tagHumor & SatireThe Reminiscences of Mitch the Door Ch. 01

The Reminiscences of Mitch the Door Ch. 01

byMitch the Doorman©

The Reminiscences of Mitch the Doorman



What follows are the adventures of our hero, currently employed as a doorman at the Doppelganger Hotel in New York City. Some of these tales my strain the bounds of your credulity, dear reader, but rest assured that I have faithfully recorded them from Mitch himself. My original intent was to present these in chronological order. I finally relinquished this idea as to know Mitch is to come to a whole new understanding of time as it would exist in a world without days, years, or any means of measuring time and it's passing. In fact, any appreciable time spent with Mitch will give you insight to the possibilities of parallel existence. As an early example let us consider the circumstances of Mitch's birth.

Many bastards proudly point to who their parents are, one, at least, being famous. Others will loudly proclaim the name of their orphanage as a badge of proletarian honor, these people's parents being decidedly not famous. Mitch is in neither group. He is reasonably sure that his parents included at least a man and a woman but beyond this he knows nothing, his memory being what it is. He is not among the later group as well. Though here again he is reasonably sure that sometime in the past someone had told him that he was raised in a house with cats. Not that he has any recollection of cats.

Thus, dear reader, I now present to you the story of Mitch the Doorman, exactly as it was related to me.

The Part One: Mitch Heads Into the Stacks



Mitch looked at his watch for a good ten seconds until he realized he was looking merely at the hairs of his wrist, having pawned his Timex three days prior to afford a cup of coffee. Sighing, he elevated his gaze, resting it upon the stone cold visage of a lion. Mitch made a funny face to the lion (which for Mitch usually entailed nothing more than showing his face.) Next he thumbed his nose. Mitch even considered mooning the lion but decided the effort involved in removing his heavy, braid encrusted overcoat was not worth the effort. Perhaps a taunt would provoke a response from the seemingly disinterested animal?

"Hey, Patience, getting any from Fortitude lately? Hahahaha"

No response.

Mitch finally decided that no antics of his would stir the stone lion, nor its companion on the other side of the stairs leading up to the 5th Avenue entrance of the main branch of the New York City Public Library. With a shrug he proceeded to mount those steps for his daily, afternoon session in the reading room.

(Now, lest you form some elevated opinion of Mitch's intellect I should interject a brief comment as to the reason for these daily visits. And yes, dear reader, I do know that interjecting myself into Mitch's story is bad form and a violation of several well known literary conventions. But, as I alluded to previously, this is done in the interest of keeping you firmly placed in this reality, not his.

Mitch, who in fact shares some traits with normal men, has a vast appetite for pornography whilst at the same time possessing a miniscule amount of money which he keeps in the form of coin inside his pillowcase. One day in order to get in out of the rain Mitch decided to duck into the nearest entrance that did not charge an admission fee thus finding himself standing in the main branch of the New York City Public Library. There he observed a painting of a nude woman. Once five minutes had passed and no one had approached him about paying a quarter to continue looking at it Mitch decided he was on to something.)

His first stop was at the card catalogue. He was dimly aware that something with small keys and a glowing screen was in the process of replacing this massive, wood bound collection of index cards but for him he hoped none to soon as he derived a tactile pleasure from slowly flicking through the cards, heart beating strongly at the thought of eminent discovery only a few cards away.

Now Mitch could be, with long experience of trial and error, fairly perceptive. Thus he was currently riffling through the ER section, not as one would expect the PO or even the very back of the SE sections for he had learned this – in this paragon of intellectual collections pornography disguised itself as eroticism. The former was unclean and regulated. The later was, ah, art! Who says simple words have no power.

His trembling finger stopped, the little nugget of his prurient search lay finally, and literally, at his fingertip. Near Eastern Eroticism as Revealed in Byzantine Iconography, Julius Ramsgate, Oxford, 1937. While Mitch had no notion whatsoever of the long and rich story of the Byzantine Empire, nor the vital role played by Icons in its tortuous religious life, nor for that matter any appreciation for that renowned center of scholarly pursuit in the valley of the Thames, he did know that one word, "Eroticism.," held forth the prospect of a pleasant afternoon in the main reading room. Added to this was his appreciation that if Billy Wanamaker could change his name to Johnny Hardman and score it big in porno films then some guy named Ramsgate was sure to know something.

Mitch murmured a pardon to the prim and proper lady standing next to him and asked her if she would not mind writing down the information on the index card his thumb was resting on, explaining that he was right handed and therefore could not move his hand without losing his place in the card file. (Using his other hand was a concept in physical dexterity that obviously never occurred to Mitch.)

The prim and proper lady responded that she was, to Mitch's good fortune, one of the librarians. She told Mitch to go take a seat and she would fetch the book for him. As she said this her hand descended down to cover Mitch's. The warm, soft, smooth womanly flesh produced a sensation in Mitch that most men only ever got when bedding their girlfriends while their cold, cold wives wait patiently at home. With a wistful sigh Mitch removed his hand and walked over to the reading area heart thumping madly and a slight damp spot appearing on his forehead, the sort one can get from eating too many jalapeño peppers.

A short while later the prim and proper librarian adorned in a medium grey suit with a simple white blouse, flats and her blonde hair pulled severely into a bun (in passing, Mitch took in her roots and concluded she was a natural blonde; doormen, over time, become minor experts on such things having so much opportunity to observe the comings and goings of their regulars) and metal rimmed glasses perched halfway down the bridge of her nose, appeared beside Mitch and laid the Ramsgate book down in front of him.

"Thank you," Mitch stammered.

"An interesting choice, are you studying strictly icons or do you have a more general interest in Byzantine art and history?"

Mitch flushed slightly knowing that he could not tell her his true interest nor willing to reveal the depth and breadth of his ignorance of anything connected to the Byzantine Empire.

"Um, ah, yes, just that," the last part mumbled.

The prim and proper librarian suddenly flashed a radiant smile at Mitch that reminded him of those times when the sun would suddenly burst forth in its full intensity after a long sojourn behind hard gray clouds. Then she turned, and it seemed to Mitch, literally skipped toward the book stacks. She stopped at the corner of one and gave Mitch what he swore was a seductive backwards glance.

Mitch was immediately in heat. In that state, the primeval state bred into a species keen on survival and dating back farther than our ancestors who first took that mighty leap from the security of their trees to the dangerous but vast with promise savannah. As our earliest forbearers rose up on sturdy bipedal legs, the better to see over the tall grasses and freeing their arms and hands for tasks other than locomotion, so too did Mitch raise himself to a fully erect position and shambled after his prey, proceeding into the stacks.

He caught a glimpse of gray and blonde disappearing through a door. Following through it he found himself in a stairwell, hesitating, and then thankful for the fact that the stairs lead only upwards. (If they had gone down as well I fear that to this day our hero would still be standing there immobilized with indecision.)

Mounting the stairs with eyes widening in the gathering gloom he pushed through a door at the top of the stairs. A sepulcher like stillness greeted him. Dust motes flittered through the dim light. More stacks of books confronted him, stretching away into the semi-darkness of the far side of the room. Turning left Mitch walked down the aisle, the stacks stretching away to his right. Peering down each one in turn, anticipation rising higher yet, the only sound the slapping of his soles on the hard floor. The collected wisdom of the ages stood silently in serried ranks on the shelves giving mute witness to the oldest pursuit of human kind.

As Mitch came to the last aisle he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. At the far end stood the librarian, flushed and breathing hard. Reaching her hand across her face she laid her glasses on top of a row of books. Then she raised her hands behind her head for a moment, shook it. Suddenly, as if a great gust of wind had struck her a mass of billowing blonde hair created a nimbus at the center of which was a glowing countenance. Mitch stood rooted, entranced by the vision before him. With one hand dropping to her waist, the other momentarily stopping to undo the top button of her blouse, the librarian crooked a finger at Mitch and signaled him to come hither.

With no sense of motion Mitch was suddenly standing in front of his no longer prim nor seemingly proper lady. He could feel the heat emanating from her as a sailor in the Mediterranean feels the hot breeze of the Sirocco. He shifted himself as his pants now seemed a size or so too small. A leering grin spread across the librarian's face, green eyes smoldering, a second button undone revealing a hint of white, lacey bra and the swell of pale, heaving orbs that seemed to Mitch at that moment the most perfect objects he had ever seen.

"Come here," the voice deep and husky, superheated with naked desire. As this was said the woman lost some of her grayness, her jacket taking flight and landing in the stacks, draped over a three volume set of Herbert Thompson's Wildlife and Birds of Lower New York.

Mitch rushed up to here, arms enfolding her, feeling the mad passionate heat emanating from the female furnace of sexual combustibility now nestled in his arms. With all of the gallantry he could summon Mitch reached up and pulled off his clip-on tie (figures, eh?). With military precision all the corpuscles that normally marched to his brain executed an about face and flowed to his groin.

Cradling his head in her hands our heretofore prim and proper lady looked into Mitch's eyes and with a look that would make Sirens proud she said, "I crave a man in gold braid, take me."

Mitch, ever the gentleman, took her at her word. He reached up with trembling fingers to undo the third button of her snow white blouse. After a hiatus of some moments the librarian deftly moved Mitch's ineffective digits aside and in seconds had her blouse open and off tossing it onto the stacks, covering a copy of Wilson Locke's seminal work, Rituals of Lower Order North American Primates.

Mitch was transfixed by the heaving chest in front of him. The delicious swell of small mounds, pale, rose tantalizingly from the shimmering white material encasing them. The darker blue of a vein showed out, describing a thin line that arched down and disappeared beneath her bra like a route marker for Mitch's desires. He was dimly aware of reading about 18th century upper class women who to accentuate the paleness of their delicate, sun-shielded skin would use ink to draw veins on their bosoms.

Grabbing his arm our lady, now in partial gray, pulled Mitch around the corner of the stacks where a low table stood. With a bewitching toss of her thick, blonde mane she laid herself across the table, hands reaching behind her to unclasp her bra as she splayed her legs, desire so obvious, her need acting as an invisible magnet drawing Mitch to the dénouement of his chase.

In his mind Mitch strode boldly forward, his erect manhood leading the way. (In fact he shuffled as best he could considering the fact that his pants and boxers were encasing his ankles.) Looking down at the librarian he marveled yet again at her pale, smooth skin, small firm breasts, surmounted by taught light pink nipples. Supporting her weight on her hands our lustful keeper of the books looked longingly, beseechingly at hero as her skirt rode up her thigh on account of her lithesome, writhing motions.

Silky white thighs shone in the dim light showing Mitch the way, leading him to that place of velvety smooth fulfillment. Looking down he beheld a wild, wanton visage starring madly back at him, all passion and consumed with elemental lust. Placing his hands on her shoulders Mitch gently pushed the librarian down and fumbled his way towards her. With a stab here and a stab there he vainly sought entrance. Briefly looking up he glimpsed a book, the title of which made no sense to him, the author with the unlikely name of Euclid.

In a near fit of despair the librarian reached her hand down and in an act both needful and merciful wrapped her hand around Mitch's misguided shaft leading him into her gently until the two of them achieved sublime unity. The librarian rolled her hips upwards as Mitch thrust his forward and at long last his shaft was sheathed.

Throwing her head back she emitted a long, low hiss of obvious satisfaction. All sense of time and place were lost to Mitch now. His whole being, his very existence was concentrated in those few inches (and no dear reader, to this day I have no earthly idea how many inches so please refrain from asking) of pulsating cock.

Her body lost in conjoined bliss, writhing as Mitch stroked in and out of her, legs wrapped around his hips mouthing words of desire and periodic shouts to the almighty. Mitch himself would have added to her running commentary if only he could have thought of something to say.

Bit by bit, stroke by stroke Mitch soared to that climatic moment when all would be released. Soaring on wings of gossamer, sensing a lightness he had rarely known he climbed those last few steps to the moment of.......

"Sir, sir."

Mitch felt a tapping on his arm, opened unwilling eyelids and beheld a very prim and proper lady in gray.

"I'm sorry sir; no sleeping allowed in the reading room, I must ask you to go."

With great reluctance Mitch stood on shaky legs and headed for the exit, turning once before leaving. To this day he swears the lady in gray gave him both a wink and a highly seductive swish of her hips. As our hero exited the library and turned south on 5th Avenue a smile slowly spread across his face, a tuneless hum issued forth, and the bystanders that day swore they saw a man in a fancy uniform with gold braid literally skipping down the broad sidewalk. Some have even said, though I find this difficult to believe, that Patience winked at Fortitude.

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