My
Father’s Semen
by
Mykola Dementiuk
the disturbing story of a young man who seeks out his biological father only to be forced to survive the one way he knows how. This story will open your eyes to life on the streets of New York in the 1980s and will surprise you in the end.
published in Cruising for Bad Boys
STARbooks
Press 2009
Don’t
ever tell anybody anything! Absolutely goddamm right! The only
reason I was in New York is because I talked too much in Cincinnati.
Well, maybe not talked too much but certainly trusted too
much. And I had to get out because of jerk-off dream I showed my
asshole social worker, Ralph. It didn’t matter that I wrote down
the dream more than a year ago for this other social worker, Susan,
who told me that since I found it difficult and embarrassing to talk
about my masturbating fantasies, maybe if I wrote them down it would
be easier to talk about them later.
I
did, and felt like a dirty old man gaping at Hustler or Screw,
because the more I wrote the more I’d jerk-off…well, at
first…because as new images began appearing in my fantasies, new
scenarios and new contortions of legs around me, sudden twisting and
glimpses of tits and pussy, cocks and pubic hairs, I had to stop
jerking off and write down those new images or else I’d forget them
as soon as I wiped the scum off my hand and belly. So I spent a lot
of time jerking off, then stopping just to write that down, until I
was sure I gave myself a good case of aching blue balls until my
cuming was nothing but a weak ejaculation of frustration, disgust,
shame and anger.
This
guy Joey I knew had once told me that if you want someone to fall in
love with you all you had to do was jerk-off to images of them and
they’d certainly notice you, because it was just like a real dream
when you’re sleeping, Joey said, and when you tell someone you had
a dream about them they always look at you as if trying to recollect
a forgotten dream they had about you of their own. But if it’s true
someone is dreaming of you when you’re having a dream about them,
does that mean when you’re jerking-off and picturing someone
they’re about to have an ejaculation on an image of you as well?
That’s what had gotten me into therapy in the first place:
fantasies of people. Fantasies you can control, real people you
can’t; because what if real people are using you as a fantasy as
well?
I
often fantasized about Susan, and when she left the therapy center to
continue some schooling about six months later I wasn’t even
jerking off as much anymore, though I continued to bring her all
kinds of sex fantasies --I even think she got a kick from reading my
dirty fantasies, stories she called them.
When
she left I was assigned to this creepy other social worker, Ralph,
who knew from my file I wrote erotic fantasies for Susan and wanted
me to continue writing them for him. I hated the idea of having a man
therapist and told him, and refused to write him anything that might
be construed as a sexual fantasy. For Ralph? No way!
He
had some strange ideas about trust, as if trust is so easily
transferred from one social worker to another. Well, it isn’t; even
though from Susan I learned that trust is the basis of all
relationships --I used to like that phrase, she had used it at
the end of our first session-- the only thing I got from Ralph was
just the opposite, trust is the basis of all betrayal.
Fuck,
if I had known any of this back then I never would have shown Ralph
that old fantasy about the little girl raped and murdered and stuffed
into a trash can outside of Riverfront Stadium. I had never shown it
to Susan, but it really happened, almost a year ago. Well, the cops
caught the little girl’s killer, arresting her mother’s live-in
boyfriend who had left behind clues a mile long, or so they said.
At
the same time I was having daily sessions with Ralph, I also had to
meet with Mrs. Gillette, who was an almost-social worker; she
was the high school guidance counselor I had to see before they
kicked me out for chronic truancy, which meant I was headed for
reform school, jail for kids, in other words. I hadn’t been
to school in almost three months in my junior year and they had
suspended me anyway and were probably waiting after Christmas when
they could expel me for good and not feel bad about what they doing.
I had just turned sixteen, right after Thanksgiving, so I wasn’t
legally old enough to drop out of school on my own --dumb Ohio has
these worthless laws. I suppose Mrs. Gillette was their last recourse
at keeping me in school, I had run away a few times…I wonder if
they really knew how she kept boys in line and staying in school?
Good
thing was Mrs. Gillette didn’t talk much about my truancy or what
was I doing in all the free time I had but simply wanted to know if I
was as good a carpenter as I had proved myself to be in last year’s
shop class. Carpentry my ass! But the bitch was wearing low
cut blouses right after I began and even one day came to let me in
her house in a skirt and a black Wonderbra to make it seem
like I had interrupted her as she was getting dressed. But by then I
had proved myself as worthless in carpentry as I had been in mending
little motors in shop class. Where did these people get their ideas
about me? And the certificates Mrs. Gillette had up on her wall, as
did Ralph had on his, what did that prove? That they were potential
qualified police informants or they knew how to look respectable?
You’ll
do well, Mrs. Gillette simply said, smirking at me as I stared
bug-eyed at the low-cut bra holding her tits. And I started coming to
Mrs. Gillette’s house after school every Wednesday and Friday but
soon I was dropping by every day. Besides acting like I was a
carpenter I was doing other things as well. A wall needed plastering
and painting, the windows had to be washed and cleaned, the Christmas
tree had to be set up, and wouldn’t it be nice if I could pick up
the laundry and do the grocery shopping? It wasn’t long before I
became Mrs. Gillette’s servant. But that was the way of
becoming a family member, wasn’t it? I had never asked if
there was a Mr. Gillette (she had a ten year old daughter) divorced
or separated I didn’t know but it was a good feeling whenever I’d
go there, one that I looked forward too.
But
it was awkward when Mrs. Gillette started kissing me. I always turned
red-faced from that because I felt my hard-on spring up as if in
surprise, which it wasn’t, I was expecting that from her nearness.
At first it was on the cheek when I’d leave for the day, then on
the lips as I’d arrive the next day, until we would greet each
other in our arms as our tongues were probing and flitting each other
before she broke off giggling and wiping her lipstick off my face.
And
I suppose that’s when I started getting into trouble, when I
started imagining not only kissing Mrs. Gillette but fucking her as
well. Because isn’t that where all this hugging and kissing was
going and isn’t that what she wanted from her jack-of-all-trades,
a good old fashioned man-sized fucking?
One
Thursday afternoon, when Mrs. Gillette had a few drinks and was
feeling mellow --too mellow, I was certain-- she was in the kitchen
when I stepped in her daughter’s room going in for a measuring
ruler that her daughter had borrowed. The little girl’s clothes
were on the bed and chair, but what caught my eye was a
lavender-colored t-shirt that the cops said the killer-rapist had
ripped off the little girl.
I
fingered the soft t-shirt, than pawed it about --it felt lush and
very soft on my face. I lowered it and caressed my hard dick,
breathing in and out, when I saw Mrs. Gillette staring open-mouthed
at me.
I
knew it was over, and I shamefacedly left her house, undecided what
to do. Fortunately, she didn’t call the cops, but there was no
guarantee that she wouldn’t later. I just packed what little I
needed, and without a word to my grandmother was shrugging off
Cincinnati. It was two days before Christmas.
***
My
father lived in New York, ever since I was little, and I haven’t
seen him six or seven years. Every Christmas I’d get a card from
him with a check for a hundred dollars, I suppose it was his way of
saying, Don’t bother me until next Christmas! My mom I never
heard from; grandmother told me she was in San Francisco with her
lesbian lover. Oh, I said, and shrugged. Grandmother knew a
lot but didn’t say much.
The
station was packed with people coming and going, but I had to take a
nondescript seat and keep out of trouble. Wasn’t too long ago that
I got picked up in the Greyhound men’s room, doing nothing, but the
cops hauled me in anyway.
Cincinnati
has no claim to fame, besides Steve McQueen in Cincinnati Kid
which took place in New Orleans, and Loni Anderson in WKRP, a
TV show meant more to show off Loni’s tits then her acting ability.
And one time it was know as Porkapolis, before they changed the name
to Cincinnati, in honor to some local Indian chief lord, hell, do you
think people like to call their home a sty? Fuck off, Cincinnati, or
should I say, Oink! Oink!
I
only knew three things about New York: it was big, my father lived
there, and whatever Joey told me about it. He had been there a year
ago; having spent a week there, also running away from the therapy
clinic his parents put him in because he was gay. His parents were
rich enough to send a bounty hunter after him and he nabbed Joey
right in the back of the NYC bus station, on his knees, and sucking
cock in between two cars. Getting caught in the act was bad enough,
but before he nabbed Joey the bounty hunter snapped a Polaroid of
Joey sucking cock and which he used to blackmail Joey into giving him
blow jobs all the way back home to Cincinnati, or else he’d give
the photo’s to Joeys mom.
Which
he did anyway; an envelope full of photos of Joey, kneeling before
men, bent over to a standing man, sometimes sucking off one guy while
jerking off two others…And of course Joey’s mom never asked why
he hadn’t brought Joey home the first day he spotted him but took
an entire week to amass twenty rolls of pornographic photos of her
son or why there was a receipt among his bills for the Motel 6
outside of Cincinnati.
She
paid him 25 thousand dollars to bring me home so he could fuck me
right on her doorstep! Joey told me. No wonder he said it took
him six weeks to track down Sheila (our friend) in Reno; he
had her in a motel for a month, the bastard!
But
my grandmother wasn’t as rich as Joey’s parents so I knew no
bounty hunter or parent would come looking for me; but Ralph? Who
knew how the social worker would rat me off to his respectable pig
friends? Who knew what kind of all-points-bulletin would be issued on
me? Warning! Child Molester on the loose! Beware of dreamy-eyes
loners writing poetry! That’s him, he’s the one! So that’s
why I was headed to New York, instead of Chicago, which I had tried
three times before.
And
since that night and day I sat on the Greyhound bus playing out my
memories of Mrs. Gillette kissing me. I had never kissed a girl and
Mrs. Gillette was the first woman I kissed and liked it. There were
guys I had let kiss me, mostly faggot guys I’d meet and go off with
them for some dollars, but with Mrs. Gillette I felt I wasn’t doing
anything wrong, until the last moment, at least.
I
had no idea where I was going to stay once I got there; I had already
dished out $83.00 dollars from my father’s Christmas present and
had about fifteen bucks to live on. But I wasn’t worried, I had
seen all the movies, gazed in the books and magazines, and somehow
knew I could survive on the streets of New York, or at least try
doing it.
The
bus station in New York is immense, and it’s called the Port
Authority Building, it says so right in the front. And it stretches
for three blocks, in the 40s from 8th to 9th
avenues, and is, I guess, almost five stories high. You could
probably fit all the people of Cincinnati inside and still have room
for the nearby city of Paducah too.
When
my friend Joey ran away to New York two years ago he told me that for
the first two days he didn’t leave the building but survived on
food that people threw away as they rushed to catch buses taking them
out of town. But this time the cops were everywhere, and I’m sure
that that even Joey, with all his smudged biker tattoos, would
quickly be spotted as a loiterer and troublemaker.
There
was even more people on the street outside entering the station. It’s
as if everyone was leaving just as I arrived. But this was rush hour,
and nothing like the morning or afternoon drives in Cincinnati. I
pushed my way out of the station.
***
Just
as Joey had told me, 42nd street was lined with movie
theaters on both sides, but each theater was boarded up and shut, and
the marques, rather then showing off some future attractions, had
strange markings and readings which seemed like ominous
end-of-the-world-is-coming: Life in not a rehearsal…This is not
the end... I walked on, not knowing what any of them meant.
Joey
had told me he had survived in all-night porno theaters, where he
said he made money letting guys do him. The bad thing was when he
made what he thought was enough some black guys ripped him off in the
bathrooms or lobby or even right in the seats. 42nd street
was very dangerous, even though it looked pretty tame now. The street
looked like one of those Hollywood stage sets, when the actors and
directors all went home for the night, leaving the people to hurry
after them.
I
kept walking across 42nd, not knowing which was to turn on
7th avenue, up or down, so I crossed over and quickly
found myself on Broadway, where a few steps down, I read the strange
sounding Hotalings, an out-of-town newspaper store.
Unfortunately, they wanted a $1.25 for a Cincinnati paper, kept
behind the counter.
Try
the library, the store clerk suggested. Then shrugged and added,
They’re probably closed for Christmas.
Still,
I asked, Where is it?
Look
for lions in the street…he smirked, but I didn’t understand.
I
continued on 42nd street until I came to 5th
avenue. Of course, the lions that guarded the building were another
symbol of New York, as much as were the Statue of Liberty and the
Empire State Building. They always showed them in some movie of TV
show, either with birds sitting on them or Christmas wreaths around
their necks, which is just what they were wearing now and sitting
like sentinels to keep the ignorant and stupid out. That’s the kind
of library I’d be proud of entering, not that prison-looking piece
of shit in Cincinnati that practically had no books published before
1985, as if literature began with Tom Clancy, reached its shining
hour with Stephen King, and was slowly mellowing out with Anne Rice.
Oh, God!
It
was Susan who got me to admit I liked poetry, and brought me two
paperback books by Allen Ginsburg Howl and Kaddish. Man, were
they weird! But I loved them, reading each one and hoping she had
other book let me read. Before that I liked songs by Led Zeppelin,
Metallica, even Meatloaf, but since I couldn’t play any instrument
except air guitar I couldn’t really compose much music and quickly
forgot what gibberish I did compose.
I
had a NYC map, actually a NY Subway map I had ripped out of a NYC
phone book in the Cincinnati library, in my knapsack but I didn’t
care about the rest of the city, the boroughs, but only Manhattan
because it was easily laid out in a grid and most of the avenues and
streets were numbered in sequence and it would be impossible to get
lost as uptown meant high numbers and downtown meant the low-numbered
streets. Easy, no? Well, it wasn’t really all that simple, but I
felt good about where I was going, downtown, as if I’d been there
lots of times.
It’s
funny to walk in a strange city and feel that you fit right in, well,
I didn’t feel different I felt I belonged there. Looking at the
Empire State Building was beautiful and immense! It surged up to the
sky its top lit by red and white lights for Christmas that even shone
over the clouds and mist fogging atop the high building. As I kept
walking I kept turning around to look at the tower above me, like a
beacon landmark that even is I got lost would be my direction back
home.
***
The
streets eventually cleared of that mad crowd of people rushing
somewhere with packages and on the streets in the 20’s; I sometimes
walked for an entire block without anyone passing me by.
On
26th street I saw the dark bundles of trees and came upon
a park, which was probably my destination all along. Another
beautiful tower hung over the park, a clock tower also festooned in
bright red and white and green colors of Christmas, and I entered the
park as easily as I was entering the gay cruising parks of
Cincinnati. And it was just as easy and obvious as I had expected.
Just
like at home, I’m certain it was the same in New York, that people
who go into parks at night only go there because they’re up to
something or other. I went in because I was horny. With me getting
tired and getting horny are the same thing; I sometimes think one
leads to the other. The longer I stay up without any sleep, the
harder my dick gets and the more I jerk-off. I once went without any
sleep for four days and must off jerked-off at least 200 times before
I collapsed with exhaustion, but still holding my dick as I fell
asleep. So by the time I entered the park, after that long fifteen
hours bus ride to NY, my cock was itching for a good jerk-off
session. Plus I needed a place to stay.
My
eyes quickly got used to the darkness of the curving lanes of the
small park. The park was only a few blocks long and only one block
wide, but even as I entered I could make out the image of an
unmistakable shadow of someone standing against a fence by a tree, or
sitting on a bench, or two figures standing together, probably
discussing a price and where best to go and do the act.
I
stopped, took off my knapsack and dropped it on the ground. I leaned
against a fence and propped up my leg against a lower railing of the
fence. I felt pretty good, happy I was in NY, and even more happy
that I had gotten out of Cincinnati. They’d never find me here; no
one even knew I left. But I was sure the quack social worker Ralph
would tell the police I disappeared, probably to Chicago again. And I
was grateful the weather wasn’t too cold, not like they sometimes
showed of a frozen New York. I only had my Cincinnati Bengal’s
jacket, but even back home it was already too cold to wear.
I
looked up at the pretty tower; a little after 8. I wanted to take out
my notebook and write something about being in NY and standing below
a clock tower. I thought of Susan; I missed her a lot. Not only did
she show me that poetry didn’t have to rhyme, but that I could
write it too, without embarrassment.
I
must have been looking up at the clock tower and dreaming about Susan
when I next looked and saw one of those muted shadows inching closer
in my direction. My prick immediately grew hard, but I could hardly
make out his features in the park’s darkness, but he was short and
fat and most likely balding, with a slash of hair above his ears that
circled his head like a laurel crown, much like creepy Ralph.
I
always wondered about Ralph, whether was gay or not. That would have
been some betrayal on Susan’s part, wouldn’t it? When she told me
she’d be leaving the counseling center I asked that her replacement
be another woman. She said she couldn’t do that and her last day
there, told me that Ralph would take over and help me. I said, Yeah,
sure to myself and shook her hand and left.
I
looked at the Ralph-looking guy inching nearer and shifted off the
rail and raised my other leg up behind me, sitting on the top rail of
the fence and dangling my free leg, as the Ralph-looking guy stood
and watched.
There
is always a kind of wariness in the approach of a pick-up; a kind of
edginess and uncertain fear. With all the bullshit of the openness of
the gay movement people are still afraid of coming together. Or maybe
that’s what makes the coming together so interesting, that first
wariness of approaching or being approached by someone. It’s really
nothing but a dance, that one side has to show off to the other, just
like animals on those Nature shows on public television. I
once even got a hard-on looking on TV at one bird dancing and showing
his feathers to another bird that pretended she wasn’t impressed
until the first bird pounced on her and fucked her. Well, it’s no
different with people, whether some guys tried to impress some girl
in a bar, or an office, or on the street; his entire showiness is no
different: to fuck her.
And
just as I knew this Ralph-bird would, he slowly walked past me up the
lane, though keeping his eyes glued to my crotch and licking his
lips, first the lower lip, then the upper. I regret I wasn’t
wearing tighter pants, wishing I could show off some cock-bulge, but
my baggy jeans were the only ones I had.
Ralph
walked past me, then paused and leaned against the fence across from
me. I smiled, but as he stood leaning against the fence in an unlit
part of the path I couldn’t see if he smiled back, but I certainly
saw his arm and fingers gesturing I come closer to him.
I
looked up and down the path, then pushed myself off the fence, picked
up my bag and went to Ralph.
He
was even more uglier and bloated than I first imagined, his face
sprinkled with a sheen of sweat that even in the dimness of the dark
path gleamed like so much obscenity. But I suppose girls feel it all
the time when they walk down the street, and I too hated it when
someone looked at me in that rape-desperate, sex-lust kind of way
that only wanted my body, as if any body would do but since mine was
available might as well have it too. It’s as if my walking down the
street and looking as I did was simply for him to get his kicks off
me, as if I exist only for your pleasure and sickness.
Ralph’s
hand went to my crotch and squeezed. I gushed in air, pretending I
was as horny as him, and quickly raised an erection from his groping,
to which I suddenly ejaculated onto his hand feeling my hard dick
melting in my pants. Hell, I had been horny ever since I walked into
the park. But even with the ejaculation ripping apart my body I
remained still, as if nothing was happening, simply scratching my
face as if I had an itch in an attempt to hide and dispel the
contortions trying to get out.
I
learned a long time ago that in these park and street pick-ups no one
wants to see your pleasure; the entire point of anyone’s approach
is to get pleasure from you and never mind your getting any
from them. The few times I unknowingly allowed my ejaculations to
sweep visibly over me in shudders and contortions I was simply
dropped as my sexual partner walked away in disgust. It seemed that
my pleasure and satisfaction was an insult to them. And maybe it was:
no one enters a dark park looking for mutual sharing or pleasing
togetherness; it’s all a matter of selfish anonymity and
objectification. Like a john looking for an anonymous prostitute some
gay asshole prowling the park, or in movie balconies, is only looking
for a whore to please himself with. Men who just bought
themselves a hooker don’t expect her to show pleasure of any kind,
besides her usual sham groaning and sighing, so why should it be
different when some man attaches himself to me? Because it’s
probably the anonymous coldness of being a stranger, a stranger
clinging to you, that arouses a man with a prostitute more than any
kind of warmth or physical pleasure of being with you. I was very
good at not showing my feelings and emotions and Susan
notwithstanding, so why should I show a stranger how I felt?
The
Ralph-gay-guy looked up and down the path, and seeing it was
deserted, put his arms around my waist and pulled me to him. His
hands went under my jacket and up my back and we were face to face.
He smelled of heavy aftershave and I was repulsed by his avid sweaty
face. I slightly pulled back, but separated my legs in an attempt for
him not to think I was disgusted with him. I looked down and put one
foot on the bottom railing of the fence. I raised my arms and put
them on his shoulders, then raised my other foot and stood up, my
legs wrapped around him like a girl for fucking. He was panting and
gushing very heavily, clutching my back tighter to him.
I
started riding him, lowering and raising myself, in a dry hump mimic
of the real thing. Even through my loose baggy pants I could feel his
erection breached in his own pants and I knew he wasn’t far from an
ejaculation.
He
began kissing my neck; I knew he was aiming for my mouth and face but
I was able to raise myself up on the fence, too high for his lips to
reach my mouth. I hate it when men kiss me. Because it’s not a kiss
they lash onto me, but a desperate biting and sucking as if not only
trying to eat me and swallow me, but to devour my life and soul for
their fleeting lusts. Each kisser always leaves me with red bite
marks and brown suck marks as identity marks that signify I am
theirs, or was, for a brief insignificant lusting moment.
And
of course, in between the sucking kisses, there were the usual
clichés of, Ooo, baby! Ooo, honey! Ooo, sweetie! and the
stupid questions of You like it? Is Daddy good for you, baby? and
one he got stuck on and kept repeating like a dirge, What am I
doing to you? I kept reciting in monosyllables, Nice! and
Doing good, but I knew that’s not the answer he wanted as
his questions seemed get sterner and harsher, What am I doing to
you?
I
refused to say it; I didn’t want him to hear that he was fucking
me, and I didn’t want to chant, Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!
Because it was obvious that if we were naked his cock would be riding
up my ass and I would have to pretend to be screaming Harder, you
bastard! Harder, ooo! But with all the disgust his kissing
brought upon me, and my own stifled half-hearted ejaculation, I
suddenly didn’t want to give him any more pleasure. I suddenly
dropped my feet off the fence rail and slid down his body, pushing
myself off him at the same time.
No!
he squealed, gripping my crotch with one hand and reaching out
for me with the other. No! he yelped, squeezing the outline of
his dick in his pants, and I knew he was cuming.
It
was funny to watch him twisting and contorting, and I only felt a
vague curiosity at how long he would be out of control.
I
smirked, and at that moment he looked at me, and his own face,
skewered in that pleasurable contortion of pain and release, surged
with bitter hate at my smirking. I picked up my bag and slung it on
my shoulders.
You
mother-fucker! he grimaced, then doubled over at his ejaculation.
Faggot!
I simply said, and walked away from him.
Fucking
bastard! You fucking creep!
***
Tall
building skirt around the park, and as I walked, I began to like the
comfortable anonymity I felt myself to be in. But all of NY was huge
and you were like a tiny speck lost in the mystery.
On
23rd street, a tilted-like building rose up from the
island on which it stood, in the center of the avenue. Damn! I
couldn’t remember its name, shit!
I
looked down Broadway, took a few steps and looked down 5th.
The avenue seemed more broader and alive, as if there were some
people on it, but I only saw a few rushing by, and I took a step back
and looked down the smaller Broadway, seeming to weave its way down
in the darkness.
On
22nd street I decided to turn and walk a short block to
where I could be back on 5th avenue. Now when I think of
it, why wasn’t I bit more wary and alert? I saw the two black guys
coming but didn’t pay them any mind, seeing them separate on each
side of me to give me room to pass, or so I thought, and it happened
as suddenly as it usually does: an arm went around my neck as the guy
before me held a knife before my stomach. Fuck, I thought, I’m
being mugged!
I
felt the guy holding my neck search my back pockets as the guy before
me pawed inside my jacket and shirt looking for other pockets. He
pulled out the 10 and the few singles I had in my breast jacket
pocket and demanded where the rest of my money was. I mumbled I
don’t have any, hoping they didn’t see my lie and make me
take off my boots to reveal my last 20 dollar bill I had in my sock
--I had saved that from a time had hustled in Cincinnati. The guy
behind me grabbed my knapsack and tossed it to the guy in front, who
ripped it open and upturned my few clothes and notebook folder. He
rifled through my clothes, then kicked them, scattering them apart
and under a parked car.
He
ain’t got shit! the guy behind me said, slightly easing his
hold on my neck.
Mother-fucker!
the guy next to me cursed, kicking my notebook and scattering the
papers and my poems down the sidewalk.
I
knew they’d let my go, and I sighed, and that sigh suddenly enraged
the guy in front of me and he swung at me and hit the side of my
face, hard too. I saw lights and stars and sagged against the guy
holding me, who let go and I struck a parked car, tasting blood in my
mouth. The side of my face hurt and my eyes welled in tears. For a
moment, I caught my breath and saw the two black guys cursing and
laughing and walking away.
I
spat out blood and picked up a t-shirt and wiped my face. Good thing
there was no blood. As quick as I could, thinking they might come
back, I gathered a few poems and clothes, bending under a car to
retrieve the rest, walking away to get out of there. But a few blocks
away I realized I was walking uptown, the streets getting higher and
higher. I looked at the park across the way of a large avenue, but
turned and walked down a darkened street.
My
paranoia was alert and cumbersome, turning about every few steps I
took but not one person was in sight. Boy, 9 o’clock on
during Christmas week and nothing! I walked past what looked like
an empty huge parking lot, I’m sure that in the day it is filled
with cars and trucks. I made my way across it.
Against
the other end of the lot were the back yards of buildings, also tall
and reaching upwards, and I walked near them until I found one fence
that was falling down. I looked around, no one, and stepped in
through the fence. I was in back of a building; I took a few more
steps, the street was no longer visible from where I stood. I leaned
against the building and slumped downwards. Amazing what tension I
had been under but now I felt relief coming over me. I freed myself
of my knapsack and lowered my head, hoping the night wasn’t too
cold for me…
I
don’t know what awoke me, the clatter of a garbage truck on the
street, the light snow falling on my face, of some dream that
instantly vanished at my awakening. But it was still dark and I
didn’t know how long I had slept, a few minutes or a few hours. The
fire escapes above me had kept most of the snow from me, but little
mounds had gathered in the center of the crevice from the buildings
on either side of where I had slept and it was a lot colder than
before.
I
touched my face, a large bump was the side, and it felt twice as
large then before. Another truck clattered down the street, and I
heard shouts of people screaming and laughing at each other. It was
probably near dawn and I knew I wouldn’t sleep anymore.
I
sat up, my body sore and aching, as if I had been beaten all over,
instead of the side of my face. I wanted to take the 20 dollar bill
out of my boots but then didn’t. What if I saw the black guys
again? Would I recognize them? Would they recognize me? How many
people did they rob and beat in the night?
I
crawled out of my crevice and stepped into the parking lot. I walked
to the street and saw the sky in the east was dawning with a grayness
streaking in between the thick clouds above. I went to a parked car
and looked in a mirror. I suddenly snapped to attention, looking
around me for the two guys I imagined were close by. Everything was
now scary and I had to be alert. I scooped a handful of snow,
actually ice, from off a car, and suddenly jumped back. The car alarm
went off at my touch and wailed in a police siren mimic. I walked
away, gently wiping my sore face, the coldness felt crude but
refreshing. I gazed in the mirror of another car, slightly bending
over without touching the car. There were no distinguishing marks
that I’d been punched, just my usual morning tiredness.
I
crossed 5th avenue. The clock tower read 5:15. I had
fallen asleep around midnight, so at least I got about 5 hours of
sleep. Damn, I didn’t want to be seen crawling out of the crevice
in daylight. If the people who ran the parking lot saw me coming out
they’d seal up the hole in the fence I went in.
Once
more I started walking along to the park. A few people could be seen
now, holding cups of coffee and walking briskly. A Christmas tree
stood in the center of the big lawn and its lights shone brightly in
the gloomy snow-misted morning. The snow was letting up, but it was
very cold.
Other
figures were entering the park, also carrying coolers with their
lunch, hurrying to work, talking, laughing, each carrying a folded
newspaper under one arm as if that was a part of their working
uniform. I wished I had a job to go to; I wondered what kind of job
I’d have? Probably some bullshit…
I
walked out of the park and headed to 5th avenue. From my
mental image I had of the avenue I knew it would run into Washington
Square Park and Greenwich Village, where my father had his antique
store. Though my father never put his return address on his Christmas
cards to me it was easy to find it in my grandmother’s papers. He
had a shop in the Village and an apartment upstairs from the shop.
Most likely my appearance would be unwelcome in either place. Still,
this was the first year my father had actually penned something in
his card besides his printed name. Merry Christmas, Dad, he
wrote, and my grandmother was very pleased by that. He’s trying,
she said. Would he try enough to reach out me?
It
being a Saturday morning, besides the workers I saw in the park,
there weren’t that many people on the streets and as I walked down
5th avenue my steps were the first ones to crack through
the crisp iciness of the fresh snowfall.
On
17th street, as I had seen a truck do on 19th
street and 20th, as it was probably doing down the avenue,
making stops at each deli and restaurant and taking delivery bags
into the cafes, if they wee open, or attaching a bag to the gated
front. At most of the open stops the driver made 2 or 3 trips back
and forth from his truck carrying large bags of rolls and flat boxes
of pastries. Though I knew it wasn’t happening, I imagined I could
smell the lush scent of fresh baked bread, the stunning warmness of
baked crullers and donuts and Danishes. My mouth quickly watered…
From
a block away I could see the driver jump out of his truck and tote a
large paper sack, attaching it to a fence covering the closed
restaurant, then jump back into his truck to make other deliveries
along the way. I slowed my pace, watching the truck slant its way
across the avenue, make another stop, then continue for about two
blocks then I saw him make a turn and disappear from the avenue.
I
looked behind me; it was the same as before: not a person in sight,
and only a few cars on the slippery avenue. I slowly walked against
the buildings and shuttered shops and reached the paper sack dangling
from the café/deli. The top of the sack was twisted shut and laced
with a hook-like wire which sealed the sack and let it dangle from
the front gate. I pulled a pen out of my jacket and stabbed the bag,
immediately piercing the paper, though careful not to rip it too
greedily and spill out the rolls and breadstuffs.
I
only wanted one roll, well, maybe two, and I was hungry for a
mouthful would’ve done; I hadn’t eaten in almost 30 hours, but
even when I had gone without food for 2 or 3 days I still didn’t
have that much to eat to recover. A bite or two, and I felt myself
coming to.
I
looked around me at the empty street and made a hole deep enough deep
enough to insert my hand a feel a roll, looking around me. I pulled
it out and immediately took a bite. It was delicious! I took another
bite, clutching the roll with my teeth, and pulled out another roll,
sticking it in pocket. I almost retrieved another roll but instead
lifted the bag off the fence and spun it round to conceal the ripped
hole, hanging it back on the fence.
I
quickly walked down the avenue, which I’m glad I did at that
moment: a police car slowly passed me with the driver cop looking
after me in his rear view mirror. Boy, if I had been seen eating the
rolls before the store they’d have certainly stopped and arrested
me. I didn’t have any ID and how fast they’d arrest me as a
runway I didn’t have to ask.
On
14th street I finally saw the famous Washington Square
Park Arch. I crossed the avenue, getting a clearer view of the arch
from the middle of the avenue, the overcast graying morning outlining
the Arch in crisp clarity against the buildings around it. A large
lit Christmas tree stood in the center of the Arch, and I hesitated
before I turned right on 12th street. I was on the street
where my father lived, but the numbers were very low and he was at
the 400’s.
The
quiet walking and the roll I had stolen revived me a bit, but now
that my hunger was appeased I felt sleepier than ever. I heard
laughter behind me and I turned to see a group of people coming out
of a building, the three men dressed in suits and loosened ties, and
the three women in open fur coats exposing their bare legs under very
short skirts. Must have been at a all night party, I thought.
And one of the men looked at me intently, probably wondering what I
was doing at the early hour, and I almost thought it was the
Ralph-guy from the previous night, his fat red balding head almost
like a replica of one who tried to kiss me last night. But the
eyeglasses that framed his face were like an attempt to mimic an
intellectual, and I smirked, thinking of Ralph mimicking the same.
What a fake! A woman next to him was clutching drunkenly to
him and giggling, and I knew his look was one of lustful craving and
I’m certain I could’ve had him except for the woman he was with.
That’s happened lots of times, a look, a gaze, and off I go after a
man attracted to me, or at least the opportunities of my hard dick.
The
bunch of them walked right into the street, ignoring the scattered
traffic and the men raised their arms and began screaming for taxies
that weren’t even there. It’s funny how rich people expect and
demand immediately whatever they want, like a taxi, even if no one is
in sight. A few of the couples strode out into 5th avenue
and started hailing non-existent taxis, but the man who had stared at
me clutched his date and started leading her drunkenly down 5th
avenue. The woman slipped a few times in the snowy ice but the man
clutching her to him turned a corner and disappeared. The other
couples didn’t even seem to notice that they had gone. But even in
that fleeting moment of looking after them in the distance I could
see the man’s free hand groping the drunken woman’s breasts. But
what had the man seen in me that made him look so long in
recognition? I’ll never know. I walked down 12th Street.
On
6th avenue I saw another clock tower standing a few blocks
away. It was now 5 minutes after 6 and I was tired but continued on
12th street. Snow wasn’t that bad, now that daylight was
coming, and I passed a few people on their morning walks for papers
and other goods, all bundled up and staring right through me.
Then
I saw it: Mata Hari, Art Deco Antiques, my father’s shop. I
stood and looked at it, biting my lower lip. He was cozy and warm
sleeping snuggled into a warm bed upstairs never knowing his son was
damp and cold on the street outside. I looked at the shuttered
windows of the three story building and wondered which was his. The
shop was enclosed by a gate but I could make out its smallness and
antique decorated window display. A lamp with a colored-glass shade
stood in one corner of the window, an old radio stood in the middle,
and a tall elegant female mannequin dressed in a long gown and
holding gloves stood at the other end.
I
never understood what people saw in these old things; it would make
sense if they had been alive when these objects were used, but some
of them were fifty or hundred years old. In Mrs. Gillette’s house,
one room was devoted to just such a display: a Biedermeyer sofa
reclined next to a Tiffany lamp which stood atop a little table,
which I’m sure had a name to it too. To me they looked like simple
old couches, lamps and tables. I immediately hated my father’s
shop. If Mrs. Gillette was a bitch because she possessed such
expensive objects and always suspected everyone for trying to steal
them, what was my father like for supplying those objects? Would he
accuse me of robbing from him too?
I
glanced at a handwritten sign in the doorway: Special Xmas hours:
open Xmas eve 9 to 9, and underneath that a gold leaf etched sign
in the glass: Mitch Lescoux, prop., and underneath that, Josh
Rankling, asst. I frowned; my father was such a fake. Josh
Rankling was the name, along with his, that appeared this year on his
Christmas cards, but every year the name was a different one. I
sneered in disgust. I wondered how much he had to dish out each year
for a new gold sign to be etched in his window; he probably had more
money than my grandmother suspected.
I
crossed the street and looked up at the small building. It was
nestled in between two tenements and looked very old compared to most
of the other buildings on the street. That’s what my father would
do, live in the oldest building there was. I wondered which room he
and Josh slept in; no matter how many times I got picked up and went
to bed I never ended up staying the night with some stranger. The
idea of waking up next to some stubbled-faced asshole was always
repulsive, and I always fled in the morning, disgusted and hating
myself for having spent the night with a stranger. I know I always
did it for money, being nothing but a whore, and afterwards it
would be some time before I tried going with a guy again…yet I
always did…
I
turned away from my father’s building and felt as much as I did
those Cincinnati mornings when I walked out of some stranger’s arms
and bed: disgusted, hating myself, hating the world for what I had
become: a male whore. Still, didn’t I resent the strangers
name below my fathers? Did I want to lie underneath my father as
well?
I
walked back along the small street my father’s shop was on.
Wouldn’t it be best to show up after the shop was open? Would he
see that as an intrusion into his business? Would there be so many
shoppers so early in the morning that my appearance would destroy my
father’s mood for the rest of the day? Still, wasn’t I reading
too much into his handwritten Love, Dad message? Who knew why
he had written that? Maybe guilt, maybe a sense of his own mortality,
maybe a way of atoning for all the years of his ignoring me…? Who
the hell knew?
I
walked on, and pretty soon spotted the same clock tower I had seen
moments ago on another street. It was red and stone colored,
something so amazing in the tall sameness of the surrounding
buildings that it seemed out of place and contrary, an oddity that
would certainly be replaced by the architectural conformity of the
city. It seemed that it should be in my father’s shop for display
or careful purchase. It rose up from a triangular block of its own,
to what seemed to be a garden at the rear of the building, and when I
walked all the way around I found the short main stairway --gated as
much as the entrances to other buildings-- was a public library that
would open at 11 a.m. but close at 5 p.m. for Christmas eve.
And
just as I had seen in other doorways and against buildings, a clump
of blankets with obviously a person sleeping underneath, and bundles
of much used shopping bags, and sometimes even shopping carts, was
pushed as close to the building as could be. Back home in Cincinnati
I had seen pictures on television of all the homeless people in New
York, but they were presented the problem as in one or two places.
Yet here they were everywhere: outside of the bus station, along the
streets and avenues, here and there on the streets to my father’s
house, on the steps of this library, and most probably on every
street I was bound to walk.
It
reminded me of an old couple that appeared not far from the social
worker therapy center when I first started going to see Susan. They
were probably my grandmother’s age, in their 70’s, and each day
they sat in the doorway of a vacant store that once held a travel
agency, the vacant-eyed deteriorating couple a stark contrast to the
vacation posters still hanging in the closed store window of other
couples, younger, skinner, fit and tanned in bathing suits and
romping through the surf and sands on Cancun, or Hawaii, or Tahiti.
It was as if the homeless couple mimicked another poster which would
read: Hey, folks, don’t be like these old farts sitting in this
doorway; be like these beautiful young people in the sun in these
posters!
I
never knew why these old people appeared in the first place; neither
Susan nor Ralph ever said anything about them. Did they lose their
home to a fire? Or their inability to pay the rent or fight off a
co-op conversions? They just appeared in late summer, and just as
suddenly disappeared in early winter. I like to think some family
member or some shelter took them in, though the reality was most
likely they froze or starved to death.
By
the time I made it back to 5th avenue a light but cold
drizzle had started and the crisp frozen snow on the sidewalks
quickly turned into slush, which instantly soaked through socks and
shoes. I wished I knew where to go to get out of the rain, but so
early in the morning the record stores and book stores were locked
and gated up, even though more and more people started appearing on
the streets.
I
walked around the Washington Square Arch --even the Christmas tree
was locked up behind a fence-- and continued to the tall buildings
surrounding the park. New York Vinersity read the carved
notation, a V for a U I figure. Was there some memory
or association in my head with the name? I thought of Susan trying to
understand (that’s the term she used Trying to understand…)
why I was planning to stay out of high school in my 2nd
year no matter what happened.
Why?
I had asked. To get into college?
To
finish something you started, she said.
I
knew that for her to be a counselor she definitely had to have a
college degree but why did she assume that what was right for her was
the same for me? I always wanted to ask her that but didn’t. Why
did people always assume that if their lives were going good I should
be like them? What crap! Ralph even hinted that his life was
an example of a contented life; he was married, had two kids, and a
job that he liked, so nothing was wrong. Or was there? If I analyzed
Ralph I was certain I’d find a hell of a lot of faults in him.
Susan too. And Mrs. Gillette most of all. Real assholes, the
entire bunch!
***
I
walked in the slush, the rain a fine chilly mist that made the day
seem bitterly cold. The rain had soaked through my Bengal’s jacket
and I felt my arms and shoulders shivering from the cold. Man, I
hadda get warm! And fast too!
A
few blocks away from the college buildings I saw a man struggling
with the heavy locks of a metal gate he was trying to open.
Mother
fucker! he mumbled, then reached for a bottle and downed a drink.
Two gift-wrapped bottles were under each arm and he went back to
forcing the locks to open. Must have been frozen with the cold
outside, I thought. I again looked at the man, a red and white
fake fur Santa Claus hat roosted on his head. I smirked.
Same
shit all the time! he said, and took a step back and kicked the
lock and gate. Goddamed piece of shit!
It
didn’t do much good, and once more he started fumbling with the
locks.
Fucking
piece of shit!
He
suddenly saw me and turned. His eyes were glassy wet and his face was
unshaven and haggard, but the stench of alcohol hung heavily in the
air around him.
Hey,
he mumbled. Can you give me a hand, buddy? Hold this... And
he conspiratorially winked but warned, No sneaking a drink, ok?
I
slung my backpack on one shoulder and took the two boxes of liquor,
the open box seemingly a lot lighter than the closed one; it was
obvious he had been nipping from it and soon would begin on the
closed one just as well.
Piece
of shit! he repeated to the stubborn iced-over locks. I
shouldn’t even go in. Serve ‘em fucking right if I didn’t clean
their fucking pig-sty! Let ‘em come in and find it like they left
it. What am I a fucking animal, cleaning up their dirt?
He
suddenly succeeded in freeing one lock, shoved it in his coat pocket,
and just as easily freed another one. He winked at me and his face
had that familiar look I knew so well, his eyes going down my pants,
and I wondered if my lips looked as wet and rapid as did his?
Go
on, he winked. Take a drink if you want; my other jobs left me
presents, not like this cheap piece of shit company.
He
uplifted the barrier and started freeing the doors and I reached in
one of the liquor boxes and lifted out the bottle. Only a quarter or
so of the gin left, and he winked at me, took the bottle and drowned
it. Yes, I wondered, why was gin always the preferred drink of those
trying to make me? Is there a particular drink for every perversion?
If faggots have gin, do whores drink bourbon? One time in Cincinnati
a guy dressed me up as girl and made me sip blackberry brandy while
he just had a beer. And what does the S & M crowd drink, vodka?
What about the guy that killed a little girl in Cincinnati? What does
he drink, probably Shirley Temple’s? Oh, what the hell do I
know? And without a care he just tossed the empty bottle in the
street outside, rolled down the gate behind us, and we were in.
He
let out a deep sigh of relief and reached for the bottle I was
holding, ripped it open and this time just took a sip and tiredly sat
down in a row of seats. He looked at me glassy eyed, as if trying
hard to remember who I was, then his cheeks puffed out and he
belched. “Bouah! Bouah!” Again his eyes drooped but I was
glad to be in a warm place, if only for a short time.
I
looked around. It was dark -- just a Coca Cola sign shone brightly on
one wall -- and after his little gagging I didn’t expect any real
movement from him. But what did I think was going to happen? Well,
maybe because the way he looked at me I felt I should play this out
to the end. But that’s always been my problem, thinking that the
look of sexual desire and lust in the eyes of strangers could be more
than just a look of sex, but also a longing for love. Sometimes I’ve
always felt I should never disappoint someone hungry for me, as if
their hunger for sex should be appeased and rewarded by my giving of
myself to them…and how easily I have given myself to others. But
what sexual satisfaction or sharing would I get from the drunken
Santa whose need for a bed was to sleep it off and not screw me in?
Santa
let out a few more retches but they were mostly dry heaves. I moved
to another table. My feet were wet, my shoulders also were wet, and
the hood of my jacket was sodden and did nothing to keep the snow off
my head. Santa slowly got up and shuffled behind the counter. Then he
stopped, staring at me as if unable to recall who I was or what I was
doing there, but the sight of his liquor bottle brought back some
kind of recollection as he sheepishly grinned, wiped his mouth, and
said, Shit, I shouldn’t have drunk it so fast…
I
grinned and snorted, but said nothing, as he looked at me.
But
I was glad to be in the store where it was incredibly warm; and the
fragrant smell of pizza dough, cheese and sauce hung aromatically in
the air like a welcome treat from the bitter slush and cold outside.
I took off my wet jacket and set it on a stool backrest, thinking,
maybe I could stay here? Maybe he’d give me a job in the shop?
Is
this your store? I asked.
Santa
didn’t look at me but rubbed his face and sat back down next to his
bottle of booze, and started fumbling the package trying to rip it
open. He did, and brought the bottle out. Suddenly I changed my mind
about being here, the smell of alcohol and vomit was quickly
over-powering the sweet smell of sauces and pizza dough.
Again
I asked him if the store was his.
Wha…?
he slurred, looking at me. What…?
I
sighed; I was familiar with this time-lag, the almost slow-motion
response of drunks, being told lots of times to jerk someone off when
I just did, and them not understanding why it was taking them so long
to ejaculate. Drunks don’t know that their sexual strength goes
with each drink they have…
Are
you the pizza guy? I asked.
He
contemptuously snorted and lifted the bottle. It was a brown colored
liquor and I knew if he started mixing it atop the clear gin there’d
be real trouble.
Neah,
he said, I just come in every morning and clean the place up.
He
held the bottle and looked at it, then pushed himself up from the
stool and went behind the counter and retrieved a bottle of beer from
the store refrigerator. He cracked the top off and took a deep
swallow, letting out a sigh of satisfaction. I don’t know how
people can drink beer after drinking gin and setting off to drink
whickey. He took another swallow, then reached into the refrigerator
and pulled out another bottle of beer, then returned to the table and
held out the beer bottle to me. I opened it and took a small swallow.
I never liked the taste of beer, and since I was tired and hungry,
the taste repulsed me even more.
What
happened to the side of your face? he asked, slowly sipping his
beer.
I
looked more closely at a wall mirror and saw the left side of my face
was huge, puffed up and bruised looking, where the mugger had stuck
me.
I
got mugged, I simply said, but I noticed he wasn’t paying me
any attention, nodding out…again until he jerked up again.
Wha…wha…?
Good
beer, I simply said, raising the bottle and pretending to move it
into my mouth.
He
did the same, took a sip, then set the bottle down on the table and
sleepily looked at me. This was it, I knew it; the whole point of me
being here with him. He moved so his legs were open and smiled. There
was no choice. I got down to my knees and smiled back at him. Slowly,
I tried pulling his pants down under his ass and down his thighs. The
rancid stench of dried urine on his underwear surged into my nostrils
and I hoped I could get away with giving him a hand-job and didn’t
have to take his smelly cock in my mouth.
I
sighed, but kept smiling, and lifted the limp penis and gently began
stroking it back and forth, doubtful I could raise his drunken cock
to erection. Then I heard the snore and looked up. His arms were
crossed over his chest, his pants were down his legs, the Santa hat
rakishly roosting on his head and he was asleep.
I
held onto the cock, gently pulsed it in my hand, because if I let it
go and made a movement he’d instantly stir awake. Being as drunk
and plastered as he was there’d be no trouble in keeping him that
way; as long as I kept quiet.
I
examined the cock I was holding. Limp, but just as cock-looking as
any I’ve seen. What was the fascination some people had for
detailed examination of a cock, or a cunt? I didn’t understand
those incredible close-ups of a wet cunt or scummy cock in porno
videos and magazines; bodies aroused me, not detached orifices or
severed photos of something entering them. Entire-body photos turned
me on, especially photos of women with men, as I’ve always imagined
myself to be the woman under the man, but whenever I looked at pages
after page of cocks and cunts I grew quickly disappointed.
I
gently let go of the limp dick, settling it to fall down to the loose
droopy balls between Santa’s open legs. I had been gently holding
the soft penis for almost ten minutes and I was certain Santa was in
a deep sleep, probably dreaming of erections and liquor bottles and
spotless pizza shops. This one certainly wouldn’t be cleaned up,
I smirked.
I
reached into Santa’s coat pocket in a side chair and gently pulled
out his ring of keys, careful not to jiggle too much. It took almost
five minutes inserting the various keys into locks until I hit upon
the correct one; the lock snapped open. I was about to go out but
then I went to the refrigerator where he had gotten the beer, and
looked at the food. My mouth quickly grew wet and I wiped my lips.
But I settled on a 2 lbs package of ricotta cheese and two bottles of
orange juice. I stuck that in my knapsack and put my damp jacket back
on. Santa was still snoring, his exposed dick hanging limply, and I
shrugged, recapped the bottle he was drinking from, and took that too
in my knapsack. Suddenly, I felt sorry for Santa; he probably would
lose his job for sleeping half-naked in the pizza shop and not
cleaning up the place. What a Christmas surprise he would be? I
snorted, and went out, frowning that it was still raining and
snowing.
I
scooped up a handful of slushy snow off a parked car and washed my
hands and fingers of the uriney smell. Again I felt sorry for the
drunken Santa, but then said, Fuck him! Christmas is a time of
revelation, lots of things come out in the open. I’m sure that
Santa was a good cleaner, after all, he had the keys to the place,
but after this he’d be left keyless out in the cold. Like me…
***
I
walked on. More and more people were filling the streets, either
rushing to work or already carrying shopping bags of wrapped
presents. Sooner or later I’d have to head back to my father’s
place. But why? He didn’t know I was in New York; what did I expect
from him? A Christmas greeting? A firm handclasp? Some kind of hope
that his Christmas card’s message of Love, Dad was
real? But where did I get the idea that he would welcome me like some
prodigal son who had strayed and gone away?
I
had wandered up and on a quiet side 15th street I stopped
in a doorway. The single building took up one side of the street
while another building took up the other side. I leaned back on the
door and it instantly gave way to a large delivery dock with a
shuttered gate drawn over what was probably another locked gate.
Probably
closed for the holidays, I thought, and let the door close after
me. It was as cold in here as it was outside, but at least I was out
of the dripping rain and slush, my breathing even misting heavier
than on the street outside. Only a little grey daylight came in from
the cloudy day, and it would probably be pitch black by nightfall,
and I certainly wasn’t going to be here then.
Then
I was grabbed from the rear. A guy was on me before I could think of
running and getting away.
Don’t
move! I heard a voice say.
It
was obvious that whoever it was certainly was accustomed more to the
darkness than I was, and it was also obvious he wasn’t the only one
in the place. On the platform, which I assumed was a loading dock,
shapes and bundles were rising from the floor, coughing, spitting,
that it was also obvious the voice behind me had awoken them.
A
figure quickly leaped off the platform and approached me as a hand
behind grabbed my shoulder strap and pulled the knapsack off. The
approaching figure suddenly punched me in the chest and pushed me
against a wall, grabbing my knapsack before the other figure could
get at it and quickly un-zippering the pack open.
Well,
well, well, the guy said, pulling out the liquor bottle. It’s
sure gonna be a Merry Christmas today! He turned and lifted the
bottle over his head, showing it to other shadows on the platform who
cackled and coughed and laughed, and called out, Bring her over,
Stanley! We could use a new whore!
Stanley
quickly ripped open the colorful package, reaching in for the bottle
and opened it, and took a deep swallow of the liquor. Instantly, he
shook his body as he gagged and doubled over, than spat out a heavy
sigh of exhaustion as if taking the drink was some kind of triumph or
accomplishment. He recapped the bottle and put it back in the box.
Not bad, he said, for whiskey…
He
again went over my knapsack, pulling out the cheese, the bottles or
orange juice, my notebooks and all my t-shirts and my one extra pair
of jeans I had. And by now the three other figures had climbed off
the platform and shuffled over to us. Two of them were clad in piles
of shirts and jackets, while the third, who timidly stood between
them, wore a huge overcoat with tattered nylons and mismatched shoes;
her longish hair was dirty and matted, with the brown roots almost
half-way to where they met the blonde intruders. And the lack of
makeup and the stubble on his chin made it was obvious she was a man,
one of those New York transvestites I’d heard about.
Behind
me, I again felt the hand go over my body, rifling my pockets and
finding a few scraps of paper, like the Burger King Coupons I got in
Cincinnati. Disgusted with the meagerness of my knapsack, Stanley
threw the bag down and stepped away. He was just like the other
homeless guys there, piles of shirts and jackets on him, unwashed,
putrid smelly, a bum. When did it become politically correct to label
shiftless unwashed thugs, hooligans and alcoholics as homeless
unfortunates instead of calling them what they were: bums?
I
started picking up my shirts and putting them back in my knapsack,
thinking I’d get out of there, when Stanley turned and growled,
Where do you think you’re going? he glared at me. I need
a whore to keep me warm, honey.
Stanley
grabbed the front of my jacket and pulled me to the loading dock.
Tattered pieces of cardboard boxes stood around the dock and the two
other bums crawled into one box and worked their way under a blanket;
the bum in a long overcoat also snuggled down between them. Stanley
made me crawl feet first into the box and crawled in after me. It was
like crawling into a bum’s underwear, smelly, stagnant, oppressive,
and when he lay down on top and started kissing me I almost vomited
in his face from his stench.
He
rolled off a few times, pawing between my legs -- I refused to get
hard, imaging it was social worker Ralph molesting me -- and pulled
down his two pants and began jerking off his limp dick.
Suddenly,
he crawled out of the box, growling I stay in, and pulled up his two
pairs of pants. He removed the bottle of whiskey, gagged at his
drink, and roused the other bums, all the while searching for other
clothes he had nearby.
Get
up, you losers! he roared. We’re gonna have a wedding!
The
first one out of the blankets was the sorry-looking transvestite. I
suppose if she had a bath with perfumes she wouldn’t look so bad
but she did. She looked so frail then saw what Stanley was holding
and surged towards him in a rage, her eyes wide, her mouth open in
disbelief.
No,
you promised! she hissed. You said it’d be mine!
Stanley
looked her up and down, then spat in disgust. Fuck you! he
said. You’re a disgusting skank! Take a look at yourself in a
mirror, you slut!
The
transvestite sorrowfully said to him, But you promised.
Stanley
grabbed the front of her coat, twisting whatever tits she may have
had, and squelched, You promised! You promised! he mimicked.
If you don’t shut your mouth I promise you won’t have one! He
flung her across the dock and she fell against the other bums,
catching her balance but running into the cardboard box and flinging
herself into it. I could hear her sobbing.
But
shit, I didn’t know what was going on with these bums and more than
that, I had no idea how to get out of the loading dock. Maybe the
company that was here shut down and this loading dock was now the
home of the bums. As my eyes had gotten more and more used to the
darkness, I began to see that the place was even more dirty and
filthier than I first imagined I saw. The blankets under which the
transvestite dirty blonde sobbed seemed to be tattered and frayed to
something that was brought here weeks or months ago. Stanley’s
cardboard box, into which he had pushed me and where he couldn’t
get an erection, seemed to have lain pressed against the wall for
weeks. I began to suspect that this building was actually vacant and
the loading dock hadn’t been used in months if not years. These
street people and bums had quickly taken over to enforce their
squatters rights. The loading dock was theirs and that’s all there
was to it. Still, how come they hadn’t risen up above the loading
dock? I suspect that the massive gate at one end of the wall kept
them from exploring any further.
Stanley
undid the parcel he was holding and pulled out a white satiny and
frilly long dress. For a moment I thought it was an actual wedding
dress but it was too short, looking more like a little girl’s Holy
Communion outfit than a young woman’s marriage gown. From a plastic
bag, Stanley sniffed at what looked like white nylons -- certainly
not meant for a little girl to wear, but maybe it did. I couldn’t
even imagine where a bum like Stanley could get a hold of the girlie
clothes.
Stanley
ordered I get out of the box than said, Get dressed.
I
hesitated, looking from the clean white dress to filthy and vile
Stanley.
No
way, I said. You’re sick!
Amazing
how fast a bun like Stanley moved but he was on me in an instant,
holding my jaw until I could feel my teeth snapping into bits, or at
least that’s what I thought.
Get
undressed, mother fucker! he ordered. And that means now!
I could feel his putrid breath was over my face -- pickles, sardines,
pizza, who the hell knew what he ate? Kapeesh?! He flung me
aside and tossed the white dress at me. Get dressed, whore!
I
looked at them staring at me, the two other open-mouthed bums with
Stanley and the wet-eyed blonde transvestite then took off my jacket
and began unbuttoning my shirt, sliding it down my arms and raised
the t-shirt over my head. Stanley sat down on a blanket but another
bum came to me and began to feel my flat chest, kneading my breasts
like they were fulsome breasts until Stanley jumped up and pushed him
away.
Get
the fuck off my woman! he hissed. She’s mine!
I
remained still, forcing myself to stay unresponsive to Stanley’s
hands, but I also knew I was getting aroused by the feeling of myself
being treated like a woman. Just the thought gets me horny, it’s
what I always imagined myself to be, a girl, a slut, a skank
on my knees and taking it from all sides; in those alleys and rooms
and cars in Cincinnati; to that Ralph-guy in the park last night, and
that Santa this morning, men were after me like they should be, after
all, I was their little girl-whore.
I
smiled at Stanley and lowered my pants, my stiff penis sticking out
before me. I could see Stanley’s mouth fall open. I lowered my
head, like a shy little girl, and removed my pants. I guess I could
explain my attraction to men as acting and being like a girl to them;
if I didn’t feel myself as such the horror and disgust of
homosexuality would have been unbearable. That’s why I always took
on another persona, a girl’s persona that would please any man that
wanted relations with me.
Stanley
stared at my penis jerking and pulsing in the cold air, and started
slowly jerking me off, but my eyes and thoughts were on Blondie, the
wet-eyed sad transvestite under the blankets. I was aroused by her
even more than by scabby Stanley.
What
the fuck?! I heard a bum say. Look at her ass. All pimples,
bet you she has AIDS.
I
could just imagine I heard three bum’s cocks drop forlornly down.
Never did the scare of a disease have such an effect as did AIDS. I
been hearing about it in Cincinnati and here it was New York City and
the scare was as prevalent as the sickness was real.
Stanley
let go of my dick and spun me around; I almost fell over from my
pants around my ankles.
AIDS!
he said. The fucken whore has AIDS! He pushed me away from
him and was mumbling to himself. I was gonna marry you, he
sadly said. You were gonna be my wife, he whispered, and fell
back against a wall, pressing the white dress he was holding to his
face.
One
of the bums watching Stanley, snatched up the liquor bottle Stanley
had ignored and moved to Blondie, who jumped out of her blanket and
came and stood next to me. The bum shrugged, then took the bottle and
tried taking a sip when Stanley was on him. I started getting
dressed.
You
have AIDS? Blondie asked.
I
shrugged. Who knows? I looked at her. I’ve always had
pimples on my ass. I know they look disgusting, I said, turning
red. There’s nothing I can do about them.
She
snorted and smirked. Sure scared them.
I
smiled back and I continued dressing looking at her. I wanted to hold
and caress her, no matter how man-like she looked in her clothes and
no matter how shabby and smelly she was. I took a step towards her,
and she came into my arms. For a long time we stood like that,
holding each other, gently swaying, my erection in my pants nudging
the stiffness under her overcoat and under her skirt or dress, until
we both spasmed in ourselves, clutching and holding to each other as
if our mutual ejaculations completed the shared loneliness of our
desperation.
I
took a step back, drawing her with me, and slid down the wall, as she
settled with me, cuddling in my lap and clutching her legs under
mine. We kissed a few times, and I asked, How do you feel?
She
beamed at me and smiled, I feel beautiful, she said.
It
was as if we had actual intercourse with each other, yet this was so
much better. I’m sure she felt the same, as her intercourses must
have been rougher and uglier than mine ever were, taking more men in
a single night then I had in a week.
When
we broke from our kissing and she settled her face against my cheek,
we both saw Stanley looking at us. There was contempt and disgust in
his eyes. He suddenly flung the white dress across the loading dock.
I looked at him, then went and picked it up and crammed it in my
knapsack.
Fucking
queers! he cursed. I shoulda killed you when I had the chance!
He kicked at the items before him, looked desperately around him,
and leaped to the other bum who was again holding the liquor bottle
of his lips. Stanley surged at the bottle, spraying it from the bum’s
lips, and kicked him.
Mother
fucker! Stanley yelled, and began to stomp on the bum, who
scrambled out of the way, dragging the blanket with him, but Stanley
kicked him a final time and the bum went down and stayed down, his
head covered by the blanket.
Stanley
spat at him, dragged the blanket off his fallen body, spat again, and
lay down, covering himself with all the blankets. Blondie and I
simply sat huddled together, neither of us taking an interest in the
downed bum.
What
are you doing here? I asked.
She
sighed and looked sadly at me.
I
got nowhere to go, she said, and put her head on my chest.
Don’t
they have shelters in New York? I asked.
She
snorted and looked up at me, her eyes curious but at the same time
sneering.
Where
you from? she asked.
Ohio,
I answered. Cincinnati. Just got in last night…
Wow!
she said, looking at me. Last night, eh…?
I
nodded my head.
I
wish I had just arrived, she said, then I’d get the fuck
outta here.
Don’t
they have any shelters for homeless people?
She
snorted. We spent a week in one time, and we had to leave. My
sister got raped the first night we were there.
You
were with your parents?
She
looked sadly at me. That’s my dad, she said.
I
looked at Stanley, holding the whiskey bottle but having somewhat
fallen asleep.
Your
father? I asked, looking at Stanley. Didn’t you call the
cops?
She
snorted again. They were these security guards, black guys. Who
the hell was gonna believe us? They threw us out, after about a week.
I
looked at her. Where’s your mom? I asked.
She
shrugged. When we lost out home to a fire mom stopped taking her
medicine and was very depressed and laid in bed all day. After a
while she didn’t even cry anymore. Blondie was thoughtful, than
said, She was depressed all her life. Only about a year before the
fire did she seemed happy and interested in things, and even stood up
to my father who was more and more drunk. She sighed. But that
was the medicine. When she stopped taking that she was depressed as
when I was a kid.
So
what happened to her?
When
they threw us out of the shelter she was so depressed my aunt took
her in, she didn’t want her sleeping in hallways and park benches.
She
didn’t take you?
Again
she snorted. Said I was a guy and I had to stay with my father.
Blondie
raised her head off my chest and looked at the blanket clump under
which Stanley, her father, lay.
My
aunt said she was gonna take care of my mother and kid sister and I
had to watch over my dad until the family could get together again.
That was almost two Christmas’s ago.
My
eyes narrowed sadly that the bum in the corner was her father and she
was his son. Who had decided to dress her up as a female whore and
have her trick on the streets? And how come she had remained loyal to
someone who had no concern or caring for her? What was it? Family
values that she tried to preserve? The family that sticks together
stays together…even if it was a slow stroll towards perversion and
death…
We
looked at each other, than Blondie said, You’d better get out of
here. When they get up they’ll blame you for something and beat you
up.
We
gazed at each other. I bit my lower lip. Come with me, I said.
You don’t have to live like this.
She
frowned. How else can I live? Even looking as bad as I do I can
make a few dollars every night. You’d be surprised how many guys
wanna blow-job from someone who looks homeless, even if it’s a guy
dressed up as a girl, like me.
Ain’t
you afraid you’ll get hurt you when they find you’re really a
guy?
She
shrugged. One look at me, well…shit happens, she
thoughtfully said, lowering her eyes that I was sure she had been
found out a few times.
We
were silent, and I held her, gently stroking her bundled arm.
There’s
a place we can stay, I said. On 25th
street. Off an alley. By the park there.
She
sat up. No, she snapped. I’m not going anywhere. This is
fine here.
She
pushed herself up off my lap and shrugged. You better get outta
here. And I mean it.
She
took a few steps and snatched up the white dress her father, Stanley,
had been holding, and dropped it my lap.
Your
wedding gown, she snorted. You keep it; you might need it
again.
She
threw it at me and picked up some high-heeled shoes, a bit worn and
over-used but held them out to me.
Use
these too, she said, and start off with how much you can. When
you start giving blow-jobs for less than a buck you know it’s the
end of the line.
I
wanted to ask if that’s where she was, the end of the line, but
didn’t. I got up off the ground, holding the dress and underwear
package.
Please
come with me, I said. I think I can get some money. My father
owns a store in the Village, I’m sure he’ll give me something
more for Christmas. Please…
She
stared at me. Your dad’s probably no better than mine; that’s
why you’re on the streets, just like me.
She
turned away and went to the blankets close to where her father was
asleep with his whiskey bottle. I sighed, looked at the comatose
figure on the floor, then picked up my knapsack and shoved the dress
and undies and shoes in. My other clothes had been scattered between
the mattresses that lay on the ground. I picked them up and walked
across the loading dock. Maybe she was right; it’s best to get out
of here. I looked back at Blondie, but she facing the other way. I
opened the door and went back out.
***
The
snow had gotten heavier but the street was quiet and un-peopled, and
the sidewalks remained as undisturbed and un-trodden; a sheen of
white lay everywhere. I walked slowly, confused and disappointed by
what had just happened. Blondie’s voice telling me not to take less
than a dollar remained echoing in my skull. Is that what’s going to
happen to me?
When
I got to the big street I again saw the clock tower, 1:35 it said.
Had I really been that long with Blondie and her father? It was
barely 7am when I first met Santa; about 8 when I left him. About
8:30 when I wandered into the loading dock, so I had spent about 6
hours with them. What a way to kill the morning!
Though
the snow was falling thickly and steadily, I was surprised at the
amount of people on the big street trudging through the snow carrying
bags and bags of last minute presents, though probably cursing
themselves for having waited so long. Radio speakers in store fronts
blared Christmas carols and the disk jockeys kept bawling, It’s
a White Christmas! It’s a White Christmas! after every song and
announcement.
Was
it snowing in Cincinnati? Was my grandmother worried about where I’d
be spending the night? I had spent lots of nights out but never on
Christmas. Or had that social worker scum Ralph sicced the cops on
me, certain I was up to no good? Oh, fuck him!
***
It
wasn’t long before I was again on that big street going to my
father’s house and shop. The gate in front of his stop was gone,
the lamps were lit in the window, and even from the distance I could
see people entering and leaving his shop. But would he be glad to see
me? Or disappointed? And I couldn’t just show up out of the blue,
especially if my grandmother called and told him I was missing,
again…
I
walked towards his house and looked at it from across the street. A
tree stood in front of the house, the snow packed thickly on its
barren white branches, but even through the fog of falling snow I
could see someone moving in the lit second story window.
I
crossed the street, took a deep breathe, feeling very afraid, and
pushed the buzzer. I stared at the side of the gate, certain I was
being observed the window above, then heard the crackle of a voice in
the intercom.
Yes?
it squawked.
My
name is Billy! I yelled, louder than necessary, smirking to
myself as I imagined the listener at the other end jumping back from
the jarring shouts. I’m looking for my father, David…Lescoux!
(I felt weird about saying his made up name. My own name is
Leshko; but Dad had to Frenchify it --after all, this was Greenwich
Village, where people were supposed to be hip.
There
was a pause of silence, as I’m sure the voice was taking in what I
said. Maybe I should’ve gone into the shop and looked if my father
was there; maybe he had people working for him and didn’t have to
be there all the time. Maybe the squawky voice was now getting my
father from another room. Hell, what did I really know about him?
I’m
coming down, the voice finally said, and I cursed, thinking I’d
have been let in immediately if I were welcome. My face turned red
and I squirmed under my wet coat, remembering a doorway in
Cincinnati, where I’d have to wait for gay Vinnie to come down
because the intercom worked but the front door buzzer was broken and
it took Vinnie forever to come to the front door. I’d wait
patiently, huddled in the doorway, looking up each end of the street,
not wanting to be seen, because Vinnie lived a block from school and
I knew that many of the kids walked past his building on their way to
and from school -- I had done so myself when I was a kid -- and sure
enough, coming up the street, and certain to spot me lurking in
Vinnie’s doorway, were Petey and Mikey, two not-so-good friends of
mine. It’s as if the three of us were on that street intentionally
to meet up with each other because from down the street we each made
eye-contact with each other, and Petey and Mikey immediately turned
to look at each other then back at me, their faces in smirking grins.
They knew what I was doing in Vinnie’s doorway…the door opened
and Vinnie let me in, I entered hearing loud laughter after me…I
still remember the scorn which they called me back in school, Billy
the Fag, Billy the Filly, Silly Billy, and finally, Billy the
cocksucking faggot just like his queer dad!...But that was a year
ago…and I still feel ashamed…
I
heard the clatter of locks opening and the door swung inside. Through
the gate I looked at a goateed and bald man, studs in his ear lobes,
black t-shirt, his arms tattooed his jeans tight with cowboy boots on
his feet. We looked at each other up and down; he smiled, I smiled
back. It was an unmistakable look, the kind I’d gotten in
Cincinnati and a few times in Chicago and now in New York.
Suddenly
I heard a buzz at the gate and I pushed it open. The man stood aside
and let me in.
Ooo,
get out of that coat! he grimaced. You’ll freeze! He
shook all over.
I
wanted to smile at his voice, real classic faggot-like and lisping. I
dropped my knapsack and got out of my sodden jacket.
Does
your father know you were coming? he asked. He didn’t tell
me anything. By the way, I’m Josh.
I
stamped my boots on the carpeted floor, and rubbed my upper arms. My
long sleeved shirt was also wet, as I’m certain was my t-shirt and
underwear. If I had to walk another hour I’d probably freeze to
death.
Is
Dad in the shop? I asked. The words sounded funny on my lips as I
had never uttered them, simply calling him now what he had written on
his Christmas, as Dad; my grandmother always threatening me to
be polite.
He
nodded his head. Oh, gee, he didn’t say you were coming for
Christmas!
For
all his tough biker macho image he was pretty effeminate, not really
talking, but gushing, as if each word and sentence were an
affirmation of how much he was enjoying life and the moment he was
in; people like that make me nauseous.
Nope,
I shook my head. He doesn’t know. It’s a surprise.
The
man looked at me, his eyes wide, his mouth open, then clapped his
hands together like a little kid, and spun around in a dance,
squealing, A surprise! A surprise! David loves surprises!
I
smiled, almost caught up in his glee, but I felt sad. How would I
know what my father liked? I’d only seen pictures of him over the
years, pictures he had sent only to my grandmother.
But
first, the fairy said, you must get out of those wet clothes.
Gee, you’ll catch the death of you. We wouldn’t want that to
happen, now would we?
He
again looked me up and down and it was the look I’d been getting
from guys out on the streets ever since I arrived in New York; was
the entire city gay? And was it so obvious what I really was too, an
image of my father?
I
suppose you’ve got dry clothes in your bag? he asked.
I
shrugged; besides the dress and undies package Blondie had watched me
stash way I didn’t have anything else to wear; but I didn’t care,
if I could get out of these wet ones that would be great.
Josh
led me upstairs to an open floor that covered the length and width of
the building, the large loft room divided only by partitions which
made the room into a sleeping area, a work space, and a lounge type
of area with exercise equipment, barbells, and two stationary bikes.
Dad must have looked very he-man macho type, I thought. Just the
little I saw of downstairs, I was surprised by the expensive
lavishment of my father’s house. Did selling old furniture make all
the money he had?
The
bathroom’s in here, Josh said, pointing to a small doorway next
to a window facing the rear snowy courtyard of the building.
Thanks,
I merely mumbled, and opened the bathroom door. I think I blinked
in surprise, as the small cubicle-like-door opened into another large
room with not only a bath and shower in one corner of the room, but
also a hot tub and sauna at the other end. Beautiful white soft and
immaculate looking towels hung around the room, all in reach of
wherever the bather or sauna user may be in the room, and it looked
like something out of a display store catalog, a picture showing off
something that didn’t really exist out of a house designer’s
imagination. But here it certainly did.
I
slid open the shower door, turned on the water, testing it for
warmth, than quickly and greedily took my wet clothes off. A mass of
switches were on the wall next to the door, and I assumed they were
for all sorts of lights and heating lamps that were on the ceiling,
but I didn’t touch any of them.
There
was a knock on the door, and I heard Josh call, Give me your wet
clothes, I’ll throw them in the dryer! and the door opened.
I
was caught totally unprepared and barely had time to grab a towel and
cover myself. Josh had seen what his eyes were looking for, and he
snatched up the wet clothes, and giggled, My, my, you surely are
your father’s son, aren’t you? He hesitated, licking his
lips, Take your time, David won’t get up till maybe 7 or 8, it’s
only 3.
We
both looked at each other, both knowing we wouldn’t even need all
that time and Josh left.
I
wished I could sink and loll in the tub, soaking in the warmth of the
water, but I washed quickly, unplugged the tub and let the shower
water run to give myself a good rinsing. Who knew how long before I
washed again, because I sort of knew that my unexpected arrival
wouldn’t be greeted with the giddy glee that cheered Josh. I
doubted that dad would be cheerful…I wrapped a towel around myself,
and stepped out of the bathroom.
The
large loft room was empty, and I walked to the bed and sat down on
the edge of it. The short bath made me sleepy and hungry, and I
wished I had the cheese Stanley taken from me. I laid back and
sighed. I slept…because when I jerked awake, Josh had undone my
towel and was on his knees before my outspread legs, caressing my
soft penis and smiling up at me. He pushed himself up from the floor,
crawling on the bed beside me, and pulled me up with him so we could
lie fully on the bed. He was also undressed except for a pair of tiny
leopard-spotted underwear that only held his cock and balls, like a
man’s g-string, worn more for teasing than for comfort. It would be
crazy to out into the snow with those under your pants -- the chill
and ice would get to you fast. He leaned over me, and we looked at
each other, then our lips met and he plunged his tongue in my mouth
and down my throat. I gagged, and Josh snapped his tongue out, and
giggled.
Just
like your father, he said, can’t take too much tonguing!
I
smiled, and Josh was on me again, kissing my lips then working his
mouth down my neck to my chest and belly all the while gently
kneading his stiffening penis. He knelt up, facing me, and slowly
lowered his tiny panties. I marveled at his the small length of his
cock but which made up for it by his width and bulk -- short in size
but a nice mouthful. I’m certain the silver cock-ring that
glimmered between his pubic hairs had a lot to do with increasing the
size of the cock, still, it was certainly impressive and I doubted
I’d be able to spread my cheeks so far apart enough to easily enter
me -- I foresaw pain…but pain was part of good sex, I thought.
My
own cock was as stiff as it would get and Josh again knelt between my
legs and moved his small cock atop mine. The sensation was ecstatic
and I put my fingers at the base of my cock so as to stand it up to
meet Josh’s movements. It reminded me of a guy I’d meet in a lot
filled with yellow school buses stored for the night who simply would
hold my cock under his and the two of us would simply sway into each
other as if we were fucking the other until we got so good in reading
the other’s point of arousal that often we’d ejaculate onto our
cocks simultaneously, which only heightened and intensified our
arousal and excitement in each other. I met him almost every night in
the lot, but one night when I got there early and was skirting my way
around a bus, I saw another kid making his way in the front of the
bus. I saw the man wiping his cock with some tissues and I suddenly
understood the feeling of being a sloppy-second. I turned and walked
away from the school buses.
I
ejaculated, Josh gripping my cock, pulling the foreskin as far as it
could go, bloating and exposing my cock-head so nothing would hinder
the eruption and he pulsed his fist around my cock to heighten the
pleasure of release. I don’t think I had ever an ejaculation like
that, clenching my eyes shut in pain, my body rocking on the bed, and
as soon as Josh had gripped me I actually saw stars exploding in my
head.
When
Josh finally let go of my dick and I opened my eyes, I saw he too was
in a frenzy of pleasure and pain but his cock-ring cinched him
tightly around the base of his cock and around his balls keeping him
in a torrent of unreleased of any sort. He kept snatching at the
cock-ring, trying to find a grip hold and release some of the
pressure but the ring held him too tightly refusing to yield the
desperation wracking his blue-colored cock. The only freedom he’d
get was if his hard stiff cock loosened some of his stiffness.
I
quickly spun around, kneeling on the bed, and put my mouth over his
cock. I could hardly get my mouth around his cock when he exploded in
a torrent of ejaculation, falling backwards off the bed and striking
the floor in a spasm of rocking and cuming.
I
leapt off the bed and straddled him, Josh’s dick cuming and tapping
my ass, my arms and body pressed to his in an attempt to appease the
uncontrolled rocking of his own body. It was something most guys
wouldn’t do for me -- touch and hold me when I shot out -- as if in
getting pleasure from the fact that they weren’t giving me any,
indifferently looking at my frenzy as if resenting the fact that I
was deriving pleasure when the entire point of our tryst was for me
to give them pleasure.
Josh
finally lay still, breathing heavily, his fat bulky penis softening
against my ass cheeks and thighs, until he slightly nudged me to
climb off. I did so and he immediately gripped the cock-ring and slid
it under his balls and off his cock.
God,
did that hurt! he said. But it was the best I ever had!
He
fell back on the carpeted floor and I again straddled him and lay
down atop him. Josh’s hands and arms went around my back and we
kissed. I settled my head against his face…and we must have fallen
asleep because when I next opened my eyes Josh was brutally pushing
his body against mine and pushing me off.
David,
no! I heard him say. It’s not like that, please!
I
looked up and around me. My father stood in the doorway. He was a
tall man, but I didn’t know that. His hair was black and curly and
went down his back almost to his shoulders, like on the Blonde on
Blonde Bob Dylan album Joey in Cincinnati had hung the wall of
his room. I knew Dad’s hair was a fake; the photos in my
Grandmother’s album showed him with brownish straight and flat hair
that in various photos receded further and further back atop and
around his head. He was wearing blue jeans, a tan studded cowboy
shirt, and a denim tie around his neck; I wondered if he had just
taken off a leather jacket downstairs, and I’m sure he was wearing
cowboy boots. For a moment we looked at each other, my father’s
eyes straining at some kind of memory as if not being able to place
me in the picture. Josh kept mumbling something about You don’t
understand, and I can explain, but my father kept looking
at me.
Get
out! he finally said. Get dressed, and get out! Both of you!
He
turned, and I heard his boots thudding down the stairs. Josh had
already put on his g-string and glared at me.
You
heard him, he snapped, his eyes a burning glow of venomous
hatred, as if I was responsible for everything coming apart in his
life. Get out! he shrieked, mimicking my father and ran after
him.
I
remained on the floor, looking after them, puzzled that my own father
really didn’t seem to recognize me. Over the years I knew my
grandmother had sent him photographs of herself with me standing by
her: my first Holy Communion, one of my 8th grade
graduation ceremony, and one of me alone behind the wheel of her car
the day I got my driver’s license. Dad never recognized me…or if
he did, he didn’t care. I don’t know if I felt sad just very
numb. But whatever I was feeling, I knew I had destroyed whatever
relationship my father had with Josh, and I knew that for him his
relationship meant as little as did his relationship with all the
other names on Christmas cards over the years. Why couldn’t I stay
out of things? Why did I always make a mess?
I
heard my father’s voice screaming from downstairs. Scattered
phrases about working hard, and that it’s Christmas time! and
finally one shrieking yelp of I know who he is! Am I blind!
I
was quiet and still; my father knew who I was, and found me unworthy
of even the slightest recognition! Just as I was alive because of
him, so too was I a nuisance that had to be abandoned and
discarded…Look what a mess I had just done! Aw, Christ! I was his
son, but I was a mistake. I should not have been born, but since I
was, I was simply tolerated and dumped on my grandmother. I sighed.
My mother had it so much easier: she simply disappeared and the hell
with the little shitting baby.
I
heard my father shout, Some Christmas present you give me! but
I shut the bathroom door behind me. I felt myself being in a cloud,
as if I was sleepwalking, remembering taunts from school mates about
my father, about my following in his footsteps, about my failures and
worthlessness, that when I removed Blondie’s dress from my
knapsack. I didn’t know what I was doing until I realized what I
had on while I was straining to pull up the dress zipper on my back
behind me.
I
sighed; I was a faggot with a little white dress, and ready for a
fucking, mister. But it was an almost a perfect fit, a little too
tight under the armpits but it hung evenly and was aligned on my body
as if it had been measured for me. At the time, I blushed, and
reached in the knapsack for Blondie’s never worn pantyhose and slid
them on my legs, tucking my cock and balls between my legs and
stretching the hose tightly beneath them. The cock and balls stayed
put. I strained into the shoes, a little worn out, but succeeded in
plopping my feet into them, and tottered across the floor tiles to
the medicine chest above the sink.
One
thing I knew about faggots -- and Dad was one -- was that they always
had some kind of girl’s makeup in their bathroom chests, either a
bottle of facial cream, or a tube of lipstick, or some kind of
mascara and eyebrow pencils. Why? I guess to make themselves in that
secret image they so want to be.
I
was in luck, immediately spotting on an upper shelf a bottle of Cover
Girl, a Maybelline eye-stick next to it, and three
lipstick tubes of various tints and hues. Still, I wondered who wore
the makeup in this house, the macho-looking Josh with his cock-ring
or my father the fag with his shoulder length curls and twirls.
I
picked up the Cover Girl and looked myself in the mirror. A
dark swatch of baby down hairs covered my upper lip, and other dark
swatches swooned down the sides of my face as if straining in a mimic
of Elvis-like sideburns. I had never shaved before, but I knew I’d
better do so before I put on the makeup; the strong lighting in the
bathroom made my naïve-ness so apparent. But I shrugged and scooped
up whatever girly makeup I could find in the cabinet and tossed them
in my knapsack.
I
went to the door, slightly opened it and heard my father and Josh
going at it downstairs. I turned back to the medicine chest: why did
I so quickly ignore the package of cheap disposable razors and allow
my eye to settle on a long oblong box knowing it contained an old
fashioned straight razor and probably an antique from my father’s
antique shop, one he had set aside for his own personal use?
I
opened the box and looked at the elegant brown mahogany handle of the
blade. No way could the cheap yellow plastic handles of the
disposable razors ever compare to the old-styled elegance and
craftsmanship of the old blade. I flicked the blade open, as if I’d
always held one, and it hovered easily in my fingers, ready to shave
my-virgin face. I heard my father’s voice.
Hey,
you! he yelled, banging on the door. Come out of there! I want
you out of this house, now!
I
looked at myself in the mirror. I wished I had the makeup on. On
another shelve I suddenly spotted another lipstick tube. I picked it
up and curiously looked at it in my hand. The plastic wrapper was
still on around it and it had never been used. I set it down and
again fingered the razor blade. The door shook and rocked and again
my father screamed something. I lifted the blade and swung it down on
my left arm, instantly slashing my wrist, surprised at how easily and
readily my arm fell as if severed from my body and hanging in a limp
clutch as if about to fall totally from my body.
Dad
surged in, and for a moment he was speechless, then he shrieked like
a little girl. In a way it was funny, his squealing shriek not so
much of horror and surprise, but one of hate, like I suppose a girl
would cry out at the moment of losing her virginity to some unknown
rapist. It was pleasure and fear and revulsion all at once, with also
some kind of calculation of how to get out of this incident and how
to explain it afterwards when there could be no explanation except
cover up.
Josh
burst in after Dad and for a moment we stood looking at each other,
my arm dropped into the sink and leaking my blood in spurts and
spits. I was certain I had probably cut an artery but I didn’t
quite understand what those little white severed cords were doing in
my arm. I was puzzled, and suddenly my eyes widened in a sensation of
total awareness and understanding. They were put in me like the
strings of a puppet, so as to manipulate and hover me about like I
was in a performance by a puppet circus, unable to take actions of my
own but responding solely to the pullings and tuggings of a lunatic
puppet master.
But
when had this insertion of my puppet strings taken place? I certainly
hadn’t volunteered they do this to me; or was it something done
when I was a child or while I slept or still a newborn? Maybe that’s
why my mother left me, because I wasn’t a good performer? Maybe
that’s why my father left me, because my performance had shamed
him? Maybe that’s why I was left with my grandmother, that she
looked after and took care of the accident I was growing up to
become? Whatever it was, it made perfect sense: they’ve been
controlling and tugging my strings for my entire life! And whatever
stupidities I had gotten into was most likely my form of rebellion
and rejection of those manipulations. No wonder I could never fit in;
it wasn’t me at all!
Josh
also screamed, What have you done?! What have you done?!
I
was pretty much bored with both of them, holding my arm over the
sink, grabbing a towel off a wall hanger and wrapping it around my
wrist. I was strangely pleased, not a drop of blood got on my white
dress.
We’ll
need an ambulance! Josh gushed, going into a tirade of ambulances
and hospitals, when my father interrupted him and asked, Look at
the way he’s dressed, he’s not even 16! What will we tell the
police? Oh, Jesus!
But
David, Josh hissed, he’s your son!
And
suddenly Josh lowered his head as if suddenly remembering what had
just occurred. My father looked at me in a sense of disgust and again
my feelings of being a puppet came back.
We’ll
get a taxi! said Josh. We’ll take a taxi to the hospital!
My
father sneered at Josh’s suggestion.
How
will we get a taxi on Christmas Eve in the middle of a freak snow
storm?! He looked from me to Josh and sadly said, Why did you
let him in? Why didn’t you call me in the shop?
I’m
sorry, Josh whispered. I thought you were expecting him.
They
stood looking at each other, lost in their own feelings of betrayal
and weakness. I glanced at the towel on my wrist; the blood had
quickly soaked through. I knew I’d better get to a hospital.
Can
I have my coat? I simply said.
They
looked at me, but came apart to let me pass, as is I was wielding the
razor blade and was coming at them.
It’s
downstairs, said Josh.
I
wobbled on my heels, tottering down the stairs, grabbed my knapsack
and put one arm in my jacket. Josh ran after me reaching for his
wallet. He shoved a 20 dollar bill at me and said, Take a cab!
Tell him Saint Vincent’s! It’s on 7th
Avenue! The cabbie will know! It’s only a few blocks away!
Good,
I could add his twenty to mine from Cincinnati but still I was
curious as to why Josh was doing all the shouting yet I looked at him
as he was helping me with my jacket --which was dry and clean; Josh
must have thrown it in the drier. He must be a real nice guy,
I thought and staggered outside.
I
had walked past St. Vincent’s a few times that morning as I
wandered along Greenwich Avenue and it’s the place where I knew
could help me without Josh’s gushing sputtering of where to go.
Josh just closed the door behind me, and I never thought why Dad
didn’t come down the stairs.
***
They
must have thought I was a girl and I must have staggered in from
being raped since the blood had be now covered the front of my dress
in one long streak from my waist to my bottom hem. And things were
happening fast: when I slid down on the hospital gurney there must
have been a dozen nurses hovering about me, my dress raised, then
just as quickly they scattered as soon as they discovered my gender
under my white hose. But in between the various injections and
questions -- I told them my name was the social worker Ralph and gave
them Dad’s address, let them figure it out. I wanted to sleep and
for the first time since I got to New York I felt I could sleep in
some kind of safety and warmth, as if I belonged in this room no
matter that the nurses who passed my gurney giggled pr sneered to
themselves as they looked at me.
I
don’t know how long I lay there but when I opened my eyes I was
being wheeled across a long hall. I shut my eyes to keep my head from
spinning and wheeling until finally stopped; I never even saw who had
pushed me from the emergency room to this room. A doctor was looking
at me over his glasses that hovered on the tip of his nose. I knew I
shouldn’t smile but the way his glasses hung on his nose reminded
me of the grade school principal I had in Cincinnati whose authority
made the kids in school fear being sent to his office -- all he did
was feel me up while lecturing about God and Christ and Heaven; I
didn’t think he was that bad just a homo flaky.
Somehow
my bleeding had stopped as I lay on the gurney the doctor picked up
my arm and looked at the wound. I also looked, a mass of red tissue
surging from under the flesh, bloated, wet, the severed white cords
still poking outside of the globulous muscle.
What’s
that white stuff? I asked.
The
doctor put down my arm and looked over his glasses.
Tendons,
he blandly said. You severed your tendons.
His
lips seemed to tighten.
Fortunately
you only cut one, if you had cut two you’d walk around for the rest
of your life with a claw for a hand.
We
looked at each other and he raised his arm to his chest and contorted
his fingers into a grotesque vulture-like claw. He raised the arm as
if going for me. I turned my head away.
If
you had cut all three tendons, he coldly said, you may as well
have cut the arm off and thrown it away.
He
shrugged and sat down on a stool next to my gurney.
Don’t
look, he told me, and I turned my head away and felt his poking
about my hand and wrist.
And
just as time seemed to disappear in the emergency room it too faded
into an almost stillness of peace and quiet. Why is it that only
around dull and apathetic strangers did I feel myself attaining some
kind of comfort and acceptance? These people were only doing their
jobs; they had no interest or concern as to my well-being beyond that
of their experience as care-givers. I wondered if they were as
seemingly compassionate or caring of others in their own lives. Was
Mister Social Worker Ralph as coldly indifferent to his own children?
Was Little Miss Social Worker Susan as caring to her own boyfriend?
Or did people shed their work-persona-abilities the moment they left
work, putting on different personas as they were putting on their
jackets to go home? Maybe all of life was just that, role-playing,
pretending, acting… Would Susan tolerate the stupidities of her
boyfriend the way she tolerated me? Would Ralph drag his own son to
the police if he wrote a poem about a little girl being murdered?
Would I have gotten dressed as a girl if my father had loved me as a
son?
Ok,
I heard the doctor say.
I
turned, looked at his eyes over his glasses; there was a faint smile
on his lips, almost like a shrug. I looked at my wrist: it was
bandaged up, the bandage on my arm and hand looking incredibly clean
and immaculate.
All
done, he said, then turned away from me. They’re going to
take you to Bellevue psychiatric; you did try and kill
yourself, didn’t you?
He
rolled the gurney down the hall and I was beginning to feel dizzy.
Rest,
he said. Don’t think about anything.
He
must have seen my face cringe in fear -- because who wouldn’t
cringe at the word psychiatric and the possibility of being committed
when you’re dressed up as a little girl?
Someone
will help you, he said, so you don’t have to try doing this
again.
I
shut my eyes as the gurney rolled again, the boot of the gurney
hitting and pushing open various doors, than we were outside as I was
pushed into an ambulance. I shut my eyes, the two ambulance guys
talking and laughing about a lady that they knew, and I must have
slept because once more we were rolling down corridors again. A black
security guard -- like they have in large stores and malls -- stood
before a large metal door at the end of the hallway while another
guard peered through a wire-mesh window in the metal door.
They’ll
take care of you, one ambulance driver said to me and I was left
alone with the black guard.
All
of a sudden I knew I had to get my wits together. This was big time,
a psycho ward, no lunacy here or you’d get locked up for a long
time. One guard opened the metal door and pushed me in to the other
guard.
Hey,
nice dress, he said, and the two of them burst out laughing, as
the huge door slammed behind me.
Whereas
in St. Vincent’s the attitude of professionalism was certain, here
in Bellevue the attitude of paranoia was prevalent. Since you had
been brought to the psychiatric ward, the suspicion of the attendants
and security guards was nothing but an attitude of certainty that you
were a psycho and deserved to be treated as such.
Here’s
another skirt wearing one, said one guard to the other, that
makes four, don’t it?
Who
the fuck knows? answered the other guard. The night is still
young, I guess.
Possibly
at that point I became incredibly lucid and aware that one mistake on
my part would get me locked up for a long time with the other slashed
wrist transvestites. Wrist slashing is a sort of rite-of-passage, a
coming-of-age ceremony that initiates you into a world you were not
born into, a world of exaggerated femininity and outrageous
promiscuity. A slashed wrist is like a medal of honor, a purple heart
on your chest that you have severed the link that would keep you in
one gender when you raged and screamed to join and belong to another,
leaving one gender, though still unable to belong to a second one,
yet becoming a third, of male and female as one, together…a
transvestite.
Of
course I was a long cry from even pretending to mimic femaleness but
already I felt the dress I was wearing, the makeup jar and lipstick
tubes and mascara pencil I had in my coat pocket were and soon would
be a vital part of my existence…if only I could get out of this
sick psycho ward.
The
metal doors clattered behind me and I was told to climb off the
gurney and take a seat in a large waiting room; I immediately noticed
the seat legs were screwed to the ground and clutched by metal hasps
to the wall. Childlike drawings were pasted about the wall, probably
drawn by Art Therapy classes in the wards upstairs. If they
knew I wrote poetry about murdered little girls, would I now scratch
out drawings of their lifeless bodies as well?
At
the other end of the waiting room, across from the guard’s station,
near the locked door, was a water fountain. I stood up.
Sit
down, a guard instantly snapped, putting down the newspaper he
was looking at.
I
remained standing.
I
wanna a drink of water, I said.
Sit
down! he said again. His voice was firm, stern, unfeeling.
I
sat down; the water fountain was close and the more I stared at it
the more thirsty I felt, certain my mouth had never been drier or my
lips more parched and blistered from the thirst. Still, I had to
pretend everything was ok; I knew I had better not start getting
argumentative as my reactions to the guard could be very decisive as
to whether I was let go or dragged to the wards upstairs.
I
slumped down in my chair, crossed my legs, daintily covered my knees
with the dress, and stretched out an arm along the tops of chairs
next to mine.
A
gripping spasm tore through my left arm, as if I was viciously being
pulled and tugged and gripped. I yelped in pain, the arm contorting
back to my chest, my other right arm desperately gripping and holding
the hurting one. Ever since I had been sewn up I held my arm braced
upwards along the metal side railings of the gurney, the doctor even
positioning a sling to the bars to hold it upright should I doze off
to sleep, but my sudden almost nonchalant jerk of stretching the arm
up suddenly made it clear how brutally I had hurt myself.
I
doubled over and rocked back and forth, the pain slowly easing as my
arm remained in one steady position. I looked at the guard; he was
looking at me, and I don’t know what I must have looked like, but
he scowled and coldly said, Go ahead, get the water, and he
settled back in his chair and smirked, but there’s no more cups.
I
didn’t care; I stood up and shuffled to the water fountain. It was
one of the plastic-bottled refillable kinds, with two little red and
blue spigots at the front and I suddenly knew my dilemma. I would
need two hands and arms to take a drink: one to push the spigot and
the other to cup my hand and catch the water in my palm. How
did the guard drink? I wondered, but knew it best not to ask. Was
this some kind of psychological problem, a test that was being taped
by some hidden camera so that my sanity and competency could be
studied and examined?
The
guard was looking intently at me. A few paces from the water bottle a
clear plastic garbage bag hung taped to a wall, bulging with a few
discarded newspapers and masses of crushed discarded paper cups. I
reached into the bag, rummaged for the least crushed cup, and leveled
it under the blue water spigot. I pushed the spigot and the water
swooshed into the cup and just as it appeared, cold and clear and
inviting, so too it tasted on my lips as I drained the cup and
refilled it one more time. The guard had been watching me all the
while, and after three cupfuls I again felt my thirst abating and I
put the cup into the trash bag, leaving it uncrushed for the next
psycho patient, winking at a camera as I returned to my seat. I was
certain I had passed a secret test.
After
I had drunk the water I sat back down knowing I had better not act
crazy; though I wanted to talk to myself I knew that this time
someone might be listening and paying attention. I kept quiet. It was
so much like sitting outside of the principal’s office when I was a
kid, or sitting in the counseling center waiting for Susan, or Ralph,
or just waiting in my whole life. A lifetime of waiting for help…but
did I ever believe any of them that they only wanted to help me? Each
counselor shuffling me to another, my file growing, thickening, the
writing undecipherable to the next healer, care-giver,
duplicitous social worker…
I
suddenly heard the guard’s door clatter with that jail-like
clanging that either clanged shut with your imprisonment or clanged
open for your release. Two women came in through the door, both
carrying clipboards and both pausing to look at me, the black woman
entering the glass partitioned cubicle near the guard’s station.
The white woman picked up another piece of paper -- it was the same
paper I saw the doctor who had sewed me up had been writing on -- a
transcript of my conversation with him? -- and she curiously peered
over the paper and studied me a moment.
I
wanted to smile, not because I wanted to seem friendly, but because
the look was another constant in my ongoing reality of my life. Do
they learn that in their schools, to look inquisitively at their
patients as if assessing them in an instant without even having
spoken to them? A look; not only for preconceived notions and
judgments, but one also of those instant condemnations? Ralph always
looked at me like that, as did Susan in the beginning before she
seemed to have mellowed, and Mrs. Gillette’s look only got more and
more critical and outraged as I kept coming to her house and always
somehow disappointing her. What did she want and expect anyway? Aw,
hell, I could never win with people looking like that at me, and I
knew that this time I could lose out mightily.
I
lowered my head, staring at the bandage on my wrist. An oily looking
brown smear seemed to be edging its way through the porous fabric
where I was certain I had slashed my wrist. I tried moving my fingers
but could only get them to slightly react --my hand a claw for the
rest of my life, eh? Would it matter so much anyway?
I
at first supposed that the woman was some kind of nurse, she wore a
white robe, but unlike the other nurses who were in completely in
white, she wore regular clothes under the robe. Her name plate above
her left chest was a complicated tangle of letters, mostly Z’s and
W’s that I didn’t ever dare try and pronounce and her bright
blonde hair strangely bee-hived at the top of her head almost seemed
like a mimic of a nurse’s caplet she wasn’t wearing. Still, her
stern blue eyes belied any kindness and tenderness in her demeanor,
and I supposed that if she wasn’t a real nurse she was probably the
warden of this place. I knew I had to be careful.
As
the guard watched from his station, standing up when the woman first
beckoned me, I walked across the waiting room and entered her cubicle
office. I almost exploded in a Ah ha! of realization, as if I
should have known it from the start, because I probably did, and what
I saw on the far end of her desk, propped up against the wall, was
the familiar bible of social workers, the blue book called Casework,
which Susan also had in her office, as did Benedict Arnold Ralph,
and probably sits on the desks and roosts in the minds of all Social
Workers all over the world.
Once
more I was sitting in the presence of a social worker; would I ever
be rid of them? And once more I had walked in like a lamb for his
slaughter. I wondered if that wasn’t another thing social workers
kept in their desks, an axe at the ready to flail my bared neck and
skull…
Name
and address, she said, and was as unfriendly and alien as if I
had landed on Mars and was being interrogated by an envious green
sister of the red planet.
She
looked sternly at me and at the form before her as if confirming my
identity with the form before her. Was the official looking paper
able to reveal more about my identity more than I could? She stared
at me calculatingly, than asked, Do you know where you are?
I
snorted, than said, In the hospital.
Which
one?
I
knew I had gone to St. Vincent’s but I didn’t quite know where
the ambulance had escorted me in the night, and I told her so. And
her eyes slightly softened, as if the awareness of my own experience
and its memory disproved the question of my sanity. Still, I didn’t
crack a smile. And once more she looked sternly at me, as if
hesitating before she asked her vital question.
Why
are you dressed like that? she asked.
I
turned red and lowered my head, the front of my dress forever ruined
by smears of my dark blood; yet if I could shed more blood and
sprinkle it around the sides and back of the dress I could probably
succeed in making the plain white fabric a mélange of polka dots.
I
was at a party, I lied.
The
woman’s looks again softened and she eased back in her chair.
Were
you drinking at the party?
I
nodded. Maybe too much? I said, again lowering my head.
How
incredibly easy it was to lie to people! Just tell them what they
want to hear, that’s all; that way it’s not really a lie since
they expect it. And sometimes it’s not even wrong to lie,
especially to social workers, since they have the power over your
freedom, once you have fallen into their clutches and you must do
everything to hold onto your dignity and self-preservation…which
sometimes means you must lie.
What
happened at the party? she asked.
It
was like a costume party, I answered. And I had too much wine.
Do
you take drugs?
I
looked at her. Only pot.
Were
you drinking wine and smoking pot at the same time?
Uh
huh, I nodded again.
She
wrote a few sentences on the paper before her and put the pen down. A
faint smile eased across her mouth, as if my lies were a confirmation
of her diagnosis.
And
what happened?
We
looked at each other. I went to the bathroom, I said. I
wasn’t feeling too good. I threw up. I looked at myself in the
mirror. I looked ugly. There was a razor on the shelf. One of those
razors that carpenters use to cut sheetrock. You know the kind, with
the blade at one end and a handle at the other?
Yes,
yes, I know, she said, and I knew I had her, as she wanted to
hear my lie.
There
was a lot of gay people at the party, and I saw her tender smile
and went on with my lie. I wouldn’t have gone but there was this
girl…
Are
you gay? she asked.
I
hesitated, then said, I’ve been with gays, my face flushing
and embarrassing red as if I was ashamed and regretted my betrayal of
my sexuality. But lots of people think being gay is a choice; that we
turn to another of our sex so as to fit in or have friends or being
accepted by the crowd. I know it’s true, and I’d often admit the
same to Susan, knowing that option was liked by her, as though I was
trapped by circumstances around me and who I was with, that is,
getting money from guys and also having my sexual needs satisfied.
But you have a free choice of changing, Susan always stressed.
And I suppose I did, but why do social workers always want you to
change, and change in a way that they want you to change?
Do
you like being with men? she asked.
Not
really, my face even a deeper red then before. I don’t know how
I was able to carry it off. I started believing my own lies.
There
was this girl, I suddenly blurted. She was beautiful. She was
dressed like a pirate, but all in red and green, like a Santa’s
helper. She was with another girl who was also dressed like a pirate,
but a captain pirate, and I knew that the other girl was a lezzie. I
blushed and looked at the lady, then went on. Told her she had very
short hair, like a boy’s, while the girl I liked had long hair and
lets of makeup. And her pants and shirt was real tight. The lezzie
had loose pants. They saw me looking at them. And the lezzie said
You’re was a fine wench and that you’d make a fine whore for
their crew. But I kept looking at the other girl who seemed
guilty about something until the lezzie put her arm around the girl’s
shoulders, very possessive-like and controlling, as though me the
girl was hers. But the girl I liked started laughing. You look
ridiculous! she said, and the two started laughing. I went to
the bathroom. Saw the razor. Slashed it across my wrist.
We
were silent, looking at each other.
Did
you want to kill yourself? she asked, looking at intently at me.
No,
I shook my head. I was embarrassed. The girl was so pretty and
she was laughing at me. I was ashamed.
Do
you always have problems with girls?
I
smiled; she was setting herself up for this one.
Only
when dressed as a girl, I winked, than turned red, and for the
first time since the interview started she cracked a smile and
snorted a laugh.
But
she asked, Do you often dress as a girl?
It
was a costume party, I said, I don’t know why they had it on
Christmas Eve; maybe they missed Halloween or something.
The
social worker or psychiatrist or whatever she was softened somewhat
and looked relieved. I wondered if my strained attempt at humor eased
her suspicions that I should be dispatched to the upstairs loony bin.
Susan once told me that what would save me was my sense of humor;
that given the time I could find and see the humor in every
situation, which would lead me to forgiveness and peace. But she
didn’t say anything about my humor as manipulation that could also
save my life. To do that I’d even lie to the beautiful Susan and
the hell with trust being the basis of all relationships, when trust
can also be the basis of all betrayals.
Can
you get home on your own? she asked.
I
looked at her. Think, asshole, think! I thought. The
ambulance ride didn’t seem all that long, and there were only a few
turns. Damn, I should have paid more attention.
She
looked up from her form. You live in the Village?
I
knew my father’s house was in Greenwich Village and nodded. It’s
a short walk, not far at all.
She
looked at me. If you don’t mind looking like that, she said,
I’ll give you a pass to leave, ok?
I
nodded reluctantly but I was overjoyed.
You
can sit in the waiting room and wait till its daylight.
I
weakly smiled. No, I’ll be fine. Thanks very much.
She
stared at me, then said, If we let go, will you try and cut your
wrist again?
I
shook my head, No, ma’am, I just wanna get home and get some
sleep.
The
humor that I had stirred up was gone; her face was thoughtful, but no
longer condemning or judgmental. An expression of serious concern
brooded about her eyes and she finally decisively bit a corner of her
inside lip as if this allowed her to make a conclusive decision.
We
have a daily clinic, she said. You can walk in any time. Or
you can call and I want you to know if you ever feel like harming
yourself that there are always people here willing and ready to talk
to you.
I
looked at her. I’m not gonna do this again, I said. I
feel stupid about it already.
Her
eyes opened wide, a flash of concern.
Do
you feel ashamed?
Just
very tired, I answered.
Again
she bit her lip then said, When you feel better tomorrow or any
time, come in and talk, ok?
I
nodded, maybe a little too eagerly, but I was bored and disgusted by
her solicitude and concern. Come in and talk? I talked for
almost three years if not my entire life in Cincinnati and if anyone
of them ever got me again I’d certainly make sure I would kill
myself then. Talk to these social working quacks and shrinks?
Fathers, counselors, girls, friends, grandmothers, what did anyone of
them know why I wanted to hurt myself? I certainly didn’t, and I
certainly had no faith in either of them helping me to understand the
roots or basis of my self hatred. Oh, I recognized it now, the
cowardice, the fear, the disgust, the confusion, the apathy. All I
wanted now was to be out of here, back on the streets, away from the
lot of these social workers and psycho do-gooders who in the blink of
an eye can turn their compassion for your suffering into a jail
sentence that can make you the loser forever. Survival and sanity had
nothing to do with the truth. If there was any compassion in the
world it must be for oneself. And the vital thing if you must love,
do not love too much…
She
pushed back her chair and stood up. I’ll take you to the door,
she said, and tell the guard you can go.
I
also stood up, bracing my arm against my chest and holding it up with
my other hand. I followed her out of the office and back into the
waiting room. Another man/patient sat in the room, his hair
disheveled, his face looking stunned, but his eyes the most pleased
and peaceful I’d ever seen. He smiled at me, and when I got to the
guard’s station I overheard him telling another guard, He drove
a nail into his foot because Jesus told him too, then he trailed
off at our approach, his face reddening from embarrassment.
He
can go, the woman said to the flustered guard and gestured at me.
Take care, she said, but her eyes were already looking at the
friend of Jesus, her next patient, and I was already far from
her thoughts. Would he lie to her as I had just done? Or would he
tell her the truth and would she be able to handle it? And what was
the truth he would relate, forgive them Father, for they know not
what they do?
But
I was once more my own, walking past the busy emergency room
entrance: people sitting in chairs, others leaning against walls, and
all waiting their turns for some kind of treatment, something to
soothe them or calm them for a brief moment that someone was taking
an interest and preserving their lives and sanity as if on Christmas
Eve the only place to feel oneself cared for was a hospital emergency
room. When no one wants you alive, here they will do everything to
keep you living…Too bad there was not a place such as this to keep
you feeling loved…
***
Outside
the snow had stopped and a crisp sheen of ice covered the sidewalk
that crackled beneath my heels. Christmas lights merrily twinkled in
the windows above the street and I was happy to discover that once
more I was walking downtown. Back in the hospital I had put my pants
back on and covered the dress I still had on with my Cincinnati
Bengal’s jacket over that. My arm felt numb and I was very tired.
But where to go? I turned west on 25th street and once
more found myself near the park that I had passed…what? yesterday?
But
I knew my dress would deceive no one and that my ski cap would do
little to alter the fact of my masculinity, but as I walked I saw the
headlights of a car slowing to a crawl and inching to stop beside me.
A
fat-faced man lowered his window and leered at me; once again the
glassy and watery eyes unmistakably glistened with lust and passion,
with a victorious look at feeling already having won me over by the
mere fact of having spotted me, as if coincidence was destiny and we
were meant to meet. But did he know I wasn’t a girl hooker? Or did
it matter to him?
Ain’t
you cold to be walking around like that? he asked, as his car
slowly moved with me up the street.
I
shrugged. A little, I said.
You
look like you could use a little warming up, he smiled, stopping
and letting a side door open. I know I could use some warmth, and
he winked at me.
I
barely smiled but he saw it was a friendly face and my hardening cock
suddenly plopped out of the side of my panties and shot out before
me, the loose dress doing little to restrain it as my pants would
have done and trapped it against my belly. I pretended to shiver, as
if his suggestion was what I needed.
Get
in, he said. I’ll give you twenty bucks and that will warm
you up, and give you a ride where you wanna go. He blinked, and I
could feel the warmth of his car wafting out his open window. I stood
still for a second then shrugged and circled around the car to the
passenger side. The warmth was soothing and I relaxed in its comfort,
as if I was home in bed under the covers on a rainy night, safe and
sound.
He
turned up the radio and a cowboy song blasted from the speakers and
he quickly changed the station to disco, Where do you go, my
lovely? I wanna know, where do you go? thinking I would like that
better; I didn’t care. From the radio his hand went to my legs and
up my dress and quickly found my hard dick.
For
a moment he tensed, as if surprised and I was ready to bolt out of
the car. Did he think I was really a girl? But his fingers remained
circled around my erection and he stroked it a few times then let go
and cupped my balls and leered, Feeling warmer?
I
moaned a sigh of contentment, nodding my head so girlishly, and he
gripped the steering wheel, shifted gears, and started the car up
23rd street turning down a deserted 25th
street. We rode about two blocks and I glimpsed the cloud-like tree
shapes above Madison Square Park, also glistening in frozen snow.
Even in the cold I saw two huddled and bundled up figures walking on
the un-trodden snow leaving their foot imprints behind them. I
recognized the man who had felt me up on the day I had arrived from
Cincinnati Along side of him a huddled young looking kid, I guessed
my age, walked slowly beside. I smiled and shrugged.
Someone
you know? the driver asked, once more inching his free hand up my
thigh. Sit closer.
I
inched closer to him and slightly opened my legs, the vision of my
skirt rising and falling but covering my cock made me even harder.
Ain’t
he a bit too young to be hustling? I said, looking at the young
kid with the old man.
The
driver looked at them. Aren’t you? he said, looking at me
blushing. I ran my tongue around my lips and wished I was wearing
lipstick.
The
driver gripped my cock tighter then again his hand went up and down
my thigh.
“But
lets go here,” he said, putting his car into motion once more. We
passed the park and he drove west --I could see the street signs. But
in the car a warmth settled on me like I was home and safe in bed.
Let’s
stop here, said the driver, coming to a stop in a quiet street. I
saw row upon row of warehouses and shuttered gates on the street
outside. In a window a clock peered out, 2:30 a.m. I must have been
walking at least a half hour or forty five minutes before I met the
feeler who had his arm up my dress, making his way past my pants, and
reaching for my penis. I moaned, and he saw the bandage on my wrist.
What’s
that? he asked.
I
shrugged. A cut. No big thing.
He
looked at me then said, Let’s get in the back, opening his
side door and getting out. I quickly did the same, grateful to jump
into the warm back seat from the brutal cold and wind. We relaxed a
bit breathing very hard, then he undid his pants, raised himself up
and slid them down his legs to his knees. Immediately the car smelled
like cock and balls, urine and pubic hairs, and I knew that clumps of
hairs were stuck together around his crotch and thighs, the hairs
plastered and held by dried scum, either his own or another’s.
I’ve
often wondered, when I went off with some guy, whether I was his
first of the night or just one of many, often getting my curiosity
speared by the shrugged comment that I wasn’t as good as the last
one was, or sometimes, that I was even better, when I knew that even
my best would pull them to leave and eventually find still others.
Whether it be cruising along the river, prostituting for money,
giving and getting hand-jobs in the parks, it would never lead to any
kind of peace or acceptance. Anonymous sex leaves you as unknown to
yourself as you never allow yourself to uncover the unknown
about your partner. Is it really a search for love, all those garish
prostitutes, the boys in tight t-shirts, girls in skimpy bras, the
runaway children, the crack addict kids, the petty thieves sleeping
in hallways, huddled on rooftops, in back of trucks, in cardboard
boxes? Or are they there because they once knew where love once dwelt
and existed but was never offered or given to them?
The
driver put his arm around my shoulder, gripping my neck and pushing
me to his crotch.
C’mon,
baby, he hissed, get to work, you know the routine.
But
my left arm was somehow twisted and contorted under my body as I
tried to go down on him. I yelped and jumped back up, clutching my
arm to my belly.
What’s
with you? he angrily asked. When you’re a fairy that’s
what you do: suck cock and bend over…that’s what you’re good
for, right?
I
whimpered. But I had an accident; I hurt my arm.
He
shrugged. Just use your mouth, he said, suddenly frowning as
he noticed the bandage peeping out of my jacket sleeve.
We
looked at each other.
Let’s
change seats, he finally said, pulling me atop him, his rigid
cock tweaking my thighs and back, and I offered to remain atop his
lap but he kept pulling me to his other side. I plopped down from his
lap and immediately went down to his cock, filling my lipstick
smeared lips with its smelly putrid bulk, my left arm arched at the
elbow down my side.
But
it wasn’t a real sucking, simply an open-mouthed bouncing atop his
cock, and not a lavish tonguing, drooling, sucking like they show in
porno theaters. As if we’re all porno stars, aw Jesus! I wonder if
girls are the only ones who really know how to suck cock: but I felt
like trying it too.
I
sighed, compressed my lips around his cock, gripping his cock-skin
around my lips, and settled my head as far down as I could go. His
response was instantaneous and fast: his torso buckled upwards and I
gagged from the entire penis but I held my lips tightly shut around
his cock, his pubic hairs ticking under my nose, and readily
swallowed his semen surging down my throat.
I
knew I was good, looking up at him with my tender eyes, and his
gentle pats and strokes on my head proved that I was. Most strangers
who pick you up won’t even offer a caress afterwards, they want as
little to do with you as possible; but not him. I swallowed him
whole, the semen almost like a nutritious treat appeasing my hunger
since I haven’t eating in almost two days.
His
cock went soft in my mouth and finally dribbled out. I sat up, and he
was immediately on my face, kissing and licking my lips and probing
his tongue in my mouth as if greedily wanting to lap up his own
semen. I let him, amazed that he did that, and with one hand reached
under my dress and stroked my still hard penis.
My
eruption was probably as immediate and powerful as was his own, and
for the first time in my life I actually saw tweaks of glimmering
stars under my clenched eyelids, like a meteor shower exploding in my
brain and body and existence that proved I was as good and sexy and
beautiful as the rest of them...and I had done it to myself.
Sure,
the night’s disasters, the meeting with my father, his lover, my
slashed wrist, the conversation with Blondie, her own father
straining into my ass, the conversation with the shrink in Bellevue
had probably strained my consciousness to its limit and only a sexual
ejaculation could bring me back to my sense of awareness and
self-control.
I
had two days-full of people in my life and probably off all those
people only Blondie was of any value. Trust is the basis of all
relationships, Susan used to say; well, maybe…but if that were
true, you also had to discover the trust could also be the
basis of all betrayal. Wasn’t I in this city because I felt
myself betrayed in Cincinnati? Wasn’t I sucking a stranger’s cock
on Christmas morning because I had expected too much from my father,
expected something he could never give me? Maybe…I wish I could
tell Susan, If you must trust, do not trust too much.
We
broke from each other and fell exhausted back in the seat. He sat a
moment then suddenly bolted upright and pulled up his pants, as if
suddenly realizing how openly exposed we were in the car in the
well-lit street. But fortunately no one was looking and I doubt if
even a car passed us by on that cold Christmas morning.
He
zipped up, and opened the back door, stepping out of the car. I did
the same and quickly rejoined him in the front seat. For a moment he
looked at me in some surprise, as if expecting me to stay outside.
Five,
wasn’t it? he angrily said. He looked around as if looking for
a place he could go before anyone saw him.
You
said twenty, I quietly said.
Twenty!
But you didn’t do anything! he flared. Where did you get the
idea a measly blow job was worth twenty?
I
didn’t ask for it, I said, you’re the one who said twenty.
We
looked at each other.
Well,
ok, he finally said, reaching in his back pocket and pulling out
a wallet. I saw there were more than twenty dollars.
Well,
he mumbled, it’s getting late.
Can
you gimme a ride? It’s not that far, I meekly protested, then
added, Please?
What
would Susan say about that, adding two emotions, anger and pleading,
to get what I wanted?
Ok,
where too?
I
felt very peaceful.
15th
street, I said. On Tenth Avenue.
He
looked at me. Then reached for his car radio and turned the dial away
from disco and back to the country station that was playing before he
changed it.
You’d
better fix your lipstick, he said, if you want to go there.
He winked and we drove off.
I
pulled out a tube of lipstick I had in my jacket and tried putting it
on without looking into a mirror. He reached over for a sun visor and
lowered so I could see. I smiled at him and looked at myself in the
mirror. Blowjob mouth, I’d call someone who looked like me,
the lipstick smudged heavily over my lips, like streaks of clouds
staining the sides of my mouth. It was obvious I had just sucked a
cock and was looking for more.
I
did nothing to fix my mouth but applied another coat to my lips. The
driver squeezed his cock in his pants as he looked at me.
Is
that where you usually hang out? he asked. I’ve never seen
you there.
You
gotta keep looking, I simply said, pressing my lips together and
looking in the mirror.
We
drove some more and he finally said, looking at the desolate streets,
There aren’t many...girls out tonight, eh?
I
looked around. They probably got picked up real fast, I
shrugged. On Christmas Eve everybody wants you to spend a whole
night with you.
How
did I suddenly get so street-smart tough-talking, as if I could take
care of myself? Maybe I suddenly knew something incredible about
myself and what I had to offer, and it would certainly go to the
highest bidder.
Is
that what you want, he asked, spend the night with someone?
Nope,
I said, I’m not into that lovey-dovey stuff, smacking my
lips together a final time and flicking the sun visor closed.
He
looked at me then contemptuously shook his head. You’re a real
Wham-Bam-Thank you-Ma’am whore, ain’t you?
Hey!
I snapped. Do I go around calling you names?
We
turned off 23rd street made our way down 10th
avenue. In the distance I could see the dark building where I first
met Blondie and the sick bums. A tall black transvestite stood on the
corner, shivering in high heels, white nylons, garters, and red
panties fully exposed, with a white furry jacket atop her shoulders
but doing little to protect her from the cold. Looked like a late
summers get-up. And the driver’s eyes went wide, and we passed her
by and he said, Wherever you want to be dropped off? It was
obvious he wanted to get back to her before anyone else did.
15th
street, I simply said, and it was only a block away.
He
stopped the car, and I got out, not even offering a Goodbye, as
he said nothing to me but sped away turning the corner burning rubber
as he sped to catch back up with the skimpily dressed transvestite.
I
made my way down the street, shivering from the cold, and wondered if
I would ever be able to stand on a street corner only in panties and
nylons. Is that how Blondie did it?
I
stepped into a crevice of a scaffold and made my way into the
deserted warehouse loading dock. The smell of extinguished candles
hung in the air, as if they were just blown out. I let my eyes settle
in the darkness so I could see clearer.
I
made my way towards the shape where I knew Blondie had her sleeping
niche --other body-bundles lay scattered about but no one stirred.
Blondie looked up at me. Had she just blown out the candle?
Next
to her sleeping bag was my notebook. I smiled, but suddenly realized
that I felt better about seeing Blondie than my notebook, though
grateful she had rescued and saved my poetry. I reached into my
pocket and pulled out the pink lipstick and dark eyebrow pencil.
Her
eyes widened to see better and she sat up and relit the small candle
beside her. She held out her hand.
Oh,
you got them, she said.
She
took the makeup from my hand, clutched them to her chest and held out
a corner of her blanket for me to crawl in.
I
did so; her arms went around me, like a father’s around his son. We
kissed. I felt right at home.
The
End