The dorm was almost empty. The few friends I had made during my freshman year had gone home or to Florida for the traditional spring break revelry.
My room mate in the dorm had gone home to Long Island. Going home to Wyoming was out of the question for me since my parents were scrimping to pay my college expenses and couldn't afford plane fare. My room mate invited me to his house for the week but I declined. His constant arrogance and subtle insults about living on a ranch in "Indian territory" was tolerable only in small doses. Spending a week with him would be more than I could endure.
Months before, I had looked forward to the peace and quiet of Christmas Break after a grueling period of classes and far more homework than I had expected. Being alone at Christmas time was difficult but I caught up on my homework and even got a little ahead in the assigned reading. I spent some time, in spite of the cold weather, as a tourist, exploring a rich variety of the big city attractions -- at least those I could afford. Spring break, being shorter and warmer promised to be more enjoyable.
By Wednesday, however, boredom crept in. I had finished all my course assignments and could do no more until the profs laid on more. I had even read for pleasure a couple of books that I hadn't had time to get to. What would I do that evening? I had a wicked thought. I would do something that I had always wanted to do but never had the opportunity.
I took the subway down to Times Square. At that time, many years ago, 42nd street hosted a number of adult book stores and small theaters showing X-rated films. I intended to see a porno movie but after roaming around for a long time, I saw from the marquees and posters that all the films featured women, sometimes servicing men and sometimes each other. That's not what I wanted.
I had known for a long time that I was different. I was not attracted to girls and what I wanted was to find someone like me who was also different. I had researched what little there was to be found about homosexuality in the public library. (The school library had been "cleansed" and this was long before the Internet.) I therefore knew there were men out there like me although, like me, almost all of them hid their true identity from the public. One day, I hoped, I would find one.
Having given up on the movie theaters, I ventured into an adult book store. Perhaps I could find something there to interest me. Upon entering, a raspy voice challenged my presence. "How old are you, kid?"
I looked up and found the source of the voice. A grizzly old man seated on a platform behind a high counter was glaring at me. "Eighteen," I replied.
"Don't look it," he growled. "Lemme see yur ID."
I pulled out my Wyoming driver's license and showed it to him. He studied it through his bifocals, seemed to concentrate on doing the simple math, but finally snarled, "OK. Yur eighteen. Wyoming, huh? Never met anybody from Wyoming."
He handed the license back to me. I had become accustomed to people's reaction when they learned where I lived. I had even developed both polite and sarcastic rejoinders depending on the situation but I just took the license and walked down a narrow aisle in the crowded shop.
After ten minutes, it became clear that I would not find what I was looking for. There were some dildos and other toys that I found fascinating but the prices were unbelievably high. The magazines were also pricey but I would have paid for one if it was what I was looking for. I walked out of the store disappointed and frustrated. I roamed around Times Square for a while just to kill time and then took the subway back to 116th Street.
Back in the dorm, I showered off the city grim. Taking advantage of there being virtually no one in the dorm, I leisurely jerked off in the shower before returning to my room. It was still early, not quite ten, but I climbed into bed and fell asleep wishing I had found what I was looking for downtown.
The next day was warm. I put on gym shorts, a tee shirt, and sneakers and walked over to Riverside Park to enjoy the weather and a good book. I hoped that a little reading would dispel my loneliness. I found a grassy area, stripped off my shirt to restore my tan, and laid down on my stomach to read.
Several minutes later, I was startled by a voice right next to me. "That must be a very good book," it said.
I looked up and saw a teenager sitting on the grass next to me. He had the complexion, jet-black hair, and features of a Latino. He wore no shirt, only baggy shorts and worn sneakers with no socks. But it was his face that captured my attention. Dark eyes sparkled from under arched brows and a half-smile that signaled a friendly nature.
He had dropped a very worn gym bag on the ground and said, "I called to you twice, mister. But you didn't answer."
"Sorry," I apologized. "I guess I was wrapped up in my book." I turned the book over, laying it open to keep my place and with the cover showing.
He glanced at the book and asked, "You like mysteries?"
"Once in a while, yes," I responded while wondering why he had interrupted me.
"I do, too," he grinned. "But I don't get much of a chance to read."
"And why's that?" I asked.
His expression turned suddenly sour. "Too busy," he said as he cast his eyes to the ground.
"Busy?" I asked. "What keeps you so busy?"
He stalled, pulling up few blades of grass and rolling them in his fingers. "Whatever I can do to earn a few dollars. That's why I came over to talk to you. But I see I'm disturbing you so I'll leave you alone."
He stood up to leave but my curiosity had been aroused. "Wait," I said. "You don't have to go. In fact, I would enjoy having someone to talk to. Sit down."
He sat down, cross-legged this time. I couldn't help but see up the leg of his baggy shorts. He had no underwear and the tip of an uncut cock was plainly visible. I quickly averted my eyes, a habit I had practiced for a long time, but the image remained in my mind, summoning thoughts I couldn't suppress. I became aware of his body: thin but not skinny, firm but not muscular, and dark nipples contrasting with his tawny skin. The young man wouldn't turn heads but was nevertheless handsome.
Although I had tried to be discreet, the length of my gaze and my failure to say anything must have revealed my thoughts because he smiled and said, "Like what you see, mister?"
His question threw my mind into a spin. I groped frantically for something to say that would explain or excuse my thoughtless and dangerous behavior. Nothing came to mind so I stammered, "I was just admiring your nice-looking body, that's all." I immediately regretted saying that. It's not the sort of thing one says to another man, much less a stranger.
But the young man raised the stakes by asking "Want to see more?" and pulled the leg of his shorts back to give me an unobstructed view of his cock that hung invitingly across a pendulant ball sack.
Alarms sounded in my head. The young man was obviously coming on to me. If I accepted his implied offer, I would reveal for the first time ever that I was queer. (The term, "gay," had not yet come into common usage.) Instinctively, I retreated by saying, "What makes you think I'd be interested in seeing more?"
"Hunch," he said. "Maybe hope. When I saw you laying here reading, I liked what I saw. So I called to you and then came over. Then I saw how you looked me over. I've had a lot of experience. I've come to know when a guy is interested in me. I think you are. Am I wrong?"
I was not ready to admit my interest but I was tempted. My resistance faded quickly when he cunningly hiked up his pants leg and briefly fondled himself.
"Nice cock," I said without thinking and suddenly realized that I had confirmed his suspicion.
He quickly got down to business. "I can give you a blow job. Or you can fuck me. I like your looks so I'll give you a bargain rate."
"Is that how you earn your money?" I asked. "By selling your body to anybody with cash?"
I didn't mean to insult him but he obviously took it that way. "Hey," he said defiantly. "It's better than selling drugs. My neighborhood is full of dealers and junkies. I want no part of that. If I can make men happy, isn't that better than ruining the lives of drug addicts and risking my own life at the same time?"
"I apologize," I said. "I didn't mean to insult you. I just didn't know what kind of life you faced. Forgive me?"
"Okay," he said. "But how about my offer? You wanna have some good sex?"
I did indeed want to have some good sex. I had wanted it for years. And this young man was not only willing but good looking. He was fairly articulate and showed unusual initiative in approaching me. After the disappointment in Times Square the previous night, I didn't want to pass up the opportunity for real sex. I would have preferred sex with someone other than a hustler but I may not have that chance for who knows how long. I was assured of privacy in my dorm room so I inquired, "How much?"
He quoted a price and quickly added, "That's half of what I usually charge but you've got a sexy body."
"I have a problem," I said regretfully. "I don't have any money to spare." I hated having to turn down his offer. Just looking at him made me horny as hell.
"Too bad," he groaned. "I guess I'll have to find somebody else. But they won't be as good looking as you."
I didn't want him to walk away. Even if I couldn't afford his price, I would enjoy the company of a handsome young man for a while. "The best I can do is to buy you a good meal. Will you join me for lunch? I'd really like the company."
He looked at me as if a meal enticing but said, "I'm not giving you sex for just a meal, mister!"
"I didn't mean it that way," I said. "The fact is, I'd like to have company for lunch ... with no obligation for sex. How about it?"
The truth was that I wanted company -- someone to talk to -- but I also wanted to find out more about why the young man was selling his body.
"Okay," he said. "I haven't had a good meal for a few days."
It was then I realized that we could not talk about his life and "occupation" in a restaurant so I suggested, "How about we get a carry- out and come back here to the park for a picnic?"
"Sounds good," he said. "Most places won't serve me anyway because of the way I'm dressed. Some get downright mean about telling me to leave."
We walked to a nearby McDonald's. At the door, he hesitated and said, "I don't think they'll let me in. I'll wait here."
"If you want," I said. "What would you like?"
"You're buying, mister. You choose. Surprise me."
I bought two big Macs, two large fries, a large drink, and an apple pie for him. I settled on a cheeseburger and a drink because I didn't have enough cash for more.
His eyes nearly popped when he saw the size of the sack I walked out with but he made no comment. We returned to the park, found a shady spot (It had gotten quite warm.), and settled ourselves down on the grass. I opened the sack and divided its contents.
"That's all mine?" he asked incredulously. "Are you not hungry or are you really broke?"
"Both," I said. The broke part was true. I was hungry but he needed food more than I did.
He devoured his food without stopping to talk, which seemed to confirm his admission that he hadn't eaten for days. I nibbled on my sandwich and sipped at my drink while a thousand questions popped into my mind. What drove him to hustling? What kind of family did he have? Did he live on the streets and, if so, how did he cope?
When he finally finished, he said, "Thanks, mister. I feel a lot better now. You're really nice to buy my lunch ... and not expecting sex, I mean."
"Well," I said. "There's one thing you can do for me. I'm curious about why you do what you do. Would you tell me about yourself?"
He gave me a curious expression that I couldn't interpret. I began to worry that I was prying into something he didn't want to talk about. But my concern was short-lived when he began to speak.
"You probably don't know what it's like living in public housing in the Bronx," he began. "Drugs. Crime. Gangs. Poverty. Going to school was the highlight of my day. At least it was reasonably safe. That is, until the kids in school found out I was queer. I could live with them calling me names but they started beating up on me. I dropped out of school. I couldn't tell my parents the real reason because they would hate me, too, for being queer. So I told my folks I was joining the army and left."
"Are you old enough to join the Army?" I asked. He looked no more than sixteen years old.
"No. I'm seventeen. But it's easy to get fake ID. They tried to talk me out of it. I said I didn't want to end up like my brothers. I've got two older brothers. One is in prison for dealing drugs. The other was killed before the cops could bust him. Mom was upset that I was leaving but dad understood. He said he was proud of me for not being like my brothers." He paused before continuing. "He wouldn't be proud of me now if he knew what I'm doing."
"So how long have you been on the street?" I asked.
"About three months," he replied. "The first week or two was the worst but then I leaned how to attract men who want what I want. And I'm not bragging when I say I can give them some really terrific sex." He paused and looked at me as if to see whether the `really terrific sex' comment might entice me to pay his price.
If only I had the money! I thought.
His mood changed. He stared at the ground and asked, "Anything else you want to know about a queer whore-boy?"
"Hey!" I interrupted. "Don't talk about yourself that way. You've obviously got courage to get out of a bad environment. You've got initiative to make it on your own. I can tell from just talking to you that you're bright. And believe me, I don't condemn you for what you're doing."
A half-grin crossed his face as he said, "Thanks, mister. Most people treat me like scum -- even my customers. You're not like that."
"I'm still curious," I said. "Why do you hustle sex? Have you tried to get a regular job?"
He laughed for the first time since we met. "Whose gonna hire a seventeen-year-old high school drop-out?" he asked with a confrontational tone. "I've tried a lot of places but the only one that was half way interested was a greasy spoon café. They wanted a dishwasher but sent me away because I didn't have a Social Security number. Don't need that for what I do now. Besides ... I don't know why I'm telling you this but I enjoy what I do. I like sex ... even if the customer is old or fat or drunk or stinks of cigarette smoke."
"So you're happy doing what you do?
He thought about that for a while and said, "Mostly. I really do like the sex. I can't seem to get enough of it. But then..."
He dropped his eyes to the ground again. I guessed that he didn't want to talk about the down side of his work. However, I had him talking about his life and I still had a number of questions so I said, "But then what?"
He looked at me. Was it my imagination or did he suddenly seem sad?
"It's not all pleasure," he finally said. "I go hungry when I can't find a customer. Living on the street isn't like living with a family. And there's the occasional odd ball who gets off on kinky stuff like spanking or making me act like a ten-year-old. One guy even wanted to shave me to make me look like a little kid. I grabbed my clothes and ran from that one. Most guys just want a blow job or to fuck me. That's the kind of sex I like."
I felt terribly sorry for the young man. His problems with kinky customers didn't affect me nearly as much as his having to live on the street. That made me think of something.
"Do you ever spend a whole night with a customer and sleep in a real bed?"
"Twice," he replied. "Most guys just want a quickie and then I'm off, hoping to find another customer."
"I don't have money but I can offer you a bed to sleep in. I live in the dorm. My room mate is gone until Sunday night. You can stay in my room for three nights. There's no obligation for sex. I just want to give you three nights of comfort. You'll be free to come and go as you please but you'll have a bed to sleep in ... and a hot shower if you want. How about it?"
"You don't want sex?" he asked in a tone of disbelief.
"I would love to have sex with you but that's not why I made the offer. It's not much but I'd simply like to do you a favor. And I would enjoy having company."
"I'd like to, mister, but I'm supposed to meet one of my regular customers tonight."
"Like I said, you're free to come and go as you like. Will you spend the night with him?"
"Nah. All he wants is to undress me in the back of his van and jerk me off. By that time, he's hard. He gives me a quick fuck, pays me, and says goodbye."
"Okay. Come with me to the dorm. You can shower. Change clothes if you like. I'm guessing you have clothes in your gym bag."
He looked at me for a long time without speaking. I was about to encourage him further but he asked, "Why are you doing this?"
"I told you. I want to do you a favor. You're a good kid who's had a tough time. Maybe I can make it easier for you ... at least for a few nights of decent sleep."
"Okay," he said.
I took him to my dorm room. It was sparsely furnished but he was impressed with the books, the posters, and the clothes in the closet. I asked if he wanted to shower and he said that would be nice. I gave him a towel, soap, and shampoo, and then said, "The dorm is almost empty but I think I'd better go with you in case someone finds a stranger in the shower. I'll introduce you as my cousin who's visiting. What's your name?"
"Jose Delgado."
"Mine is Ray Simpson. You don't have to call me Mister any more."
He took a very long, very hot shower and seemed to enjoy it thoroughly. Since there was no longer any need to conceal my sexual interests, I didn't try to be discrete. I took full advantage of the opportunity to feast my eyes on his sleek, firm body as he dried himself. He noticed my admiring stare, grinned, and made a conscious effort to show me his manly cock and balls. He even turned away from me and bent over to dry his legs, showing me his firm ass and puckered hole. His exhibition gave me an erection. I tried to hide it but he saw it anyway and laughed, "You like what you see, Mister?"
"Yes," I said hoarsely. "Very much. But call me `Ray.' No more Mister. Okay?"
"Okay, Ray," he said as he faced me and took an unnecessary amount of time to dry his crotch.
As we walked back to my room, my promise of no sex haunted me. I had been sincere in inviting him only for a few nights sleep in a real bed but my resolve to keep my promise was fading. Lust was eroding my integrity.
In my room, I went to my half of the closet for some clean clothes. Jose dug through his gym bag for his. When I saw that his clothes were not only dirty but threadbare and ragged. I said, "It looks like your clothes have seen better days. I have some I don't need."
I pulled out a pair of chino slacks from my closet, a tee shirt, a sweat shirt, and two pair of socks from a drawer, and handed them to him. "Take these. To keep. You'll look even more handsome in them."
He looked at me. I was afraid I had insulted him with my offer. "Mine are sort of dirty, aren't they?"
"That's understandable," I said, trying to soften the criticism implied by my suggestion.
I thought I saw a tear in his eye as he looked at me and said, "Why are you being so nice to a whore-boy?"
"STOP IT!" I exclaimed. "You're not a whore-boy. I've already told you. You're a young man who had the good sense to get out of a bad environment ... who has the initiative to make it on your own ... who uses the talents you can to survive. Why am I being nice? Because I respect you! There's not much I can do to help you except give you a few nights of comfort but you deserve that and more."
He seemed startled at my emphatic tone and just stood looking at me. Suddenly, he wrapped his arms around my waist, laid his head on my shoulder, and cried. I returned his hug and held him tightly. We stood there with only the towels around our waists preventing full- body, skin-on-skin contact. Were it not for his tears and shuddering sobs, it would have been highly erotic. But at that moment, all I felt was sympathy for a young man who no doubt had a lot of potential but was the victim of both poverty and others' hatred of homosexuals.
When he gained a little control of his emotions, he apologized for crying. I assured him that it was okay for a man to cry and he should not be ashamed of it. He seemed to settle down and I led him to over to sit on the edge of my bed. What came next took me completely by surprise.
He took off the towel from his waist and dropped it on the floor. He took off my towel and dropped it on top of his. He laid back down, pulling me down to lay beside him. He crawled on top of me and began kissing me. I wondered if it was just gratitude. My question was answered when he ground his crotch into mine. His motives may have included gratitude but he seemed to want sex.
I pushed his face away and said, "I promised you. You're not obligated to have sex with me."
"But I want it!" he exclaimed. "I want you. I've wanted you ever since I saw you in the park. This is not business like the others. I like you. I want to make you happy. I want to be happy too. Please don't say no. Let me make love to you."
I didn't need any more convincing. As a frustrated homosexual, I was about to lose my virginity. I had been propositioned by a street hustler but was in bed with a tragic young man who was demanding sex ... not for money, not entirely out of appreciation for a small favor, but (I wanted to think) because a deeper bond had been formed between us.
More than an hour later, after an experience that has persisted vividly in my memory for decades, we broke our contended embrace and got out of bed.
"Let's get some supper," I said. "Then you can go to your appointment with your customer."
"That's all right," he said. "You bought me a big lunch. You don't have to buy me supper, too."
"Nonsense," I replied. "I have to eat anyway and I'd like to have the company of a handsome young man. Now let's get dressed."
He gave me a hug and a kiss and said, "Thanks, Mister ... I mean thanks, Ray."
My clothes were a little big for his small frame but they made a world of difference in his appearance. He was a sexy as when he was naked. They seemed to make a difference in his attitude as well. As we walked down the hall, out of the dorm, and down the street to a diner, he held his head high and there was a new bounce in his step. The diner was small but it served good food in ample portions at a reasonable price. His delight at being able to enter a restaurant without fear of being thrown out was obvious.
As we ate, he had one question after another about my life on a ranch, about my family, about my classes, and my future plans. On the way back to the dorm, he stopped at the entrance to the subway on 116th Street. He had to go downtown to meet his customer. We made arrangements to meet in front of the dorm between 9:30 and 10 so I could escort him into the building.
At half past 10 I was nearly frantic worrying about Jose. I let my imagination conjure up all kinds of problems he may have encountered: mugging, kidnapping, injury from a lustful and careless customer. But then I saw him round the corner of a classroom building. He saw me and ran a hundred yards with a grin that laid waste to all my worries. He threw his arms around me and hugged me so tight it took my breath away.
Excitedly, he blurted out, "He brought a friend! Paid me double! I'm rich!"
"I'm happy for you, Jose."
"That's not the best part, Ray. He has two or three other friends. No more quickies in the back of his van. He wants me to stay in his apartment and entertain his friends when they get horny."
"That's quite a stoke of luck," I said while wondering what kind of men Jose would be servicing. Would they treat him with the respect he deserved or would they merely use him for sexual satisfaction? Although he would have a place to stay, I had lingering worries about his well-being. "I hope he doesn't expect you to service his friends for free."
His exuberance only increased when he said, "No! They'll pay me. He'll get his sex for my room and board. I couldn't be happier, Ray. I'll be off the streets. I won't go hungry. I'll have money for clothes and stuff. And I'll get all the sex I want!"
"That's wonderful," I said.
Then, he looked at me with a serious expression and said, "But there's bad news, too. He wanted me to go home with him tonight. I told him I couldn't until Sunday. I want to spend more time with you. I like you a lot, Ray. You've treated me like a real person. I'm going to miss you. I want to give you as much happiness as you've given me while I can."
That night, much of Saturday, Saturday night, and part of Sunday, Jose and I were dressed only to go out for a quick meal. Much of the time, we were in bed where he introduced me to an astonishing array of sensual and sexual pleasures.
We both cried as we said goodbye on Sunday afternoon. He left for a new home. I was left with cherished memories of a spectacular few days with a young man whose future, I prayed, would bring him joy.
The End