Date: Thu, 21 Nov 2013 11:34:48 -0800 (PST)
From: Skorpio <j_skorpio_2005@yahoo.com>
Subject: YMCA Black Attack, Part One (authoritarian, interracial)

YMCA Black Attack,
Part One,
by Skorpio

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Part One

This tale takes place back in the day when the old YMCA building dominated
the corner of Main and Market. That venerable institution was housed in a
five story brick edifice with broad cement steps and a bronze plaque of the
Ten Commandments set in stone.

You passed through the massive front doors into a large, high-ceilinged
lobby with a hotel-like reception desk. The papered walls were hung with
framed portraits of long-forgotten city fathers. Adjacent was a large,
window-lit room furnished with badly upholstered, high-backed armchairs.

To the left, a worn, carpeted stairway ascended to the residential
floors. To the right, doors opened on a stairwell that went down to a
good-sized locker room, sauna and swimming pool; at the end of long
corridor was a large windowless room hung with mirrors equipped with
barbells, dumbbells, chest expanders, a Nautilus machine, and doctor's
scales.

For decades men who frequented the YMCA were of Italian or Irish
heritage. But by the summer of 1979 the complexion of the city had darkened
dramatically. Blacks and hispanics outnumbered the few whites who still
remained in the inner city.

Our story begins with twenty-two year old Salvatore Rossi on an Olympic
bench in the basement weight room of the YMCA. With a grunt of exertion, he
finishes one last press. Sweat glistened like a patina on his flawless,
olive skin, soaking his white sleeveless undershirt and cut-off sweats.

With classic, chiseled features and a Roman profile, Sal could have modeled
for Michelangelo. Like the statue of David, Sal's brow was furrowed and the
taut tendons in his neck stood out like cords. He thought back to what
brought him to the YMCA the night before.

It all started when Sal's step-father taunted him for being a pizza
delivery boy without a future. Insults were hurled, slurs on both sides
which could not be taken back. That led to pushing and shoving.  Sal did
not fight back because his mom and step-brother were looking on.

At least that's what Sal told himself when he picked his ass up from the
sidewalk in front of the row home where he had lived all his life.

With nowhere else to go, Sal caught a cab to the YMCA downtown, where the
rent was $30 a week, $100 for one month, paid in advance.

His small, spartan room on the fourth floor was furnished with a narrow
bed, wobbly bureau, shaded lamp, and a Gideon Bible. The yellow wallpaper
was old and faded. A single window looked out on a rusted fire escape.

That night Sal slept fitfully. The next morning, he called out sick to
work, and feasted on breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and home fries at
a nearby greasy spoon.

For an hour or two he wandered the streets, mulling his situation,
simmering with rage, angry with his substitute father for being such an
asshole and with himself for taking the abuse like a pussy.

Needing clothes, Sal bought two pairs of cheap jeans, some colored tees,
boxer shorts, undershirts, and cotton athletic socks . Keeping the weight
room in mind, he picked up gray sweat shorts, a few towels, and of course a
jockstrap.

Later that day, Sal changed into his workout togs in the basement locker
room.  By now, of course, Sal was very much aware that as a white man he in
the minority at the Y.  Times had changed. This was never more apparent as
when he walked into the weight room and found it occupied by half a dozen
"moolies."

That was quite a sight, to be sure. Times had changed indeed since Sal went
away to community college.  He longed for the days when coloreds knew their
place, and everyone got along. There was a natural order.  Only now, it
seemed, the moolies were everywhere, breeding like wild animals, taking
over.

Sal managed to get in a decent workout.  So far, no one had spoken to him.
He didn't mind niggers so much, so long as they stayed out of his way. And
this was pretty much how the niggers felt about Sal.  Or so it seemed.

Returning to his locker, Sal took off his sneakers and socks, and peeled
away the sweaty wifebeater.  Looking left and right to make sure no one was
coming, he stripped off his gray shorts and supporter, then quickly stepped
into his colorful boxers striped green, white, and red like the Italian
flag.

Although Sal liked showing off his gym-rat physique, when it came to being
naked in front of other guys, he definitely had issues.  It was a size
thing, if you know what I mean.  There are showers and growers, but poor
Salvatore Rossi was neither. Again, the statue of David comes to mind.

Headed for the sauna in his boxers, towel draped over his shoulder, paying
little attention to his surroundings, Sal

bumped into a tall, imposing black man in trunks on his way to the pool.

Physical contact sent a frisson down Sal's spine. He made a grimace of
disgust which did not go unobserved.

"I didn't hear EXCUSE ME," growled the brother.

"That's `cause I didn't say it," Sal snapped.

"Asshole," the black man muttered.

Sal said nothing. He had enough problems without getting into a scuffle
with some nigger. The last thing he needed was to borrow trouble.

The old sauna was occupied by four black men grouped together, talking
quietly among themselves. Two were about Sal's age.  The other two were
much older, in the forties or fifties.  All four were unabashedly naked.

Sal took an empty plank across from them, closed his eyes, and filled his
lungs with the moist, hot air. He wanted to be left alone, to simmer over
the low flame of bitterness that burned in his restless, turbulent heart.

"Wassup?"

Sal slowly opened his eyes and looked at the one who spoke. The young
moolie grinned, a bright toothy smile, . He had big onyx eyes like those of
a jungle cat.  Tats inked his mahogany chest.

"Nothin'," Sal sneered, dismissively.

"We don't get many whiteboys here," remarked one of the older men, almost
paternally, as if to say: "watch yourself, son.: Gray, curly hairs grizzled
his beard and chest.

"Got a problem with that?" Sal retorted, taking the hint not at all.

"Do you?" interjected the other youth. He was lean but wiry, without an
ounce of fat.  Full lips, flared nostrils, goatee.

"Let it go," admonished the older fellow.

The first youth poured water from a pitcher onto the hot stones from which
came a blast of steam with a sibilant hiss!  He flexed his sinewy arms and
twisted his torso. His long, flaccid cock flopped obscenely.

"I wanna know why Casper gots to wear his drawers in the fucking sauna?"the
other youth demanded.  "Wassup with that? You shamed of somethin'?"

"Fuck you," said Sal.

"FUCK YOU!"

The gauntlet had been thrown. This was one of those fight or flight
moments. Outnumbered, the angry young guido rose in a huff and stormed
out. Despite his swagger and short-fused temper, Sal was basically a pussy,
and he knew it.  And he hated that about himself.

It was bad enough that he failed to stand up to his abusive stepfather. Now
he was running from fights with niggers.

Outside the shower area, Sal quickly shucked off his boxers and hung them
with his towel on a hook. There was no one else around, so he did not mind
being naked. Had there been others showering, Sal would have dressed and
gone back to his room.

He took a long, steaming shower, letting the water massage his aching
muscles, forgetting his troubles. Time stood still.  He felt renewed,
cleansed, and by slow degrees his hopes began to lift.

Turning off the water, Sal went for his towel to dry off only to find it
missing from the hook.  Not just that.  His boxers were gone, as well.

Dripping wet, Sal returned to his locker only to find the gray metal door
ajar.  The combination lock lay on the floor.  Missing were his gym togs
and street clothes, as well as his watch and wallet. Everything!

"What the fuck?" Sal roared, pissed as hell, but no one was around to hear.
He slammed his fist into the locker. Bam!

That hurt like hell.  Licking bruised knuckles, Sal sat down on a wooden
bench to ponder his predicament.  Who could have done this?  It had to be a
fucking moolie!  As God was his witness, Sal hated those black bastards!

"Fucking apes!" he muttered so blind with rage that for a moment he almost
forgot that he was naked.

Then, the young Italian glanced down, saw his shriveled manhood, and the
anger turned to shame. There had to be something available to cover himself
with, but a thorough search of the locker room turned up zilch.

Where was everyone, anyway, he wondered?  It seemed very strange that the
locker room was suddenly deserted.  Things could not get worse.  It could
not get any worse. Or so he thought.

Just as Sal was about to give up, he heard water splashing. Springing to
his feet, Sal walked to the showers where he came face to face with the man
he bumped into earlier. A towering, caramel skinned negro with enormous
arms, a massive chest, flared lats, and washboard abs.

"Can you help me out?" Sal ventured, nervously. "Some motherfuckers broke
into my locker and stole all my shit. Could you maybe loan me a towel or
something?"

"Sounds like you pissed somebody off," the black man chuckled.  "Sure.  I
got a towel you can use. Follow me."

From his locker, the brother offered Sal a strip of cloth not much bigger
than a hand towel.  It was barely enough to wrap around his waist and had
to be held in place.

Was this suppose to be a joke?

"Do you think I could borrow something bigger?" ventured Sal.

"Nah, I don't think so."

By now the black man was fully dressed. Bulging arms stretched the fabric
of his shirt sleeves. He stuffed the large , damp towel into a gym bag.

"C'mon, man," Sal pleaded. "You can't leave me like this."

 "That's tough, but not my problem."

"Look, I'll buy the towel from you."

"How much?"

"Twenty dollars?"

"Aiiight. You got the cash on you?"

"No, I told you. Someone stole my shit. But I'm good for it, I swear!"

"Sorry, dude. No cash, no sale."

The black man shrugged and sauntered off.  Pausing at the exit, he turned
to say: "Watch your ass, whiteboy."

Much later, in retrospect, Sal realized he should have taken that piece of
advice literally. Maybe, if he had, things would have turned out
differently.

Sal was once again alone in the locker room.  Although the meager towel
covered his junk, it barely concealed his round buttocks.

A long hour of indecision passed before Sal resolved to walk out of the
locker room, cross the lobby, with his head held high. He could do it, he
told himself.  On the other side of the lobby were the stairs.

All he had to was make it to his room on the fourth floor.  Then, he could
get dressed, and put this horrible incident behind him.  Clutching his
towel at the hip, Sal strode through the large, open foyer. A few men of
color chuckled with amusement as he flew past.

Realizing he would need a key to his room, Sal stopped at the desk for a
spare.  Sweat trickled on his brow as he tried to hide his embarrassment.

Once he had a key in hand, Sal breathed a sigh of relief.  His ordeal was
almost over. But as it turned out, that was not the case.

Upon reaching the fourth floor, Sal was alarmed to discover that the door
to his room was open. Someone had jimmied the lock.

Entering, he found the room had been ransacked. The few clothes in his
bureau were gone!  For a long time, Sal sat on the edge of his bed,
stripped of sheets, blanket, and pillows, fuming with shame, rage, and
trepidation.

There was only thing he could do.  In the hallway was a pay phone, where he
placed a collect call to Mario, his friend and boss at the pizzeria.  It
was awkward managing the phone while keeping the towel from slipping.

"Mario, it's Sal!  I'm in sort of a jam," he explained. "I'm at the Y...
the YMCA...  No, the old man didn't throw me out!  I left.  I couldn't take
it no more...  That's right...  Listen, Mario, I need your help. Some
moolies ripped me off.  Stole all my shit."

"That's fucked up."

"I know, right?  It's like a jungle here.  Niggers everywhere you
look. Actin' like they fuckin' own the joint."

"You gotta get out of there, dude."

" I'm workin' on that.  Right now, I really need you to do something for
me.  Bring me some clothes, okay?  I told you, they took everything!
Pants, shirt, sneakers, okay?  Right now, I got nothin'."

"What should I tell your folks?"

"Don't tell them nothin'."

"What about your brother?  Tony can get your shit without your folks
finding out."

"He's not my brother. He's my step-brother!  STEP!  How many times do I
gotta tell you that!?  Don't tell Tony shit!  He's the last person I want
to hear about this."

Sal and Tony shared a bedroom when Tony's dad married Sal's mom and moved
in.  Sal was seventeen at the time, older than Tony by three years. Despite
the fact this had always been his room, the younger lad soon took over,
making Sal felt like an unwanted guest in his own home.

Tony had an out-going, aggressive personality. He played soccer and had
already lost his virginity. Unlike Sal, who shunned team sports and did not
have sex until sophomore year at college. Tony plastered the walls with
posters of hot chicks and soccer stars, and blasted disco music, which Sal
detested with a passion, whenever he felt like it.

"Okay, okay, I won't tell Tony!" Mario promised.

"Just bring me what I told you. Room 404."

"I've got to close up here, Sal.  I can't do this tonight. Can you wait
until morning?"

"Yeah, I guess I'll have to."

Sal hung up the phone, only slightly reassured his horrible ordeal would
soon be over.

Looking over his shoulder, Sal spied a black dude leaning casually against
the wall, smoking a cigarette, waiting to use the phone. For a scant
second, Sal wondered how much of his conversation had been overheard.

Sal put it out of his mind.

He could wait until morning. Tomorrow, it would all be over. He would take
his leave of the YMCA, find somewhere else to stay. With Mario, perhaps.

Totally exhausted, the muscular, young guido curled up on his bare, lumpy
mattress and fell sound asleep.



To be continued in PART TWO...



Author's Note: If you liked this story, check out my Tumblr Blog – BLACK
DOMINION - at:

http://blackdominion.tumblr.com