Date: Tue, 31 Aug 1999 15:05:14 EDT
From: MGouda3464@aol.com
Subject: 18 Year Olds Don't Cry


18 YEAR OLDS DON'T CRY


A sheet of the New York Post, blown by the gritty November wind, wrapped
itself around his legs. Lucas Dexter peeled it off, screwed it into a ball
and threw it into the night. On second thoughts he wondered whether it might
have been more sensible to keep it as insulation against the cold. First
night without a roof over his head and his head still buzzed from the
fighting.

"You're brainless. You're stupid. You're lying. You're no son of mine." His
father had shouted, each accusation punctuated by a blow aimed at his head.

"I'm not stupid. I ain't lying," he had protested, arms futilely trying to
protect himself and the tears had come without him wanting them --  eighteen
year olds don't cry.

The darkness was his blanket and in the wind came the first spots of rain.
He'd have to find some shelter somewhere, probably a doorway.

"Please, George . . . " a faltering appeal from his mother, glancing from one
to the other.

"I've had enough. He won't spend another night here."

"But where will he go?"

"I don't give a fuck! Glue-sniffing! Stealing! Christ knows what else. Get
out! Get fucking out!"

"He's only eighteen . . . "

Nowhere to go except to the Big City. The buses ran all night. He hitched to
the bus terminal. The one-way ticket to Manhattan from Lakewood, New Jersey
was ten dollars even -- his only ten dollars. And now here, with just a few
late-night leftovers from the Times Square bars still wandering the streets,
what to do? Where to go? A restaurant doorway to try to escape from that
bitter wind? Lucas shivered, his sweater, jeans and thin leather jacket
offering inadequate protection.

His father's accusations had been non-stop. The boy was aggressive, answered
back, cursed at his mother, couldn't keep a job, stayed out all night--going
God knows where. "If this place isn't good enough for you, then you can
fuckin' leave."

He'd gone upstairs to the tiny room which was the only part of the house
which he'd really considered his own. It wasn't much and when he really
looked at it, the only things that made it personal were a few posters of
rock stars on the wall. He tore them down and left the shredded remains on
the floor. He didn't want to leave anything that reminded them of him. He
shoved some clothes into a knapsack.

    Shit, if only he hadn't spent three dollars and twenty-nine cents--the
last of his money--on a pack of cigarettes. He was hungry already.

 His stomach felt empty but fright seemed to have stemmed some of the worst
pangs. Tomorrow he would have to think about how to get food. First he had to
get through the night. A distant striking from some municipal clock told him
it was midnight. He passed a doorway but there was already a dark figure
curled up inside. But half a block later he found an empty one and squatted
down. The step was hard under his buttocks, and the wall uncomfortable
against his back. He arranged the knapsack so that it filled in the gap
between his body and the sidewalk. He knew he'd never sleep.

But he was wrong. Even with the cold, the discomfort, the unfamiliar,
frightening surroundings he dozed off and woke only when the morning light
touched him, stiff and aching, every limb seemingly protesting at the
treatment it had received, his head throbbing, his stomach empty.

A new day . . .





Lucas made it through the month. The first week had been the worst. Hungry
most of the time, reduced to searching through dumpsters looking for the
remains of take-out lunches and restaurant discards. But he'd seen the other
homeless, how they made their pitch--subway entrances were good--some begging
with dogs which presumably made the animal-loving passerby more susceptible
to generosity, a tin can or cardboard box in front, maybe a scrawled note on
cardboard broadcasting their plight. And he'd learned from them, found he
could scratch a precarious living from begging, washing daily in the public
restrooms at Port Authority. Sometimes he got enough money for a Big Mac,
though the double fries were cheaper, filling if not the ideal health food
diet.

He had noticed a spattering of zits developing on his face and bought some
oranges to supplement his diet. His hair grew long and rather sticky - the
liquid soap provided in the lavatories didn't seem all that effective as a
conditioner. His face, he noticed in the smudged and distorting metal mirror,
seemed thinner, his brown eyes larger and more anxious under their blond
eyelashes. But he still had that look that made him appear younger than his
eighteen years. His clothes, purchased originally more for fashion than
durability were degenerating, the material at knee and buttock growing thin.
What he would do when they developed holes he had no idea.

He tried a welfare office, giving a false name and adding a year to his real
age. But when the caseworker started quizzing him about a home address and
parents, he got up and left. The small amount of money he did get came from
his begging.

He developed a certain look, what he thought to himself as a beguiling,
beseeching expression. This, he found, worked particularly well on older
women--but as they only dropped a quarter (at most) into his box, he didn't
make much from them. He had scrawled a deliberately misspelled notice 'CARNT
AFORD BREKFEST' and propped this up in front of him, but it was still a long,
boring day.  Most of the time he spent gazing into the middle distance,
torturing himself with thoughts of a bang-up dinner, a thick steak, singed on
the outside and pink inside, crisp, golden-brown roast potatoes, hot buttered
homemade biscuits, light as air, sweet green peas flavored with mint and
thick savory gravy. Most of all, he fantasized about a comfortable bed with
clean sheets and a soft, soft mattress.

One evening a gang of teenagers screamed insults at him and, when he answered
back, jumped him, punched him in the stomach, kicked him, and went off with
his day's money. That day he didn't eat -- in fact didn't feel like eating --
and worried when he found himself bleeding when he went for a shit. He
wondered whether to go the a hospital emergency room but was afraid they'd
start asking nosy questions, just like the welfare people. In a few days he
healed and determined never to hang around the subway entrances after dark,
even though at this time of year there were many people still out and about
in the evenings.

It was approaching Christmas and the streets were decorated with twinkling
colored lights and jolly white-bearded figures of Santa Claus. On Christmas
Day several charities would distribute a special Christmas meal to the
homeless. One good meal a year, thought Lucas cynically.

On the third day of the second month he met Nick Warren.



It was a particularly cold December.  That day there were flurries of
snowflakes in the air though they hadn't yet reached the stage of settling.
Lucas was standing in front of the Barnes and Noble on Fifth Avenue, looking
warily about him.  The place was bustling with holiday shoppers and looked to
be good for a few quarters before their security chased him away. He was
wearing all the clothes he possessed but still felt cold.  One of his
high-topped sneakers had split down the side just above the sole and he had
tied a piece of string around it -- but it didn't make much difference. Soon
a new pair would be essential and he had no idea how he would get them.

He was worrying about this problem when he noticed the young man standing
some yards away but obviously looking in his direction. At first he wondered
whether the guy was a plain clothes cop, come to move him on, but the
expression on the man's face seemed to be one of interest rather than
interference.

The man approached. Lucas noticed his dark eyebrows, his black hair,
springing from his forehead, the smile -- or was it a sneer --  the lithe,
confident almost arrogant way he walked. The suit he was wearing looked
expensive; the grey tie, discreet against his white shirt. As he got closer
the man felt inside his jacket for his wallet and produced a ten dollar bill.

"What would you buy," he asked, holding it in front of Lucas, "if I put this
in your box?"

Lucas looked appreciative. It was considerably more than he'd made all day.
"Good meal, mister," he said, putting on that look he had practiced.

"Not spend it on drugs?"

"Don't do drugs, mister," said Lucas automatically. "It's a suckers' game."

"And I bet you don't normally talk like that," said the man. "Or have that
dumb look on your face."

For a moment Lucas was angry, but then ten dollars was ten dollars. He
nodded. "Sorry," he said in his natural voice. "It's what they expect."

The man dropped the ten into the box and then opened his wallet again. He
took out and carefully counted three fifty-dollar bills. "And what," he said,
"would you do for this?"

A hundred and fifty bucks. He could buy some shoes, another pair of jeans,
maybe even a warm parka. But Lucas wasn't a complete fool. He looked wary.
"What do you mean?" he asked. "What would I have to do?"

The man tucked the money back into his wallet. "Come and have something to
eat," he said. "No need to get alarmed. We'll talk about it over a burger or
something."



They sat opposite each other in Burger King and Lucas wolfed down two
Whoppers with fries and a milk shake. The man sipped at a coffee, watching
him. It was mid-morning and the place was half empty. Their table was private.

"My name's Nick," said the man.

"Lucas."

"OK," said Nick, smiling, which made his face even more attractive. He
narrowed his eyes, looked serious. "So, Lucas, how long have you been on the
streets?"

"Just over a month."

"And how have you been making it?"

Lucas took another bite and chewed. "So-so," he said warily. "Some days I
make enough."

"Enough for new shoes?" asked the man. He had obviously noticed the sneakers,
as, at the moment, they were tucked out of sight under the table. "Enough for
a room at the night? Enough for regular meals?" He looked at Lucas munching
hungrily on the second Whopper, attacking the fries, washing it down with the
shake.

Lucas shook his head.

"You're not a bad looking kid," said Nick. "Steady eyes, nice mouth, good
teeth. You need a bath, a haircut, new clothes." He paused. "You could be
earning a thousand a week, easy. Maybe more. Yes, a thousand . . ."

He let the words hang in the air. Lucas' mouth opened.

"What would I have to do?" he asked. "I haven't got qualifications or
experience."

"You've got a dick, haven't you?" asked Nick, smiling again. "If you've gotta
cock and a mouth and a butthole -- you've got everything you need."

Lucas blushed. Suddenly he realized where this was leading. Not in detail,
but certainly the rough direction. Frightened, almost panicky, he started to
get to his feet.

"Just think about it," said Nick quickly. "A thousand a week guaranteed. I'll
get you somewhere nice to stay, clothes to wear, good clothes." Lucas paused,
thinking. "I'd look out for you, make sure you didn't get hurt."

Lucas hesitated -- and in doing so was lost. He sat down again. Nick smiled.

"I've never done anything like that," said Lucas. "Not, you know, with . . .
" He paused, again not sure what was being asked of him. Would it be with
men? What was this about his mouth, and his ass? "I wouldn't know what to do."

Nick got up. "Come on," he said. "Come back to my place. Have a shower. You
can borrow some of my clothes. I'll show you what to do." His smile was warm,
convincing -- almost seductive. "You'll enjoy it," he promised.





Lucas followed Nick down into the labyrinth of subway tracks below Port
Authority and they took the train to Nick's place on West 72nd. It was a
typical New York apartment--too small and a little disappointing, consisting
of just a living room, an old, tiny kitchen, and, through an open door, the
view of a bedroom. The furniture was not much different from that in Lucas'
own parents' home -- he'd expected something more luxurious, to match the
designer suit. An old sofa stood against one wall and a tall bookcase with
some paperbacks against another. A window looked out onto the street below
and some posters of  bullfighters suggested Nick might have taken a vacation
in Mexico. There was a computer system on a table over by the far wall. The
carpet looked old and worn.

"Make yourself at home," said Nick and waved his hand at the sofa and then
expansively, around the room. "Rent controlled. Want a drink?" He opened a
cupboard and displayed an impressive array of bottles and cans.

"I'll have a beer," said Lucas, who didn't like liquor. Nick threw him a can
and he pulled the ring opener, gulping down the contents before it fizzed
out, without waiting for a glass. He felt nervous, not sure what was going to
happen -- but Nick didn't seem to be about to fling himself on him. Lucas
watched him sit down at the other end of the sofa with a glass of whisky,
looking at him from under those dark eyebrows, summing him up, a little smile
on his lips.

Finally Lucas took the iniative. "OK," he said, "what would I have to do?"

Nick smiled and moved closer to him. Lucas could feel his closeness, feel the
heat of him. When Nick put his hand on his thigh, Lucas tensed, but it felt
somehow comforting. It was almost the only human contact he had had for over
a month. The hand was warm and when it stroked upwards, Lucas found his legs
opening almost automatically, so that the hand found his crotch, felt the
softness which rapidly became hardness. He gasped as the hand clasped his
prick through the thin material of his jeans.

"That's the start," said Nick. "That's what you've gotta do. Do you think you
can manage that?"

Lucas looked at Nick's crotch. There was a bulge there, under the expensive
cloth. He realised he wanted to touch it, find out what was inside, what it
felt like. He grabbed.

"Wait!" said Nick. "Go gently. Make the other person feel important, wanted.
Don't rush at him as if you wanted to tear his balls off."

Lucas moved his hand and then replaced it in the inside of Nick's thigh,
moving his fingers so that they scrabbled gently. They found their way
upwards again making for Nick's fork. but this time finding his balls first,
cupping them gently, then holding the strong, hard shaft.

Nick sighed. "Now pull down the zipper," he said. "Slowly. Go inside. Hold me
through my shorts." As he spoke he was doing the same to Lucas, and the feel
of those fingers so close to the actual skin was like nothing he had ever
felt before. Arousing tremors of delight surged in his groin, in his balls,
up his cock.

"Do you kiss?" asked Nick. "Some do, some don't."

Lucas considered. With that hand around his prick, rubbing it up and down, he
would do anything. "I'd like to kiss you," he said and their lips met, a
tongue probing at his closed mouth and then, entering and wrestling with his,
excitingly. He couldn't help it. Suddenly he came, the semen pulsing out into
his underwear and soaking through onto Nick's hand.

"Wow," said Nick. "You've been saving that up. But now you've gotta take care
of the customer."

Lucas stroked faster. "He'll probably want more than that," said Nick. "Take
mine out. A blowjob at least."

Lucas wasn't quite sure what he meant. But he pulled down the waistband of
Nick's shorts and released the cock so that it stood erect and jutting from
its nest of curly dark hair. He hesitated and Nick put his hand behind Lucas'
head and gently pulled it forward and downward. He understood. He took the
head into his mouth, licking it with his tongue. He wasn't sure exactly what
he expected but it wasn't unpleasant. In fact the thought of having another
man's cock, Nick's cock, inside his mouth was exciting. Even though he had
come so soon before, he felt a little twitch in his own.

"Not the teeth," said Nick. "Try to take as much as you can. Use your tongue.
You can rub with your hand as well, and use the other hand, hold my balls, go
under me. That's it . . . No further . . . Use your finger to touch me . . .
there . .  Oh yes . . . ."

Later, Lucas stood in the shower enjoying the luxury of the hot water on his
body. He didn't hear the door open and Nick enter and the first he knew was
when a pair of arms wrapped around his waist and he felt a naked body pressed
into his from behind, a cock in the cleft between his buttocks.

"Lesson 2," said Nick softly.





The job wasn't always -- or indeed often -- all that pleasant but soon Lucas
got to thinking of it as 'just' a job, just an occupation to be gotten
through as quickly as possible.

The twin buildings of the refurbished Port Authority offered an tolerable
refuge for the daytime hours, when trade was slow.  He could usually pick up
a trick or two hanging around restrooms on its varied levels--and Port
Authority's upscale shopping-mall environment meant there were a myriad of
magazine and record stores to ease the boredom.  Security men, mostly black
and Hispanic, took little notice of a well-dressed white youth.

Still, it didn't pay to stick around too many days in a row.  The vastness of
the Metroplitan Museum offered the best alternative.  As Nick had pointed out
to him, native New Yorkers--especially senior citizens who frequented the
museum regularly--seldom paid the "suggested admission" of six dollars. "
That's only the suggested admission, " Nick told him. "Just give 'em a dime
or a quarter. Fuck, they won't miss it; they've got endowments and grants up
their ass."  The museum had a varied selection of washrooms offering up the
occasional john--their locations helpfully pinpointed on a map handed out at
the information desk.  The Met's exhibitions and galleries ("5,000 years of
visual splendor") proved the best of all possible ways to while away  empty
hours. His favorite was the Egyptian complete with reconstructed walk-in tomb.

    After dark, the trade came out--at Times Square and Forty-second Street,
Broadway and Eighth Avenue--especially after eleven, when the overpriced
Broadway musicals disgorged their nightly hordes of theater-goers. Rudy
Guliani's Times Square cleanup had begun, but the gay porn stores with their
rows of quarter booths stayed open at least for the moment--most twenty-four
hours a day.

Lucas got the 'menu', and the prices pat so that they tripped off his tongue
without him even having to think about it: "Ten for a hand-job; head's
twenty-five and a fuck's eighty-five". The jerk-offs were easiest, mostly in
the john's own car. Money first - 'thank you, sir' - then a quick spin around
the corner to a darker spot where the street lights were further apart--the
client laying back in the recliner seat, zipper down--hands into the warmth
to find it. Rubbing gently, as Nick had taught him, other hand fondling the
ballsack and sometimes under if the customer raised himself or indicated that
was what he liked. Usually it was over within a couple of minutes.

Occasionally the client would change his mind mid-operation and ask him to
suck it.  But after one incident where, having been satisfied, the john had
pushed him out of the car and driven away without paying the extra, Lucas
always waited for the rest of the money before obliging. He never swallowed.

The eighty-five dollar fuck was back at his room, the one Nick had found for
him--a basement efficiency in a West Side apartment building in
lower-numbered street and less trendy neighborhood than Nick's own. Scarcely
larger than a moderate sized closet, it contained a single bed, a sink and a
small chest of drawers in which Lucas kept his clothes, condoms and some gay
magazines which nervous clients sometimes needed -- though Lucas always felt
a little  insulted if anyone went limp on him. Frequently, Lucas himself
never came. Occasionally, if the customer was reasonably young, not
overweight, and didn't gasp and pant too much, Lucas would imagine it was
Nick who was in him--probing his guts from behind with that erect piece of
plastic-covered flesh, holding his own prick so that he did ejaculate sad
streams of semen -- but this was not usual.

Sometimes the john was pathetically grateful, and on those occasions Lucas
felt nothing but contempt. They had paid their money. He had given good
value. He didn't want their thanks. He didn't seem to realize that, on the
few occasions when Nick invited him over to his flat, to his bed, Lucas
himself felt that same overwhelming feeling of gratitude. He never allowed
himself to express it in words, merely being exceptionally compliant in the
things he knew Nick enjoyed most.

The best jobs of all were the sporadic ones that Nick himself arranged, in
the big Times Square hotels -- all-nighters in luxurious surroundings with a
meal and drinks. The Marriott Marquis, with its lighted glass elevators
climbing its glass sides, was his favorite. Lucas had no idea how much the
customer paid for these, but Nick always gave him the entire eighty-five
dollars. For the street trade, he and Nick took the traditional sixty-forty
split.

All the same, to get anywhere near the thousand a week that Nick had
promised, Lucas had to work very hard -- three fucks, fourteen sucks or
twenty-eight hand jobs -- seven days a week (we never close!). Often his
wrist almost seized up -- he wondered if he were getting carpal tunnel
syndrome, as he'd heard it described. Frequently his ass was sore.

Like the night he was arrested. He'd been with a few clients already that
evening, three hand jobs, a suck and a fuck -- total so far seventy-two
dollars for him. He was tired and thought of calling it a day -- or at least
a night -- but Nick liked him to fulfil his quota. He could get quite nasty
if Lucas didn't present him with at least hundred a night.



A squall of January rain met him as he arrived back on his corner outside a
24-hour porn store on 8th Avenue. He nodded to Gavin on the opposite corner.
Tall, blonde and willowy, Gavin was as camp as a Scout jamboree, but he and
Lucas got along,  discussing tricks and their peculiarities. He was the
nearest thing Lucas had to a friend, except for Nick. But Nick was special in
Lucas' mind,  and if asked, Lucas would be hard put to classify him. Lover,
protector, rescuer -- he fought shy of the word 'pimp'.

A BMW drew up and stopped somewhere between the two boys and the tail lights
flashed on and off. Not knowing which of them the john was interested in,
both boys stood still until the car moved slowly forward and stopped at the
curb next to Lucas. The window opened with an electronic swish, and a
middle-aged face, grey moustache, looked out. "You free?" he asked.

Lucas was just about to reel off his prices when there was a sudden noisy
confusion behind him. From the shadow of the wall, where they had obviously
been concealed, two figures emerged-- one grabbing hold of Lucas' arms, the
other opening the car door so that the driver almost fell out. Gavin faded
like a wraith into the night. A string of words followed, which Lucas, in his
confused state, didn't grasp even though they ended with, "You are under
arrest.  You have the right to remain silent.  Anything you say or do can be
used against you."

Both men were taken to Night Court--hot and crowded, mostly with prostitutes
and their pimps, along with a few "drunk and disorderly" charges. Luckily for
Lucas, Nick had prepared him for such an eventuality. He pleaded ignorance of
all the suggestions that the police made. "Naw," he said. "I was just trying
to get uptown. Thought the guy in the car could've given me a lift."

He never heard what excuse the john used. Presumably said he had just stopped
to ask the directions. He seldom came into Manhattan. Got lost. Was asking
the kid how to get to the Metropolitan Opera when the officious cops grabbed
him--them and their obscene allegations.

Nick eventually showed up, Lucas having given his name as guardian. The
police seemed to know Nick Warren and suggested that Nick might have been
responsible for Lucas being out that night, soliciting, but of course both he
and Nick had denied it.

The judge, a grandfatherly-looking black man, nodded.  "Do you have a hundred
dollars for the court?"

Nick peeled off five twenties from a roll of bills, handed it to the baliff,
and they left. Nick said he doubted whether Lucas would hear anything more of
it.

They went back to Nick's place and spent the night together--Lucas clinging
to Nick's body even after both had accomplished the sex, and it was obvious
all Nick wanted was turn over and go to sleep.  Lucas lay awake long into the
night, thinking of the faceless pricks which he would have to service night
after night into the future -- until he was too old to be attractive. The
tears ran down his face.



But he was grateful Nick slept. Eighteen year olds don't cry.


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