Street Kid Page 7

  Without knowing the place too well, the town centre called. That very night I decided, on the following weekend, I would broaden my horizons. Yes, I would try pastures new.

  For the second time in my life, I had great difficulty in concentrating on my schoolwork. Even a poster design I was supposed to produce for the school’s sport’s day was neglected; much to the exasperation of the PE teacher. The week dragged by. I had a few clients booked, so that helped in passing the time a little.

  Finally! The Great Day! Saturday morning had decided to stop being coy and arrive – about time, too! I waited until my mother had banged shut the front door as she left for work. After, I scrambled out of bed, bathed, put on my school uniform and made for the bus stop.

  The journey to the town centre took another eternity. The bus was full of early morning shoppers who, annoyingly, wanted to get on and off at every stop. As we came to the fateful bus stop, I noticed there was a middle–aged bloke who, I think, was giving me the eye. Ignoring it, I alighted. Bigger game awaited my attention.

  In my rather parochial experience, the town centre was a relatively uncharted landscape. Rare shopping visits with my mother and the regular, childhood excursions to the ‘News Theatre’ with my father constituted my complete knowledge of the place. All these trips were strictly routed on the main roads so the side streets were a total mystery.

  As the week had gone by, the clarity of Stewart’s detailed directions had become rather confused. Why hadn’t I written them down as soon as I had gone to my bedroom? I took various turnings I could have sworn he mentioned and found myself in the middle of a very public square. It must have been used as a major cut–through to the shopping centre because all I could see were shoppers and businessmen–types. There wasn’t so much as a whiff of my species. I grunted and retraced my steps. On the way back to the bus stop, I passed some promising looking side streets. Each of them I duly explored and each proved a fruitless, barren dead–end. I finally exhausted these little by–ways and I arrived back at my initial alighting place in a very muddled state of mind. It appeared the determination I felt to find my destination was being thwarted at every turn. ‘Ah, well,’ I muttered to myself. I’d try a few more times then, if it all came to naught, there was every possibility that, sooner or later, I would see Stewart again. I could ask for clearer directions, or, ask him to draw me a map – or – better still, offer to come down with me. I had the feeling he liked me so I could use that to wheedle out of him what I wanted. Back at the bus stop, I was debating with myself over which new vista looked the most promising, when another bus pulled up at the stop.

  A small, gorgeous flock of Birds of Paradise, dressed in their finest feathers, posed on the open platform of the bus. I was transfixed.

  “Come on, girls,” shrieked one, “it’s time to go to work. Mabel, you just put that tired, wrinkled old thing away and get your great, fat arse down here.”

  Off flounced four spectacularly dressed lads who loudly sought to embarrass anyone who looked disgustedly in their direction. “Just use your imagination, dearie, because you certainly couldn’t afford our prices.” This was aimed at a particularly po–faced office worker.

  Another red faced, fat man had – “Shit! Look, sweetheart, my nail varnish has gone and chipped, could I borrow some of yours, honey?” tossed at him. The rest of the passengers shifted uneasily in their seats; sniffed and grimaced in humiliation as the boys giggled loudly and alighted.

  I received a withering squint from another of them. I looked hastily away in case they decided to single me out for another of their verbal attacks. They didn’t. Instead, they floated off down a nearby alleyway, one that had escaped my quest. Undeterred and like a dog that had just scented four rampant bitches on heat, I followed.

  I soon discovered I was lurching into a world I thought only existed in fiction. Houses and other signs of habitation became progressively less and less. Blackened warehouses, sinister pubs and overgrown bombsites replaced the more busy thoroughfares.

  I stared around as I walked, trying to memorise landmarks as reference for any future return visit. There was also another reason for this detailed scrutiny – I had to get back to the bus stop.

  “And what’s a little boy like you doing, slumming in the man’s world like this?” I jumped. I had been so busy trying to log the data of my journey, I hadn’t noticed the boys had stopped and formed an impenetrable line across the pathway and were confronting me. They obviously delighted in my confusion. I stuttered and stammered something pretty incomprehensible. Beside these exuberant fillies, I felt conspicuously drab.

  They smelled of rather expensive after–shave (at least, I thought it was rather expensive). I could also swear there were slight traces of makeup on some of their faces. As I was wearing my ubiquitous school uniform, I felt like a party pooper at a fancy dress ball. They were daring to wear bright colours – in the street – at a time when even the wearing of jeans in public was considered fairly outrageous. I shuffled my feet and cleared my throat, deciding whether to hold my ground or run like the clappers.

  “Oh ho, competition, me thinks,” one of them whispered loudly to another, “It seems our bus stop butterfly is seeking gainful employment.”

  “It certainly looks that way.” In unison, they folded their arms and stared at me. There was a tense silence. I knew I had to say something.

  “Um – what’s the going rate ’round ’ere?” I ventured.

  “For what?” came a knowing reply from a tall young man who was slightly older than the rest. He was wearing a revealingly tight pair of bright red trousers.

  “For what you’re here for.” I managed to stutter.

  “And what is that?”

  More knowing looks were liberally exchanged and Red Trousers took a step towards me. Instinctively, I took a step back. “All right, you slags, I’ll take care of this. You go on, find a perch. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “Oh, that’s absolutely bloody typical. Trust you to be the one to first break him in,” complained a dark–haired young man. “’Ere, watch your cherry, dearie.” He stroked the side of my face then ushered the rest down a side lane. I could still hear their high–pitched screams and giggles long after they had disappeared from sight.

  Neither Red Trousers nor I moved. He looked directly into my eye and I stared at the pavement in acute discomfiture. I began to feel extremely nervous – especially when he performed a slow circumnavigation around me and eyed me up and down as if I were a statue he was thinking of purchasing. “Hmm!” he finally managed. “I hope you’re a virgin. If you’re not – for fucksake, don’t let on and you should do well.”

  “I don’t mean to be a nuisance,” I mumbled, not being entirely sure what I meant by it.

  He suddenly smiled and extended a hand for me to shake. “I’m Andy, also known as Handy Andy. Randy Handy Andy, even.”

  “Carl,” I blurted. I wasn’t used to shaking hands with people and I rather enjoyed the novelty.

  “Carl?” He raised one eyebrow in approval. “Sounds good and foreign. I haven’t seen you around before. New?” I nodded. “Thought so.” I was still trying to assess what was going on. He appeared genuine enough, but I had already learned not to take everything at face value. “Ah. Sweet. Playing it shy and dumb are we? Eh? Well, that’s good. Very good! You should do well with that.”

  “Sorry.” I really didn’t know what else to say.

  “Don’t be. Come on, let’s show you some ropes – and I don’t mean the bondage kind.”

  We ambled down the same track the others had followed and we talked as we went. Actually, that’s not strictly true. He talked – I listened. He was funny, mercilessly mocking himself and the life he was leading with a devastating honesty.

  Andy, I soon discovered was nineteen and married. He had a baby girl and selling sex was the way he chose to earn his living. I wasn’t sure whether I should believe him or not but later, I was to discover that he was utterly
incapable of telling a lie.

  After about five minutes, we came to a bombed out church. My companion clambered over the smashed masonry and indicated for me to follow. I held back as I felt a little uneasy.

  He smiled. “Don’t worry, you’re safe. I’m not going to rape you. Contrary to what those silly queens might have led you to believe – generally, guys don’t interest me. I go for fat wallets over fat cocks.” He disappeared out of sight behind a standing piece of wall. I followed, making sure I had a quick line of escape should the occasion demand. As I turned the corner of the wall, I saw that he was sitting on an old chunk of carved stone that had been shattered by a bomb. Its contours helped to serve as a comfortable seat. He patted a place beside him. I hesitated and stayed where I was. I could still make a getaway before he could stumble over to where I stood.

  In the half–light of that gutted church, Andy’s face looked older – harder. I could see he was still fairly young but there was a quality to his skin, a sort of pallor, which, thinking back, a good dose of skin moisturiser might have helped to contain. What his face lacked in cosmetic attention, his hair more than compensated. It was medium brown, floppy and slightly wild. He wore clothes, which showed off his well–formed body and, as I said before, he sported a pair of trousers, which showed off everything else. He wasn’t as tall as I’d first supposed – about five ten but, because of the overall effect of his clothes and general demeanour, he looked a good six one or two. All in all a handsome, rugged lad who was showing signs of getting a little past his ‘sell by date’.

  For about the next half–hour, Andy volunteered to be my Guardian Angel. As he talked, I began to warm to him. I quickly picked up the fact that he could be trusted and I adored his sense of humour.

  I often wonder whether I would have survived my teenage years if it hadn’t been for that chance meeting. Had I found the meat rack myself, what might have been my fate? Later, I saw other young lads drift into this red light world and watched them end up a total mess – or dead. I could have been among their numbers – but for Andy. I can never repay the debt I owe him even if, at the time, I had no idea from what that chance meeting saved me.

  My newest companion promised, “I’ll stick by you kid and get you some easy tricks ’til you get used to the set–up, it might be helpful.” He further offered to introduce me to some of the other rents that could be trusted to ensure little harm would come to me. I suppose he became a sort of benevolent pimp who wanted nothing in return except a promise to assist him in making money by involving him in any threesomes which might happen to come along.

  At nineteen Andy was getting a bit too old for the rent game. Each month brought newer, younger and fresher bodies to the racks for the delectation of potential clients. That’s what most men really sought out. Many demanded a new piece of meat each time they wanted a partner. Others were merely content with boys and/or youths on a regular basis. But even these liked a little variety. Andy had been on the game since he was twelve and most of the punters had had him at least once. He was old hat and, as I have said, was showing signs of wear around the edges. As his scores began to dry up, he was becoming bored with the whole scene. Worry kept him working as he had more than his own mouth to feed. In me he saw a chance to shine once more. Later, we were often to become a package deal.

  Any lingering reservations about Andy were evaporating by the second. Very soon they vanished altogether and we ended up sitting side by side in that decimated place of worship having an impromptu master–class on the sale of sex. The acolyte sat beside his Guru and became highly excited at the prospect of his new life. The sort of money I could earn (and should always expect and demand) made my eyes spin.

  My natural scepticism still nagged a little in my brain. Was it all a con? ‘What the hell,’ I thought, ‘be happy to go along with it and see what the scene is all about. After all, I needn’t ever come down here again if I don’t want to.’

  It was midday by the time we left our refuge and Andy guided me on my Magical Mystery Tour. After about five minutes walking, the closed–in alley opened onto a small, overgrown square that looked as though it had once been a pleasant residential enclave for the professional well to do’s but had suffered heavy damage by a stray bomb that had missed its obvious target; the docks. There was a park – of sorts – in the middle and at one end of the square, a monster of a public lavatory which had somehow managed to survive the blast. The whole place should have been deserted, but it wasn’t. About twenty cars were parked on the unkempt road and on various bits of waste ground. Some thirty young men and boys were talking loudly to one another but quietly to the older men who promenaded around the perimeter of the ‘park’. I watched a steady stream of people going in and out of the toilet. It was all bustle and aimlessly purposeful. I realised Andy, modelling a huge grin, was benevolently watching my every expression.

  “Home, sweet home,” he announced.

  “Oh shit!” I involuntarily exclaimed. Talk about an instant revelation. I didn’t suspect such places existed. Andy had given me the best present I could possibly receive.

  Now I could really begin taking revenge on my father as Andy declared, “Welcome to Hell!”

  ‘Hell’

  ‘Hell’, I quickly discovered, was the name the temporary inhabitants branded this strange oasis of pleasure. As we walked the boundaries, various tricks and treats hailed my new friend. Handy Andy greeted each with a grin, a wave or a sneer. Whilst all this was happening, he held a running commentary on every one of the exhibits, telling me who was hiring, who was for hire, who was safe and, more importantly, who to avoid like the plague.

  When we had done, I noticed that, not with a little apprehension, Andy was leading me toward the small group of boys whom I recognised to be his original companions. As we approached they openly and unanimously eyed me with contempt. “This is Carl,” he told them, “and put yer claws away. He’s all right!”

  “If you say so, Hon’,” arched a young, camp, continental looking lad who went under the name of Paolo. “Butch, bitch or anything goes?” For a moment, Andy ignored the question. “Oh, come on Andy; don’t tell me you haven’t had him already! I shan’t believe you.”

  “I wouldn’t know, dear,” Andy replied, “some of us have learned not to see everyone as a potential fuck–machine.” This was received with hoots of derision.

  “Oh yes? Then what kept you? You certainly took your time getting here! Found some interesting bits of nature study to pass the time, did we?”

  “We were talking, weren’t we Carl?” Although Andy was denying anything untoward had happened between us, he somehow managed to convey there was something going on but he wasn’t prepared to divulge what.

  Confused, but not wishing to offend my older compatriot, I nodded dutifully. The banter’s attempt to hold my attention failed badly as the comings and goings at the public lavatory gripped my curiosity.

  “She’s not backwards in coming forwards, is she?” said another of the boys, “‘Hell’, my dear, has a unique attraction – the cottage! Andy, you must take him down there. Jacko’s in residence – it’ll give young Carl ’ere a bit of an eye opener.”

  “But is she up to it?” asked Paolo.

  Andy looked at me and smirked. I didn’t like that smirk. He winked. I didn’t like that wink much either. “Don’t look so worried.” He then addressed the others. “How many so far?”

  “How many pebbles are there on the beach? Who can count?!” answered Paolo. “Well, go on. What are you waiting for? Show him!”

  Andy turned to me, “Are you ready for this?” I shrugged and nodded. Although I felt totally out of my depth, I had a solid determination to fit in as best I could.

  Handy Andy started to walk towards the toilet and beckoned for me to follow. Again, like the obedient spaniel, I did.

  As we entered the vast, shadowy and unlit building, I stopped in my tracks. This wasn’t from any scene which I had unexpectedly espied, no, my eyes
were yet to adjust to the gloom; it was the acrid stink which almost made me gag and retch. Talk about rank. Andy pulled me into the main area of the toilet and indicated for me to keep quiet. I was faced with a queue of about fifteen men, ranging in age from the mid–thirties to one old man who must have been well into his eighties. They looked for all the world as if they were patiently waiting in a shopping line to pay for their packets of frozen peas. Disturbingly, I was reminded of my school friends who, waiting to be serviced, had stood in like fashion outside that room at my local railway station. This peaceful line snaked into one of the lock–ups whose door was open. I was about to ask Andy a question when he put his finger to his lips and signalled for me to sidle over and look into the cubicle. As we moved to a better vantage point, a few of the men gave us the ‘once over’. They appeared to be having an internal debate as to whether they should give up on their current plan of action and pursue us instead. Andy decided their action for them by throwing a well–known two–fingered salute.

  When I had moved far enough into the loo so that the front of the queue was visible, I didn’t know whether to smile or be sick. A young lad of about fifteen or sixteen, whom I took to be Jacko, was kneeling on the floor and leaning over the toilet bowl. As he calmly smoked a cigarette, he stared, unseeing at the graffiti splattered wall, which loomed a foot in front of him. At the moment, he was receiving a desultory shafting from a man who looked old enough to be his great, great grandfather. The labouring screwer was also kneeling on the stone floor. From his groans, I can only surmise that, as he performed, his joints must have been giving him gyp. It didn’t seem to deter him too much as he puffed and wheezed his way to a never to be reached but fervently desired climax.

  The guy, whose turn came next, tapped the struggling ancient on the shoulder, “I should give up if I were you, old man,” he remarked, not unkindly. I assume the old man must have exceeded his allotted time. With a grunt of resignation, Methuselah withdrew his barely erect cock and was gently helped to his feet by the first couple of members of the queue. On the floor, beside the toilet was a battered old OXO tin filled with money. The next person took a step forward, lowered his trousers, knelt on the floor and adjusted Jacko’s position to suit his own particular angle before ramming his swelling cock deep into the unflinching boy’s backside. The old man dropped a couple of pound notes into the container. He didn’t look for change. As the boy received a more efficient banging from his next client, the old man shuffled out of the lock up and made, painfully for the exit. Apart from the slapping of abdomen on buttocks, everything was done in silence. The whole queue moved forward one place and Jacko smoked on. Andy and I left just as two other men entered and joined the back of the queue.