Sissy Godiva (2 page)

The man swapped his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “They’re just kids,” he said, shrugging, and put his wallet in his pants.

“What do you want?” Sophie said to me as she watched the man leave.
I straightened up. “Newports. Two packs, please,” I bit my bottom lip, trying not to drool as I stared at her breasts.
She studied me and drew on her cigarette, flicked the ash.
“Aren’t you a little young to be smoking, dearie?” she asked, tilting her head a little and letting the hand holding her cigarette drift down to her breasts, as if she were modeling for a magazine ad. I looked at her breasts again. They were smooth and round, nearly bursting out of the tight V-neck of her diner uniform. “How old are you? Fifteen? Sixteen?”
I shook my head and straightened up. “I’m nineteen. Anyway, they’re for my neighbor, old Mr. Phillips. He has a hard time walking. He asked me to get some for him.”
She got two packs of Newports from the rack behind her.
“Oh, I know him. Haven’t seen him in a while. Walking’s rough on him? How is he?” She set the packs on the counter. “Tell him I said hello. And he’s not that old! The nerve of some people. He’s the same age as I am. Well, a little older.” She gave me my change, twenty cents.
“Thanks,” I shrugged, looking at her breasts once more before leaving the diner. Wish I could feel those tits, I thought. I was thinking about all the nice things I could do with them when I walked right into Sissy Godiva. She was standing on the corner waiting for the light to change, but she seemed to be shielding her face.
“Well, well,” she smirked at me, glancing behind me at the diner. “You carry your cigarettes just like a girl, clutched in her hand,” a laugh erupted out of her, then she fluttered her eyelids. That was the first time she’d talked to me while she was dressed as a girl. I tried not to remember that I’d been thinking about her while masturbating! I looked embarrassedly down at the cigarettes, two packs held daintily in my hand. I sneered back up at her.
“I don’t smoke. They’re for my neighbor, Mr. Phillips. He’s old, you know.”
She’d lit up a cigarette, also a Newport—the “sissy cigarettes,” as Mr. Phillips called them—and blew smoke in my face. She kept the cigarette near her mouth; her other arm slid around her own waist.
“Mr. Phillips? Do you mean Pips?” she asked. “He was called Mr. Phillips, too. Now wouldn’t that be something if your neighbor was Pips, that falling-down pervert.” She brightened up. “Pips has a hard time walking, too. Yeah, must be the same guy.” She took another drag and flicked the barely-smoked cigarette away.
I shook my head. “I don’t know who you’re talking about,” I said, looking at her discarded cigarette burning on the sidewalk. “Mr. Phillips is a nice man. He’s no pervert.”
“Okay, okay, whatever.” The light had changed. “Say hello to Pips, if he
is
Pips. Toodle-oo.” Sissy winked and waved at me, then she was off down the avenue, her tight ass swaying.
“Cunt faggot bitch!” I cursed and shook my head. “Silly queer,” I said, going back into my building and heading up the stairs.
I slowed as I neared the fourth floor, trying to not to make a sound on the treads. But that was impossible in these old buildings. The stairs creaked with each step. I shook my head, squeezed my crotch for courage and knocked loudly on Mr. Phillips’ door.
“Mr. Phillips,” I called. “Got the cigarettes you wanted, Newports.”
Silence. I knocked again.
“Mr. Phillips!” I said, then took a chance and called, “Pips, Pips!”
Slow footsteps sounded across the floor, coming to open the door. I steeled myself and bit my bottom lip. The door opened and a surprised Mr. Phillips stood looking at me, then down the hall behind me. He had no pants on and no shirt, either—totally naked this time.
“Here’s your Newports,” I swallowed. “Just like you wanted.”
He took them from me. “Thank you very much. You’re a sweetie.” He looked thoughtful, then asked, “Did you just call me Pips?” He looked down the hall again. “Been some time since I’ve heard that.”
I half-turned away and took a step toward my apartment. “Yeah, my friend just said you might go by Pips. She seemed to know you. Since there wasn’t an answer to ‘Mr. Phillips’ I just thought I’d try Pips.”
“Your
friend?”
he asked, looking curiously at me. “Must be a very dear friend if she knows my name. “But come in, come in, let’s have a little chat about your friend.
I
must know
her,
too.”
I snorted. “It’s a
he
, really, that pretends he’s a
she
. I think he gets picked up that way, too. But I’m not sure, anyway, I’m not into that,” I ended, crossing my arms against my chest. “Not for me.”
He cleared his throat. “Of course not, but, it takes all kinds, doesn’t it? But come in, come in, let’s talk about your
sweet friend
. I’m very curious who she might be.”
He stood back from his door, beckoning me in. I’d been in the apartment many times before. I looked at my apartment door. I shrugged and went into his apartment.
“Shut the door behind you,” he said. I did and followed him inside.

Except for the furniture and knick-knacks, the apartment was more or less the same as mine, a hall leading from the door to a kitchen with a small bedroom on each side. Two windows faced the street below, though mine looked out on the cat-strewn back yard. I followed Mr. Phillips as he made his way into the kitchen, holding himself up with one hand on the wall the whole way. He put the cigarettes on the table and dropped into a kitchen chair. He reached over and took the last cigarette from his old pack then crumpled it. He lit the cigarette and relaxed in the chair, his bare legs spread. I knew it was hot but at least he could’ve put his pants on. Unless he was just a pervert, which he certainly was.

“Now tell me about your friend who called me Pips.” he said, blowing out smoke and watching me. “What’s her name? I’d really like to know who she could be.”

I felt myself blush but took a chair, too. “Pips,” I said, “what’s Pips mean? Why that name?”
He chuckled. “It’s a mispronunciation of Phillips. One young boy couldn’t say it, so he called me Pips. It was rather cute, I must say.”
“A young boy?”
“Well, he wasn’t that young, even back then. But I haven’t seen him in some time.”
We looked at each other. He was totally at ease sitting naked and smoking, as if this was a sauna. I cleared my throat.
“Well, I have this old school friend, Joseph—Joey—who has a hard time saying certain words, too. But that’s because he’s a queer faggot, who likes to lisp and squeal. All faggots do that.” I felt myself redden even more. “Goes under the name of Sissy Godiva, how perverted can you get? Not that I’m into that kind of faggot stuff, but she’s crazy—I mean,
he’s
crazy.” My face was burning now.
He chuckled and puffed his cigarette, spread his legs wider.
“No, of course you’re not. But, c’mon, you like some
faggot
stuff, don’t you? You enjoy being in a room as a
faggot
jerks off for you?” He leered at me and licked his lips.
I wished he wasn’t saying those things. He’s the queer, not me!
“We do that all the time, don’t we?” He leaned over and patted my knee, gently squeezing it. “You like it, admit it. Makes you hard, just thinking about
her
or
him
. Why deny it? Go out and get it while you’re still young,” he shook his head but held on to my knee. “Old age comes very fast, much too fast. Before you know it you won’t be able to get it up.”
I smiled back at him, “Get what up, Mr. Phillips?”
He smirked back. “You know, your big, hard dick. It’ll be like a tadpole, just squiggling uselessly as you lie there and jerk off endlessly.”
“Oh, you’re not that old, Mr. Phillips. Why, just now I met a woman who thought she knew you, at the diner on the corner, big-titted Polish woman who goes by the name of Sophie. She asked me to mention her to you. A woman can’t want to be remembered to you if you’re too old, right?”
“Sophie said that? She mentioned my name? Delightful!” he beamed, squeezing my knee again.
I felt very embarrassed. He’d shifted his legs and I saw the tip of his limp, cut penis, wet and shining up at me. I wished he had a towel on or something. I started to stand up. “Well, you got your cigarettes—”
He gripped my knee.
“Oh, don’t go. Aren’t we having a lovely time just chatting? We can make things up as we go along, wouldn’t that be lovely?”
I settled back in my seat.
“What do you mean, make things up?” I leered back at him. Thinking about Sissy and Sophie had made me hard and I’d spread my legs, just like him, the bulge of my erection showing through my jeans.
He winked at me.
“Make things up, that you’re after—what was her name again?”
“You mean Sissy Godiva?”
“That’s it, Sissy Godiva. We’ll make believe that she’s in the other room just waiting for us.” He winked. “You want to try it?”
“That’s crazy.” I frowned. “And perverted, too.
She’s
a
he
, you know, not a
she
, and a lot of good that’ll do me. Just some girly clothes, that’s all it is.”
Again he chuckled and said, “Pretend, just pretend, you know that masturbation’s all pretense, make believe, fantasy, imagination, right? You ever jerk while thinking of her? Missy Godiva?” I felt myself turn red again.
“You mean
Sissy
Godiva.”
“That’s right,
Sissy
Godiva. You ever do that? Of course you have. What young man goes through his life without jerking off? It’s as natural as Mom and apple pie, a good jerk-off session. I’m too old to get hard any more. But I still grab my old cock and give myself a nice jerk off.” He leered at me. “Don’t you want to beat that hard-on?” He grabbed it through my pants and squeezed. I looked down at his hand, not doing anything. “In the other room,” he whispered, “you can lie down. You don’t have to do anything, just masturbate. But you already know that, sweetie; we’ve been through it before.” And he winked, taking my hand and leading me toward his bedroom. I followed without a word, unzipping my pants and bringing out my stiff, hungry, eager penis.

“Tell me about your sweet friend,” he hissed as we entered the bedroom. “The one that’s making you so very hard.”
We stood close. I could feel his breath on my face, and I knew he felt mine on his.
“That’s Sissy Godiva. Today she’s wearing a pink halter top with a long, fluttery front, with black leggings. But her long hair was pulled up, that’s what caught my attention. I love girls, I mean boys,” I blushed red, “oh, you know what I mean, with long hair piled up high, like that group, the Ronettes,
Be My Baby
. You know that song?”
“Sure,” he grinned. “That used to blast out of radios everywhere.” By then I’d eased my shirt and T-shirt off and was undoing my trousers. My hard-on was poking up past the waistband of my underpants. I kept talking and singing little bits of tunes I liked, The Ronettes, The Shangri-Las, The Crystals, all those girl-groups’ hits. It only made me harder. I fell back onto the bed, totally naked. He looked down at me.
“Jerk off, sweetie. Give yourself a nice stroking.”
What the hell?
I thought, and proceeded to do just that. That’s what I liked about being with Mr. Phillips. You could jerk off as he stood by and jerked himself off too. No hugging, no caressing, no kissing or lovey-dovey faggot crap, just two grown men masturbating and watching each other doing it.
What’s wrong with that?
We’d been doing it almost weekly, when I’d stop in with the cigarettes he’d given me money for.
What could be better than that?
“Very nice that she has long hair,” he breathed out. “Boys and girls wear that now, I see.”
“I don’t,” I shrugged, brushing my crew cut.
He stood at the foot of the bed, stroking his limp, useless penis. Two grown men naked in a room together. Now who’s to say that’s kinky?
“Can’t get it up?” I asked him, nervously holding my stiff penis. “When was the last time you got it hard?” I’d asked him a few times before, but he’d never answered. I suspected it was a very long time.
“Keep jerking, baby, don’t mind me. I’ll just keep on rubbing myself and looking at you. You know I love looking at young men.”
“You get many young men up here?”
He frowned, shaking his head. “Not as many as I used to. They must have forgotten their dear old Pips,” he said. “But you’re still here. You come as often as you like and that’ll make me very happy.”
I
had
been here many times before, stroking my dick while he watched. Our jerk-off sessions had become our weekly pastime. And it didn’t take long before I felt my orgasm surging, pushing up and spewing out of my cock-head. It splashed my throat and face as I groaned, screwing my eyes shut.
Oh, God, it was heavenly!
I let go of the pillow I’d clutched to my face and slowly opened my eyes. He was still at the foot of the bed, looking down at me and feverishly jerking his limp penis. I wondered what pleasure there could’ve been in that when his body tensed and shook, and weak semen, if you can call it that, strained out of his limp cock and splashed onto me. He’d cum right on me. My body was sprinkled in his futile ejaculate and I felt a bit sad for him.
He tottered closer and fell into an armchair beside the bed.
“Oh, my, sorry,” he breathed out. “Did I get any on you?”
I felt his stickiness on my legs but shook my head.
“Wasn’t much,” I pretended, pushing myself up off the bed. “Think I’d better go.”
“Oh, but why?” he sat up. “Don’t you like me? It’s not as we had a homosexual affair. I did nothing to you and you did nothing to me.” He shrugged. “We’re two grown men, each doing what he had to, end of story. That’s all it was. Don’t you agree?”
I heard these denials weekly and, as if washing his hands of a sordid affair, he wiped his fingers briskly on a faded towel and leered at me. I thought about what he’d said.
And he was absolutely right! What did we do, anyway? Who’d have the nerve to say we’re two homosexuals who slink and hide just because we’re doing something sexy and dirty? What rot!

He was smiling at me and I smiled back at him. I’d never felt closer to Mr. Phillips than I did at that moment. It was as if we’d become one. I blushed looking at him, and he blushed in return.