Our Little Darlings
Our Little Darlings
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Our Little Darlings: Gavin
D.K. Daniels
Gavin knew his intentions were not the purest tonight. Having babysat all evening, he crept across town in the direction of Wickham bridge. He had a vague idea as to why he was even going there in the first place. Missing out on all the fun adventures he could have been having with his friends. T-peeing houses or getting wasted sitting in the local park on one of the many swing sets. Or loitering under the translucent light reflecting off sleeping cars, drenched lazily with droplets of rain which stopped just before he had left the Millers house.
The streets were deserted, a cold October breeze made him clench his hands under his armpits to gain warmth. He knew a hoodie was not the appropriate attire for such weather. Still, what sixteen-year-old has the common sense to dress suitably when you have to show off your fashion. A skater in his own right, he respected the niche. Using his right leg as a propeller, he thrust himself across the wet tarmac road. The only evidence, which suggested someone was out at this unnerving hour, on a desolate town street was the whir from his skateboard.
He knew winter was rapidly approaching and was not sure how much longer he could keep this up. In the last couple of weeks, his parents had been so naïve. They partook in a procedural lecture when they thought that he may have been selling drugs. Gavin hated when people jumped to conclusions without really knowing him. All the kids had disappeared, Halloween was a dying holiday. Parents only allowed their children to trick or treat between the hours of five and eight. As a child, he recalled dressing up and redoubling the block with a fresh bag for more candy after his first run. Though he was not a child anymore, his alter ego, consisted of skinny black jeans, a white t-shirt hidden under an ashen hoodie.
Scuffing the pavement with his tarnished dc shoes, he rolled down the final descent towards the bridge. The eerie chain link fence to the elementary school always unsettled him. He forced himself harder to flee the scene. Once he was rid of that location, his mood would begin to shift. While his mind would have been cleared of excess worries, he'd usually bring his skateboard to a screeching halt shortly after the school. Dismounting his skateboard, he plucked it up. Looking right, then left like his parents thought him, he'd draw his hood over his natural black curls. As a child, he always disliked his curls, but once the issue of hairstyling took ahold of him. He found a whole other world of possibilities. He grew fond of his curls once again, he became proud, even at this juncture. To add style, he altered his hair by chopping the side away. Undercuts were a thing now, so he managed to make that compromise.
The small concrete ramp to oblivion was his steepest climb of all. At this point in his journey, condensation floated from his mouth. It was a stark reminder that he was truly alive under the tungsten lighting. He had never felt nervous roaming this stretch alone, it was having to wait, which killed him entirely. He never understood why this appealed to some others. Acceptance was not the issue. It was the brutality of what he was doing, which haunted him. It struck him down on a daily agenda. If he had someone to understand what he was doing, he would not be standing under the hallow-less bottom of Wickham bridge.
As he stood quietly with his back against the bridge's thick reinforcement beam. The sounds of rustling trees reminded him he was isolated. He would wait a while, and if circumstances approved worthy, he would wait a while longer. He could practically feel the cold-soaking its way through the thin soul of his shoes as he checked his phone. The contested luminance turned his pale white skin a ghostly blue. The white digital clock burned the back of his eyes, yet told him it was 1:12 am. Soon his sense of seclusion amplified when the chortle of a car cautiously crept up to him, stopping at the edge of the parking lot and waited. Like the food chain depiction, Gavin achieves clarity. If this was anything like the marvellous shackle, his category would be of pray. So, whoever was in the car, with his lights plummeting ahead, blinding Gavin. Would be the predator, the hunter.
The person inside the car killed the engine, and Gavin's heart palpated within his chest as if it wanted to escape. He thought about being at home, in his room, playing World of Warcraft. This dream was not at home though, he was standing shrouded, under a bridge, with his skateboard in hand and his identity masked. He knew all too well once the stutter of headlights signalled, he would slowly approach the car wearing a brave face. Suppressing his doubts, his fears, he would reach out for that slippery handle and open it. The first thing he would come to admire was the heat coming from within, it reminded him of home. The second was a chubby man with greying hair and soft hands. The man seemed to be nervous, but from experience, Gavin assured the man they were alone. When a customer asked to see his face, he always cringed inside as he pulled his hood down. It was partly from shame, guilt for what he was doing. Still, all that Gavin thought about was the end result, and that seemed to make things happy for a little while. Then he would have the urge to do this again.
This man, in particular, seemed kind, like a grandparent. Who would treat his grandchildren well, who idolized the ground they walked on. He somehow felt he would be safe with him. His age added security, maturity, and understanding. But that had no place in his mind, he just wanted this to be over with, he wanted to go home and go to bed. Then the man spoke softly, "how much do you charge," he asked. Gavin kept his eyes glued to the man and thought of his rates. His vocabulary knew no bounds, he was blunt and always to the point. Blowjobs are fifty, hand-jobs are thirty, and to go all the way is one-hundred.
He recounted what he knew before repeating what he had just thought to the elderly man. The man would ponder, linger on what Gavin said, checking around anxiously the man asked how old Gavin was. When the teenager announced sixteen, the man asked gingerly, "did you say one-hundred for everything." To which Gavin nodded his head.
Gavin, he always preferred oral as opposed to getting it on with a stranger. But he knew there was no going back once he excepted any kind of payment. Asking for payment first was his main concern, sometimes men were not as eager to hand over their hard-earned cash until they had finished with him. But Gavin saw this as fair, as collateral. Luckily the man sitting in the front seat fished out his wallet and counted five $20 notes and held them out for the young skater to take off of him. In doing so, Gavin safely fingered the notes into his tight jean pockets before stooping low, taking his place in the passenger seat beside his client.
Pulling the heavy door shut, he positioned his skateboard between wishbone legs and sat back in the seat. Slowly he began to panic from the inside out, but he didn't want them to know. He would keep his eyes directed at the blinking traffic lights across the parking lot. Not long after, he sat back. He'd made up his mind to block out the entire experience. He did not want to know what was really happing. Somehow the distraction of the men, groping him, would be too great. He'd be able to feel them pulling at the zip of his best jeans and loosening the belt. Some men could be firm to him, but he found the delicate touch of the man he was with, caring, and compassionate. Trying to speed things up, he gently tilted his pelvis toward the roof of the car. He gave the gentleman access to loosen his jeans.
Like every fiddler, this man was no different. He was just like the rest, he slowly stroked Gavin's flaccid penis to an erect state before going down on the boy. Gavin let his head wobble back and forth undecidedly. Should he rest his head against the headrest or watch the man pleasure him? He wasn't sure either way, he was more confused than anything else. His muddled thoughts sought a way out. His sensations, the man, was giving him made him feel good. Instead, he tried to focus on the dancing lights off in the distance. To him, they felt like lighthouses guiding him to the shore.
His eyes closed when he drew near, splotches of harsh yellow light would colour his skin, and his breathing grew ragged.
Then, at last, he became sensitive to their sweet sucking. Glorifying his sweet nectar, they would torture his member into submission. They always say something to compliment his taste or beauty. In a way, it made him feel happy. It boosted his confidence, even if it was just for a second. For those couple of minutes, these men would obsess over his young body. Until it was Gavin's turn. In some instances, Gavin hated having to finish what he started. At some point, he just wanted to bail out and run home. But not when they hurried him down by latching on his neck and forcing him onto their laps. He tried to please them, he would try everything in his arsenal to make it happen as quickly as possible. But sometimes for Gavin, this took courage he didn't know he had.
In this case, the man stopped him in mid-act, and set his chair back. While Gavin climbed over onto the man's lap, he could not help but marvel at the condensation that built upon the windows within the car. He always wondered how long they had been in the vehicle, and how much longer was left to go. Then just like that, he felt a sharp sting in his bottom. This was his least favourite thing, he much preferred going the easy route, but most men only wanted his cherry. Somewhere between his whimpers and moans, the men would smile back at the beauty performing in front of them. All Gavin could conjure up was static mindlessness. Like a TV switched on in the background.
Then suddenly, these wicked beasts would grunt, buck, and then soil themselves inside him. They'd make him wait for a moment or two before allowing to slide off their members. The fullness that was once inside him left an empty feeling. The confined walls of his hole burned uncomfortably. And for the time since he opened the door, Gavin was content nothing is going on. The greasy bags under his eyes expressed tiredness. A light shimmer of a passing car would gracefully illuminate his pathetic emerald eyes. He looked nothing like a rent boy. He seemed like a fragmented boy, one who has been ruined by persuasiveness.
What could have been equally pleasing was equally as horrifying. The dark urges men harboured, cracked the shell this young boy desperately held onto.
As he reassembled himself, the men would say, "thank you." In this instance, nothing had changed. The older man held out his hand with a curious expression and spoke, "I'm Tom." Indicating that the man wanted to know his name. The boy took ahold of the man's wrinkled hand and murmured, "Gavin." To which the boy would grab his skateboard, pop out of the car and begin walking the way he had come.
As the damaged boy walked down the stretch of the declining ramp. He reduced himself to the belief he was lesser of a person. He readjusted his belt when he turned back onto the main street. Laying down his skateboard, he thought of one thing and one thing only. It was, why do I do this? He answered subconsciously. I just do. His repercussions were forfeited when he left the Miller's house. He knew exactly where he was going and what he intended to do. He just simply did it because he could do it, and that was the most harrowing sadness of it all. He had no linked emotion, or reason to do it. He just craved understanding in the wrong places.
The End
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