sitting at the desk. Lonely, all on his own. He must have drunk quite a bit by now. Which is what he always does, according to Fat Felix. Sometimes five or ten beers in an evening. Janosch thinks his stomach can’t take it, and at some point Troy always throws up. But he doesn’t care. Just starts drinking again. Goes on till morning. Hard as iron. Fat Felix is lying right next to him on the floor. Asleep already, arms and legs sprawled wide, mouth open. He’s snoring a little and drooling on the floor. Skinny Felix thinks he started droning on again about soccer, and Janosch filled him up. Now he’s out for the count, peaceful as a baby.
I stand up. I’ve got to get to the john, and quick. Carefully I ease Marie away from my body. She’s settled herself on my legs meantime. I head for the door. Everything’s spinning a little. Never happened to me before. With an effort I get to the door handle, push it down, leave the room. Nobody notices— they’re all half out of it already. Only Marie looks up for a moment. I go down the girls’ corridor. It seems to stretch away forever; it takes me five minutes to reach the john. I open the door. The washroom is markedly nicer and more modern than the one in Tarts’ Alley. There’s a big anteroom in front of me. Everything white tiled. Maybe six washbasins against the wall. A mirror above each one. I look at myself. My face looks terrible. I go to one of the washbasins and splash some water into my face. It feels good. Refreshing. Suddenly the door opens behind me with a creak. Marie is in the anteroom. Wobbling a little. She stands there looking tired.
“What are you doing?”
“Splashing water on my face.”
“It’s cold?”
“Very.”
“Somehow I think we missed out on something,” she says. Her words are so slurred it’s hard to understand her. She pulls her nightshirt over her head. Now all she’s wearing is her black underwear. It looks wonderful. I see her soft skin. Her navel. Her face. Her breasts. All a little hazily. She wants something from me. I know that. She comes over to me. I’m afraid. She touches my neck. I pull away from her several times. I’m shivering. I’ve never done it with a girl. Girls don’t want me. I’m too different. Besides, I’m drunk. No, Marie’s drunk. She unhooks her bra. I almost faint. She’s standing there in front of me bare to the waist. I see her breasts. They’re well shaped, beautiful. Pink nipples. I think of Janosch, who would certainly be saying don’t shit in your pants. Use your opportunities. And most of all, grab it. Grab everything you can. I know him. And his advice. According to which I should just lay her.
To lay
is Janosch’s best term for
to screw.
Anyone can screw, according to him, but not everyone knows how to lay. That’s an art. I’m supposed to lay Marie. Or screw her. Or whatever. If I’m not so scared I shit myself, that is. I wouldn’t know—I have no experience.
What if I do something wrong?
So what
is what Janosch says. When you’re sixteen, you have to screw. And it’s a scandal that I haven’t yet. When guys are sixteen that’s what they want to do. And when they’re sixteen, girls just want to get laid. So we should screw them, in Janosch’s view. Marie clearly shares that view, as she’s pulling down her panties. I see her pubic hair. It’s black. The whole thing looks like a window—it’s wide, and trimmed all short. I’ve never seen anything like it so up close before: in fact I only know what it looks like from
Playboy.
Why does youth have to be so brutal? Screw here screw there. I’m afraid. Everything’s moving so fast, and I can’t keep up somehow. I sit down on a folding chair by the window. God knows what it’s doing here. Maybe to act as a support in situations like this? I have no idea. I lean back as far as I can go. Marie takes another step toward me. Her large breasts are almost in my face. She bends over me a little, strokes her fingers
I stand up. I’ve got to get to the john, and quick. Carefully I ease Marie away from my body. She’s settled herself on my legs meantime. I head for the door. Everything’s spinning a little. Never happened to me before. With an effort I get to the door handle, push it down, leave the room. Nobody notices— they’re all half out of it already. Only Marie looks up for a moment. I go down the girls’ corridor. It seems to stretch away forever; it takes me five minutes to reach the john. I open the door. The washroom is markedly nicer and more modern than the one in Tarts’ Alley. There’s a big anteroom in front of me. Everything white tiled. Maybe six washbasins against the wall. A mirror above each one. I look at myself. My face looks terrible. I go to one of the washbasins and splash some water into my face. It feels good. Refreshing. Suddenly the door opens behind me with a creak. Marie is in the anteroom. Wobbling a little. She stands there looking tired.
“What are you doing?”
“Splashing water on my face.”
“It’s cold?”
“Very.”
“Somehow I think we missed out on something,” she says. Her words are so slurred it’s hard to understand her. She pulls her nightshirt over her head. Now all she’s wearing is her black underwear. It looks wonderful. I see her soft skin. Her navel. Her face. Her breasts. All a little hazily. She wants something from me. I know that. She comes over to me. I’m afraid. She touches my neck. I pull away from her several times. I’m shivering. I’ve never done it with a girl. Girls don’t want me. I’m too different. Besides, I’m drunk. No, Marie’s drunk. She unhooks her bra. I almost faint. She’s standing there in front of me bare to the waist. I see her breasts. They’re well shaped, beautiful. Pink nipples. I think of Janosch, who would certainly be saying don’t shit in your pants. Use your opportunities. And most of all, grab it. Grab everything you can. I know him. And his advice. According to which I should just lay her.
To lay
is Janosch’s best term for
to screw.
Anyone can screw, according to him, but not everyone knows how to lay. That’s an art. I’m supposed to lay Marie. Or screw her. Or whatever. If I’m not so scared I shit myself, that is. I wouldn’t know—I have no experience.
What if I do something wrong?
So what
is what Janosch says. When you’re sixteen, you have to screw. And it’s a scandal that I haven’t yet. When guys are sixteen that’s what they want to do. And when they’re sixteen, girls just want to get laid. So we should screw them, in Janosch’s view. Marie clearly shares that view, as she’s pulling down her panties. I see her pubic hair. It’s black. The whole thing looks like a window—it’s wide, and trimmed all short. I’ve never seen anything like it so up close before: in fact I only know what it looks like from
Playboy.
Why does youth have to be so brutal? Screw here screw there. I’m afraid. Everything’s moving so fast, and I can’t keep up somehow. I sit down on a folding chair by the window. God knows what it’s doing here. Maybe to act as a support in situations like this? I have no idea. I lean back as far as I can go. Marie takes another step toward me. Her large breasts are almost in my face. She bends over me a little, strokes her fingers
Similar Books
