Date: Wed, 15 Nov 2006 21:00:24 -0500
From: carl_mason@comcast.net
Subject: STREETS OF NEW YORK - 4

STREETS OF NEW YORK - 4

Copyright 2006 by Carl Mason

All rights reserved.  Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal
enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without
the written permission of the author.  However based on real events and
places, "Streets of New York" is strictly fictional.  Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.  As in real life, however, the sexual themes unfold
gradually.  Comments on the story are appreciated and may be addressed to
the author at carl_mason@comcast.net

This story is indebted for both its inspiration and many of its ideas to
several books, especially Tyler Anbinder's FIVE POINTS, Jacob Riis's HOW
THE OTHER HALF LIVES, and Luc Sante's LOW LIFE.

This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both
adults and teenagers.  As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the
personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults.  If you are not of
legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you
trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral
dilemmas in your life, please leave.  Finally, remember that maturity
generally demands safe sex.


CHAPTER 4

(Revisiting Chapter 3)

Slats watched for a moment as "Morris" came around the table and stood
trembling in front of Tom.  Reaching up and removing the studded leather
collar from his thin neck, the boy's new owner threw it across the room.
"Never again!" he growled.  The boy's thin shoulders began to shake more
vigorously as he reached out and tightly held onto his liberator...or new
owner...or...whatever.

"So much for invisibility," Slats moaned to himself, as he turned towards
the bar.

(Continuing Our Story - Morris Brodsky)

"Where's Morris?" Tom asked his buddy.  "Oh," Dross chortled, "he's with
Slats' older sister, Mary, downstairs.  She came by to fix supper for them
tonight.  When I came by the open door, he was trying to talk her out of a
taste - and, knowing that kid, he'll probably succeed!  I sure as hell
never did..."

"Let's go up on the roof and talk," Tom groaned.  "It's like an oven in
here!"  "Won't be much better up there," Dross responded, grimacing.  "On
the other hand, there might be a little breeze.  Let's try it."

"Did you go with Rudy earlier, as I suggested?" Dross asked, once they had
reached the roof and found a little shade in the steaming June heat.  "Sure
did, babe," Tom replied.  "Thanks!  If that guy hadn't been with me, no one
in that tenement would have said a word.  Trouble is," he continued
wearily, "I'm still no closer to figuring out what to do with Morris.
(Pause.)  Well, that's not quite true.  I know that there's no way that
I'll leave him with those people!"  "What turned you off?" Dross mumbled,
wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"They're aren't many laws protecting people in New York," Tom said
thoughtfully, "but at least, the factories can't work them more than 10
hours per day, the days must end by 9:00 p.m., and the workers must have a
minimum of 45 minutes for dinner.  They can't employ children under 16
unless they can read and write English, and forget hiring anyone under
fourteen.  The young'uns belong in school - even though the truant officer
never comes around and everyone fakes his or her age.  So what does this
group of immigrants do?  They move the work place from the factories to
their apartments, usually the one small, dark, fetid room in which they
live.  Everyone begins the work day around 6:00 a.m.; rarely do they close
down before eleven at night.  In this world capital of cheap clothing, man,
woman, and perhaps four or five children, not to count a dirty baby, plus
lodgers and/or other employees, work side by side.  (The baby will begin
doing his or her part as soon as it's possible for its little hands to pull
a thread.)  Nothing whatsoever counts beyond profit.  The one and only game
is to offer to do the boss's work for less than the competitor, to the very
point that you can exist.  Boarders and lodgers pay about one-third of your
monthly apartment rent, but you don't throw the children out on the street.
You put them to work in the "sweat shop"!  You bank the profit until it's
possible to use it to become part of the "system," i.e., a system that
keeps human beings in virtual slavery!

"I'm afraid I much prefer what I see among your people, Dross.  They work
hard, though not as slaves.  They don't give up their music, their
literature, their emphasis on education, their art.  Indeed, their young
are early introduced to their cultural treasures.  Maybe Morris will
receive this hard-wrought treasure "later on" - after his people have
achieved some security in this new world - but I'm unwilling to take a
chance on it."

"So am I, Tom.  So am I," Dross said with all seriousness.  "I've got a
suggestion.  My father knows a good many people in the Hebrew community.
Not all are so deeply mired in the insanity you've described.  Will you let
me talk with him and ask his advice?"  Tom simply grinned softly and
murmured, "Thanks, love."

At that point, the door to the roof opened with a crash and Morris just
about fell on his face on the surface.  "Sorry," he moaned in apology as he
picked himself up.  "Mr.  Monahan says we are welcome to join them for
supper if you're willing.  (Pause.)  It looks real good," he added
hopefully.  The boy was quickly swept up in Tom's arms as the herd
thundered down the stairwell.

(An Unexpected Offer)

That night as the boys tried to catch a breath of air on the fire escape,
Tom tossed to and fro on the hard surface well into the early hours of the
morning.  He knew he had to wait and allow time for the best answer for
Morris Brodsky to come together.  He also knew, however, that Slats'
warning that he could not let the local gangs see him as "the enemy"...as
one who would invade "their turf"...as one who "disrespected" them could
not long be ignored.  Just before he finally fell asleep, he remembered
something said by one of the Settlement House people not long before he
moved down to the Mulberry Street.  As best he could reconstruct it, the
advice ran something like, "Find something that you can work on together
that promises success - and make damned sure that they get the credit for
anything good that happens!"  A possibility hit his eye the next morning as
he leafed through the morning paper.

It seems that a Mr.  David Abercrombie of Baltimore had opened a small
waterfront shop and factory in lower Manhattan the year before.  (Author's
Note: Ezra Fitch didn't come into the picture until around 1900.)  A former
trapper, prospector, topographer, and railroad surveyor, he had been
inspired to begin Abercrombie & Co., a shop dedicated to selling only the
highest quality camping, fishing and hunting gear. His clientele consisted
mostly of professional hunters, explorers and trappers.  An advertising
campaign was about to be mounted by one of the top firms in Manhattan.  The
ad solicited models and detailed how the firm should be contacted.

A meeting later that morning with Peter Morton of the advertising agency
brought instant results - especially when it was revealed that Morton had
seen that football game in which Tom had starred!  There was no way that he
could keep his eyes off the hunky football player, for he believed strongly
that it was the model who got the prospect to listen seriously to the
pitch.  Lovely young women sold household goods; handsome, well setup young
men sold outdoors gear.  In addition to Tom, he needed four athletic young
men for the campaign.  He promised top money, excellent working conditions,
repeat business, and no hanky-panky.  Could Tom help?

Could Tom help?  Oh, yeah...  Come into my parlor said the spider to the
fly!  Before the afternoon was out, he had shared a beer (make that two
beers!) with the biggest, nastiest boss of the Rattlers, the biggest,
nastiest gang on the Lower East Side.  Before the meeting concluded,
Chauncy O'Brien had dollars signs before his eyes.  All he had to do was
help Tom to find some top modeling beef good enough to develop a reputation
among Manhattan's advertisers and he would rake in a big percentage of the
models' salaries.  He'd see Tom in the morning...a piece of cake!

Tom went to that second meeting with the firm assurance that Dross and Tony
Prieto were more than interested in a nice piece of change.  He was
welcomed by O'Brien as if he were someone with a direct line to the ghost
of Boss Tweed at Tammany Hall!  At first, the boss was all apologies.  He
had some REALLY good boys - bodybuilders, athletes, young workers, and
noted lotharios - but on such short notice, he could only come up with six
candidates.  He had directed them to get ready in a side room of the
saloon.

Following the boss into the side room, Tom's eyes opened wide and he
involuntarily swallowed.  The six young men, fine specimens all, were as
naked as the day they were born!  Hastily, he assured O'Brien that this was
strictly "legitimate" modeling - that he was sure that the noted
advertising agency didn't dabble in porn.  Chauncy looked at him with a
quizzical look, finally muttering, "It don't matter.  My boys do what
they're told when they're told to do it.  They know what happens to those
who screw up!"  Catching rather apprehensive looks on several of the
models' faces, Tom tended to believe him on that one.  Over the next hour,
Tom spoke at length with each of the candidates before thanking them all,
promising them that he would be back in touch, and asking two of the young
men to remain in the room.

The first, Sergei Petrov, was a strikingly handsome Russian immigrant who
had been spirited out of Tsarist Russia in the late 1880s.  His father,
identified with radical causes, recognized early on what was coming in his
country.  The boy, who had received an excellent education in St.
Petersburg, was supposed to live with a paternal aunt who had already
settled in New York City.  Unfortunately, she died during Sergei's trip to
this country.  Other Russian immigrants took him in and provided some
education.  When the boy was physically and psychologically abused,
however, he escaped.  Now 19, he had been living on the streets since he
was fifteen years-old.  His looks were likely to raise anyone's
temperature: dark blond hair, piercing blue eyes, 5'll", lithe but
beautifully muscled, tanned, and lightly haired. Unlike the usual gang
member, he was trying to save a bit of money to continue his schooling.

The second, Lars Hanson, was a 16 year-old Swede who couldn't take the
restrictive discipline of his elderly grandfather and grandmother and
escaped to the street (and his gang) whenever possible.  Flaxen hair (the
color of straw and nearly as unmanageable), smooth, lightly tanned skin,
5'7", and a bubble butt to die for!  Lars was lightly haired, though it was
difficult to see it on his body, other than, perhaps, in the pits and bush.
He was more softly built and mannered than the other boys.  In no way
effeminate however, his personality ranged somewhere between elfin and
cute.  Seemingly without doing anything consciously - surely without saying
a word - the boy screamed SEX!

(Lights, Camera, . . . )

The Abercrombie photo shoot was a grand success!  The Agency staff members
who were overseeing the ad campaign were delighted; the models were
delighted with their pay, their professional handling, and the articles of
Abercrombie gear that they received at the close of the shoot; Chauncy
O'Brien, the gang leader, could scarcely believe his cut of the models'
fees.

At the close of the shoot, Serge Morstein, the photographer, took Tom
aside, complimented the models, and confidentially asked if "his boys" were
at all interested in "private" work.  Morstein added that the work would
naturally carry substantially larger fees than the Agency had paid.  On
questioning, he allowed that the market for "art photography," especially
that related to sport, was developing faster than even he had thought
possible. The earning potential of the best models was nearly unlimited,
depending, of course, on their "flexibility" in terms of accepting
assignments.  Questioned further, he was quite forthcoming about details of
"possible" assignments, including studio shoots, location shoots, and even
"executive" shoots that would be conducted in the presence of wealthy
patrons.  Noting that he had access to other spectacular young men in
Manhattan, Tom agreed that he would discuss the plan with his models.

To say the least, the celebration that the models, Chauncy O'Brien, and
several other potential models from his gang held in Tom's flat was
something to be remembered!  Slats and Morris were put to work rushing the
growler.  (In fact, a steady progression of beer containers began finding
its way from the nearest saloon to the grubby tenement on Mulberry Street.)
As the brew began having its effect, wild shouts and boasts filled the air.
Yes, Lars had looked like a wild Indian in that furred parka!  Ain't he a
corker?  No, not even Tony could carry a backpack that heavy through the
snows of the Yukon, but his pics were still outta sight!

When everyone was sufficiently lubricated, Tom introduced Serge Morstein's
ideas.  At first they were greeted by uneasy silence.  Nudity - or
something very close to it?  Occasional sex - real or simulated?  A naughty
"tableau vivant" or living picture as entertainment for wealthy dinner
guests?  Get ouda here!  Then cooler heads began to prevail.  Most young
men spend hours each day in thinking about how best to display their bodies
- either to attract sexual interest or warn off potential rivals.
Fantasies that fill their heads constantly fan their passions, make them
irritable and jumpy, and drive them to that which their confessors call
<sigh> acts of self-abuse.  And someone was willing to PAY them to indulge
these fantasies?  And they might be able to experiment a little without
getting tagged with the indelible label of "queer"?  Maybe this was worth
listening to...  Ok, so they would have to pay a little extra to Chauncy
for permitting such a thing.  (Pause.)  Tom was given responsibility for
seeing what could be worked out.

Within a week, the boys had nervously gathered at the Morstein studio.  Tom
had assembled his same crew - plus Bernie O'Donnell, quite possibly the
most beautiful redheaded Irishman that he had ever met.  A long-limbed and
smoothly muscled seventeen year-old, he sported a spectacular head of hair
that reflected the multiple shades of deep red found only in a flickering
coal fire.  Cute and fun to be around, Tom had not been at all surprised to
learn that he was an erotic dancer at a gay strip club over on the Bow'ry.
(He was pretty sure, however, that he was as straight as an arrow.)

Serge immediately took charge, which quickly settled the lads.  First
directing them to strip, he explained with a joke and a wink that erotic
work with him had its own set of grooming rules.  All of the boys, save
one, were smooth chested.  Therefore, they had little to do other than to
trim their pubic bushes, remove all hair from the genitals, perineum, and
ass cracks, and trim some occasional wild hair on the torso, in the pits,
or on the back.  Looking directly at Tony Prieto, however, he first
complimented him for his pics shot against a wilderness background for
Abercrombie.  He then said simply that while he had a magnificent build, he
was haired like a gorilla and that most of it had to go.  Tony grinned,
then nodded his head shyly.  It was ok by him.  In fact, he even allowed
Serge to demonstrate proper shaving techniques on him.  The last step in
grooming, for everyone, was to be rubbed down lightly with oil.  The body
must not be shiny, Morstein explained.  Rather, the smallest amount of oil
was to be rubbed into the skin until it smoothed and glowed softly.

Within an hour, the six young men crowded around the photographer, well
pleased with the results of their work.  He sat them down in front of him
and issued his last general instructions.  In no way were they to consider
anything that they did this day as "queer."  Rather, they were acting
demanding roles for a select clientele.  Even in fun, he didn't want to see
a mincing step or a limp wrist, or hear a lisp.  They were healthy,
athletic young men at the height of their male beauty and they would act
the part.

Returning to a full work mode, Morstein directed that Tom daub himself
lightly with mud and then don the filthy, battle-torn blue uniform of a
French poilu [pronounced pwa- LOO, the French GI or common soldier].  He
sat on a low stage to the rear of which hung a canvas depicting a
provincial town under attack.  Exploding shells, flames, and destruction
dominated the scene.  As he sat amidst the chaos, his eyes fixed on the
scene immediately before him, tears poured down the face of a man whose
soul was in agony.  Horizontally before him lay the naked, unmarked body of
a young soldier.  Bright red blood flowed from a wound, presumably in his
abdomen, down his flank.  The photographer's lighting was superb: darker
towards the rear, moderate on the suffering poilu, and bright white on the
boy's body, symbolizing a purity not of this world.  Presumably without
fully realizing what he was doing, he instructed Tom to FEEL the pain as he
sat by his fallen lover.  Varying the angles of his shots and the wording
of his instructions, he took several pictures.  At the end, as if overcome
by the pain they felt pouring from Tom, the naked models, including Dross,
crowded around the young man in the torn and bloody uniform whom they had
accepted as their leader.  In their emotion, two had erected, but no one
seemed to notice.  Serge quietly took one more picture.

Strangely inspired by Tom and Dross's success, the boys continued to invest
the photo shoot with a palpable energy.  Tony was fitted with a wild wig,
grotesque facial makeup, horns, a forked tail, and hooves, was splashed
with mud that continued to spill down his muscular body, and brandished a
short-handled trident.  A monstrous figure out of the deepest underworld,
he made ready to kill the young shepherd who had obviously been surprised
on the high mountain meadow suggested in the backdrop.  The naked lad
evidently fell backwards.  One arm is thrust to the rear, steadying his
body; the other is raised to ward off the savage blow.  His face is frozen
in fear.  Again, the classic contrast is between filth and horror on the
one hand and unmarked young beauty on the other.  At the close of their
work, Tony and Lars also received generous applause from their fellows.

How could the remaining pair do anything less spectacular?  Morstein set
the stage: a celebrated fairy [gay] dance hall on the Lower East Side.
Music that presaged the tango filled the air.  One dancer, a tall, muscled,
patrician masterfully twirled a spectacular young redhead into his arms.
Feeling the Latin beat in his soul, the redheaded lad danced in the crook
of the patrician's right arm, holding his head back.  His right hand was
held low on his partner's left hip, close to an imaginary pocket, looking
for a payment for dancing with him. The man danced in a curving fashion
because the floor was small with round tables, so he danced around and
between them.  Sergei brought the dance to a stunning climax by
artistically raising one arm and lowering Bernie's back towards the floor
with the other.  The entire front of the redhead's body, now exposed,
seemed to burst into fire as his flesh gleamed in Morstein's flash.  The
other models rose to their feet in wild applause!

After Morstein had promised additional work with even more money, and Tom
had assured the models that he would be in touch in the near future, Tom
and Dross retired to the Mulberry Street apartment.  Though the photo shoot
had all rested on fantasy, they gloried in the fact that each was alive and
secure in the arms of the other.


To Be Continued