Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

Our proximity did not alter but rather deepened the beauty of the giant.

He was the same on one twenty-forint bill as on another.

As I turned my head toward him, I could immerse my soul in his real fragrance.

With his incredible smile, he expected nothing, did not hope for or count on anything; he was only giving something one rarely receives.

He gave it with his eyes, his lips, his amazing teeth.

He still had plenty of surplus happiness, he did not have to be thrifty, he could go on giving and giving, he would not exhaust his supplies.

I shouldn’t worry. I shouldn’t rush, should finish peeing at my leisure, he likes to see how I hold my weenie and let the gushing out in a large wide arc. It was not that he was waiting patiently for me; he was caressing me with his smile; he liked to hear it.

I should dribble for him; I should continue.

There’d be plenty of happiness left when I finished; he’d give me more even then.

From that moment, I couldn’t follow the course of events, probably because the sight of inexhaustible plenty completely overwhelmed me with its promise. Most likely my entire body must have relaxed and my consciousness grown dim because the moment he put his open palm into the urine’s strong jet, to my great surprise, I let out a short, loud fart.

No doubt about it, it happened.

Everything happened at once, all sorts of things happened, and they happened everywhere.

In the silence filled with tiny rustlings, several men broke into brief crackling and popping laughs, and then there was silence again. Undisturbed, the hand went on playing with the stream of my urine; the two men standing closest to me with bated breath were not laughing.

It was probably thanks to the promise of approaching happiness that anxiety left my body. These two did that to me, that’s why they had no reason to laugh. Then, from the depth of the silence full of scraping noises, somebody else responded with another fart. It was not as restrained and inhibited as mine; the sender played it with obvious pleasure, in long staccato sequences, as boys and young men do in boarding-school and barracks dormitories, where, for lack of other means, they entertain one another with sounds produced by the lower regions of the body.

There was general laughter, many echoing explosions of the original guffaws.

They did not even wait for me to shake the last drops of urine off my penis.

My penis had grown so stiff I could hardly shake it anyway.

The mustached one, now behind me, drew me to him with his strong bare arms, embracing my shoulders and back as if wanting to crush me. The giant bent over me, covered me, and grabbed it with his hand still wet with my urine.

They laughed loudly into my neck.

Their panting, their voices, their lips, all in one fell swoop. So much strength and novelty made me very weak, and I was surprised at the unfamiliar hardness of the male body. I laughed along with them. If the mustached one hadn’t supported me with his chest, I’d have fallen backward like a swooning lady in a nineteenth-century romantic novel. Not only was I no longer interested in the appearance of my own manliness, but I was positively amused by giving it up and surrendering myself. It seemed as if he wanted to twist my free hand behind my back; I did not understand why he wanted to do that. He planted a kiss on my eyes with his full mouth and then tenderly, very sensuously, he buried his face in my neck. I was left alone with him, for the giant quickly disappeared.

His lips were glued to me, he was childlike, as sweet as the past, and he swarmed over me with the strong multilayered smell of his hair, mustache, and mouth.

The pleasure coursing through my spine put an end to the laughter.

And then I felt what the giant was doing too. Thrusting his knees against mine, he found a different grip on my prick, let it go for a second, and then clung to it with the heat of his open loins, tapping and rubbing against it, gathering it together with his own, and this was painful. On my prick, I felt the well-proportioned, moist surface of his, the slippery rim of his bulb on my tautening frenum. Which, I believe, made me faint a little, or maybe I strayed over to an unknown otherworld. But he continued calmly to unbutton my fly to free me.

I thought they knew what they were doing and I could entrust myself to their common sense.

He wanted to get to it from a better position, uncover my loins, make me more like him, give me everything one gets when unclothed. While the mustached one placed his in my hand that was twisted behind my back. He was the only man I saw whose cock was of the same substance as his body. That must have been the reason the giant had accepted him as his assistant. In this one thing, he surpassed the giant’s perfection. But I scarcely had a chance to feel its strength and heat with my fingers, having barely closed it in my palm, when his mouth landed on mine. I leaned with him, with my head and entire back I gave myself to him. He absorbed the weight of both of us because the giant was leaning along with us. With his mustache he seemed to arrest and embrace my face.

He enveloped me.

I would have kissed him back, but with my cock freed from the pressure of my pants the giant was kissing it, and I felt the shock of this in my brain. He lightly pressed his tongue into my testicles, gently rooting in them. He roughly sucked one in, licked it all around while it was in his mouth, and then with his tongue quickly and mercilessly plowed the spine of my cock. With his teeth he pulled back the foreskin caught on my bulb. He pulled it down, nibbled it, and then in a single devouring suck made it disappear in the hot hollow between his lips and throat.

He deceived me a little.

Until then I hadn’t been thinking there were women in the world.

The way a man’s lips took possession of me suggested that I should possess myself, yet it felt as if I had wound up in the vagina of a woman.

This worried me; I could not allow the female and male principles to get mixed up, and fear of that happening led me back to this world.

But then, in the fluttering of his tongue I felt that no, no, we are in an entirely different place, and women have nothing to do with this.

From the sensations converging under the influence of abstract thoughts, my mouth would have been ready for a rasping shout, but the mustached assistant not only absorbed my physical exposure with his fleshy lips but also stabbed me with his stiff, hard tongue. In the taste of his saliva I could tell he smoked Munkás cigarettes, that the spritzers he drank were made of tart wine grown on sandy soil, that he had had someone else’s cock in his mouth before me, and before that had eaten something made with onion, maybe meat stew.

I hadn’t been at home for supper the previous evening, but now I remembered that the remains of Ilona’s rice chicken at the bottom of the pot were still waiting for me on the stove.

Unless Ágost had come home and gobbled it up.

I was tossing between their hands.

Nobody made better rice chicken than Ilona. She made it with chicken necks, livers, and wings, with tomatoes, and she always made a point of telling me, Kristófka, don’t forget, we’ll have rice chicken today.

I had never before had a stranger’s cock in my hand like this, nor my own in another man’s mouth.

Sometimes, without hesitation, Ágost would eat what was supposed to be my portion.

They had been looking for him in vain for three days; he disappeared with his great big cock, for which I’ve always envied him no end. He was just as voracious as his mother was.

They couldn’t find him anywhere.

It would have helped to know what to do with it, now that they bothered to put it in my hand.