1985 Phone Booth Blowjob
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“1985 Phone Booth Blowjob”
by J.D. Savanyu
Back in good old 1985, I was an E.R. doctor at Richmond Metropolitan, a now-defunct hospital in the heart of the city near VCU. Treating lots of college kids with alcohol poisoning and alcohol-related injuries, and lots of gang members with overdoses and bullet wounds. After work, I really cut loose, forgetting all that medical misery by banging a hot redhead art major. Sarah was young enough to be my daughter, but old enough to rock my world. She loved sucking my big doctor dick. The best blowjobs since my Harvard days. Most girls suck cock daintily, like a lollipop, but she went down on me like a sorority bitch on a can of scuzzy PBR.
By the way, I was also married at the time. My less attractive redhead housewife sat at home in the Henrico suburbs, watching Dallas on TV while I screwed around like an urban cowboy. Molly was totally clueless about my blatant adultery… and that made it twice as fun.
I punched out at eight o’clock and stepped out to a cool November evening on West Grace Street, buttoning up my trendy Blade Runner-style trench coat. I strolled away from the hospital, entering the hip college party district. Passing various new wave chicks in neon spandex, second-wave punks with spiky neon hair, and proto-rappers with boombox stereos. I pretended I was Rick Deckard in dystopian 2019 Los Angeles, hunting for rogue cyborg replicants with low-key macho Harrison Ford swagger.
I stepped into the Station Break video arcade, full of crude 8-bit classics. A cacophony of tinny MIDI music filled my ears. A bunch of young women in VCU shirts gathered around Q*bert, guiding an orange alien creampuff through a pyramid puzzle with deadly snakes and blobs. I found Sarah in her usual spot, parked in front of Zaxxon, an outer space shoot-em-up. Her curly red hair glimmered nicely in the red cyberpunk mood lighting of the arcade. The rest of her sexy body was covered with tight black-and-blue Jazzercise-style spandex. I took a big whiff of her cheap perfume as she maneuvered a TRZ-3000 Cosmic Falcon through a Death Star-esque gauntlet.
“Don’t forget to shoot the fuel tanks,” I uttered slyly. Sarah spun around and shot me a big smile.
“Hey, Bobby!” she beamed, wrapping her arms around my neck and planting a wet kiss on my lips. “How was the E.R. today?”
“Nobody died, so it was hunky-dory.”
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you all day in the art department. A bad case of painter’s block.”
“I know just the thing to unblock that block. Let’s go back to your dorm room, and I’ll give you some… medicine,” I uttered seductively, and kissed her harder.
“Later on, Doc. Let’s play some Ms. Pac-Man first, and then we’ll tear up the town for a while.”
Sarah went over to that ’82 classic, plunked a quarter through a gleaming red slot, and steered that iconic yellow hockey puck with a mouth through a maze full of white dots.
“I always focus on the dots, and only eat the ghosts when they’re nearby. That’s the best strategy,” Sarah explained. Her yellow avatar kept munching pixelated crack-cocaine like hell, completing the first two levels with no lives lost. She watched the first cutaway movie sequence with Mr. Pac-Man (“Act 1: They Meet”) while stroking the joystick just like my joystick. Twisting her hand slowly up and down the narrow shaft and squeezing the thick round head, moaning under her breath.
“Ms. Pac-Man doesn’t like that, babe.”
“How do you know what she likes? Have you been cheating on your wife with her too?”
“I haven’t been cheating on Molly with anyone but you. Pinky swear.”
“Pinky swear? What are you, a fucking fifth grader with a Harvard diploma?”
The game resumed at level three. Sarah racked up points like a pinball wizard, getting all the way to level fourteen.
“That’s as far as it goes before it starts an endless loop, so I technically won the game on a single quarter. Now let’s go over to Nanci Raygun, and punk the fuck out!”
She grabbed my right hand and led me out of Station Break, heading west on Grace Street. It was a cool misty mystical Lord of the Rings-esque night, filling me with primal lust. A local drag queen named “Dirtwoman” danced on the sidewalk to Madonna’s “Like A Virgin” on a boombox. Dirtwoman’s real name was Donnie Corker. A middle-aged white guy in a blonde wig and a classy red evening gown, before the ridiculous RuPaul era began. (That part of Richmond is completely different now, with bland VCU buildings, soulless corporate stores, and no drag queens in sight.)
We passed The Village Cafe and entered Nanci Raygun, a punky night club full of leather-jacketed dudes with big spiky mohawks. We ordered two cheap beers and watched a loud band called the Flaming Straights jamming away on a small stage. A bunch of psychos moshed their brains on the dance floor. The Straights were a typical second wave punk band, more about image than substance. bursa escort Not nearly as good as the Sex Pistols and Dead Kennedys.
“This band is fucking awesome!” Sarah beamed.
“No way. I hate this no-talent second wave bullshit. It sounds like a bunch of racoons skittering through a guitar shop.”
“I bet you hate rap too. That takes even less talent!”
She giggled sweetly, stroking her red hair and my tan trench coat. The Flaming Straights played five more offensive ear-splitting songs, and the alcohol melted Sarah like butter. She danced like Judi Sheppard, a crazy Jazzercise instructor on VHS tapes and late night infomercials. (The female counterpart of Richard Simmons.)
Sarah grabbed my shoulders and ground her crotch against my crotch. I tried damn hard not to get hard, looking over my shoulder and hoping my mousy jazz-loving suburban housewife wouldn’t show up here for some strange reason. If Molly discovered my adulterous affair, her heart would probably shatter in a thousand pieces.
“Come on baby, let’s go catch a movie,” Sarah beamed.
“Good idea. I’ve been hearing lots of buzz about The Breakfast Club.”
“Not that kind of movie,” she snickered, dragging me out of Nanci Raygun and across the street to the Lee X Theater. A 1920’s art-deco cinema palace named after a confederate general. It was way past its prime, now showing nothing but hardcore flicks. A crumbling marquee advertised a double dirty double feature: Little Oral Annie and Star 85.
“That kind of movie,” she uttered wryly.
“Hell yeah, I’m in a porno chic mood. I’ve been hearing even more buzz about Star 85.”
I paid ten bucks for two tickets, and we claimed two rock-hard Roaring Twenties seats in the front row. The place was full of Richmond sleazeballs, mostly male. We were too late for Little Oral Annie, but just in time for Star 85. It flickered to life on the screen, with a catchy Bananarama-style synth-pop song playing over an MTV-style montage of sucking and fucking from later in the movie. Kari Foxx was a gorgeous busty brunette tomboy who loved deepthroat blowjobs. A typical 1980’s porn star with puffy perm-curled hair, big natural breasts, unshaved pubes, no tattoos, and nothing pierced except her earlobes. Just like my secret redhead lover. A Cyndi Lauper type sang about “A Glamorous Life.”
Walk the walk, and get the look on camera
A steamy scene the men are sure to love
Bring them down, and show them you’re their master
Then bring them up, till they can’t get enough…
The singing stopped, but the synthesizers kept thumping away as Kari face-fucked some hunky white dude.
“Hi, I’m Kari Foxx. And I’m here to tell you about my fantasies,” she said seductively to the camera, breaking the fourth wall. “I just love to give a guy head. “The thought of sucking them until the head gets all swollen and purple just turns me on to no end!”
She jammed that big dick back in her mouth and whipped her head up and down, growling fiercely over the music.
“After I get a guy rock hard, I love to run my tongue down the side of his shaft, all the way down to his balls,” Kari continued. Meanwhile, Sarah reached into her purse, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one up. Smoking was banned in regular theaters by 1985, but it was still allowed in the “blue” theaters of Richmond, VA (the tobacco capital of the world.) The smoky haze made the porno seem more… chic.
“Damn, Kari Foxx is hot,” Sarah murmured while stroking my thighs. “I love her take-charge attitude.”
“Me too,” I murmured back, stroking her soft slender forearms. Getting a raging boner from all that fellatio on the silver screen.
“Naughty doctor, getting a hard-on in public,” Sarah giggled.
“Every guy in this theater is getting a hard-on.”
“Want me to take care of it?” she giggled, stroking the big bulge in my pants.
“Of course not. You wanna get busted by the vice squad?”
“Those vice squad pigs hardly ever bust anyone. They don’t want to scare guys away from these theaters, and lose their bribes from the owners.”
“Makes sense,” I grunted sarcastically. “Hey, that’s a good idea for a porno. Busty Vice Squad Bimbos.”
“Hell yeah. I’m totally writing that script when I get home.”
Kari kept sucking that big porn star dick. Bobbing her entire lean torso up and down, squeezing the shaft with both hands, and spitting all over it for ample lubrication. “This reminds me of the time that me and my girlfriend wound up in Paris and met this hunk of a pilot,” Kari said while massaging his long dong. “Man, we fucked, sucked and stroked that Frenchie until his balls were blue.”
She finished him off with a fast handjob, splattering splooge all over her big boobs. Sarah moaned pleasantly while masturbating through a thin layer of spandex.
“Oh my god, that blowjob got me so hot,” Sarah murmured.
“I’m getting a nice buzz bursa otele gelen escort too. That brunette is a real fox, and that music is catchy as hell.”
Star 85 kept rolling away in the projection room, beaming fleshy tones into my perverted mind. Kari blew and banged various other guys in various positions. No plot whatsoever, just hardcore action with smug metafictional commentary by Miss Foxx.
“I worked at a ranch one summer, riding horses,” Kari mused while getting fucked in the missionary position. “Bobbing back and forth in that leather saddle got me so horny for the ranch dudes.”
The setting shifted outdoors to a large fancy hot tub, with an artificial waterfall pouring into it. Kari had even more wild sex in that bubbling sunny whirlpool, with ethereal xylophone music added in post-production. She fucked a random porn stud fast and hard, making tidal waves in the steamy water, with her soaked tits flailing about. A petite blonde porn star named Rachel Ryan hopped in the tub and licked her pussy, driving her crazy. Reminding me of Molly’s raving aquaphile and oral fetishes. My wife loved sucking my cock in our backyard pool on hot summer days, and in our hot tub on cooler nights like this. But the thrill was gone on my end, leading me on this wild escapade.
The movie finally ended, and everyone shuffled out of the Lee X Theater in a horny haze. It was getting colder around eleven o’clock. Various bums, thugs, and freaks oozed out of the woodwork, including a tall Schwarzenegger-esque guy in a purple leisure suit with a big live snake draped around his shoulders. A small pistol was concealed in a pocket of my trench coat, in case someone went “Blade Runner” on my ass. (Virginia was still ruby-red back then, so there were no gun laws whatsoever.)
“Time for your medicine, Sarah. Let’s go back to your dorm room.”
“Hang on. Speaking of medicine, I need to buy some cigarettes at the mini-mart.”
“A filthy habit for a filthy girl.”
“Shut up, doc,” she giggled. We crossed the street and entered a 24 hour convenience store. Sarah bought a pack of mentholated cancer sticks, and I bought a pack of sugar-free rock candy. Another video game cabinet buzzed and chimed in a corner of the bodega. Jet Set Willy.
She lit one up in the small parking lot, with the earthy aroma of Virginia tobacco wafting in my direction. (I did not inhale.)
“Damn, I forgot to call my wife, to say I was running late at the hospital.”
“Liars always forget to lie, eventually,” Sarah mused.
“Whatever,” I grunted, marching toward a phone booth. I went inside, closed the sliding Plexiglass door, picked up the receiver, and grabbed a quarter from one of my pockets. Sarah took a big puff outside, then she put her cigarette down on a concrete ledge and entered the booth. She closed the door behind her, stepped in front of me, and started unbuttoning my trench coat.
“What are you doing?”
“Something I’ve always dreamed of doing,” Sarah giggled. She dropped to her knees and unzipped my pants.
“Holy shit,” I chortled. “Are you gonna suck my cock in a fucking phone booth?”
“Damn right, daddy. I’m your little pervy freak.”
She whipped my flaccid penis out of my boxer shorts and jammed it in her mouth, raising it to a full seven inches almost instantly.
“Oh fuuuuck,” I groaned, tilting my head up toward the metal ceiling vent in the cramped booth. I wrapped my trench coat around her body as she rocked her head back and forth. Blocking the view of anyone in the convenience store, parking lot, and sidewalk. Her skillful blowjobs made me feel so good in her dorm room, but the strong sense of danger in this public setting made it fucking amazing.
“God damn, bitch. You’re so fucking crazy.”
“Mmm hmm,” she moaned inside my Harrison Ford coat. Twisting her head up and down my throbbing shaft while squeezing the base nice and hard.
“Nice technique, Little Oral Annie. You’ve been watching too many damn porn movies at Lee X.”
“Mmm hmmm,” she groaned louder against my meat. (VCR’s were still too expensive for the average Joe and Jane, so she had to go out and get her smut fix at seedy joints like that.)
Sarah pulled back a minute later and played with my balls. Shoving those hairy testes deep in her mouth and chomping her teeth together. Amazing pleasure mixing with pain in my stress-addled brain. A sweet reward for a hard day’s work, saving many lives on the operating table.
“Good girl, Little Oral Annie. Don’t fucking stop.”
“Yes sir, Daddy Warbucks.”
I tried hard to make it last, hoping to god no one in the vicinity needed to make a phone call. Gazing at a bunch of immoral graffiti scribbled on the Plexiglas above the pay phone:
Lucy L. gives great head! 358-****
Peter Paul sucks big pricks – 358-****
Dark Mistress Mary makes kinky fairy tales cum true. 358-****
Dirtwoman fucks drag fags hard. Who ya gonna call? 358-****
“Go ahead and call your wife, Doctor Savage.”
“Are you fucking serious, ginger?”
“Of course. Tell Molly you’re running late with some major surgery. And try to make it sound convincing.”
Sarah shoved my dick back in her mouth, making me groan yet again. I picked up the receiver, plunked a quarter down the slot, and dialed 358-****, taking a deep breath to gather my wits during the best blowjob of my life.
“Hello?” Molly answered in the piney woods of Henrico. Sounding so sweet and innocent, like a cliché Irish lass.
“Hey honey, this is your hubby,” I uttered ecstatically into the receiver. God damn.
“Are you running late in the E.R. again?”
“Fuck yeah,” I groaned with intense pleasure. “This hot lady is having some big-time surgery.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
I struggled to come up with a plausible lie. “Uh… it’s one of those gang hookers from the south side. She got shot by her pimp, right up her pussy.”
Sarah giggled with a mouthful of dick.
“God damn. Poor girl,” Molly gasped. Sarah massaged my prostate while deep-throating me aggressively, making me feel even better. A big truck went by on Grace Street, with “Down Under” by Men at Work playing at max volume on the stereo. It hit a big pothole, rattling loudly. “What was that?”
“A truck going by on Grace Street. I’m at a pay phone next to the hospital. Drinking some coffee on my break.”
“You told me you were kicking your coffee habit, because the caffeine made you too jittery.”
“Yeah, but it feels so good,” I groaned stupidly. Sarah grabbed my ass cheeks and sucked my cock at full speed, slurping disgustingly.
“Fuck yeah, I love that caffeine rush. The only drug you really need.”
“Whatever, doc,” my wife giggled.
“I won’t be home till after midnight, Molly.”
“Okay. I’ll be asleep by then.”
“Sweet dreams, sweetie,” I murmured with my head in the clouds. “Oh shit, I’m gonna cum soon. Gonna come home soon,” I uttered awkwardly, slamming the receiver down on the hook.
“Fucking bitch, I’m gonna fuck your face up,” I growled, grabbing Sarah’s head and pistoning my penis deep in her mouth, gagging her like a machine gun. “That’s right, fucking choke on my big dick. You should make a painting of this, you fucking ginger skank.”
I kept gagging that bitch like a psycho, and she took it like a good sport. I still love redheads who love rough sex. The recessive MC1R gene also increases their pain threshold, physically and emotionally (which explains why there’s so many ginger nurses.)
I skull-fucked her even faster, bracing my arms against the Ma Bell booth. The pressure in my prostate soon reached the boiling point.
“Oh shit, I’m gonna shoot a big wad right down your fucking throat!”
The fireworks rang out inside my trench coat. A tremendous earth-shattering climax. I roared triumphantly, muffling it with my free hand. It kept gushing and gushing inside her mouth, making my knees buckle with bliss. She grabbed my seven-inch dick inside my coat and sucked out the rest. Daintily, like a lollipop.
“God damn, baby. That was fucking amazing!” I groaned toward the metal ceiling.
“Best public BJ I ever gave,” Sarah giggled sweetly. “You better put that viper back in the cage, before it bites someone else.”
“Holy shit,” I chortled incredulously, jamming that big spit-soaked rod back in my pants. I stepped back out to the cool foggy mystical night, with Sarah following close behind. Just then, an angry cashier burst out of the bodega.
“Hold it right there, you fucking perverts! I just called the cops!”
“Oh shit!” Sarah yelped fearfully. “Run for it, Bobby!”
She started running like hell down West Grace, and I had no choice but to follow, with too much to lose. She veered around that crazy snake guy and turned a corner, hoofing it down Harrison.
“Come on, doc! Keep running all the way to my dorm!”
The sound of police sirens a few blocks away on Grace made us run even faster. This was the craziest fun I had in twenty years, ever since I graduated from Fair Harvard. I got plenty of BJ’s during my med school days, including several in public. Under restaurant tables and behind dumpsters, but never in a phone booth. (And I was never too drunk not to remember them the next day.)
We burst into the safety of her dorm building, laughing giddily. She grabbed my hand and led me up two flights of stairs, then down a hallway with a bunch of college kids shooting the breeze.
“Hey Sarah. Your new boyfriend looks like a keeper,” remarked a blonde twenty-something dude in a trendy “PASTA” sweater. (Whatever happened to those?)
“You don’t know the half of it,” she replied sardonically. She fumbled through her purse for a key ring, then she burst into room 314 and immediately removed her tight spandex outfit. Nothing underneath.
“God damn, I love that Jazzercise body,” I groaned while taking off my trench coat. Her tiny dorm room was jam-packed with art books and painted canvases. She rolled out a pink yoga mat next to her single-size bed, and stretched out her arms and legs in the Warrior II pose.
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Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32