Street Kid Read online

  ‘Farmer Joe’, in a very loud, thickly accented voice, gruffly barked out – "Fruit juice – one!"

  “Fruit?” arched one of his bookends. “Oh, darling, how too divine! I simply adore all fruits.”

  “Yes,” clucked the other. “She'll bite your banana – but, if you like, I'll consume your juice.”

  “Why don' yer both jus’ fuckoff. I jus’ fuckin’ hates you types of fuckin’ bastards!” And he flexed his massive hands and biceps just to prove how much he fuckin’ hated `em.

  They both gave out a shocked “Ooh!”, and scuttled back to their usual places, puckering and pursing their lips at one another in mutual disdain as they went. From then on they could be observed hissing remarks about him to their fellow royals. Their eyes darting back and forth as they demolished his personality to anyone who cared to listen. Few took up their offer. Everyone was far too preoccupied with their victim.

  Ian let out a long lecherous “Corrr!”

  “I think I'm in love,” Paolo announced as if in a deep trance.

  Andy reluctantly tore his gaze away and mildly remarked, “By the looks of all the turned heads, you're not the only one. So’s the whole place.”

  “You too?” Paolo asked.

  “Why not?” He mumbled.

  Everyone on the table stared at him. I was shattered. Andy? In love? With a male? He certainly looked smitten because he shrugged with embarrassment and returned his gaze to lusting after Adonis.

  “I’ll bet he's a labourer.” Paolo put forward. “Look at those fabulous muscles! Couldn't you just swoon?” We all looked – and swooned.

  “No,” speculated Ian, “with a voice like that he must be a farmer.” And thus was he named.

  “Oh, I can just see him now, stripped to the waist with rippling muscles and massive, bulging pecs – humping great bales of hay,” someone said.

  “I'd rather he was humping me,” joined in Andy.

  “Andy?!” I was stunned.

  “Well, I ask you, just look at him. I defy anyone not to be knocked out by that.” We all agreed.

  The waitress returned with ‘Farmer Joe’s’ juice. "Did you see that smile? Did you? Eh?" Stupid question, Ian. "Oh, God!!" I was apprehensive. Was Ian going to faint?

  By complete contrast, ‘Farmer Joe’ appeared totally oblivious to the sensation he was causing. He swigged at his drink and casually looked around, smiling broadly to himself.

  "An absolute vision!" was the general consensus.

  Time was pressing and I had to make my reluctant farewells. The rest hardly registered I was about to leave. They merely flapped limp hands in my general direction and grunted something that vaguely sounded like a troop of gorillas.

  I shrugged and went up to the cashier to pay my bill. As I left the coffee bar, I couldn't resist one final look back at the newcomer, but he wasn’t in his place. Sighing longingly, I left.

  I’d not walked more than about ten yards along the street when I heard a voice from behind.

  "Oi, matey, ‘ang on a sec’. Where d'yer live?” Came a newly familiar, loud, fast approaching growl.

  The impossible had happened. Was a God about to slum it – with me?

  "Sorry, I live with my parents." He looked as if he were about to break into tears. “You?”

  "Same. Long ways from ‘ere." He was staring intently at me. What the fuck was I supposed to say?

  There was a long pause. I wasn't sure what to do. He was looking at me as if, somehow, I would be able to magic up a solution. “Sorry, perhaps some other time?” I said and, with a heavy, angry heart, I turned to go. “’Bye.”

  He grasped my shoulder. I winced. What was he using, a car crusher? “’Ow abou' a ’otel! I'll pay fer it. Wot d’yer say?”

  I made furious time calculations. There was a serious risk of missing my last bus home. If I were late, I'd be careering, headlong, into the row of all rows with my mother. “I can’t stay all night. And I don't have the money to get a taxi,” I lied. He looked a tragic figure. “Can’t we meet up tomorrow? Where do you live?”

  “Miles away. Middle of nuffin’.” I think he realised I was capitulating. “I’ll give yer cash fer yer cab.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s go.” And I dragged him off towards a modest hotel that I knew. It was only a short walk away. The hotel owners derived their substantial income by renting their rooms out by the hour. (It’s not too difficult to guess how I knew.)

  During our brief journey, he told me that he lived on a small farm near a minute village, which was served by a minuscule track, not far from a tiny town. (‘Farmer Joe’, as a nickname, was becoming ever more apt.) For some time he'd suspected that he was gay but had never done anything about it. Finally, he’d decided it was time to either confirm or deny his suspicions. I was more than happy to be his very first experiment.

  As we entered the cramped hotel room, I had a sudden, fearful thought. What if he wanted me to be submissive? He was far older and stronger than I. Was my precious virginity about to be put seriously at risk? The word ‘rape’ kept echoing inside my head.

  As I've said before, I've often found that the more butch a guy looks the bitcher he wants to be treated. This experience was confirmed because ‘Farmer Joe’ was light years away from the exception which might have proved the rule. There were no preliminaries. He simply dropped his jeans and threw himself, face down, onto the bed. He took it very well – in fact, he took it very well quite a few times and in quite a few positions. It's a good thing I was reasonably athletic. The whole encounter took over an hour and a half. What was he doing? Making up for lost time? Either that or he needed a lot of convincing in making up his mind if he liked it with a male. As he was hung like a horse, I was thankful he didn't want to try and shove the monster up me. After the initial copulation, he asked me to wash my crotch and he settled down, with my cock in his mouth, to gently slurp away in utter contentment. He reminded me of a baby sucking on a dummy. I couldn't believe all this was actually happening to me. Just wait until I could boast of my conquest to all the rest!

  I won't recount the scene which exploded after I got out of the taxi. My mother didn't even wait for me to come up the garden path but launched herself out of the front door like a demented harpy. At the top of her voice, she very publicly proceeded to wash all our dirty linen. Neighbours had to ostentatiously twitch their bedroom curtains before she stopped and frog–marched me inside.

  For a week or so, as a punishment, I was kept in. It was worth it. I had asked ‘Farmer Joe’ – I never did find out his proper name – if I could see him again. He couldn’t say. “I migh’ see yer aroun’ sometime. Yeh, I’spect so. Yer does never know, does yer?”

  No, yer never does!

  When I had completed my custodial sentence and returned to the centre, I spent a while trying to find the gang. Where were they, in hibernation? Eventually I caught up with most of them. They were loafing around in ‘The Green Goddess’. I could just see them through the steamy glass windows. They appeared to be in a light–hearted mood. I threw open the door and swaggered in. Instantly, I became a celebrity. As they'd seen me being followed out by ‘Farmer Joe’, hundreds of questions came thick and fast.

  “Well, what was he like?”; “Describe his body to us – in detail!”; “Where did you go”; “What did you two sluts get up to, then?”; “Butch or bitch?”; “How big's his cock?”; “Did you get to see his arse?” – things of that nature. I tried to look innocent.

  “What makes you think anything happened? He might have left to go back home.”

  “Like shit!” shouted Ian. “We saw him chatting you up – and go off together. Now, come on, you little tart – we want a blow by blow account. Details – every inch and thrust of them.”

  “None of your fuckin’ business, you perves.” I was determined to enjoy myself by making them wait. I’d been the lucky one. I’d drawn the star prize – and they would have to wait for me to open it and tell them what it contained in my own time.


  “Come on, you selfish cow, spill!” they persisted.

  It was no use. I couldn’t contain my eagerness to tell all. Out came the whole story. They listened in silent, rapt attention. Andy mocked up a glare. He looked like a judge ready to pronounce his verdict on my performance. What was he doing? Trying to summon up the ‘Sword of Damocles’ to plunge into my back?

  To satisfy their curiosity, I had to enter into a considerable amount of detail. Normally, the rents’ attention span to other people’s adventures was pretty short but for this I held the floor for over half an hour. Paolo came in late and insisted I repeat the whole adventure. To my utter amazement, the rest were delighted to hear my yarn through for a second time.

  I became the big hero of the moment.

  It was thrilling to know how many of my friends had wanted him. Knowing I’d beaten them in the race, without having to lift a finger, made me feel gloriously smug. I enjoyed rubbing their noses in it. They took it very well. They were even quite keen on hearing the story's constant repetition every time someone else, who had so far missed out, needed updating.

  One day, whilst I was telling Jacko, Andy, who was listening to it all for the tenth time suddenly looked up. “Carl,” he said – his face full of innocence, “each time you tell it, you never seem to mention the birthmark he had on his left buttock.”

  “Well, I...” How did he know about that? The little sod was grinning his head off. Almost immediately I fell in. “You've had him?”

  “Mmmm,” he nodded.

  “And me,” said Paolo.

  “Me, too,” joined in Ian.

  “Same here,” sang out Jacko. “Twice!”

  “When?” I began to suspect I'd been the victim of a practical joke.

  Paolo answered for the rest. “Oh, you were the first all right – well, the first among us anyway. But, we've all been there and done him since.”

  The full, evil story finally came out. Although ‘Farmer Joe’ was as thick as two short planks, as far as sex went, he knew exactly what he was doing and what he was after. It seems his turn on was to make each person he went with think that he was the first to have him. He liked to be treated gently – almost seduced. He also realised that if his partner thought he was the first – it was another turn on for them. This news really got my goat! To begin with I didn't believe them but they gave enough information about him which I’d withheld to prove they weren’t lying. Besides, Andy backed them up and, as I’ve said before, Andy was incapable of telling a lie.

  The very day after my encounter and the start of my curfew Josh, another member of our group, had him. Then, in quick succession, the rest joined the notches on ‘Farmer Joe’s’ bedpost. The sods knew I’d start flaunting my conquest when I came back to the racks so they decided to play a joke on me. What could I say? Nothing! And how could I remain angry? Soon, I joined in the jollity – but I never boasted like that again. Now, I understood why they’d been so keen to hear all the details of my encounter – and so often, why they'd wanted to hear it over and over. They were letting me dig a huge pit for myself into which they could gleefully push me. Very funny – but it taught me a valuable lesson I desperately needed to learn.

  ‘Farmer Joe’ quickly vanished from the scene. We surmised he'd probably started going to another town to begin his quest to lose his virginity all over again (and again, and again). After I’d recovered from their little prank, we spent a happy couple of hours debating how many hundred others had been his first.

  Further Adventures

  All of a sudden, or so it seemed to us, there began a modest acceptance of gays. We were starting to become fashionable. Our alternative side of the city rose nearer to the surface. All over the town’s centre, there was a rush to open numerous clubs, pubs and coffee bars that catered for the male wanderers of the night. Some were of the highest quality – others, a downright rip off, best categorised as ‘boring’. Contrary to the general view of things, not all these venues were run by ‘gays’. Many were operated by more liberal, straight people who spotted there was money to be made in such ventures. They pursued it with alacrity. Although, today, it has become a factor in marketing, the ‘pink pound’ was virtually unknown at that time. These pioneers cornered the market. For some odd reason many of these erstwhile trendsetters believed gays enjoyed socialising whilst standing on bare boards and wading through sawdust. I never could understand how they arrived at this weird idea for décor. Amazingly, they all had the same thought. Perhaps the same person who bought up a job lot of planks and wood shavings owned each of the premises. Everyone I spoke to thought this ‘ambience’ was revolting: “I hate it and besides, it really snags yer frocks.”

  Sad to say, many of these straight gay clubs didn’t last. The owners had no idea what they were taking on. They might have been comfortable with a couple of nice, quiet poofs who would sit in the corner sipping their G and T’s, but a whole establishment filled with screaming queens who loudly bitched at anything and everything was something they could do without.

  This category of gay would insist on bitching at each other at the tops of their voices. It was very much a whore(s) of a different colour (to misquote ‘The Wizard of Oz’). Also, they didn't care for their functional carbolic smelling toilets being used for temporary and hurried orgies. Another source of contention was the ‘Two Hour Sunday Lunchtime Ritual’. It was a tradition over this period, for the drag queens to get up in their finest, frilliest and most flamboyant numbers and to impersonate every gay icon at the time, i.e. Mae West, Bette Davis, Judy Garland, Joan Crawford, Barbara Stanwyck, Marilyn Monroe etc., and invade the bars. The landlords tried to stop them by banning anyone who dressed too ‘femme’. Talk about red rag to a bullette. It became a competition as to who could fool the landlords the best. Some queens looked totally convincing and were admitted through the boozy portals whilst their genuinely female companions were barred.

  Other, more specialised haunts were also being opened, usually run by like–minded males, for speciality interests. There was a sleazy dive called ‘The Desert Thong’ run by two fugitive gays from London. The clientele were heavily into leather and bondage. I was taken there – once – and witnessed an enormously fat guy, fully encased in leather, dragging a pretty sixteen year old lad around on a lead. The boy was on his hands and knees wearing nothing but a leather spiked posing pouch and a studded dog collar. He had to lap his beer from an ashtray. Whenever fatso felt the urge, he either viciously yanked on the lead, or kicked and beat the uncomplaining boy. Because ‘The Desert Thong’ was fairly open about its purpose, the police found it irresistible. The place was always being raided until, eventually, no one dared go in. This open declaration of kinkiness was, for its time, way beyond the pale. Also, there were many other, more discreet clubs around which offered not only this, but many other choices for the more select sexual peccadilloes. These were extremely difficult to find let alone infiltrate because their locations and membership requirements were highly secretive and selective and they tended to survive longer than the more ‘open’ clubs.

  The five main, more traditional places of contact didn't suffer from this minor explosion in the gay sub–culture. ‘The Hill’, ‘The Steps’ and ‘Hell’ continued much as they had done before – but some of the smaller, more obscure racks emptied a little. The reason? I think there was a certain nervousness on the part of the ‘Temps’. They wouldn't go anywhere where they felt trapped, and these new clubs had a claustrophobic feel which was absent in the more anonymous open places. ‘The Green Goddess’, and ‘Alfio’s’ were untouched because they had unique facilities which the new clubs and pubs couldn't possibly emulate.

  ‡‡‡

  One day Andy was given a four–wheeled crock of gold. A wealthy trick, new to the scene, had fallen for him in a big way. He tried to persuade Andy to put their relationship on a more serious, permanent footing by presenting him with a car. As Andy was happily married, the poor sod was on to a loser. And
y had no intention or desire to leave his wife and child. The trick was disappointed but accepted Andy's reasons. When he told Andy that he could keep the car anyway, Andy was thrilled. (Who wouldn't be?) After a few weak protestations, Andy gratefully received the keys. He planned on selling it to realise some much–needed cash. Before doing so, however, he decided to treat everyone to a spin.

  A few miles down the coast, by a fast fading seaside resort, was a secluded beach, which acted as a gay pick–up area. It was the ideal destination. Sandy, Paolo, Ian, myself and quite a few of the others crammed into the car – about twelve of us in all, and off we set. Passing cars tried to count how many of us were wedged in together. We delighted in miming the number. With so many close friends together in one small space, hands became a little free. During the journey, there were times when the fun of ‘touching up’ went into heavy breathing, as the groping became a little more serious. At one time I had about ten hands playing with my exposed cock. Others in the car received the same ministrations as well. Freed from our usual routine, we became very loud. Sordid comments were hurled at pedestrians, and passing cars were subjected to a vast assortment of lewd gestures. If any of these victims were good looking, the standard of suggestive wit sunk to the lowest level of the obscene.

  We finally arrived at the beach and fell out of the car in an insane heap. The weather was so balmy and warm that it made us feel even more welcome.

  Paolo sniffed the air, licked his finger and stuck it up to sample the wind. “I’d say it was that way!” Off he marched, shouting, “When it comes to fag hunting, I have an unerring sense of erection.”

  Sandy waited until he was out of hearing and whispered, “Don't tell him but he's walking towards an old people’s retirement home.”