I was going to duck back down behind the boxes—

“Hey … what the fuck you starin’ at?” His cock, hanging wet from his fly, was wormy with veins. So were his big, big hands. His broad nails were bitten so far up they were three times side-to-side as from thickened, dirt-lined cuticle to bulging, grease-rimmed nub—which, on his thumb at least, went on another horny half inch. His fingers were immense and chiseled, the upper joints clouded in yellow. He was a big man, with the start of a gut. Yellow hair tufted between the missing buttons at the bottom of his shirt, and all up around a neck thick as a scrub pail. Watching him, I got the thought that maybe a month ago he’d been on his back under a car and hadn’t bothered to wash since. His hands and forearms, under the gold fur that burned in the four o’clock sun striking up the alley, were grease-gray. His face was like sunburned brick, smeared and streaked over.

He slid one callused thumb into a frayed pocket, letting his loose, soiled fingers hang. “You lookin’ awful funny, cocksucker.” He stepped over the woman’s feet, then laughed, short and rough, like a dog barking. “Okay, boy. You wanna come over here and get it? Or maybe I’m gonna come over there and fuck your head off …?”

I went.

I was about to squat when he grabbed my hair and wrestled me, on my knees, around into the wall. He pushed the head of his half-hard cock into my mouth. I could smell pussy all over it. His own stink came through pretty strong, too. His long foreskin bunched back on his greasy meat. I got one arm around his legs and was holding onto his wrist. He kept pushing till he found I wasn’t fighting, I guess. Then he began to lean in with his hips. He almost broke my neck. My hand, around his wrist, slipped down to his forefinger. He reached into his fly with his free hand and got out his balls. With his cock plunging in my mouth, they swung like peaches inches below my chin.

I heard him grunt. He smelled like a stopped toilet-stall, where somebody had left six months of dirty socks, in the back of a butcher shop with the refrigeration on the blink, on fire. The tube under his dick filled, retreated, filled again; and spilled enough spunk for three guys. “Pissin’ in you now, boy.…” Not like Pedro’s or his pop’s shotglass leakage. I swallowed five times (he was still pumping into my face), and I couldn’t hold no more. Piss spurted all over his fly—I could see pee between the zipper teeth. Piss ran down my chin. He got my head—like I saw this really big-handed nigger hold a basketball, once, and turn it upside down without dropping it—and with his other hand wiped hard around my chin and face, smearing piss. He rubbed his balls with wet fingers, pulled at them, while I leaked piss out my lower lip. “Yeah … I’m gonna drown you, cocksucker!”