New York World
Jack’s hands are rough and the smell of newspaper ink almost
overwhelms the stench of the alley below. David is afraid when Jack takes his
palm and cradles it, afraid that a dig is forthcoming about soft schoolboy
fingers being dirtied by real work.
But instead there’s only that smile, the sharp one with tart edges, skimming
over Jack’s face, making David smile back instinctively. He’s felt this way all
day – off-kilter, like looking down in a dream to realize he’d forgotten to get
dressed before school – except in this dream, it’s not his outsides, but his
insides that are all wrong. Les felt it, too, but in typical little-brother
fashion, he’s done a chameleon act and morphed into a miniature Jack, abandoning
his former David-imitation with childish brutality.
But Les is sleeping and Sarah is inside filling the space between Dad’s
bull-headed optimism and Mother’s anxious smiling. And Jack brought him here,
out on the fire escape, and now he’s cupping David’s palm like it’s maybe
holding an invisible treasure and Jack’s afraid of spilling it down into the
dark night.
Jack has never had thoughts like this, David knows.
“Your family is real nice,” Jack says, somehow infusing as much sincerity as he
had when flogging the afternoon edition’s less-than-appealing headlines. And
David’s lips curve again, because he still wants to believe Jack. Because
Jack’s rough fingers are now slipping up to David’s wrist, taking a pulse if
David thought Jack had ever been to a doctor in his life. “Like my family.”
David wants to make an offer, hand over his parents and siblings like they were
an overlarge helping of stew, but he doesn’t know how to do it without making
Jack angry. So he just smiles and looks down at where Jack’s fingers are
tapping a telegram into David’s shirt sleeve.
“Thanks for taking me out today,” David says, too formal and too needy at the
same time.
“You got what it takes,” Jack says kindly, like they’re just two guys standing
on a fire escape, like Jack isn’t doing this thing with his hand and like David
isn’t getting hard from it. “You’re gonna be a first-rate newsie.”
Just what I always wanted from life, David bites back firmly, unsure how
he got to this moment. Last month it was saving up for a bicycle to ride around
with the boys from school. Now it’s praise from the king of the newsies and a
sly thumb insinuating itself into the crook of David’s index finger and thumb.
David looks over nervously and finds Jack watching him with the unblinking calm
of a housecat. “What –” he begins, blinking down at their point of contact, but
his courage fails him and the Walking Mouth has apparently closed up shop for
the day. David’s mouth is empty and all his words have slipped out of his grasp
like they were only so much greasy newsprint ink.
But he has to look back at Jack, who is still watching him with dark amusement.
“Just between us,” Jack says, and David realizes a few seconds later that this
was a complete sentence, because Jack’s head is tilting, his chin tucking in,
his body bending from the waist to reach down to David’s mouth.
Jack’s lips are soft and wide and David can feel that Jack probably shaves every
day. Then all thoughts drain away and Jack’s exploring fingers abandon David’s
wrist and make a grab at David’s suspender strap, hauling him closer and forcing
something like a breathy hiccup from between David’s surprised lips. Jack isn’t
just pressing his mouth to David’s – he’s licking and almost sucking so that
David opens his mouth, just to see if that was what Jack wanted, and then –
When David opens his eyes again, it’s because he feels the tenement’s bricks at
his back and he needs to see for himself that Jack has somehow pushed them both
out of the lamplight and into the blackness under the fire escape stairs. David
can’t see Jack’s expression anymore but he doesn’t get a chance to regret the
loss because suddenly Jack’s placing David’s hand on something hot and hard and
uncomplicated. This is the summation of all those playful smiles Jack has
tossed his way. David doesn’t know what to do, so he just – holds on.
Until Jack’s night-cold touch darts into the space between David’s shirt and his
trousers, painting a cool line horizontally just above the waistband before it
dips to the button, flicks it aside, and dives down. Down.
“Ah –” A schoolyard word that would get him whupped if Dad heard it, but David’s
past caring. “Fuck, yeah.” Jack’s hand is cold at first, but the heat of
David’s cock warms it soon enough, and David squeezes his own handful
thoughtlessly, only remembering what he’s holding when Jack grunts.
David’s not as practiced at unbuttoning trousers from the other side, but he
recruits his left hand and soon enough he has Jack’s cock in hand. Jack has
just been holding David, waiting maybe, maybe bored or irritated, except he
leans in and David can feel that sweet-sour grin curving against his face.
“First one to cross the finish line owes the other ten papes tomorrow,” Jack
whispers, and David would laugh except Jack is apparently foregoing the
formality of a starting pistol. His hand on David’s cock has suddenly turned
into a desperately perfect gradient of pressure and release, a smooth and
unrelenting pulse of sensation. David can barely gather his wits enough to
return the favour. This is nothing like guilty furtive motions under the covers
while Sarah sleeps opposite and Les sprawls into David’s backside.
Rough newsie thumb takes a second to swipe over the wetness on David’s cockhead
and David actually groans aloud and his head drops down onto Jack’s shoulder
like Sarah’s old broken doll. “Shaddup,” Jack giggles, and cruelly redoubles
his effort.
David has no idea what his own fist is doing. He can only feel the beautiful
heat of Jack, the weave of Jack’s shirt against his forehead, Jack’s broad
shoulder like a statue, except jostling with the vigor of his actions. David’s
breath is cutting in and out in uneasy shudders and with a dizzy blink, he looks
down at the darkness and knows that he’s going to owe Jack ten papes come
tomorrow.
Shameful shiver of heat, David can hear his come hitting Jack’s cupped palm, but
he doesn’t care because he feels amazing, and so his head turns and seeks out
Jack’s mouth. They kiss for a moment, until David stops shaking, and then
Jack’s wet hand covers David’s. “My turn,” Jack says thickly, David still close
enough to feel Jack’s tongue dart out to moisten his lips.
David can concentrate now, and he follows Jack’s cues, feeling Jack’s cock, its
different breadth and length in his grip, the difference of the angle, the way
it flexes as Jack gets closer. “Touch –” Jack begins, his hips rocking into
David, toying with his floating balance. “Grab my ass, wouldja?”
So David obediently reaches around and cups and squeezes and Jack makes a sound
like a little child and David’s shirt tails are wet in large uneven spots.
They separate and make themselves tidy again, though David can feel the scalding
heat of his cheeks and he’s not sure how he’ll manage to launder his own clothes
this week. “You should stay the night,” David suggests, wanting to make sure
that Jack isn’t going to leave his life in the spectacularly shattering way he
entered it a short twelve hours before.
“I got a place,” Jack says, stepping back into the lamplight. He looks mussed
and impossibly handsome. David reaches out a hand, unsure if he’s expecting a
handshake or an embrace. They both settle for something in between, a slow
stroke of fingers and palms that’s somehow almost as intimate as what they just
did. “See you at the circulation office tomorrow for the afternoon edition?”
“I don’t welsh on my debts,” David says, trying for bravado and insouciance. He
winds up closer to desperation.
“Don’t worry, Davey,” Jack says, walking backwards down the first few steps of
the fire escape. “I’ll give ya a chance to win them papes back.”
“Double or nothin’!” David shouts, grinning, because Jack has broken into a run
and is now wending his way down the alley like a drunkard in a hurry.
Then Mother calls and Sarah pokes her head out onto the fire escape and David
turns his gaze back into the cramped life of his family.
Just between us, David thinks, clambering through the window into the
heat and the smell of beet soup. He’s not sure how it happened, but now,
abruptly, it is this world that seems strange, and himself strange in it.