But first I have to tell you some about me. 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.
