A “Becoming” excerpt in sequence:

Rockaway/Tower Tales 4+

NOTICE: A few readers might find this

excerpt…. Shell we say a bit “pungent.”

However, really, “if you got to go, you got to go!”

If bodily functions repulse you, you may

want to skip this—in my opinion, very funny— excerpt.

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U.S.C.G. Rockaway Life Boat Station

Rockaway, New York

Tales From The Tower 4

If You Gotta Go...

The Big Kovolick

Kovolick (ko’vol’ick): Eastern European Yiddish slang for a bowel movement.

****

A four-hour watch in the Far Rockaway lookout tower could seem an eternity under the ‘best’ of conditions.

But in the dead of winter, with almost nothing to watch for, it could seem like two eternities.

Far Rockaway is a summer community. So during the winter months the point is all but vacant and the only boats to venture from Sheepshead Bay are commercial fisherman… However, never discounting local fishing zealots?

The lookout shack was warmed by an over-zealous electric heater and the four-hour watch was spent, mostly, in a sometimes-futile effort to stay awake.

Other than an occasional surprise visit from the ‘old man’ — who, really, was not to hot on the idea of trudging those two hundred, seventy-five yards and up those fifty-seven steel steps in frigid, sometimes minus zero temperatures— during winter the only company the lookout ever had were the hundreds of seagulls that foraged beneath the tower for scraps and crumbs or, ‘shit’ of any kind that might have dropped or fell or been thrown from the shack above and it was not unusual to see a gull flying with a streamer of toilet paper held in its beak.

The Thermos of strong coffee was consumed as the man on watch drank cup after cup in an effort to keep his eyes open.

Quantities of coffee will often cause a reaction. With Mitchell Lipensky it made him have to ‘go’, and if you gotta go, you gotta go.

It wasn’t so bad if you ‘only’ had to urinate. But even so, in winter there were three ‘important’ things you had to remember.

Remember where you are!

On Rockaway Point the erratic wind blows almost constantly and what may seem a breeze below, can feel like a squall fifty feet up. So it helps, a lot, to know where the wind is coming from and ‘go’ with it, because having a mist of pee blow back in your face, even if it is your own, usually made for a terrible day.

But even when you found the wind, you also had to be careful because you did not want the wind carrying your urine back to the steps because pee ‘does’ freeze and those steel steps could get pretty slippery and the next man on watch wouldn’t be too happy if he slipped on your pee.

You had to remember, also—and this was ‘most’ important of all—to be sure that when you shook that last drop of pee off, that you did ‘not’ allow the damp end of your dick to touch any part of the steel safety rail you were aiming through because it ‘would’ stick and, oh, yeah, hurt like hell to lose a half-inch of skin off the tip of your dick pulling it loose. Or, trust me, it was definitely one of life’s more embarrassing moments if you had to call the station to ask if they could send someone out to the tower with a cup of warm water so they could melt the frozen contact.

What the ‘hell’ would you say?

****

“Hey, Minnie, I got a little problem here.”

“Yeah, Lippy?”

“Well, it’s like this: I went to take a pee and my dick, uh, kind’a got froze to the rail.”

“Jesus, Lippy! Don’t you ‘hate’ it when that happens?”

“Bet your ass! Uh, Minnie, when can you get someone here to help get me loose?”

“Sorry, but the only guy I can send is Masco, and he’s with Joe buyin’ groceries… But soon’s they get back... oh, say, in a half hour or so, I’ll send him right out.”

“Hey, thanks a lot, pal!”

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that.”

“Yeah, Minnie, sure you are! But what hell, I ain’t got nothin’ better to do then just ‘hang out’ here anyway… Minnie?”

“Yeah, Lippy?”

“Besides it hurting like hell, and turning blue and I think it’s gonna break off, you know what really bothers me?”

“No. What really bothers you, Lippy?”

“How the hell am I gonna punch the fuckin’ clock?”

****

This conversation, you understand, was ‘strictly’ hypothetical because the only way you could make that call would be if you could stretch from the rail outside to the phone inside, and besides, stretching your dick even seven inches, under ‘any’ circumstances, would, in most cases, be just about as far as any guy could stretch it.

So if you are ever on lookout in the Rockaway lookout tower in the dead of winter and have to urinate, remember, be ‘careful’!

However, if you must defecate that is a ‘completely’ different problem because— unless you have diarrhea, or hate having a freezing wind blowing down your back and up your ass, you do not, ‘usually’, have to worry too much about the direction of the wind. But you ‘do’ need newspaper, because if you set your butt directly on the frozen rail you’ll either have an inch-wide strip of frostbite across your ass, or possibly it could freeze to the rail also and calling the station for someone to come out to unstick your ass is no less embarrassing than calling for someone to help unfreeze your dick.

The Coast Guard motto is ‘Semper Paratus’, ‘Always Prepared’, so what you do is this…

Do not ‘ever’ trust the guy on the watch before you to leave newspaper and toilet paper. Always bring your own. And ‘always’ lay at least a few pages of newspaper — crease down— across the middle rail, then drop your pants and underpants and plant your feet ‘firmly’ on the catwalk because, trust me, you do not want a sudden gust of wind to blow you off.

You can do it two ways: First, you can hike just your ass between the top two rails. Or secondly, if you’re the type of person that likes to live dangerously, you can sit down, bringing your entire mid-body through the top two rails along, of course, with your ass, and hold on by hanging by your bent knees and inner elbows…

Then you ‘go’.

****

On a frigid day in November, looking much as an egg-yoke floating in a cup of murky tea, the sun rose at 0552.

On the 0400 to 0800 watch. Finishing the last of his coffee at 0613, looking out the window at the thermometer, five degrees! Knowing from past experience, and thinking quite literally, Oh, my frozen ass. With an acidic belch, Mitchell Lipensky decided, Gotta go. Zipping the high-collared, fleece-lined watch jacket up to his chin. Pulling the blue knit watch cap over his ears and forehead. Taking three tightly folded pages of the ‘New York Times’ from his jacket pocket and checking the thick sheath of toilet paper that he’d stuffed into his other pocket, he went outside and— because there was relatively little wind— decided to sit with his back to whatever meager sun there was.

Draping the newspaper over the middle rail, lowering his jeans and underpants to just above his knees and at that moment being rather adventuresome, hiking his middle section through the first and second rails, “Jesus…!” Frigid air turning his buttocks a bright cherry red, Mitchell sat hanging on by his elbows.

“Jesus…!” Arctic air freezing his crotch, rectum and the underside of his scrotum shrinking it to the size of a wrinkled acorn, My frozen ass! “Ummm!” He pushed. “Uhhh!” He squeezed.

Now, it may well have been his sphincter reacting to the cold air— or possibly it was frozen shut— but, “Ummm!” he became red in the face and, “Uhhh!” cold tears formed in the corners of his eyes…

“Ummmmm!” Pushing.

“Uhhhhhhh!” Squeezing, till…

“Ahhhhhhh!” Finally, and…

“Oyyyyyyy!” there it went!

And Mitchell Lipensky, being, a, more-or-less normal human being did what any normal, sane human being would do were they in this same position, and…

“Bombs away!” he called. And whistling shrilly as though it were a falling bomb, Mitchell Lipensky watched through the V of his goose-pimpled thighs as the ‘big kovolick’ plummeted, falling as straight and true as though dropped by the bombardier of a B-29.

As usual there were a number of seagulls happily pecking away at whatever was beneath the sand under the somewhat protective structure of the tower, and….

‘Splatt’! It hit, and…

‘Squawk’! It cried, and…

“ ‘Damn’!” He yelled from fifty feet up.

And a new ‘inconsequential’ chapter was written in the ‘unrecorded’ history of mankind as Mitchell Lipensky— to the best of his knowledge— became the only person in the world to ever…

…shit on a bird.

Queens, New York

Spring 1953

Julie

Strange, when he was going to high school until, of course, he met Susan, his dream girl had always been a ‘shiksa’ but now, in a world full of non-Jewish girls, he went out of his way to meet a Jewish girl.

At a temple dance in Queens.

The girl was sitting on a folding chair against the far wall.

Attracted by her moderately long, honey-colored hair, he noticed the girl from across the large room and, even from that distance... Wonder why she’s sitting alone?...he could see that she was ‘extremely’ pretty, ‘beautiful’ in fact and…Look at those tits!...that the girl had large breasts.

Watching the girl. Waiting to see if she was, indeed, alone. Not quite having the courage to…

Sensing his eyes on her, the girl looked across the room, to the sailor sitting alone by the far wall.

Their eyes touching… Holding.

Oh, well. What can she do? Tell me ‘to go away’? Summoning the mettle. His eyes still brazenly on the girl’s eyes. Standing, crossing the room.

Seeing the sailor rise and head in her direction, the girl lowered her eyes.

“Hi!” Offering his hand. “I’m Mitchell Lipensky.”

Looking up at him. Hesitating because in 1953 Queens, New York men did not usually reach out to shake a girl’s hand… Then, lifting hers, “Hi, Mitchell. My name’s Julie. ‘Julie Marx’.”

Closer now. Seeing that this girl was, indeed, Beautiful. Once again vaguely wondering, Why’s she alone?— Lost in her beauty, reluctant to release her hand— “Mind if I sit?” Nodding his head towards the empty folding chair alongside hers.

“No. Of course not.”

Sitting, Julie Marx was beautiful; with a small nose, big, greenish-brownish eyes and honey-colored hair that so far as Mitchell could tell looked to be natural and, Oh, God! he thought again, fighting the urge to lick his lips, Look at those tits!

“Julie,” he said, “please don’t call me that.”

Biting, “ ‘That’?”

“My name.”

“Why? That’s what you said your name was, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, sure, but ‘Mitchell’ sounds so formal. Please call me Mitch, or when you get to know me better, ‘Mitchie’.”

Oh, yes, Julie Marx thought. I sure wouldn’t mind knowing you better!

Looking at their hands Julie Marx made a feeble attempt to remove hers.

But tugging lightly. “I’m not such a great dancer...”—to say the least—“...but…” Knowing full well the consequences. Still though, he could not wait to feel those great breasts pressed against his chest, so “…how’s about it?” he asked, “You want to dance?”

No longer attempting to extract her hand from Mitchell’s. Actually enjoying the feel of her hand being held by this handsome, young sailor. “Sure, Mitch.”

Standing, Julie Marx still had honey-colored hair. Still had huge breasts and was ‘still’ absolutely beautiful… From the waist up. From the waist down, however, Julie Marx had conspicuously wide hips, thighs and buttocks.

Which, of course Mitchell noticed immediately. But her face and ‘especially’ those great tits atoned for the size of Julie’s hips, thighs and buttocks.

Besides, at the moment not thinking beyond the touch of those great tits upon his chest, Mitchell Lipensky simply didn’t care. So, putting his hand into the soft, deep gorge of her waist and hip, he moved closely against her.

Well knowing from past experience what ‘all’ boys want, arching her upper body backwards, Julie attempted to keep from being pulled fully into his arms. But truly would have to stand a foot away in order for him ‘not’ to feel the soft prod of her breasts against the blue wool of his dress tunic, so…

Oh, yeah! No doubt about it! He did feel the prod of Julie’s breasts against the blue wool of his dress tunic… And, Oh, yeah! he certainly did…

Julie Marx knew that she was pretty—beautiful, in fact.

Julie also knew that ‘every’ boy she had known since the age of nine had attempted to feel, and see her breasts.

Approaching eighteen she knew —her beautiful face aside— at least as far as boys were concerned, it was the size of her breasts that compensated for the size of her…

Julie’s mother, a lovely woman and her father, a handsome man, the body structure and weight of both well within the norm, Julie had ‘no idea’ what genetic unbalance may have caused her to have—‘thunder thighs’. For this reason Julie Marx truly thought of her breasts as gold and knowing that she had ‘more gold’ than any other girl she knew Julie had— through the years— become what the boys in her senior class in high school referred to as a ‘PT’—a ‘prick tease’— so now…

Feeling this handsome sailor…Not a ‘boy’, this ‘man’s’ immediate response to her —poking, in fact, into her overly-endowed thigh— she ‘did’… Julie Marx ‘did’ feel flattered. And more than just a ‘little’ excited herself.

After the first dance—and her first moments of pretend modesty— Julie moved closer when she and Mitchell danced a second time.

In a short while ‘all’ of Julie’s — well practiced— prick-teasing talents came into play.

This being the first time since leaving home that Mitchell had been with a Jewish girl, Julie’s mannerisms—most of Julie’s mannerisms—were warmly familiar to him; this, and her beautiful face, and, Oh, yeah her great tits compelled him to spend the entire evening with her.

And with each ensuing dance—of which there were more than he, in the past, would ever have considered dancing with any one girl—Julie allowed herself to be held tighter and closer and before the evening and the dance was through, Mitchell, feeling the push of her breasts, and Julie, the prod of his penis, each were breathing warmly in the other’s ear as both felt the new-found excitement.

The temple dance finished, they walked to a coffee shop where he had a hot fudge sundae and she a cup of tea with one lump of sugar.

Living nearby, holding hands, walking Julie home, Mitchell made a date for his next

librty’ Saturday.

**** 

Mitchell Lipensky and Julie Marx saw each other five times over the next four weeks.

When not deluged by spring rains, they went to a park bench— that Julie well knew— where, able to be alone, they would spend an hour kissing passionately as Mitchell, in a continuous state of arousal, continuously attempted to fondle Julie’s breasts, as Julie continually moved one, or the other, or both of his hands.

Julie was well aware of how badly he wanted to fondle her, and actually wouldn’t have minded because when together in this dark, private place she, too, was in a constant state of arousal.

However, thinking herself falling in love with Mitchell, by the end of their third date, having a plan in mind… Julie thought that if she did ‘not’ let him fondle her, if he wanted to ‘badly’ enough…

Well, who knows, because Julie Marx was beginning to think… ‘engagement’.

About this time, though, Mitchell Lipensky was beginning to think— her beautiful face aside — that Julie’s ‘great tits’, that he’d dreamt of seeing. That he’d dreamt of fondling. That he’d dreamt of burying his face in and, quite possibly his whole head between and/or under, that he had—outside of his fantasies… a whole ‘lot’ of fantasies—that he had ‘not’ been allowed to fondle, let alone see might ‘not’ be worth his time so long as he must spend the time with her buttocks, too. Which, by the way, he had not been allowed to touch either—not that he’d really wanted to. But, he’d thought, if I don’t at least ‘try’ to touch her ass, she’ll think I think her ass is ugly—which, ‘truly’, he did—and that all I’m interested in—which, ‘truly’, they were—are her tits. And not wanting to hurt Julie’s feelings... And also not wanting to appear ‘that’ shallow, occasionally he would attempt to fondle a buttock.

But, truly embarrassed to have him touch her there, she always moved his hand from ‘there’, too.

A month and a half after their first meeting, Julie Marx and Mitchell Lipensky had their last date.

Next “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: Rockaway Beach: 1953