Sleeping Rough Read online

  Maybe I did want to be a whore when I grew up.

  I wished, though, that he hadn't left me here. I could use -- I don't know, guidance?

  I claimed the right to be young and stupid, but I didn't give in to disappointment. I had thought, maybe, that he'd be something to me: a friend, maybe even a boyfriend. I needed someone, and he had come and made my first night on the streets a little less miserable. I didn't believe in God, but there was a providence in my meeting him, I thought.

  But no. Young and stupid. It was just sex, with some grungy homeless guy, crazy to boot. I felt grimy. I was a gross man, like my dad said, a disgusting faggot.

  I shrugged it all off and headed into the city. I had no idea how Chicago was laid out. It was a grid, unlike Berlin, I knew that. But that didn't much help. I saw other homeless people, some begging on the street corner, some sitting with signs, some waiting until the light changed and then walking between the cars stopped at the red light.

  I didn't want to beg. Blow some random, mentally ill young man you meet in a park? Sure. But beg? I had standards.

  Wandering between the pedestrians on the wide sidewalks, I imagined I was a soldier dropped in behind enemy lines, in hostile territory. What was my first duty? To survive. And what did I need for survival? Shelter, but no luck there, unless that overpass counted. Water? Yes, that. Food?

  My stomach growled.

  Definitely that.

  I found a Quik Mart between an Indian restaurant and a store that apparently sold nothing but handkerchiefs. The bell tinkled when I opened the door, and a swarthy woman looked up from a newspaper written in some Asian language. I grabbed a generic bottle of water, more for the bottle than the water inside. I could fill and refill it, and keep myself hydrated. The day was heating up, and it might get over 35 degrees . . . I reminded myself I was in America, and tried to think in that stupid Fahrenheit. Might get over 100. Yes. That was hot.

  I scanned the aisles for food. Ramen noodles were dried bricks of noodles, very very cheap. But how would I cook them? Couldn't eat them raw. There were some in cups. Maybe if I just let the water sit in them, they'd hydrate and be edible enough. I grabbed a couple, just to try. Bread was cheap. Cheese wasn't, but one package would last me a while. I hesitated over mustard, and then realized that you could get the little packets for free from restaurants. Fruit? Vegetables? No. I grabbed a candy bar, on a whim.

  Anyway, that'd get me through the day, and didn't put too big a dent in my cash, not that much of that was left.

  I spent a couple days munching my stash. It was hard not to eat out of boredom, but then, cheese sandwiches weren't a distraction after the second day, anyway. There's really not much for a homeless guy to do in Chicago. I took a page from Cray's book and spent some time in the library, reading. I had always enjoyed reading, and there was a Panera nearby where I could get a cup of coffee and nurse it all morning, then head over to the library to read until the sweet young woman gently eased me out the door -- a security guard lurking in the background. At night, I'd head north, find a bench or an alley, and sleep on my now-stale bag of bread and cheese, one hand in my pocket with my wallet. I stayed away from other homeless people, although I saw enough to learn that the crazy ranting guy smelling of death wasn't the only sort of people homeless. I saw families, all clean and carefully put together, but with nowhere to go. I saw young people like me, and a few street punks like Cray -- but not, sadly, Cray. I found that I missed him.

  But then this routine fell apart a few days later. I had found a quiet nook between a dumpster and a brick wall. I curled up in the corner and dozed. You never really sleep when you're homeless. You just drift between dream and wakefulness. I was having a dream where Cray was lying next to me, breathing in long, slow breaths, his hands absently stroking my body, tugging at my clothes.

  I woke up to stare into a dark face, thick and wide and angry. The plastic bag under my head jerked away, and a thick block of muscle and bone and knuckle smashed into my jaw. I rocked back, banged my head on the dumpster -- which actually hurt worse than the punch. When I looked up, there was only a silhouette in the mouth of the alley, and it soon turned the corner and disappeared.

  My wallet, and all twenty-seven dollars remaining, was gone. So was my food, my water bottle, and -- to my horror -- my shoes.

  Shoes were expensive. I could maybe find a pair in a thrift store for cheap, but cheap was more than the zero I had now.

  I hated to imagine what I'd end up with, walking on city streets with bare feet. Images of flesh-eating bacteria swarmed my head.

  I cupped my face in my hand and cried, smelling garbage and piss and blood.

  I cried for what I could have been. Valedictorian of my college? Sure, why not? And after college, maybe a good job, or fuck it maybe grad school. I might become a professor. I was fluent in two languages, nearly three if you counted French, and I could write my ticket, wasn't that the phrase? I cried out the adrenaline, and then -- testament to my exhaustion -- feel into a sort of half-sleep.

  Poor Puppyface, I half thought, half dreamed, my face throbbing and swelling.

  In the morning, I went to the train station, picking my way carefully. I gathered a few dollars from passers-by. Not enough, though, to get a Ventra card and load it with enough fare to get north. I had made up my mind, in my sleep maybe, to go North to what the locals called Boystown.

  I sat in the station. I didn't dare beg openly. That wasn't allowed. I curled my feet under me, though, and tried to look like I belonged. At this point, I looked -- smelled, even -- like someone without a home. My hair was a greasy mess. My clothes were stained and torn. There was blood on the side of my face, which I tried to wash off in the bathroom.

  The station was concrete, steel, ceramic tile, and enclosed. I sat and waited. It was a busy station, near the library. I sat there for hours, most of the morning and then the lunch crowd came through.

  A white man -- suit, tie, maybe early thirties, a little belly but otherwise fit -- walked by me, made eye contact -- rare -- and nodded. Then he disappeared into the crowd crossing the street. I leaned back on the bench. Fine.

  It was a bit like fishing, but I wasn't sure what I was fishing for or what I'd do if I caught one.

  A couple more people gave me a glance, gave me the slippery eye, and then disappeared. But after about twenty minutes, Mr. Potbelly came back, holding a Panera bag. He sat next to me.

  "Hey."

  "Hi," I said.

  He handed me the bag. "Thought you might be hungry."

  "Thanks, man. I am." It was a turkey sandwich. Not my favorite, but I tore into it while he watched. Halfway through, I said, "Thanks, but -- I need some money, too. I got mugged." I touched my face.

  "Yeah. Bastards. Such a pretty face, too." He was a little effeminate. Not very, just a touch. Maybe playing it up for me. A social cue.

  "You want to hang out a little bit?" I said, playing smooth. I stuffed the last greasy bite in my mouth. It hurt to chew a little, but that was the best bad sandwich I'd ever had.

  He grinned a little and gave a covert glance. "Where you want to go?"

  "Library. Fourth floor bathroom. It's big."

  He wrinkled his forehead, then nodded. "Okay."

  He walked ahead of me, and I followed across the street and up the escalator. I was afraid they might kick me out, without shoes, but no one noticed.

  The bathroom was big and the door made a loud squeak when it opened. I had scoped it out earlier, just in case I ran into Cray again. The guy with the potbelly was already sitting in the handicapped stall. He still had his pants on, and he was sitting in a ridiculous nest of toilet paper on the seat.

  "I'll give you fifty if I can suck you," he said.

  Fifty dollars sounded like winning the lottery. "I should wash off first."

  He grabbed my wrist. He was surprisingly strong. "No," he said. "I need it nasty. I want you to -- be mean. Force me."

  "Force you how?"

 
"Like, push me down on it. Make me suck it. Make me swallow. But don't get any on my suit, okay?"

  I gave a mental shrug and pulled down my zipper. I fished my meat out of Cray's filthy shorts. Even I could smell my funk, but he just inhaled and shuddered, like he was smelling the finest wine.

  Weirdo.

  I took hold of both sides of his head. His hair was short, brown -- very businesslike, with a little product to spike it up a bit in the front. It crunched under my fingers. He smelled like something citrus and aromatic wood. Some expensive cologne, maybe. He'd be smelling my ball sweat in his nostrils all day.

  That thought hardened me a little.

  I had tried to keep my dick clean, so smegma didn't build up and make problems. But there was a lot more than I usually had. Fortunately, my new friend cleaned me off in record time, and in a way that was a lot more fun than a damp paper towel in a public toilet.

  He said he wanted it nasty, so I pulled his face into my pubes. He gagged a little, but I didn't let up. It felt good, his wet throat trying, failing to eject my cock. And then he sucked against me, swallowed, and accepted my cock down his throat. I could see it moving in his throat, pushing out his larynx.

  He clutched at my ass and pulled me forward as I pushed him down. It was like he wanted to swallow all of me, not just my cock, but my whole body. He wanted me inside him.

  And he was going to get me inside him, get my DNA if nothing else, because I was close to coming. The faster I came, I realized, the faster I'd get paid. I thought of Cray's slim, rain slicked body against mine, all bone and sinew and skin so smooth it was as if it had been oiled. I wished his cock was in my mouth.

  Weirdly, that brought me back from the brink, maybe because I was sad he wasn't here. I had a crush on some weirdo I met in a park and sucked off below an overpass. I wrenched my mind away, back to the track it had been on. This guy, right here, leaning over on the toilet trying not to make gagging sounds on my cock --

  The door squeaked open, and he tried to pull away. I clutched his head tighter and pulled him in. His eyes rolled up, pleading, panicked. I kicked at his foot, just lightly, twice. He got the hint and lifted them off the floor. Anyone peeking would see me, standing in front of a toilet, just a pee shy guy in bare feet taking a piss.

  Weird, but it was the Chicago public library.

  Clearly, the business-man whose lips wrapped around my cock wanted out. But no. He was going to finish me, with someone else in the stall next door. It was nasty, rude at the very least, but he said he wanted it nasty.

  What if it was a cop? I grinned evilly. It'd ruin his life. His wife would find out that he sucked off homeless dudes in bathrooms, his boss might find out, and he might lose his marriage and his job. I winked down at his pleading eyes. Me? I'd go to jail for a couple nights, maybe get a fine I couldn't pay. There'd be food, a cool place to sleep, and they'd probably just give me a pair of state issued shoes.

  I don't know. Maybe not in America. In Germany they would. I wouldn't even have to go to jail for it, probably.

  But yeah, nothing to lose for me. I started to understand what Cray meant when he said "welcome to freedom."

  I pulled away slowly, just very slightly, and then pushed back. He fought back his gag reflex, tears in his eyes but his pants tented noticeably. I repeated the slow-motion thrust, fantasizing about how the cop would bust in, throw us up against the wall. He'd humiliate my new friend, and they'd drag him out. Maybe me they'd have some fun with. Maybe make me suck their cocks a little. Make me. Force me. Fuck me hard and raw against the cold wall, or throw me on the ground. Piss on me. Three young cops, sneering down at me, their piss steams like hard needles on my skin.

  It'd end up in the paper. My dad would find out. Oh, he'd go fucking ballistic. All his friends would laugh at him.

  My balls clenched and I bit back a groan. The guy in the stall next to us rattled the toilet paper roll. Then he stood up, just as I came down my new friend's throat. Warmth spread through my pelvis, like my guts had suddenly melted and poured out of my cock.

  I didn't pull out, though. I rested in his mouth, clutched his head against my pubes, and waited while I softened in him and he tongued the last of the cum out of my piss slit. I tried not to breathe heavily.

  The stranger next door flushed. Washed his hands. Left.

  Only then did I pull out.

  I thought my new friend would be mad, but he just wiped his lips with a wad of toilet paper and stood up. He was obviously hard in those thin slacks, and I thought maybe he'd want me to return the favor, but he just dug into his pocket. He pulled out a wad of bills in an old-fashioned money clip. He counted off three twenties and handed them to me.

  "I can't make change," I said.

  "Call it a tip. That was hot as hell."

  "There's more where that came from."

  He licked his lips. "Give me your phone number."

  I snorted. "I'm fucking homeless, dumbass. I don't have a phone."

  The corners of his lips drooped, a sad clown face. "Lots of homeless people have phones."

  "Yeah. I have an email. I check it at the library." I gave it to him.

  "I'll be in touch."

  No, I figured, he probably wouldn't be. He'd jerk off as soon as he could, and then his lust would wash away in a flood of shame and self-loathing. So what. Not my problem.

  I wiped off my dick and tucked it back in my pants. On the way out I washed my hands.

  Chapter 4

  Boystown in the '90s was probably hopping with street hustlers. I imagined you could find them cruising bars and hanging out at train stations. But now, everything had moved online. The white hustlers ended up on Rentboy, the black ones -- for reasons I didn't really understand -- on Backpage. And they made a good bit more than sixty bucks a pop, from what I could tell.

  But there were still a few of us, maybe with crudely coded Craigslist ads as well, who lived on the streets and worked like the working girls. There were, in fact, quite a few girls with balls under their skirts. Monique, a Creole beauty with a biting wit and a fondness for science fiction and fantasy books, shared a few drinks with me and confused me sexually. She was a woman, definitely a woman, but knowing she had something else underneath than what usually came standard -- I wasn't sure how to wrap my mind or my gonads around that. Didn't care, either, after a while.

  In the month I spent in Boystown, I hung out -- just superficially -- with lots of hustlers like Monique. I played pool with Dre, and kicked his ass every time. He was straight, had no interest in cock, but really liked money. Even if it meant letting a "fag" on his "junk." Nate was a bit like me: taller, maybe, and thinner. But blond, pretty-boy, and we should have been competitors. But he'd say to me, "hey, that guy over there, he's been giving me the eye, but I just came down some fag's throat. Want him?" Or I'd say to him, "If one more guy wants me to make him kiss my boots, I'm going to check the fuck out of Chicago. You want to do this one?"

  Ah. Yes, I got new boots. Docs I found, by some miracle, at a thrift store. But I could pull in a couple hundred a day if I wanted to work. Not enough for an apartment in Chicago, but enough to keep me fed, clothed, and clean. I had a gym membership now, mostly to use the showers and also to pass the time lifting.

  And I asked after Cray, who Dre and Nate insisted didn't exist.

  "No such fucking person," Dre said, when I asked. "A fucking urban legend, man."

  We were standing outside of a bar coyly named "Our Place" (ugh), smoking cigarettes. I didn't smoke, but I got sick of the noise and hanging out with the smokers was a way to escape.

  "Can I bum a fag?" Nate said. He liked to pretend to be English, even though I was pretty sure he was from Ohio or something.

  "You are a fag, and a bum." Dre gave him a cigarette.

  "I'm not a bum. I'm a street entrepreneur."

  "I met him," I said.

  Nate redly illuminated the inside of his hand, dragged on the cigarette. "Met who?"

  "Cray."


  "Bullshit."

  "No such fucking person," Dre repeated.

  "I did more than meet him. I blew him. And he blew me."

  "Bullshit," Nate repeated. "If he did exist, he wouldn't be a poof."

  "Who you calling a poof?" I said, with no real heat. "Anyway, it's true. Shit, I still have his underwear." I hefted my backpack. "In here."

  "They say he's actually fucking rich," Dre said. "Just lives on the street for fucking fun."

  "Could be. He was weird. Hot, though. I wish I could find him."

  "You dreamed it," Nate decided.

  "I didn't even know who he was."

  "You dreamed it."

  Monique, though, was more accepting. I had a little Platonic crush on her, actually, partially because she accepted everyone and everything. Cray had said he was a living saint, but Monique -- for all her bitchy flirting -- might have been at least in the running for the title.

  "Honey," she said, slurping on a rum and Coke a couple nights later at a place in Wrigleyville we just called the Hole. "I know Cray's for real. I met him, and mmmm, honey, he's fine. You know, for a boy who needs a good pink scrub."

  "I didn't -- actually get a good look," I said, a little embarrassed. "It was dark, you know, and raining, and -- "

  "And that pretty-boy face of yours was buried nostril deep in punk pubes, baby, I know the tale."

  Monique was genuine in her southern accent. She said she came from Louisiana, when her parents fled the floods of Katrina, and ended up here. Her parents had gone back, but she'd stayed. She had been maybe ten or eleven then, when they'd come north, still a boy outwardly. And it seemed odd to me that someone like her would stay here in Chicago, rather than go to New Orleans where, I gathered, fluidity of gender was more acceptable. But she just said she liked the wind. It lifted her long brown hair into a flag, she said, and that was beautiful.

  "I'd like to meet him again."

  She raised one smooth, bare shoulder and let it drop. "Well, the north isn't where he likes to spend his time, they say. He's been seen near Belmont and Clark, but you know, those are all fake punks these days. He likes the train-yards. Old school crusty, that boy. Bless his heart."