Little Boy

by Anthony Prato

  Maria always proceeded with discretion, anticipating her tenth step before she took her first. It was like she was waiting patiently for the story, her story, to let itself unfold. She didn’t want to accelerate the process of divulging her life’s history to me or anyone else. It would’ve been unnatural for her to do so. Maria let fate take it’s course. Sometimes it bugged me, because I really wanted to dive right into her life, from the very beginning. But whether it was an emotional secret or a physical act, Maria was endlessly vigilant of what could happen if she threw reason to the wind. Sometimes I wish I’d paid closer attention to her strategy. I could have learned a lot from Maria.

  “That day at the beach,” I said, “did Guido see you naked?”

  “A.J.!” She was angry that I asked that, but I just had to.

  I held her hand and continued to listen, trying to keep my mouth shut.

  “Anyway, me and Rosie were in the changing room after we went swimming. Usually, after went in the water, we just went straight home, in our bathing suits. It wasn’t a big deal ‘cause the M train was always so hot. I’d just throw a top on and go straight home. But that day, we planned to go to Jeff’s house, for his sister’s birthday. So I had to change out of my bathing suit and into a party dress.”

  Okay, I thought, so what’s the big deal?

  As if she heard me ask myself that question, she said, “No, you don’t understand. I was very insecure about my body. Not just in front of boys, but everyone.

  “That’s cool,” I said, “we all are a little embarrassed about that stuff.” And I was sincere, because most people are a little ashamed of their bodies.

  “No, A.J., Rosie started to make fun of me because I was afraid of getting naked with a guy, of having sex with a guy. She kept saying, ‘Guido likes you, but he thinks you’re a prude.’ She made me feel so ashamed of myself. I was standing there naked, and helpless, and she was relentless. ‘They’re just tits! It’s just a pussy,” she said, erupting in tears. “And she even reached out and tried to grab me, like it was no big deal—uh, huw, huh, huh, huh…

  “…—uh, huw, huh,” she inhaled, loudly—“and said I was a freak and a prude.” “’Just do it,’” she commanded, “’just do it.’ She was manipulating me, A.J.!”

  I was about to speak, when she said: “That’s what was so sick!”

  “Then why did you keep hanging out with her?” I asked. Then I saw her eyes about to burst again and was pissed that I even opened my fucking mouth.

  Thankfully, she stopped herself from crying and answered, “I don’t know. I don’t know why I did a lot of stuff back then.”

  “Well, you got naked, and she tried to grab you and made fun of you, and then what?” Again, Maria looked at me as if I wasn’t getting it, whatever ‘it’ was. I thought: Guess the phrase ‘got naked’ was a little too coarse.

  “And then nothing. She just said I was stupid for not having sex with guys—you know what I mean? She said I’d never get a guy like Guido to like me if I wasn’t willing to do it. And I sort of believed her. I thought there was something wrong with me, because I didn’t understand why anyone would ever want to show boobs to anyone. I knew there was an emotion out there that allowed a girl to expose herself like that, and make herself vulnerable, but still feel secure. And I wanted to feel that. But I had no idea where to find it…” She trailed off.

  “But you didn’t show Guido anything, did you?” Damn!

  “No! I already told you that!”

  I was nervous. I have to admit, all that breast talk was turning me on just a little.

  “She didn’t make fun of the way I looked—probably because she saw how much bigger mine were than hers.” I couldn’t help but chuckle out loud.

  “So, she didn’t make fun of the way you looked?”

  “No, she didn’t. And because she didn’t, and because she was giving me all this advice, I guess I sort of trusted her opinion of me. It sounds sort of dumb, but I thought it was a special moment for me and Rosie, because it was the first time I really, I don’t know, showed her something that I’d never showed anyone before. But at the same time, she was so cruel. This all must sound so dumb, because you’re a guy. You don’t understand girls.”

  “I understand,” I said. And I really thought I did.

  “Rosie fucked me over,” she added, seriously.

  Maria grew quiet after that. I felt like I should have consoled her, but I didn’t know how. Maria cursed more often than most girls, but she always chose her profanity carefully, and there was always a reason behind each curse word she used. Rosie was the reason she chose that one that afternoon.

  But there was more. “A.J., what I’m about to tell you something else I’ve never told anyone else before, except for my mother...” She hesitated, and then continued: “You see, Rosie—” she started to tear—“Rosie stole from me.”

  “What do you mean she stole from you?”

  “Well, it was after that day on the beach when I started noticing it, though it could have been going on a long time before. See, Rosie came over my house to hang out. After she left, I noticed that my gold watch was gone. It was a watch that my mother had given me for my thirteenth birthday. She knew how important it was to me. I looked all over the house for it, but couldn’t find it.”

  “Then what happened?” I asked.

  “Well, I had Rosie over my house a few weeks later, and after she left I noticed that my bracelet was missing. Again, I searched my house top and bottom for it, to no avail. And then, one day, I was hanging out in the park near my house. Rosie dropped by to say hello, and I realized that she was wearing my watch. When I asked her about it, she said her brother gave it to her. But I knew the truth. I knew she was stealing from me.”

  “But you didn’t really confront her. When someone does something like that, you should just threaten to call the police. That would’ve scared her off real quick.”

  Maria shook her head. “No, I couldn’t do that. I don’t know—she was my friend, A.J.! She was my friend!” Maria started bawling. She cried like I’d never seen anyone cry before. I pressed my face against hers. Suddenly, they were my tears, too.

  I understood all that she’d said, all that she felt deep within her heart and soul. At that moment—and I know this sounds terribly cliché—we were one and the same. It wasn’t just her father; it wasn’t just one or two mediocre friendships; it wasn’t just a friend stealing from her. Everyone had fucked Maria over.

  Before that day, I’d attended funerals, visited sick friends in hospitals, and watched family members die of cancer right before my eyes. But I’d never empathized with another person more than I did with Maria.

  I collapsed on the sofa, emotionally drained. I shared her grief, perhaps even more than she realized. Maria was a special girl. That word, special, is thrown around a lot these days: special education, special elections, et cetera. But few people or things are truly special. Maria, however, was the quintessence of the characteristic: distinctive, extraordinary, unique, rare. Gold and diamonds are found everywhere—on people’s fingers, in quarries around the globe—but Maria was the only precious stone of her kind. If she’d had the presumption to reveal to the world how special she was, people would have killed just to catch a glimpse of her luster, a radiance unlike any jewel known to man.

  But Maria wasn’t an arrogant girl. She was simple. All Maria expected, all she wanted, was to be protected by a sole admirer who valued her uniqueness.

  I am your admirer, I thought. You are perfect.

  In retrospect, I suppose I wanted her to be more flawless than she already was. Now I realize you can buff a diamond only to a point, and then it begins to lose its prized shape and form.

  But back then I was determined to help her erase her past at all costs, just as I intended to erase mine. She’ll never have to worry about losers like Rosie screwing her over again, I thought. I’m going to save her.

  After cuddling with Maria for a few minutes she calm
ed down. I asked her if she was okay and she said that she was. I was happy. She was happy. I think that my hugs helped her to relax and stop thinking about Rosie. I couldn’t help but think, however, that she had pretty bad judgment sometimes, and that maybe I was the wrong boyfriend to have, just as Rosie was the wrong friend. Perhaps, I thought, I’m just another bad decision.

  ***

  As soon as the last trace of a tear had evaporated from her sweet, circular cheeks, I engulfed her face within the palms of my hands and pressed my lips against hers. As usual, the kiss was more than passionate—it was hair-raising. In fact, even as I recall it now, the hairs on my back and chest and arms are standing at attention.

  I was so impassioned by that one kiss that an erection poked through my boxers. I proceeded to stroke her cheeks with mine. For the first time ever, I flickered my tongue in her ear, accidentally soaking it completely.

  I was nervous. Within moments I’d view what no other boy had ever viewed. There is nothing in this world as wonderful as the naked flesh of an innocent girl. Maria was almost childlike. Despite her superficial confidence, when it came to sex she didn’t know her left from her right. Her body was robotic, but not unwilling. She wasn’t exactly sure what to do, so she simply allowed my hands to softly fumble with her clothing, first her top, and then her bra.

  Of course, I didn’t want to move shoddily as I’d done with Lynn; I wanted to be as careful with my hands and mouth as Maria was with her words and actions, as prudent as a jeweler examining a diamond. I longed not so much to turn her on, but to generate respect. Although I did most of the work, I was far from domineering. I was a vassal, Maria she the queen of the manor. Humbly, I attempted to placate her with my sorry offering. After all, this was Maria Della Verita, the most beautiful girl I’d ever met, the brightest, the most mature. A special woman. Cautious, meticulous, level-headed Maria, finally shedding her shell for our mutual enjoyment.

  I encouraged her to lay down on the sofa. She nestled her head into a pillow and closed her eyes, inviting me to begin. Maria had, to use an Air Force term, an impeccable WEFT. The word WEFT is an acronym used by the U. S. Air Force to describe the four main components of a jet: Wings, Engine, Fuselage, and Tail. Each aircraft has its own WEFT, and no two are exactly alike. Pilots in the Air Force and other military services study WEFTs like the Bible, since every plane, both enemy and ally, can be easily and positively identified by its WEFT. In the heat of combat, the knowledge of a jet’s WEFT might save your life.

  I will never forget Maria’s WEFT. Her breasts (“Wings”), were enormous. C-cups on a girl barley five feet tall—my goodness! Atop each sat a large mahogany nipple, each with just a hint of peach fuzz surrounding it. As I stroked them with my tongue, they began to toughen, turning from flesh to leather, and then perk. Soon they were taut brown ovals surrounded by milky marshmallow. Massaging her breasts with my hands, it was as if I was finessing Jello-filled balloons rather than human flesh. Had they been balloons, they wouldn’t have burst that day, because I was gentle, tame, and patient.

  I was in heaven. And from the sounds she was making—the ‘ohs,’ the ‘ahs’—I could tell that she was relishing the moment. Tempted to take off my pants right then and there, I drew back for a moment, shifting my glare away from her breasts, and at her panties. I slipped them off.

  Her vagina (“Engine”) was a triangular mass of black curls. I was so accustomed to looking at porno magazines that I didn’t realize that, unless a girl’s legs were spread out, her labia remained buried by hair. With my head squarely between her thighs, I nudged my tongue between her two plum-colored lips. I have to admit I didn’t know what to do next. As I withdrew, a stream of saliva formed between my tongue and her pussy, and then snapped. She was already so wet. Aching to make her come, I started to lap at her lips and clit. I did it for so long that my tongue hurt.

  Maria’s body (“Fuselage”), a five-foot, half inch ripple in a pond, welcomed my wanting lips. In between trips to her engine, I peppered her arms and legs and tummy with kisses. Her eyes remained closed; her body stayed still.

  Her ass (“Tail”) was a perfect sphere, as if it had been designed with a compass. No bone could be felt, only soft flesh, just enough in each cheek for one hand a piece.

  “Are you comfortable?” I asked. Looking as though she’d been sedated, Maria smiled and said, “I’m perfect.”

  After she climaxed, she turned onto her side and looked like a woman posing in a French oil painting. I kicked off my sneakers and snuggled next to her.

  We were lost in the moment. If this is what it’s like to be drunk, I thought, then I have to start drinking. But I knew that what we were doing was infinitely better. It had to be, for it was not a solitary stupor but a mutual delight.

  It wasn’t “intercourse”; it wasn’t “sex”; it was, truly, “making love.” And on that day Maria taught me more about love than I thought possible. I loved her so much that I wanted to give her that kind of pleasure all of the time. I thought this kind of feeling was nonexistent in other relationships for me and for others. Still do.

  ***

  I don’t think that anyone ever loved a girl as much as I loved Maria. In fact, nobody will ever love anyone as much as I still love her. And to this day, I love Maria because she trusted me so much. Her life was in disarray when we met. Between her lousy father and shitty friends I can’t understand how she survived. She was just another Italian girl from Queens, with just another working class dysfunctional family. But when she was with me she was the first female President, a CEO, a Nobel Prize winner. Sadly, society judges people based on paper and not honor.

  As I sit here writing, I can honestly say that one of my greatest regrets is that I never helped Maria with her reading. She spoke well when she wanted to, as if she was a scholar. But she read very slowly, and stumbled over vocabulary that came second nature to me. I once told her that she may have dyslexia. I should’ve encouraged her to get tested. Because of me, I guess, she never did find out why she read so poorly, or improve much.

  I think her reading problem was rooted in her overriding lack of trust in people. One day, for instance, I remember Maria crying on the phone, telling me that when she was asked to recite the Emancipation Proclamation in front of her class, she got so nervous that she ran out of the room and cried in the hallway. She’d said, “Four score and seven months ago,” rather than “four score and seven years ago.” It was a harmless error, but she was horrified. A similar thing had happened to her years before. Maria had this problem, I think, because she didn’t trust her classmates. She always thought they would laugh at her, whether she read well or not.

  But when she read all alone in silence, she had less trouble. She could zip through a Shakespeare play with uncanny ease. It still took her a while to read it, but she adored Shakespeare. In fact, she loved almost any book she put her little hands on. Reading alone in her room, in the still of the night, was probably an escape for her.

  I wish I knew back then what I know now. I never thought I would leave Maria, or that she would leave me. The confidence I had in our relationship was best expressed in the Beatles song, The Long and Winding Road. It goes: The long and winding road that leads to your door, will never disappear. You left me waiting here, a long, long time ago. Don’t keep me standing here. Lead me to your door.

  That was our song, believe it or not. We both felt as if life were a long winding road, nothing more, nothing less. It’s funny, because even at that young age, both Maria and I had very mature attitudes about life. Our peers dreamt of becoming doctors and lawyers and engineers. But Maria and I understood at a very young age that there is nothing in the world more meaningful than a loving relationship between two human beings. Anyone can become a lawyer; anyone can study that hard. Few can truly share themselves with a loved one for a lifetime. Sometimes I wonder if anyone ever has ever come close, besides me and Maria.

  Neither of us ever placed much importance in school. We both thoug
ht, we’re all going to die, so while we’re here, just be good to everyone, and try to enjoy life. But still, everyone, especially parents, keeps telling us that grades and material things were so important, and that if you didn’t make a lot of money, you were a loser. But I think a loser is a person that equates success and money with happiness. I’d rather live in a hovel and give myself to another rather than live in a mansion and be alone and married or alone and unmarried. That’s what I thought back then, that’s what I think now.