Date: Thu, 29 Oct 2009 13:26:21 -0400
From: myob@brucebramson.com
Subject: Life After Charlie

(To find out who Charlie was, read the "Nature Boy" trilogy
first)

CHAPTER 1

The rotten summer the one I had so hoped would be wonderful
with Charlie, but which was anything but finally wound down.
The situation was exacerbated by my mom's new man: he was
everything our dad had not been and was wonderful to her. She
doted on him, enjoying a reciprocated love for the first time
in herlife. In the fullness of time, September rolled around
and it was time to go back to school, this time to Cerro Alto High.

The first few days were hectic; getting enrolled in classes I
wanted, meeting new friends. The school took its student body
from two Junior-high schools, so in addition to many faces I
knew, there were many I didn't recognize. As far as my own
student body was concerned, despite having done nothing of
any consequence all summer, I had grown up noticeably as I
approached my sixteenth birthday. I was lean and wiry,
apparently destined by fate or inheritance to remain fair
and glabrous with a thoroughly forgettable face.

I was settling into a new routine, beginning to cast my eye around
for boys I might find compatible, when the worst possible thing
occurred, and I was not ready for it: I saw Charlie with a group of
girls in the hallway, giggling and laughing as girls will. Evidently
his home-schooling had ended, so here he was, in the same high
school as myself. Once I was aware he was there, it seemed I
bumped into his group practically every time I had to change
classes. Worse, he seemed oblivious to my presence, always
absorbed in spirited conversation as he walked along. With his
arms around a pile of books clutched to his chest, his gait was
exaggeratedly feminine; his boyish beauty was often hidden by his
long hair, and there were many times he looked just like a girl as
he sashayed along with his little female claque. I found the scene
depressing beyond measure, and realized there was no way I could
stay in the same school with my precious Charlie.

Friday morning of that first week at Cerro I cut classes and went
home when I knew no one would be there. I packed a small
suitcase with clothes, most of them new ones mom had gotten me
for school, threw in a few toiletries, and dug out the pass-book for
my bank account. One of the few things dad ever did for Bobby
and me was to set up accounts for us, into which he put a small
monthly deposit, and into which we were encouraged to put
anything we had left over from our allowance. Part of mom's
divorce settlement was that dad would continue to put so-much-a-
month into our accounts: my balance now stood at just over a
thousand dollars; I thought I was wealthy. I had a small wad of
cash which I put into my wallet. I left this message on a piece of
paper in the kitchen where I knew mom would find it soon after
getting home:

Dear Mom~
It looks like Charlie is no longer being schooled at home: he
turned up at Cerro. I just can't stand to see him every day. It's
not that I hate him, it's just that I'm so terribly disappointed
by him. Seeing him depresses me and I can't think of any way to
handle the situation except to run away. So, I'm running away.
I don't know where I'm going. Give my good-byes to Bobby and Hank:
I'm sure they will understand.
                                  Love, Jimmy

I caught the local bus at the corner and rode down-town. Our little
burg was not big enough to have an inter-city station of any
consequence: in fact, it was at the rear of a restaurant where
passengers could eat and pee during brief stop-overs. Otherwise,
the busses pulled in, discharged and loaded as necessary, and
pulled out. There was a small window where tickets could be
purchased.

"I want a ticket to wherever the next bus is headed," I told the
wizened lady behind the window.

"That will be San Francisco, dearie, and eighteen dollars 'n fifty
cents."

"Fine." I handed over a twenty. She thrust a ticket and change into
my hand.

"Loads at eleven-thirty dearie, at that door over there." She
pointed; her knowing look that said another kid running away from
home was lost on me.

I had an hour to wait, one of  the longest  I ever spent. Except to
take a whiz in the rather dingy toilet, I sat at a table and mulled
over my situation. I was about to leave behind everything I knew
of life: surroundings, family, friends, home, comfort, security,
Frankie. What'll he do, without me to break down his objections to
sex? I wondered. And Charlie: Would he even notice I was no
longer at Cerro?

I was beginning to regret my determination to leave and on the
verge of tears when the bus pulled up in the alley next to the
restaurant. A few folks got off and came into the room, a few
others like myself went to the door. The driver took his portion of
our tickets, we got on the bus, the door closed and off we went: the
whole process took not three minutes. There weren't many people
on the bus: wishing to be alone in my misery, I chose a seat almost
at the back. Will mom panic when she finds my note? As the bus
picked up speed on the highway, the emotional strain hit me: I bent
forward, put my face in my hands, and cried quietly. I had so
fervently hoped for a different outcome: the disappointment of
losing Charlie washed over me once again. After a while, I
regained my composure, sat up in the seat and fell asleep, my head
bumping against the glass  window.

The bus stopped at every wide spot in the road. The driver had to
sell tickets at some of the whistle-stops, and progress was slow.
We gradually filled up the nearer we got to San Francisco, and
night had fallen by the time we lurched over the curb and pulled up
to a gate at the Greyhound station. I was surprised when I stepped
down to find the place run-down and dirty. There was about a half-
block walk past vendors selling souvenirs, magazines, novelties
and candy-bars out to the waiting room  filled with wanderers
waiting to go somewhere. I followed the signs to the men's room
upstairs, as I had to pee.  There were several surly fellows standing
around doing nothing, and the room stank. I pissed as quickly as I
could and hurried out. On the street, the air was less foul, but the
people were mostly winos and derelicts: one of the first sights to
greet me in San Francisco was a filthy denizen vomiting against
the side of a building. Welcome to San Francisco! I thought,
disgusted.


I walked past a few seedy shops to a large thoroughfare with
street-cars running on it: this was Market Street. Somewhere, I'd
heard it was the "main drag" of San Francisco. It struck me as less
prepossessing than the little main street of the town I had just left.
I checked my watch: it was 9:30, and I had not eaten, so I walked
across 7th street to a place that sold food. I ordered a hamburger
and milk, and sat down to await its arrival. Nearby, there was a
table with three women arguing loudly: they looked more like men
to me, dressed in gaudy female attire. Suddenly, one of them
jumped up and shouted, "Filthy bitch!" and threw a cup of coffee
at the bodice of the one opposite her. The offended one leaped up,
swung a large hand-bag at her assailant, and all three rushed out
and began brawling on the sidewalk outside. Welcome to San
Francisco! I thought.

After eating, I began thinking about finding a place to stay. I'd
heard of  the YMCA, so hailed a cab. "Take me to the YMCA," I
told the driver.

"Which one? There's the co-ed one on Golden Gate, or the other
one on the Embarcadero." Before I could reply, he turned around,
looked me over, and said, "Embarcadero."

He drove quite a while, with numerous turns. I was completely
lost, but eventually he pulled up in front of an old multi-story brick
building. The fare was nearly twenty dollars, which I paid. I
learned later the driver had taken me all over Robinhood's barn, to
run up the tab. Welcome to San Francisco!

I took my little bag and went up the steps into the building. It had a
fairly large lobby, and a check-in counter like a hotel. "Welcome
to San Francisco!" an attendant greeted me. I filled out a little chit
with a fake address and paid seven dollars: this got me a key to
room 732. A creaky elevator took me up and I found the room
easily. To say it was spartan is an understatement: it was about
double the size of the small bed. There was a tiny sink in one
corner, a minuscule desk, and a thing on the wall for hanging
clothes. It was painted a lifeless white, with grey trim around the
door and little window.

There was a towel on the bed, which I picked up and took with me
to what I assumed was a shower somewhere. This turned out to be
attached to the bathroom. One bathed in full view of anyone seated
on a toilet, as  the cubicle doors had been removed. I had to return
to my room, shuck my clothes and go back to the shower with only
the towel to hide my nakedness. But there was plenty of hot water,
and a good cleansing lifted my spirits slightly. Dried, I took my
final whiz of the day just as a fellow a bit older stepped up to do
the same. "Hi there," he said cheerfully as he unleashed a torrent
of piss, "you're new here."

"Just got in. Looking forward to some sleep."

"I have just the thing to help you relax," he replied.

"Whazzat?"

"A good blow-job." Nothing reticent about this fellow: direct, and
to the point!

I assessed him: he appeared well built and was passably handsome.
"I'm in 732."

He simply followed me back to my room where he stretched me
out on the bed, whisked away my towel, and went to work. He was
an experienced cocksucker, I'll say that. But the lack of any
buildup or emotion made it difficult for me. I kept thinking back to
my times with Charlie, or even with Frankie, which were more
exciting than this dude, who sucked me as if he couldn't wait for it
to be over. I eventually managed a lackluster orgasm which my
body needed but which my mind did not; the guy had not even
undressed, so was up and out the door. "Tasty," he said as he went
out. I glanced at the little desk where I had left my wrist-watch: it
was gone! I rushed to the door and looked down the long hall, but
there was no one to be seen. The fellow was a thief, and I knew I'd
never see him or the watch again. Welcome to San Francisco! I
thought, as I closed the door and crawled wearily into bed.

The next morning I awoke and dressed. It was a grey Saturday
morning which matched my mood, but I found a shop nearby
where I could buy a map. At a hole-in-the-wall restaurant I ordered
breakfast. After eating, I just wandered around, sight-seeing. I
bought a cheap Timex to replace the stolen watch, made a mental
note of the location of a branch of my bank, figured out that the
taxi-ride the night before should have cost no more than five
dollars. I had never seen a street-car, so rode one of those up
Market Street, parts of which were somewhat more impressive
than the portions I had seen earlier. Late in the afternoon, I
returned to the Y, and went downstairs to the swimming pool.

Now, swimming had never been something I was good at, or even
enjoyed much. But at this Y swimming was still done nude, so
there were quite a few naked guys enjoying the water. I decided it
might be novel to swim with nothing on, so put my clothes in a
basket, exchanged it for a towel  and wandered out to the apron
around the large pool. There were many old men, fat, flabby, hairy
and uninteresting. There was a smaller cohort of guys I placed in
their twenties: fit, energetic, noisy. But my eye fell immediately on
a lithe fellow black as the ace of spades and built like a Greek
God. A small, Greek God. He was quite a bit shorter than I, but
muscular, defined, well endowed, and so black, the only word to
describe his color was black. I had never seen a Negro before,
except in the National Geographic. I could not take my eyes off
this guy as he cavorted in the water, quite alone despite there being
many others in the pool. Just what drew me to him I could not say:
looking back, I think he seemed exotic, but at the time, I found him
erotic and realized suddenly I was getting a hard-on just watching
his sleek muscles as he dove in and out of the water.

I walked to the steps and stuck a foot in: the water was warm! I
went right on in and swam around a bit. If one is going to swim,
one should do so naked: it is quite startling how nice it feels to
have everything afloat and not confined to a bathing-suit. It is also
surprising that this doesn't lead to an erection: looking around at
the others, there was not a hard-on to be seen. But after a long day
of walking, I was tired, and refreshed somewhat by the brief swim,
I returned to collect my clothes and get dressed. To my surprise,
the black fellow I had admired arrived the same time: we toweled
ourselves to get dry, blatantly staring at each other as we did so.
As before, this led to a stirring in my loins which sent my prick
skyward. Embarrassed, I turned away from him, but just then he
spoke, "Don't turn away, guy, you have a nice dick. I was hoping
to see it hard."

He had the most amazing deep voice I ever heard! The sound of it
sent shivers up my spine, and when I turned back to face him,
he like myself was erect: shamelessly hard and stiff, ready! Once
again, I was mesmerized. He was not much better hung than I,
really, but was so much better built in every other way,  and subtle
differences in his color accentuated his muscularity. He wasn't a
bodybuilder, just a naturally fine example of a young Nubian. "I'm
sorry: I just can't take my eyes off you," I confessed, "I know it's
rude."

"You're no slouch yourself, uh..."

" I'm Jimmy, and very pleased to meetcha!"

"Tyrone: likewise.  Just got here this morning myself."

"I got here last night, but I know one person already: you."

A monitor wandered through. "Um, fellas, ya gotta get dressed!
This ain't the Follies Bergere!"

I hated to see that gorgeous hard-on disappear into a pair of pants,
but we managed to stuff our respective tools away and get dressed.
We went upstairs to the lobby. "Don't know about you, but that
swim made me hungry," Tyrone remarked.

"Seeing your hard-on made me hungry," I replied, "but if you
mean we need to find some food, I suppose we must."

We repaired to a nearby diner and ordered. "So, what brings you to
San Francisco?" Tyrone enquired. His voice alone enthralled me.

"Running away."

"From?"

I told him my sad tale, of falling hopelessly in love with Charlie,
only to be jilted in favor of some fellow with a bigger dick. "When
he turned up at the same high school, I couldn't hack it, seeing him
every day. So I left, and it happened the next bus out came here.
What's your sad tale: you said you're new here yourself."

"No sad tale: I don't live very far away. I like to come up here and
stay at the Y, suck a few cocks. It lasts me, oh, maybe a month,
then I come back for more of the same. There is nothing
whatsoever going on in my little town. I get bored shitless without
something new now and then."

"So, I'm 'something new'?"

"Yes! For one thing, you're young, and you're friendly. I swam in
that pool all afternoon and nobody said boo to me. Then you came
out and stared at me: I think maybe I'm something new to you,
too."

He had me, there: right on the money.  "True: I've never seen a
Negro before;  I've never had sex with one, either."

"There's a first time for everything. Me, I like white boys. Cute
ones like you. Young ones like you. How old are you, anyway?"

"Almost 16."

"Jeezus! Jail-bait! But it's OK: I'm only 17 myself."

"I would have guessed 20. You have a really beautiful body."

The bill for our dinners arrived. I offered to pay, and Tyrone
accepted with only token resistance. Never mind, I wanted to get
to know him better much better.

"Thanks, Jimmy," Tyrone said as we headed back to the Y: you're
a sweet kid. Now it's time for a hot shower."

Back at the Y, we went to my room and undressed: Tyrone kept
his shorts on; he didn't seem to have a towel, but who could care?
He cut a fine figure in tight white Y-fronts as we went down the
hall to the men's room. There we joined a clutch of other guys in
the shower room, selected a pair of adjacent showerheads and
began to soap up. We'd scarcely gotten started when a cute guy
came over and greeted Tyrone like a long-lost friend: "Hey,
Tyrone, where ya been? 'N who's your young friend?"

"Jimmy. Jimmy, meet Ray." Ray was built unlike any boy I'd ever
seen: his skin was a shade somewhere between Tyrone's and mine,
and his build was similar to Tyrone's, but a bit smaller and less
muscular. He had jet-black hair on his head, now wet and dripping,
and more very black hair concentrated in a small patch above his
penis. When he swept the hair out of his eyes, I saw a small patch
of that same black hair under his arm, and a pair of the blackest
sparkling eyes I'd ever seen. Otherwise, he had absolutely no hair
anywhere: his skin all over was as smooth as my own was rough.

Ray sidled up to Tyrone affectionately and shared his shower. I
could not prevent myself from joining them as the warm water and
suds worked their magic on the three of us. We were soon engaged
in an orgy of jacking and sucking right there and then. If anyone
objected to this, no one present did, and if we had bothered to look
around, we'd have seen several pairs of guys going at it, taking
their cue from us. If this was what living in San Francisco was
going to be like, I decided quickly, I was here to stay!

We eventually calmed down enough to finish washing up: we
wiped each other dry with the two towels we had between us.
There wasn't any question that we would all return to my room,
where, I fervently hoped, we would continue what we'd begun.
Watching these two beautiful boys walking ahead of me had me up
under my towel, and by the time we reached 732 I was ready for
almost anything these two could propose.

"Shall we leave the door open?" Tyrone asked Ray.

"You always were an exhibitionist, Ty, but you know these rooms
aren't big enough for four: they're scarcely big enough for three!
Good thing we Filipinos are small or even the three of us wouldn't
fit."

We collapsed onto the bed, three horny boys about as disparate in
appearance as could be: black, flip, and wasp.  Which of these two
I wanted to touch first I could not decide, but the choice was made
by Tyrone who grabbed my hand and wrapped it around his cock
which expanded forcefully into my fist. His meat was thicker but
about the same length as mine and it exuded heat like an iron. My
other hand quickly found Ray's boner; his was smaller with a
distinct curvature, but no matter: it was hard as a rock and
throbbed in my grasp. Before long, despite the limitation of the
tiny bed, we managed to arrange ourselves in a triangle, sucking
each other and using our hands wherever they were needed.
Recalling the scene with Bobby and Charlie back home sent a
wave of nostalgia over me: Ray didn't notice how my slobber on
his cock was mixed with tears.


Ray and Tyrone, of course, were not strangers: they knew what
they liked, but neither knew much about me. When Ray began to
explore my back-side, I suddenly realized that although I had
fucked Charlie a few times, he had never returned the favor. Nor
had I asked him to: I'd watched it done in movies, and never found
it stimulating. It saddened me to realize here was another point of
compatibility neither of us liked to fuck that no longer mattered:
Charlie was out of my life. Nor was I going to do it here with
either of the guys in my life at the moment: Tyrone's cock was
twice that of Charlie, and I thought Ray's wicked curve wouldn't
fit well either.

But then, I had never watched two guys get in on in the flesh; it
had to be better than watching movies. If nothing else, there would
be real sound and real smells, and I could reach out and touch at
any time. So I pressed myself against the wall to put my nether
regions off limits and  encouraged my companions to work on
each other. Of the two, Ray was more aggressive: he sucked Ty's
plump dick like a pro, but when Ty's breathing got too fast, turned
him around and went after his backside with a vengeance. Tyrone
pushed his rump up into Ray's face, which gave me an opportunity
to reach under and slip a wonderfully turgid black prod into my
fist.

Every muscle in Ray's body got involved as he pounded Tyrone,
who flattened himself against the bed and fucked my fist in
synchrony with Ray's thrusts. Clearly, Tyrone liked to take it in
the butt, and Ray liked to give it, so the moans and groans were
mainly sounds of satisfaction. Tyrone's deep-voiced moans all but
rattled the window-panes! As the pace picked up, the occasional
sloppy pop could he heard when Ray slipped out a bit too far, and
a musty odor of sweat (and perhaps a trace of shit) permeated the
room. Ty's prostate pumped pre-cum copiously into my hand,
which grew slick and wet. With a shout of delight, Ray pulled out
of Ty's ass and shot wads of cum out over the brown back in front
of him: at the same time, Ty's seed flooded my soggy palm. Ray
collapsed beside Ty, who raised up far enough for me to retrieve
my messy hand, which I licked clean, after which I slurped up the
pools of Ray's sperm on Tyrone's back. We curled up together:
these guys had to recover, while I wondered what might be next.

Half an hour later the boys stirred, and turned their attention to me
and my pecker: watching Tyrone's muscular body as he moved
around got me up quickly, and Ray lunged for my hard-on. He was
an accomplished cock-sucker, for sure, and soon he had me
moaning and groaning as they had been doing such a short time
ago. Tyrone got busy massaging my legs, and when he got up to
my thighs and under my balls, I thought I was going to pass out:
having two guys work me over was not entirely new, but these
dudes knew their stuff! When they switched places, Ty swallowed
the entirety of my dick and I exploded, sending my seed gullet-
ward with as much force as I could muster. It was a fine orgasm,
my second in San Francisco, and a big improvement on the first
one.

"Wish I'd gotten that," Ray said, "but I knew Tyrone had dibs, so
maybe we'll get together again and I can have a taste. You can
catch me most nights at the Rendevous. For now, though, I gotta
get back to my room and sleep: it's been a busy night."

He departed with a soggy towel after we hugged and thanked him.
"You gonna leave, too?" I asked Tyrone.

"Well, not exactly: see, I'm not actually checked in, so the only
room I have is yours, if you're willing to share. Otherwise, I gotta
find another trick or go back to dulls-ville."

"So long as you don't mind sleeping with me, you're more than
welcome here," I explained. "But I'll hang on tight: you've got the
body I'd die for." We cuddled up and slept like babies until
morning, when Tyrone departed. He got a meal, my load, and a
night's lodging out of me: in return, I got another lesson on life in
the Big City everyone's on the take. I might never see Tyrone  or
Ray again,  though I left the Y that morning sure hoping I would.

CHAPTER 2

With all that out of the way, I had a Sunday to kill. Wandering up
Market Street, I discovered a cable-car. This was something new to
me so I climbed aboard. What a wonderfully anachronistic
contraption! It rumbled and creaked its way up California Street,
and I got off at the top of the hill. Along the way I saw more
prosperous-looking parts of the city, but it was a huge cathedral
that took my eye. The sheer magnitude of it drew me like a
magnet, and I joined a fair number of people going inside. Of
course! I thought, today's Sunday. I had no intention of staying,
but wandered around inside, savoring the cool, quiet interior:
noises from the assembling congregation were swallowed up in the
vast space.

Suddenly, the most extraordinary music filled the place: someone
was playing the organ, a majestic sound unlike anything I'd ever
heard in our little podunk town. There was no way I could leave
now, the music was so grand. I slipped into an empty pew near the
back and marveled at the magnificent sounds rolling around me,
now loud, now soft, now overpowering, now  whispering. For the
next three-quarters of an hour, I sat through the Sunday service: I
had no idea what was going on, really. People stood and sang,
knelt and recited, sat and listened; getting up and down was good
exercise, if nothing else.  A priest spoke for a while, but his voice
echoed and rolled around in the vast space; I couldn't understand a
word he said. I assumed he was speaking Latin, for just once in my
life I had attended the Catholic church back home. Mainly, it was
the organ music that held me there. I scarcely noticed that others
had invaded my pew. Towards the end folks were exhorted to greet
each other, and when I turned I found a fellow about my own age
with a pleasant smile on his face.

"Hello: I'm Simon," he said extending his hand.

"Good morning: I'm Jimmy."

The service resumed: as things wound down, the organ simply
took over as most people got up to leave: I sat enraptured by a
splendid and impressive tour-de-force postlude. When the last
crashing chords died away, I realized everyone had left, except
Simon, who sat as I did, hoping for more.

"That's all, folks!" Simon said, mimicking Bugs Bunny.

"Sure is a grand show," I replied.

"Yep! The Piscopalians do it right, for sure. Let's go have a
drink."

"No way! I'm not even 16 yet."

"Doesn't matter. Come with me."  We left the Cathedral and
walked down California Street.  In some ways, Simon and I
resembled brothers: about the same height and build, simple
features, neither stunningly handsome or remarkably ugly. Simon
seemed very likeable, and falling in with someone who knew his
way around appealed to me, already feeling lonely in this new
place.

"How old are you, Simon?"

"Eighteen. I ran away from home two years ago: couldn't stand my
folks. They hated queers. Say, you don't hate queers, do you?"

"Why would I? I spent last night at the Y in bed with two guys: I
guess that qualifies me."

"Super. We'll get along fine. And here we are at the HandleBar."

Today, we'd call it a "twinkie" bar; then, it was just a place where
very young queens could gather to drink without causing too much
trouble. Who paid-off whom I never knew, but even the bartenders
weren't much over 18, and most of the patrons were my age and
younger. They sold mostly soft drinks, though wine was available.
I had no idea what to order, never having been inside a bar in my
life. Simon ordered for me.

"What is this?" I asked, taking a gulp of something sort of tangy
and bubbly."

"Called a 'Thunder Collins': Collins mix with a splash of
Thunderbird."

"Hmmm: not bad. Never heard of Thunderbird."

"It is a cheap wine. What the winos drink."

Musta been what got to the bum I saw, recalling the scene outside
the bus-station. I reduced my gulps to sips.

Simon knew many people in the bar; apparently it was a popular
watering-hole. A couple of priests were there, looking out of place
because they were older (probably in their thirties). Simon
introduced me to several boys; everyone was polite, and most were
very cute, though a certain air of femininity characterized many of
them. The chit-chat seemed to revolve around who had slept with
whom the night before, but I did not volunteer my own exploit,
figuring it was nobody's business but my own. Quite soon, I was
bored and ready to leave, but a second drink relaxed me some.
Besides, I wanted to know more about Simon, who I felt could be
helpful to me in learning my way around San Francisco. So I
stayed close to him, drank slowly, smiled sweetly and generally
waited for whatever might happen next. There were a few tables in
the place; Simon managed to snag one for us.  I asked him,"Do
you come here often?"

"Every Sunday. I take in the show at the God-box up there: my
folks would never believe it, but I do. I hated going to church with
them: they're fundies, always shoutin' and carryin' on. They hated
queers with a passion! Up at Grace, they're pretty laid-back and
being gay doesn't phase 'em. The organist is gay and his assistant
is to die for! I've scored a few johns there, and I'm sure there's
hanky-panky goin' on in the parking-lot at night. So I go, and
come down here to the HandleBar for a few drinks, get the latest
news on the street. So, now that you're here in San Francisco, what
are your plans?"

"To be honest, I've had no time to even think about it; I 'spose I
can find a job." Yet another first: the notion of finding a job had
never before occurred to me. I hadn't the faintest idea how to go
about it. "What kind of work do you do?"

"I hustle." I must have looked blank, so Simon continued: "that
means I let guys suck my dick for money."

"Whoa! Guys will pay for what they can get free at the Y?"

"Look, Jimmy: you're a novice. Fact is, I can see you don't know
nuthin' yet. You need to latch onto someone, like me for instance,
who can look out for ya and help ya get yer feet on the ground.
Otherwise, yer gonna get into a lot of trouble. Whatcha say we
sorta pair up: I got an apartment we can share."

I liked the notion of having someone look out for me, but pairing
up with Simon did not appeal. He was older than me, for one thing,
and not particularly attractive. Charlie had spoiled me;  I was
already hooked on smaller, cuddly boy-toy types of which there
were several in the bar. Most of all, I was afraid of getting
involved, then getting dumped again. "Appreciate the offer,
Simon, but I'm afraid to pair up with anyone: I don't ever want to
go through losing a lover again."

"Oh, I don't wanna be your lover!" Simon exclaimed. "Just wanna
be your friend. I had a guy help me when I first got to
EssEff you'll meet him, he's cool and I can do the same for you.
Lotsa times, friends are better than lovers: friends stick by ya when
lovers don't. 'Sides, yer too young for me: I like guys in their
twenties, at least. That one over there" (he pointed out one of the
priests) "is a real doll, but he won't give me a tumble."

"Then it seems like we might hit it off!  Let's drink to it: I'll buy."

"Good! We'll be brothers, you and I. We look enough alike, we
could play it up and make some good money." It was not clear to
me just what Simon had in mind, but he seemed to have things
figured out.  "We need to get your stuff I assume you have
some at the Y, then go to my place and settle you in."

We rode back down to Market Street on the cable, with Simon
pointing out various landmarks. "That's the Fairmont Hotel: I've
tricked in there a few times. Real swanky place, snooty as hell, but
get men up to their rooms and they're just as horny as anyone else,
only richer."

"How much do you get paid?"

"It all depends: if they take me to that place, I can get a couple
hundred just to get blown. Anything more, the price goes up. Price
goes up the older the john, too."

" 'Anything more,' like what?"

"Hey, there's all kinds of things. Photographs, suck them, get
fucked: man, they gotta pay through the nose to get in my back-
side!"

The car came to a halt; we walked to the Y, retrieved my little
satchel, paid up, and returned to the cable. The gripman reminded
me at once of Tyrone: much larger, he was handsome, black and
looked very smart in his uniform. His muscular legs came near to
splitting his tight pants as he braced himself to pull the huge lever
back to grab the cable. We had the car to ourselves, it being
Sunday evening, and the operator paid a little more attention to
both of us than I expected. When the conductor appeared, he was
as handsome as the other, except the opposite color. "Bet you guys
are getting off at Polk, right?" he asked as we dropped our quarters
in his hand.

"Maybe. Might be getting off somewhere else," Simon replied.
The inflection he put on "getting off" brought a belly-laugh from
both the older men. "Don't you working boys take time off now
and then?" one of them asked. "It's Sunday, you know; day of
rest!"

"No rest for the wicked," Simon rejoined. "Not so long as there's
money to be made. Good old YooEss entrepreneurial spirit,
dontcha know!" I was beginning to warm to this cheeky fellow!

We did, indeed step off the cable car at Polk Street; a few doors
along we ducked into a doorway. Simon produced keys, opened
the door and we went up a dark stairway to a pair of doors. More
rattling of keys got us into apartment 3. "It ain't much, but it's
home for now," Simon said, turning on a lamp and an ugly ceiling-
fixture. Even with some light, the place was dark and uninviting.
There was a small living-room with a worn couch, two butt-sprung
chairs and an old TV; a fairly large bedroom with little more than a
bed in it; and a smaller room with a desk. Between these last was a
bathroom and further back a small kitchen. "We'll put that desk in
my room and get ya a bed," Simon explained, "but tonight we can
share. I don't do any cooking, so there's nothing to eat except
sodas 'n stuff in the fridge."

The mild buzz I had gotten from the drinks at the HandleBar had
worn off, and I was decidedly hungry. "Could do with something
to eat," I told Simon. I saw some places on the street that looked
like they served food."

"Most of them are dumps, but there's a Chinese restaurant that
serves good chink-food that's hot and cheap. We'll go over there:
the chow mein is pretty tasty. The waiters are cute, too."

Over the meal, which I found different from anything I'd ever
eaten before, we discussed the future. I agreed to pay Simon
twenty dollars a week for the spare bedroom. Monday morning
we'd get Simon's good friend, Bart, to help up find a used bed and
whatever else I wanted;  Bart had a truck. I was still a bit vague
about this hustling business, so asked Simon for some pointers. He
said we'd work together a few nights, so I could get the hang of it.
"Gotta get you a set of keys," Simon said as we headed back to his
apartment.

On the street, a big Cadillac drove by slowly: the driver honked at
us, and Simon waved back. "That's a guy I call Big Daddy: he
knows I don't work Sunday nights, but he'll be back tomorrow.
Might fix you up with him: he's gentle as a lamb, just loves to
watch young guys jack off."

"You don't work Sunday nights?"

"Nope: Sunday's the day of rest, in spite of what I told the gripman
back there. It's usually slow anyhow. I go up to the cathedral to get
religion, then to the HandleBar to get the latest scuttlebut, then
back here to get a good night's sleep."

Back in the apartment, we decided to turn in: it was after ten
o'clock. I had some trepidation about sleeping in the same bed
with someone who was not a lover: it was something I'd never
done. Simon and I undressed to our undershorts, dropping our
clothes on the floor. We sat and talked for a while in bed. "Tell me
more about this hustling thing," I said to Simon; "I'm not sure it's
for me."

"There's nothing to it, really. Ya hang out on the street, or the bus
station, or the Strand, 'n the johns hit on ya.  Most of them are in
their fifties: their wives are dumpy and fat and worn out, and johns
don't think doing it with a boy is cheating the way doing it with a
working girl would be. Truth is, lotsa them shoulda been gay, but
never got out of the closet."

"But, what do they want to do?"

"Most of 'em either wanna watch you jack off and cum, or they
wanna suck you off. A few get a little kinkier, might be into piss or
something, and a few wanna fuck ya. Most of the time, all I gotta
do is lie there and let 'em do what they want and collect my pay."

"Where does all this happen?"

"Lotsa times we go to an apartment or a house. Wifey is either
away or sacked-out. Sometimes we go to a hotel: usually these are
guys in town for a conference of something. Once in a while we
get it on in their car, parked on a dark street somewhere."

"Sounds awfully, um, commercial to me."

"It is, it is! 'N that's the beauty of it: there's no emotion, no bad
feelings, just a quick hook-up for mutual benefit. They get what
they want, I get what I want. Two ships that pass in the night, you
know. You'll be surprised at how easy it is. But now it's time to
get some shuteye." Simon turned on his side and pulled the
blankets over him. I did the same, and was drifting off, mulling
over these new ideas in my head.

"Jimmy?" Simon's voice was plaintive and muffled.

"Yeah?"

"Wouldja hold me? Not horny or nuthin',  just like to be held.
Doesn't happen very often."

I made no reply, but rolled over, slipped my arm under his neck,
my other one around him and pulled him close: we were both
asleep within moments.

The next morning, we agreed it would not be necessary to get a
bed for me.

CHAPTER 3

I spent the next several days watching from the shadows as Simon
went about his business on Polk Street. Most often he was picked
up by men cruising in cars, though once he was approached on the
street and taken to a hotel up on Van Ness. He kept busy, and told
me about some of his exploits when he finally rolled into the sack
with me, usually late at night. We got up a little before noon and
spent our afternoons watching TV or doing laundry and sundry
other chores. When Simon went off with a john, I'd go back to the
apartment and watch TV until driven back out to the street by
sheer boredom. The exception was Tuesday night, when Bonanza
was on, where Michael Landon's famous basket kept me and
millions of other queens glued to their TV sets. I also discovered
the local "sport" of people-watching: the ethnic variety in San
Francisco amazed and intrigued me.


The waiter in the Chinese restaurant intrigued me most of all: he
was a tiny fellow, just too cute for words, and at the same time
energetic and helpful. He could explain what the ingredients were
in any item on the menu, which had several hundred entries. Not
being particularly adventurous, I generally stuck with Chow Mein
or Lemon Chicken, but the chicken I wanted most to eat was the
waiter himself. Alas, none of my inexperienced seduction
techniques had the slightest effect on him, though I did learn his
name: Ping.

On Thursday night, Simon fixed me up with Big Daddy: after
negotiating for me, Simon turned me over to him in his big
Cadillac, and off we went. He was a friendly fellow who
introduced himself as he drove with one hand and massaged my
leg with the other. "I'm Steve, 'n I unnerstan yer Jimmy."

"That's right."

"Well, ya don' hafta worry 'bout ol' Steve: I'll treat ya right."

Before long, we pulled into a garage under a house that seemed to
be all upstairs except for a small room at ground level. It was a
convenient arrangement for someone who liked boys on the Q-T.
There was an old sofa and little else in the room. Simon had told
me what to expect, and he was right: Steve asked me to sit on the
sofa, put my trousers around my ankles, and jack off. Having had
no sex since the night at the Y, this ought to have been easy, but I
found doing it under close scrutiny daunting. For one thing, Steve
had to be older than my dad and my step-dad combined: beating
off in front of either of them had never crossed my mind.
However, my prick responded, and Steve watched intently, playing
with himself through his fly, as I stroked myself.

"Need help?" Steve asked, sitting beside me.

"Not really. I'm new at this."

"I know, Simon tol' me yer just gettin' into the game. Tha's how I
like 'em. I loves to watch guys sit on the sofa 'n blow their load,
jus' like I did when I was 15." He ran his left hand from my knee
up towards my balls: it was what I needed, and with a change of
pace I soon managed to spray my teenaged sperm for him. I had a
goodly amount stored up, so it was messy, but that was exactly
what Steve wanted. "Oh, man, oh, man, I wish I could still do
that," he said  as I wound down. From beneath the sofa he
produced a towel, already encrusted with previous wads of cum,
which he used to mop up my mess. What a waste, I thought, loads
like that belong somewhere else.

Our composure regained, we returned to the Caddie and he
dropped me off where he'd picked me up. As I stepped out of his
car, he handed me a fifty dollar bill and drove off before I could
even say thanks. I looked at the paper in my hand: it was the first
money I ever earned in my life. Altogether, transit-time and all, the
process had taken about an hour. At a time when the minimum
hourly wage was a tenth of my fee, I figured I had done pretty
well. As I walked back to the apartment, the Caddie rolled past:
Steve wasn't easily satisfied.

Simon came in after 1 AM, to find me asleep in front of the TV.
"So, how'd you and Steve get along?" he asked.

"Just like you said: easiest fifty bucks I ever made. How'd it go
with you?"

"You don't wanna know!" Emphatically. "But I'll tell ya anyway:
ya gotta be prepared for times like this."

"Like what?

"So, this old geezer picks me up an' takes me to another old
geezer's birthday party. Big old mansion. Nobody 'cept me under
70. Everybody's nude; yuck, ya never saw so much flab in yer life!
I was the entertainment: served drinks, got ogled, got groped, got
pinched. I feel unclean: gotta take a shower!"

"No sex?"

"Man, there weren't more'n a coupla hard-ons besides mine in the
whole bunch of thirty or forty old farts. The birthday boy got to
suck me off jus' before I left. Took his teeth out and put 'em on the
table: thought I was gonna lose my dinner when I saw that but he
gummed me pretty good 'n got a good load. I got my fee and some
tips," (Simon counted a wad of cash) "hunert 'n eighty-eight: not
bad, but I got to get clean!" He headed for the shower, and I went
to bed to await his warmth to help me sleep.

He crawled into bed wearily, all fresh and clean, smelling nice.
"Simon, you ever heard of a place called the Rendevous?"

"Sure, why?"

"Can we go there some night?"

"Yeah: we'll go Sunday night. It's nothin' special, but worth a
look."

CHAPTER 4

On Sunday we returned to the big cathedral. We were a bit late,
and sat near the back, right on the aisle.  After all the carrying-on,
this time the whole crowd of priests and choristers processed down
the aisle and out of the place. Simon nudged me as one of the
priests we'd seen at the HandleBar the week before shuffled past,
but I was captivated by the array of boys in the choir: there wasn't
an ugly one in the bunch. Their angelic unchanged voices were
quickly drowned out by the men behind them, and then the whole
show was over: another big postlude seemed to send everybody
hurrying for the doors, but perhaps they were chasing after the
boys. In any case, Simon and I were among the last to depart.


We made our way down California Street to the Handlebar. "So,
Simon, what sort of a place is this Rendevous?"

"Well, mainly it's a dance place. Heavily populated by asian boys,
lots of 'em under age.  Lots of 'em cute as the dickens. Not my
cuppa tea, but I 'spect you'll enjoy it. Can you dance?"

I recalled the eighth-grade dance: "Yeah, sort of. Slow dancing is
all I know."

"You'll be a wall-flower then, in that place. I don't know what
they call what they do there: mosta the time it looks to me like
they're having some kinda fits! We'll go have a look, but there's
no use going before ten. It's a late crowd."

Much later, we took the cable over the hill, but swung off well
before reaching Market Street. We walked a few blocks to a
nondescript doorway and ascended a long flight of stairs to a door
on the third floor. We checked our coats, passed a bouncer, then
descended a few steps to the main floor; it was a large room, with
an island wet bar near the street, a long-bar on one wall, and a
dance-floor towards the back. Once my eyes got used to the dim
light, I could see the dance-floor was occupied only with boys,
most of them Filipinos and other oriental types, just as Simon
predicted.  There was little question that most were, like myself,
under the drinking age of  21, and most even well below 18.  The
most peculiar feature was how the dance-floor was separated from
about half the space by means of a wall made up of chicken-wire
stretched over a wooden framework.  There was a door, with
another guard: none of the fairly numerous adults clustered around
the two bars was allowed to join the chickens inside: Simon
explained, "The cute young things want to be left alone to dance
without any of the old daddies in their way. 'Course, when it's
time to go, then they're happy to have the daddies haul them
home."

The music, if you can call it that, was so loud my teeth were
rattling, but I left Simon to fend for himself and sauntered over to
the chicken-coop door: I was readily admitted. I joined a few other
guys along the wall, boys more like myself than most of those
dancing. Many of the youngsters had removed their shirts, and
their torsos glistened with sweat. There seemed to be no rhyme or
reason to their steps, and who was dancing with whom was
impossible to tell. Boys would be partners for a few moments, but
if you glanced away, when you looked back there was a different
pair. Several danced by themselves, oblivious to any others.

Suddenly, from the whirling dervishes emerged a body I
recognized: it was Ray, who I'd met at the Y. When he gyrated
near to me, I shouted, but above the din, he couldn't hear me, and
disappeared into the melee. After a while, the music stopped: some
of the bodies continued to weave and wiggle, but most of the
crowd stood expectantly, waiting for the noise to resume. I sought
out Ray: "Hi, Ray, remember me?  From the Y the other night?"

"Sure, Jimmy, how's it going?"

"My first time here. I was hoping to see you."  His shiny wet torso
was lovely: I wanted to touch him, but thought it might not be
appropriate.

"Yeah. I gotta get a drink! All this sweating..."  He left me hanging
and walked out of the cage to  the long bar where he sidled up to a
bulky older man. After a few minutes, Ray returned with a tall
coke in his hand. "Oh, yeah, needed that," he said, pulling at the
straw.

"Any chance for a date?" I asked.

"Naw, sugar-daddy's here looking after me tonight."

"Sugar-daddy?"

"That old dude over there, bought me the drink. Buys me
everything. Buys ME!"

"Oh, well, sorry: I enjoyed our night at the Y. When something is
worth doing once, it's worth doing again and again."

"When you get your own sugar-daddy, you'll understand." The
music came up and he disappeared quickly into the fracas.

Disillusioned, I looked for Simon, but before spotting him I was
delighted to see Ping walk down the stairs into the room. I
pounced on him at once: "Hi, Ping, remember me from the
restaurant? I'm Jimmy, and thrilled to see you here."

"Why?"

"Um, well, I think you're just the best-looking guy, and I've
wanted to meet you for..."

"Sex?"

"Well, yes. That might lead to something else, maybe..."

"You're not the first of the Polk Street hustlers to hit on me,
Jimmy, but I'm not going to be a sex-object for a bunch of
commercial boys. I want someone who wants ME, not just my
cock and my body. I come here to dance and work off my
frustration at not finding anyone looking for the real me." He
turned and disappeared into the crowd.

I was stunned by the rebuff. When I found Simon, he was with one
of the priests he liked, and said he planned to score, so I was on
my own. Dejected, I decided to walk back to our apartment. I
needed to think...

Ambling along, feeling bad for having been so resoundingly
rebuffed twice in one night I failed to even notice the young girl
who passed me going in the opposite direction; until it sank past
my rage and I realized it was not a girl at all. I stopped and turned
to look back, and found him looking back at me, so I decided to
make one last stab.

Bertie introduced himself. "Where  have you been, stranger?"

"Just left the Rendezvous: would you like to go back there with
me?"

"Oh, no, they won't let me in there I'm too young: I'm only
thirteen."

"Wow! You don't even look that old: so where do you hang out?"

"I'm on my way to meet some friends at the Taybush; come on
along."

We fell into step. Bertie was a good foot shorter than I, and tended
to prance a bit as he walked, but why shouldn't he? He was very
cute, and reminded me a bit of Charlie: it was the long hair, I
suppose, that made the resemblance.

"How old are you, Jimmy?"

"Fifteen; almost 16."

"Are you in school?"

"No. I'm self-employed."

"Hustling?"

"Well, yes, sometimes. Tonight I just wanna have some fun with
someone cute. Like you, for  example."

Bertie put his hand in mine and walked a bit closer to me. I found
myself getting hard, a fact Bertie noticed. "Is that hard-on for me?"
he asked, coyly.

"All yours if you want it."

"I want to show you off to some friends," Bertie said as we turned
and walked down some concrete stairs into what must have been a
basement at one time. It was brightly lit, with tables and chairs
rather like a restaurant, but there were only drinks in front of some
of the patrons. Fruit drinks, it seemed, for there looked to be no
one there much over twelve if that.

Our appearance was noticed! Bertie was clearly one of the more
popular patrons. He introduced me to at least a dozen boys, whose
names I forgot instantly. A few of the boys were  more nearly
girls, and all carried on animated chit-chat among themselves.
Introductions over, Bertie and I settled at a small table and
resumed our conversation over pineapple juice.

"How did you like the Rendezvous?"

"Not my kinda place."

"How so?"

"Seems like all the youngsters there were already paired up: no
one was available at least, not to me."

"You didn't stay late enough. The place closes at 2 in the morning,
and the last ten minutes is called the witching hour, when
everybody settles on a mate for the night."

"After dancing all night like that, they must be sweaty and stinky. I
don't wanna hafta wash my tricks before I sleep with 'em!"

Bertie laughed. "You're cute, you know? I like older guys."

"So, where do you live?"

"Right upstairs. The owner of this place is gay and tries to rent
only to queens. I have a little studio apartment on the 6th floor."

"I'm anxious to see it."

"Let's go then." We made the rounds of patrons again, Bertie still
showing me off! Cat-calls and ribald laughter sent us back up the
stairs to the sidewalk, then into the lobby of the building and up to
the 6th floor in a creaky old elevator.

Bertie's studio was not much more than a large closet. The
building had obviously been carved up into far more units than it
had when built. Except for a tiny toilet by itself, the apartment was
a single room. It would have seemed larger with a smaller bed, but
of course the room was dominated by a huge canopied bed. Bertie
took off his sweater, tossed it on a chair, then turned to me: on tip-
toes, he could reach my mouth, where he planted a kiss almost
indistinguishable from those I'd had from Charlie. My body
responded, and Bertie adroitly unzipped my pants. This kid's no
stranger to sex, I thought, but since it was sex I wanted, how could
I complain?

"You have a nice one," he said, squeezing my hard-on
affectionately. I want you to fuck me with it."

At this stage of my life, I had fucked only a few times: Frankie
once, Charlie once, and one john had demanded I screw him in
order to get paid. I'd had a rough time staying hard on that
occasion, but here, seemingly infatuated with me was this darling
little boy. For a moment I wondered if his testicles had descended,
but when he dropped his loose trousers, there was enough hair in
his crotch to assure me they had. The more clothes he removed, the
younger-looking he became, resulting in a powerful urge to rape
and ravage, an urge I had never felt before, but which I rather
liked. I shed my own skin as quickly as I could.

"Get ready, Bertie: I'm gonna fuck you like I never fucked
anybody before!"

"That's what they all say."

Roughly, I spun him  around, pushed him down on the bed and
aimed by manhood at his womanhood. In seconds, we were fully
mated: Bertie was no stranger to back-door sex, it was clear, but it
was also clear he liked it. And, he seemed to like it rough: "Oh,
fuck me, Jimmy, FUCK me!" The more he moaned and groaned,
the harder I fucked. The bed creaked, the pink crinoline hanging
from the canopy swayed. Suddenly, I pulled out, leaving Bertie's
butt twitching.

"Don't stop!"

I plunged my dick back in vigorously.

"Stop, stop, stop some more!" he cried out.

I pulled out again, but this time  pulled him up off the bed, spun
him around again and shoved him down: "Suck it, Bertie," I
growled.

He grabbed a handful of white sheet and wiped off my throbbing
pecker, then went down on it gingerly. I grabbed his head, held it
steady and fucked his mouth as powerfully as I had been plowing
his rectum moments before. "Take it, Bertie, take it all! I'm about
to drown you!"

He pulled away violently. "No, Jimmy, I want it here," he said, as
he turned his backside to me. I turned us both around again and sat
on the bed, then picked him up, and shoved him down on my rigid
prong. He was light enough that I could lift him up and let him fall
down on my cock.

"Oh, Jimmy, harder! I'm gonna come!" Bertie cried out. With one
last shove up his behind, I exploded, and Bertie shot his wad all
over himself, his lovely thighs, his tummy and the floor. "Yes.
Yes! Oh, Jimmy, you made me come! That felt wonderful. I could
feel you coming, too!"

I was exhausted: I'd worked harder at screwing Bertie than I'd
ever worked at sex before, but it was a delightful kind of
exhaustion. Bertie forced himself back against me and pushed me
up on to the bed, where, with my dick still hard within him, we fell
asleep. In the wee hours of the morning, I awoke and dressed
quietly, pushed the hair back from his sleeping face and kissed
him. "That was really swell, Bertie," I said softly, then let myself
out of his apartment and walked back to mine.

Simon was entwined with his priest on our bed, so I finished my
night's sleep on the lumpy sofa.

CHAPTER 5

Some weeks passed: I became more proficient in my trade, and
Simon left me on my own most nights. We never did try the
"brothers" routine he had once suggested. I was lucky, in that I
somehow attracted only fairly vanilla types, interested in little else
than wanking, watching and posing for some photos. Simon, on the
other hand, seemed to attract strange men who were into unusual
things like S&M, peeing, and worse. He had a few scars to prove
it, not the least being a chip on his shoulder. He never complained,
but I could tell he was not always fully comfortable with his
profession, and he often mentioned getting out of it. That was not
easy for a kid who had never even completed grammar-school,
much less high-school. He always shared his exploits with me,
leading me to wonder sometimes if I wanted to remain "in the
business".  Still, I figured it was not too bad, and I could get out of
it any time.

My confidence in myself was shaken somewhat, however, when
Simon came back one night looking like something the dog had
dragged in. His clothes were wet and torn, and he stank dreadfully.
He was still a little drunk.

"Jeez, Simon, what happened?"

"Oh, met a little weirdness. See, these two guys were cruisin' Polk
in an old junk-heap of a car. I figured they used the car to make it
look like they had no money, but when I stuck my head in the
window, they offered me more money than I made all last week."

"To do what?"

"This they were not very clear about. Now, usually I don't like to
go with pairs, 'cause lotsa times they argue about who is gonna do
what to whom, and I can get caught in the middle. But the problem
was, both these guys were real cute and I'd say only about 30 or
so. So I said, OK let's go!"

"And?"

"It was a little like the birthday party I told ya 'bout: they took me
to a place where there was a bunch of other guys, and they was all
having a big piss-party."

"Piss party?"

"Yeah; there was this old brick garage with a roll-up door,
concrete floor and a side entrance. Inside everyone got nude if they
wanted to or not and drank a lot of beer and water and then pissed
on, in, or over each other."

"Ew!"

"Oh, one-on-one, I can handle piss. But in a group, where I was the
"star", it got a little outa hand. Most of the fellows were a bit older
than the ones who picked me up, and that's OK, since they can piss
just as well as anyone, but when it comes to, well, other body
functions, I hafta draw the line. But they wouldn't pay me off and
let me leave until the party was over, and that meant until they'd
all pissed on me as often as they could, and I had  watched when
several of them get into shitting together. Man, that's some weird
stuff, believe me!

"Double ew!"


"Well, I can get myself clean with a while in the shower. And I did
make make four hundred bucks, but all the same, I hafta say, I
really prefer old-fashioned jackin' off. Maybe I'll hang a sign
around my neck: 'Vanilla only', or something like that."

"You stink! Go wash up!"

"Yes, Sir!"

CHAPTER 6

Simon taught me to look for the tell-tale signs of a rental-car when
cruising Polk Street. "They're usually guys from outa town, likely
to take you to a swanky hotel: good for lotsa lettuce" (his word for
greenbacks). "Ya wanna try to catch the eyes of guys like that.
Dudes from outa town know they won't be recognized by anyone,
so they really cut loose!"

So it was that one chilly Friday  night I felt emboldened to wave at
a guy in a Hertz car: he pulled to the curb, rolled down the
passenger window, and I poked my head inside.

"Tom!" It was Charlie's Daddy-one.

"Jimmy!"

"Holy mackerel, what are you doing here?" Tom asked.

"Hustling.  What are YOU doing here?"

"I'm making a movie for Mustang. We need a horny teenager for a
bit part, and they sent me out to find one."

"Will I do?"

"Perfectly! Hop in."

"Is Harley here too?"

"No: we never appear in fuck-flicks together. But how do you
come to be in San Francisco, and why the hustling?"

"I ran away from home. I gotta eat, pay the rent..."

"Fill me in later: right now, we're at the studio. Don't let on you
even know me: you're just a kid I found on the street. Call me
tomorrow at the Hilton."

Tom tooted the horn at a roll-up door of a warehouse, and we were
admitted: the door slammed down behind us.

As I got out of the car, I saw the place was huge; there were light-
stands, reflectors and all sorts of video paraphernalia everywhere I
looked. In the dim recesses of the building I could see what looked
like sets, parts of rooms, beds, walls, furnishings. At first I saw no
people, but soon after our arrival a scruffy-looking guy with a
large camera on his shoulder greeted Tom. "Come on, kids, don't
keep Daddy waiting."

Tom herded me towards the back of the place, where there were
more lights turned on, and a clutch of nude men, also turned on.
"Here's the kid we need," Tom announced; "horny little fucker."

"Get those awful clothes off!" said a voice from somewhere. I
stripped as quickly as I could and left my threads in a heap on the
floor. Naturally, this led to a hard-on. "Daddy" (with the camera)
came over: "OK, kid, all ya gotta do is go over to that door, open it
slowly and look like you're peeking inside: put some surprise on
your face, grab yer cock and start jacking. Don't gotta cum, yer
only gonna be on camera 'bout thirty seconds."

This seemed easy enough to me.

"Lights! ... Camera! ... Action!"

I sauntered over to the door, opened it a bit, and looked inside.
There, languishing on a bed, was a truly spectacular black dude, all
muscle, all dark and all smooth, with a huge wang standing
straight up. I did my best to look startled, which I was, and put my
hand on my dick as instructed. As I watched, another guy, as blond
as the first was black, came into the room, bent over and
swallowed that huge erection with an ease that amazed me. He was
able to consume all of the black guy's monster, right down to his
balls, without choking. It was exciting to watch, and since no one
had called "cut" or told me to stop, I jacked my boy-cock
vigorously. I had not, as it happened, gotten off for several days:
Simon assured me it was best to have a good loads ready for
paying customers, so getting off between tricks was taboo.

As I watched, the blond guy released his mouth's hold and
wrapped his hand around the glistening member: the dark fellow
must have been all primed, because with only a few strokes, he
shot huge wads of cum all over the place: his eruption so
stimulated me that I also went off, forgetting the admonition that it
was unnecessary. I made quite a mess on the floor.

"Cut!"

"Dammit, kid, I toldya not to shoot! Now I gotta pay you double
for the money-shot. But, never mind, it was a good one we can use.
Get dressed, see the lady up front, sign a release, and get yer
check."

I dressed, wandered back to the car, and found a tiny office. The
"lady" seated at a desk was a guy in some of the worst drag I had
seen yet, but he was sweet and helpful. "Hey, cutie, how ya
doin'?"

"OK, I guess. Boss said to sign a release and get a check."

"Fine. I'm Betty, by the way. Sit there. Gotta fill out this form.
What's yer name?"

"Jimmy."

"Won't do. Gotta have it all. Gotta be real, too. Ya got any ID?"

"ID?"

"Identification: drivers license?" He glanced at me, seeing me for
the first time; "Ah, well, I guess not. Um, anything official-like
with your name on it?"

"Not that I know of."

"Hmmm. Well, looks like we gotta invent an ID for you. Hang
on..."  He fired up a small computer, fussed with it, then printed
something out. It was a large facsimile of a California ID-card.

"OK: now, honey, we hafta get your name inserted here, so I
needja to sign this piece of paper." I signed it; he scanned it and
fiddled with the computer some more. He printed out the form
again, and this time it had my full name printed above an address
in San Francisco, and my signature in the appropriate place. It
looked very professional and quite real!

"That's amazing," I exclaimed.

"All in a night's work, sweetie. Now," (he printed out another
form) "fill this form out using the information on the first one, sign
it, and I can cut yer check. By the way, did ya cum?"

"Sure did!"

"Wish I'd seen it!"

"I expect you will: it's on film I guess."

"Oh, goodie! I love how you young kids squirt."

I filled out the second form as instructed, and he handed me a
check for $300.00 . "Now, where am I, and how do I get home?"

"You're at Second and Brannon: you don't have a car? Oh: of
course you don't. Where do you live?"

"That form says I live on Leavenworth, but actually I live on
Polk."

"Jeez: do ALL the cute young things live on Polk these days?
Well, it's a long walk, and we're not exactly in the best part of
town. I'll call a taxi."

"The last taxi took me all over town and charged me twenty bucks,
which I do not have."

"Ya like to suck dick?"

"Sometimes."

"I'll get Harry for you: he drives a cab, loves to get his dick sucked
by cuties like you. He'll take you home for nothing all ya gotta do
is him."

"Ancient old fart, I'll bet."

"Oh, no! Harry is an Indian fellow, nicely set up, with a dick you'll
love. He takes me home all the time."

Betty dialed the phone, spoke to someone, and hung up. "Harry's
on his way, dearie: he'll call my cell when he gets here. So, how
did you get in this business?"

"By accident. My first appearance. Probably not my last."

"For this studio it will be: Daddy is not into youngsters like you
AT ALL! In fact, I'm really surprised he used you, but you never
know..."

His phone rang: he listened to it a moment, then turned it off.
"Harry's out front: there's the door, be a good boy, take care of
Harry. Night-night!"

Betty was right: Harry had a very suckable cock, and he dropped
me at my door. He handed me his card as I stepped out of the cab:
"Any time, kid, any time!"

The card read, "Harry's Yellow Cab the ride of your life.
HOrny4-3579".

CHAPTER 7

I called Tom the next afternoon as requested. He picked me up
again and took me to a swanky place for dinner.

"I called your mom: she's thrilled I happened to find you."

"Oh, shit! What did you tell her I was doing?"

"Don't worry, Jimmy: I just said you were well and working. But
Jimmy! You can't stay in San Francisco. This place swallows up
kids like you every day, and turns them into zombies and druggies
and hustlers and pimps. It is NOT the place for you! I have this
rented car, we could have you home in a day."
I can't go back to Cerro High: with Charlie there, I just can't face
it and him."

"Charlie isn't there. He got beat up so often we've sent him away
to a special school."

The picture of Charlie getting beat up was too much: I put my head
down on the table and cried. I had loved him so much, and should
have been there to rescue him. Instead, I'd run away...

"Look, Jimmy: I know how you feel! Charlie did you wrong!
Harley and I did our best, but Charlie, in many ways, is damaged
goods. He was injured long before we got him. He can't respond to
love properly, even though he tries. He's a home-wrecker: the
world is full of them. But you? You need to finish school, get on
with your life, and forget Charlie. You'll find a boyfriend one day
who'll make you happy. Your mother wants you back: she says
Bobby needs a big-brother. Whatcha say?"

*****************

Simon registered no surprise when I told him I was going home.
"Your friend is absolutely right. This place is no good for kids like
you. It turns nice boys into hustlers like me, with no future. Soon
as I can get a few bucks ahead, I'm going home myself."

We went to bed together as usual for the last time that night,
Simon and I. I held him, as always, feeling his warmth. He had
been kind to me when few others were. I put my left hand down
into his shorts: he was hard as a rock, just as I was.

"Simon?"

"Mmmmm?"

"Let's do it. We never have... "

"A fitting end to a relationship that never was?"

"No! Just two horny young dudes that wanna get off."

He rolled over to face me. "Kid, you're incorrigible!"

We had a wonderful romp. The next morning, I put together the
few things I owned, signed my Mustang check over to Simon, left
it on the kitchen table and departed as he slept. I headed for the
Hilton and home.

EPILOGUE

I returned to family life and went back to school, graduated and
went on to college. In the many years since, I have led the most
ordinary life, devoid of any real interest. I gradually forgot Charlie
until I decided to write these memoirs. I never had another lover,
though there have been many homosexual encounters.  Whoever it
was who said, "The first love is always the best," was right.

Copyright BRUCE BRAMSON  2009