'What are you doing,' she asked.
'Jacking off,' I said, my voice calm and matter-of-fact, my blue jeans dropped down to the ankles, my hand slowly and deliberately stroking my erection. The rhythmic arm movement probably gave me away, I thought, in the dim light of the peepshow booth and through the small window that separated customers from the 'exotic dancers' area. It was no use lying or acting ashamed; we both knew I was masturbating over her nude body and I told her so in the same detached way I'd tell a rush-hour commuter the time of day.
It was the 1980's, in New York City along 42nd Street between seventh and eighth Avenues. Though now this area is tidy and teeming with tourist families and trendy shops, back then, it was filthy and glutted with dank porn shops hawking XXX magazines and 'live girl' peepshows. For the latter, private one-man booths were arranged in a semi-circle around a central stage. Dropping a quarter into a slot raised a window shutter for a few minutes. Beyond this one foot by one foot portal, nude girls stepped tepidly back and forth within arm's reach of the opening. They were supposed to be 'dancing,' but 42nd Street life usually left their bodies empty on spirit and so they just hovered in front of the windows. For a buck, they would let you reach through and squeeze their tits and finger their crotches. Sometimes, they would bend down close to the window and let you suck their nipples. When time was up, the window shutter rumbled down and you repeated the process until you ran out of quarters or dollar bills or had your fill of naked girls.
'You want some help,' she asked coyly. Bending over slightly, I could see her face now reasonably well-illuminated by the stage's lights. She wasn't super-model gorgeous; but, this slim brunette was decently, solidly good-looking. Her C-cup tits swayed slightly as she waited for my answer.
'Sure. How much?'
'OK,' I said. I fished out some bills from my pant pocket and handed them over.
'Thank you.' She placed a small jimmy bar along the frame of the window to keep the shutter from dropping until she was finished.
She came closer, put her arm through the window into the booth, and grasped my cock underhanded. She began to stroke me firmly, back and forth along the full length of my shaft. Although it was winter and a bit chilly inside, her palm was balmy warm and remarkably smooth.
By now I had a good vantage point over her body. Her skin was Ivory-clean and silky. Her hair was long and well-styled. Her frame was symmetric and nicely proportioned. This was a girl, I thought, that would feel so good under me, her legs spread wide, her lubricated cunt receiving my thrusts, her vaginal walls wrapped tightly around my cock, her vagina receiving shots upon shots of my sperm.
I reached out and cupped one of her undulating tits. It was firm and dense with a velvety nipple. I lingered here, then moved my hand slowly down her trunk towards her moist, furry crotch. She spread her legs slightly so that I could feel her better. She's probably not proud to be a peepshow girl, I reckoned, but at least she tries to accommodate her customers. I ran my fingertips back and forth gently along her vulvar lips. Her cunt tissues were delicately soft and supple. I tried gently to enter her with my finger, but her cunt muscles contracted, barring any insertion. I respected her tacit signal against an intrusion and continued with light strokes along her vulva. Within a few moments, a slight sour-musky smell of vaginal secretions wafted in.
By now, after three to four minutes of masturbation, I was fully aroused and had to cum. My hips bucked slightly, and in the dim light I saw thick ropes of white semen shoot from my dick opening onto her forearm. 'Ugh,' she muttered softly in disgust, I couldn't blame her for not wanting to be sprayed by a stranger's semen. Perhaps she thought my cum would squirt away from her onto the wall or floor. But, to her credit, she kept stroking with a semen-covered hand until I was finished.
She withdrew her arm and bent over slightly for the last time.
'Thanks,' she said.
She removed the jimmy bar and the shutter came down. I pulled up my pants and checked myself, no semen stains, fortunately. I left the peepshow emporium into the winter's night and returned to my life as a graduate student in the New York City area.
This place, the Blackjack Theater, if memory serves me correctly, has long since been shut down. But, if you're in the 'new and improved' Times Square area, remember that long ago within these flashy, shiny buildings, many a lonely man visited to gratify their pent-up lust, and many a desperate girl were willing to oblige.