Street Kid Page 18
Zenda, another rent who'd once read a book and liked the title, muttered, “Perhaps she's gone to reserve herself a place.”
We struck off in a totally different direction. Soon, a sulking Paolo returned and cursed us all for not telling him.
The beach pick–up area was a good fifteen minute walk which passed easily as everyone was in excellent spirits. There was a feeling of expectation and high adventure in the air. If Enid Blyton had written a book called ‘Gays Go Gambolling at the Seaside’ we would have been in it.
Eventually, we arrived at the trolling area. In unison we yelled and set upon Sandy who screamed, giggled and adored the attention. The day we had chosen for our visit must have been the quietest in the area’s history because, apart from a few persistent old men who wanted something for nothing and wouldn’t take ‘No’ for an answer, the place was almost deserted. I say almost, because Paolo managed to find and go with the only youngish guy for miles around.
"She’s not kidding when she says she's got a nose for this sort of thing," said Ian.
"And not just her nose," added Zenda.
We were determined not to let our disappointment get us down so we began clowning around for our own entertainment. It was a very happy, carefree, innocent day. Apart from the sexual overtones, we were a group of ordinary teenagers enjoying a day out. We stripped to our underwear and splashed and swam in the sea, built sandcastles, took turns burying one another and explored rocks and their rock pools. Is this what it was like to be young? I loved it!
On our way back, in the middle of nowhere – disaster. A small stone, thrown up from the wheel of a car travelling in the opposite direction, smashed through our windscreen. We screeched to a halt and debated what to do. It was getting rather late and rain was beginning to threaten. There were no garages around and no one felt like searching one out. Also, the prospect of driving back to the city in the dark, without a front windscreen in the pouring rain was less than appealing. Ian pointed to a lone tree in the middle of a field.
"How about there?"
For a moment we thought he'd started raving. How could a tree help with our predicament? Then he insisted we look closer. Just discernible among the tree's branches and leaves was a tree house. As we were miles from anywhere, it was an extraordinary sight – but a true lifesaver. The night was spent with half of us, myself included, sleeping in it, whilst the rest attempted to ‘make do’ in the car. Everyone slept fitfully. The next day, still windscreen–less, Andy drove the car with great care back to town and arrived safely. Unfortunately, the rain hadn't let up so, by the time we arrived, we all looked like drowned rats.
‡‡‡
A lot of the punters who took us back to their own places were into fantasy sex. This usually involved the act of dressing up. The collections which some of them accumulated were formidable. At times like these, it took no time at all to fall in with their wishes. It was good, harmless fun which hurt no one. After my first few months on the racks, I'd shed my school uniform. I found that it was bad for business. Not that the tricks didn't find it attractive – far from it – but the point was, the uniform acted as a deterrent. I soon realised older men didn't want to be seen with a boy who was so obviously still attending school. They found the boy in his school gear desirable but so, unfortunately, did the police. Seeing us with an older man was decidedly suspicious. I dressed ‘up’ – thus trying to look older. It never really worked.
The most popular dressing–up game I had to play was, ironically, being a blushing, innocent schoolboy. As with all these dressing up queens, I was frequently stunned by the enormous range of school uniforms people privately put together. Everything from upper class, snooty public school styles to rough borstal overalls. One man even went as far as to set up, in his house, a miniature school room. I had to sit at a desk, dressed as a poor, scruffy schoolboy with worn, tattered, revealing short trousers. He stood in front, wearing the garb of an old fashioned teacher, complete with cap, gown and swishing cane, lecturing me in great detail about the evils of gay sex and masturbation. Colourful language and non–serious swishes from the cane punctuated this impromptu lecture. There was a blackboard upon which pornographic pictures were pinned as practical illustrations to the lesson. I was supposed to get hotly turned on by it all and had to conspicuously inconspicuously begin playing with my ‘hidden’ erection. After I had shot my load inside the trousers, he called me out to the front and told me I was ‘a very, very naughty boy’ and he ordered me to remove the ‘offending’ garment. With eyes down cast. I handed it over whereby, licking the inside of the grey serge shorts; he hungrily jerked himself off.
‡‡‡
From all this, it must sound to the uninformed, as if, apart from the odd hiccup, everything was hunky–dory. There we all were, having a great time, without a care in the world. A huge gang of friends and their punters being pleasant, comfortable people playing out some sort of nightly, slightly naughty ritual. Let me tell you that it was very far from the whole truth. Drug abuse was starting to become a problem and many of the dealers in sex, on all sides of the fence, used it to their detriment. If there was a hint that one of our tricks was into anything of the like, we gave them a wide berth. We knew it might not be safe to go with them. A lot of rents, fearing they might turn into the sort of person they encountered, shunned drugs but turned instead to alcohol. There were times when we rents indulged in recreational drugs taking but it was usually when we were not actively looking for tricks. Compared with the drugs now available, ours were pretty soft, but there was still the potential to get hooked – and not a few did.
A few punters liked their trade fairly drunk as they could physically and sexually abuse them with little danger to themselves. To drown the pain and numb the feelings of degradation, which many of the more reluctant rents experienced, they also used drink to face what they had to do with something like joy. This downward spiral into alcoholism ensured they would have a swift exit from the scene, as most punters didn't like to go with rents with offensive attitudes. None of the regulars, both punters and fellow rents would have anything more to do with them. Some of these sad alcoholics continued well into their twenties. The living they made on the racks was from the sadists who would use their bleary eyed pickups to act out their warped fantasies. Often, because of their drunken state, the tricks used their confused condition to withhold the fee for the rents’ forced humiliations.
‡‡‡
Then there were the older rents who, for their own good, should have left the racks ten, twenty or even thirty years ago. These sad men would do anything for money – and I do mean anything! Once, when there were none of the ‘usuals’ around, I found myself talking to one of these aging guys. He looked as if the midwife had dragged him out of his mother's womb using a rake in one hand and a power drill in the other. Part of his face appeared to have melted as if, once, acid had been thrown at him. This disfigurement had left him looking very ugly and rather frightening. In a matter of fact voice, he told me a little of his story. I nearly cried. From the beginning of his career, he must have met and been with every ‘wrong’ punter there was going. It was a shocking catalogue. Because he no longer had the power to attract, necessity forced him into playing a total ‘submissive’. He had things performed on him that I wouldn’t dare hint at let alone repeat in detail. Half his current life was spent in hospital getting over the injuries, which had been inflicted on him both internally as well as externally. His occasional punter’s pressurised, sickening diets left a lot to be desired. Yet, once he was patched up, back onto the streets he came. What other choice did he have? It was his only training; he could do nothing else. It made me feel ill.
“Here, look at this.” From a battered, thin wallet he produced a small, grubby, dog–eared black and white photograph and thrust it into my hand.
It was a snap of a particularly stunning looking lad who must have been in his late teens. "Good looking guy. Who is he, your son?" I handed it bac
k.
"No." He stared intently at the creased image. There were tears in his eyes. "It's me. Taken when I was twenty. I was a bit of a looker, wasn't I?" With a wistful smile, he carefully slipped the prized documentation of his lost youth back into his wallet. "It's all I have left to remind me."
I fell silent. I shot a quick glance at him. He was staring, unseeing at a scrawny Buddleia, which was trying to draw nourishment, from a toppled wall. It was as if he were attempting to recapture the feelings of what it was to be young and desirable – the youth in the photo. Tactfully, I got up and walked away as I felt he needed to be alone with his memories. Also, I didn't know what to say to give some sort of comfort for his anguish. As I looked back, I watched him produce a foul handkerchief and rub his eyes.
Was this a fearful vision of myself in a couple of years hence? The thought made me shudder. I hurriedly sent up a quiet prayer to be spared such a tragic fate.
The saddest part is – he wasn't unique. There were many others who had lost their way. There was little chance of any of them ever breaking away – unless, perhaps, they pushed themselves too far and it all ended in a coffin.
When I next met up with the gang, I couldn't bring myself to talk about this distressing encounter. They would only shrug off my fears with a ‘Don't worry about it. It's all his own stupid fault.’
The memory of that ageing rent stayed with me for many years. Even now, the look of pain I saw in his eyes as he stared at his younger self haunts me when I least expect it.
I wondered if Sandy, after his ordeal with ‘The Evil’, might finish up the same way. I hoped he would be spared. Would Will guide him? Yes – that is, if he stayed. But, as time went by, Will’s disapproval of Sandy's lifestyle became more and more of a painful thorn in his flesh.
Pam
One day, between tricks, I was lounging near the entrance of ‘The Green Goddess’ sipping a well–earned coffee. Business was good but a natural break had thankfully occurred. Josh came in. Talk about fed up. He looked as though nothing in the world was going his way.
“Carl, you can slap my arse and fuck me with a Fisherman's Friend if I ever see that raving poof again...” he groaned as he sat down and helped himself to a sip from my coffee cup.
“Will do,” I replied, trying the cheerful approach. “Do I know him?”
“Possibly. Probably. Most people do. Calls itself, ‘Tarzan’. Oh, God! I’ve never known anyone so turned on by boredom.”
I had been with ‘Tarzan' a couple of times and I understood exactly what Josh meant. All he required from me – or, indeed, anyone – was to sit on his prized and pampered Chesterfield, eating and drinking in utter silence. He fussed and smiled over me like a mother hen but, from me, there was never to be a single sound. After this repast I had to sit there without moving a single muscle or speaking for about an hour. Eventually he would sit behind the chair, out of sight, and see to himself. He didn't even want to know what I had on offer, let alone wishing to take things any further. It was hard work – ensuring I didn't actually nod off by mistake. He paid well over the odds and I left. Still, not a word was to be spoken.
Yes, I knew ‘Tarzan’. “It's easy money,” I mumbled.
“I know, I know. But, I got into this game for the fun – the excitement – not just the cash.” I shrugged. He brightened. “I know, because you don’t seem to mind, the next time he wants me, I’ll pass him on to you.”
I blew a wet raspberry. “Oh, gee, that’s very kind of you I'm sure – but, I don’t need you to pimp for me, thanks very much.”
“It’s your loss,” shrugged Josh, reaching across the table for another sip from my cup.
I batted his hand away, “Oi! Get your own, you tight fisted bastard.”
I watched him buy his coffee and receive some merry Italian insults from Renata. When he returned to his seat we lapsed into quiet brooding for a while. I was thinking, for the umpteenth time, about the strange turn–ons some people had and wanted to buy. Through the café’s misted window, I stared at the bright, sunny day.
“Got anyone next?” I finally asked.
“Yep. ‘Big Julie’!” he groaned and banged his head onto the table in mock despair. “How am I going to cope?”
“I know what you mean. I’ll swear she’s got an arsehole like the Mersey fucking Tunnel.”
‘Big Julie’ was the original Moussorgsky’s ‘Bare Mountain’ (and the ‘Night’ thereon). Totally bereft of any hair, he must have been well into his fifties. From the look of him, I would have guessed he easily weighed in at around twenty–five stone (don’t ask me what that is in ‘Kilo's’, but I think you get the idea). He adored dressing in pastels. I guess that he must have been a frustrated drag queen because he ‘Marilyn Monroe’d’ it constantly. He was very good at it but on such a large man, it was not a pretty sight. He loved being ‘fisted’. After many decades of this strange quirk, his backside was so tight, it required two (or sometimes even three) boy’s thin arms up him to give him any sort of satisfaction. Once, I found myself trapped into going along with a fellow game boy and was horrified; yet fascinated at what went on. With both our hands, wrists and forearms inside our groaning client, we decided to hold hands. The resulting extra bulk must have done something for ‘Big Julie’ let out a great gasp of pleasure and sprayed everyone with cum. In an act of mild revenge, with our hands still locked together, we simultaneously extricated our vanished limbs. ‘Big Julie’ gave out a great roar. To this day I don’t know if it was a roar of pain, pleasure or a combination of the two. I think we must have done something to upset her because it was our sole encounter – and it was quite enough for me! Naturally, on occasion, one expects to feel inadequate by the size of one's cock, but never by the size of one’s arm!
“Taking any reinforcements?”
“Skip and Fallon.” Skip and Fallon were two guys who would only work as a pair. Many punters had tried to split them up but, as far as I knew, no one had ever succeeded. Skip was short, blonde, camp and quiet, whilst Fallon was tall, dark, masculine and loud. Working as a duet, they did rather well. Men found the contrast irresistible. “How about you? Who's your next?”
“One of my regulars; Freddie,” I informed him. “The cash is good, but takes his guilt out on me.”
“Oh, yes. I know him.” I had the feeling Josh was playing for time. “Tall guy – bushy eyebrows. Always farts when he cums and loses his temper as he’s mopping up.”
"That's him," I nodded.
We serviced many straight men that came to us to get what their wives were reluctant to give – usually in the form of blowjobs. After their rocks had been satisfied, quite a number became verbally abusive. We coped with this as we considered it part of the job. I suppose they resented having to pay a young man to do what they believed their conjugal rights should have automatically included. It seems, because we were being paid, they felt they had the freedom to openly insult and belittle us for their own weaknesses. It was almost as if these insults were part of the all–inclusive price. For this type of trick, there was open season on rents. The majority preferred, merely, to get their kicks by haranguing us but a few became violent. I was lucky and escaped any contact with this latter type. On the rare times when I was physically threatened, I managed to avoid danger by running away at top speed. The description of these physical types quickly circulated amongst the rest of the rents and the guilty punters soon found their circle of possibilities greatly reduced. They had to make do with ‘The Temps’ – more mashed faces and bruised ribs for the amateurs. Why didn’t they set up a network, I thought for the umpteenth time?
“You know the type,” I said. Josh nodded. “And I'm not particularly looking forward to it.”
Surveying the café, I caught the eye of a woman who was sitting alone at a table by the counter. She smiled. I was so startled – I smiled back.
Hawk–eyed Josh spotted my smile. “Who is it?” he asked.
“I don't know.” I was curious.
“What? Er – no. Yes. I don’t know!”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got to go now, anyway.” He downed his drink, stood and headed towards the door. “Give her one from me, eh, Carl?” This passing shot was loud enough for the whole coffee bar to hear.
Renata squawked and clashed some saucers. “Eiyeh, eiyeh, what all–a dees noiyz?” Josh blew her an extravagant kiss. As usual, when we made a fuss of her, she went all silly. “Oh, you bad leetle boiz,” she giggled.
I cringed and cursed under my breath as he went out of the door with a huge, knowing grin on his face. Was the woman offended? I looked over to see. She was paying her bill at the counter. I continued to stare. As I watched her leave, we exchanged significant looks as she closed the door behind her. She began walking away, but the window of the shop next door diverted her attention. I knew it sold building materials so it was obvious that she was treading water. When she looked back towards the café I quickly got up, paid my (and Josh’s) bill and went outside into stabbing sunlight. She smiled at me and began to saunter down the street. I followed. Her meandering step had a confident swagger. I judged her to be in her late twenties. There was nothing about her that particularly attracted me but, being young, my curiosity knew no bounds. What was she after? Did she have a thing for pubescent boys? Or did she think me older than I was? Hardly. I could easily pass for thirteen – perhaps even a little younger. We continued to play ‘follow–my–leader’ for about a quarter of an hour. She’d stop and look in a window and I would either become fascinated by a matchstick on the pavement or have to tighten my shoelaces for the twentieth time. For me, this reticence wasn't normal, but I was unsure what to do. Picking up men – no problem – a doddle – but here was a new horizon.