Poetic bondage with Shay, Part 1 m/f

[calebtras]

Poetic bondage with Shay, Part 1
From as early as I can remember, my cousin Shay and her mother would visit us from Philadelphia a few times each year. As latchkey kids with single moms, rare among Irish Catholics then, Shay and I became very close. When I was twelve, she thirteen, I took her to the corner egg cream store, where Shay shimmied in her short daisy patterned sundress for the old Jewish owner, her pretty freckled face split with a smile, tossing her waves of strawberry blond hair. I collected sodas and bags of candy, bulging under my t-shirt just below the counter, as Shay paid for chewing gum then danced the mashed potato behind me, and out the door. As we walked through the neighborhood, boys stared, jealous of me. To have her for myself, I took her on the bus to Prospect Park to walk and talk.
Shay loved reading and discussing ideas just as I did, but while it made me totally uncool in my working-class Brooklyn neighborhood, she dominated any room she walked into. Intense, singing along with the Velvet Underground and Ramones and dancing, hippy sandals winding up long shapely legs, thrusting hips and breasts, she mesmerized males from 14 to 70. She was my mentor on alternative rock, religion and philosophy, and girls.
Whenever we talked, she made me pay close attention, look her in the eye as if she were all that mattered, listen without criticizing, complement her when she was sharp or looked beautiful under a streetlight. She taught me to state what I felt and believed, how to argue with respect.
Shay invented a game where we flipped a coin onto the New York subway map, then went wherever it landed.
Off the 149th St. station in the South Bronx, vacant lots, alleys strewn with trash, women leaned out of the few unboarded windows watching their children play in an open hydrant. Spanish boys shooting a basketball through a metal hoop bolted to a fire escape ladder, and black men standing on the corner with a lookout on the roof turned to stare, some suspicious, others catcalling. Shay danced to the salsa coming from a boombox, enjoying the attention, when a woman leaned out her window and shouted, “What you doing here?”
Shay called back, “We aren't here to bother anyone.”
“No, hijita, they bother you. Come up here.”
Even though there were nine people living in a two bedroom, Juana fed us rice and beans, which Shay spoon fed to a baby perched on her lap.
Off the 135th station in Harlem, Big Dre first challenged us, then when he found we wanted to get to know neighborhoods around the city asked, “You got any money to bet?”
He must have seen the apprehension in my face, saying, “I ain't takin' yo' white boy change. I want my li'l fox Shay here with me for luck.” So we went into a back alley, where there were twenty guys shooting craps. We smoked some weed and Shay put a quarter in the pot when Big Dre was rolling. He won, kissed Shay, and stuck a wad of bills into her dress.
We stopped our safaris after Ozone Park, an Irish neighborhood like my own, where two guys jumped us. One knocked me to the ground while the other clamped his hand over Shay's mouth and dragged her toward an alley. I tore an antenna off a car, came up behind them, whipping their scalps open. We ran to the subway, hopped the turnstile, and boarded the train before they caught up.
At fifteen, Shay told me in tears how she lost her virginity to a date-rapist. She dumped her innocent look for a ragged pixie, blue eye-shadow and burgundy lipstick, pastel tank tops, denim miniskirts, and Doc Martins with red shoelaces—sexy, but don't touch. On her visits Saturday night, we experimented, her to get her confidence back, me to get past my shyness. I'd grab two beers and sneak from the living room couch, through my mother's room in our railroad apartment where she and my aunt slept off their Jamesons, to my room, where Shay waited on my bed. We tried different ways of kissing, caressing, stroking, and dry humping with pajamas on, stopping to cool off before we got to the point of no return. Over the years, I had girlfriends and she boyfriends, but we didn't see it as cheating; rather as practicing sex, free from the risk of being hurt.
We discussed our relationships, including how I liked to tie my girlfriends' hands while making out with them [see my true childhood stories “Double Dutch Jump-rope,” “Captivated,” “Wrestling, a Leather Belt, and Colleen,” and “By a Shoestring with Gianna.] At 17, I'd broken up with Gianna when her father heard we were having sex, which wasn't true, and he beat her. We decided we didn't want to sneak around anymore, and were both broken-hearted. I couldn't turn to Shay for love, and since the rape she was terrified of being vulnerable with a boy, emotionally or physically. I finally got the courage to ask if I could tie her up.
She frowned. “Do you like hurting girls?”
“I don't think so. I liked when the girl got tied up in “Texas Chainsaw Massacre,” but I didn't like it when the man kept hitting her.”
“You ever slapped a girl?” she asked
“No! Never.”
“Do you like spanking?”
“I don't think so,” I said. “Can I spank you?”
“Fuck, no! If you got a sadistic streak, we got a problem.”
I didn't know what I liked because I'd never tried it, and told her.
“Let's find out.”
Before Internet porn New York was the porn magazine and peep show capital of the world. Shay took me to the adult book stores in pre-tourist Times Square. Some of the men hanging out in the stores made plays for Shay, so it took several stores before we found one we could browse in peace. While Shay checked out the sex toys, I went through each magazine in the “Bondage” section. I quickly realized I didn't like whipping, leather hoods, garters, or women with their mouths open in terror.
I pointed at a woman with a horse-bit in her mouth, saying to Shay, “Why would anyone do that to a beautiful woman?”
“You like any of them?”
I held up a magazine with an Asian woman tied up on the cover, naked, criss-crossed with rope from shoulders to feet, but not afraid, looking at the camera as if for a portrait.
Shay paid for the magazine and four tokens for a video booth. Couples weren't allowed, so I sneaked to the back after Shay, and we squeezed into the booth the size of an old-fashion phone booth. It stunk of semen. Shay put a token in the slot—a grainy video of a man taking a girl by her hair, tossing her on the bed, and throwing himself on top of her.
“Her screams are fake, it's not real, but it's still a turn-off,” I said.
She pulled my head down, kissed me on the cheek, and said,“I'm glad.”
“I think tying up girls should be romantic, like rescuing a damsel in distress or binding a girl to you in love.”
“Try your magazine out.”
The women were attractive, tied in different positions, a few with backs covered in tattoos. I responded to a woman with arms bound behind her, wading in the ocean, palm trees behind her.
I rubbed myself over my jeans, but felt self-conscious. “I'll just take the magazine home.”
“Embarrassed?” Shay unzipped my fly and squeezed my penis. A jolt went through my groin to my head. She took tissues out of her purse and handed them to me. She turned around, positioned her arms behind her like the photo, held my erection, and pressed her buttocks hard against me. I dropped the magazine, grabbed her wrists, and moved her hands up and down. I watched Shay in the reflection of the glass, her eyes shut in concentration, her butt moving in circles against me. I sucked on her earlobe as I came.
As we walked down 42nd Street past a sidewalk preacher haranguing three transvestites with silicone breasts bulging out of their spandex tops, I was in a daze. What would come next?
As if reading my thoughts, Shay asked, “Is there anyplace nice we can go besides your room? Somewhere we can be alone for a couple hours and do this right.”
“I'll find one,” I said excitedly.
She pulled me into the outdoor vestibule of a store. “I'll let you tie me up, but next time I want you to please me, too.”
“Sure,” I said.
“We'll keep our underpants on. The rule will be, no penetration.”
Images of Shay bound and topless, everything short of intercourse, left me speechless.
She said, “I'll come to New York alone next Saturday.”
[To be continued.]

[Trickster]

That was a beautiful story!

[Canuck100]

I love how you draw us to this past era. You’re a very talented writer. Lovely story.

[Switcher1313]

Nicely written! Hope there's another installment!