by Tony Duvert
I don’t hold it against them, I understand their reasons; but I’m disappointed that, as justifiable as the limits that they impose on our relations are, the weeks and months are accumulating without their strict respect for antihomosexual (antiforeigner, anti-adult?) protocol wavering. It’s why I’ll pay exaggerated attention to the most modest deviations they deign to carry out.
Once I said to Diego that if he really wasn’t going to let me fuck him by our next date, I wouldn’t see him any more. He said nothing.
But he comes over and seems to be in a good mood. He’s decided to hold onto his place. I enter him from behind. It really hurts too much, he’s not used to it, and because the conquest has become stale, there’s the risk of prolonging his suffering—I won’t shoot my load quickly enough. Besides, I don’t even want to. These circumstances don’t appeal to me. A silly kind of blackmail, desire that has passed its use-by date. I pull out my cock.
My bad ways have a strange effect upon Diego; I find him softer, friendly, more trusting. You’d think he was waiting to come out of his shell until he knows me better, but that knowing an adult, in his eyes, is merely learning the worst there is to be endured. My roughness reassures him.
One summer night, he had fun locking himself in the bedroom—I no longer remember why. Annoyed that he was prolonging the joke heavy-handedly, under such tiresome conditions, I slapped him as he opened the door. He didn’t react in the slightest. We passed the night each on his own side. I’m ashamed of having struck him. And yet, he bore no grudge. Coming from a man, this seems run-of-the-mill to him, ordinary and acceptable. After that, Diego acts friendly and relaxed as never before; he’s disinterested, confiding, tender in ways my good behavior was never able to provoke. Maybe he sees me as more normal, more approachable than before the slap, which has put me back in my place.
Subsequently, at the final stage of our relationship, my desire is reignited, and I remind him that in the spring, I’d screwed him. He puts up with our starting again. Same result. The goodwill that he displays proves that his pain isn’t faked. Also, my cock can recognize new anuses, which wrap themselves around it, sheath it differently than holes being squeezed together deliberately. Diego seems to be in agony. We try different positions. On hands and knees it goes well enough, and from then on Diego, betrayed by his body, puts on an act. He’s evasive and promises that we’ll succeed the next time. Then we discuss it: he claims that I’m doing it wrong; I should have pushed it in with one lunge. He also suggests squatting over my belly and impaling himself gradually. These ploys had the effect of increasing the constant involuntary contractions he couldn’t get the knack of controlling, which made my careful pressure on his hole more pronounced. But since we have managed to overcome this, because anuses loosen their rigidity once they’ve been bypassed, provided their owner can stand a minute of moderate pain, Diego’s suggestions, I think, have only been aiming to ward off a difficulty that isn’t physical.
When its time for our next date, he remembers his promises, but isn’t too keen on keeping them. So, in the bedroom, he suggests I forget about them; in their place, he’ll suck me. An unexpected substitution. I thought that disgusted mouths were more insurmountable than resisting anuses; and if I sometimes lay siege to the latter, I don’t try to oppose the former. So I’d never asked Diego to suck me, from the moment he told me he didn’t want to.
In the end, the bargain suits me. We get into the position for sixty-nine, I’m going to suck him at the same time and devour his asshole; I eat cocks at both ends, swallowing the balls on the way. He gets very hard. And he really sucks. Is it because he’s coming to the rescue of his anus? He goes down on my prick with conviction and dexterous lips, a warm tongue that amazes me. And he gulps it all the way into his throat. His penchant for imitation must be responsible for it: he kisses like I do, he’ll suck like I do. He even copies my small strokings of his anus, testicles, the hollow of his thighs. When I lick his hole, his mouth stops cautiously near mine and grazes the edges; the limit of his copying.
I wondered why he didn’t know how to kiss, since he went with girls. Then I found out that the practice of French kissing was not very widespread for such flirtations; they kissed, pecked each other’s faces, but no tongues. The kisses seen at the movies changed nothing. It was the queers who spread the new ways of doing it—through the boys. Those poor girlfriends.
Nothing came after sixty-nine with Diego; I went back to France a few days later, and our relations in the bedroom wouldn’t start up again. When I got back, I sometimes saw Diego in the street, and (except for the night of pilgrimage that I’ve described, during which our pleasures were perfunctory) I lost my desire to invite him over. Now that he’s seventeen and his family has left the city, his life is better. He’s free to do what he wants, he travels here regularly, where he uses his talents superbly: a foreigner, a hairdresser for ladies, takes him to bed, feeds him, dresses him, styles his hair. His prosperity is a pleasure to see. His hair, less so; the hairdresser realized a secret dream of Diego by making his hair blonder. The unusual shades have vanished; now he’s an insipid blond, and it looks vulgar, like a salesgirl on her night out. The work is perfect, the hair stylish, but its a shopkeeper ideal. Diego no longer has any real hair.
I prefer that long-ago spring when the monsters timid friend came to my place. After the bath, I cut his toenails. If I touched his limp member, he’d push back my hand and murmur, “It’s sleeping!”
I liked to see him sitting in the middle of the bed. I’d gently spread apart his legs so that the best part hidden by his thighs would appear. I’d bury my face in it. Diego, embarrassed, would laugh. I took a piece of broken mirror, a big triangle, from the closet. Placed it between his thighs and showed him what I was admiring, so that he could appreciate these secret wonders himself. He doesn’t look away; his cock rises a little; he studies his crotch with a hint of squinting fascination: his nice set of balls with their delicate parallel creases, the plump little half-moons that cup the hole and that the underside of the buttocks form under the top of his thighs, the ingenuous luminosity of this youthful landscape with the fullness of drowsy cheeks.
At the time, Diego had the odd habit of asking me about all that was being used or consumed (a can opener, lighter, some cheese, tissues, beer, a pen, a fork, aspirin, a map of the city, some chocolate, a grill for meat, shaving cream): “How much does that cost?”
His tone of voice was dull, flat, without curiosity. But the question was indefatigable. I’d answer. His features betrayed no reaction. A nod of the head and his slighdy lowered eyes stared at nothing: he had to learn my answer by heart. In this way, he built a strange catalogue of household items. Usually, the figure wasn’t enough for him and he’d immediately ask another question: “Is that a lot?”
As if a price didn’t indicate the worth of an object—or rather, as if Diego wanted to know both the price of things at the home of people he thought were rich and the opinion that the rich people themselves have of these prices. In the same way that if I heard a man tell about how he had lost one hundred million in the stock market, I might ask him: “Is that very much?” all the while knowing as well as can be what a sum like that would mean to me if I had it. The strange thing was that Diego had that attitude about the most available products, and was determined to know if it was “expensive” or not that a newspaper cost one franc.
I started to become disappointed when something new, a canned food, an illustrated brochure, eau de cologne, didn’t inspire the famous question and he’d eat one, thumb through another, put on some of the last without asking how much they cost. His questions seemed to be the expression of a private preoccupation but stemmed instead from a lack of finding what to say, or because an object that he hadn’t noticed before suddenly attracted his attention. For example, there was a low pinewood table in one of the rooms; Diego used it for dozens of days before finally asking me how much it cost. I didn’t know. I told him that it was a low-priced
piece of junk, like everything in this furnished place. He nodded, memorized low-priced piece of junk, but he seemed convinced of the opposite.
Now he no longer goes to school. He kept repeating years he’d repeated. His hairdresser was maybe going to take him on as an apprentice. An unhoped-for turn of events. I don’t think Franceso will get out of his situation that well. At the beginning, Diego wanted to be a movie actor, in other words, a millionaire. And he wanted to go north, to France, for example. A few months after that, his ambition didn’t go any farther than wanting a job with the railroads. And France? It rains too much, snows all year, he’s been told. I was almost worried about his becoming so reasonable.
Thus, it’s his hair that will have chosen his profession, not he. It isn’t the worst guide you might have to worry about. Diego doesn’t speak much about such a future, which pleases him immensely; he has hopes concerning his hairdresser, but he doesn’t really trust him yet.
Strange hairdresser. Because today Diego doesn’t know him. In his old photos you see the sudden emergence of this man. Diego wasn’t yet fifteen. Up to that point, he’d worn his hair short and shaggy, boyish and charming, on a kisser to die for. The man added a Joan of Arc hairstyle, and with early adolescence helping, Diegos face would darken as a result, look anxious, sensual, intelligent, wonderful. These photos made me sorry I hadn’t come along a year earlier.
His fear of parents prevented the hairdresser from going too far with his art. Even with his father gone, Diego may have combed his hair less childishly, but didn’t touch the color. There are battles with Mom. I saw an episode of that when, at the end of that summer, Diego came over with short, mutilated, atrocious, rural-looking hair; his mother had made use of the scissors during the night. I already knew he was a heavy sleeper. When I would go to sleep long after him, I’d discover his cock hard and it would seem bigger to me than when he was awake. The savagery of this cudgel sticking straight up from a dozing body. Roused, I’d sit on it, drive it all the way to the navel and jerk off. That only woke him up one time; I had started to do it too soon after he fell asleep which I figured had occurred as soon as his member had slowly stiffened. He showed that he had woken up by rocking his hips; given the depths to which I’d lodged his cock, he was tearing at my intestines and we readjusted our position. But my initiative had been well rewarded. There was really not one boy here whom I awakened to have sex who didn’t go in for it immediately—with an eagerness that often made these sessions of sleepy-time sex warmer and more passionate than the others. I was caressed, embraced, kissed more. Obsolete sensations, touchingly long ago. In the morning they awoke and were just as noticeably kind, cheerful, benevolent, sylphlike. Those times with Diego were delightful.
His mother’s short haircut accentuated Diego’s boxer’s mug. The way he held his shoulders, arms, his funny faces adapted to it. This little tough was completely new, and I caved in. One more obsolescence. Cemetery of decomposed myths, I haven’t finished visiting it, the world changes more quickly than faces that have given up on it. What Diego’s mother did hadn’t angered him; he was laughing about it, hardly embarrassed at having been made ugly. He felt that he’d been deprived of a treasure, a flattering symbol, a privilege.
But in the end he won that battle of the hair; or rather, his hairdresser and his bleaches vanquished Diego himself. For two years or more, the man waited for his time to come, keeping his eye on that hair the way you would lie in wait for the chance to take someone’s virginity; and when he finally poured his concoctions on Diegos ambers, honeys, tawny-brown and golds, and used his scissors, brush and hairdryer to change it into a helmet of yellowed paper, it was like a marriage ceremony. I find it odd, in fact, that Diego’s clothes, resources were so meager when I knew him, whereas he had been fucking that oxygenator for more than a year. And, in fact, it’s significant that the man waited for the kid’s mother to cede all power over Diego’s mop—and over everything else, besides—before he could treat him better, move him in, dress him and instruct him.
I had asked Diego if he’d go on frequenting men for a long time. Two years, he says, until I’m eighteen. An urgent date. He explains that if he goes beyond it, he’ll like it too much and become gay. I answer that if he likes it, I don’t see any problem. True, he says, but it’s looked at badly. He has no other objection; he himself doesn’t want to adopt such a lifestyle, but he’s indifferent about others leading it. He never used the word queer when he was talking about those he’d been with—which is the opposite of Francesco, who wreaks revenge on the discrimination to which he’s subjected by using irony, gossip and insults to condemn queers who don’t have the ability to obfuscate like he does; and for the same reason, he praises hetero values to the skies, another low trick of which Diego is innocent. My question was obviously meant to get an idea of his opinion about homosexuality. But he had absolutely no thoughts about it; it’s badly looked upon and he didn’t want to be badly looked upon, that’s what determined his choice, which had nothing to do with personal preference, but only with public opinion. Not one word about the physical attractiveness of boys compared to girls. The fateful limit of eighteen will protect Diego from the risk of having a shameful sexuality; so what he does before that has no importance, means nothing, does not at all determine an orientation. A sensible kind of magic.
Diego attracts a following of gays of his age. Andrès meets him at my place, showers him with awed praise, always in that bemused tone he uses, and will form a slight connection with him. I’ll often get news about one from the other. In this social context, their having sex together is unthinkable; their fear of others’ words prevents them. Indiscretion and mockery seemed to be the most effective pillars of the law. They indicated the value of those who abided by it and those who stood up for it.
However, the tone of the two boys is risque one afternoon in my apartment. Seated next to each other, they display their cocks. Diego’s indecency, satisfaction, laughter. More embarrassed—or more excited—Andrès doesn’t get hard; he gives it the old shake-a-rooney and manages to show it to its advantage (according to his notion of what gives a human being an advantage).
Out of solidarity, Diego had given my address to some of his friends at school. I had unexpected visits from his friends. There are none that I’ll want.
Yes, there were some exceptions. A foolish boy of fifteen with a round face gave me a boost. He was bothering me, I let him in, but I acted like he wasn’t there. I would have happily tricked with him. It’s a delicate thing to explain, without defaming Diego: his group of friends would think that I was porking him if I porked one of the others. I tell the lad that Diego fucks me, but that he’s enough when it comes to tops who do that to me; if I invite another boy to bed, it will be to fuck him. He clucked inanely. Fuck him On another day he came back for money and claimed he’d do it. I had some dates that were more attractive, and I ignored him. I go to pee, he follows me, gives my cock an eager glance, jokes. He really is moon-faced. A moment after, I change my clothes. He feels me up, puts his arms around me, kisses me. Pooh. A few days later, at noon, I make up my mind to fuck him. We do it standing up. He’s irritating, a quibbler, awkward, good for nothing, and I fuck him brutally. He has the same sticky ways as Andrès, but a thousand times more imbecilic. I learned that, after this, a foreigner took him to Switzerland for several months and that he came back as round as a wobbly toy.
But the boys around here whose job is to be shagged are invariably insufferable. I’m fucking another of Diego’s friends. He’s sixteen, isn’t ugly, has a pretty body, a nice cock, perfect butt. Talkative and trivial beyond imagination. We do sixty-nine, because he sucks like there’s no tomorrow. I get closer to his hole, and I see that it’s completely circled by bunches of small warts, very densely, like a ring with two rows of pearls. This atrocity nauseates me, and it intensifies my hostility about his stupidity. I pull away politely. But he sleeps with me. He’s very surprised that I don’t fuck him. I paid him in advance.
While I’m showering, for something to do, he’s writing a short letter expressing his delight about being rich (he’s happy about the amount) and about having sex with a Frenchman. Actually, it’s several letters—some sketches, each of which starts with his name and address and is repeated on the same sheet of paper. It isn’t meant for me to read, but he’ll forget to take the paper and leave it on my table.
He’s one of the rare young boys who don’t hide their homosexuality. Instead he boasts about his classy relations, and to hear him talk, there’s no one in the city, or even the country, who hasn’t had him. The litde balls on his anus must be used to count them, like an abacus.
In bed, in the darkness, he twists and turns, can’t fall asleep. I ask him what’s wrong. He says that he’s bothered by my not having done it. I should have. I touch him, he gets hard. I explain that I’ve drunk too much to fuck, and without asking, I sit on his member. I splatter him with come, and I shit out his cock before he comes. He jerks off; and during it, his face has a horrible grimace, you’d think his head was being boned, the flesh pulled flat and furrowed in front like the edge of a chair being crushed by a rump.
The experience doesn’t calm him. He begins twisting and turning again. I ask him what the matter is. He says, really, it’s not normal that I won’t do that to him. I repeat that I drank too much. The opposite is true—and goaded by pride, I swallow a glass of whiskey. Around ten minutes go by. Languor. I’m not thinking about the pearls any more. Against me are lovely buttocks, soft skin. I go inside him, cover him completely. Ah, he’s content. His hole is nice, alive, tense. He lets me pound him very hard, and I come quickly. When I lie back down next to him, he’s all smiles and caresses me as if I were a good dog who’d finally retrieved a ball. Nevertheless, the next morning, he’ll insist again that it isn’t normal that I only did it to him once. He thinks I’m impotent in some way; he’s not wrong, I am.
