Date: Sun, 8 Feb 2009 17:39:30 -0500
From: bigmoh@post.com
Subject: One Glorious Weekend

The dorm was almost empty.  The few friends I had made during my
freshman year had gone home or to Florida for the traditional spring
break revelry.

My room mate in the dorm had gone home to Long Island.  Going home to
Wyoming was out of the question for me since my parents were scrimping
to pay my college expenses and couldn't afford plane fare.  My room
mate invited me to his house for the week but I declined.  His constant
arrogance and subtle insults about living on a ranch in "Indian
territory" was tolerable only in small doses.  Spending a week with him
would be more than I could endure.

Months before, I had looked forward to the peace and quiet of Christmas
Break after a grueling period of classes and far more homework than I
had expected.  Being alone at Christmas time was difficult but I caught
up on my homework and even got a little ahead in the assigned reading.
I spent some time, in spite of the cold weather, as a tourist,
exploring a rich variety of the big city attractions -- at least those
I could afford.  Spring break, being shorter and warmer promised to be
more enjoyable.

By Wednesday, however, boredom crept in.  I had finished all my course
assignments and could do no more until the profs laid on more.  I had
even read for pleasure a couple of books that I hadn't had time to get
to.  What would I do that evening?  I had a wicked thought.  I would do
something that I had always wanted to do but never had the opportunity.

I took the subway down to Times Square.  At that time, many years ago,
42nd street hosted a number of adult book stores and small theaters
showing X-rated films.  I intended to see a porno movie but after
roaming around for a long time, I saw from the marquees and posters
that all the films featured women, sometimes servicing men and
sometimes each other.  That's not what I wanted.

I had known for a long time that I was different. I was not attracted
to girls and what I wanted was to find someone like me who was also
different.  I had researched what little there was to be found about
homosexuality in the public library. (The school library had been
"cleansed" and this was long before the Internet.)  I therefore knew
there were men out there like me although, like me, almost all of them
hid their true identity from the public.  One day, I hoped, I would
find one.

Having given up on the movie theaters, I ventured into an adult book
store.  Perhaps I could find something there to interest me.  Upon
entering, a raspy voice challenged my presence.  "How old are you,
kid?"

I looked up and found the source of the voice.  A grizzly old man
seated on a platform behind a high counter was glaring at me.
"Eighteen," I replied.

"Don't look it," he growled.  "Lemme see yur ID."

I pulled out my Wyoming driver's license and showed it to him.  He
studied it through his bifocals, seemed to concentrate on doing the
simple math, but finally snarled, "OK.  Yur eighteen.  Wyoming, huh?
Never met anybody from Wyoming."

He handed the license back to me.  I had become accustomed to people's
reaction when they learned where I lived.  I had even developed both
polite and sarcastic rejoinders depending on the situation but I just
took the license and walked down a narrow aisle in the crowded shop.

After ten minutes, it became clear that I would not find what I was
looking for.  There were some dildos and other toys that I found
fascinating but the prices were unbelievably high.  The magazines were
also pricey but I would have paid for one if it was what I was looking
for.  I walked out of the store disappointed and frustrated.  I roamed
around Times Square for a while just to kill time and then took the
subway back to 116th Street.

Back in the dorm, I showered off the city grim.  Taking advantage of
there being virtually no one in the dorm, I leisurely jerked off in the
shower before returning to my room.  It was still early, not quite ten,
but I climbed into bed and fell asleep wishing I had found what I was
looking for downtown.

The next day was warm.  I put on gym shorts, a tee shirt, and sneakers
and walked over to Riverside Park to enjoy the weather and a good book.
I hoped that a little reading would dispel my loneliness.  I found a
grassy area, stripped off my shirt to restore my tan, and laid down on
my stomach to read.

Several minutes later, I was startled by a voice right next to me.
"That must be a very good book," it said.

I looked up and saw a teenager sitting on the grass next to me.  He had
the complexion, jet-black hair, and features of a Latino.  He wore no
shirt, only baggy shorts and worn sneakers with no socks.  But it was
his face that captured my attention.  Dark eyes sparkled from under
arched brows and a half-smile that signaled a friendly nature.

He had dropped a very worn gym bag on the ground and said, "I called to
you twice, mister.  But you didn't answer."

"Sorry," I apologized.  "I guess I was wrapped up in my book."  I
turned the book over, laying it open to keep my place and with the
cover showing.

He glanced at the book and asked, "You like mysteries?"

"Once in a while, yes," I responded while wondering why he had
interrupted me.

"I do, too," he grinned.  "But I don't get much of a chance to read."

"And why's that?" I asked.

His expression turned suddenly sour.  "Too busy," he said as he cast
his eyes to the ground.

"Busy?" I asked.  "What keeps you so busy?"

He stalled, pulling up few blades of grass and rolling them in his
fingers.  "Whatever I can do to earn a few dollars.  That's why I came
over to talk to you.  But I see I'm disturbing you so I'll leave you
alone."

He stood up to leave but my curiosity had been aroused.  "Wait," I
said.  "You don't have to go.  In fact, I would enjoy having someone to
talk to.  Sit down."

He sat down, cross-legged this time.  I couldn't help but see up the
leg of his baggy shorts.  He had no underwear and the tip of an uncut
cock was plainly visible.  I quickly averted my eyes, a habit I had
practiced for a long time, but the image remained in my mind, summoning
thoughts I couldn't suppress.  I became aware of his body: thin but not
skinny, firm but not muscular, and dark nipples contrasting with his
tawny skin.  The young man wouldn't turn heads but was nevertheless
handsome.

Although I had tried to be discreet, the length of my gaze and my
failure to say anything must have revealed my thoughts because he
smiled and said, "Like what you see, mister?"

His question threw my mind into a spin.  I groped frantically for
something to say that would explain or excuse my thoughtless and
dangerous behavior.  Nothing came to mind so I stammered, "I was just
admiring your nice-looking body, that's all."  I immediately regretted
saying that.  It's not the sort of thing one says to another man, much
less a stranger.

But the young man raised the stakes by asking "Want to see more?" and
pulled the leg of his shorts back to give me an unobstructed view of
his cock that hung invitingly across a pendulant ball sack.

Alarms sounded in my head.  The young man was obviously coming on to
me.  If I accepted his implied offer, I would reveal for the first time
ever that I was queer. (The term, "gay," had not yet come into common
usage.)  Instinctively, I retreated by saying, "What makes you think
I'd be interested in seeing more?"

"Hunch," he said.  "Maybe hope.  When I saw you laying here reading, I
liked what I saw.  So I called to you and then came over.  Then I saw
how you looked me over.  I've had a lot of experience.  I've come to
know when a guy is interested in me.  I think you are.  Am I wrong?"

I was not ready to admit my interest but I was tempted.  My resistance
faded quickly when he cunningly hiked up his pants leg and briefly
fondled himself.

"Nice cock," I said without thinking and suddenly realized that I had
confirmed his suspicion.

He quickly got down to business.  "I can give you a blow job.  Or you
can fuck me.  I like your looks so I'll give you a bargain rate."

"Is that how you earn your money?" I asked.  "By selling your body to
anybody with cash?"

I didn't mean to insult him but he obviously took it that way.  "Hey,"
he said defiantly.  "It's better than selling drugs.  My neighborhood
is full of dealers and junkies.  I want no part of that.  If I can make
men happy, isn't that better than ruining the lives of drug addicts and
risking my own life at the same time?"

"I apologize," I said.  "I didn't mean to insult you.  I just didn't
know what kind of life you faced.  Forgive me?"

"Okay," he said.  "But how about my offer?  You wanna have some good
sex?"

I did indeed want to have some good sex.  I had wanted it for years.
And this young man was not only willing but good looking.  He was
fairly articulate and showed unusual initiative in approaching me.
After the disappointment in Times Square the previous night, I didn't
want to pass up the opportunity for real sex.  I would have preferred
sex with someone other than a hustler but I may not have that chance
for who knows how long.  I was assured of privacy in my dorm room so I
inquired, "How much?"

He quoted a price and quickly added, "That's half of what I usually
charge but you've got a sexy body."

"I have a problem," I said regretfully.  "I don't have any money to
spare."  I hated having to turn down his offer.  Just looking at him
made me horny as hell.

"Too bad," he groaned.  "I guess I'll have to find somebody else.  But
they won't be as good looking as you."

I didn't want him to walk away.  Even if I couldn't afford his price, I
would enjoy the company of a handsome young man for a while.  "The best
I can do is to buy you a good meal.  Will you join me for lunch?  I'd
really like the company."

He looked at me as if a meal enticing but said, "I'm not giving you sex
for just a meal, mister!"

"I didn't mean it that way," I said.  "The fact is, I'd like to have
company for lunch ... with no obligation for sex.  How about it?"

The truth was that I wanted company -- someone to talk to -- but I also
wanted to find out more about why the young man was selling his body.

"Okay," he said.  "I haven't had a good meal for a few days."

It was then I realized that we could not talk about his life and
"occupation" in a restaurant so I suggested, "How about we get a carry-
out and come back here to the park for a picnic?"

"Sounds good," he said.  "Most places won't serve me anyway because of
the way I'm dressed.  Some get downright mean about telling me to
leave."

We walked to a nearby McDonald's.  At the door, he hesitated and said,
"I don't think they'll let me in.  I'll wait here."

"If you want," I said.  "What would you like?"

"You're buying, mister.  You choose.  Surprise me."

I bought two big Macs, two large fries, a large drink, and an apple pie
for him.  I settled on a cheeseburger and a drink because I didn't have
enough cash for more.

His eyes nearly popped when he saw the size of the sack I walked out
with but he made no comment.  We returned to the park, found a shady
spot (It had gotten quite warm.), and settled ourselves down on the
grass.  I opened the sack and divided its contents.

"That's all mine?" he asked incredulously.  "Are you not hungry or are
you really broke?"

"Both," I said.  The broke part was true.  I was hungry but he needed
food more than I did.

He devoured his food without stopping to talk, which seemed to confirm
his admission that he hadn't eaten for days.  I nibbled on my sandwich
and sipped at my drink while a thousand questions popped into my mind.
What drove him to hustling?  What kind of family did he have?  Did he
live on the streets and, if so, how did he cope?

When he finally finished, he said, "Thanks, mister.  I feel a lot
better now.  You're really nice to buy my lunch ... and not expecting
sex, I mean."

"Well," I said.  "There's one thing you can do for me.  I'm curious
about why you do what you do.  Would you tell me about yourself?"

He gave me a curious expression that I couldn't interpret.  I began to
worry that I was prying into something he didn't want to talk about.
But my concern was short-lived when he began to speak.

"You probably don't know what it's like living in public housing in the
Bronx," he began.  "Drugs.  Crime.  Gangs.  Poverty.  Going to school
was the highlight of my day.  At least it was reasonably safe.  That
is, until the kids in school found out I was queer.  I could live with
them calling me names but they started beating up on me.  I dropped out
of school.  I couldn't tell my parents the real reason because they
would hate me, too, for being queer.  So I told my folks I was joining
the army and left."

"Are you old enough to join the Army?" I asked.  He looked no more than
sixteen years old.

"No.  I'm seventeen.  But it's easy to get fake ID.  They tried to talk
me out of it.  I said I didn't want to end up like my brothers.  I've
got two older brothers.  One is in prison for dealing drugs.  The other
was killed before the cops could bust him.  Mom was upset that I was
leaving but dad understood.  He said he was proud of me for not being
like my brothers."  He paused before continuing.  "He wouldn't be proud
of me now if he knew what I'm doing."

"So how long have you been on the street?" I asked.

"About three months," he replied.  "The first week or two was the worst
but then I leaned how to attract men who want what I want.  And I'm not
bragging when I say I can give them some really terrific sex."  He
paused and looked at me as if to see whether the `really terrific sex'
comment might entice me to pay his price.

If only I had the money! I thought.

His mood changed.  He stared at the ground and asked, "Anything else
you want to know about a queer whore-boy?"

"Hey!" I interrupted.  "Don't talk about yourself that way.  You've
obviously got courage to get out of a bad environment.  You've got
initiative to make it on your own.  I can tell from just talking to you
that you're bright.  And believe me, I don't condemn you for what
you're doing."

A half-grin crossed his face as he said, "Thanks, mister.  Most people
treat me like scum -- even my customers.  You're not like that."

"I'm still curious," I said.  "Why do you hustle sex?  Have you tried
to get a regular job?"

He laughed for the first time since we met.  "Whose gonna hire a
seventeen-year-old high school drop-out?" he asked with a
confrontational tone.  "I've tried a lot of places but the only one
that was half way interested was a greasy spoon café.  They wanted a
dishwasher but sent me away because I didn't have a Social Security
number.  Don't need that for what I do now.  Besides ... I don't know
why I'm telling you this but I enjoy what I do.  I like sex ... even if
the customer is old or fat or drunk or stinks of cigarette smoke."

"So you're happy doing what you do?

He thought about that for a while and said, "Mostly.  I really do like
the sex.  I can't seem to get enough of it.  But then..."

He dropped his eyes to the ground again.  I guessed that he didn't want
to talk about the down side of his work.  However, I had him talking
about his life and I still had a number of questions so I said, "But
then what?"

He looked at me.  Was it my imagination or did he suddenly seem sad?

"It's not all pleasure," he finally said.  "I go hungry when I can't
find a customer.  Living on the street isn't like living with a family.
And there's the occasional odd ball who gets off on kinky stuff like
spanking or making me act like a ten-year-old.  One guy even wanted to
shave me to make me look like a little kid.  I grabbed my clothes and
ran from that one.  Most guys just want a blow job or to fuck me.
That's the kind of sex I like."

I felt terribly sorry for the young man.  His problems with kinky
customers didn't affect me nearly as much as his having to live on the
street.  That made me think of something.

"Do you ever spend a whole night with a customer and sleep in a real
bed?"

"Twice," he replied.  "Most guys just want a quickie and then I'm off,
hoping to find another customer."

"I don't have money but I can offer you a bed to sleep in.  I live in
the dorm.  My room mate is gone until Sunday night.  You can stay in my
room for three nights.  There's no obligation for sex.  I just want to
give you three nights of comfort.  You'll be free to come and go as you
please but you'll have a bed to sleep in ... and a hot shower if you
want.  How about it?"

"You don't want sex?" he asked in a tone of disbelief.

"I would love to have sex with you but that's not why I made the offer.
It's not much but I'd simply like to do you a favor.  And I would enjoy
having company."

"I'd like to, mister, but I'm supposed to meet one of my regular
customers tonight."

"Like I said, you're free to come and go as you like.  Will you spend
the night with him?"

"Nah.  All he wants is to undress me in the back of his van and jerk me
off.  By that time, he's hard.  He gives me a quick fuck, pays me, and
says goodbye."

"Okay.  Come with me to the dorm.  You can shower.  Change clothes if
you like.  I'm guessing you have clothes in your gym bag."

He looked at me for a long time without speaking.  I was about to
encourage him further but he asked, "Why are you doing this?"

"I told you.  I want to do you a favor.  You're a good kid who's had a
tough time.  Maybe I can make it easier for you ... at least for a few
nights of decent sleep."

"Okay," he said.

I took him to my dorm room.  It was sparsely furnished but he was
impressed with the books, the posters, and the clothes in the closet.
I asked if he wanted to shower and he said that would be nice.  I gave
him a towel, soap, and shampoo, and then said, "The dorm is almost
empty but I think I'd better go with you in case someone finds a
stranger in the shower.  I'll introduce you as my cousin who's
visiting.  What's your name?"

"Jose Delgado."

"Mine is Ray Simpson.  You don't have to call me Mister any more."

He took a very long, very hot shower and seemed to enjoy it thoroughly.
Since there was no longer any need to conceal my sexual interests, I
didn't try to be discrete.  I took full advantage of the opportunity to
feast my eyes on his sleek, firm body as he dried himself.  He noticed
my admiring stare, grinned, and made a conscious effort to show me his
manly cock and balls.  He even turned away from me and bent over to dry
his legs, showing me his firm ass and puckered hole.  His exhibition
gave me an erection.  I tried to hide it but he saw it anyway and
laughed, "You like what you see, Mister?"

"Yes," I said hoarsely.  "Very much.  But call me `Ray.'  No more
Mister.  Okay?"

"Okay, Ray," he said as he faced me and took an unnecessary amount of
time to dry his crotch.

As we walked back to my room, my promise of no sex haunted me.  I had
been sincere in inviting him only for a few nights sleep in a real bed
but my resolve to keep my promise was fading.  Lust was eroding my
integrity.

In my room, I went to my half of the closet for some clean clothes.
Jose dug through his gym bag for his.  When I saw that his clothes were
not only dirty but threadbare and ragged. I said, "It looks like your
clothes have seen better days.  I have some I don't need."

I pulled out a pair of chino slacks from my closet, a tee shirt, a
sweat shirt, and two pair of socks from a drawer, and handed them to
him.  "Take these.  To keep.  You'll look even more handsome in them."

He looked at me.  I was afraid I had insulted him with my offer.  "Mine
are sort of dirty, aren't they?"

"That's understandable," I said, trying to soften the criticism implied
by my suggestion.

I thought I saw a tear in his eye as he looked at me and said, "Why are
you being so nice to a whore-boy?"

"STOP IT!" I exclaimed.  "You're not a whore-boy.  I've already told
you.  You're a young man who had the good sense to get out of a bad
environment ... who has the initiative to make it on your own ... who
uses the talents you can to survive.  Why am I being nice?  Because I
respect you!  There's not much I can do to help you except give you a
few nights of comfort but you deserve that and more."

He seemed startled at my emphatic tone and just stood looking at me.
Suddenly, he wrapped his arms around my waist, laid his head on my
shoulder, and cried.  I returned his hug and held him tightly.  We
stood there with only the towels around our waists preventing full-
body, skin-on-skin contact.  Were it not for his tears and shuddering
sobs, it would have been highly erotic.  But at that moment, all I felt
was sympathy for a young man who no doubt had a lot of potential but
was the victim of both poverty and others' hatred of homosexuals.

When he gained a little control of his emotions, he apologized for
crying.  I assured him that it was okay for a man to cry and he should
not be ashamed of it.  He seemed to settle down and I led him to over
to sit on the edge of my bed.  What came next took me completely by
surprise.

He took off the towel from his waist and dropped it on the floor.  He
took off my towel and dropped it on top of his.  He laid back down,
pulling me down to lay beside him.  He crawled on top of me and began
kissing me.  I wondered if it was just gratitude.  My question was
answered when he ground his crotch into mine.  His motives may have
included gratitude but he seemed to want sex.

I pushed his face away and said, "I promised you.  You're not obligated
to have sex with me."

"But I want it!" he exclaimed.  "I want you.  I've wanted you ever
since I saw you in the park.  This is not business like the others.  I
like you.  I want to make you happy.  I want to be happy too.  Please
don't say no.  Let me make love to you."

I didn't need any more convincing.  As a frustrated homosexual, I was
about to lose my virginity.  I had been propositioned by a street
hustler but was in bed with a tragic young man who was demanding sex
... not for money, not entirely out of appreciation for a small favor,
but (I wanted to think) because a deeper bond had been formed between
us.

More than an hour later, after an experience that has persisted vividly
in my memory for decades, we broke our contended embrace and got out of
bed.

"Let's get some supper," I said.  "Then you can go to your appointment
with your customer."

"That's all right," he said.  "You bought me a big lunch.  You don't
have to buy me supper, too."

"Nonsense," I replied.  "I have to eat anyway and I'd like to have the
company of a handsome young man.  Now let's get dressed."

He gave me a hug and a kiss and said, "Thanks, Mister ... I mean
thanks, Ray."

My clothes were a little big for his small frame but they made a world
of difference in his appearance.  He was a sexy as when he was naked.
They seemed to make a difference in his attitude as well.  As we walked
down the hall, out of the dorm, and down the street to a diner, he held
his head high and there was a new bounce in his step.  The diner was
small but it served good food in ample portions at a reasonable price.
His delight at being able to enter a restaurant without fear of being
thrown out was obvious.

As we ate, he had one question after another about my life on a ranch,
about my family, about my classes, and my future plans.  On the way
back to the dorm, he stopped at the entrance to the subway on 116th
Street.  He had to go downtown to meet his customer.  We made
arrangements to meet in front of the dorm between 9:30 and 10 so I
could escort him into the building.

At half past 10 I was nearly frantic worrying about Jose.  I let my
imagination conjure up all kinds of problems he may have encountered:
mugging, kidnapping, injury from a lustful and careless customer.  But
then I saw him round the corner of a classroom building.  He saw me and
ran a hundred yards with a grin that laid waste to all my worries.  He
threw his arms around me and hugged me so tight it took my breath away.

Excitedly, he blurted out, "He brought a friend!  Paid me double!  I'm
rich!"

"I'm happy for you, Jose."

"That's not the best part, Ray.  He has two or three other friends.  No
more quickies in the back of his van.  He wants me to stay in his
apartment and entertain his friends when they get horny."

"That's quite a stoke of luck," I said while wondering what kind of men
Jose would be servicing.  Would they treat him with the respect he
deserved or would they merely use him for sexual satisfaction?
Although he would have a place to stay, I had lingering worries about
his well-being.  "I hope he doesn't expect you to service his friends
for free."

His exuberance only increased when he said, "No!  They'll pay me.
He'll get his sex for my room and board.  I couldn't be happier, Ray.
I'll be off the streets.  I won't go hungry.  I'll have money for
clothes and stuff.  And I'll get all the sex I want!"

"That's wonderful," I said.

Then, he looked at me with a serious expression and said, "But there's
bad news, too.  He wanted me to go home with him tonight.  I told him I
couldn't until Sunday.  I want to spend more time with you.  I like you
a lot, Ray.  You've treated me like a real person.  I'm going to miss
you.  I want to give you as much happiness as you've given me while I
can."

That night, much of Saturday, Saturday night, and part of Sunday, Jose
and I were dressed only to go out for a quick meal.  Much of the time,
we were in bed where he introduced me to an astonishing array of
sensual and sexual pleasures.

We both cried as we said goodbye on Sunday afternoon.  He left for a
new home.  I was left with cherished memories of a spectacular few days
with a young man whose future, I prayed, would bring him joy.

The End