When I was eleven, I used to suck off a kid named Pedro behind the bottom landing of the stairs that went to the basement. He was a sad-looking, thirteen-year-old spic who wore baggy pants I don't think he ever changed, and a white, short-sleeved shirt he put on fresh Sunday mornings; Saturday nights it was gray. Standing by the radiator, he would grind his sneakers on the gritty boards and rub the heel of his hand on the hard place over his groin. His knuckles were red from chewing. "You want it?" He'd dart around scared glances. "Come on, take it now. Go on, take it." His zipper was always half open.
Squatting, I'd nose between the brass teeth to smell his sweat. He would push penis, both testicles, and the two little fingers of his left hand into my mouth. Holding his thin hips, I troweled my tongue inside his foreskin, till, leaning and grunting, he would spurt his greasy juice and, quickly limp, a tablespoon of urine.
Once he told me, when I stood up, "You look funny down there. You really look funny."
There were two mattresses in the cellar already.
I helped him carry the third one down. Then he got his fifteen-year-old sister, Maria, made her lie on her back, pulled her new skirt up, her stained panties down, and wedged his chin between her thighs, his eyes blinking over her cunt hair. "Look at her." He lifted his head. "She giggle all the time like that. Anybody fuck on her and she giggle. You suck my dick while I eat it out her pussy, huh?" Later he made her take all her clothes off and crawled on top, while she clawed the back of his shirt, big thighs shaking outside the sweaty cloth of his pants, big tits flattened beneath the wadded Saturday gray.
"Tickle my nuts!"
