He undoubtedly captured me with his exterior, though I knew right away that I’d leave him on the spot for the giant.
He had a long thin nose, a powerful Adam’s apple, and in his excitement he kept swallowing. The long sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to the elbows of his strong, long arms.
It was not attraction but rather pity that I felt for him, but this feeling filled me completely.
I was still shivering a little with the animal excitement I felt for this older man, with my attraction for him, with fear of what he might do to me and whether he would accept me for a whole long life, but the boy on the other side of the bushes could notice none of this because I kept my agitation under control. The trembling did not get out of hand or become as vehement as it had been before. Stealthily I looked around again to see whether my man wasn’t nearby after all. I was actually glad that the trembling, which had to do with his size and beauty, no longer hindered me in what I was now ready to do.
With anyone and at any time.
If he wasn’t here, well, he wasn’t. He didn’t seem to be around anywhere. Either he willfully deceived me or my imagination had played a dirty trick on me. I felt my body drying out; when I blinked or swallowed, my eyelids and my esophagus literally clicked. My trembling for him was coursing through my flesh; though not strong, it was becoming permanent.
I could not see behind the bushes but I could discern that with his milk-white, thickly veined arm he was working more slowly now. His prick must have filled and become distended. With his arm movements he deliberately showed, or even exaggerated, the proportions of his member to make it seem even more imposing. Every man tried to show himself in the most favorable position so the one watching would imagine him as strong and mighty as possible. Actually, they hoped to captivate one another not as real humans but as parts of secretly nurtured fantasies, which is what ritualized their encounters. They knew what fantasies the others were nurturing.
They built their secret language with different dialects of their shared imagination.
He also wanted to see what I was doing with mine; that’s why he kept standing on tiptoe. It would have been terrifying to think that in this very instant everything would be decided. I was gripped by my empathy for him, but my burning excitement completely vanished because my interest was not directed at him. I had nothing more to do. It was enough to see how his arm and shoulder moved, to discover in the position of his white, fuzzy-haired neck the pleasure of his erection, and my imagination disloyally abandoned the older giant and willingly followed the boy.
It grew stone-stiff in my hand, rearing up impetuously, aggressively and painfully, I was holding the beak of the foreskin so as not to let it slip back in, for the sensitivity of the naked bulb would inevitably have resulted in an ejaculation. For the same reason, to hide it from him no matter how hard he tried to see it, I covered it with my other hand. Which was an exceptionally important expression in the ritual language. He was requesting an advance from me, so the sight of my cock would strengthen his erection, which my presence would make perfect when the most propitious moment arrived and he revealed his to me. I should feel the strength of my seduction in him, and be completely unable to avoid the perfection of his penis.
I was striving for unconditional mutuality, however, nothing else, and therefore imagined that the ceremonial introductions should occur not separately but simultaneously. I could not give him an advance that he might forge into a business advantage.
The lack of mutuality offended my taste. I wanted him to understand that.
Otherwise I was going to leave.
In the words of the sign language, the relationship would then still retain an exciting business condition. I would not budge from my position.
This in turn created a shared question: which of us could impose his will on the other, or, to put it in my terms, would my sentimental desire for fraternity prove stronger than my primitive curiosity. This turned out to be such a nerve-racking question in the motionless summer night — which of us would first show his to the other — that I could feel my suicidal intentions evaporating along with the black-haired, dark-skinned giant.
The hyperemia in my mind left no room for him.
I grew so weak it no longer mattered whether I showed it to him.
Look at that, look what a pecker he’s got, he cried enthusiastically, goodness gracious.
His reddish fleshy lips, a little offended and excited, trembled in amazement.
Jesus, he prayed, how lovely your pecker is.
His voice sounded as if it came, flutelike, from a third person trying to hum and sing in various falsettos.
His surprising adjective touched me because until then I’d never thought of anybody’s pecker as lovely, least of all of my own. As if he were speaking not to me but to a third person like me, perhaps standing behind me; or the whole thing wasn’t true at all, only flattery. Something crackled in the thicket, letting me know we weren’t alone, somebody else had also heard what had been said, somebody or somebodies had been spying on us.
Not only did he not reciprocate my confidence but he used the crackling sound as an excuse to hide his own instantly.
He was doing everything too fast. He stepped out from behind the bush while still buttoning his fly. His movements made clear that he was only a dumb little faker who couldn’t get it up.
He couldn’t possibly have put it away so fast if it had been stiff.
He whispered into my face that we should get out of here but quick.
His breath was as sweet as that of a suckling babe. These dumb fairies, he said, as I could hear for myself, won’t leave us alone, such a rotten bunch. I was eager to hide my own too, but it took some doing. He reached for it while sweetly whispering into my mouth, but I wouldn’t let him.
They’re so jealous, believe me. They always want what somebody else has. He laughed.
There was something explosive about him, merry and playful. I probably know that rotten jerk from Újpest — such a dumb fairy, he thinks he’s queen of the whole place. His name is Pisti. He must be the one who managed to wind up somewhere behind us, come on, hurry up, damn it. I think he wants to separate us. He always wants everyone to suck him off, but don’t think he ever comes.
And I mean never, he said indignantly, with nobody.
He asked me if I had a place to go to, which I did not immediately understand because I was having trouble buttoning up my fly. I did not answer him.
Because he had no place of his own, he added by way of explanation, he was only on leave. He did have a grandmother in Pestimre, but we can’t go there even if the streetcars are running. His grandmother found out about him a long time ago when she caught him with one of his buddies, and then he quickly added that with him I could do everything but absolutely everything I was used to doing with girls.
I was amazed, watching his face, his eyes and his lips; how would he know what I was used to doing with girls or whether I had done anything with them at all.
He liked Mohács more because there you just go to the upper sandbank or even by the lime-burning factory and somebody will pick you up. Several times his grandmother made a fuss, throwing things around, slapping and beating and breaking everything she could get her hands on. He wants no more scandals, and not because of the neighbors, they can kiss his ass, but the old girl really has nobody in the world except him. I should understand.
Unexpectedly he sniggered, interrupting himself to say he shouldn’t have told me the whole story, because at this time of night there isn’t a single rotten streetcar to take them to Pestimre. We could walk, but by the time we get there, his short leave will be over.