Berliner's Spine Popped

        
He approached me casually in German asking something of me I couldn't understand and yet obviously flirting. That is a language beyond words. The gentle bodily intonations that spark and catch on receivers unseen and universal. I smiled.

He spoke again in English. This time more animated expressing back pain from manual labor. His whit tufts of hair perfectly matched his loud red shirt and scuzzy black pants as he asked for my help. I obliged smilingly and stood.

He turned me around and ordered me to stay, arms firmly planted at my sides. We stood back to back. He pushed his arms through mine as he chuckled slightly and pushed on my back. I hoisted him. Spine popped. He smiled. Danke.

He spoke of art and pot and wooden pipes perfect for smoking and wanting to share. It smelled of tobacco and dried longing. I opened my hand and received. We both smiled.

He left the cafe and hopped on his bike. As he bent over to unlock the lock, I was greed by striped underwear and thick white legs gazing at me from a gigantic tear. Unaware he smiled. Aware I smiled. Together we understood.

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Cream Cheese Puffs

  
We went to a Vietnamese/Chinese restaurant that served cream cheese wontons for dinner. He stared at me from a table behind my parents the entire evening. I flirted back. He was in his 50s. I was 15.

Our meals ended at the same time, and we found ourselves at the cashier together. My father paid the bill as I excused myself to the bathroom after batting my lashes at the person the authorities would label a pedophile. He followed slowly behind me.

The bathroom door had a lock, which he swiftly locked behind him. Pants unzipped. Our cocks were hard and in each others' hands. Nerves caused gagging, and I left.

"You were in there quite a while," my dad said.

"I had to go number two."

"I hope you washed your hands."

I hadn't.

I masturbated to the lingering smell of old man cock on my hand until my mother forced me to shower a few days later.

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