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The author “Chance” is me, “Larkin” This is an effort to re-compose my old roster into a new roster comprised old and new works, re-written and done with more careful editing. (omitting junk) I hope you will understand.
Please send comments to: larkin@tutanota.com...And I will respond
First published a year and a half ago under the title of “New York 1912” placed in the historical forum but a goodly number of people missed it. This gives me the opportunity to tidy it up and add to it here and there and restructure the ending.
This is a work of fiction. All disclaimers associated with homosexuality will apply without exception. There is reference to some drug use that is in character with the period but it is only incidental and not to proselytize. Persons portrayed in this story are fictitious or at best, coincidental.
Waiting for the Titanic
by Chance
Part 4
St. Paul's Episcopal School for Boys
Robbie, my ill-fated Latin tutor, revealed to me, the art and magic of masturbation. It lit a fire that could not be doused except by periodic and frequent manual manipulations. I looked forward to each daily devotion with relish and urgent anticipation. It was exactly at this time that I began to eye the boys in my class at St Paul's School. During study I would scan the room looking for a boy of like mind or a boy that might return a knowing glance. There was Horton, a pudgy red head that from what I saw, had a penis no bigger than a button and that if I would see him naked I imagined that he might look like a large winged, pink baby one sees in a museum painting. There was Richard who was dark and sullen and entirely too studious. He never smiled or took note of any of my inquiring stares. Myles was blond and cute and actually a very good friend. I liked that he didn't have a serious bone in his body. More about him later.. Then there was Anthony Grey. Although none of us could really be aware of our own impending puberty, there were a few exceptions like Tony Grey. For some unexplained reason, he had a head start on all of us. Only a little taller than me he was beginning to show some signs of masculine maturity. The more obvious sign was a trace of a future mustache. One of the fathers at school suggested to him that maybe it was time for him to practice shaving. Sitting next to him in class, I glanced up to see a red faced Tony squirming uncomfortably in his seat. A large erection had come up in his pants and it was plainly visible as a large lump. He tried to hide it but it was too big. I suddenly realized that this is what I'd been looking for all along.
Towards the end of the day I came up to him. "Tony, where do you live?"
Since we were familiar with each other, he was very easy to talk to.
"On the other side of the park on 80th.."
"Would you like to come over and visit with me after school?"
He favored the idea and at the end of the day, we met up and made the walk to my house.
Anthony Gray
Whatever had been bothering him in class had subsided and Tony was now polite and focused. As we entered the front door, the maid appeared but when she saw that it was only me and a friend, she retreated back down to the kitchen. I took Tony upstairs to show him my room. Tony's parents were well off so he was not overly impressed with my surroundings. There was a globe of the world on my desk and He pointed out all the places he had traveled to with his parents. His father had an automobile and he invited me to come next time they went on an outing. In the spirit of exploration we went up the back stairway to the 4th and 5th floor. Both floors were dusty and unlived in. There was no furniture or carpet so our voices and footsteps echoed in the empty rooms.
I felt Tony behind me when he said, "Is it haunted up here."
I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know, maybe?"
When boys suddenly discover that they are unsupervised and out of reach of parents and teachers, there is a tingling feeling that starts first in the belly and then the mind. It is the thought that everything forbidden is suddenly possible if only for a little while. I felt it and I am sure Tony felt it.
In spite of that, I was afraid that nothing was going to happen unless I did something first.
Remembering a quote in some school book about inventions, I recited it to myself.
"The boy who takes risks reaps the reward."
The room was large with windows that looked down onto the street. In the corner there was a large pot harboring a long dead neglected plant. I stood back and taking out my penis, I peed up high and into the pot. Tony responded with amused shock. When I finished with a series of diminishing squirts, I began to stroke it into an erection. I watched carefully for his reaction. When it was stiff and standing I lowered my pants and pulled up my shirt so that he could see my growing penis and neatly packed scrotum.
I gave him an encouraging smile. "No one ever comes up here."
Cautiously he looked around the room as if someone might be hiding in a corner and when he was sure it was just the two of us, he began to open his pants. I was pretending to be only about half interested, pulling my stiff penis down and letting it flip up like a clockwork spring. He had pubic hair, which I didn't. His penis was long with a pointy tipped foreskin. Mine had a pointy foreskin but it wasn't nearly as long. Tony's cock was a genuine handful and mine was certainly not. Where he used his fist to stroke, I relied on the nimble dexterity of my fingers just to keep it on track.
I smiled at him and said, "You had a big stiff dork in class and I wanted to see it."
Without an invitation I took hold of it, handled it and made it rise and stiffen in my hand. He watched me with passive but breathless approval. I discovered the special intoxication that goes with feeling someone else's rising pleasure. Remembering Mr. Robbie's methods, I stroked Tony's cock up and down along with my own. Another thing he had that I didn't have was jizum and lots of it. It didn't take long at all and when it resolved, it squirted out and spattered on the floor. Standing back after it was done, I marveled at what a fascinating object it was...
Wednesday, April 16th, 1912
Billy came round the block just as I left the front door of my building. He came up alongside of me as if this was his natural and rightful place.
"I smiled at him and said, "let's go to breakfast."
If Daniel Drake was there I had already decided to introduce Billy as my young nephew.
He chirped up at me. "I would much rather visit with you than go to school."
I found my usual table at the Little Cup Cafe and made room for Billy. The cranky waiter was back and took my order for coffee toast and a soft boiled egg. Billy got juice and wheat cakes.
When the manager passed by I said to him out of earshot, "You've got the cranky waiter back?"
The pudgy manager rolled his eyes. "I know, I had to fire that other one because he was a crazy loon."
After the manager moved on I thought to myself, so Daniel had been fired. Poor boy.."
I felt bad for him but agreed with the manager that he was a silly loon.
I had the whole day to spend with Billy and I was saving the best part of our encounter for just a little later. I liked listening to his conversation. He didn't mind just so long as he wasn't at school. We purchased every cake and candy along the way ending up at Washington Square, where we sat out on the spring grass in the act of enjoying the warm Spring day.
I inquired, "I suppose you have lots of brothers and sisters?"
"No, just me and my dad."
"No mum?"
Preoccupied with a blade of grass he finally said, "No, she died a while ago when she was birthing a baby, they both died."
I offered my condolences.
"So what don't you like about school?"
"Mostly the nuns. They have it in for me and I get hit all the time."
He looked up at me and said, "I don't think they like my face."
I had to laugh. "Billy, how could anyone not like you? What does your dad say about that?"
"He says it's good for me but he's just as liable to hit me too."
"You seem fairly polite to me, why does he hit you?"
"I don't know? Mostly when he comes home from drinkin."
Billy asked me if I had a smoke? I gave him the box of Fatimas I had been carrying around in my jacket pocket and watched while he dug through it to retrieve a single cigarette for himself. I readied myself with a match. I guessed that made him feel like an adult. I certainly enjoyed watching a small boy engaged in the act of smoking. It wasn't until mid-day that I began to recover from the fatigue of the previous night. Billy and I made our way back to my flat. He already knew what being in an enclosed room with a man could mean and he had been here once already with me. Billy needed no encouragement and he went right for my cock, tugging and pulling my pants open. I lay back on my bed and let him have his way. All social and moral taboo aside, it amazes me how instinctual each of these sexual behaviors are. All of us have a natural inclination to perform them if the circumstances are right. They'd like to say that it is bad behavior learned from the streets but I just don't believe that. I believe that it was there all long only waiting to be roused. Even my diary and my efforts to put these acts into words is just a silly parity of human nature. Once naked and on my bed, he knew exactly what to do. It was instinct or that or practice at the hands of someone else. While lying back on my bed, he spread his untidy behind and seated himself on my tongue. The boy jerked off with my tongue wiggling up his rectum. I am embarrassed to say that I couldn't get enough.
Peter
Peter stood at my door looking exhausted and forlorn. He had been working for four days straight and now, weaving on his feet, I motioned him in to my sanctuary. There had been an April downpours off and on all day and his heavy wool uniform was soaked. I pulled off his jacket and hung it up to dry. The boy just seem to drop onto my divan. He had already out-grown his uniform and he had to buy a new one with his own funds. His pants rode high revealing his falling down socks and the seat of his pants fit close, clinging tightly to the cleft that guarded his boy hole. He lay quietly, perhaps already asleep or at least feeling secure and safe in my bed. I reached under him and opened his pants so that I could tug his damp pants to his knees. He lay limp while I pulled off each shoe and toe holed sock so that I could get his damp and clingy pants all the way off.
Because of the pressure of the crisis in the North Atlantic with its tragic loss of life, Peter had not been able to make his weekly stop at the Russian baths. His body was strong with perspiration and adolescent sweat. It was a strong smell but to me, not a bad smell. I pulled under drawers down off of his rear and spread his behind to see his boy hole. It was fermented and untidy from running and not being able to tend to himself properly but then, I could not resist sticking my tongue up his dirty bottom. this is why he had come to me for refuge. I thought to myself, tomorrow I will take him to buy new clothes so that he will be a beautiful boy, soon to be handsome man. He lay naked and asleep and I cover us both with the multicolored quilt and pull him close and spoon with him while he sleeps.
A day spent with Peter
Before it was even light I could feel him waking. We were conscious of each other but maintained the solitude of repose for a little while longer. Peter was unwashed and his scent was intense and intoxicating making me perpetually erect. He was stiffly erect as well and I stroked and cherished him, allowing him to fall back into a dreamy state. We slept on for another hour or two, peaceful, content and safe from the worries of the world.
Over breakfast, Peter plowed through his syrup covered, wheat cakes. He went on with a mouth full of food.
"And this one bitch had a whole lifeboat for herself while people all around her were screaming and drowning in ice cold water. I bet she had an umbrella that she used to beat them back if they tried to climb on board. The Carpathia is due in today or tomorrow with about 400 survivors. I bet they'll all be wearin diamond crowns made out of jewels."
Peter snarled under his breath. "Mostly rich mucky mucks."
He looked up and narrowed his eyes at me, leveling his contempt for the upper classes. "Like you Edmund, you're rich and they'd save you on a velvet pillow and let some poor sod, his wife and little baby drown to death."
"Peter, that's unfair and it's unkind to me. I am not as rich as you imagine and I am very sympathetic to the working classes. I voted for TR and I occasionally I even vote socialist."
After breakfast we made our way cross-town to the Russian baths. The male side was populated with a lot of fat old naked Russian and Ukrainian men. This bath was utilitarian and did not approve of any amoral behavior. In spite of that, Peter was brazen and walked around with a 9 o'clock high erection. The Russians were Orthodox and the Ukrainians were Catholics and they did not approve of sex unless it was hidden.
He came up to me and laughingly whispered in my ear, "There's a fat ass you can really sink your teeth into. Edmund you think you can squeeze your tongue up that ass?”
From there we went to the approved uniform store down on 14th. They were ready-mades so we brought them with us to Brooks on the Westside on 23rd St. where I decided to let them do all the fittings.
"Peter McGuire, you'll be the best looking telegram delivery boy in New York City!"
At Brooks, Peter was fitted for a dark blue corduroy suit, shirts, socks, a new pair of shoes and under garments of which I owed to him for stealing his soiled underpants, twice before.
I keep the dirty underwear that he generously gifted to me, safely hidden. When I take them out and sniff them, it provokes a vivid image of this delicious boy. We waited at Brooks while they completed the fitting on one of the two suits so that he might wear it out of the store. The rest to be delivered by Monday. He wisely kept his trap shut during my spending spree. The new clothes transformed Peter into a man about town or perhaps a scion of a prominent family. He preened himself and strut around like the rake he is and was proud to the point of becoming almost obnoxious. In a single moment he became a garish character suitable for the vaudeville stage. I had to laugh. Because of his formal attire, we were able to have lunch in a finer restaurant where I introduced Peter to the maitre d as the Duke of Brunswick here on a world tour.
Peter extended his hand to the maitre. “Pleasure to meet-ya!” His Brooklyn accent left the maitre with no doubts.
He was beside himself with good humor, so much so that I was afraid that he'd burst. I made sure there was plenty of wine.
During the course of the meal he talked me into going out to the Slide down on the Bowery in the later evening. According to him, there would be all sorts of crazy festivities and it doesn't even begin until after 10 at night.
"They'll be plenty of your kind of boys there."
At the moment, my interest was squarely on Peter. I had to agree to go out slumming just to placate him. He wanted to go out to show off his new clothes. I couldn't blame him?
His Master's Voice
It was late afternoon when we got back to my flat and there was some uneasy tension between us. Peter was used to being the cock of the walk but he knew he had been plied for sex and the bill was coming due. To be beholding to anyone was an uncommon role for him. There were certain things that he would do or allow me to do. However, he did not allow himself to be fucked up the bottom. He didn't mind if I made all the moves just as long as he was dominant. It was his way of protecting his maturing masculinity. Undressing him was met with some resistance not on moral grounds or modesty but because he didn't want to part with his new clothes.
“Edmund, fold my pants, don't just throw them on the floor. Edmund, hang my shirt on the chair so it don't get all wrinkled!”
"Don't worry Peter, I will had wash your underthings too."
I have never been a maid but for Peter, I would be his slave and to submit to whatever would embolden him. It was easy because Peter and I shared the same interest. We were both interested in Peter.
Once naked, he lay like a supple cat responding to each stroke and pet. He erected stiffly exposing a firm round scrotum that had a seam leading back to his boy hole. He was well aware of my preoccupation with his bottom and made it easily available and he'd grin down at me when I disgraced myself. Conversely, he demonstrated little or no interest in me. This was usual for him and I didn't mind. However this time would prove to be different.
His passivity took a different turn.
In a whispering voice he said, "Do it."
I wasn't sure what he meant.
Looking up at me, he pulled both legs back making his hole entirely accessible.
He said in a uncommonly soft voice. "You know what I mean, fuck me. Just this one time."
It was an invitation I could not refuse. To make it easy and hopefully pleasing to him, I used liberal amounts of mineral oil to make my cock slick and his rectum easy for penetration.
As I began to penetrate him he said, “Remember, just this one time.”
I was gentle and grateful.
It was not loud or urgent but he grunted and groaned at the depth of my penetrations. "Peter, are you alright?"
"I am, it's not really that bad. Keep doin it only go a little faster."
I suggested, “Try jerking off while I'm doing it.”
Because he was not accustomed, the mineral oil proved to be essential.
Not wanting it to end, I went in and out in a predictable and measured rate and only as much as he would tolerate. He seemed to be enjoying it and appeared to be getting increasing pleasure from it. His cock was absolutely rigid and slick with mineral oil. Both of his balls were clutched at its base. He was stroking himself as I fucked. I imagine that this image would shock most people but I found our coupling very, sublime. He suddenly became boisterous and letting go of his cock, it strained up and squirted onto his belly. I felt his bottom clutching and squeezing my cock hard and I too let go synchronizing our resolution.
Breathing hard, we lay together for a while. After a bit, Peter disengaged himself, sat up and looked around the room. "Just so's you know, you're the only one I'd let fuck me as long as you don't tell no one else.”
Of course, I agreed to his generous terms.
The Slide
The Slide was in an old theater on the Bowery. The structure had fallen into disrepair when the Vaudeville houses moved up to 42nd Street. There they clustered around the moving picture theaters in the newly re-named, Times Square. The Slide moved in and it soon became one of the more popular dives in town. Peter liked to say that the Slide's notorious reputation was because they only let the bad people in and turned away the good and the pious. They did not like nosy churchmen, suffragettes and the temperance league do-gooders because they were bad for business. If they got in on the sly they would then evoke God's wraith on the sinners claiming that the Slide was a new Sodom and Gomorrah and that something must be done! They would be quickly followed by newspaper reporters looking for a juicy story about vice and depravity. As a result, outrage would spread across the city and the Slide would have to close until public indignation subsided.
The seats were removed and a small orchestra consisting of only a concertina or a piano, clarinet, and a single drum would preside over a fairly large and dimly lit dance floor. At the moment the tango was very popular. It created a meeting place where the upper classes could mingle with the lower, engaging in what Peter casually called, slumming. We were dressed with just enough flash to fit nicely in without drawing too much attention. With Peter as my guide I met a number of his acquaintances. He introduced me to some young girls and more than a few attractive young men. If I became too interested in any particular boy he would lead me away. Peter's no fool. He was just protecting his interests.
The Peep Show
He guided me to a queue where a few people were waiting to climb a fight of stairs that lead further into the building's dark interior. At the top of the stair there was a fare of 50 cents to be paid for entry to a darkened room. In the center of the room was a small illuminated stage that was separated from us with a dark screen or scrim. This allowed us to see the two performers and their actions but they could not see the people gathering around to watch. It was an elaborate peep show. On the very small stage was a brutish sailor type. A tough customer to say the least. He appeared to be courting a young lady who was above his class. She pretended to be pure and innocent. The sailor's advances were coarse and vulgar. The young lady tried to look away every time the sailor did something rude. It got interesting when he began to shake his sizable cock in his pants in a flagrant and obscene manner. The pace was just right to evoke an erotic response from me and I became completely absorbed in this low class rape and seduction. I especially enjoyed how the young lady feigned shock and embarrassment. She did not resist when he lifted her dress in an effort to pull her undergarments aside and expose her bottom. When it was revealed that the young lady had an erect cock of modest proportions and scrotum between her legs. Many people laughed out loud. This did not discourage the sailor's intent because after all he was a sailor and is no stranger to buggery.
Peter whispered into my ear. “Edmund, doesn't that person look familiar to you?”
I looked at the sailor. But didn't recognize him as anyone I might know.
Peter said, “Not the sailor, the lady getting her asshole fingered.”
I studied her and didn't recognize her either..
He shook me away from the fantasy that was being played out. “Edmund, that's Daniel Drake, the waiter from the Little Cup Cafe, remember?”
Suddenly I saw it. I was astounded. Just then, no longer shy and demure, the lady/Daniel turned towards the audience and spread his ass so that all could see his dilated fuck hole. Some laughed and a few even applauded.
Peter whispered in my ear again. “Now that ought to look familiar.”
It was time to retreat.
325 West 76th Street.
The next morning was Sunday and I had to make an obligatory visit to my Mother at her house on 76th street. She hasn't been well and the doctor pays her visit at least once a week. In spite of this, I decided to bring Peter along.
Peter, what would you like to be. I mean when I introduce you to my Mother, what should I say your purpose is?”
The was the sort of game Peter liked.. “What's wrong with the Duke of Bushwick?”
“You mean, Brunswick. We've done that one already. Think of something else.
It wasn't above Peter to parade around as something he isn't but he is a little short on imagination. “I don't know?”
“Suppose we tell her that you are one of the survivors from the Titanic and that your entire family, including your industrialist father drowned that dark night. The only reason you survived was that you were helping women and children get into the lifeboats. We could say that you are due to get a metal for bravery.”
Peter responded. “Yeah, I like that idea..”
I wasn't about to walk 65 blocks up town so we took a noisy auto-carriage.
Peter was struck silent at the sight of the 5 story townhouse. We climbed the front steps to the entry way and we were met by the maid. She was wearing a face mask, the kind used to avoid contagion and a serous gray pall seemed to hang over the house. Before I went in, I was provided with a mask like the maid was wearing.
The maid said, “Maybe you should let her sleep, she was up coughing all night.“
I felt it was better not to bring Peter in with me. After a string of alcoholic lovers and very bad decisions on her part, our family attorney, Thomas Williamson and I stepped in to manage her financial affairs. Not long after that she entered a steep physical decline. She became bed ridden but continued to drink. I suggested that she try opium but she wouldn't hear of it. She slept the whole time I was there and I sat reading a letter the doctor left for me when I came by. In the letter, the doctor suggested that it might be consumption and any chance of recovery was unlikely. Talking to the maid I asked if she thought that my mother needed a full time nurse. She suggested a friend but I felt that maybe the doctor would know better. Afterwards I decided to take Peter on a tour of the house starting with the large parlors and dining rooms on the 2nd floor. She got the house when my parents separated and yes, of course, this place was way too big for us but it suited the pretentious vision she had of herself.
I stopped and looked at Peter for a moment and said, “When I was eleven, my mother stopped on her way out to some social engagement and said, “Edmund, we've gotten bad news from California, your father has died. Some sort of accident I think.” Then without a further word, she continued out the door.”
Peter could see that this was a serious event in my life. “What was your father like?”
Staring down at the oriental runner on the floor I said, “I don't know.. I don't even remember what he looked like.”
We pressed on to the 3rd floor this time avoiding my mother's sick room. My bed room had two beds and all my toyish and boyish belongings from a long time ago.
Peter looked around. “This room is bigger than your entire flat on 10th St.”
I told him the story of Mr. Robbie, my Latin tutor and showed him the little room where he slept.
Up on the 5th floor, we surveyed the empty rooms and discarded furniture that lay here and there. The isolation and unlikely chance of intrusion caused me to focus my attention on Peter's bottom. He moved quickly ahead of me opening this door and that, in an act of ecstatic exploration. His new pants provided a spectacular fit for his bottom and his animated energy was causing my cock to rise in the desolation of the abandon rooms. I know from experience that Peter has a daily dose of jizum that builds in urgency and must be released everyday. If I don't do it, I fear that it is entirely possible that he will look else where and find somebody who will do it.
I righted an old cot in preparation and then captured Peter in my arms. I pressed my cock into the tight fitting seat of his pants. His resistance was feeble and inconsistent.
“You aren't going to do what you did to me yesterday?” but then he fell into the cot in a position inviting exactly that.
“It's too soon to do it without mineral oil. If I do you will be in ruins by the time I'm done and I don't want you to develop an aversion to getting fucked by me so it will wait till I get home.”
Stroking his positioned bottom and going down between his legs I felt the front of his pants being filled with his erecting cock. Peter was a startling and beautiful piece of work. I opened his pants and pulled them down off his bottom. Unfortunately his new undergarments were not fully seasoned yet but he was working on them. There was some evidence in the part that rubs up against his boy hole.
Pants down, On his hands and knees, forequarters down and bottom up high and upright for me to inspect and probe. Peter was jerking off in anticipation. For the moment, my tongue would have to do. I spread his ass wide and probed deep with a spit covered forefinger paving the way for my tongue. I think a favor licking boy's asshole above all else. I know men of like mind who wouldn't dream of this indignity. My favorite day dream is to have a serpent-like tapering tongue as long as a penis that I would use to penetrate filthy boy's bottoms. Perhaps there was telepathy between us because just as I was savoring my fantasy while probing Peter's behind hole. He ejaculated streams of juzum. The act caused his rectum to squeeze hard on my tongue in a brief and exquisite rhythm. It was a memorable experience.
Please send comments to:larkin@tutanota.com...And I will respond