I was fourteen, making out with my girlfriend against
the trunk of a wet tree, when the not so gentle fingers
of God reached down and grabbed me, shook me hard,
and shoved me into the arms of Colin Daley; the
handsomest boy ever spawned by Anglo Irish genes,
with eyes like blue ice.
It was October. The streets were covered with gold
leaves, blown down by a storm in the night. You'd
never have guessed you were in New York City. My
neighborhood was a private wealthy enclave rising
up from the working class neighborhoods bordering
Van Cortland Park; parallel to the last stop on the
IRT in the Bronx.
Amsterdam Hill, home of the progressive school by
the same name. My school. Most of the houses in that
quiet area were old mock Tudor things or echoes of
the Dutch roots of the city with quaint split front doors.
Ours, however, was a slab and glass architectural
statement of my dad's. Angular and open, hardly
visible from the street behind a series of shielding
walls and trees.
Only my parents could have named a kid Corbusier,
after the architect Le Corbusier. And only at a
pretentious school like mine could a kid named
Corbusier Pagano not get teased for it. Still, I clung
to my nickname, Corby.
My dad had just left the house he'd designed, for good.
Not that he'd been there much. My mom was half
exhilarated, half drunk; staying up nights in her studio
painting, with jazz playing loud on the stereo. She was
like a crazed skinny pixie with a paintbrush in one hand
and a glass of wine in the other.
Megan rescued me, like always. My girlfriend since
forever. She lived down the street in a much more
stately home with parents who were both lawyers. That
girl was destined to become a radical lesbian further down
the road. But back then I guess I was pretty enough for her.
We looked more like sisters than girlfriend and boyfriend
with our matching blond tresses and shared passion for
silver rings and chains and vintage clothes. We'd both dyed
a streak of magenta in our hair, kind of like going steady
locks, over our right ears.
It wasn't raining, just wet. It was her brainstorm to cheer
me up with a walk down to Van Cortland Park. She had a
The park wasn't much of a hang out for us but she said it
would be an adventure. How right she was, she had no way
of knowing. The park wasn't part of our usual territory.
In the summer sometimes, when Shakespeare in the Park
turned it into a different kind of place, but mostly, without
saying so, we tacitly understood that it belonged more to
the people who lived far down the hill.
Megan's plan worked up to the point where we found we'd
been cast in the urban version of Deliverance. At least that's
how she saw it, with the tough kids who harassed us being
the equivalent of the backwoods' mountain men.
Stoned, probing her soft little mouth with my tongue, the
stuff going on at home was fuzzed out. I was rubbing up
against her leg, with familiar images of hard dick dancing
in my brain. That's what I always thought of when I was
trying to get off. I'd visualize a big hard dick getting
stroked. And I never thought about why.
It never occurred to me other guys might not be thinking
the same kind of thing when they were kissing a girl. My
dick was hard, I wanted it stroked. So what. Sure, guys
said they thought about tits or whatever to get turned on.
I didn't have to, Megan's tits were right there in front of
me. But to get off, well, I figured they pictured stuff like
The first thing we heard was the snickering laughter;
scary and low, and a rush of movement through the wet
leaves. My heart rocketed from pumping blood between
my legs to full scale red alert before I even heard the
"Hey pussy pussy, gonna eat each other?"
"Hey lover girl," I heard, way too close to me, as I spun
I didn't mean to punch that guy. I don't think I'd have
ever gotten the chance if he hadn't stopped short, staring
at me, stunned, like he was trying to figure out what the
fuck I was. Pure adrenaline shot my fist out and my death's
head skull ring caught the soft skin on his cheek. He was
off guard and went down backwards. His buddy came at
me but the kid on the ground yelled out, "Fuck it, Brian,
leave him alone."
"What," the guy said. "You just gonna take that?"
"He's just a kid. I said forget about it." He was just lying
there, moving a little, slowly. The other guy glared at me
and took off, mumbling shit I couldn't hear.
I'd never punched anybody in my life and my fingers and
knuckles were screaming in pain, my wrist felt jammed.
But I was on my knees the next second, bending over the
guy I'd hit, scared to death that I'd hurt him for real. In
the breath of seconds that had lasted an eternity of landing
that punch, I'd seen a face framed by short damp blond
hair, like the love child of Matt Damon and River Phoenix,
staring at me with eyes full of wonder.
Maybe it was the shock, the weed, the fact that I'd been
about to cream my jeans when it happened, but my heart
was as open and quivery tender as a fresh shucked oyster;
my was dick throbbing in my acid green 70's Wranglers.
In the pocket of my pea coat was a wad of tissues meant
for cleaning up after making out with Megan. Instead I
fumbled them out and was dabbing at the guy's bloody
cheek, mumbling apologies.
And those icy blues were scanning me. His mouth was
open and so help me God, I was staring at it like I could
taste it with my eyes.
Kissing Megan was good, it was what we did. What
you're supposed to do. Sometimes it made me grin inside
when she made these faces at me, full of passion, before
rubbing her moist pink mouth on me. I'd force down the
impulse to chuckle and fight the urge to tell her that the
cameras weren't rolling, she could drop the acting job.
Now I was struck by the certain knowledge that my face
probably looked just like that, like I was dying to get my
lips all over his. What's more, he was looking at me the
same way. I think if I'd kissed him right then I'd have
shot a load on the spot.
"Corby," I heard her. "What the fuck are you doing?
Don't apologize to that asshole, let's get out of here."
Right, right. She was so right. Damn.
"Go on," he said. I had to force myself to look away
from him and struggle up to my feet. I must have looked
back twenty times as we made our way out of that grove.
I saw him sit up, wiping at his cheek. Saw him watching
"Is he still there?" she'd ask and I'd say, yeah. Then not.
He was gone.
The whole way home I was trying to shove the image
of him out of my head. Fuck. Megan went on nonstop;
working off the tension. I hardly listened. I could hardly
stand to listen. She kept touching me, holding on to my
arm, asking if I was okay. I'd mutter something and keep
I don't think I'd ever noticed before how each bit of
progress up the winding way to the top of the hill
brought you to wealthier and wealthier streets of houses;
past the grounds of two private schools and a small
Catholic college. Landscaped grounds and gardens.
"I don't feel like hanging out," I told her when we'd
reached my house. "I just want to chill, maybe take a
nap or something." She didn't look convinced, but she
hugged me and we kissed. Her mouth seemed so tiny
to me then and I felt no desire to linger over it. God, I
hated to see the disappointment in her face but I felt
like I had to be alone and let myself think about what
the fuck had happened.
"All right, well, I'll call you later. Okay?"
My mom was out. She'd left a note on the table. 'Gone
to meet Janice for lunch downtown.'
My bedroom had a wall of glass that looked out on a
walled garden. Not much growing in it but weeds at
the base of a maple tree.
I was lying on my unmade bed, letting my mind fill with
the vision of that guy's face. I told myself it was him, not
something about me, that had made me want to kiss him.
My dick was begging to be let out and I had my hand on
my zipper when the doorbell rang. Shit. I was sure it was
Megan. But, of course, it wasn't.
He'd followed us.
He was standing on the doorstep looking nervous and so
good, even with the bruise blooming on his cheek. His
leather jacket was thinner and cheaper looking than the
ones the few punked out kids I knew wore. To me it
looked tougher just because of it. He was taller than me
and slim as a whip, maybe seventeen, maybe eighteen
years old. His jeans were tight. Nobody I knew wore
their pants like that but on him it was awesome. He said
something, I don't remember what. Something like nice
house, or nice place.
All I remember is leading him through the empty house
to my bedroom and how when I turned around his arm
went around my waist and his hand to the back of my
neck. If a body can leap inches, mine did, to plaster
myself to the front of him.
I thought I knew about sex. I'd gotten hard, gotten
rubbed, one way or another -- my hand or Megan's,
until I came.
She thought it was sweet of me, sensitive of me not to
pressure her for more. The truth is, I didn't see what
all the fuss was about. If you got off, you got off.
There aren't enough fingers and toes on a body to count
the kinds of fool I was.
"I want to fuck you," he was panting in my ear and I
was making sounds like a cat in heat as we thrashed on
my bed. I was so hot I was ready to fire off in my jeans.
I'd never been so turned on in my life.
Out of my mind, that's what I was.
When he pulled his shirt over his head -- some kind of
sport thing, like a football jersey with a number on it -- I
saw his long lean torso appear, ridged with muscle in spite
of how thin he was. This ungodly gasping sound came out
of me, staring at his tiny pricked up pink nipples. I lunged,
knocking him flat to get my hands and mouth on his hard
smooth chest. Oh God. He tasted salty and his skin was
warm and I had to suck hard to get some in my mouth.
What the fuck did I think I was doing! My brain was
demanding answers in short bursts of panic as the rest of
me went crazy. I'd seen hundreds of guys naked, guys
with bodies probably just as hot as his, and never felt a
Well, maybe a twinge, but that was normal. Right?
I was an artist, following in my mom's footsteps. Once,
a couple years back, around the time puberty hit, I'd
told her that I liked looking at guys. At the time, just
about everything and anything gave me a hardon, but still
I kind of wondered if it meant something. I mean I
understood that some people were gay. People I knew
even, friends of hers and my dad.
She'd said to me, "You're an artist, Corby. It's natural
for you to appreciate male and female beauty. It doesn't
mean anything, sweetheart." And what the hell, there
was Megan. I liked her, didn't I?
Appreciating beauty. A naked guy with a raging hardon;
his dick was long, thick, and pointing right at me with
a sheen of juice on its pink head. I was panting for it
like I didn't have one of my own, aching and hard
between my legs. It was the first time I'd ever seen a
condom in action, for real. I'd fooled around with one
a guy at school gave me but didn't get the part where
you unroll as you put it on. In my smoking brain, the
reason he was putting it on was there, but under thick
layers of lust.
"You dress like a chick," he said, shaking his head, but
he was grinning. He'd shoved me off him, but not like
he wanted to get away, like he wanted to even up the
bare skin score. He was working on my zipper.
My face was hot and my body was hotter, but my brain
started stuttering back to life. I wasn't just getting naked
with a guy. This was a stranger. I'd punched this guy in
the face. He'd harassed me and my girlfriend. There
were still traces of blood on his face. And there was that
awesome cock of his, wrapped in thin latex and wet.
"What's your name?" I asked, nerves getting the better
of me, even if my jeans and boxers were bunched around
my ankles by then and he was pulling off my sneaks to
get the pants off.
He laughed, dropping my shoe on the floor.
"Colin Daley," he said. He looked from my face down
my body. "I heard your girlfriend call you Corby. Nice,"
he said, looking at my cock. I didn't know if he was
saying he liked my dick or my name but my brain shut
down when he wrapped his hand around it.
I didn't have the body he had. I was smaller. Where he
was long and etched with muscle, I was shorter, slim,
softer. My shape was okay but nowhere near as defined
as his was. Even though I was blond, my coloring was
darker, an Italian flavor of blond, more honey than his
corn silk colors. My dick was darker too, and my little
bush of hair, brownish where his was golden.
I'd measured my dick. Is there a kid that hasn't? If I
stabbed the ruler deep I mustered six inches. Colin's
must have been, well, it was bigger.
He let go of my dick and shoved my tee-shirt up to my
armpits. It was the last thing I had on.
"You are so fucking cute," he said, dropping on top of
me. I wrapped my legs around him, wanting to squeeze
him to death between my legs. I was so close to coming.
"So, you want to fuck, princess?" he said, his hand was
sloping down my side and around to my ass. Call me an
idiot but that's when it hit me that he meant fuck, for
real. My asshole squeezed up tight in panic but my dick
was pumping a stream of juice and my balls were
begging me to do something, anything to shoot the load
that was choking them.
"I don't know," I said. Brilliant. I got the words out
through the thing we were doing with our mouths. He
was licking my lips, and I was trying to catch his tongue
with mine. His fingers were diving right into my crack.
The next thing I knew he'd pulled his hips back and was
fumbling down there and it was his wet dick rubbing
between my ass cheeks. Oh. Fuck. Me. The head of his
dick got lodged against my hole.
Like riding the Cyclone at Coney Island, my heart going
wild, terrified; nervous sweat breaking out all over me.
His dick shoving in was like the moment of truth when
the cars crank up -- I thought I'd die but I wanted it.
I pushed and I panted and groaned, staring up at his
flaming face. His eyes were glittering and I watched his
mouth moving, seeing how good it was for him in every
move of those lips. My insides were going nuts like my
body didn't know whether to suck him in or spit him out.
And then it was happening, for real. Like the coaster. Oh
God, so good. How could it feel so good? I went shooting
right over the edge, firing off hard, hot and grunting like
a little pig.