dining room at school. There were even tables. They sat and studied me seriously as I walked slowly across the bare wooden floor.
âDid you do it?â asked Eric Schwab.
I felt immediately guilty, as if I was the only one who had given in to the woman, while they had abstained. I nodded my head.
With that they all leapt up, clapped, hammered on my back, and filled the room with their laughter. Some were still in their school uniforms from that morningâwhite shirt, blue pants and jacket with the school shield over the heart. âWe too,â said Schwab. âWe all had a turn. Pachecoâs letting the whole class fuck her. Of course, Iâve had women before.â
He said this and the other boys laughed or groaned or called him a liar. One boy had found a broken chair leg and let it dangle from the button fly of his pants in mockery of Schwabâs sexual prowess. We were all extremely excited, even hysterical. The hugeness of Pachecoâs prank made our hearts race.
âI could have another go at her,â said Schwab. âI like those big ones.â
Of all of us, Schwab probably looked the most mature. Even then, he must have been six feet tall and had hair on his upper lip. He was muscular and blue-eyed and something of a bully. He pretended to be afraid of nothing but once we had seen him taunt Pacheco and be so badly beaten that he had missed several days of school. Now, if Pacheco had told him to jump through a flaming hoop, Schwab would have jumped.
I doubt that any of us had been with a woman before, not even Schwab, and our talk, which in memory strikes me as silly, was full of nervous hilarity as we compared our different yet similar experiences. Schwab swore he had made her moan with pleasure and that he had held himself back for thirty minutes. Some said it was great, some werenât sure. Two boys wept. Another was angry, another full of guilt. Throughout the afternoon, more boys came clown the stairs and were astonished to find us. Some laughed, some felt embarrassed, most did both. Of the twenty-five Boris had found out of a class of thirty, only two had refused to climb into the whoreâs bed. One was Carl Dalakis. Another two admitted they hadnât been able to have erections. I expect there were others who had been unable to perform, but they kept their mouths shut. Those who admitted failure were badly teased. Schwab said that he would bring them back and show them how to do it.
Malgiolio was one of the ones who wept. In those days he was quiet and wrote Symbolist poetry in the manner of Verlaine and Rubén DarÃo. Thatâs not to say he didnât enjoy the woman. He was one of the ones who tried to locate her again, Indeed, a little field trip of eight boys came down to the area a few days later. But either they couldnât find the right door or, if it was the right one, the door was locked or the room empty. I donât remember the exact details, only that they couldnât find the woman and ended up going to a regular whorehouse, where they were made fun of and it cost them a lot of money and where one boyâwas it Malgiolio or Schwabâgot the clap and for weeks he cried every time he had to pee.
But that Saturday afternoon, which began with my trains and ended with the Indian whore, was a wonderful time of good-fellowship. After the last of us had descended the stairs, Pachecoâs servant Boris entered with several hampers of food: cold chicken sandwiches, potato salad, apples, buckets of lemonade and a large chocolate cake. Looking back, that menu seems absurd, but at the time it felt exactly right. After all, we were having a party, and that was what fourteen-year-old boys ate at parties. We stuffed ourselves and then had a fight with the apple cores in which I was hit in the eye.
About half an hour after the last boy had joined us and we were done eating, the door opened to reveal Pacheco with the whore standing beside him. She
âDid you do it?â asked Eric Schwab.
I felt immediately guilty, as if I was the only one who had given in to the woman, while they had abstained. I nodded my head.
With that they all leapt up, clapped, hammered on my back, and filled the room with their laughter. Some were still in their school uniforms from that morningâwhite shirt, blue pants and jacket with the school shield over the heart. âWe too,â said Schwab. âWe all had a turn. Pachecoâs letting the whole class fuck her. Of course, Iâve had women before.â
He said this and the other boys laughed or groaned or called him a liar. One boy had found a broken chair leg and let it dangle from the button fly of his pants in mockery of Schwabâs sexual prowess. We were all extremely excited, even hysterical. The hugeness of Pachecoâs prank made our hearts race.
âI could have another go at her,â said Schwab. âI like those big ones.â
Of all of us, Schwab probably looked the most mature. Even then, he must have been six feet tall and had hair on his upper lip. He was muscular and blue-eyed and something of a bully. He pretended to be afraid of nothing but once we had seen him taunt Pacheco and be so badly beaten that he had missed several days of school. Now, if Pacheco had told him to jump through a flaming hoop, Schwab would have jumped.
I doubt that any of us had been with a woman before, not even Schwab, and our talk, which in memory strikes me as silly, was full of nervous hilarity as we compared our different yet similar experiences. Schwab swore he had made her moan with pleasure and that he had held himself back for thirty minutes. Some said it was great, some werenât sure. Two boys wept. Another was angry, another full of guilt. Throughout the afternoon, more boys came clown the stairs and were astonished to find us. Some laughed, some felt embarrassed, most did both. Of the twenty-five Boris had found out of a class of thirty, only two had refused to climb into the whoreâs bed. One was Carl Dalakis. Another two admitted they hadnât been able to have erections. I expect there were others who had been unable to perform, but they kept their mouths shut. Those who admitted failure were badly teased. Schwab said that he would bring them back and show them how to do it.
Malgiolio was one of the ones who wept. In those days he was quiet and wrote Symbolist poetry in the manner of Verlaine and Rubén DarÃo. Thatâs not to say he didnât enjoy the woman. He was one of the ones who tried to locate her again, Indeed, a little field trip of eight boys came down to the area a few days later. But either they couldnât find the right door or, if it was the right one, the door was locked or the room empty. I donât remember the exact details, only that they couldnât find the woman and ended up going to a regular whorehouse, where they were made fun of and it cost them a lot of money and where one boyâwas it Malgiolio or Schwabâgot the clap and for weeks he cried every time he had to pee.
But that Saturday afternoon, which began with my trains and ended with the Indian whore, was a wonderful time of good-fellowship. After the last of us had descended the stairs, Pachecoâs servant Boris entered with several hampers of food: cold chicken sandwiches, potato salad, apples, buckets of lemonade and a large chocolate cake. Looking back, that menu seems absurd, but at the time it felt exactly right. After all, we were having a party, and that was what fourteen-year-old boys ate at parties. We stuffed ourselves and then had a fight with the apple cores in which I was hit in the eye.
About half an hour after the last boy had joined us and we were done eating, the door opened to reveal Pacheco with the whore standing beside him. She
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