PORTUGAL, AN ANONYMOUS STORY, 1990

The narrative presented here was submitted anonymously to the December 1990 issue of the NAMBLA Bulletin (Volume XI, No. 9) pp. 12-15. Whether or not it is a true story is quite unknown.

EVERYONE TOLD ME IT WAS TOO EARLY to come down to the southern coast of Portugal, but when Pietr’s family left for Indonesia, I was too despondent to listen. So I arrived in Vagoa in the midst of a rainstorm. The bus came to a whining halt in the main plaza, next to a small café. I was the only foreigner aboard, and the only one without an umbrella. I grabbed my bag and ran into the café. 

The townspeople inside - mostly fishermen, whiling away the afternoon, waiting to go out again to sea in the evening - looked up in mild surprise as I fell into a chair at a small table. An old man even sneaked a look at the calendar on the wall, to make sure two months hadn’t passed without his noticing. The owner, indistinguishable from the grizzled fishermen save for his white apron, brought me coffee. I told him that I hoped to stay with Madam Zemekis, a Czech emigré who rented out a few simple rooms in her large home two or three streets off the main plaza. I had stayed there years before. 

The cafe owner, who spoke a little English and German, managed to inform me that Madam Zemekis had gone for a long stay in Slovakia and her house was closed, at least until the season began. There were other rentals in town, but most everything was still locked up, and the owners mostly out of town. He did know of one possibility, a small apartment owned by his sister, but it was rather simple and I might not approve. There was certainly no harm in looking, I told him, especially as the cost might be low and I could afford a longer stay. He smiled at this, and I had another coffee and some fresh bread while we waited half an hour for the rain to stop.

Patches of sunshine were striking the white facades of the buildings surrounding the plaza. The cobblestone streets, still wet, glittered in the light. The fishermen stirred, and a few took their drinks and card games to the tables outside the café, whose owner, now without his apron, stood at the door and signalled me to join him. As I leaned over to pick up my bags, a dark-haired boy came from the kitchen towards me. He smiled, his blue eyes reflecting the sun streaming in through the windows, and took my bags. 

“My nephew,” explained the café owner as we rounded the plaza and headed up a narrow lane between whitewashed, old houses, The lane wound its way up a hill, turning back on itself two or three times, and at the top we walked by the cemetery, which overlooked the town and the bay. We started down the far side of the hill. The street was now unpaved and there were few houses. We walked along the crest until we came to a small house, almost a hut, made of whitewashed stone. It sat on the side of the road, overlooking the coast and part of the bay. There seemed to be another part of the house carved into the hillside beneath it. 

It was tiny, but clean. There was no electricity, but a propane tank fed a small stove and two lights. There was water piped in, but the toilet was twenty steps down the hill. We entered into the kitchen, and the only other room faced the ocean. There was a small bed, a wooden table, two wooden chairs, and a woven mat on an unpolished wood floor. The table sat beneath a tall, uncurtained bay window. The view outside was magnificent. 

“It is not much,” said the café owner. 

“No, it's not,” I said. “But it must be very quiet.” 

“Oh, yes,” he replied. “As you can see, your closest neighbors are far down the hill.” 

With the door open, a crisp sea breeze came through the bay windows. The place was not what I expected, but it would be all right for a week or so. We settled on a price. 

“I will send my nephew back with bedding, and some food, if you like,” my new landlord said. The boy was leaning over the table, gazing out at the ocean below. I had not noticed how slim and smooth his legs were. 

I unpacked my bag into a tiny closet, and sat at the table, looking out at the ocean and listening as it swept against the rocky shore. I thought about Pietr, just turned thirteen. His youthful glow would now be wasted in some palm-lined foreigner’s colony in Jakarta. I tried to think of other things, but images of our life together, these last two years came to me: Pietr lying beside me in the morning, his blond hair falling across the pillow, his smooth body, his hand clutching the little pink cock even as he slept. Dutch mornings! The smell of fresh coffee and sweet rolls wafting up from below as the maid prepared them, Pietr’s tongue against mine as sunlight filtered through the curtains. 

In the late afternoon, after his school was finished for the day and my classes were over, we would meet at the gymnasium pool, where clothing was blissfully optional, and swim laps. The shower stalls were private and he would join me in one afterwards, both of us out of breath and weak from the exercise, and we would wash each other and embrace, letting the hot water rinse us as we kissed. 

In the evenings, he would come over after having dinner at his parents’ house, and do his homework while I prepared my lectures. We listened to Mozart on the CD player. 

And now it was gone - his father transferred, a five-year posting. Pietr was eager to live in a faraway, strange country, but he shared my tears those last few nights, and held me inside him long after my climax. 

“Can’t you find a position in a University somewhere in Jakarta?” he asked. “Then we could stay together. Oh, don’t get up yet, stay inside for a while.” 

“I don’t think there are many positions for an English lit teacher in Jakarta. And I must stay here, I have only one more year until my promotion. I can’t leave.” 

“Well, you must come visit, then. I will make sure Papa gives us a separate room and if you visit, we will not go out once the whole time.” 

But when the time came for vacation, I could not bring myself to travel so far, only to be disappointed again, leaving Pietr for a second time. Instead, I hoped a quiet month or two of reading might help to stop remembering. But the café owner’s nephew was giving me something new to think about. 

The boy arrived about an hour later, carrying sheets and blankets rolled and tied, and a string sack holding oranges, olives, cheese, bread, mustard, and mayonnaise, and a small bottle of wine. I set the table and watched as he began to spread the sheets on the bed. He stopped after putting on the first sheet, and smiled nervously at me. The breeze from the bay window was growing stronger and the room darkened. Clouds were massing again. 

He was shorter than Pietr. His hair was very black against his pale skin. His blue eyes were framed by long eyelashes. He was thinner than Pietr, without the softness that comes from city life and plenty of milk and cheese. I asked his name. 

“Alesandro, sir. But I am called Alex.” 

“How old are you?” 

“Fourteen. I am second year of high school.” 

The sky outside rumbled. The door blew shut. 

“The rain,” he said. He began to spread the second sheet. I got up and helped him tuck in the corners. Together we added two blankets, and a heavy quilt. 

“It must be cold at night.”

“You are come too soon, sir.” 

Maybe not, I thought. The rain came down in a sudden fury. Alex closed the bay windows. The wind whistled in anyway. Alex looked out at the sheets of rain and the grey clouds that flooded the sky. I sat on the bed. As he turned around, our eyes met. We both knew he couldn’t leave during the storm.

“It’s a big rain,” I said.

“Yes,” he said he sat in a chair. 

“You must be cold, in those shorts.” There was, of course, no way of heating the room. 

“Yes.” I got up, thinking to offer him the quilt or a blanket, but he surprised me by walking to the bed and lying down beneath the quilt. He pulled it up until all I could see of him was from the eyes up. When in Rome, I thought, and I took off shoes and jacket and climbed in beside him. 

The bed was barely big enough for both of us. We leaned back against the pillows and watched the rain. He was warm beside me, but I could feel him shivering. He looked up at me as if he wanted to say something, but he didn’t speak. I didn’t know what to say, either. I could feel his legs against mine, and he started rubbing them slowly, trying to stay warm. He smelled like olives and the ocean. Up close, his face was smooth and white. We were so close, I reached down, to touch his leg, but instead my hand brushed against the front of his shorts and I could feel that he was hard. And small. He closed his eyes. There was thunder outside. 

“You’re very strong,” I said 

Suddenly he pushed his hand inside my pants. “You are also strong, sir.” 

I put my hand inside his shorts and felt his cock. It was small and hard and smooth. He kept his hand on mine and we embraced and I kissed his neck and we looked at each other. He seemed afraid but didn’t move away. 

I pulled the quit over my head and pulled his shirt from his shorts and kissed his chest and his stomach, so warm in under the thick quilt. In the darkness I felt for his shorts and pulled them down. A ray of light pierced the darkness as the boy pulled his shirt up and over his head. Then darkness, and heat, as my lips found his cock, thinner than Pietr’s, and smaller, hard and hot. He shivered as I took it whole into my mouth, then let it go. I licked its underside, the smooth sack below it, the hollow between his cock and legs. I felt his hands on my head, urging me down onto it again, and I took it hungrily. But he was pulling me up, out of the hot dampness, so we could kiss 

At first it was a quiet kiss, but then he opened his lips and our tongues met, in sudden furious desire. His hand was back in my pants and we struggled together to undo my belt and zipper. Then he ducked under the blanket and pulled them off me and I felt his tongue hot and wet against my cock, his hands pulling at the hair. I threw off my sweater and pulled him up to me and we kissed. The thunder above crackled and the rain drummed louder on the roof. We kissed and clutched at each other’s cock and I could feel him squirming, thrusting against my hand, straining.

I threw off the quilt so I could see him, his thin white body, the tiny hard cock gleaming white, his firm ass clenched as he fought for his release. He closed his eyes, held me at the neck and grabbed my ass with his other hand, rubbing his fingers along the crack, trying to get one inside me, all the while thrusting and kissing my neck, kissing my lips. His finger pierced me as his tongue pushed its way in my mouth and he pushed against me and I felt his cock pulse and jump and his come suddenly hot and wet in my hand, against my stomach and leg. His cock pulsed again as he thrust harder yet and another spurt of come filled my hand. 

Then he bolted out of bed, come dripping from his cock as he ran to the kitchen and tore open the string sack. Before I could speak, he was back in the bed, turned on his stomach, sinking head into the pillows. 

“Please,” he said, reaching for my cock and trying to pull me on top of him. In the other hand he held the little jar of mayonnaise. 

I opened it, my hands shaking, as I squatted above him. He raised his ass in the air and spread his legs. It was a firm ass, white and smooth and without a blemish. I ran my come-soaked hand up the crack and smeared my cock with the fragrant country mayonnaise. I thrust two fingers in the little hole, smearing it with come and mayonnaise. He reached with both hands for my cock and pulled it down on him into him, as he squirmed and shook with pain and delight.

“So strong,” he said, panting, as I went in further. Thunder boomed again and the bay window blew open, sending a spray of rain against our heads as I pumped and kissed his neck and he shook beneath me. Our heads were soaking wet and the rain was dripping down my back. I kicked it off his nose and then ears and I thrust slower, longer, feeling his tight heat against my slippery cock. The water dripped between my legs and the chill wind blew across us as I exploded, forgetting Pietr and our comfortable home, feeling a surge of wind and rain sweep through the window as the boy moaned and pulled me into him.

The quilt had fallen to the floor. I rolled off of Alex as he whimpered, exhausted, and I pulled the quite over us until we were wrapped in its heat. We slept. 

The rain was finished by the time we woke, and the last rays of the setting sun slanted into the room. The sheets were still damp and smeared with come and mayonnaise and rain and sweat, smelling sharp and wonderful. We sat at the open bay window, not saying a word, breaking the bread and cheese and sipping wine. It was cold but we didn’t put our clothes on. Alex sat across from me, smiling every time he raised a piece of cheese to his lips. He used his finger to smear mayonnaise and mustard on his bread, and then laughed as he licked his finger clean. 

“What is your work?” he asked me. 

“I’m a teacher.” 

“Oh, very good. I will visit you every day after school. You help me.” 

“Okay.” I was thinking he might have to make it every other day if I wanted to be able to walk. He got up and walked over beside me; his little cock, perfectly circumcised, hung tight against his balls; he pushed it up near my face and put his hands on my head.

I took the tiny thing in my mouth until it began to straighten and rise. It popped out and I stroked it while Alex arched his back. He reached over and got a great gob of mayonnaise and smeared it on his cock, on his balls, on his legs. I began to lick it off, but he pulled me up out of the chair and led me to the bed. He stretched out and I fell on him, devouring his sweet, oily cock, licking the mayo from between his legs, until he started lifting himself off the bed, pumping the air as I wrapped my hands around his cock, the tiny pink head shooting up through the fist I made, pumping, slick with mayonnaise, turning purple as I licked his balls and held his cock tight until he came, the little shaft trembling in my hand and the come spurting down my wrist, onto the bed. I got up and went to the table. 

“Where you go?” he asked. His cock still stood, wet and shiny, rising from the hairless flat belly. 

“Just for this,” I said, spreading a scoop of mustard on his cock mixing it with come and mayonnaise. Then I bent over, and slowly licked the mixture off. His tired cock slowly fell and shrank; with one last gulp I took tiny cock and balls in my mouth, then spit them out. Alex laughed. 

“I must go now.” 

“Will you come back tonight?” 

“It is possible. Tomorrow, also.” 

He got up and dressed, then gathered the ropes he had used to tie the bedding, and the string bag. We stood and kissed. He was so small that I had to lift him up and hold him. “Goodbye,” he said as I put him down. 

“Goodbye,” I said. “Tell your Uncle thanks for the lunch.” 

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