Street Kid Read online

  When we returned to our spot, Andy’s companions had split up and only Paolo remained. “Well?” he raised his eyebrows in expectation. “What d’you think?” I could no longer contain myself. Exploding with laughter, I collapsed in hysterics. I don’t think it was humour that drove my amusement but nerves.

  “Doesn’t this place ever get raided?” I asked.

  Paolo exchanged looks with a man who must have been in his forties and, after excusing himself, followed him towards one of the wrecked buildings which nature was trying to reclaim with brambles and shrubs. Andy continued his instructions.

  “Yes, sometimes. Although, ‘Lily’ tends to leave the place to its own devices. At least we’re all in the one area and we don’t bother anyone. Anyway, some of the coppers are our best clients.”

  “What?” I gulped.

  “Oh yes. You get all sorts. See that guy over there, chatting up Paolo? Professional wrestler – likes to be called ‘Janet’! You’ll see.” He paused to let this sink in. “By the way, there’s an unwritten law in this game. If you see ‘Lily Law’ on the prowl, whistle – let everyone know. Many’s the time a compromising position has been saved from prosecution because of a colleague’s vigilance.” I must have looked sceptical because he continued, “Join in with it, chum. We all work together to protect each other. You save others and they’ll save you.” I nodded.

  “Cor, it’s like some sort of special club, isn’t it?” I felt I was being invited to join a secret world where there were ‘in’ members and ‘out’ plebs. Unless I was very much mistaken, I was being gleaned for an ‘in’.

  “Extremely special – and don’t you forget it!” Suitably chastened, I lapsed into silence for a while. The parade in the square continued. “Pardon me for asking – but do you shoot your load every time?”

  His directness made me shiver. “Well, er – yes,” I confessed. “Shouldn’t I?”

  “Should you buggery!! If you service them first – get them to cum, then, in most cases, you won’t have to. Take Jacko – and I don’t mean literally, he’s satisfying all these guys and he never cums. Mind you, in his case, it does help that he’s got an arse like a reservoir. I’d love to know how he manages to retain all that spunk. Colonic Irrigation gone mad, I’d call it! I dread to think what it’s like when his dam breaks?” He set about musing over this particularly unsavoury image. Once again, I shivered.

  “But some of them like to watch me shoot,” I whined.

  “I know, I know. Most do. But you must learn to fake it.”

  “How? They’ll be able to see.”

  “Well, in that case, just say that you’ve already wanked yourself off today – twice. Or, if that fails – and even better, say you’ve just cum in a sixteen–year–old’s mouth. The thought of your little willy shooting down another boy’s throat does their imaginations the power of good. You’ll find most of them won’t mind. What they’re after is the noise of ecstasy – which is what really turns them on. Sound like they’re giving you the best blowjob of your life and they could pay you double. Plus, and this is the point, you won’t have spilled a drop so you’ll be ready for other clients. More cash!”

  Paolo returned alone. He looked in a bad mood. Deliberately plonking himself down with Andy between us he spat out, “Huh! Talk about speedy!”

  Andy looked surprised. “Now what’s the matter, sweetie?”

  “She wants the boy.” Paolo wouldn’t look at me but he jerked his head in my direction to underline the cause of his discontentment.

  “Well, you’re certainly an instant hit, eh Carl?” He then turned back to Paolo. “Is it still ‘The Mauler’?” He must have been talking about the wrestler.

  “Nah. Another one.” Paolo scanned the square, looking for his next client. “He’s waiting in there.” He stabbed the air in the general direction of a fairly undamaged three–story building.

  “Safe?”

  “Safe? I’ll say. If you only mouth ‘Boo’, he’ll have a heart attack.” He was still refusing to look at me.

  “Oh Paolo, my precious. Don’t be such a bad loser, you stupid queen.” He gave Paolo a friendly nudge then looked back at me. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go on. Your beau awaits.” I stood up and started an uncertain walk towards the ruin that Paolo had grudgingly indicated. “Oh, and Carl,” I turned. “Talk terms first. And don’t undercut the rest of us. Don’t let the bastard do anything for less than a fiver.”

  “Okay.” I tried to sound bright and happy – nonchalant. Inside, my nerves were shaking my guts about like a pair of Jack Russells fighting over a favourite toy. I had serviced men before – many – but it felt as though this was my first. I steeled myself and walked towards my Rubicon. Thus I crossed it and took my first step into the big time.

  In that bombed damaged building, precious little happened. The diminutive man refused to talk terms – in fact he refused to talk at all. Payment, obviously, came after he’d got his way. I had already encountered this type of client before. Against Andy’s advice, I trusted him. If it was going to be a session for free, I didn’t mind, as it was my payment for what I could get later. He stood me against a blackened fireplace and did all the work. I leaned down to feel him but he pushed my hand away. He didn’t want to be touched. He didn’t want to go too far. Whilst he licked, nibbled and sucked on my cock and balls, he jerked himself off. After he’d cum and without bothering to find out if I wanted to finish, he dressed himself and dug out a lady’s purse (!). I suppose the whole encounter must have taken about a quarter of an hour. He offered me ten pounds.

  “I don’t have any change,” I said. Talk about a greenhorn! By the way he looked at me; he must have thought I was taking the piss.

  “I don’t want any,” he murmured. This was the first time he’d spoken. “It’s all for my little baby – to buy himself some treats. I’ll bet my little boy loves his treats.” Treats! Ugh! He didn’t wait for a response but hurriedly stumbled back out into the open square, leaving me to pocket my wages.

  TREATS?!! The ghost of my father loomed into my mind. That treat of a few chocolate bars, used as a bribe, now looked puny against the ten pounds I’d just received. If my father wanted to recommence his ‘bit of fun’, at my current scale of charges, he’d probably go broke. I loved the irony of it all. Don’t get me wrong, at my age, I didn’t know what irony was, but I enjoyed the one–up–man–ship.

  I wandered back to Andy. He and Paolo had been joined by another of the ‘Good Companions’ called Sandy who’d just returned after enjoying an encounter of his own.

  Andy smiled, “How did you do?”

  “Ten pounds,” I murmured.

  Paolo nearly fell of his seat. “What? What did you say? How much? Ten? I don’t fucking believe it! The bastard, fucking, arsehole bandit!” he exploded, “He told me if you said ‘no’, he’d pay me a fiver.”

  I felt humiliated. This was not starting out too well. I was making an enemy of Paolo – and it was only the first hour of my first day.

  “Paolo, stop being so silly,” consoled Andy.

  Sandy joined in. “I promise, my next trick – you can have.”

  Paolo tried to shrug off their comforting arms, but couldn’t. Sandy and Andy began an over–the–top concern for his loss. Soon, with their mixture of mockery and humour, they placated the irate Paolo. It wasn’t long before any resentment he must have felt for me disappeared. He was beginning to give me a chance. I think he was starting to accept me as a novice member of their gang. Friendships, I soon discovered, could easily be built, broken and re–built with great rapidity.

  After a couple more uncomplicated rendezvous with tricks, the time came for me to leave. Andy escorted me to the bus stop and made me promise I would look him up the following Saturday. I had every intention of keeping that promise.

  On my way home, I pondered my day. Even with my first, silent client, I had earned as much money in that one fifteen minute session as I did with most of my current locals
over two whole evenings. I realised, if I became involved with the townies, I would be able to drop the less lucrative weekend tricks I’d so far collected.

  The following Saturday I kept my promise and returned to ‘Hell’. Andy greeted me like a long lost brother. Until I saw him, I didn’t realise how much I’d missed him. In his company I felt safe and content. I was needed for myself. His natural warmth pervaded everyone he met. And, he was the perfect guide. He pointed out the pimps and the other more dubious characters that preyed on young and inexperienced boys (and girls as well, I suppose).

  He instilled in me a sense of comradeship. I learned how important it was to look out for one another. It was imperative to keep tabs on each other – to let them know where we went and with whom. This was designed to protect us from the sadistic punters who were liable to hurt, maim or beat up their pick–ups.

  For the moment, I merely took on board all he said, but it wasn’t long before I realised the true wisdom of his advice.

  I was feeling a comradeship I’d never felt before. For one of the first times in my life, I felt enormously happy.

  Stewart, the young man from the orgy who had first alerted me to the city’s possibilities, never appeared. Indeed, apart from that one time, I never saw him again. Perhaps he managed to save up enough money for his motorbike and had simply ridden off into the sunset. Who knows?

  Crisis Time

  Although I was a total novice as far as being a rent boy was concerned, at school I enjoyed my private, dual life. I had a secret. It gave me the confidence I lacked. I was earning more money in one week than most boys had seen in their entire lives. They still talked about losing their virginity but I was saying, ‘No,’ more often than they had beaten their meat.

  Unfortunately, with the late development in the confidence department, there was a distinct down side to the whole thing. My new personality’s arrogance knew no bounds. It manifested itself in a vile temper followed by belligerent sulking. I demanded to be taken seriously and, needless to say, I was not. Like the rent boys, there were those who were ‘in’ and those who were definitely ‘out’. In my school life, I was beginning to reflect the attitude of the meat rack. My school friends were pretty interchangeable. If I felt snubbed or was sufficiently flattered, I withheld or bestowed favours. I was becoming an insufferable snob. If I now met myself as I was then, I’d probably think, ‘What a little shit!’ However, I was soon to be brought down a peg or fifty.

  The only exception to this petty minded attitude towards my friends was Brian. I still clung to him and his parents as if they were my life belt. He was the one school friend I dreaded losing. Intimacy between us was rare and I never pushed it – and it was very much a case of when he wanted it. My dick had begun to fill out to man’s proportions and, as it was also happening to Brian, it soon became apparent that I was going to be a good deal longer and thicker than him. We delighted in attempting to massage him into growing to my proportions. It didn’t work, but a lot of body fluid was spilt in the attempt. The envelope which nestled in the bottom of his cupboard was beginning to bulge – I was worried for him in case he got into trouble. However, for the moment, though wide eyed, he didn’t complain.

  His parents must have realised that there was something desperately wrong with my personality, for they insisted on including me in many of their activities. Belatedly, they began to give me a childhood. I became more childish with them than I dare be with anyone else. Being the sort of people they were, they questioned nothing and accepted me for what I was – a crazy, mixed up kid. I now understood why Brian was such a warm person – he inherited his father’s sensitivity and his stepmother’s liberal attitude. They included me in a great many of their family outings and excursions and introduced me to the delights of waterskiing, squash and many other innocent pursuits. We would spend hours playing board games and cards. It was great. At all these pastimes, I was superbly and singularly inept, but they refused to put me down. They happily chortled away at my repeated failures, but always laughing with, and not at me.

  If I mentioned to my mother the good time I was enjoying with Brian’s family, she merely huffed, puffed and complained. “I think you’re spending too much time with them. It’s about time, my lad, you gave more thought to your own family than wasting it on people like that. It sounds like you’d rather waste more time with them, my son, than me.” If I mentioned too much of what we did, she became angry. “Oh, that Brian boy! That’s all you ever talk about. I don’t want to know.” Then she’d add the threat, “I don’t think it’s such a good idea for you to see him so often.” To his face, however, she was all charm. Her two–faced attitude angered and hurt me.

  I don’t suppose Brian’s family had any idea of what I was getting up to when I wasn’t with them. The wide eyed child they entertained was totally at odds with the knowing youth of the city.

  There were some occasional times when there was an early start on some mysterious expedition or other. His small home didn’t boast a spare room so Brian and I had to share his bed – a single. Need I say more? Naturally, my mother eventually decided to put a stop to all this. I was enjoying myself too much for my own health and her good.

  His family life filled me with happiness. I was being shown what I was missing with my own relations. It didn’t make me resentful. I was too delighted to feel anything like resentment. This surrogate family made me feel ecstatic (and that isn’t too strong a word). I couldn’t get enough of them – a happy, affectionate brood who, collectively, took me into their hearts and demanded nothing in return.

  This little oasis of filial love taught me a very good lesson. Up until I became involved in their select circle, the attitude I had been developing made me think I knew all about everything, No one could tell me anything I didn’t already know. I was entrenched in my own immature ideas, but Brian’s family refused to let me take myself too seriously. This might sound as if it was something I could easily assimilate – but it wasn’t. Any personal criticism, I dealt with by sulking and the many other tricks I had learned in order to get my own way. They, by their loving tuition, showed me I was being beautifully childish.

  None of this really gives a true, full picture of what they did for me. I don’t suppose they realised it themselves. They were too ‘full of the milk of human kindness’ to know. In my early teenage school life, time passed more pleasantly because of them.

  Time also passed in my secret life but not quite so pleasantly. I was becoming prey to feelings not solely anchored in sex. For the first time in my life, I had fallen helplessly in infatuation. I know it was a very naïve form, but it was hideously real to me and I coped badly. A boy had been transferred to our school from somewhere way down south. His family had moved to our area because of his parents’ work commitments. He was placed in our class. Yes, as soon as I saw Mark Billings, I wanted to get with him. At the start, I didn’t identify the emotions which were welling up inside me. All I knew was – I wanted to hang around with him. I couldn’t bear to be out of his company. I made it my business to become indispensable. We became close. The school sex games were in full swing but, much to my torment, he showed a distinct and complete lack of interest in joining in any of them. He didn’t condemn – he merely remained totally unaffected. We stayed friends throughout my school life. I anguished over him, spent money on him and generally made a perfect idiot of myself. I regularly cried myself to sleep for him. All was in vain as nothing ever happened between us. Typical! I think he knew that I was besotted but he never showed any sign of anything other than friendship. How often has this happened to me since? Too friggin’ often. Brian accepted this new person in my life with something akin to joy. At least I wasn’t pestering him all the time. I was sharing myself around and giving him a well–earned rest.

  The other safety valve which was to become more and more important to me was my growing love for the world of the arts. This love has become stronger and deeper with each passing year. It acted as a f
oil to the earthy life from which I made my money. It became a stabilising power to ‘sooth the savage breast’.

  Other valves were theatre, literature and music – classical and, of course, my precious art. Since my earliest childhood I had been fascinated by ‘serious’ music and I loved the noise it made. The mysterious theatre was introduced by trips to the local pantomime. Colour and patterns of paintings held me spellbound and I adored the challenge of trying to recreate the work of the great masters. With literature, I read children’s stories and delighted at being transported into their imaginary worlds. As I grew to the ripe old age of fourteen, my tastes started to develop but they were still locked into the popular. From James onward, many of my clients were interested in one or more of the arts. This proved a useful way to broaden my love and understanding of the more obscure creative souls. Once various clients realised this interest of mine was genuine, they took pleasure in teaching me what to see and hear. My tastes soon became more eclectic. I also believe my interest in the arts made many of my clients employ me more often than some of my fellows. They had someone who could share their love of ‘culture’ and could communicate as well as roll around in the sack: ‘companionship’ rather than merely disinterested sex.