by Tony Duvert
He was very curious to compare us and didn’t do so to his advantage. Being little and having no body hair bothered him. He takes hold of my dick, matches it to his and, putting his nose close to it, decides mine is more developed. Untrue. But he appreciates the thickness of it, and I give him the illusion of being more tumescent. I estimate his length, and he has three finger widths more. Since his balls are relatively small, he says that, in the past, they were big, but they’ve shrunk—due to his jerking off, he thinks. He thinks that having sex devours your glands. I explain to him that the opposite is true. He believes it, always listens to me without discussion, the good news I give him about life suits him.
What does he know about venereal diseases? When you fuck certain women, your member rots and falls off. Such a perspective doesn’t entail any fear of girls on his part, he’s a fatalist.
His story about balls shriveling up has a follow-up, because I saw him a few months ago, which makes more than a year after we met. He doesn’t live in the city any more, but he comes back to it alone often. For a night at my place—a pilgrimage. And his balls have taken on a lot of volume—the true volume of balls, not the result of some invasive liquid or inflation of tubes. His cock has also continued to grow; he verifies with satisfaction that mine hasn’t changed, and that from now on he is by far the better endowed. I’m distressed by this, of course, but my bottom will draw some consolation from it.
I’ve got a very keen taste for big cocks. That’s a lie, because litde members inspire me with the same interest. But it’s difficult to love a big cock for anything else than its size, whereas the attraction of the little ones comes from less explainable charms. What is certainly very tempting is the disproportion between the height of a kid and how big his penis is. A defect that is more charming, certainly, when what’s too big is the member. But a few more years of perversion and maybe my opinion will change. If not, I’ll never succeed in understanding why queers run after certain mountains of muscles serving to support, like an immense oak table, a dinner of soft-boiled egg, in other words, laughable penises. I have the impression, and I might as well write it, that such a thing is already beginning to tempt me. Tall, strong and stupid, with a cuckoo’s prick; an especially decadent variant of all little boys. I should hunt it up. I’ll get fucked to the point of ecstasy. Oh, big guy, big guy, give it to me hard with your tiny knob. Do the ass-to-ass chicken dance, and some sucking. I’m capable of it when my prepubescents, who are embarrassed by nothing, decide to fertilize me. Would I refuse the same service from a superb stallion who was a bit atrophied?
(Laughing inside when I was in the hospital a few years ago, and the time came for taking temperatures: I saw my roommate—a young, starchy teacher, with spectacles and a humanities major; an arched noselike prey; a lantern jaw; a stuck-up way of speaking; long, fluttery Christian hands; and pallid pajamas—put Vaseline on the end of the rectal thermometer and shove it in with some haughty grimaces, full of captivating dignity. At the same time, I was offering that miniscule dildo to my vacuum-cleaner anus—that fetal, sucking mouth—and swallowed the whole apparatus. When you’re confined to bed with a fever, a sweating butt works as a fine lubricant. The difficulty was in keeping a bit of the thermometer on the outside so that it could be pulled back out. I would hold it between two fingers like a slingshot: if I let go I’d lose it. A fascination with chasms, the silver undulation of mercury through my entrails, infinite spaces, drunken boat. As for the gentleman who confronted the horrible ordeal of the breaking and entering of an anus—give me a break. And that gruff, offended mimicry inspired solidarity in me, nothing demeaning, nobility in humiliation, medicine’s terrible violence. And afterwards, I’m mocked if a brat of eight or ten fucks me. Yet it’s more meritorious than absorbing a tank of thermometers. You’d say that that thermometer was a finger, besides, a sensual one, nimble and gliding; no fingernail or bone, a single bulge just where it should be. When the elites who practice fistfucking—getting a fist and the rest up their rectum—are sarcastic about my bed partners, so be it. But those straights clutching their anal void with two hands, those hypocrites who push turds like an arm, but then, in the other direction, would put Vaseline on a fly’s eyelash, well, that really disgusts me.)
The novelty of Diegos cock has to do with his erections.
Speaking about Diego puts me to sleep. For how many months did he visit me? I could have discovered him in the centerfold of a porn magazine, and I wouldn’t have lost that much. I would have wrung out my cock to furnish a sperm bank for an entire year. (What gorgeous babies would be sacrificed, what wonderful and talented spermatozoids shat back out with my exploits, or the ones that died malnourished on stomachs, in handkerchiefs.)
Diego is nothing more than an image, perfect and flat; all I can do with him is a tiresome inventory of physical perfections; and if I’m patient, find minute indications that he’s less insignificant than he seems.
His erections themselves have the fixedness of photography. Solid and impassive, they take a long time to arouse by the usual means, but once there, they stay, and nothing can discourage them. Exhausted from too much sex, he lets himself be stroked or sucked for more than an hour without coming and without his member becoming even a tiny bit flexible. Squarely affixed to his groin, the organ is there, stays there, like a fake one. When he has come and pulls out of me, he goes to wash, combs his hair again, looks for something to drink, and comes back with his cock as stiff as it was before; he walks it in front of him, useless, magnificent, like those feathers, humps, decorative antlers that certain animals have. His pipes cleaned out, he has the time to set the table and cook an omelet before his cock goes out of commission.
After the first times, he was too lazy to get hard. I disregarded this and fucked him from behind, between his thighs and against the hole (where you don’t enter). And yet, as soon as he felt my cock striking his anus and his balls, he got a ferocious hard-on. This made me conclude that his refusal to be fucked wasn’t a serious one, and that his body was more disposed to it than he. I saw another boy react like that. Around fourteen, I think, smaller than Diego, with the same kind of pleasant expression and a svelte, fleshy body; this boy only spent a moment at my place and didn’t do much. He refused to get screwed; even so, after several kind actions on my part, he allowed himself to be turned on his side and I tried to enter his behind. He doesn’t tense up. By applying gentle pressure, I can feel it giving way, relaxing, widening, and I pass through to the other side of muscle. Immediately, the boy stops me and pulls away; he has just shot his load on the sheet. He wasn’t jerking himself off, it happened all by itself. Because of the tinkering with his behind, or because he was participating intensely in the act of fucking; or did he imagine himself in my place, decipher with his buttocks a history of ass-fucking? At the exact moment that my cock entered him, his sperm came out. This kid as well was convinced that he hated being fucked, and that I was a big queen. His coming embarrassed him; it’s the very kind of situation that boys “forget” a minute after. He thought only about getting dressed. After he left, I jerked off while sniffing at the spot of sperm on the sheet, a small spot (he hadn’t entered puberty very long ago) with a nice fresh scent to it.
When it comes to Diego, I only remember our first session of intercourse with any emotion. The evening of the monster, the shy soaping, the eyes looking into the air. This childish Diego disappeared quickly enough from my mind—and subsided gradually into his personality. A season later, Diego, who hadn’t changed in appearance, was nevertheless not as brusque, spoke more, dressed better, was more male, and certainly now knew he was a handsome young kid. To put it briefly, he was no longer a child, except in his brain. Which is something I can do without in those who no longer are the age to make use of it as only a child can.
I’d gotten his cock hard, I’d put up with his resistances to being fucked, and then he’d fuck me. Such works in progress on the part of these little men always bother me a lot. He did to m
e what I do to Francesco. But Diego, if he’s curled up against me, puts his face on my shoulder or tit. He’s on my left. He drives in his cock under my thighs, without hesitating to determine the placement of the hole. He enters it calmly, placidly, his eyes glued to my genitals. I take him in with less pain than with Francesco, whose diddler (which, as I’ve said, doesn’t excite me) is not only bigger, but flatter, more massive. That day with Diego my butt yawns open with desire. He brings his loins nearer in order to be exactly in line with my guts, and only sticks in half of his cock; he fucks by pulling his member out completely and driving it back in with each thrust, in rhythm with a rather lively little gallop. This lovely member drilling my anus pierces it spongily, pulls back, gets some air, is shoved back in, hurts at first, then gets interesting and, finally, fills me with enthusiasm. Diegos previous conquests at least taught him that—which he carries out without worrying about me, like a decent lad who threads his annular beads with care, enjoys them, and sauces them up to his liking.
When he has come, he drives it in to the hilt and I jerk off.
My chest is his pillow; he doesn’t move his face away. He watches my hand. I’m going to shoot my load on his nose, lips, I feel as if he’s waiting to snap up my come. At the last second, entwined as we are, I move his head, out of fear of getting it wet.
He doesn’t have time for us to begin again. It was night, time to return home. Reign of the mothers.
During the times together that followed, being fucked excited me less. I have a go at his buttocks. Lick them a lot, come between them. His anus, oval and cute, with folds like the striations of a spiral shell, is tawny light with chestnut brown hairs. No colored ring around it. The tuft of hair surprises me, because Diego is smooth, but under his arms he has this same bouquet with the whiff of flowers and fruits, an odor that the bath dilutes. Invariably, I try to force my way into his hole. A purely amiable ritual: the unspoken convention is that Diego has to accept and that I mustn’t insist. Give a few pushes with my cock and then avow, “It’s true, your hole’s too small.”
If I push too much, he grimaces and mutters barbs between his teeth. Barbs into a void, not intended for anyone: his humor is always easy-going, despite the rarity of his smiles. A very sensitive crotch to frequent, and I drench it often.
I have my mouth fucked; on his knees over me, Diego has intercourse with my face. He presses his hands against my shoulders or the wall in front of him, and contemplates the action with the eyes of a young cat, lips parted and moist. I like to feel his cockhead poking against all the hollows and all the flat areas of my face. He fucks carefully; I shove it all the way into my throat while taking hold of his buttocks.
I ask him to masturbate. I watch as if at the movies and masturbate as well. This doesn’t bother him, he’s not the type to pull a sheet over his head. His face remains bland. Impassive, with a nice regular movement that follows his penis and descends to his balls, he makes a shoe-shining gesture. The first time I wanted to see that, he was actually surprised, but didn’t hesitate. His surprise was because I was punishing him for no reason, depriving him of an anus. He didn’t deserve my condemning him to Mrs. Five Finger. Next, I took advantage of it; if I come between his thighs, he wants to fuck my hole afterwards, and that annoys me. So he can only jerk off. More patient, I lend him my crotch, or I suck. I give up my rear less often. He demands it with naivete, sweetness, caresses my back. His awkwardness delights me, I turn over on my stomach, he feels me up from head to toe, soon I’m trembling so much that he senses I’m ready and climbs on top of me. This ass-fucking from behind is less subtle than when he’s curled up against me: he fucks hard, strong, deep. But he isn’t brutal.
He was more likely to employ those caresses starting in the summer, when his mother was away and he could sleep at my place. And it was at dawn that it happened, because I sleep on my stomach and he would wake up before me. The nights were very warm. I’d pull the little bed onto the balcony for him, lie very near on the ground in front of the French windows. I’d admire him for a long time, then doze off myself. When the sun began to shine, he’d join me there on my blanket, his cock hard, give me shivers between my shoulder blades, murmur things, smile, spit softly in my behind and lie down on top of me. I didn’t resist in the light of these summer dawns.
If, despite everything, I refuse to be fucked, he implores with a silly patronizing face, full of giggles and contrite cupidity, as if he were imploring a yes-means-no kind of girl. He diddles them standing, between their thighs, anywhere at all. He has certain trees where he does it.
He doesn’t suck. He jerks off pretty well, while continually examining the tip with a look of curiosity, as if something that he’s never seen before were going to spurt out of it: pink sperm, a tiny snake, a shower of gold pieces, mayonnaise, jumping trout, a brood of mousies.
Secretive as he is, I’m amazed that he doesn’t avoid me when we’re outside. One time I even saw him with one of the girls he knows; they were on bicycles and riding gently down a street bordered with orange trees covered with fruit. I didn’t linger, I’m too compromising for a young boy engaged in a come-on; but I was wrong: Diego tried to catch my eye, and as soon as he saw that I’d seen, he smiled, shouted a hello, waved his hand. An imprudent kind of loyalty (or, if he simply wanted to show me his conquest, vanity). I don’t know what he could have said to the girl; in the new city all of them know about this kind of relations and spurn or reject boys with a reputation—even if it’s false—of engaging in them. No question of being suspected of having a sexual imagination, if you want to be authorized by these ferocious victims of the male order; they impose their lifestyle with blind intransigence, something most boys managed without. And if you asked these future male chauvinists where the obligation to be orthodox comes from, in good faith they’d point to those kindly and merciless virgins, not to their parents or the law.
It’s thanks to the queers that the penniless suitors of these “copettes” are able to invite them to the movies, pander to them, offer them treats, something to eat and drink at quality cafes, a walk in the country, English cigarettes, trinkets of jewelry, a little record with songs. Such an afternoon of next to nothing represents, at their age and in this city, seven or eight days of salary. Which already allows these girls to skim off the best from their lady-killers. Boys like Diego, school kids from poor families, ought not be able to approach females—except for a few francs for old whores with the faces of abortionists. This, then, is how he distributes my generous sums: first to dress spiffy, then to court little chicks who aren’t turned on enough by his sweet little button face. Since he never asks for anything, I put my donations in his pocket, whether we have sex or not. Solidarity of the sexually exploited. He regularly tells me about the flirtations it has allowed.
He only spoke to me about money once; he wanted to buy a bike. He shows me his savings, in five-franc bills, which he again counts. He’s in a very good mood, thrilled to have saved all that. He doesn’t dare suggest that I add to it (he needs twice the sum). I don’t offer it, either. We change the topic of conversation, and take care of my vice. Then, just as Diego wants to leave, I tell him that I need his bills (which is true, because such change comes in handy on the street), and I buy them back from him, using a daddy-style rate of exchange: each for a ten-franc bill. I don’t have enough of the ten-franc bills. So then I buy them back, as well as the five-franc ones that are left over. Diego leaves with funds in good shape. But now I possess this bundle of five-franc bills, some old, some new, some wrinkled or smooth. I’m happy about it. I usually never end up with something belonging to the boys. And if the rate of exchange seems ridiculous, it wasn’t entirely: I really have purchased those bills that were accumulating over a long period in Diegos trousers, just as I purchase what his underpants contain.
Buying, as I’ve already explained enough times, is a uselessly unjust and spiteful word. It’s part of a futile form of bitterness. But in the long-ago time when it happene
d (as my awkward rate of exchange shows), I hadn’t yet revised my money system. With that as well, it wouldn’t be the Diegos who’d help me do it, but all my rascals with their clipped heads, fidgety pricks and blackened rags.
My progressive inconsiderateness toward Diego. The way I speak to him is barely friendly, I’m selfish in bed, have bad moods; space out the dates far apart, make him clean what he dirties, cook what he eats; I’m not welcoming if he comes over without warning. I’m tired of him. A funny situation occurs when, out of money and waiting for some to be sent, I explain to him that he doesn’t need to come over, because I won’t be able to give him anything for about two weeks. Advice that he listens to gravely and follows to the letter. Pedro, his little brother, will behave the same way. They’ll reappear at the opportune moment. It’s not greed on their part, but, yet again, lack of imagination.
They’re efficient in the way they spend their time with me. Eating, drinking, smoking, hanging out, talking as little as possible, grooming, furnishing me with their nudity, taking off; the part of this schedule that’s devoted to me is minimal. In the long run, it bothers me. I was hoping that our fucking would produce a little intimacy. That’s not their concern. Pedros visits remain unchangeably brief and cold; Diegos, moderately civil. A cycle that’s almost mechanical. I fill the refrigerator, cut the fruits, clean the bathroom, make the bed; they come as arranged, empty the refrigerator and the fruit bowl, take a bath; we go to bed, carry out procedures that are tolerable and then get dressed; they look to see if there’s anything else left to empty, and go. I have the impression that when I take my pants off, it is also one of the duties of the host that I carry out mechanically. Plates bottles soap ass cock money leave, arrange the furniture, remake the bed, clean the bathroom again. Then think about the microscopic variations there are between this visit and the ones before, the way you’d compare several prints of the same photo.
