18 YEAR OLDS DON'T CRY
A sheet of the New York Post, blown by the gritty November wind, wrapped itself around his legs. Lucas Dexter peeled it off, screwed it into a ball and threw it into the night. On second thoughts he wondered whether it might have been more sensible to keep it as insulation against the cold. First night without a roof over his head and his head still buzzed from the fighting.
"You're brainless. You're stupid. You're lying. You're no son of mine." His father had shouted, each accusation punctuated by a blow aimed at his head.
"I'm not stupid. I ain't lying," he had protested, arms futilely trying to protect himself and the tears had come without him wanting them -- eighteen year olds don't cry.
The darkness was his blanket and in the wind came the first spots of rain. He'd have to find some shelter somewhere, probably a doorway.
"Please, George . . . " a faltering appeal from his mother, glancing from one to the other.
"I've had enough. He won't spend another night here."
"But where will he go?"
"I don't give a fuck! Glue-sniffing! Stealing! Christ knows what else. Get out! Get fucking out!"
"He's only eighteen . . . "
Nowhere to go except to the Big City. The buses ran all night. He hitched to the bus terminal. The one-way ticket to Manhattan from Lakewood, New Jersey was ten dollars even -- his only ten dollars. And now here, with just a few late-night leftovers from the Times Square bars still wandering the streets, what to do? Where to go? A restaurant doorway to try to escape from that bitter wind? Lucas shivered, his sweater, jeans and thin leather jacket offering inadequate protection.
His father's accusations had been non-stop. The boy was aggressive, answered back, cursed at his mother, couldn't keep a job, stayed out all night--going God knows where. "If this place isn't good enough for you, then you can fuckin' leave."
He'd gone upstairs to the tiny room which was the only part of the house which he'd really considered his own. It wasn't much and when he really looked at it, the only things that made it personal were a few posters of rock stars on the wall. He tore them down and left the shredded remains on the floor. He didn't want to leave anything that reminded them of him. He shoved some clothes into a knapsack.
Shit, if only he hadn't spent three dollars and twenty-nine cents--the last of his money--on a pack of cigarettes. He was hungry already.
His stomach felt empty but fright seemed to have stemmed some of the worst pangs. Tomorrow he would have to think about how to get food. First he had to get through the night. A distant striking from some municipal clock told him it was midnight. He passed a doorway but there was already a dark figure curled up inside. But half a block later he found an empty one and squatted down. The step was hard under his buttocks, and the wall uncomfortable against his back. He arranged the knapsack so that it filled in the gap between his body and the sidewalk. He knew he'd never sleep.
But he was wrong. Even with the cold, the discomfort, the unfamiliar, frightening surroundings he dozed off and woke only when the morning light touched him, stiff and aching, every limb seemingly protesting at the treatment it had received, his head throbbing, his stomach empty.
A new day . . .
Lucas made it through the month. The first week had been the worst. Hungry most of the time, reduced to searching through dumpsters looking for the remains of take-out lunches and restaurant discards. But he'd seen the other homeless, how they made their pitch--subway entrances were good--some begging with dogs which presumably made the animal-loving passerby more susceptible to generosity, a tin can or cardboard box in front, maybe a scrawled note on cardboard broadcasting their plight. And he'd learned from them, found he could scratch a precarious living from begging, washing daily in the public restrooms at Port Authority. Sometimes he got enough money for a Big Mac, though the double fries were cheaper, filling if not the ideal health food diet.
He had noticed a spattering of zits developing on his face and bought some oranges to supplement his diet. His hair grew long and rather sticky - the liquid soap provided in the lavatories didn't seem all that effective as a conditioner. His face, he noticed in the smudged and distorting metal mirror, seemed thinner, his brown eyes larger and more anxious under their blond eyelashes. But he still had that look that made him appear younger than his eighteen years. His clothes, purchased originally more for fashion than durability were degenerating, the material at knee and buttock growing thin. What he would do when they developed holes he had no idea.
He tried a welfare office, giving a false name and adding a year to his real age. But when the caseworker started quizzing him about a home address and parents, he got up and left. The small amount of money he did get came from his begging.
He developed a certain look, what he thought to himself as a beguiling, beseeching expression. This, he found, worked particularly well on older women--but as they only dropped a quarter (at most) into his box, he didn't make much from them. He had scrawled a deliberately misspelled notice 'CARNT AFORD BREKFEST' and propped this up in front of him, but it was still a long, boring day. Most of the time he spent gazing into the middle distance, torturing himself with thoughts of a bang-up dinner, a thick steak, singed on the outside and pink inside, crisp, golden-brown roast potatoes, hot buttered homemade biscuits, light as air, sweet green peas flavored with mint and thick savory gravy. Most of all, he fantasized about a comfortable bed with clean sheets and a soft, soft mattress.
One evening a gang of teenagers screamed insults at him and, when he answered back, jumped him, punched him in the stomach, kicked him, and went off with his day's money. That day he didn't eat -- in fact didn't feel like eating -- and worried when he found himself bleeding when he went for a shit. He wondered whether to go the a hospital emergency room but was afraid they'd start asking nosy questions, just like the welfare people. In a few days he healed and determined never to hang around the subway entrances after dark, even though at this time of year there were many people still out and about in the evenings.
It was approaching Christmas and the streets were decorated with twinkling colored lights and jolly white-bearded figures of Santa Claus. On Christmas Day several charities would distribute a special Christmas meal to the homeless. One good meal a year, thought Lucas cynically.
On the third day of the second month he met Nick Warren.
It was a particularly cold December. That day there were flurries of snowflakes in the air though they hadn't yet reached the stage of settling. Lucas was standing in front of the Barnes and Noble on Fifth Avenue, looking warily about him. The place was bustling with holiday shoppers and looked to be good for a few quarters before their security chased him away. He was wearing all the clothes he possessed but still felt cold. One of his high-topped sneakers had split down the side just above the sole and he had tied a piece of string around it -- but it didn't make much difference. Soon a new pair would be essential and he had no idea how he would get them.
He was worrying about this problem when he noticed the young man standing some yards away but obviously looking in his direction. At first he wondered whether the guy was a plain clothes cop, come to move him on, but the expression on the man's face seemed to be one of interest rather than interference.
The man approached. Lucas noticed his dark eyebrows, his black hair, springing from his forehead, the smile -- or was it a sneer -- the lithe, confident almost arrogant way he walked. The suit he was wearing looked expensive; the grey tie, discreet against his white shirt. As he got closer the man felt inside his jacket for his wallet and produced a ten dollar bill.
"What would you buy," he asked, holding it in front of Lucas, "if I put this in your box?"
Lucas looked appreciative. It was considerably more than he'd made all day. "Good meal, mister," he said, putting on that look he had practiced.
"Not spend it on drugs?"
"Don't do drugs, mister," said Lucas automatically. "It's a suckers' game."
"And I bet you don't normally talk like that," said the man. "Or have that dumb look on your face."
For a moment Lucas was angry, but then ten dollars was ten dollars. He nodded. "Sorry," he said in his natural voice. "It's what they expect."
The man dropped the ten into the box and then opened his wallet again. He took out and carefully counted three fifty-dollar bills. "And what," he said, "would you do for this?"
A hundred and fifty bucks. He could buy some shoes, another pair of jeans, maybe even a warm parka. But Lucas wasn't a complete fool. He looked wary. "What do you mean?" he asked. "What would I have to do?"
The man tucked the money back into his wallet. "Come and have something to eat," he said. "No need to get alarmed. We'll talk about it over a burger or something."
They sat opposite each other in Burger King and Lucas wolfed down two Whoppers with fries and a milk shake. The man sipped at a coffee, watching him. It was mid-morning and the place was half empty. Their table was private.
"My name's Nick," said the man.
"Lucas."
"OK," said Nick, smiling, which made his face even more attractive. He narrowed his eyes, looked serious. "So, Lucas, how long have you been on the streets?"
"Just over a month."
"And how have you been making it?"
Lucas took another bite and chewed. "So-so," he said warily. "Some days I make enough."
"Enough for new shoes?" asked the man. He had obviously noticed the sneakers, as, at the moment, they were tucked out of sight under the table. "Enough for a room at the night? Enough for regular meals?" He looked at Lucas munching hungrily on the second Whopper, attacking the fries, washing it down with the shake.
Lucas shook his head.
"You're not a bad looking kid," said Nick. "Steady eyes, nice mouth, good teeth. You need a bath, a haircut, new clothes." He paused. "You could be earning a thousand a week, easy. Maybe more. Yes, a thousand . . ."
He let the words hang in the air. Lucas' mouth opened.
"What would I have to do?" he asked. "I haven't got qualifications or experience."
"You've got a dick, haven't you?" asked Nick, smiling again. "If you've gotta cock and a mouth and a butthole -- you've got everything you need."
Lucas blushed. Suddenly he realized where this was leading. Not in detail, but certainly the rough direction. Frightened, almost panicky, he started to get to his feet.
"Just think about it," said Nick quickly. "A thousand a week guaranteed. I'll get you somewhere nice to stay, clothes to wear, good clothes." Lucas paused, thinking. "I'd look out for you, make sure you didn't get hurt."
Lucas hesitated -- and in doing so was lost. He sat down again. Nick smiled.
"I've never done anything like that," said Lucas. "Not, you know, with . . . " He paused, again not sure what was being asked of him. Would it be with men? What was this about his mouth, and his ass? "I wouldn't know what to do."
Nick got up. "Come on," he said. "Come back to my place. Have a shower. You can borrow some of my clothes. I'll show you what to do." His smile was warm, convincing -- almost seductive. "You'll enjoy it," he promised.
Lucas followed Nick down into the labyrinth of subway tracks below Port Authority and they took the train to Nick's place on West 72nd. It was a typical New York apartment--too small and a little disappointing, consisting of just a living room, an old, tiny kitchen, and, through an open door, the view of a bedroom. The furniture was not much different from that in Lucas' own parents' home -- he'd expected something more luxurious, to match the designer suit. An old sofa stood against one wall and a tall bookcase with some paperbacks against another. A window looked out onto the street below and some posters of bullfighters suggested Nick might have taken a vacation in Mexico. There was a computer system on a table over by the far wall. The carpet looked old and worn.
"Make yourself at home," said Nick and waved his hand at the sofa and then expansively, around the room. "Rent controlled. Want a drink?" He opened a cupboard and displayed an impressive array of bottles and cans.
"I'll have a beer," said Lucas, who didn't like liquor. Nick threw him a can and he pulled the ring opener, gulping down the contents before it fizzed out, without waiting for a glass. He felt nervous, not sure what was going to happen -- but Nick didn't seem to be about to fling himself on him. Lucas watched him sit down at the other end of the sofa with a glass of whisky, looking at him from under those dark eyebrows, summing him up, a little smile on his lips.
Finally Lucas took the iniative. "OK," he said, "what would I have to do?"
Nick smiled and moved closer to him. Lucas could feel his closeness, feel the heat of him. When Nick put his hand on his thigh, Lucas tensed, but it felt somehow comforting. It was almost the only human contact he had had for over a month. The hand was warm and when it stroked upwards, Lucas found his legs opening almost automatically, so that the hand found his crotch, felt the softness which rapidly became hardness. He gasped as the hand clasped his prick through the thin material of his jeans.
"That's the start," said Nick. "That's what you've gotta do. Do you think you can manage that?"
Lucas looked at Nick's crotch. There was a bulge there, under the expensive cloth. He realised he wanted to touch it, find out what was inside, what it felt like. He grabbed.
"Wait!" said Nick. "Go gently. Make the other person feel important, wanted. Don't rush at him as if you wanted to tear his balls off."
Lucas moved his hand and then replaced it in the inside of Nick's thigh, moving his fingers so that they scrabbled gently. They found their way upwards again making for Nick's fork. but this time finding his balls first, cupping them gently, then holding the strong, hard shaft.
Nick sighed. "Now pull down the zipper," he said. "Slowly. Go inside. Hold me through my shorts." As he spoke he was doing the same to Lucas, and the feel of those fingers so close to the actual skin was like nothing he had ever felt before. Arousing tremors of delight surged in his groin, in his balls, up his cock.
"Do you kiss?" asked Nick. "Some do, some don't."
Lucas considered. With that hand around his prick, rubbing it up and down, he would do anything. "I'd like to kiss you," he said and their lips met, a tongue probing at his closed mouth and then, entering and wrestling with his, excitingly. He couldn't help it. Suddenly he came, the semen pulsing out into his underwear and soaking through onto Nick's hand.
"Wow," said Nick. "You've been saving that up. But now you've gotta take care of the customer."
Lucas stroked faster. "He'll probably want more than that," said Nick. "Take mine out. A blowjob at least."
Lucas wasn't quite sure what he meant. But he pulled down the waistband of Nick's shorts and released the cock so that it stood erect and jutting from its nest of curly dark hair. He hesitated and Nick put his hand behind Lucas' head and gently pulled it forward and downward. He understood. He took the head into his mouth, licking it with his tongue. He wasn't sure exactly what he expected but it wasn't unpleasant. In fact the thought of having another man's cock, Nick's cock, inside his mouth was exciting. Even though he had come so soon before, he felt a little twitch in his own.
"Not the teeth," said Nick. "Try to take as much as you can. Use your tongue. You can rub with your hand as well, and use the other hand, hold my balls, go under me. That's it . . . No further . . . Use your finger to touch me . . . there . . Oh yes . . . ."
Later, Lucas stood in the shower enjoying the luxury of the hot water on his body. He didn't hear the door open and Nick enter and the first he knew was when a pair of arms wrapped around his waist and he felt a naked body pressed into his from behind, a cock in the cleft between his buttocks.
"Lesson 2," said Nick softly.
The job wasn't always -- or indeed often -- all that pleasant but soon Lucas got to thinking of it as 'just' a job, just an occupation to be gotten through as quickly as possible.
The twin buildings of the refurbished Port Authority offered an tolerable refuge for the daytime hours, when trade was slow. He could usually pick up a trick or two hanging around restrooms on its varied levels--and Port Authority's upscale shopping-mall environment meant there were a myriad of magazine and record stores to ease the boredom. Security men, mostly black and Hispanic, took little notice of a well-dressed white youth.
Still, it didn't pay to stick around too many days in a row. The vastness of the Metroplitan Museum offered the best alternative. As Nick had pointed out to him, native New Yorkers--especially senior citizens who frequented the museum regularly--seldom paid the "suggested admission" of six dollars. " That's only the suggested admission, " Nick told him. "Just give 'em a dime or a quarter. Fuck, they won't miss it; they've got endowments and grants up their ass." The museum had a varied selection of washrooms offering up the occasional john--their locations helpfully pinpointed on a map handed out at the information desk. The Met's exhibitions and galleries ("5,000 years of visual splendor") proved the best of all possible ways to while away empty hours. His favorite was the Egyptian complete with reconstructed walk-in tomb.
After dark, the trade came out--at Times Square and Forty-second Street, Broadway and Eighth Avenue--especially after eleven, when the overpriced Broadway musicals disgorged their nightly hordes of theater-goers. Rudy Guliani's Times Square cleanup had begun, but the gay porn stores with their rows of quarter booths stayed open at least for the moment--most twenty-four hours a day.
Lucas got the 'menu', and the prices pat so that they tripped off his tongue without him even having to think about it: "Ten for a hand-job; head's twenty-five and a fuck's eighty-five". The jerk-offs were easiest, mostly in the john's own car. Money first - 'thank you, sir' - then a quick spin around the corner to a darker spot where the street lights were further apart--the client laying back in the recliner seat, zipper down--hands into the warmth to find it. Rubbing gently, as Nick had taught him, other hand fondling the ballsack and sometimes under if the customer raised himself or indicated that was what he liked. Usually it was over within a couple of minutes.
Occasionally the client would change his mind mid-operation and ask him to suck it. But after one incident where, having been satisfied, the john had pushed him out of the car and driven away without paying the extra, Lucas always waited for the rest of the money before obliging. He never swallowed.
The eighty-five dollar fuck was back at his room, the one Nick had found for him--a basement efficiency in a West Side apartment building in lower-numbered street and less trendy neighborhood than Nick's own. Scarcely larger than a moderate sized closet, it contained a single bed, a sink and a small chest of drawers in which Lucas kept his clothes, condoms and some gay magazines which nervous clients sometimes needed -- though Lucas always felt a little insulted if anyone went limp on him. Frequently, Lucas himself never came. Occasionally, if the customer was reasonably young, not overweight, and didn't gasp and pant too much, Lucas would imagine it was Nick who was in him--probing his guts from behind with that erect piece of plastic-covered flesh, holding his own prick so that he did ejaculate sad streams of semen -- but this was not usual.
Sometimes the john was pathetically grateful, and on those occasions Lucas felt nothing but contempt. They had paid their money. He had given good value. He didn't want their thanks. He didn't seem to realize that, on the few occasions when Nick invited him over to his flat, to his bed, Lucas himself felt that same overwhelming feeling of gratitude. He never allowed himself to express it in words, merely being exceptionally compliant in the things he knew Nick enjoyed most.
The best jobs of all were the sporadic ones that Nick himself arranged, in the big Times Square hotels -- all-nighters in luxurious surroundings with a meal and drinks. The Marriott Marquis, with its lighted glass elevators climbing its glass sides, was his favorite. Lucas had no idea how much the customer paid for these, but Nick always gave him the entire eighty-five dollars. For the street trade, he and Nick took the traditional sixty-forty split.
All the same, to get anywhere near the thousand a week that Nick had promised, Lucas had to work very hard -- three fucks, fourteen sucks or twenty-eight hand jobs -- seven days a week (we never close!). Often his wrist almost seized up -- he wondered if he were getting carpal tunnel syndrome, as he'd heard it described. Frequently his ass was sore.
Like the night he was arrested. He'd been with a few clients already that evening, three hand jobs, a suck and a fuck -- total so far seventy-two dollars for him. He was tired and thought of calling it a day -- or at least a night -- but Nick liked him to fulfil his quota. He could get quite nasty if Lucas didn't present him with at least hundred a night.
A squall of January rain met him as he arrived back on his corner outside a 24-hour porn store on 8th Avenue. He nodded to Gavin on the opposite corner. Tall, blonde and willowy, Gavin was as camp as a Scout jamboree, but he and Lucas got along, discussing tricks and their peculiarities. He was the nearest thing Lucas had to a friend, except for Nick. But Nick was special in Lucas' mind, and if asked, Lucas would be hard put to classify him. Lover, protector, rescuer -- he fought shy of the word 'pimp'.
A BMW drew up and stopped somewhere between the two boys and the tail lights flashed on and off. Not knowing which of them the john was interested in, both boys stood still until the car moved slowly forward and stopped at the curb next to Lucas. The window opened with an electronic swish, and a middle-aged face, grey moustache, looked out. "You free?" he asked.
Lucas was just about to reel off his prices when there was a sudden noisy confusion behind him. From the shadow of the wall, where they had obviously been concealed, two figures emerged-- one grabbing hold of Lucas' arms, the other opening the car door so that the driver almost fell out. Gavin faded like a wraith into the night. A string of words followed, which Lucas, in his confused state, didn't grasp even though they ended with, "You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can be used against you."
Both men were taken to Night Court--hot and crowded, mostly with prostitutes and their pimps, along with a few "drunk and disorderly" charges. Luckily for Lucas, Nick had prepared him for such an eventuality. He pleaded ignorance of all the suggestions that the police made. "Naw," he said. "I was just trying to get uptown. Thought the guy in the car could've given me a lift."
He never heard what excuse the john used. Presumably said he had just stopped to ask the directions. He seldom came into Manhattan. Got lost. Was asking the kid how to get to the Metropolitan Opera when the officious cops grabbed him--them and their obscene allegations.
Nick eventually showed up, Lucas having given his name as guardian. The police seemed to know Nick Warren and suggested that Nick might have been responsible for Lucas being out that night, soliciting, but of course both he and Nick had denied it.
The judge, a grandfatherly-looking black man, nodded. "Do you have a hundred dollars for the court?"
Nick peeled off five twenties from a roll of bills, handed it to the baliff, and they left. Nick said he doubted whether Lucas would hear anything more of it.
They went back to Nick's place and spent the night together--Lucas clinging to Nick's body even after both had accomplished the sex, and it was obvious all Nick wanted was turn over and go to sleep. Lucas lay awake long into the night, thinking of the faceless pricks which he would have to service night after night into the future -- until he was too old to be attractive. The tears ran down his face.
But he was grateful Nick slept. Eighteen year olds don't cry.
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