On Archimedes Street by Jefferson Parrish

reason he couldn’t find at home. The mother was a widow, Frenchy had told him. The poor kid lost his dad when he was twelve. Manny knew for sure the extra income was very welcome to the Saint-Paix family. He nurtured the hope that he could turn over the business to Frenchy when he retired, or, hell, maybe he could even sell it to Frenchy by then.
    That other hope—that Dominic would suddenly develop an interest in carpentry and carry on the family business—was as idle as Dominic himself. Talk about polar opposites. It was a wonder Frenchy and Dominic were friends. If only Dominic could be more like Frenchy. I spoil that boy rotten.
    Manny and Frenchy fell into an easy routine. Manny realized he looked forward to the hours from four to six, and weekends. The kid was growing on him every day, even as he was growing up. Once in a while Manny let his gaze travel to Frenchy’s crotch. How did the kid not show a box when Manny knew just what lay behind his flat-front trousers? Maybe he wore a jock? He stifled this line of speculation when it arose, which, he comfortably ruminated, was seldom enough. The kid was beginning to feel like a second son.
     
     
    D OMINIC WAS on them like a rash. He would never leave them alone, always wheedling, always there . Frenchy was desperate to put the moves on Manny, but he could hardly picture Manny letting himself get blown by his son’s friend while his son hung around. And blown is just what Manny wanted to get, Frenchy was now certain, and that knowledge gave him courage. Frenchy had caught Manny once or twice glancing down the front of his pants. Also, Frenchy had found the magazine again, and another one, stowed behind the router. Once, while Manny had gone into the living quarters of the shotgun double to get soft drinks, Frenchy had repositioned a magazine so a corner of it poked out from behind its hiding place. Manny had noticed, Frenchy was sure, because the next time he looked, it was fully hidden behind the router.
    It’s our secret signal.
    So, Frenchy was momentarily taken aback when, for once, Dominic wasn’t waiting for him in the shop to hijack his work hours and lure him into shooting some hoops or one of those wanking sessions Frenchy now found so juvenile and dispiriting.
    “Hey, Mr. T! Where’s Dominic?”
    “Oh, he’s spending the night with my sister and nephew.”
    Mr. T had a sister? Dominic had a cousin? Even in his excitement at the news that they were finally alone, Frenchy spared a thought for Dominic’s cousin. That boy, if old enough to shoot, would get wanked tonight.
    “We’re alone?” Frenchy asked, just to make sure.
    “Well, yeah.”
    “Finally alone?”
    “What do you mean, ‘finally alone’?”
    In answer, Frenchy flew to the router, withdrew a magazine, and flew right back to Manny, trembling. “This is what I mean,” he said, waving the magazine. Manny reddened in surprise and embarrassment at being caught out by this kid, but Frenchy approached relentlessly and touched Manny’s chest possessively. Manny, backing away, tripped over the shop vacuum and sprawled on the floor, legs spread. This was exactly as Frenchy had pictured it, beat off to it, every night.
    His nose and mouth were on Manny’s crotch in a second, and he mouthed Manny’s cock through the fabric of his grubby khaki shorts.
    The scent made him dizzy. It was delicious, indescribable, all man, all dick. He swooned into the hardening cock, delirious. He reached to get one hand under the cuff of the shorts.
    But Manny squirmed and then bolted, as if from an electric shock.
    “Shit! What are you doing?” Manny scrambled to a standing position, throwing off skinny boy limbs like so many pick-up sticks.
    “What? I know you’re gay. I am too. Please . I beat off to you every night. Please let me blow you. I know you want it too.”
    “Frenchy, this isn’t right.” Manny could hardly process this unexpected development.
    “No one has to know I’m blowing you. No