Street Kid Read online

  When I first saw Paula, I found her extremely sexy. She was the same age as myself, but looked older. Short and petite, she had a delightful habit of giving knowing, sidelong glances. Her hair was short and mousy. She wore very little make–up. I worshipped her from afar. After making a few discreet enquiries which went immediately straight back to her I discovered she had a boyfriend (Damn!) who was ten years her senior. My bitchy informer continued with – “She’s happy with him but adores playing the two–timing game.” So, I thought, there might still be a chance for me! At the time, however, I didn’t have nearly enough courage to pursue her. First, I had to mature a little.

  At the end of my initial week, I brought home my first wage packet. As I alighted from the bus, I could see my mother standing at the gate. Ostensibly, she was having a chance conversation with a neighbour. As soon as I approached, her eyes lit up. It didn’t need X–ray vision for her to know what was in my pocket. She gave me her best, loving motherly smile. At that precise moment, I was the most important thing in her life.

  “Here he is then. Our little working boy,” she bantered and beamed. “Well? Have you got it?” She was much too eager. I didn’t even get a ‘welcome home'. Her hand shot out for me to relinquish my earnings. “You haven’t opened it, I hope?” She must have been terrified I’d go and blow the whole lot.

  Our neighbour looked amused and surprised. She gently mocked my mother with; “You can't do that!” Mother instantly pursed and stiffened. “When your kids start work, they must always keep their first wage packet. It's a tradition.” I received a broad smile and wink, which told me she was on my side. “I did with all of mine.” Curiously, I watched and wondered how mother was going to get out of this one.

  She sniffed and gave the neighbour a disapproving sideways look and delivered, “Well, I’ve never heard of it,” with, “I think it’s ridiculous – stupid,” following on.

  I had to surrender all my money. Then, she doled out the paltry allowance which she had previously calculated I would need. This remained my ration for quite some time. Incidentally, she always expected me to hand over an un–opened wage packet. For the next few years she refused to speak to our spoil sport neighbour for daring to suggest something so completely alien to mother's boorish philosophy.

  When I frequently heard her recounting the incident to members of the family, her argument was always loaded towards her opinion. Although the monologue was directed at the listener, it was really aimed at me. I was not to get above myself. One uncle responded with, “Well – I have heard...”

  “Well, I haven't, and I don't see the point!” She banged on about this for many weeks. I said nothing.

  It began to sink into my mother’s head that I might be entitled to my own door key. Now I was an official earner and bringing in extra housekeeping, it was my right. One day she, grudgingly, presented it to me with, “I suppose it's about time you had this.” It was given as if she were passing on the secret of ‘Life, the Universe and Everything’. Was I expected to go down on my knees and thank her from the bottom of my soul? No such friggin’ luck! It was no more than I deserved – and about time too. Most of my school friends had been sporting their own keys since early teenage. They thought it a joke that I hadn't.

  A wonderful realisation slowly began to dawn. I now had the authority to leave the house whenever it took my fancy. I was independent – I was thrilled – it was official. Thinking back, perhaps I should have given my mother more understanding, but my oppression had been so complete and of such a lengthy duration, I couldn't wait to be my own boss. Selfishly, I had no regrets in claiming my due. I relished my sense of power. When I went out, I was driven by courtesy to tell my mother where I was going, not duty. She hated it but what could she say? The cuckoo in her nest was finding its wings and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  After a couple of months, by which time I was relatively settled in my job, I found out what powerful force my teachers would have been arguing against when they tried to persuade me to stay on at school. My father and mother began having secret talks. I knew something was blowing in the wind, as they never sat down to discuss anything – ever. Every time I entered the room, they tried to act casual. My mother gave a private, daily briefing of their conversation in précis form. My father had decided the time had come to terminate the Limbo of his marital bliss, and depart. (If there is a God – thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!) Apparently, he’d merely been waiting for me to leave school, find a job and stand on my own two feet before breaking the news. How long he'd been planning this, I never found out. I seriously wondered if he'd met someone and wanted to go and live with him.

  Naturally, he said nothing to me about his decision. As far as he was concerned, I was being kept in total ignorance of all these delicate negotiations. Finally, one Sunday afternoon, he surrendered his keys to my mother and walked out of the back door for the last time. He didn't bother to come and see me to say his goodbyes. Maybe he considered it a beautiful, last minute insult. Personally I was pleased to be spared the scene. My mother had warned me that the time was nigh so I stayed in my room happily sketching and thundering out Wagner on my record player.

  As soon as his right of domicile had been relinquished my mother breezed into ‘my’ room. She glared at the music equipment. It was booming out the finale of ‘Götterdämmerung’. The redemption of the world was being made through fire, water and self–sacrifice. In Wagner's musical twilight, the destruction of the old Gods was being replaced by a new age – the dawn of humanity. It all struck me as singularly apt. “Oh, for goodness sake, will you turn that awful racket down – or off!” I did the latter. In the silence, I waited for the expected unexpected bulletin. “That's it, my son. He's gone.” YESSSS!!!!!

  Facially, I managed to keep a bland expression. “Yes. Right. Okay. Um...” Once again in my life, I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say. She hovered. Normally, my mother couldn’t wait to get out. I said, “I think it's for the best.” I hoped my reassurance sounded sincere. Although I was vocalising sympathy, inwardly I was singing a song of joy. My mother was wearing a carefully manicured face of sadness but, I’m almost certain inside her head, she was having a party.

  One thing worried me. Now my father had gone, would I become the new target for her animosity and resentment? I resolved to get out as soon as I could.

  At work, I said nothing about all this. Sam commented on an extra spring in my step but I grinned and let it pass.

  In the office, I was slowly making the climb up the pecking order. I was no longer ‘the last one in’ as a new girl had started. There was something about her that I found extremely attractive. She wasn't especially good looking, indeed, one would have called her rather plain, but she dressed to kill – using what she had with devastating effect and generally had ‘it’. I wasn't sexually attracted to her but I knew we would get on well. Time proved I was wrong about the sex side of things and right about getting on. Little did I realise the overwhelming effect with which she would influence the rest of my life. Her name was Myrna but, even after a couple of weeks, I still couldn't remember it. What was her bloody name? Mildred? Monica? Mascha? Mitzi? The damned thing refused to stick in my brain. (A problem I’d always had with names!! And still do.) One day, when I had some information I wanted to call across to her, I asked Paula, quietly, to remind me of it. She grinned and loudly broadcast: “Sheba.” And so, for me, the name stuck. I never referred to her as ‘Myrna’, ever again. I don't think she minded, in fact I think she rather liked it.

  The last, current, major change in my life was when I started an evening class at the local night school to continue my study of ‘Art’. The art class numbered about twenty and a quarter of them turned out to be gay, including Jack, the teacher. I immediately felt at home. Incidentally, I paid for all the classes myself. My mother, who, as usual, expressed little interest in my creative side although she always claimed otherwise, thought it a waste of time and mone
y. (Presumably, she considered the fees could have been better utilised by her)

  I became privately involved with a young Spanish student called José. The little sod had so much talent in his five foot six that it made you sick. Everyone adored him. He lived with his parents over their fish and chip shop. One day, during my first term, he asked if he could paint me in the nude. As I could see nothing wrong with this, I agreed. In his room the painting progressed slowly because every time I stripped off to pose for him, he wanted sex. When the huge canvas was finally completed, José’s artistic treatment of me was discreet but there was more than a hint of sexuality about it. The class had a private exhibition of our work and my little Spanish friend dragged along my portrait for inclusion. Jack and the class gave lots of compliments and even more knowing looks! I was a little embarrassed, as José had seen fit to exaggerate the size of my half–flaccid penis. The gay faction in the class were most impressed.

  Imagine my horror, when, during this showing, I caught sight of my mother swanning into the exhibition with one of my aunts in tow. After passing over my modest contributions with a dismissive put down, she went on to praise everything else. I inwardly winced as I watched her amble inexorably towards José’s prominently featured canvas. When she clapped eyes on it, she registered her shock, but seemed to take it well. My aunt thought it funny. I later found out that my mother presumed the portrait to be a work of imagination. Surely her darling, innocent little child wouldn’t do anything so lewd as to pose starkers for anyone. Besides, her little lad couldn't have a ‘thing’ that big! I felt a bit insulted – it wasn't that exaggerated!

  Pimps

  These evil demons of the rent world were considered, by the rest of us, as being the lowest of the low. Quite a few of our gang had been introduced onto the game by these slugs and they faced a constant fear of reprisal for their desertion. The pimps viewed their escape as an act of ‘High Treason’. Stories of their flight were highly distressing. Many grotesque methods were employed to keep the boys under the pimps’ thumb. Among the weapons they wielded were blackmail, fear of brutality (both physical and sexual) and drugs. They weren't offered any choice of clients. Whoever the pimps brought, they had to service – no matter what the punters looked like or what they demanded. If they didn’t obey, God help them! Any boy who managed to escape this particular treadmill only did so by monumental acts of determination and courage. The rest of us regarded these renegades as honoured lords of the racks. They were both respected and admired.

  I don’t think the pimps would have been quite so despised if they had only stuck to kids whose balls had dropped, but they didn’t. I saw children as young as six and seven being tightly held in their clammy claws. It made me sick. My heart went out to them. I remembered how it was for me at that same age. I had been reasonably lucky, as I didn’t have any problem with my sexuality – but these... The fear in their eyes told me what they thought and felt. It upset me every time I saw the pimps openly flaunting and flouting their charges.

  What could I do? I was torn. It was difficult to go to the police as all homosexual activity was still a criminal offence and if I’d ventured to report them, I could well have risked being prosecuted myself. ‘Lily’ would have used the opportunity of catching two proverbial birds. I could have made an anonymous phone call but I learned, quickly, this was no good. The pimps always knew when and where they were going to be investigated and this meant they could keep their noses clean for the duration. I wondered how they knew? What vested interest was there which gave them this tacit immunity? How many, in positions of authority, went out of their way to protect them? And – why!

  The only other possible way to deal with them was to take the law into our own hands and serve out our own specialised justice. Yes. That's the way to deal with it. Very good – except – they had their own methods of keeping their sordid dominions well defended. They had their own separate network of information gatherers who could easily discover the identity of anyone who dared to either wreck their business or ambush them in a dark alley.

  One particularly nauseating way they held their lads in line was to turn them into junkies. This obscene method of keeping them compliant served a double purpose. Firstly, the blossoming dependency on hard drugs needed feeding and the pimps could supply the goods. Secondly, it made the children more malleable in the hands of the sick men who wanted to use them. They were too ‘out of their brains’ to protest. For the system to work, however, the pimps needed to have a regular, reliable supply of the stuff to force feed their young slaves. Once the pimps had them hooked, it was easy to keep the kids acquiescent. By promising extra quantities of drugs the pimps used their victims to find and recruit others. It was a simple and effective method that proved devastating to anyone who drifted into the pimp’s power.

  Every so often, the narcotics arm of the law managed to haul in a pimp or two on drug charges. This was a mixed blessing. If the pimp was given a custodial sentence, their children, boys and youths were left to their own devices. There was never any offer of help given by the authorities. I can only assume officialdom considered they deserved all they got. When they were left, the younger children tended to run away and hide. I think they were too ashamed of what they had done to tell anyone.

  We frequently saw the result of this tragic neglect. The kids were either taken on by another pimp who tended to treat them even worse because they had first belonged to a rival and needed showing who was their new boss, or they became prey to the more depraved members of our society. These punters paid low and demanded high. The poor kids were beaten, maimed, tortured – anything. But they had no choice. It was the only way they could earn the money to support the drug habit to which their former minders had introduced them. They became either hard and callous or manic–depressives. Guilt and fear dominated their existence. We did what we could to help them, but they didn't really want to know. Anyway, most were so far gone; they had become utterly uncontrollable.

  Because we had our own special network, we managed to side–step any offers the pimps might make. Even so, there was a constant threat of a beating because we wouldn’t cooperate. They offered protection from violence but the protection was offered with the open warning – ‘If you don’t want the protection, we’ll beat you up anyway’. Catch–22. It reminded me of similar rackets offered by the Mafia in America during the thirties and forties.

  Apart from my brief run in with Mark, I was only ever approached directly once. It was rather a half–hearted attempt because, by then, I was well established in my own circle. They knew I was already protected. Our own network was too well established and efficient for them to break. This rankled with them. It was our shield. The creatures didn’t really want to upset the status quo so they mainly concentrated on sending their young scouts out to look for new blood on the council estates in the town’s suburbs, and in the numerous villages which took the overspill. New blood to initiate and be made available.

  Our own social hang outs were fairly safe from them. They had their own specific, specialist areas and clubs, as we had ours. Sometimes, just for the hell of it, they’d stroll into ‘The Green Goddess’, or slide into one of the many other places we worked – just to remind us that they were always there – watching. It also served as a powerful reminder to keep our mouths shut and not say anything which might jeopardise their filthy business operations.

  At times like these, when they walked in – we walked out. They made their point in a quiet but effective way. Our exit was escorted with crooked smiles and the blatant fingering of flick–knives.

  Once again, where would I be now if, on that first day in the city, I’d met up with one of these beasts instead of my dear old Randy Handy Andy? I shudder to think. And if Andy’s fears about Mark, well, if they had proved well founded…

  Farmer Joe

  One Sunday evening a whole group of us were sitting in a massive coffee bar which was situated on the edge of the town centre. It was crowded.
Although the bar wasn't classed as ‘gay’, each Sunday evening it tended to be frequented by the rents for a social chat before wending our separate ways after a hard weekend. We took the opportunity to have a group gossip and catch up on our latest escapades.

  When ‘Farmer Joe’, as he was promptly christened, ambled in, the whole place went quiet. There was a massed gawp. In all our lives, I don't think a single one of us had seen anyone so stunningly handsome. Looking about twenty, he was tall, blond and built like the proverbial brick shit house. His light blue, open necked shirt contrasted with and broadcasted a dark, all over tan which could only be associated with an outdoor existence. His tight, bleached out blue jeans showed off his slim waist and muscular thighs to perfection. Yet, he appeared not to have made any special effort at sartorial elegance. There was nothing he wore which indicated a dressing up to go ‘On the Town’. On him, it all hung so naturally. He had about him a pure animal physicality that crept out and stalked any viewer's senses. It was impossible not to look at him. And, believe me, did we look. Oh, how we looked. His huge blue eyes quietly enjoyed some private joke, refusing to make contact with anyone else's stare. He looked extremely and delightfully shy.

  Lumbering over to one of the few empty tables, he plonked himself down and patiently waited to be served. Two rival old queens, famous for their outrageous behaviour, cast their lightly mascaraed eyes in his direction and pointedly took it upon themselves to make an impact. In the silence that still gripped the room, they rose and promptly made a perfumed, purposefully meandering beeline for his table. Without bothering to ask or indeed even being invited to join him, they slipped provocatively into the spare seats on either side of this demi–god. A swooping waitress came over to join them. She was all smiles and flirtation as far as Blondie was concerned, but sniffs and sneers at the other two.