______________________________________________________________________________________

The boys did not move.

Her back to the room again, “Class dismissed!” she repeated as, wiping the blackboard with an eraser in one hand, Eunice Stoldig wiped her moist forehead with the tails of her neckerchief with the other.

Rising hesitantly, the boys file out of the room.

“See,” Frank said, “like I told’j’ya, girls got nothin’!”

“Yeah,” Mitchell agreed. “That’s for sure!”

______________________________________________________________________________________

 What’ch’ma’call’it 5 of 5

His hands moving in angry gestures, “I can’t believe she did that! She think we’re a bunch’a stupid kids or somethin’?”

“I d’know, Fr…”

“An’ when’j’ya ever, ever hear her mumble?”

‘Never! I nev…”

“An’ what the hell’d she call ‘it’ anyway?”

“I don’t…”

“Mitch, I wanna know what a girl’s pisser looks like!”

“Yeah, me…”

“Know what I’ve a mind t’do?” Without waiting for Mitchell to ask, “I’ve a mind to talk to Skorp.”

“Oh, no! You don’t wanna do that, Frankie!”

“I know, he’s a, uh, schmuck, but he’s the oldest guy here.”

“Yeah! The schmuck’s been put back twice.”

“Mitch, who gives a shit how many times the schmuck’s been put back? An’ what’s the difference anyhow? If anyone here knows ’bout girls an’ girls pissers it’ll be Scorp… the schmuck.”

“Yeah, but he’s so big’n’ugly, an’ I know he hates me.”

“Listen,” squeezing his shoulder, “if you’re that ’fraid’a Scorp, guess I’ll just have to go alone.”

Catching the challenge, “No, I’ll go! But I think there’s gotta be a better way than talkin’ to that Polack turd.”

“Knew you’d do it.” Rising from his cot, heading out the door, “Come on, let’s go!”

“Huh? Now? You mean now? Okay, hold up!”

Hunching his head in his collar, shoving his hands deeply into his pockets, Mitchell reluctantly followed Frank out of the junior dormitory, past The Whyet House and through the door of the senior dormitory.

“Hey, who let you little shits in?”

“Hey, Corbitt,” Frank snapped back. “Why don’t you take a long walk on a short pier! Where’s Skorp’s place?”

“Smart-ass, wop!” Corbitt said good-naturedly. “Right past the stairs,” jerking his thumb upward, “on the left.”

“Yeah, thanks, Corbitt.” Poking Mitchell in the ribs with his elbow, “Come on.”

The door was closed. Chamber doors were never supposed to be closed, but William “Skorp” Skorupski, at age fifteen, was the oldest student officer at Baylor, and rank and age apparently had their privilege.

Looking at Mitchell, Frank knocked on the door.

Coming from within, “Oh, shit!” there was a rustle of bedding then, “Yeah?”

“Skorp, it’s Frank Rizzo an’ Mitch Lipensky, an’ we wanna talk to you ’bout somethin’.”

“Shit! What the hell ya want? Okay, hol’ it a minute.”

The boys head the squeak of bedsprings. They felt the vibration of heavy footsteps, the sound of a dresser drawer being slammed shut, more footsteps, then the door was yanked open.

“Well, well, well! If it ain’t two little dicks from the Baby Corps.”

Big for his age, looking closer to eighteen than fifteen, William Skorupski had limpid blue eyes and straight, longer than regulation, light blonde hair. The pale flesh of his squat face was covered with angry pimples and flat red scars where the pimples had been squeezed and ruptured. He was wearing a sweat-stained T-shirt and white boxer shorts. Caught in the act of masturbation, there was a pronounced, cylindrical bulge along the fly of his shorts and a noticeable yellow stain under the fly.

“So, Rizzo, I see you’re still hangin’ ’round with the Jew.” Pinching Mitchell’s cheek, “How’ya doin’, kikie?”

Slapping the older boy’s hand away before Mitchell could react, “Listen, Scorp,” Frank said, “we didn’t come here to get your permission for Mitch’n’me to be pals! An’ I don’t like no one callin’ my pal a Jew or kike, or anything like that.” Smiling at Mitchell, “Only I can do that! Ain’t that right, Mitch?”

Seizing Frank by the shirt, Skorupski pulled him to within an inch of his face. “Ya smart-ass dago, son-of’a…” Grabbing hold of the younger boy’s hand, “…bitch!” Skorupski’s voice rose two octaves because, hanging loosely within his boxer shorts, making them easy to grab, “’ey, Frankie, le’go my balls!”

Of average size for his age, Frank Rizzo had tightly curled black hair, an immaculate dark complexion and pleasing features.

Coming from a tough, south-side neighborhood in Chicago, he’d learned to defend himself, usually by putting up a tough front, and when that didn’t work, as he’d once told Mitchell: “I’d kick ’em here,” pointing to his crotch, “an’ run like hell.”

Here, at Baylor, most of the older boys admired his guts and left him alone.

Six months older than Mitchell, Frank had a genuine fondness for the younger boy. Besides being his best friend here, Frank had also become his defender and mentor, often forcing him to put extra effort into his schoolwork. It was due to Frank’s prompting that Mitchell made the extra effort that resulted in his promotion to corporal.

Releasing Skorupski’s testicles, backing up a foot, Frank held both fists at the ready, just in case.

Backing away, too, sitting on the edge of his bed, taking a deep breath, Skorupski closed his eyes for the moments it took for the wave of nausea to pass. “Okay,” he said crossly, “wha’d’ya little shits want?”

“Look, Skorp, we didn’t come ’ere, to fight with you.”

“Yeah?” Rubbing his crotch, “I’d’a never guessed. So what the hell you want, Rizzo?”

“Mitch’n’me want to talk to you ’cause you’re older an’ we figured you’d know more ’bout it then the other guys.”

“Yeah,” Mitchell cut in, “we wann’a know ’bout girls an’, uh, their pissers an’ stuff.”

Flattered, “You guys came so’s I can learn ya ’bout girls, eh?” Leaning forward, putting his elbows on his knees, folding his hands, resting his chin on the balls of his thumbs, “Close the door.”

Closing the door, about to sit…

“No, not on Ed’s bed.” He pointed, “There!”

Their backs resting on Ed’s bed, they sat on the floor.

“I wann’a tell ya guys that ya came to the right guy to learn ya ’bout girls ’cause I know all ’bout ’em! Wha’d’ya wanna know?”

“Their pissers,” Frank said anxiously. “Tell us ’bout girl’s pissers.”

“Yeah,” Skorupski said reverently, “girl’s pissers.” Girl’s pissers being a subject he had obviously thought about… a lot! “Only on girls it ain’t called a pisser,” he said. “On girls, what they pee out’a’s called a cunt.”

Cunt? Mitchell thought. What an ugly word. “What’s it look like?” he asked. Using his childhood word, “like a sisser, only smaller?”

“Sometimes that’s what he calls his pisser, a sisser.”

“Sisser?” Skorupski looked at Frank. “Jesus Christ! Sisser? Sisser! Jesus, the two’a’ya are a couple’a babies an’ the two’a’ya stupid shits make me sick! It’s…” pointing to his crotch, “called a prick! What guys piss out’a’s called a prick, an’ what girls piss out’a’s called a cunt! Jesus, how the hell ya two stupid shits ’spect to know what it’s all about if ya don’t even know what a prick’n’cunt’s called? Jesus H. K-rist!”

“Okay, Scorp, what’s a… cunt, look like?”

“What’s it look like, Rizzo? A cunt looks like, uh….” Really, having little more of an idea than they, “Tell ya what,” he said, “I’ll show ya. Only ya gotta promise not t’tell no-one ’bout nothin’, an’ ya gotta cross your hearts an’ hope t’die.”

“Yeah, sure!” Frank said.

Making the sign of the cross above their hearts, “I promise not to tell nothin’ to no-one, an’ hope to die if I do,” both said—though Mitchell knew that, being Jewish, crossing his heart didn’t count on him.

Looking from boy to boy, “Okay,” assured that they’ll say ‘nothin’ t’no-one’, Skorupski went to his dresser, reached beneath his stacked, but not so well-folded underwear, slammed the drawer shut, as he had done when the boys had knocked on his door, and returned to his bed. Handing something to Frank, “Okay, you guys, here.”

Two sets of eyes opened wide. The frayed, yellowing, French postcard showed the frontal view of a nude man and woman. She was holding the man’s erect penis in the palm of her hand. The man’s penis and pubic hair were easily visible; so were the woman’s large breasts and dark nipples, which both boys stared at, but the woman had a shaved vulva, which on the now-crinkled postcard, with years of handling, had faded… showing nothing.

The sight of the woman’s breasts reminded Mitchell of Lou Ann and Sal. He remembered how startled he’d been when he had seen them together, naked, and now, as he looked at the picture, Mitchell felt an unknown emotion… an emotion that was making his penis grow—and he didn’t have to urinate.

“I still can’t see it, her, uh, what’ch’ya call, cunt,” Frank commented, “but she sure has big chests.”

“’Chests’?” He looked from boy to boy. “Pissers an’ now chests? I really thought j’ya was smartet’n the Jew-boy here, Rizzo,” glancing at Mitchell. “They’re called ‘tits,’ an’ titties is what guys like best ’bout girls.”

“Yeah,” Frank said. “Why?”

“Why? ’Cause guys like to look at titties an’ touch ’em an’…” making an obscene sucking sound, “…suck on ’em.”

Disbelieving, having at least this much knowledge, “A baby, okay,” Frank said, “but why would a guy, a big guy, ever wanna suck on a, uh, tittie? You ever do it, Scorp? You ever suck on a tittie? What’s it taste like?”

Not quite sure that he wanted to be put into the same category as a baby, but committed to teaching these two, “Yeah, sure I sucked on a tittie, lot’s’a times! An’ I’ll tell ya what it tastes like.” Knowing… thinking everyone knew that milk came from titties, “If you’re a white guy with a white girl it kind’a tastes like, uh, vanilla.” It made sense to him. “An’ if you’re a nigger guy with a nigger girl, it kind’a tastes like chocolate.”

“Come on, Scorp!” Frank looked at Mitchell, then back to Skorupski. “We’re kids, but we ain’t all that stupid!”

“Yeah, Rizzo, it’s the truth!” Speaking with truthful authority, “Guys is always suckin’ on titties ’cause they taste so good!”

Skorupski’s vanilla and chocolate statement was extremely problematic, but conceding the point, at least here and now, “Yeah, sure,” Frank said. “But what about their…?” pointing to his crotch.

“Ah, yeah! That’s the best part’a girls, too. What’ch’ya do is, ya put your prick into it there an jack-off, an’ that’s what’s called fuckin’.”

The thought of it disgusting, “Why?” Mitchell asked incredulously. “Why would you ever do that?”

“Jesus, I can’t believe the two’a you are so dumb! Ya do it ’cause it feels real good! Ya do it till you, uh, kind’a…” the word “ejaculate” not in his vocabulary, having no other word for it, Skorupski said, “pee in her. Only it’s not really pee, it’s called…”

“‘Pee in her’? Pee in a girl! That’s terrible! I wouldn’t ever pee in a girl! Would you, Frank?” Looking at him. “You wouldn’t ever wanna pee in a girl!”

“You nuts? Course I wouldn’t!”

“Rizzo, you dumb shit! That’s what ya do when ya fuck! Ya stick your prick in a girl’s cunt an’ ya jack-off till ya kind’a pee.”

Skorupski’s interpretation of fucking just about as plausible as chocolate and vanilla breast milk, “Okay, if you say so, Scorp,” Frank said, “but I still wanna know what a girl’s, uh, you know, cunt looks like.”

“Yeah,” Mitchell added, “an’ what’s ‘jack-off’ mean?”

Not wanting Skorupski to think him any stupider then he already did, Frank said nothing.

“Ya know how ya do ‘it,’ don’t’j’ya, Rizzo?” Not waiting for an answer, he looked at Mitchell. “It’s when ya get a boner…”

But wanting Skorupski to know he knew something, Frank interjected, “Remember, on the bus yesterday, I told you ’bout gettin’ a boner?”

“Yeah,” nodding his head, “it’s when…” bringing his hand forward, Mitchell’s index finger sprung upward. “Sure I remember.”

“Okay.” Skorupski continued, “When ya get a boner an’ wanna jack-off, ya gotta think ’bout somethin’ dirty.”

Dirty? “Like pigs ’n’mud ’n’slimy stuff?”

“Huh? Jesus! Is he really that stupid? He can’t be that stupid! He’s gotta be makin’ fun’a’me! You makin’ fun’a’me, ya little sheeny cock-sucker?”

Cock-sucker?

“He ain’t makin’ fun’a’you, Skorp! He really don’t know nothin’!”

“He better not be!” Partially placated, glaring at Mitchell, “No! Ya don’t think’a stuff ‘like pigs ’n’mud ’n’slimy stuff’,” he said sarcastically. “Ya think’a stuff like this here picture!” Reaching for the postcard, taking it from Frank, he studied it a moment, then, to the complete amazement of both boys, reaching through the fly of his shorts, pulled his albeit flaccid but adult-sized penis through, closed his fist around it, and …

A few months back, Skorupski and one of his roommates, as immature young men may occasionally do, dared and double-dared the other to be the first to “whip it out” so they might match the size of their “pricks,” then, as more than occasionally happens, one thing led to another and the two ended up masturbating, ostensibly to see who could shoot his “jizim” the furthest, but really, though neither boy touched the other, the thrill of knowing the other was watching added a new dimension of prurience to what, up until then, had been a solitary endeavor.

Now, sensing the excitement of knowing he was being watched, his penis reacted and, “There,” Skorupski said proudly, “now that’s a real boner! An’ here’s what’j’ya do when ya jack-off.” Leaning back on the bed, so they’ll better be able to see and appreciate the size of his fully erect penis, holding the postcard in one hand, his penis in the other, the sense of eroticism coming from being watched rather than the image on the postcard, Skorupski began to masturbate.

Indeed the two boys did watch.

Mitchell stared at Skorupski’s penis because with each downward stroke of his hand the glans popped out of the foreskin reminding him… of the twitching nose of a rabbit.

Not quite the reaction Skorupski had hoped for.

As for Frank: Watching Skorupski masturbate repulsed him, and yet, strangely, watching caused a stretching in the crotch of his underpants that made him squirm.

He wanted the boys to see him “come,” wanted them to see that it’s not really pee but some other stuff called jizim, but, wisely thinking better of it, forcing an unseen show of willpower, stopping just short of ejaculation, his eyes closed, the older boy concentrated a moment, then reluctantly shoved his penis back in his shorts, where, as a tent pole in a tent, it jutted upward. “When ya get a boner,” he said almost breathlessly, “like this,” proudly, grabbing his erect penis around the material of his shorts, “then ya stick it in a girl’s cunt an’ ya jack-off, only then it’s called…”

“A girl’s big enough there so’s you can put your hand in it, too?”

“Oh, Jesus!” Skorupski sighed. “No! Ya don’t ‘put your hand in it,’ ya stupid prick! Ya move your ass up’n’down.” Sharply raising and lowering his pelvis three times for emphasis. “An ya do like that till it feels real good, till it feels kind’a like you’re peein’. An’ that’s what’s called fuckin’.”

Taking the postcard from Skorupski, turning it to the light, studying it carefully, “But,” Frank said, “I still don’t know what it looks like.”

“Ya dumb dago!” Skorupski yelled, jabbing his finger towards the card. “That there’s what a cunt looks like,”

Shaking his head, “Sorry, Skorp,” he said emphatically. “But I still don’t see nothin’ there! How’s ’bout you, Mitch?”

Taking the card from his friend, looking at it for a full three seconds, “Nah. Her, uh, titties, yeah, but nothin’ else.”

Becoming frustrated because they did not see what his imagination did see, whatever that might be, and also, stopped short of ejaculation twice within the last twenty minutes, having an urge to get back to the task at hand, “Ya asked me to teach ya ’bout girls and I taught’j’ya! Only ya two dumb shits don’t wanna learn nothin’!”

Glancing downward to be sure his penis was safely ensconced in his shorts, bounding off the bed, rushing to the door, yanking it open, “Get outta here ya stupid, dago shit an’ take that dumb sheeny prick wi’ch’ya!”

                                                    ***** 

Walking slowly back to their dormitory, “See, it’s like I told you, Mitch, girls got nothin’”

“Yeah. Well least-ways now we know what everything’s called.”

“Yeah!” Punching him on the shoulder, Frank ducked as Mitchell swung back. “Ya sheeny prick, ya!”

“Yeah,” swinging again, “Ya dago, uh, tittie!” He missed again.