Sleeping Rough Page 3

  Chicago used to be a dangerous city. No New York, I gathered, but still -- you stayed out of the South and you watched your ass in the West. But now, yeah, well, don't make eye contact and jerk your head up to some Vatos in Latin Kings territory, but if you just act cool, no one gives a shit. Muggings -- oh, I know -- muggings happened. So did murder, rape, and all that other shit. I'd felt safer in Berlin, that's for sure. But if you wanted to live on the streets in the South, you could do it. It helped to be black, though. I don't think that's racist (I can never tell with Americans what is and isn't considered racist -- like, mentioning that someone is black is apparently racist, like, you're not supposed to notice? What the hell is wrong with this country? Well. Andere Länder, andere Sitten).

  "Train yards, huh?"

  "That's what I hear, honey." She took a break from scanning the room and looked at me, and her face fell into a drooping concern. "Oh, sugar. You've got a little bit of puppy love, don't you?"

  I started. Puppyface, he'd called me. "Yeah, I guess I do."

  "I feel I gotta warn you, baby. Cray's got him a dark side. They say he killed a man, kicked him to death and threw his body off a train."

  "They say lots of things."

  "They do, baby, but this one -- they say he's mean. Like, rough. Like, S&M."

  I laughed. "Ach mein Gott," I said, before I realized it came out in German. German was the language of my heart and balls, I think I said, and it was the language I always thought about Cray in. "Monique, how many guys' balls have you stepped on in high heels?"

  She waved her hand in the air, rotating it at the wrist. She had delicate bones, and moved like an actress in an old 1920s silent film. "Sugar, I have lost count, God bless the little perverts. They pay well."

  "So, should I say that you are into S&M, all low and hissy like thunder is going to come roaring in? It is the mark of the werewolf!"

  "You are a strange young man, and I do not hiss. But fine. Just take care, sugar. I'd would surely hate to see you hurt. I kind of like your innocent, stupid ass."

  Vulgarity meant she was truly offended. "I'm sorry, Mon. You know I love you, and I'll listen, but -- I gotta find this guy."

  "I get it. Oh, baby, do I get it. Moth to the flame, sugar. And now, I want you to direct your attention, not to your memory of those unwashed balls, but to the young man at the bar. He's been looking this way, and from his tra-la-la shirt I am guessing it's you he wants, and not me."

  She got the masculine, supposedly straight guys, who wanted a little extra down below. I got the flouncy prancers. No justice, because I wanted the masculine guys and she -- I had no idea what she wanted.

  "What do you look for in a guy?"

  She blinked rapidly at me, fluttering long artificial eyelids. "Are you serious? There is a man there, at that bar, with money burning a hole in his pocket and a cock burning a hole in his shorts, and you're asking me what I look for in a guy?"

  "He can wait. He's a trick. You're a friend. And I'm curious."

  She melted. "Oh, baby. You're my friend too. I know you don't like girls, even ones with a pair of giggleberries. But I surely do love you."

  "Thanks."

  "And to answer your question, I look for a man with a kind heart and a good mind. If he's bald, fat, ugly -- I don't give a damn. Everyone ends up bald, fat, and ugly, but a kind heart lasts forever. And that's wisdom. Write it down, but not before that boy over there has his walk on the wild side and you get paid, and if you accept less than a yard I will spank your tush."

  A yard was a hundred dollars. I was notorious for accidentally undercutting the going prices, partially because I still had to convert American money into Euros. I was a citizen, I could vote, and I couldn't figure out a damned thing about this country.

  I gave Monique a European double-kiss goodbye, and then sauntered over to the bar.

  Every hustler picks a style.

  Some dress as frat boys, and that's a way to go that pulls in the cash, I grant you. Popped collars, slacks, a gold chain maybe if you want to throw in some Jersey Shore guido into the mix. Others take a gangsta approach, but that doesn't work when you have a puppyface. I modeled my style after German punks. Punk never died in Germany. It still goes strong. And so I had the bondage pants, I had the fanny flap, I had the leather jacket with spikes -- which was rolled up and stuffed in my bag because it was hotter than fuck today. I had the Docs on my feet and the torn up band t-shirt on my shoulders. My face didn't quite fit, but I spiked up my hair with glue and water -- cheap! -- and it was close enough for those old fags who still had that fantasy.

  And yeah, punk was dead in America, but Chicago was still a punk city in some ways. There was still the Alley, the store I couldn't afford, ironically, to shop at; still the Exit, the bar in which, sadly, I wasn't currently welcome. That's the bitch of it -- I liked the music there, but they caught me getting sucked off in the bathrooms and said I was out for a few weeks. It was funny. The skinhead bouncer who threw me out gave me a twenty and apologized. Skinheads here are the best. Mostly SHARPs -- the nonracist kind. And mostly so goddamned respectful of gay people it was almost creepy. Like they were apologetic that they didn't want their cocks sucked.

  One good mark for America over Germany. Skinheads there were goddamned racist Neo-nazi assholes to a man and to a bird.

  Punk, too, had its subcultures. I didn't go crust, even though it would be easier, because crusties didn't shower regularly and as nasty as tricks might be, most didn't really want to suck an unwashed cock. Oh, they'd say they did. But no, they really didn't. I mainly struck a balance between hardcore and grindcore, even if the kind of music I liked was a bit more melodic.

  Best part of doing the punk, over the fratboy, thing, was that you could get away with cheap, cheap cheap. My Docs, as I said, I found at a Goodwill and nearly creamed myself at discovering that they mostly fit. The bondage pants, ditto. And the t-shirt -- oh, man, I'd hate to think who gave up a vintage Sex Pistols shirt like this, even with this many holes. Nevermore, man.

  "Hey," I said, to the man in what Monique had called the tra-la-la shirt. It wasn't that bad. Lavender. Shiny. He probably thought it was sexy. He was a bit doughy, but I always looked for the prettiest bit of my tricks. He had smooth skin, and eyes so green they reminded me of a ripe avocado. That wasn't so bad. I could do without the pale red hair that made him look like he had no eyebrows, but I'd just focus on those eyes.

  "Hey, can I buy you a drink?" he said.

  "Sure," I said. I held up my plastic cup and made eye contact with the bartender. "Hey, man, another one of these." These were diet Cokes. I never drank anymore. I saw what it did to people. Monique held her liquor, but lots of other guys went nuts. Not me.

  Fuck you, Dad, I was going to survive.

  The bartender -- oh, God, I'd fuck him, that's for sure, all bulging biceps and killer smile, or he could fuck me, dry, while I screamed -- nodded and started to do a lot more fiddling around than was necessary for a plastic cup of Coke. Good boy. He'd charge Herr Tra-La-La for a rum and Coke.

  "I like your shirt," the trick said.

  I ran my hand over the fabric. There was something about old cheap cotton that had begun to fall apart. It was smooth as spandex, without that artificially oily sheen. I let my fingertip linger on my nipple, which was barely visible through a somewhat more recent hole.

  "Yeah? You like the Sex Pistols?" I lingered on the first word of the band name.

  "Sure."

  "Joey's my favorite. Who's yours?"

  "Uh, yeah, Joey."

  "Joey Ramone was in the Ramones. Johnny Rotten was in the Sex Pistols." What the fuck was I doing? I had dug myself a snotty little hole, so I shrugged and decided to live in it. I sneered. A real -- well, faked, 'cause who gives a shit if someone knows who's in the Pistols? -- sneer.

  "I don't really know much about punk," the trick admitted, dropping his gaze to my boots.

  "I could school you," I said.

  "Yeah?" He looked
at my face, and then away, like my skin was too bright.

  "Tuition's a hundred bucks, and I'll give you a good lesson."

  "I'm not a very good student," he muttered. He hadn't been sticking to Diet Coke, but I figured he was sober enough. It was drinking for courage, not drinking to the point where he thought my name was Michelle.

  "Then you'll have to take some discipline," I said.

  His face flushed. "Discipline. Um."

  I let the sneer fall. "If you don't want that, we can be more vanilla."

  "No, no, no," he said, very quickly. "I do. I mean, I'm just nervous."

  "Tell you what," I said, "you say 'disco is awesome,' and I'll stop. Seriously. I'll lose my fucking hard-on, you say something that stupid."

  He snorted through his nose. "You're funny."

  "I'm funny," I agreed. "So -- you got a place?"

  He nodded, finished off his drink. "Jesus, I can't believe I'm doing this."

  "I'll take care of you."

  "You clean?" he said.

  I leaned in and dropped to a whisper. "Dude, I let randoes like you suck my cock for cash. There's a free clinic, and I get tested, like, to the point where they hate seeing me come in the door. And so far, so good, but Jesus, if you're thinking anyone is going to answer that question with anything other than 'yes, sirree, gimmee your Benjy,' then you're really stupid. You can suck me raw or not, I don't give a shit. You ain't fucking me, and I ain't sucking you, and that's the deal I give most guys, but not all, and so if you're nervous at all, walk away."

  "I just -- um. It's just that I have a wife and -- "

  "I can come with a rubber on," I said, my voice still low. "And I don't have crabs." Crabs are easy to prevent. And they won't kill you or drive you nuts, but -- they will ruin a marriage.

  We took a taxi back to his hotel. Here's a thing you should know. You pick up an escort in Chicago, and you get a taxi in Boystown, maybe you'd be interested in knowing that almost every single taxi driver in Boystown knows every single escort, and they know where you're going and what you're going to do. Half of these guys, we could go at it in the back seat and save some time, and the driver wouldn't care. There's one guy drives a cab, Sartano or something like that, I think he's Indonesian. He won't pick me up at all, even if I'm alone. Moral issues. Poor dude. The thing is, Indonesian dudes can be kind of hot. I'd do him.

  But we got one of many Ali's who took us to a hotel near Evanston. I liked working in hotels. Comfortable, better than that first trick in the library anyway. That guy, to no surprise at all, never did email me. He has served his narrative purpose.

  "So what do you want to do?" I said, once he closed the door to his hotel room.

  His voice was low, and his face a little red. "Blow you."

  Hotels always have what I have come to think of as the blowjob chair. It's usually an old-fashioned stuffed chair, near a lamp, as if someone is going to sit down in their hotel room and read the collected essays of Montaigne or something. Sometimes, guys wanted to do things in the bed. But I had a good read on this guy, and he wanted the arrogant punk who gets his cock sucked and goes, and that was fine with me.

  I plopped down in it. "Okay." I pointed to the floor between my feet, and he sank to his knees in front of me.

  "You can be rough with me," he said. "Just don't leave marks."

  "You want me to wear a rubber?"

  He took a shaky breath. "No," he said, finally. "Just don't come in my mouth."

  So much for his insistence on safety. Of course, he had asked. That absolved him of any guilt, I guess. Plus, I was clean. At least, as far as I knew. The only fluids I'd had in me had been Cray's, and I'd been tested since then. Not that it was long enough. Some stuff could take like six months, I guess, to show up.

  "So, you like it rough?"

  "Yeah."

  "Faggot." I grabbed a handful of red hair and pulled him toward me. "You want some of this?" I pushed him into the crotch of my black bondage pants.

  He whimpered and ran his hands up my thighs. His left had a ring on it.

  "I'm going to fuck your face," I said. I pulled him away and held him a few inches from my crotch. He mewled. I pulled the zipper down and unsnapped the button. I stood up a little to shimmy my pants down. I wasn't wearing underwear. It was too damned hot for layers, and I realized when the ball funk wafted out that maybe I should have hit the shower first. I normally did, but he seemed eager and not at all put off. Maybe he was one of those dudes who really did get off on a dirty guy, and didn't just say that he did.

  I pulled him in and let him lick at my balls. It didn't really do anything for me, but he was obviously getting off on rubbing his face against the oily skin of my scrotum. Funny what gets a guy off.

  I was kind of getting off myself, seeing him get so into it. My cock had lengthened in my hand and leaked a crystalline drop of precum. I wiped it away with my thumb and rolled back my foreskin.

  "Get to work, cocksucker," I said, and I pulled his face up and over me. "Make yourself fucking useful."

  He eagerly sucked me in, and I've to say, he knew his business. You'd think I was paying him, the way he sucked. He was enthusiastic, sloppy, and when I clutched his skull in both hands and thrust into his mouth, he took it as well as he could, gagging and choking, but keeping his teeth out of it.

  Not that I cared about teeth. I had a cock of iron.

  I had forgotten to get the money beforehand. Goddamn it. I'm so bad at this. My cock wilted a little, but I yanked my mind back. If he tried to stiff me, I could take him.

  I held him down, ignored his gagging. If he puked on me -- it wouldn't be the first time. I slid in and out of his slimy throat, getting close now.

  I pulled him off my cock and held him, hands firmly gripping both temples, in front of me. I leaned down and looked into his eyes. They were really nice eyes, filled now with storms of lust and shame. I slid one hand down and hooked a thumb in the corner of his mouth. "Open." He did, and I pushed back, my thumb where his wisdom teeth once were. A bit in a horse's mouth. "Wider."

  He did. I put the other hand in there, on the other side. It was beautiful, like this: his chin shining with spit, his mouth held open and cheeks stretched. I could see into him. I could see his fillings, his uvula, and the slick red cavern I had fucked like a cunt.

  I snorted, rattling mucus in my sinuses, down into the top of my throat, then rasped it up. I filled my mouth with salty slime.

  His eyes turned panicky, he shook his head "no, no," as well as he could.

  I leaned down and, holding the wad of snot under my tongue, whispered in his ear. "If you think disco is awesome, just grunt three times real quick."

  He relaxed a little. His eyes closed, and when they opened, that panic had turned to lust. He held his mouth open further, and a long string of drool slid past my thumb to pool on the floor.

  I worked up a bit more spit, then leaned in close and gave him a good old punk rock kiss: I lobbed the wad of phlegm noisily into his mouth. It painted his pallet, and dripped down to gather in white globs on his tongue. He gagged again and closed his eyes, and I guided him back down on my cock.

  I fucked my spit into his face.

  It didn't take long now. That had turned me on and -- from the wet spot in his pants, him too. I was close, and I let go of his head. "I'm coming," I said.

  He didn't stop.

  "If you don't want a fucking mouthful, pull away," I said.

  I was so close, I couldn't hold off. But he kept going at me. I tried to push him off, but he gripped my ass and held tight.

  And then I came, hard, in his mouth. It came out in a stream so intense it might have been piss. My sense of smell heightened. I could smell us both, me like sweat and the dirt of the street, him like some fruity cologne and spit. He sucked it down and swallowed. His tongue worked my sensitive cock, and I shuddered. It hurt, but that good hurt that's too much pleasure to take. He had turned the tables and reduced me to a spasming cock. I managed to push
him off when it stopped feeling good.

  There were tissues on the nightstand. I leaned over, grabbed a couple, tossed them to him, and grabbed a few more for myself. That's me. A gentleman. I wiped off and put myself away.

  "I thought you didn't want me to come in your mouth," I said.

  "Changed my mind. Mind if I jerk off?"

  I nudged his bulge with my boot, not quite a kick. He moaned. "Yeah, I mind."

  "Then would you -- keep doing that?"

  I pushed harder, and he wrapped his hands around the leather and pushed me down on him. He lay back. "Just, step on it a little."

  So many freaks, so many wonderful freaks.

  It's not the first time someone has wanted to get off on my boots, and normally I found it boring, but after that orgasm, I was ready to do what he liked to get him off.

  "Spit on me again while you do it. Call me names."

  I hocked another wad, not nearly as large, and splatted it on his face. Good aim. "There you go, faggot."

  "Harder."

  I put my weight on his balls, and he moaned. He tried to pull my boot away but couldn't. I wouldn't let him.

  I spat on him again. I was dry now. It was mostly sound and spray. But he didn't care. He writhed under me, fucking the sole of my boot through his clothes.

  I shifted more weight onto his crotch, and he suddenly curled up around his cock and let out a high pitched whine. Then he lay back and said "disco. I like disco."

  I stepped away immediately, afraid that I'd broken him, especially when I saw how damp the crotch of his beige slacks was.

  But no, that wasn't blood or anything. Just cum. He had come.

  "You okay?"

  He breathed heavily for a few moments, just nodding. Then he got up on his hands and knees and kissed the top of my boot.

  "You're wonderful," he said.

  "Thanks. That's a hundred."

  He teetered upright and fished his wallet out of his pants pocket. He counted out five, six, seven twenties. "Here. That was -- that was wonderful."

  "I'm glad. Thanks for the tip."