"Do you want someone to walk you to your next class?" His voice nearly cracked half way through the question."Nope. Thanks though. I've got it handled." He actually looked relieved.Social studies was the class I shared with The Hulk. He offered me relief with a kind-of leer, but I said "No thanks," just like I had all morning in every class. I mean ... yeah it sorta got you horny being stroked and seeing how people react to you. Just the looks on their faces got you going. But then I would think how The Hulk would react if I ever came in public, and that turned me right off.But there was this black chick in social studies. She wiggled her way to the front of the class after Ryan came in, and just waited. Like it was her turn to do the honors. I could tell from the expression on one black guy - later I learned that he was Jeff Robinson, the wide-out on the football team - that he didn't like to have his girl "servicing" Ryan. But she went up there and did her duty. I was close enough. This was Albert's favorite lounging place.However, the morning of the appointment, the young man had established himself in the small salon down-stairs. There, on a table, surrounded at some distance by a large and luxurious divan, every species of tobacco known, --from the yellow tobacco of Petersburg to the black of Sinai, and so on along the scale from Maryland and Porto-Rico, to Latakia, --was exposed in pots of crackled earthenware of which the Dutch are so fond; beside them, in boxes of fragrant wood, were ranged, according to their size and quality, pueros, regalias, havanas, and manillas; and, in an open cabinet, a collection of German pipes, of chibouques, with their amber mouth-pieces ornamented with coral, and of narghiles, with their long tubes of morocco, awaiting the caprice or the sympathy of the smokers. Albert had himself presided at the arrangement, or, rather, the symmetrical derangement, which, after coffee, the guests at a breakfast of modern days love to.
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