I was smart enough (and jittery) to hide in the underbrush at the edge of the woods until the sun went down and lights came on.
Watched Mrs. Menendez-Finkelstein leave, purse on arm, and get into Alice’s car.
Meant one thing: Little Oscar was at home alone.
Using the back alley, I crept to the kitchen door. Peeked through its small window. There Oscar was, shirtless, reddened nipples a-glow, making a sandwich.
My stomach growled. I shushed it. Gosh, I was hungry. Those hours up a tree, you know.
I rapped.
Oscar jumped.
I rapped again.
He saw my face and opened the door. “I knew it!” he triumphed.
“Oscar, be quiet. Nobody must know I’m here if I’m to help you with your singing.”
“Right,” he realized.
“You still got that pitch-pipe?”
“I do.”
“Okay. Good. But I’m so hungry, I’m weak, though.”
A knowing smile later, he adjusted his jeans, and said in his best flute-like voice, “You smell like a possum. Go in in there,” he pointed to the restroom. “Take a hot shower. I’ll make you a sandwich same as mine. Bananas and peanut butter. I’ve got enough for another one, ’n’ mayonnaise ’n’ and white bread, ’n’ I’ll give you a glass of milk.”
I was sold.
In my well-wrapped, damp towel and between gulps and chomps, I started to make my pitch.
“Hold it,” he said. “Mom figured you’d show. She left money.”
He fidgeted while I took my time to say, “We’ll need a lot of time.”
A big smile from the twelve-year-old. “She went with Alice to play bingo at church. Two hours at least.”
I burped. “Here’s my deal. Now it’s a hard bargain.”
“You promise to drive a hard bargain into little me?”
Diminutive devil thinks quick.
Our deal was struck after he fed me another sandwich. This one, peanut butter and grape jelly with Karo corn syrup for good measure. I had to drink another glass of milk.
“Here’s a note from Mom.”
How these people think – always ahead!
It gave me the choir master’s list labeled “Scales, Arpeggios, and Trills.” There were, in fact, two new solos. With his middle finger, Oscar pointed to Fs, F-sharps, Gs, A-flats, A-naturals, B-flats, and the inevitable High C – only one, at the end of the first solo. The other song ended on a B-flat.
“Different key,” he said. “Duck soup.”
I burped. Drank some tap water to clear my palate.
We went to work…after I made him lock all the doors and close all the curtains and promise the sing everything pianissimo so neither neighbor boy would know we were there.
“If they think I’m here, they’ll bust up the lesson. This is our chance.”
For once, he saw wisdom in an idea of mine.
*
In his room with him in his best position and me inside him, Oscar set each exercise at an introductory pace and told me how to do him for every note.
All that sugar and starch had me fully fettled – an eloquent term, eh?
Soon, his single-octave scales were ascending and descending in time with my longest possible strokes, in for the notes going up and out for those heading down. Fluid technique, if you must know, the result of devoted talent. I found such a good stride that Oscar congratulated me.
Arpeggios were harder for us both. Each of their notes, we discovered, required a special poke.
“Whew,” as I’ve gasped in the past. Felt that in my lower back.
Before tackling his four trills, we nailed each note above the staff, inches at a time. When I got my depth right, his pitch was great. If I was off, he went flat or sharp. Fixing the problem, the pitch-pipe was really handy. We checked every one to be sure. Over and over. He was bossy about that. Yeah.
Oscar was impressed, “You’re getting nimble at this.” Smart-aleck, he had a way with words.
Being in his saddle made me feel wonderful. I was under control and firm to the tasks-at-cock.
My undoing came with the third trill. I wriggled too much – and set us both off. Lewd noises escaped his vocal cords. Grunts and more. I had clamp his mouth because my hard drive was the one that first cued his loud high-C.
A mighty struggle I can tell you. My spasm coincided with the most ferocious writhing of his butt on my dick and his first-ever squirt!
I was speechless. Him, too. We finally stopped shaking and noticed the clock.
“Mom’s due in about ten minutes,” he was hoarse, but fascinated by his pricklet’s performance.
By hasty agreement, we straightened up his room and the kitchen. Barely remembered to open the curtains. It was close.
I went home out the back door and dashed down the dark alley. If I could stay hidden from The Club’s other members, Oscar would slip over tomorrow afternoon after school for a private lesson in my bedroom.
Sleep unraveled such knitted cares as remained in my state of thrilled exhaustion.
I, who used to dream of Clyde’s bottom, dreamed instead of Oscar’s.
Nary a thought about his nipples.