How To Draining Gas From Skidoo

Andrew (III parte)

Finally there it was the landlord of calmly talking about this and that with an elderly gay man, vaguely effeminate as those of his generation.
The boy saluted, but again no one seemed to him the case. Strange, he thought. She had not noticed surveillance cameras nor there or upstairs. Anyone could grab anything and go away undisturbed, as far as I knew him. Possible that the owner was so sure of honesty of his customers not to worry about who came and what was he doing? Yet even now he was paying attention, despite the boy was there to dig into every corner of the store, touching and moving objects of any kind: delicate, fragile, even some ancient and precious.
gay man-or rather the homosexual what do you call all those in their fifties, but as he had noticed. Continues to cast glances mellifluous and sometimes, at least so it seemed to him, clearly interested. Not if I was imagining. It was not one of his daydreams, that. He was there in the flesh, he was sure. But for a man was transparent, like an inanimate object on display in any store: practically an invisible man. For others, however, was the object of desire. It was just the testosterone to make it visible? Only the irresistible allure of sex did it really exist?
"Coito ergo sum" thought the boy and smiled affettatamente, staring at the old homosexual in the balls eye, and slipped a large bronze doorstop in the pocket of big-blue jacket and went, this time without saying goodbye. He had taken the first thing that had happened to shoot, so for fun, just to see what happened. If it was the invisible man, this was the time to try it. The homosexual imperceptibly slowed the rhythm of his chant myeloma incorrect Moscow with his antiquarian friend, stretching the right pauses between all those super, pa-of-way and a number-with-words-on-a-l'accento that peppered the speech and made her the pecolla the boy, but said nothing. She looked just stealing that doorstop, not daring to do nothing.

a glance that this was an accomplice, pitiful, despicable or accusatory, but he could not tell he had learned yet another lesson about gay and about himself. Gripping the stolen goods in his pocket as he ran down the stairs of the Paris underground and then up the stairs of the plane that would take him to New York, the boy could say with complacency typical of all young people who feel invincible -invisible-or perhaps an unspeakable pleasure of trying to steal something for the first time in his life. But most had to admit to himself that he felt a secret pleasure in seeing how the old fairy had left him to do. Despite being an eyewitness of a robbery, the man the slave of desire, under the thumb of testosterone, a victim of sex he preferred to close both eyes rather than to accuse a fellow, although it was clear that the boy would never have been possible for him to prey. Neither possible nor probable too young, too sexy, too good to be true. At least for a gay old man like him.