Rhonda Fleming Made Me a Bum Boy


In the 50's, there wasn't much stuff to jerk off to, even in New York City. Not for a naïve, constantly horny Irish Catholic kid who'd just turned 18. There were those nudist magazines with the airbrushed genitalia (boring) and sometimes I'd stumble over a bonanza like an issue of Argosy Magazine that ran a four-page spread on exotic dancer Lily Christine (the queen of my wet dreams) which prompted at least a quart of hot young semen to spurt into our bathroom sink. There were, of course, those shabby little porno shops along 42nd Street, but being raised as I was, I couldn't bear the embarrassment of being seen going in and worse, coming out with an incriminating paper bag. My on-again-off again girlfriend, Jeannie , provided some after-movie sex in the form of dry hump sessions in her hallway but that usually ended in an agonizing "blue ball" subway ride home.

I was addicted to frequenting the movie theaters in the area that showed racy imports or B-movies about scantily clad babes bumping-and-grinding around a fire on remote island when they weren't being chased by zombies. One Saturday afternoon if found an Italian sword-and-sandal epic called "Slaves of Babylon" starring Rhonda Fleming, that gorgeous redhead whose fading Hollywood career led her (and many others like Victor Mature and Farley Granger) to replace vanishing Hollywood dollars with abundant lira. The publicity cards outside showed the semi-nude Rhonda undulating while kinkily holding a chain. The movie was just starting so I bought a ticket and went in, already semi-erect in anticipation. I knew I was going to be jerking off into my handkerchief during Rhonda's dance so I took the stairway to the balcony and found a remote seat in back to insure my privacy. I leaned back and prepared myself mentally for the badly dubbed, badly acted, and badly scripted Babylonian nonsense to be endured before Rhonda's dance.

It was about 10 minutes in when he sat down beside me.

I thought it strange and annoying that with so many available seats, this guy chose to plop himself down right next to me. My sheltered 19th century upbringing and education did not allow my conscious mind to explore the implications of why a man would sit close to another when there's plenty of room elsewhere. With my peripheral vision could see what appeared to be a London Fog trench coat and he smelled vaguely of an expensive after shave. I was definitely annoyed by this guy's flagrant violation of my space, especially since he was ruining my jerk-off plans. I decided to seek out a more private spot and I rose to go.

"Stay where you are," the man next to me murmured gently.

I stood frozen in place, while every instinct told me to get the hell out of there. But a strange, even stronger feeling kicked in when I looked into his face. His expression (he looked a bit like the actor, Gabriel Byrne) was neither friendly nor unfriendly but most of all there seemed to be an aura of command about him. As if he assumed there were no alternatives for me but to sit back down.

I sat back down.

I had no idea what was going on inside me and couldn't figure out why I hadn't left. I nervously reached into my bomber jacket for a wrinkled pack of Pall Malls and lit up. The nicotine calmed my nerves and as time passed (and not a peep out of the stranger on my right) I gradually relaxed and drifted back into movie which at this point was showing a chariot hunt with the usual "roaring lion" stock footage. At last it was almost time for Rhonda to display her writhing charms in what appeared to be a Babylonian orgy. Out she came at last, dragging a muscular male slave behind her on a chain. My cock was trying to push it's way through my Levi's as she taunted him with her writhing dance of sexual domination. It was killing me that I couldn't touch myself and bring relief, not with that guy right next to me.

That's when I felt his hand on my thigh.

Alarm bells and sirens were shrieking in my head and once again, all my Irish Catholic instincts were telling me to sweep that invading hand away, jump up, and leave. If he had touched me a few minutes earlier, before Rhonda's provocative love dance had moved all my consciousness to my rigid cock, that's exactly what I would have done. But now I was helpless.. He'd timed it just right and had moved in for the kill.

I continued staring at Rhonda's swaying hips but all I could think about was that strong, large, male hand undoing my garrison belt and lowering my zipper. I was in his power now and I obediently shifted my weight to allow him to reach in and pull my overheated cock and balls clear of my white Fruit-Of-The-Loom jockey shorts.

"Very pretty", the stranger whispered approvingly as he observed in the dim light my circumcised six-and-a-half-incher and its, perfectly shaped mushroom head. I leaned back and closed my eyes, lost in the sensation of being worked and manipulated by an obviously expert lover of men. Until that moment, the possibility of sexual pleasure with another male just hadn't existed for me. Homosexual men were faggots, fairies, and fruits who did disgusting things with each other! But now that he had turned towards me and was using both his hands on my genitalia it was all I could do to stop myself from filling the theater with my cries of ecstasy. He was driving me crazy and I was panting like a race horse. Time and again, when I was on the verge of coming he would squeeze me in such a way that my orgasm would stop. Then he'd quietly shush me and get me to relax for a few minutes before working me again. He was driving me crazy!

Finally (the movie was almost over), after suppressing another semen explosion, he pulled his hands away and told me to zip up. I was almost weeping in anger, disappointment and frustration as I managed to squeeze my painful erection back into my pants. My balls were killing me, too.

"We're going to my apartment now."

Again, he had that commanding, presumptive tone but this time it didn't work. Even in the throes of the high-pitched state of sexual arousal he'd caused I knew there was a big difference between an anonymous hand-job in a dark theater and letting another man have his way with you in his bed. What if my family and Jeannie found out? Christ Almighty!

"No! I can`t do it", I cried while jumping up to leave. He grabbed my wrist and for the first time I became aware of his strength as he easily yanked me back down and began to pull my hand towards his lap. I was about to touch another man's cock and the thought filled me with shock and revulsion!

"Please, don't do that", I whimpered as he dragged my fingers along the length of what felt like a large, powerful snake, straining to burst free of his trouser leg. It was like touching a 50,000 watt live wire that instantly blew all my circuits...and all my resistance. I suddenly felt subservient, as if a king had brandished his scepter to establish his rule over me.

Releasing my hand, the stranger stood up, turned, and walked away without a backward glance. He'd no doubt that I'd be following right behind him, obsessing about and fearing what he'd do to me with that stallion cock.

And I did follow. Closely. With my head bowed.

As if there were a leash around my neck.