surprised to hear Sandy say of a man sitting on a bench, "That guy's a hummersexual."
"Homosexual," I corrected.
"We call 'em hummersexual, because whenever you pass one, he goes, hmmmmmmm!" Sandy illustrated.
Sure enough as we passed by, the man went "Hmmmmmmmm!"
Yet sometimes when I'd go into the house at Topanga for an OJ or soda, I'd find two or more boys napping together on a mattress in the darkened smaller bedroom, their clothes off, their legs and arms entwined, their hands wrapped around each other's penis. And whenever Alistair went into the smaller bedroom with one or more boys, "to drink beer and fool around," as Crash explained it, the door was firmly closed and everyone else excluded, suggesting something more than beer drinking was going on. Then there was the discussion held around an impromptu beach fire one overcast afternoon after Sandy's older brother Cryder had spent a night in jail for "soliciting" on Santa Monica Boulevard.
"Soliciting what?" I'd asked.
"Money, stupid," Stevie said.
I'd seen Cryder riding the Topanga Pipeline, a lean, aggressive boy. He didn't look like the type to beg for money on a street corner.
"I don't get it," I admitted, already expecting their jeers.
Stevie took it upon himself to explain. "Let's say you need some cash, fast. Can't get a job at our age, right? So you go a block north of Hollywood Boulevard, where the steps stick out almost to the street, and you sit there and wait till some guy comes by in a car. When he stops, you talk a little and he asks if you want a ride. You say sure, and you get in and you tell him your ma didn't get her paycheck and you need twenty bucks and he says sure, okay."
"He gives you the money just like that?"
"Well, usually you have to put out." Stevie emphasized the last two words. "We've all done it one time or another."
"It's easy," Spencer agreed. "I never wait more than five minutes."
"I made fifty bucks once," Crash boasted, then was forced to explain that that had required two drivers stopping.
All of which left me even more confused. What had they put out? What had they or the drivers done? If it was what I thought it was—no! It couldn't be! I let the subject drop.
After all, I didn't need money; after all, I was interested in Judy, who seemed interested in me. But although she'd slap my hand away whenever I was oiling her body and tried going into her bathing suit, she never got up or walked away. And once, when she was on her stomach reading and I was watching her bathing suit's dropped straps threaten to bare one of her breasts, she suddenly turned to me and saw what I was staring at and, to my surprise, pulled the blue cotton cup right off it, revealing a pointed red tip.
"There! Happy?" she asked.
"Let me touch it."
"Oh, okay!"
This lasted about five minutes while she continued—or pretended to continue—to read Seventeen, before someone came along and she slapped my hand away and popped the breast neatly back into her bathing suit.
It was the very next morning, over huge slices of Crenshaw melon and cups of thick Dominican coffee on the pool terrace, that Alistair said, "Stodge, Judas, you're going to have to play without me this morning."
"Why?"
"I've got to put on a jacket and tie and crap and go with them [meaning Cousin Diana and Alfred] to meet with some ghastly bank guy. Should be done by noon. Tell me your shit-ule [parodying Alfred's accent]. I'll catch up with you later."
Alistair didn't catch up with us that afternoon. He was lying on a chaise longue near the pool talking on the telephone when I returned.
"Do you mind?" he asked when I settled next to him. Then he half explained: "Lawyers!"
This was the Alistair from before that I'd remembered. I left.
A few hours later, however, he came into my room and sat there watching me go through my clothing—he and Judy had forced me to buy more at stores they'd selected—and he semi-apologized and explained a bit more:
"It's the project. Either I
"Homosexual," I corrected.
"We call 'em hummersexual, because whenever you pass one, he goes, hmmmmmmm!" Sandy illustrated.
Sure enough as we passed by, the man went "Hmmmmmmmm!"
Yet sometimes when I'd go into the house at Topanga for an OJ or soda, I'd find two or more boys napping together on a mattress in the darkened smaller bedroom, their clothes off, their legs and arms entwined, their hands wrapped around each other's penis. And whenever Alistair went into the smaller bedroom with one or more boys, "to drink beer and fool around," as Crash explained it, the door was firmly closed and everyone else excluded, suggesting something more than beer drinking was going on. Then there was the discussion held around an impromptu beach fire one overcast afternoon after Sandy's older brother Cryder had spent a night in jail for "soliciting" on Santa Monica Boulevard.
"Soliciting what?" I'd asked.
"Money, stupid," Stevie said.
I'd seen Cryder riding the Topanga Pipeline, a lean, aggressive boy. He didn't look like the type to beg for money on a street corner.
"I don't get it," I admitted, already expecting their jeers.
Stevie took it upon himself to explain. "Let's say you need some cash, fast. Can't get a job at our age, right? So you go a block north of Hollywood Boulevard, where the steps stick out almost to the street, and you sit there and wait till some guy comes by in a car. When he stops, you talk a little and he asks if you want a ride. You say sure, and you get in and you tell him your ma didn't get her paycheck and you need twenty bucks and he says sure, okay."
"He gives you the money just like that?"
"Well, usually you have to put out." Stevie emphasized the last two words. "We've all done it one time or another."
"It's easy," Spencer agreed. "I never wait more than five minutes."
"I made fifty bucks once," Crash boasted, then was forced to explain that that had required two drivers stopping.
All of which left me even more confused. What had they put out? What had they or the drivers done? If it was what I thought it was—no! It couldn't be! I let the subject drop.
After all, I didn't need money; after all, I was interested in Judy, who seemed interested in me. But although she'd slap my hand away whenever I was oiling her body and tried going into her bathing suit, she never got up or walked away. And once, when she was on her stomach reading and I was watching her bathing suit's dropped straps threaten to bare one of her breasts, she suddenly turned to me and saw what I was staring at and, to my surprise, pulled the blue cotton cup right off it, revealing a pointed red tip.
"There! Happy?" she asked.
"Let me touch it."
"Oh, okay!"
This lasted about five minutes while she continued—or pretended to continue—to read Seventeen, before someone came along and she slapped my hand away and popped the breast neatly back into her bathing suit.
It was the very next morning, over huge slices of Crenshaw melon and cups of thick Dominican coffee on the pool terrace, that Alistair said, "Stodge, Judas, you're going to have to play without me this morning."
"Why?"
"I've got to put on a jacket and tie and crap and go with them [meaning Cousin Diana and Alfred] to meet with some ghastly bank guy. Should be done by noon. Tell me your shit-ule [parodying Alfred's accent]. I'll catch up with you later."
Alistair didn't catch up with us that afternoon. He was lying on a chaise longue near the pool talking on the telephone when I returned.
"Do you mind?" he asked when I settled next to him. Then he half explained: "Lawyers!"
This was the Alistair from before that I'd remembered. I left.
A few hours later, however, he came into my room and sat there watching me go through my clothing—he and Judy had forced me to buy more at stores they'd selected—and he semi-apologized and explained a bit more:
"It's the project. Either I
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