Gwen, in Green

“Not out on the site,” the supervisor said. “But if you like, you can say that I wanted the guard.”

“I could just tell them to work within sight of each other.”

“Do that. And tell the guard to stay close to both of them.”

Flores gave in. He was already wet with sweat by the time he drove back to the work shack and checked his boards. He made his choice, sent his notices, called security, and told them to detail a man to the Pine Tree site at seven o’clock. Then he said fuck all and drove over to check out the newly surveyed route for the canal cut.

14

Tommy Promer, aged thirteen, held front stage center. He’d kept his secret as long as it was possible, because Don had told him that they had a good thing going and there was no sense messing it up, even if she did keep asking them to send or bring friends.

You can only listen to guys brag for so long without opening up to tell them that even if some of them are older, they don’t know beans about it.

Don was off with a girl. Tommy had ridden his motor bike to the Leaning Pine Fishing Pier. The August night was perfect for sitting out on the end of the pier, in the glow of light from the last lamp post, listening to the ocean moving restlessly underneath, washing the barnacle-­studded steel pilings as it pushed low swells toward the strand. Tommy liked to watch the waves from the backside. He spent a lot of hours on the pier, day and night, watching the waves and figuring them out so that the next time he was down there with his surfboard he could know which one to take and which ones to let ride under him. At night the waves looked sort of spooky. The lights of the pier glowed on them and made them look bigger than they were and they’d disappear into the darkness between lamp posts and reappear and then, near the strand, they would hump up and get steep on the front and then fall into the white of surf.

A couple of the guys were out there shark-­fishing when Tommy walked out, a Coke in his hand. He lay down on a fishy-­smelling bench and watched. One of the guys hooked into a two-­footer, a small one. Tommy leaned over the railing and watched, finished his Coke, tossed the cup into the sea, and offered comments as the shark ran and pulled the drag on the reel. It was a lazy, fine night and the talk, after the shark had been pulled up, stabbed repeatedly, thrown back, was idle.

Couples, mostly island guys and summer girls, would walk out, say hi, stand around watching the lack of action, and then walk away. Guys began to drift out as the evening progressed. They’d made the rounds, failed to make a pick-­up or weren’t interested, and the little group at the end of the pier gradually grew until there were eight boys ranging in age from Tommy’s thirteen to about eighteen. One of them started bragging about a summer girl he’d just been out with. According to the way he told it he was the world’s best lover and the girl had practically raped him. Tommy snorted. After three trips up to the point, he felt that he was a man of experience.

Once started, the talk, naturally, stayed on the subject of girls and, in particular, what girls carried in their pants and how best to get to it. Everyone, Tommy discovered, was an authority. One guy of about sixteen was telling how, once he’d done it, this summer girl played with his cock until it got hard again. Tommy said, “There’s a better way.”

They laughed. Being the youngest, Tommy came in for a lot of kidding. “What do you know about it?” the last bragger asked.

“If she really wants to get it up fast,” Tommy said, “she gives you a blow job.”

There was laughter and general comment, the gist of which was that Tommy would go like a skyrocket if a girl even looked at his cock.