Telling stories

It happened on a moonlit night. I’m not sure if the moon was full or not; what I remember is the pale darkness that permeated the craggy trees and the tall grass in the vacant lot at the back of our house. Summer was ending. During the day clumps of dark clouds mixed with the feathery clouds as they seemed to amble in the clear blue sky. The start of the new school year looms, but that night it was the farthest thing in my mind.

I was afraid, see. I wasn’t alone in the vacant lot. He was with me. We had been playing through most of the afternoon. We never spoke to each other before this day. I went to a public school in the city, enrolled in a special program where we took advanced classes. He went to a Catholic school in town. He’s older, but I’m a year ahead of him in class. Other than that, he’s more advanced than me. Taller and stronger, his voice has even begun to deepen like my father’s voice. My father and his father are friends, working together in an oil company in Saudi Arabia. So there’s some kind of expectation that he and I will be friends also but we’re not. Mother says never mind. You’ll find friends your age.

But today we’d been playing. Mother visited my sick uncle in the neighboring town right after lunch. I insisted on staying home because I didn’t like being around sick people. Besides, I was still recovering from my small operation the previous month. After an hour or so of television I stepped out of the house and went to the neighborhood store to buy some cold soda and candies, if my money allowed it. He was standing in front of the store, bouncing an old basketball. We traded small nods and I went inside to get my Sarsi and Nips. My money wasn’t enough for a bag of Nips, but enough for a few pieces of Goya.  

Sipping Sarsi from a plastic pouch–I didn’t wish to make a deposit for the bottle, I found the sidewalk empty when I emerged from the store. He was leaning against the gate of the fence that covered our house, cradling the basketball with his left hand and hip. “D’ya wanna play?” The invitation was almost alien, so I asked him why. “My friends didn’t show up,” he explained.

“I don’t play basketball, but I have these racing cars–”

He frowned, “You still play with toy cars?”

“These cars are different! It has a real motor, and you can drive it by remote control. I built them myself.”

Perhaps deciding that I am not a complete wuss, he went inside with me.

Basketball was forgotten when he saw my radio-controlled race cars. We raced the cars in the garage and the small garden, me mindful of trampling on mother’s roses. He was probably relieved that I was not the wuss that he expected while I was just glad of the company. I felt a little foolish working on the cars with no one to race them with except with our driver sometimes. Before sunset mother arrived from her visit and looked a little surprised when she saw him. Nevertheless, she prepared some snacks for us: sandwiches, chips, and fruit juice, which we ate and drank at the back garden.

He was the one who noticed the gap in the wall. He asked who lived behind our house and I said I had no idea. He peeked and told me that the lot was vacant. We also realized that we could fit into the gap. “D’ya wanna cross?” He was smiling mischievously. After a quick glance to our back door, I followed him to the other side.

There was a fallen tree and we sat on the trunk. From where we sat, the sky was enormous. And getting dark. We agreed this was a good spot to play. Then he asked me about my small operation. “Were you scared?” Not too much, I replied. He said we went to the same doctor, but he proudly said he’d gone four years ago. I didn’t tell him that four years ago he was my age.

“Does it still hurt?”

“Not anymore. It looks funny, though.”

“Really?”

“Mother says it looks normal. I don’t know…”

“You showed that to your mother?”

“Father’s not here,” I explained.

“Lemme see it.”

“Why?”

“Let’s find out if your mother’s right.”

I showed it to him.

“It’s fine,” he concluded.

“How do you know?”

“It looks like mine. See?”

Suddenly I was looking at his open shorts. By the scant light I saw it, laying in the pouch of his briefs, slightly bent. It looked like mine, yes, only bigger.

“You wanna touch it?”

“No.”

He smiled and reached inside my shorts and briefs and held me. I didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. His hands felt warm. I began feeling warm also. He was looking at me when he pulled my shorts lower, exposing it further. I felt afraid when it grew and became hard. This kind of thing only happened to me in the morning. His hands were bigger than mine, his fingers able to cup me entirely. His hand went up and down. My knees buckled when he put it in his mouth.

I was scared because I didn’t know what he was doing to me. Because it felt good, and at the same time, it felt that I was doing something bad. The sounds his mouth made against my skin scared me. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see him on his knees, his hands on my hips.

A strong pulling sensation opened my eyes. I felt I was going to pee. I let out a small scream as I think I peed, only the sensation was much different. Much pleasurable. I saw him spit out what looked like a wad of phlegm into the grass. I put my clothes in order. He stood over me, covering me with his shadow. He hugged me. I could feel him getting hard against my chest but I didn’t do anything. Couldn’t.

In the end I returned the hug. He pulled me up and hugged me again. Tight, as if I was this fragile thing that could break if he let me go. We should go back, I suggested. He laughed. I tensed.

As we made our way back into our backyard I heard mother calling us in for dinner. He declined the invitation to have dinner with us, sounding like a polite boy in front of mother. I walked him out. Do you have a bike, he asked.

“Yes.”

“We should go biking sometime.”

“Okay.” 

As he stepped out of the gate he planted a small swift kiss on my cheek. He was smiling, like it was the most natural thing to do. I watched his shadow on the street for a long time before closing the door.

from an untitled longer work; phnom penh, 2007; copyright Michael P. De Guzman