well."
"Uhn." He turned his hip a little more, pulling his free arm over his head, so my hand slipped onto the tented middle of his boxers, and I let it lie there, just cupping the drifting organ that moved and struggled under its weight. "I'm at school every day." He kind of sighed. "I mean, and soccer."
"Maybe during your break. You'd be an excellent translator." Now I lifted my hand so the cotton lifted beneath it, then moved my fingers up and down its length.
"Yeah." He simply breathed, pushing his hips out toward my wandering hand. I had turned too, to lay my other arm along his parting legs, brushing both thighs along the inside and up into his shorts, and now he tugged the waistband down and his erection flopped out onto his tummy, where I licked it, pressing my tongue along the underside onto its head, and he groaned, then lifted my head from him and whispered, "Can I, you know, in you? " And he slipped over onto me, pushing my legs up with his body, and we did.
Oh, yes, our snack, at 3 or 4 A.M.: a bland cheese (jack) and crackers, plus gulps of orange juice from a cardboard container in the fridge, first tasted leaning in the cool white light of that marvelous icebox, then seated on the bed, silent, puzzled, exhausted, looking out at the utterly dark and sleeping city.
♦3 ♦
A llan Stein was the spoiled only son of progressive Jewisg parents. A cultured, upper-middle-class boy in a prosperous city, he was the happy recipient of endless lessons: piano, tennis, boxing, language, crafts, horseback riding. He liked streetcards and went with his father to the "car house to watch his dearest cars being shampooed." At his mother's behest, he "played man, to show what he will look like when he is a man." A raft of cousins from Sarah's side kept him company in Berkley, while back in San Francisco, at 707 Washington Street, Allan played with his bearded, bearish father, Mikey.
His mother posed him for photographs, once a week, and then every month of the first four years of his life, costumd for outlandish scenarios, which she mounted and labeled in great albums to be shared with friends.: A Young Don Quixote, Paderovshy Up to Date, No More Dresses For Me No Sir, Champion of the Brawl. After nearly dying from loss of blood and an infection caused by the difficult birth of this ten-pound baby, Sally wrote to her sister-in-law, Gertrude:
"He has Mikey's forehead and horrifies me bymoving the entire top of his head just as Mikey does. Above an exquisite upper lip he has a nondescript nose whose nostrils he inflates in an alarming fashion. On the whle he is considered a ver intelligent-looking but not a beautiful child."
A nd later, "There certainly is nothing in the line of happiness to compare with that which a mother derives from the contemplation of her firstborn, and even the agony which she endures from the moment of its birth does not seem to mar it, therefore my dear and beloved sister-in-law go and get married, for there is nothing in the whole wide world like babies."
Sarah was devoted to him. "I doubt if a happier, more attractive youngster can be found," she wrote. When Allan was two, Sarah reported the boy's "cute little sayings" to Auntie Gertrude—
" 'Poor mamma has wind in her odder leg, its a hoyyible fing to have wind, dear me!' The little fellow will not play with children his own age and he regards younger children with disgust, but he dotes on boys and girls from eight to fourteen."
In Paris, Allan was the only child of the four Stein adults, great big children themselves, who, with the sour exception of dour Uncle Leo, adored and doted on him. He went to the private Ecole Alsacienne, an innovative school in their Montparnasse neighborhood. I imagine him on a cold day in the late winter, the rue Madame smelling of ice and coal. I have been studying the maps. M. Vernot, in blue coveralls, throws grit on the stone sidewalk to make it safe. Allan watches his breath in clouds and crosses the
"Uhn." He turned his hip a little more, pulling his free arm over his head, so my hand slipped onto the tented middle of his boxers, and I let it lie there, just cupping the drifting organ that moved and struggled under its weight. "I'm at school every day." He kind of sighed. "I mean, and soccer."
"Maybe during your break. You'd be an excellent translator." Now I lifted my hand so the cotton lifted beneath it, then moved my fingers up and down its length.
"Yeah." He simply breathed, pushing his hips out toward my wandering hand. I had turned too, to lay my other arm along his parting legs, brushing both thighs along the inside and up into his shorts, and now he tugged the waistband down and his erection flopped out onto his tummy, where I licked it, pressing my tongue along the underside onto its head, and he groaned, then lifted my head from him and whispered, "Can I, you know, in you? " And he slipped over onto me, pushing my legs up with his body, and we did.
Oh, yes, our snack, at 3 or 4 A.M.: a bland cheese (jack) and crackers, plus gulps of orange juice from a cardboard container in the fridge, first tasted leaning in the cool white light of that marvelous icebox, then seated on the bed, silent, puzzled, exhausted, looking out at the utterly dark and sleeping city.
♦3 ♦
A llan Stein was the spoiled only son of progressive Jewisg parents. A cultured, upper-middle-class boy in a prosperous city, he was the happy recipient of endless lessons: piano, tennis, boxing, language, crafts, horseback riding. He liked streetcards and went with his father to the "car house to watch his dearest cars being shampooed." At his mother's behest, he "played man, to show what he will look like when he is a man." A raft of cousins from Sarah's side kept him company in Berkley, while back in San Francisco, at 707 Washington Street, Allan played with his bearded, bearish father, Mikey.
His mother posed him for photographs, once a week, and then every month of the first four years of his life, costumd for outlandish scenarios, which she mounted and labeled in great albums to be shared with friends.: A Young Don Quixote, Paderovshy Up to Date, No More Dresses For Me No Sir, Champion of the Brawl. After nearly dying from loss of blood and an infection caused by the difficult birth of this ten-pound baby, Sally wrote to her sister-in-law, Gertrude:
"He has Mikey's forehead and horrifies me bymoving the entire top of his head just as Mikey does. Above an exquisite upper lip he has a nondescript nose whose nostrils he inflates in an alarming fashion. On the whle he is considered a ver intelligent-looking but not a beautiful child."
A nd later, "There certainly is nothing in the line of happiness to compare with that which a mother derives from the contemplation of her firstborn, and even the agony which she endures from the moment of its birth does not seem to mar it, therefore my dear and beloved sister-in-law go and get married, for there is nothing in the whole wide world like babies."
Sarah was devoted to him. "I doubt if a happier, more attractive youngster can be found," she wrote. When Allan was two, Sarah reported the boy's "cute little sayings" to Auntie Gertrude—
" 'Poor mamma has wind in her odder leg, its a hoyyible fing to have wind, dear me!' The little fellow will not play with children his own age and he regards younger children with disgust, but he dotes on boys and girls from eight to fourteen."
In Paris, Allan was the only child of the four Stein adults, great big children themselves, who, with the sour exception of dour Uncle Leo, adored and doted on him. He went to the private Ecole Alsacienne, an innovative school in their Montparnasse neighborhood. I imagine him on a cold day in the late winter, the rue Madame smelling of ice and coal. I have been studying the maps. M. Vernot, in blue coveralls, throws grit on the stone sidewalk to make it safe. Allan watches his breath in clouds and crosses the
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