' on a stoop drinking beer, Mrs. Donovan watering her tomato plants while her cat watches from the porch railing.

Our house sits mid-block, its weathered clapboards painted a pale blue that's fading in the relentless sun. The concrete steps leading to the front door are cracked, with dandelions pushing through despite Dad's constant weeding. It's nothing special--just a working-class home in a working-class neighborhood. But it's mine, for now at least, until I figure out what comes next.

I climb the steps, my legs carrying the pleasant fatigue of a day spent messin' around in the city. The door is unlocked--no one bothers locking up during the day in this neighborhood. Inside, the house is stuffy, fans hummin'.

"That you, Gabby?" Ma calls from the kitchen.

"Yeah, Ma, it's me," I answer, slipping off my sneakers.

"You left the bathroom fan on again."

"Sorry, Ma. I'll try and rememba' next time."

She appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron, her face flushed from the heat. Her eyes--the same blue as mine--scan me up and down, taking in my disheveled appearance, the sweat stains on my t-shirt, the wrinkled cutoffs. But she doesn't see what's not visible--the dried cum, the memories of the day's adventures, the secret life I lead when I'm away from this house.

"Where've ya been," she asks. "You're dad's gonna be home soon and he expects dinner to be ready. Did ya forget you said you'd be grillin' tonight? I picked up the meat n' buns on the way home."

"Nah ma, I didn't. I'll go fire up the grill and shower. It'll be ready to go when I get out."

Last night I had promised I'd grill dinner, so that my Mom wouldn't need to cook in this heat. Sure, it ain't much, but I do try to help out when I can. I'm not a total fuckup.

"Did you have a nice day?" she asks, her voice carrying that mixture of love, hope, and a resignation that's become familiar since school ended.

I smile, meeting her eyes with practiced innocence. "Yeah, Ma. It was a real good day."

And it was. One of the best. I wasn't lyin'.