The Neighborhood Kid

Apr 11, 2016 by

 

Andy, a few years older than I, was a tubby neighborhood kid with a bunch of chutzpah. He had a habit of trying to impress me with tales of his sexual interests and his toughness. We would hang out in my yard or his, toss a pink rubber “Spaldeen” ball, and chat about life.

His voice would take on a persuasive urgency, as if he were on stage in a play commanding the audience’s attention, instead of just loafing around Long Island’s suburb of all suburbs, Levittown. He beat off a lot in the shower at home with soap, he reported, and he claimed to beat up kids at school.

Once he asserted that his parents still “did it,” mostly on the weekends. I asked how he knew? He said that he could hear them moaning from his room and that he would show me some stuff as proof. They were out grocery shopping, so Andy let me into his house and took me down the shadowy hallway to their bedroom.

It felt weird being in their private place, sitting on the edge of their bed. A tangy smell of adult bodies, mixed with hints of deodorant and perfume and old cigarette smoke, hovered in the stale air. He opened the drawer of the side table on his father’s side of the bed: glossy gold foil packages, about an inch square, intimate, winked in the light!

Andy said that was not all and lifted up a corner of the mattress. A busty naked woman beamed from the cover of Playboy, her tits like ample little ski jumps straining against thin cloth, her smile suggesting mysterious delights. He flipped the magazine open to the centerfold, and there she was, with everything showing, even her bush. Andy asked if I wanted to jerk off but, disoriented, pink-faced, I declined.

Outside again, we stood on his front lawn, shifting from foot to foot, avoiding each other. Andy seemed to have run out of chatter; nor did I have any conversation to share. Suddenly he looked up and cried, “Looka the butterfly!” I looked up, trusting, searching for some relief.

Then Andy punched me square in the stomach, and I buckled over. I could barely gasp: “You bastard… you freakin’ bastard!”

 

Bill Moore taught English, and Creative Writing, for several decades; during that time he wrote freelance music journalism for the Greensboro News & Record and weekly publications. He is co-author of the music history book AMPEG: The Story behind the Sound. Now he writes flash fiction, plays blues, and provides editing services.

 

 

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