Diary of an Innocent

by Tony Duvert

  My cock, which he was touching, could have served as a case for three like his, but that didn’t count; the general truth that he was pronouncing, very widespread among these boys, put things in their proper place, and the dimensions of his member or mine became exceptions to it that confirmed the obvious truth of the law. I quickly agreed. I was worried that, unconsciously humiliated, he had flung back his truth at me to produce a bit of a smokescreen and mitigate what he considered a confrontation. My acceptance of what he said pleased him, and he jerked me off with great goodwill. In any case, he wasn’t the one that the reasoning I’d insisted upon for the cyclist would have compelled to offer me his butt.

  Speaking of which, I haven’t yet noticed that the males of one country have, on the average, a more developed penis than the males of another. It isn’t, I should add, impossible, but I’m not the kind of person to draw universal conclusions from several random experiences. It’s significant, at the least, that the cliches, the images we have of the peoples of the earth invariably include ideas about their rods. Apparently, monkeys are less attentive to these differences in phallic value (or of tail length, among those who have that fifth or sixth member) among species, packs or tribes. Animal stupidity, no doubt. I don’t mix with them: first of all, they have such scrawny dicks, you can easily see that they aren’t sapiens.

  I was hanging out at an old square with a number of outdoor stands. A lot of them were open evenings, and the stalls selling fast food were open part of the night: there’s a bus station where travelers stock up. I knew an eighteen-year-old boy who worked alone in a clothing store. But I didn’t want to have sex with him. His boss wouldn’t let him close before midnight. He’d obey, but there was never a customer. Nice-looking, sweet, mild-mannered, reserved, generous (despite his lousy salary, he’d offer me something to drink, smoke or snack on); I enjoyed his company. We went to the very end of the stall and lay on the ground on top of a bed of rags, old clothes, cushions, goat skins. We talked. Easygoing, relaxed evenings, with no ulterior motive. I was delighted that these relations were so different than those I was forming elsewhere. They made me as happy as a lot of my dissolute pleasures, though it’s true that I didn’t have to give up one for the other.

  The boy asks me if I’m thinking about marrying. I say no. He says me neither. He says that he doesn’t like girls. I ask why. His answer is vague, he has nothing against them that he can see. In such prudent language, one negation is worth one affirmation. Who wants to understand will.

  When I was leaving the shop at closing time, he went with me for a moment—and without daring to say it, he would have liked to follow me longer. But I was dying for sleep (it was during a period when I was getting up early). One evening, however, he closes at eight, and I invite him to dinner, then to my place. Hes happy, very well behaved, more formal than in his shop. His life is sensible; he gets up at dawn, goes to lift weights in a gym, takes care of himself, opens the shop, works and eats there, closes the shop and goes to bed. He has few friends, doesn’t speak much, doesn’t wave in customers, spends nothing, dresses properly in very masculine jeans, wears the insignia of the pacifists hanging from his neck and is waiting to do his army service. He bought the insignia, made of a metal openwork design on a black cord, without knowing what it represented. He has no family in this city, lives with the family of a friend. His melancholy tone, subdued voice, shy amiability match his situation. He shows me photos of him with his brawny companions from the gym; his face looks so handsome that I don’t recognize him. It was before he was working. Working out hasn’t thickened his body, which is magnificent.

  I haven’t explained my ways to him. With sad bemusement, he speaks about an old man who came to the stand and began nosing around. When the boy tried to find out what he was looking for, the old fellow spun abruptly around and shouted, “No, nothing, nothing … Ah! my love, you’re what I want!”

  The salesman was sorry, but he wasn’t for sale. Disappointed, the old man left without even responding to the kindness of the refusal by making a small purchase, a real one.

  The boy’s visit to my place continues with perfect propriety. A week later, another dinner, another visit. A storm breaks out, a very violent rainstorm. He asks if it would be possible for him to stay. OK, I say. He takes a shower and comes back almost naked, in ultra-brief weightlifters’ shorts, which are obscenely packed. I think that, actually, I’d really like him to fuck me. I’m getting these butterflies in my stomach announcing that my head and behind are in agreement. Such inner harmony doesn’t at all procure me the serenity promised for similar cases by those who peddle mental stability. Who’s lying?

  I still doubt his intentions a little, and by adding a touch of mischievousness, I want to let him make the first move. There we are side by side in the big bed (I claimed I didn’t have any sheets for the other, we’d have to sleep together; he keeps his shorts on). Trustworthy and widely separated, like brothers. I mean, not all brothers, but most. The lights go out. I’m smoking in the darkness. From the window, lightning from the storm and the scent of the rain on the garden flood the room.

  The boy doesn’t move. Except that, sometimes, he turns around with a brief, muffled movement. I’m waiting. I get hard, wet, the end of my cock is like a bib slathered with frothy saliva. It’s ready to lubricate holes, it seems. Nature is provident. Go ahead, slut.

  About two hours pass. The boy still isn’t sleeping. His breathing is quiet. I’m really too hot. I get up, go to the balcony. Big sighs. It’s raining. The thunder is far off; beautiful blue flashes of light persist. Behind me, the bedside lamp has been turned on. The boy is having a cigarette. Can’t sleep, huh? No, he answers, with an embarrassed smile. I get back in bed. Lights out. I’ve helped him a bit by touching his forearm, shoulder. My mischievousness doesn’t amuse me any more, my anus is in turmoil. I work my hand under the sheet. Feeling up cautiously, for a very long time. Electrified fingertips, an unbelievable sensation. Such slowness restores an old, painful, rending pleasure to me, one I’d forgotten: desire.

  The boy is lying on his side, and his back is to me. Round, fleshy, unexaggerated buttocks, well defined. I caress them. He doesn’t react. Gently, very gently I lower his shorts. He doesn’t react. I touch the crack with my cock. I spread apart the crack and put the head into it. He doesn’t react. No movement. So that’s really what it was. Oh well, I readapt. I look for the entrance, find it, push, push hard, I’m in. My boy twists around, seizes my neck, kisses me. That contortion obliges me to decork.

  We get aroused, enjoy ourselves, he gets flat on his stomach. But his hole is squeezed shut now. He must like rapes. OK, only needs a bit of K-Y, the ideal lubricant for easy insertion of rectal thermometers (etc.), a widely used lubricating jelly, greaseless, water soluble, sterility guaranteed, contents 2 ounces; I’ve never counted the number of fuck sessions that gives, two ounces. The boy protests that this is the first time a boy has done this to him. Could be, but it’s certainly not the last. His hands folded under his head, he seems very happy. I fuck him boldly; unlike what usually happens, this anus doesn’t want to get even; I’d like to jerk him off; he has a thick cock, short and massive, but he won’t let me make him come. He goes to church and only drinks water. He doesn’t shoot his load. He gets up, goes to the head, comes back dressed (his clothes were in the bathroom) and since the rain has stopped, forgets he was sleeping and leaves. He even refuses the money for a taxi. Smiling, excited, alert, in a hurry to not see me any longer. Sometimes I’ll go back to his shop, but the conversations will lack verve. I must fuck badly, or my member is too thin.

  I don’t have much opportunity to pull a fast one, put a boy in my bed whose intentions I’m not certain of, hide mine. Enticing double game, but one whose conclusion is rarely worthy of the preliminaries. There was one situation, however, in which I kept up my sham right until the end. I still regret it.

  Just after dinner, I’d met four boys whose ages ranged from twelve to fifteen or sixteen
. They weren’t from this city, were spending a few days of vacation with an uncle.

  They’re decently dressed, two of them have long hair. They seem less rustic or provincial than the average teenager from around here. It’s the smallest who interests me. His face pleases me enormously. He laughs, comes on like a little animal, gushes freshness, and his eyes have a hint of flirtatiousness, a minute squint that adds to his high spirits. Already quite tall, well proportioned, twelve princely years with lovely flesh. He’s wearing a cowboy hat of thin leather.

  I’d like to separate him from the others by walking past him, giving him the eye. The three older boys are attractive, but I only want the youngest. It’s the older boys who respond to my advances. I was afraid they’d get rid of me. Here we are chatting, on the sidewalk, then at a cafe. A friendly conversation. I don’t talk about my tastes. They don’t make any reference to them, either. Encounters without ulterior motives, as I’ve explained, are common, motivated only by curiosity, or boredom. I’ve seated the beautiful child in front of me at the other side of the table. I want to eat him. He is truly a good-looking person, with his dumb eyes, his laughter, his awkward, flippant ways. He says that he has a job in a workshop that makes hats like the one he’s wearing. I didn’t know about the use of such hats, because nobody wears them, and what they’re made of makes them too expensive for children. Except for this one, who makes them. One of the other boys also has a job in a workshop, the others are high school students. The smell of early puberty overwhelms me, those voices, gestures, hair, glistening skin.

  The handsomest of the bigger boys eyes my beer, he’d like one but is afraid they won’t serve him: only I (and they) see these big guys as big. I announce that I have something to drink at my place and that it isn’t far. I’m hoping to bring them together, because the child isn’t separable. But they intend to separate him—in the other direction—by sending him back to their house; if not the uncle will be worried. I discuss it, I need the kid also, or no one. I take him by the neck, he slips away, rubs against me, consents, laughs, escapes me; oh I like this, I’m thinking, little beasts like him. I don’t come up with any complicated thoughts when I’m not planning to write them down. The boys understand that I’m sticking with their pipsqueak. White cheeks, pink lips, an amber gleam to his neck, colors that merge into a fruity radiance. They decide to send one of the bigger boys to tell the uncle, we’ll wait. And I’ll starve. But everything is OK, the uncle says yes, the gang goes with me.

  They drank hardily, wine, beer, hard stuff. They were polite, fun-loving, talkative, with nothing equivocal about them. I was cruising the kid intensely, and he noticed it, but didn’t have the audacity to believe it. And he didn’t drink any alcohol. At a certain moment (everybody was already very drunk), I grab him and kiss him hard on the mouth: I’m less patient than I was with the weightlifter. Is it because I’m less afraid of getting socked? His mouth is wet, open, with beautiful, twinkling teeth, big lips. The child pulls away, but not hastily. Another moment and I would have had my prey. We talk about ages, and someone says that he, the little one, still has no hair near his cock. The youngster protests—he has a high, even voice, the smooth, delicate forearm of the beardless. We decide to find out the truth. Suddenly he’s unzipped, his belt undone, pants down, being grabbed, tickled, strangled, chuckling and giggling, underpants lowered to his thighs (I wanted to see his tush); and like old ladies with spectacles confirming someone’s virginity, we all bend down together over his groin. At first, he looks like a very clean child. In addition, his prick is long for the young age he appears to be. And, at the groin, there are about twenty shiny hairs, curving inward. His pants go back on, and despair sticks in my throat, my jaw, so barren does my mouth feel.

  But the child has come out of his ordeal victorious. The chaperones are quieting down. We eat something. He’s kind enough to help me cook. I love his manner, his personality so much; and his size; and his tiny big dick; and his round little bottom; and all the rest. I think about it, he has to be separated from the others. One on one, he’ll be ready for anything; with all of them around, I’ll get nothing out of it, or almost nothing.

  It’s almost enough for me. There’s no other option. It’s very late, they stink of alcohol and beg me to keep them at my place for the night. I agree to it. Two of them, especially, are drunk, the one I was saying was handsome (a rather long, oval face, long, black hair that makes him look a bit like Andrès, but more childlike) and another (male face, hard expressions) who intermittently flashes aggressive looks at me. The third one is playing at being the model schoolboy, has been drinking moderately, behaves well, has intelligent, plump, friendly-looking features. I have a large bed and a small one. The three bigger boys will sleep together in the large one, the small one will share the little bed, which is in the other room, with me. No one says a word about that arrangement.

  The first incident occurs when the kid goes to bed. Hes accepted the dangerous role that his cowardly elders abandoned him to, but he’s afraid of being plugged. It’s hot; he pretends to be asleep at the edge of the bed and is bare-chested. We were right to take his pants down on the balcony; when he’s inside he refuses. We stretch out, turn out the light. If I’d had less to drink, I’d wait for him to fall sleep and I’d do what I could. But after these hours of feeling him up, these teasers and pranks, I can’t stand it any longer. I paw his torso and everything that’s uncovered, kiss him. He puts up with it. When I touch his belt, he jumps to a standing position and rejoins his buddies.

  I go in there, too. The boys in the big bed remind me of the older brothers of Tom Thumb in the ogre’s chamber: side by side on their backs, their arms, legs and heads neatly positioned, feet wriggling, figures posed anatomically in their underwear as in the tale by Perrault. The kid’s reticence is a bother, somebody has to be sacrificed, there aren’t four places in the bed, it’s normal that the one given up should be the smallest. But there’s nothing they can do. So the one I call the most handsome suggests himself. Such a bargain depresses me. It’s back to the little bed.

  Darkness, silence. The boy isn’t avoiding contact with me—on the contrary. Sick of it, exasperated, I put on a sour face and pretend to sleep. The alcohol helps.

  The other isn’t sleeping. My snoring is very loud. He touches me, gently shakes one of my shoulders. No danger, I’m terribly sleepy. But the situation is beginning to interest me. He touches me again, and makes up his mind. Since I’m facing him, he moves to the other side of the bed and pushes me to the middle. Positioned three-quarters of the way onto my stomach, I won’t be easy to fuck. He looks for my anus, wets his cock and pushes it in. It’s quite a small cock. He’s a vigorous top, with flexible lower-back muscles and a hard cock. For a moment I would have woken up. Keeping my hands in check is the most difficult.

  The boy comes quickly. He gets up and goes back to the other room. Murmuring and low laughter. Endless discussion. And a second boy comes to see me. He explores the field, lies down, then a thick, solid rod pushes into me. But it’s an impatient one, the boy moves too much. He slips between my thighs, stays there and shoots a load. He gets up immediately and leaves. A new confab, more smothered laughter. With my finger I catch the sperm that tickles as it dribbles out of me.

  The third boy takes his chances with the ogre. Clumsy as the one before, a pointed penis, he sometimes plugs my hole, sometimes misses and kind of spurts—wherever. Leaves.

  Until I sleep and, deep inside, laugh more than they did. But a final visitor approaches with a light step: it’s the child. He’s no longer at all afraid, and his deftness will be different from his elders’. He glides against my back, adroitly finds a way to fit there, despite the uncomfortable position. I feel the end of a penis and a fist, then the fist vanishes and the penis plunges straight in. Forgetting the rules for this kind of thing, the gallant little one presses affectionately against me and caresses me as if I were a big bow-wow, while the wee willy I saw on the balcony stirs inside the vis
cous hole of come that the big guys have prepared. I can no longer control my feelings of affection, nor my hands. I send an arm behind me and take hold of his behind; the child lets out a cry of surprise, shoots backwards and disappears.

  I get up, smoke, wipe myself off, put my pants back on. An uneasy silence in the other room. I have a wicked idea. I enter. They’re still lined up on the bed, but Tom Thumb is squeezed next to them. I growl with anger and indignation. I explain to them that I wasn’t sleeping: ah, isn’t that nice, treating a decent foreigner like this, raping me like a girl or queer; fortunately I was pretending to sleep to see just how far they’d go, ah, I’m wise to you, you gang of dirty pigs. Etc. My little act disconcerts them. Francesco has told me stories about boys who were butt-fiicked in their sleep, for the express purpose of making fun of them in the morning. But you don’t force your way into holes. My boys exonerate themselves just in case, and each claims that it’s another who went in there, then returned a second, third, fourth time. I fiendishly describe the intimate details that these defilers by themselves revealed to me; it’s hard for them to keep from laughing and finally they acknowledge their sin. They’re going to leave, and anyway, they can’t sleep, and the uncle won’t be a problem, they’ve sobered up. They get dressed. The intelligent boy apologizes profusely on behalf of the others.

  Someone has pinched a new bathing suit and some sun glasses that were lying around. Meager booty, if I compare it to mine.

  I can’t get over my disappointment at never having seen that child again.

  Then I moved to the old city. Located some distance away from the main highways and intersections, it’s a maze of piled-together residences through which cars have a hard time driving, and where the shuttered houses rising from narrow lanes; the squares of sunlight, clouds or night above these walls; the covered arcades and their ceilings of round beams; the asphalt or earthen roads; the recesses, the cul-de-sacs, the descents, the archways, the narrow passageways, the detours; heavy, low doors; strange, ruined arcades; skies dusted red; tufts of plants stirred by breezes—all compose a moving and savage landscape.