Brolita by Vladimir Nabrokov

Brolita by Vladimir Nabrokov

“He was Bro, plain Bro, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. He was Brolo in slacks. He was Broheim at school. He was Broseph on the dotted line. But in my arms he was always Brolita.”

“Between the age limits of nine and fourteen there occur little dudes who, to certain silver foxes, twice or many times older than they, reveal their true nature which is 100% bangable; and these chosen creatures I propose to designate as ‘dudelets.'”

“Brolita, when he chose, could be a most exasperating brat. I was not really quite prepared for his fits of disorganized boredom, intense and vehement griping, his sprawling, droopy, dopey-eyed style, and what is called goofing off — a kind of diffused clowning which he thought was tough in a gangsta rap way. Mentally, I found him to be a disgustingly conventional little dude. SportsCenter, beer pong, artisanal pizza, The Wall Street Journal online, Brooks Brothers and so forth — these were the obvious items in his list of beloved things. The Lord knows how many AmEx cards I swiped in the Uber cabs that we hailed!”

“Well did I know, alas, that I could obtain at the snap of my fingers any adult female I chose; in fact, it had become quite a habit with me of not being too attentive to women lest they come toppling, nip slipping, into the lap of my slim-fit chinos.”

“Through the darkness and the tender trees we could see the arabesques of lighted windows which, touched up by the colored inks of sensitive memory, appear to me now like playing cards — presumably because a Texas hold ’em game was keeping his fellow lacrosse players busy. He trembled and twitched as I kissed the corner of his parted lips and the hot lobe of his ear. A cluster of stars palely glowed above us, between the silhouettes of long thin leaves; that vibrant sky seemed as naked as he was under his J. Crew tank top. I saw his face in the sky, strangely distinct as if it emitted a faint radiance of its own. His legs, his lovely live legs, were not too close together, and when my hand located what it sought, a dreamy and eerie expression, half pleasure, half-pain, came over those dudelet features.”

“The days of my youth, as I look back on them, seem to fly away from me in a flurry of pale repetitive scraps like those wet napkins that a spring breaker balls up to pelt his bros at the poolside bar at Paris Las Vegas.”

“Oh, my Brolita, I have only words to play with!”

– Brian Hurley

Leave a Reply