Chulito by Charles Rice-Gonzalez

somewhere was watching. In this case it was Chulito laying on his morning hard-on.
    Chulito rolled onto his back and looked down at his own slim body. He could see Papito through the slit in the boxers. He rubbed his chest and slid his hand down to give it a little squeeze. The warmth in the room was soothing and comforting. He didn’t have to keep himself in check. He closed his eyes and imagined that he was standing on the ledge of his first floor window. Legs apart. Knees slightly bent. Boxers around his ankles. One hand holding on to the top of the window and the other stroking himself slowly for all to see. He wanted to shoot and cover Garrison Avenue with a thick white coat of Chulito juice. He sleepwalked to the window and began pumping his hips on the dusty glass. His stiff cock was making strange shapes as it pressed against the glass. The auto glass guys noticed. “¡Mira! ¡Mira!” they yelled. To their surprise, they sprouted their own erections—Benny El Loco, Miguelito and Freddy El Dominicano. Then Damian rose out of his beach chair and walked directly to the yellow garage right across the street from Chulito. Damian had the biggest bulge of all. It pressed against his baggy gray sweat pants and looked like he’d stuffed it with a sandwich from Hero City on Spofford Avenue. Everybody knew their heroes had the most meat.
    Damian undid the drawstring tie and the size forty-four sweats slipped past his thirty-inch waist and dropped to the pavement. He grabbed the sides of the elastic waistband of his boxers and bent all the way over as he slid them off. Damian began to stroke himself with both hands, peeling back his dark foreskin and revealing his slick pink head. The only barrier keeping them apart was Garrison Avenue.
    Chulito’s hips shoved the large glass pane out onto the street. He stroked himself and synchronized his rhythms with Damian. All the other auto glass guys grimaced as they rose to their climaxes. Chulito and Damian moved their hips making circles and swinging back and forth. The other guys started shooting. Benny El Loco, then Miguelito, then Freddy El Dominicano—one by one all the auto glass guys up and down Garrison Avenue came like geysers.
    Chulito felt the dizzying familiar tingle build up in his balls and travel up his dick. He gripped the top of his window, locked eyes with Damian, and simultaneously they shot one long forceful stream that connected in an arc in the middle of Garrison Avenue, right above the street’s mustard yellow double painted lines.
    When the streams met they bathed the block in a white, luminescent light then exploded into a tidal wave of jizz—splashing down the walls of his building, dripping off the newly painted fire escapes, covering the bright auto glass shop signs, all the cars, the hydrant near the corner, and milk crates in front of Rivera’s Bodega. The street was filled with cum and all the guys collapsed with pleasure. Damian sunk into his beach chair, rubbing his palm from his stomach to his chest with his eyes closed as the rivers of cum slipped down the sewers.
    Chulito awoke. He looked over at his window. The shade was still pulled down and the glass was intact. Nevertheless, a small puddle filled his navel and spilled down his side. The clean, sweet smell of himself mixed with the smell of freshly brewed Cafe Bustelo coming out of his mother’s kitchen. He felt comforted by the two scents and nervous that he’d had the dream.
    He wondered if the dream meant that he was actually gay. He’d had sexy dreams before, but he usually stopped the action before anything happened. But this was only a dream and he was safely in his room—the one place he could take off his South Bronx armor. The worse that could happen right now is that his mother would walk in and catch him spent with Papito resting and dripping down the side of his hip.
    He figured that as long as he didn’t do anything physical he was not gay. A dream wasn’t going to turn