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“In conclusion, it was the post-modernists that first shifted the power dynamic of artistic production and consumption between the European metropole and the post-colonial world. We see the groundwork for this argument in the later works of Zweig, and then more clearly illustrated by the so-called ‘Boom’ of Latin American literature in the post-war. This is why I’ve chosen to look at Lispector’s work as not only an embodiment of Zweig’s thesis — the one proposed in Brazil: Land of the Future — but as representing a key turning point in the basic elements of power at the heart of creative production in the New World. Especially her post-war works, the novels produced while in Europe, demonstrate that when looked at through a Marxist angle, the pre-colonial status quo first began to fissure with the establishment of the Americas as locus of the avant garde and of post-modernism. Herein lies the central point of my thesis — question of literature at that moment was not solely one of who produces it, but of who consumes it. Consumption is the crux of that colonial relationship and of the question of domination — understood here in the way that Bourdieu understands it — itself.”
He set his notes on the table in front of him, took a sip of water and, a large hand dusted with hair, brushed back the brown curl that had flopped onto his forehead. The muscles of his upper arm twitched with the action.
Madame Olivier scribbled away on the sheet before her and then looked up. Minutes seemed to pass as she gazed at the student. He gazed back, seemingly confident in what he’d just done. She sighed.
“17. Nicely done. Cut the second and fourth sections entirely, and rewrite the introduction. It was chaotic,” she finally said. Giovanni sighed in clear relief to have not only survived the critique of our harshest professor, but had actually pulled off quite a high grade on the thesis proposal.
“Let’s take a 10 minute break and then we’ll hear from…” She looked at her sheet, “Isabel. Women writers in Chile post-Pinochet. Can’t wait.”
Giovanni, stuffed his notes into his leather satchel and bolted for the door. I headed out behind him and down the stairs to the courtyard.
Term had only just begun and I hadn’t yet spoken to the hunky Italian — who was clearly incredibly bright — despite him being in three of my seminars this semester. When I reached the courtyard I saw him leaning against a wall, his head tilted back and eyes closed. I wanted to talk to him, but was never sure how to do that. So instead I just sort of stood near him. I lit a cigarette and the click of the lighter made him open his eyes and look over.
“Hey, do you think I could bum one? I’ve been trying to quit, but I need one after that.”
“Sure. It was really good though. I mean, 17. That’s unheard of from Olivier.”
“Really? Is she always like that?”
“Usually much worse, actually. She clearly is impressed with you.”
“That was impressed?” he smiled. For such a hard, masculine face, his smile was astonishingly boyish. Wide and unabashed, it spread across his whole face, squeezing his dark eyes almost shut.
“I’m Charles, by the way.”
“Giovanni. I think we have other classes together. Translation studies and the theory of fiction, right?” He reached out to shake my hand. It was surprisingly soft, but his grip was firm.
“Yeah — how are you liking theory so far?”
“She’s a bit old school, but it’s not bad. Last week’s lecture was really great, and I think I’ll work that one author into my thesis. The one about national identity.” He snapped his finger commanding the name to come to him.
“Thiesse. Yeah, I read her in first year. You can’t do research in this country without her. And so you’re working on Lispector. Do you read Portuguese?”
“Yeah, my mom is Brazilian, and Brazilian literature has always been my primary domain. I kind of came late to comp lit.”
“Well, you’re very good at it, it seems.” He smiled again at my compliment. I was getting a bit dependent on that smile.
“And you? When do you face the firing squad?”
“I’m mostly German lit. My thesis is on a group of German-speaking Jewish writers in Prague from the early 20th century. And I think I’m up next week. Still need to finish my draft, actually.”
“Did you study German at school?”
“Sort of like you, my mom. She’s Austrian, but I was born and raised here.”
“So your dad’s French?”
“Yeah, and I was in the German section at school. I did an abibac.”
“In a lot of public schools here in France you can study a dual curriculum and graduate with the equivalent of two casino şirketleri high school diplomas, from two different national curriculums. There’s the Franco-German one, the Abibac — Abitur / baccalauréat. I think there’s a Franco-Spanish one, Franco-Italian. A British one. Possibly others. So my classes in high school were half in French, half in German. Do you not have that in Italy?”
“I think there are only private international schools. I just went to a normal Italian school.”
“Where are you from?”
“Did you ever live in Brazil?”
“No, just school holidays, ya know. I have the passport, but I’ve only ever lived in Italy. Until now, I guess.”
“But your French is basically perfect! How long have you lived here?”
“About a month, I think.”
“Holy shit! That’s wild.”
“Haha, thanks. I think,” he smiled at me again, his eyes slitting into twinkly slivers. He dropped the cigarette he’d barely smoked into the ashtray. “I think we need to head back up. Time to watch poor Isabel be flayed alive.”
He pushed the door open, his long thick fingers splayed against the glass pane. He stepped aside, holding the door, “Go ahead.” With that his other hand came to rest on my back. The hand stayed there until we reached the stairs, and I was said to see it go. The seconds on my back, its warmth emanating through the thin cotton of my t-shirt, sent a jolt through my body. Up close to him, I felt his presence. Though not much taller than me — 5 or 6 centimeters — he had a large, warm way of taking up space. I felt enveloped, wanting to sink into his being.
When we got back into the seminar room, I took the seat where I’d been before the break, and he took the one next to me. Suffice to say, I didn’t catch much of Isabel’s presentation.
Isabel eventually made it to the end without crying, though Madame Olivier had sighed loudly throughout, occasionally shaking her head as she scribbled away. “11,5. We’ll talk later. Next week is Charles and Frédéric. Have a good weekend.”
Everyone poured out of the room and down into the courtyard.
Camille stopped me in the courtyard. “I’m meeting Michel at Le Village for a drink. Want to come?”
“Sure.” I turned toward Giovanni. “Want to join us?”
He smiled and his hand found my back again. “Sure. I’m Giovanni,” he said, leaning down to give Camille the bise.
“Camille. Your presentation was incredible! A 17 from Olivier. Few before you have done what you accomplished today.” Camille often seemed like she was giving a speech to rally the troops.
“That’s what I’ve been told,” he smiled, his hand still firmly claiming me.
“I need to get my bike. Meet you there?” I said. Camille went out through the university gates, and Giovanni waited behind for me.
I squatted down to unlock my bike from the rack. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Giovanni looking down at me. Was he checking out my ass? I mean, to be fair, for a skinny boy, I do have a pretty round ass. He looked up and met my gaze.
I walked my bike to the bar, Giovanni walking alongside me. We talked about our research projects and how adjusting to Paris has gone for him.
At the bar, the patio was pretty packed, but Michel and Camille had claimed a table really meant for two people, but squeezed an extra chairs around it. On the other side was a bench, which they’d piled their stuff on to keep it. Giovanni and Michel shook hands and I slid into the bench. There was really only the space for one person, but Giovanni slid in after me. I could either press myself against the glass at the edge of the patio, or lean into him. His arm went across the back of the bench, behind my shoulders, his fingers dangling, brushing my shoulder from time to time. He put his and my bags between his feet and spread his legs wide, his thigh pressing into mine. The curly hairs on his thigh tickled mine. He gently bounced his leg, rubbing mine.
One beer turned into four. The sun set and a drizzle started. The drizzle turned into a downpour, and Michel and Camille kissed us both goodbye and sprinted through the rain to the metro.
I was a little drunk from the beer, and very drunk from the evening pressed into Giovanni’s body. I hadn’t thought about my bike locked up across the street.
“FUCK! My bike. The seat is going to be soaked,” I realized aloud.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“I’m in the 9th, in the north of the city.”
“You can’t bike home in this. I live just around the corner. Let’s get your bike. We can let it dry in the stairwell, and we can wait it out.”
He took my bag and I got my bike. We dashed through casino firmaları the rain, dodging from awning to awning for moments of cover until we got to his door. He put in the code and held it open, his fingers splayed against the green wood, and his other hand on my back, ushering me inside. I put my bike behind the stairwell and we trudged up the six flights to his chambre de bonne under the roof.
He put our stuff down by the door and shucked off his sodden shoes. His clothes were completely soaked, his t-shirt nearly transparent. Through the fabric I could see the shape of his chest, the lazy brown range of hills that was his stomach.
He went into the tiny closet that was his bathroom. He grabbed two clean towels and tossed one to me.
“You can wear anything you like from those drawers.” He opened one and took out a pair of boxers. “I’m gonna take a shower. You can too if you like.”
With that, he slid his shirt over his head and tossed it into the hamper. I was still dripping by the door, entranced by his body. A lightly browned upside down triangle — broad shoulders and narrow waist — gently covered with the same dark hair as his arms and legs.
“You’re going to fuck up the floor,” he said, breaking me from my trance. It’s true I was dripping on his parquet. I slipped my sopping wet shirt over my head and threw it in the same hamper. He turned from me and dropped his shorts and boxers to the floor in one motion. His bare ass, hairy and muscular, much paler than the rest of his body, before me. He threw the towel over his shoulder and went into the little bathroom.
He turned on the water, but never closed the door. Once it was warm, he got in and started soaping his body. I’m sure my mouth was open, but his back was still turned to me.
He looked over his shoulder at me from under the water. “I’ll be quick,” he said and started rinsing himself off.
He turned into the spray of the water and let it beat down on his face. That is when I saw it. The thick tube hanging gently between his thighs, water and soap running off the tip of his foreskin. The heavy balls nestled beneath in. It was soft, but already so thick.
He shut the water off and grabbed the towel. He pulled it in front of him and his beautiful cock was gone from sight. He stepped out, drying under his arms and across his chest.
He smiled at me, “God, I feel better.” By now I was down to my boxer briefs and slipped past him towards the shower. “Your turn,” he said, gently swatting my ass.
I turned back towards him. He was now drying between his legs, his cock and balls lazily rolling along the towel. We looked at each other. He tossed the towel into the hamper, making no moves to cover himself up.
“Do you need me to show you to turn on the hot water?” he stepped closer to me.
“Is it tricky?”
“Sort of. Let me show you. You should probably get these off first, though.” He snapped the elastic of my waistband.
“Of course.” And I slid them off and stepped out of them, tossing them in the hamper.
“Here.” He put his hand on my back and guided me into the tiny washroom. His hand still on my back, standing closely behind me, he reached with his other hand to the faucet. “When it first comes out, it’s really hot, so be careful. You sort of have to push it in, then turn.” He demonstrated the technique, as his hand slid down to my side.
“Use whatever soap you like. This shampoo is from Italy and smells really nice.” He was now reaching up over me to get the bottle. His torso pressed against my back, and for a brief moment, his cock pressed against my ass. “Your hair already smells nice, though,” he said very close to my ear, his hand now on my hip. “You think you’ve got it?” he patted my ass again, and retreated back into his flat, leaving the door open.
I was quick in the shower, turned off the water, and dried myself off in the shower. I slipped on the boxer briefs he’d lent me. Though we had similar waists, his ass was a bit smaller and they hugged me pretty tight and rode up a bit.
I stepped out into his flat, and he’d changed into some lounge shorts and nothing else. He had set some fruit out in a bowl on the floor in front of his bed, where he was sitting cross legged on the ground. His laptop was on the little table in front of him and he had produced a bottle of grappa — a strong Italian liquor made from pulped grape skins.
“Have you had grappa before?”
“Yeah, I have an aunt in South Tyrol. We go there for Christmas often and I had it there.”
He poured some into two cups and splashed in some lemonade.
“This is a blasphemous way to drink it, but here.” güvenilir casino He handed me a glass after I slipped on a sweater I had in my bag. I sat down on the floor next to him.
“What are we watching?” I asked. His arm laid on the edge of the bed behind my shoulders.
“It’s a dumb British show I’ve gotten sucked into lately. It’s funny though.”
His hand slid down and held my shoulder. I leaned with the pressure and into his body. He was holding me. He just sort of did it.
Our heads were very close together. He turned and looked at me and smiled. He messed up my hair a bit.
He leaned toward the table and took a peach. He bit through the skin and into the flesh. I was close enough that I could hear his chewing. The muscles of his jaw opening and closing made the stubble across his cheeks dance.
“Are you hungry? I have some sausage if you want more than fruit.”
“I’m ok for now, thanks.” I took a banana from the bowl and peeled it.
The show was pretty funny. I liked feeling his naked torso laugh against me. He was rubbing my shoulder just barely with the tips of his fingers. My forearm was on his thigh, propping my body up.
“Charles,” he said somewhat abruptly.
“Yeah?” I turned to meet his gaze, our faces so close I felt his breath on my lips.
“I don’t think the rain is going to stop soon. If you want, you can stay here.”
“Thanks. I think I will.”
He smiled and I smiled back. He leaned in closer, turning his head, and pressed his lips against mine. I opened and pressed back. He reached around to hold my head, and reached behind him.
He was passionate and forceful in his kiss. I felt his hunger.
He broke the kiss and leaned back against the bed. “Fuck,” he said to the ceiling.
“I’ve wanted to do that all term.” He stroked my cheek with his forefinger. “You have the most incredible eyes.”
“Haha, thanks.” I laid my head on his bicep. “I like yours, too.”
“Mine are just brown. You have those like stormy sea, grey, blue, green, everything eyes.”
“But yours have an impish gleam.”
“An impish gleam?”
“An impish gleam.”
“You think I have an impish gleam?”
“Oh, is that so?” he chuckled, pulling me to straddle him, kissing me again, his hands tracing little branches across my back. He pulled my sweater off. “I like you more without this.” He pulled me back down for another kiss. His hands roamed down and settled on my ass. “This was the other thing I noticed the first day of class. Especially when you wear those fucking black jeans.” He squeezed.
“I noticed you too that day. You looked so…well, Italian.” I nuzzled his neck.
“Oh? What do you mean?” one hand had slipped under my waistband and was stroking one ass cheek, and the other was tangled in my hair, while I kissed his collarbone.
“You know, like the sprezzatura. Your ironed jeans, your linen shirt half unbuttoned, tucked loosely into your pants. The leather satchel. The huge bulge.” I reached down and squeezed his hardening cock through his shorts to punctuate the last line.
“Do we all have huge bulges?”
“Italian guys always wear the pants in a way to accentuate the bulge.”
“Maybe we just have big dicks.”
“Possible.” I continued stroking his now rock hard dick through his shorts.
“Time for bed?” he asked, nibbling my earlobe.
“Yes.” And I pecked him on the lips. “Do you have an extra toothbrush?”
We crammed into the cramped bathroom. He got out two toothbrushes from the medicine cabinet and handed one to me.
Standing behind me, he pressed his body against mine, his hand resting on my stomach. We looked at each other in the mirror over the sink and brushed our teeth. His dick was pressed between my ass cheeks.
He leaned forward to spit in the sink, pushing me forward in the process, so I was bent over, my ass pressed against his crotch.
“I think I like you like this,” he pulled the elastic back to peek at my ass and let it snap back, winking at me in the mirror. I smiled back and spit into the sink.
He turned me around to face him, clutching my ass. “Next time I’ll make you swallow, though.” And pecked me on the cheek.
He turned off the lights and we got under his duvet. We lay there facing one another in the dark. His hand was gently holding my ass, and my arm was slipped around him under his.
“I’m so glad you talked to me today. I was starting to think I’d never figure out how to approach you,” he said.
“I’m glad I did too.” I moved closer to kiss him. “Good job today, by the way. That really was an excellent presentation.”
“You really think? Thanks.”
“Yeah it was.”
“Maybe you should show me how much you liked it?” I could hear his smirk in the darkness. He reached out and took my hand, placing it on his erection.
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