Corbusier

				by Biscuit

chapter one	

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

joint.

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

I did.

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

voices taunting.

"Hey pussy pussy, gonna eat each other?"

Shit.

"Hey lover girl," I heard, way too close to me, as I spun

around.

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

us.

"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

walking.

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?"

"Sure."

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

twinge.

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.

©JavaBiscuit2002

EMAIL JAVABISCUIT

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