didn’t hate Mother and Father. I didn’t resent their sending me away for the fourth time. In fact, I didn’t blame them. I would get rid of me, too, if I thought I was going to be stuck with me for a long time. I don’t make myself happy enough to want to spend the rest of my life with me. I’m schizoid by definition, a union of opposites by luck, two sides in perpetual conflict. I was scared of Pia. I was drawn to Pia. And I wanted to please Pia.
“I have a brother,” I began. “His name is Ted. I call him Tedious. He has a face full of zits. He has a voice like a buzz saw. He has the brain of a turnip. He shakes the dandruff out of his hair all over the dining table. He is full of gas, which bursts out in farts and belches just when you’re sitting close to him. His feet smell like skunk. He’s always eager to beat someone up. His eyes give him away.”
Pia said nothing, waiting for me to continue. She would be silent for as long as it took until I spoke again. It was no way to have a conversation. I went on, “What I mean is that no matter what he says, you can tell what he really thinks. Even when he doesn’t say anything, just looks at you, his eyes are like crystal balls. If you can get near him, if you can stand the smell or the possibility that he will pummel you with his ham fists, then you can see the inside of his head. He knows this. Look all you want, he says. I know what you see, and I don’t give a shit.”
“You want to poke his eyes out?” Pia finally spoke, and her voice, now low and barely audible, chilled me.
“I haven’t said that.”
“You just thought it.” Then she laughed. “Relax, we’re just playing here. God, you’re a serious boy.”
“Saying stuff is okay, I guess,” I felt myself surrendering. “It’s not the same as doing.”
“Almost.”
Chapter Seven
We must’ve talked for an hour before we finally fell silent, vaguely attentive to the chance of news about our adventure while KTOK buzzed on. Outside, the night grew colder, yet we were cozy in our new coats, and after a while Pia nestled closer to me and pulled my arm around her shoulders so that I was taking care of her instead of the other way around. There we were, Pia and I, together on the backseat, our intertwined legs stretching out through the gap between the two front seats. I couldn’t believe my good fortune.
I slipped out of the van around two A.M. under the pressure of the giant slushy. I pulled out my pud and felt it start to numb in the blowing wind, so I pushed out the stream to piss as fast as I could. I couldn’t wait to get back inside the warm van.
“Where did you go?” Pia’s voice was thick with sleep. “Man, you’re freezing.” She rubbed my chest and shoulders to warm me.
“I had to go to the bathroom.”
“What bathroom?” she asked, suddenly awake.
“I went outside, under the stars.”
“Well, you’re lucky to be a boy. You can just stand and squirt.”
“Yeah, I didn’t have any choice in the matter.”
“I wish I had a penis,” she said. “Much more practical than having to squat.”
“It was freezing out there.” Pia and I were talking about stuff that was way beyond anything Cousin Iris and I had discussed during our nighttime encounters.
She snuggled closer to me. “Oh, you poor, poor boy.” Her breath was moist in my ear as her hand inched up between my legs. “Did your dickie get cold?”
I knew then that the communion between us would endure forever. Her touch was a gift, and I didn’t dare ask for more than she would give. A gust shook the van.
“Whoa,” I said. “Listen to that wind howl.”
“Just shut up,” she whispered. “And close your eyes. I can’t stand you looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” I groaned.
“Like you’re about to have a seizure.”
After that I didn’t speak or move. I even managed to keep from thrusting myself into her grip. I was sure that if I expressed too much enthusiasm she would stop. She tugged at my fly and told me to help. I unzipped, I was putty in Pia’s hands. She went about her manipulations with a kind of clinical concentration, sensitive to my reactions, first running her nails gently up and down, then gripping, kneading, twisting until she held me in a loose fist and jerked it rapidly. I tried by turns to twist out of her grip and to hump into it. Then, in a matter of seconds, a shudder seized me from the base of my spine to my groin and I was melting into her hand. She pulled back and lightly rubbed her moist fingers on my lips. “It’s better than Chapstick,” she said. “I like milking boys. It turns them into puppies.”
“I love you,” I said as I tried to catch my breath.
“Don’t be a bonehead,” she said. “And don’t tell anybody. I could go to sex offenders’ prison, being that you’re barely in middle school, and I’m fifteen.”
Of course I loved Pia, especially in light of the risk she had taken on my behalf. I had never experienced such pleasure, though I’d known from the way my penis stirred at unpredictable times that I was on the threshold of a mystery. Dreams in the night had left the gummy evidence of pleasures hidden by the veil of sleep. Talk from older kids hinted that bliss was within reach, with little risk beyond hairy palms, warts, or mental retardation. That my first orgasm had come at her hands filled me with gratitude to Pia, Pia my initiator, Pia my tutor, Pia my priestess. And why not? My goddess.
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