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The contents of this story are fictional. Any resemblance of characters to living or lived persons is strictly coincidental. Certain characters engage in sexual acts which may or may not be legal in the state or country in which a reader may reside. Any reader with objections to graphic descriptions of sexual encounters between males who may not have reached the legal age of consent, or whose local, regional, state or national jurisprudence prohibits such descriptions, should not read further.
Chapter II - Games
Frankie an' me got into his tatty Cavalier after the sun got into the squat we'd found after we got kicked outta our room. We got the room for the last copula weeks with some guys from up North he knew. In the same rooming place, I mean. They was all on the game, just like Frankie, an' that's how he got to know them. Frankie met them in the Piccadilly, where Regent Street comes down into it. Frankie was getting a little old for the 'Dilly, though. He'd hit nineteen now, and looked a lot older, maybe thirty on a bad day. We got coffee and a batty from the Salvation Arm, then put ten quid into the petrol tank.
We were driving down to Frankie's latest best producing place for Saturday afternoons, what he called his "Saturday Nest," the little cottage on the A route south from Windsor. He made eighty-five pounds there last week, enough to get him a new pair of Nike's. I made forty, after Frankie said he'd had enough. Some French truck driver what had a middle-size meat paid Frankie twenty, and John gave me twenty, but Frankie got that, too. I didn't really like doing' it, but we needed the money.
Frankie an' me didn't talk that much since last Saturday, so I had lots of time to think.
I didn't know Frankie was doin' it with guys for money until I asked him how come he didn't have any for clothes, when I was maybe twelve, and he was sixteen. He needed a coat that fit him, and my trousers were too short for me again. He said sommat like he couldn't stand out there that long at night, it was too cold.
"Stand out where, Frankie?"' I asked. Frankie's my only brother. He's took care of me since I was ten, when we got away from my Mum and the council flat and the boyfriends that used to use Frankie when my Mum was busy with another boyfriend in her bedroom. He used to cry all the time after they left, and I felt real bad for him. I didn't understand what they were doing to him in the lounge, but I know they were hurting him, 'cause he yelled a lot when they were doing it. I always got locked in the cupboard in the kitchen when Mum's boyfriends came to see her. Frankie locked me in there. I think he was trying to protect me from what they had been doing to him all those years.
"In the 'Dilly, 'course," he spat out. "Guys pay a lot for kids me age to do them."
"What do ya do when ya do them, Frankie?"
"Just let them touch me," Frankie said. He was hiding something from me, but I didn't want to make him mad. He hit me when he got mad at me, but I guess I deserved it. I mean, Frankie did everything, and I wasn't good at nothin' very much. I got caught the first time I tried to pinch a purse outta this lady's handbag in Oxford Street. I only got out of it by shaking loose from the guy what grabbed me, and running down the side streets, like the wind. I hid in a dustcart for an hour while they looked for me. Frankie was real mad at me then, 'cause he was watchin' me, and saw where I bumped the lady when I reached into her bag. I got hit a lot that night, but like I say, I deserved it.
"Does it hurt?"
"Sometimes," Frankie said. "Mostly not, sometimes it's real good, when they's nice and got a place to stay."
"Is that when ya don't come back fer me sometimes?" I asked. I'm a selfish little shit now and then. I hated it when I had to hide in the room at night from the police that might come at any time to get me and put me in a Home when Frankie didn't come back to take care of me. That was when Frankie was making good money, and we had our own room in a house that had maybe fifteen rooms that got let out to guys like Frankie and me, with no place else to live.
"If a punter pays enough, I sleep with him," said Frankie.
"In a bed?" I asked, thinking this must be a neat way to get money, just let some old man touch you, then sleep in a nice, warm bed with him. We slept on a mattress on the floor, and the mattress wasn't all that thick. No sheets, either -- just the scratchy blanket.
"Course," Frankie said. "Rich guys all got hotel rooms to take ya to."
"Can I come with ya next time?" I asked. It would be nice to get paid some money like that. I wanted a new pair of pants - the old ones were getting too short.
"Fuckin' 'ell, no!" Frankie yelled at me like I'd just done something real, real, bad. "Don't ya never, ever talk about getting' on the game," he shouted at me. "Never, got it?" He shook me like a rag doll while he yelled at me. I think he hit me, but I can't remember that part.
Somehow, he got money again, and I went back to the same old things. Frankie made me take books outta the library and read them, especially the books for kids my age in school. He let me read one fiction book a week, as long as I showed him I did the problems in two chapters in every school book I took out. I don't know if he knew if I got them right or not -- he never found any mistakes, though, except when I forgot a question and didn't write it down. He stopped checking after a few months and just let me do what I wanted. I spent a lot of time in the free Museums, especially when it rained or got cold, and stopped the school books when Frankie told he didn't want to see my fucking scribbles no more.
We got tossed outta the residence a few months after I turned fourteen. Frankie had been having a hard time finding punters, I guess, and he'd been drinking a lot of beer, too. I could smell it on him when he came to bed. He said it was time for me to start carrying some of the burden, seeing I was fourteen and a half. I figured so, since I was no good at picking, and all. Plus, I never got no real schooling from when I was ten and we came down from Essex to London, and even the library book thing petered out when I got to be maybe thirteen. By that time, I mean when we got the toss, I'd pretty much sussed out that Frankie was doing more than getting touched when he was out all night. Sometimes he smelled of men's colognes, or a lot worse. Once I saw some dried-up blood on his knickers where usually you never saw nothin' but maybe a tyre track.
I wanted to know everything I was supposed to do before I got started, so I asked Frankie to tell me all the details. He not only told me, he demonstrated. Not on me, a course. With another guy that was on the game at the 'Dilly, only a little older than me. Eric was his name, I think. We went to the room Eric shared with his friend, and after a couple of minutes, Frankie and Eric just got undressed and down on the mattress together.
Frankie's dick was almost the same size as mine, maybe just a little bigger, and I wasn't full-grown yet. Seven and a half inches, say. Eric was bigger, maybe eight inches, and since he only weighed nine stone dressed, it looked a lot bigger on him. Frankie weighed ten or eleven stone then, and I think I was around seven or eight.
I'd never had nobody even see me when I wanked, 'cause I only did that when Frankie was on the game trail, so I was really amazed that Frankie and Eric would do it all in front of me. I got a hard right away, of course, even before Frankie showed me the part about sucking a punter's dick real slow, to make him think he was getting his money's worth. Eric told me what Frankie was doing when his mouth was full, how he was moving his tongue under the head, sucking in only a very little, keeping his teeth covered by his lips so's not to scrape the punter.
Then Frankie stopped and Eric sucked him a little, and Frankie told me how some punters like to have a finger up their arse while you're sucking, massaging the little nut between the arsehole and your dick, about three inches inside the hole. He told me what Eric was doing as he put his finger in Frankie's hole and moved it up inside, then started to wiggle it on the Prostate.
Then Frankie made Eric stop, because he was close and wanted to make a complete demonstration, so I learned about how you never kiss a punter, 'cause that's not what they really want, even if they say that's what they want you to do. And you always make a punter wear a condom -- French Letter -- if he's going to put it up your bum, and you have to wear one if you put your dick up a punter's bum. You don't need one if the punter's just gonna to suck you, Frankie told me, because it's only dangerous if his cum or his blood gets inside you through the bum or a cut. I knew about Aids a little before that, but they scared me to death by telling me everything I didn't know, most of which I didn't want know, but once you know, you can't unknow it.
Then Frankie put on a condom and put lube into Eric, telling me the best kind to use, "Wet," because you only needed a little and it lasted a long time. He used one, then two, then three fingers to demonstrate how to stretch a punter's hole so he wouldn't hurt too much when you put your dick in the first time, "except when the punter wanted ya to just plow right in and pretend ya were raping him."
I watched it all with more than a little interest, especially the part where Frankie was gonna put his dick inside Eric and fuck him. Eric said it hurt when he first done it, but now he liked it, if the punter wasn't bad looking. I watched, fascinated, as Frankie put Wet on his dick, then slowly pushed it into Eric's arse. I didn't understand why a punter would want to pretend you was raping him, but I didn't want to look dumb and ask why. Eric was talking all the while, telling me what it felt like, how he was pushing out just a little to relax his hole. He said it felt cold at first with Frankie's fingers and the lube, then a little warmer with the condom and the lube, when the head of Frankie's dick touched his Prostate. He got a real full feeling, and then it started to get all warm and tingly, all that.
Frankie told me what he felt as he put it in slow, telling me most punters would tell you right upfront whether they wanted you to go in fast or slow, fuck soft or hard, all that stuff. I was drooling in my knickers One thing I thought was strange - Frankie's dick didn't look like mine at the head. His looked just like everybody else's, the head shaped like a apricot with the skin covering part of it unless it was really hard. Mine is the same thickness, but it's real wide maybe two times as wide as the shaft, and my skin doesn't cover it unless I'm real cold and the head shrivels up. Other thing - most guys have the dick hole right in the front - mine is on top, maybe half-way back to the part that flares up when you get hard, and when it shoots, it's out and up, like almost at a 45 degree angle from the line my dick makes -- almost straight up in the air if I'm standing up, 'cause my dick stands up at a 45 degree angle already..
Then him and Eric got into a couple of positions to show me what was "doggie" "sidesaddle" and "Missionary" positions. Frankie always put his dick into Eric, never the other way around. Frankie said to me he was a "Top" and Eric was a "Bottom," and Frankie never let a punter fuck him unless he paid sixty quid and Frankie liked him. Eric said he usually got sixty too, unless the punter was young and good-looking, when he only asked for forty or fifty, because a good-looking punter could get almost anybody on the game to go down in price, and it was dog-eat-dog.
Frankie started to fuck Eric at a sort of moderate speed, and it was cool to watch his dick go in and out of Eric's arse. There wasn't any shit on Frankie's dick, and I asked why not.
"Most of the time, yer shit is stored way up inside," Eric said. "It doesn't come down into the Arse until yer almost ready to shit. If ya have a guy anytime four or maybe eight hours after ya shit, he won't get dirty. Ya can wash yer insides with water and a plastic soda bottle, too, if ya know ye're gonna have a punter up there in the next couple of hours, or yer goin to the 'Dilly and feel like gettin' fucked."
"What about when ya don't know if the punter has shit?" I asked stupidly. There was no way I was gonna let some guy I didn't know put his dick in my arse.
"Ya get a dirty condom," said Frankie. "Goes wi' the job sometimes. Ya just wrap yerself up in a towel after ya pull out, and go to the toilet and take the condom off real careful, from the bottom, and flush it down the bog. Don't touch the shit if ya can help it."
Eric was drooling clear juice on his belly. He's kinda thin, so I could see. His dick was hard as stone.
"Ya enjoy that, Eric?" I asked. I was surprised he was so rigid.
"Yeah, a lot," he said. "That's why I'm a bottom. I can shoot when a punter fucks me without touching myself, if he's good, or if he takes a long time. Frankie's good, and he's taking a long time, too, so I'll come pretty soon."
"Can I . . .?" I was a little shy still, but I was in agony. "Can I wank while ya do it? I'm horny as hell."
"Sure!" Frankie said, smiling at me. But ya gotta get naked first."
I was out of my clothes before he closed his gob, and my dick snapped up to my belly. I wasn't full-growed then, maybe only seven inches, and I only had a little patch of hair. I didn't start to wank, though - I was too close.
"Come to papa," said Eric to me, reaching towards me. "Holy shit! Ya got a real winner there!"
"Can I?" I asked. "I'm really close, I think."
"Ya ever got yer dick sucked before?" Frankie asked. He was looking real hard at my dick. "How come it's flat like that?"
"No," I said. "I dunno. Is that all right?" I was trembling with the thought that Eric was gonna gimme my first suck.
"Just kneel over here and let me do the rest," said Eric. I crawled over to the mattress and kneeled so my dick was next to Eric's face, and put my arm over Frankie's shoulder to hold myself steady, watching Frankies' bum moving up and down real slow as he fucked Eric. I felt Eric's tongue on my dick, just teasing, then he opened his lips and took the whole head of me into his mouth. The stars came out. It felt like the best wank I ever had but a thousand times better.
I pushed my dick into his mouth a little, and he took it, no problem. Then he kind of lunged into me, and my whole dick was inside his mouth and throat, and I felt like I was gonna come right then and there.
"I'm gonna come!" I announced, and Frankie said something like "Do it!" but I can't remember because I was exploding into Eric's mouth, just one stroke.
Eric moaned around my dick as I was coming, and then he sort of squealed and pulled Frankie harder into him, and then Frankie said "I'm fuckin' coming, man!" and he made a few deep jabs into Eric and then stopped and did what he told me never to do. He bent down and kissed Eric on the ear then the cheek, then . . . right on the lip where my dick was still inside Eric's mouth, and I couldn't believe what was happening, and Eric pulled back, and Frankie was kissing my dick on the top. "Gotta try it," Frankie said, and Eric let me out a little more, until my dick started to snap up, and Frankie just took it into his mouth like any old punter's dick and started to suck on it, slow. He kinda moved me around so I was on top of Eric, facing right down Frankie's back, and I felt Eric's tongue on my bollocks.
Then Frankie started to fuck in and out of Eric again, at the same time pumping on my dick, getting it all the way inside his mouth somehow, and Eric was under me, sucking on my nuts, taking them both into his mouth at the same time, washing them with his tongue, sending shivers all through me. And his fingers was tickling at my arsehole, and I didní't mind at all, 'cause I took a shit that morning and washed down there after I flushed the toilet first, in the public toilet down the road.
Eric was wanking himself, and I was moaning because I felt like it, and I was probably gonna come again, I knew, and I said something to that effect, but nobody paid any attention to the fact that I was about to die from orgasm, and Frankie was fucking Eric faster and faster but still sucking me slow, real slow. His bum was going up and down like a piston, and Eric started humming on my balls, sending bolts through me.
I was so close to spewing in my own brother's mouth, I couldn't stop it, but I gave him fair warning.
"Frankie, I'm gonna come inside ya, I'm gonna!"
Then Eric shouted a squeal, which is hard to do with a mouthful of balls, and that just ripped the dam apart, and I was coming into Frankie's mouth even as he was shuddering like a tube train with the brakes locked, coming into the condom.
A few minutes later, we disengaged. Frankie's condom had come off, and was now lodged somewhere deep inside Eric. Eric got mad at Frankie for not stopping when he felt it slipping off, but Frankie said he thought it felt so much better because the inside of the condom was lubed with his come, not because he was really getting a piece of ass, and shut the fuck up, because they didn't even use a condom last time.
That's how I found out my brother was gay. You can do it with punters for money and still be straight. But if you do it with some other guy, even if itís a guy what's on the game, and only because you enjoy it, you gotta be. Gay, I mean. It's all right if you're just being showed how to do it -- to go on the Game, I mean.
That's when I found out, but it's not when I knew. It took me a couple of weeks to figure out.
After we rested up for a few minutes, Frankie made Eric show me about fucking. They showed me how to put a condom on with one hand, and then Eric put his legs up on me, hooking the backs of his knees inside the backs of my elbows, so's I could spread his cheeks when I need to get in farther. It's safer for the Bottom, too. If a punter gets too nasty, it's easier to use your legs to pull his arms out from under him, and try to roll out, because the leg muscles are a lot stronger. If the bottom has his legs on the top's shoulders, you can only use the abs to push, and if the top is big, you're at his mercy.
It took a little for me to get inside his arsehole, because I have this different shape, but he got me in, and once I was in, it was okay for him. I don't remember much of my first piece of ass. Just that it was warm, wonderful, and I came in less than a minute, but I didn't lose the condom, 'cause I have this natural "plug" that keeps one from coming off whilst in use. Of course, I don't use them now anyway.
Frankie and me never did anything together again after that. I think he felt guilty, because he was the one what raised me. I wasn't really interested in doing it with him, either. After all, he was on the game a long time, and I didn't think he was a very good candidate for a long-term thing. He drank too much, hit me too often, took big risks, and liked guys too much too be tied down.
I knew what I wanted, even then: Love -- more an anythin' that's what I wanted. I got honest with myself, too. I wanted one guy, one home, one bed, one life. A dog and a car would be nice, too, but not essential. Maybe I was gay. Shit.
I went on the game, all the same. You gotta eat, right? I figured a couple of years wouldn't kill me.
I was so nervous when I got to the 'Dilly, I had to use the toilet downstairs in the subway for the Tube, first. I hopped the bloody tollgate thing, 'cause I didn't have any change -- didn't have any notes, neither, just my two quid, one under each sole. I did my business then washed my bum in the clean water after I flushed, even if I wasn't gonna give my arse to nobody unless they paid me a hundred quid up front and two hundred more after. I looked in the mirror when I washed my hands, and I wasn't too bad-lookin' except for the curls on the top of my head, and my skinny body under the shoulders, my thin jumper hanging in folds. Oh. yeah - my deformed dick, but ya can't see that in the mirror. My face was okay, I guess. Not movie star, but not homely. Too thin. My eyes are my best feature, I guess. They're blue, but not pale, kinda dark.
My first punter took forever to get up the courage to pick me up. I leaned against the railing like Frankie told me, so's my bum stuck out just a little. Frankie said even if a punter wasn't interested in fucking you, he appreciated a pretty bum. (Frankie said I had a pretty nice bum, and there would be plenty of punters looking at it, but I should make sure I got full rate for my cherry.) I moved only a little to make sure my bum was at the right angle for the punter to see.
He stood on the corner and looked at me, crossed the street then turned around and looked at me, crossed back over and looked at me, then stood leaning against a pillar and watched me for maybe ten minutes while I pretended to be interested only in the tops of my shoes and occasionally him. Frankie told me that was always a good act. "Pretend you're too shy to say or do anything and only look at one punter at a time until you know whether he's gonna rent you or somebody else, and don't start looking at another punter like that until the first punter has left with his date. That way if he decides he don't like the other guy, he can come back to you, and even if he takes your competition, he might come back another day and decide he shoulda chose you in the first place."
"Busy night," said a voice next to me. The shoes were the same as the punter that had been watching me.
"Fer some, I guess," not yet risking looking at him.
"Looking for some company?"
I looked up at him, then, as shyly as I could -- I was shy anyway, so that was easy -- and checked the things Frankie and Eric told me I gotta check for. The pupils weren't pinpoints, so he probably wasn't drugged up; the whites weren't blood lined, so he was even more probably not drugged up or stoned or drunk; his breath wasn't loaded with alcohol. He didn't look angry or sad, which can mean S & M, and he wasn't dressed shabby, so he might have money. He was sort of nice looking, nothing special, just yer average older guy, maybe thirty, maybe thirty-five, tops. A little hard to tell what his body was like under the raincoat. A moustache, neat-trimmed.
"I'm . . . kinda new at this," I said honestly, but not for the last time. "I don't know what to do." Eric said this was the best line of all for a punter you never scored before. They like us fresh.
"Same here," said the man. "Let's walk a little."
"I . . . " I counted to twelve like Eric told me. "I have to ask for money to do it."
"I know, son," he said. "You'll get some, no matter what doesn't happen, I promise." His accent was a lilting scots, probably from Edinborough or north.
We walked across to Tower, then across and up the Piccadilly, on the south side, past the church and the airline offices and fancy stores and shops. The windows fascinated me, because I didn't know what else to do with my eyes. His name was Michael, mine was Guy. He talked about little things, about he was in London on business, he was alone that evening, he hadn't had dinner yet, would I like sommat to eat (Eric told me to use 'I could really use a good meal, but I can't go to a restaurant like this,' because it might could get you a hotel gig) where was I from ('I just came down from Essex yesterday,' Noel, so he'll think you're new meat and up the fee), how old was I ("Always sixteen, Noel, always sixteen until you're too old to be that, then nineteen"), my you have a fresh face for someone that age, what do you charge for your services?
This last question right in front of this super-fancy china shop with windows full of the most beautiful plates I'll ever see. One of them, just one dinner plate with oranges and red and gold and blue-black all over it, only a little white, cost mor'n a hundred fifty quid. For a fuckin' dish!
"I . . . don't know what I'm supposed to ask," I said as rehearsed. I knew exactly what the tariff was: £10 for a hand job on him, £20 for one on me (unless I was super randy and figured I was good for another go if it wasn't too late, then £15 if there was no problem with the punter) £30 for a blow-me or a blow-you, £50 for both, £60 for a fuck-me or a fuck-you, £80 for a full night in a hotel, but that was negotiable down to £60 if the guy was a hot one, and £100 plus cab fare for going home with the guy. Oh, yeah - £250 or more for the guy to bust your cherry for real.
"I'd like to taste you," said 'Michael' softly, his hand on my shoulder, kneading me. "I can give you £30-."
"No," he said with a squeeze. "I'm in an hotel just around the corner." I never heard no one say "an hotel" before. It was "a hotel," but I didn't want to correct him. Punter's always right.
"Will they let me in . . . like this?" I asked. I had dressed in my second clothes, clean but tatty. Like I was a poor kid from a good family and a brand-new runaway, not a poor kid from no family at all and living in a tiny room in the East End for the last four years living off my brother's prostitution and about to graduate to the same profession.
"They won't say a thing," 'Michael' assured me. "You'll come with me?"
"K," I said, looking ashamed, which I was. I was trembling like a leaf, not from the cold -- I was used to being cold -- but I was really scared. Could I do this? Could I let him put his hands all over me, touch me? Could I get off with him? Would he really pay me? He didn't look like a bad guy, but . . .
"Good. Come, then." All of a sudden his attitude changed. I was his "thing" and he could tell me what to do, not ask. He set off back the way we came, then down a side street to a modern looking hotel, and we just marched right in and to the lift, up to the third floor and into his room. 341, I remember it read. We didn't speak a word on the way, except him saying "across the street" and "turn right" and "Here it is."
'Michael' was nice to me though. He called room service and ordered food for him and me. I don't remember what it was he ordered, because I was too nervous, and the names were mostly foreign sounding, like "beef burger yon," something like that.
He sat on the bed while he made the call, and after, he beckoned me over from where I was studying the room decoration intensely. I can still see the pattern of the drapes, the big flowers, the green vines. I walked nervously to him, and he just put his hands under my jumper, over the T-shirt and felt my body. I wasn't aroused at all -- I was too scared.
He lifted my T-shirt and licked my belly, tracing the muscle around my belly-button. I was barely aware that he was opening my trousers, until they fell to the floor. I looked down and saw he had a bald patch beginning on the back of his head, not bald yet, but it would be. His tongue and lips went down to the top of my Y-fronts, and he pulled them down at the same rate that his tongue was moving, until he got to the hairs, then the Y-fronts were at my ankles.
"Beautiful," he said. I wasn't hard, but I wasn't wrinkled and shriveled, either. You couldn't see how wide my dickhead was, it was that soft.
He lowered his head and took all of me into his mouth at once, soft, and just held me there, swirling his tongue around me. His shoulders were shivering where I put my hands on them to steady myself. His hands were massaging my cheeks, then my bollocks, then stroking my back, and I felt me growing inside his mouth, into his throat.
His fingers touched my tits, and I shivered, and felt randy at last, even if only a little. I moaned like I figured I was supposed to, like Eric said was good technique. "Gasp a little, make like ya enjoy it despite yerself, make like he's forcing ya to have pleasure."
Then his head started to move in and out from my belly, a inch at a time at first, then more, and I groaned for real each time he took me back into his throat. He took one hand off my bum, and I could tell he'd opened his flies and was stroking hisself. I looked down, and he had a real pretty one, maybe the same size as Eric's, but a little fatter. Looking at it made me hotter, and I started to moan in earnest, getting closer, closer . . .
"I'm gonna come," I said in a raspy voice. I wasn't acting, I was really getting off. He didn't seem to mind my dick with its wide head at all as it stretched his throat.
I came into his mouth, real hard, and I looked down and saw he was spewing spunk, too. All of a sudden, while I was coming deep inside him, he sorta sneezed, and a gob of my spunk came outta his nose. That scared me. Was he gonna get mad at me for that?
But he kept on me, and held me in his mouth until I started to get a little softer, not so super-hard, but still hard, you know?
He pulled away from me slow, sucking all the time, and I came out dry. His lips stretched around my head as it came out.
"Beautiful," he said kissing my dickhead all over, especially the pisshole, where some spunk sorta kept leaking out. "Never saw anything so uniquely beautiful."
I just let him play with me with his lips. I mean he paid for it, didn't he? When I was almost soft, he sucked me back into his mouth and washed and dried me with his tongue and lips again.
I was startin' to get a little hard again when the doorbell rang, and I 'bout jumped outta his mouth, grabbing at my kickers and trousers, trying to get them up and look for a place to hide, all at the same time. All I could think was that coppers had followed us here and I was about to get nabbed.
'Michael' sshhed me, and zipped up his flies, then pointed to the bathroom as he said "just a second!" loud enough for the corridor to hear. I hustled into the bathroom, not easy to do when you can't get your knickers untwisted from the legs of your trousers, and sat on the edge of the tub, my heart beating like Bow's Bells at Eastertide, all at once.
It was just the Room Service waiter, and I heard him wheel the table in through the part-open door. He set everything up, opening the table up and all, and moving plates and things all over.
"Will the young gentleman be having wine, sir?" the waiter asked. I peeked out through the door slit. He was dressed like a butler, maybe fifty years old.
"No," said 'Michael' without any hesitation at all, "Guy is only sixteen, and his mother would kill me if she thought I was letting him drink alcohol with me."
"Very good, Mr. Weatherby."
I didn't know if it was a compliment on 'Michael's' quick mind or just an 'okay.' Butlers talk funny.
The rest of the evening was real strange. We ate the noodles with creamy beef and gravy, not chipped, but fresh, and salad made out of apples and nuts and celery and mayonnaise, I think. We talked about London, about the weather, about everything except that he'd just given me my first paying blow-me. The food was delicious, and I had to stop myself from picking up the plate and licking it clean, 'cause I knew that was bad manners. I didn't mind eating the half of his he didn't want, and all the rolls and butter, real butter! There was even a pudding, a sort of small fruit pie with clear jelly over it, and custard between the fruit and the crust on the bottom, one for each of us - it was unbelievable good.
I was full when we finished, then he just said, "Okay, time to go. Thanks for the service."
"I . . . what about . . ." I didn't know how to ask for my money. Eric and Frankie forgot to tell me that part.
"Oh, of course!" he said with too much of a "holy cow!" tone to it, and the pushed a few notes into my trouser pocket, and I was out. It was the strangest farewell I ever had until then. No "Good-bye" or "see you" or even "Goodnight." No handshake or kiss or pat or wink. Just a brisk walk to the door, he opened it, I walked through it, and it closed behind me with a slight snap.
I went to the lift and tried to walk out through the lobby as inconspicuously as possible, but I know the guy at the Sergeants' desk, except he was called a "Concierge," looked at me with a knowing little smile that said "I know what you are, you aren't fooling me!" I had this sick feeling run through me, like I wasn't good enough to be here, I was dirty and . . . I managed to get out of the hotel without stumbling or crying, but I did both when I got up to Piccadilly and turned right towards the 'Dilly, I stopped, then. I didn't want to go that way, see the scene of my crime again. I turned around and walked back to Green Park, and too the tube from there.
When I counted the notes, while I was waiting for the train, the bastard had only given me four fivers. £20 wasn't even the regular rate, and he'd agreed on £30!
"Oh well," I thought. "I got a good meal out of it."
I jammed my hands in my pockets in disgust and disappointment, and felt paper in my left pocket. When I pulled it out, it was three tenners. I felt like a shit. The guy had given me fifty pounds instead of thirty, and a good meal, and a good blow job, and I'd thought of him as a bastard. If he reads this, all these years later, I hope he knows how grateful I was for that extra nice start to my short career.
In the first week, I turned four tricks, all "Blow-me" jobs, and made a total of £140. That got us a room again, after we paid back the £75 we owed for the last week and £75 for that week. Frankie made £155 that week, so we ate some, too, and put petrol in the motor. Thank God he made more'n me.
The second week, it was real slow because of the rain, and I only made £75, two "blow-me's" and a hand job on an old guy, maybe fifty, what I felt sorry for. Frankie only did £45, for a single "fuck-me" that he had to discount to keep the punter from taking a younger guy for full fare. He even did it bareback, from what Eric said the following day when we went to the baths. That was usually at least £150. My brother was taking chances I didn't like at all.
I was glad I didn't have to do any "blow-you's," 'cause I wasn't sure if I was gonna like the taste, or having a guys pisser in my mouth and my throat, especially if it made me gag. I had refused Eric's offer to try that on him, and of course I wouldn't consider such a thing with Frankie.
That changed fast.
The Saturday after we got back into the room, Frankie took me to a cottage he found somehow, somewhere on the other side of Heathrow, and had me play watchman while he turned eight guys for a tenner each through the glory hole next to the urinal, and one guy for a fiver because he was young and real good-looking. He turned a pair of twenties with two guys, one of 'em in front, the other behind (with a condom, at least) in the stall at first, then behind the cottage when a car pulled into the parking. I asked him how come he was taking less for it here than in the 'Dilly, and he said because it was out in the country, and you could get more overall by charging low prices and turning more tricks. I figured that made sense, especially when he made more here in one day -- just five hours, eight counting the motor -- almost as much as we'd made combined all week in London.
Then a guy came in and saw me, and wouldn't take Frankie, only wanted me. He spoke with a real french accent, and he wasn't bad looking, maybe 7 on a scale of 10. Frankie said he was a little tired anyway, so he stood watch for me while I went into the stall and the guy poked his dick through. It was smaller than the other ones I'd seen, maybe five and a half inches, and not too thick, for which I breathed a sigh of relief. I screwed up my courage while I wanked it a little, then licked the tip like Eric told me, and the guy put out some clear juice, meaning he was hot to go.
I managed to take it in my mouth, and only gagged a couple of times as I pumped it, then he came -- no warning, no sound, he just flooded my mouth with his spunk. I tried to keep on him, but there was just too much of it and I had to spit it out, so I pulled off him and wanked him while I spit his stuff out into the bowl, fighting back the urge to vomit. He kept spurting and spurting and spurting, and I didn't want him to get pissed off and not pay, so I took him back in my mouth and let him finish inside me. It didn't actually taste all that much, maybe a little bittersweet, and I think I swallowed some of it before he got soft and pulled out. The rest of it went into the bowl, but I got the taste.
He gave Frankie a twenty and a smile, and sauntered out. Frankie looked pissed that I made more than he did on one blow-you, but like I say I think he was a little tired out.
I took the next punter to come in as well. I was standing at the pisser, half hard, when this Farmer John looking guy comes in so quiet I almost didn't hear him, and looks at me, then at Frankie over by the door, then at me again, then my dick.
"Nice piece," he said softly at me as he hauls out this freak of nature. It was at least six inches long, soft, and a little above average around.
He saw me looking at it, and said "you boys on the game?"
I pretended I didn't know what he was talking about, but he knew.
"Tell you what, I have a £20 note in my pocket I found outside. Might just be yours, you ask me the right question, real nice." He was playing with his dick, and it was at least eight inches, hard -- maybe nine.
"I don't know if I can ask one that big," I said, mesmerized.
"I'll coach you good," he said. "You'll get it all with no trouble by the time I spunk up."
I looked at Frankie, who just rolled his eyes, then nodded his head. We needed the money after the last week's drought. I nodded okay to the guy, who was maybe thirty, maybe a little less. I was a little scared, but like I said, we needed the money.
The next quarter hour was a university-level education in taking a dick down your throat. John (he said that was his real name) came into the last stall with me, the one that didn't have no glory hole, and talked me through every single phase, from how to breathe, to how to relax my throat and let it all in. How to set my jaw so's my lips wouldn't get tired over the tops of my teeth, and angle my neck and head so's a normal-shaped dick would just slide right in, no curves or angles. Then how to make myself swallow while there was a pole in my throat, by sort of inhaling from your lungs for just a second to make the swallow start involuntarily, then just relaxing while it worked its way down the length of the pole. He told me I was getting pretty good, and could probably take more inches than he had by a good bit, and I felt somehow pleased at this confirmation of my ability.
I graduated with honors. He warned me that he was about to blow, and told me to take the deep breaths he told me about, then just let rip down my throat while I swallowed and swallowed. I musta swallowed five times before I had to come up for air, and I felt him spurt-expand through my lips all that time, and one more when I got the head back up into my mouth. He tasted different than the french guy. More creamy, almost no bitterness, but somehow kinda dry at the same time.
He pulled outta my mouth when he got soft enough to reel back in, and stuffed that wonder right back into his jeans. I couldn't believe I'd got the whole thing down there, but I couldn't forget that my nose was squashed into his pubes as he pulsed. He smelled kinda like fresh hay, too.
Before I could move, he stuffed the promised £20 note into my hand and buttoned up and left. Frankie said he was driving a Merc. He took the twenty outta my hand and put it with the rest in his pocket. I thought it woulda been nice if he let me keep it, to sorta have a little money of my own, but he said something I can't remember, but it was real nasty, and made me get a little teary, but I didn't want him to know that, so I told him I had to take a shit, and went back into the crapper.
I guess Frankie was really pissed at me after for some reason, 'cause he drove off and left me there alone while I was taking a crap for real. I felt so alone I wanted to cry, but I didn't. Ya gotta be strong. I finally hitched a ride back to Heathrow with this nice guy in a old Jag. He said he was "crew" or something with British Airways, and we talked a little about the kinds of planes they flew, then he dropped me at the Tube right to the East of Heathrow. I watched some of the huge planes land, from all over the place, American, British, Air France, Singapore. I dreamed what it might be like some day to fly in one of them someplace, get away from . . . here. It started to get cold, so I went down into the station. I hopped the stile, of course, and got on the wrong damned side, so I had to go all the way around the loop and come back to the same station before we finally headed for London. I bailed at Acton Town when I saw Ticket Controllers get on at the back of the train, and took the District the rest of the way.
Frankie didn't even talk to me that night, even when I told him I was sorry, and I sorta got hollow inside when we went to sleep and he didn't hold me like usual.
Sunday was bloody. For real. I was on the 'Dilly, and this really top-rate looking punter I never saw before started to round me up. The usual look-over, the walk up the block, the pause to stare, the walk back down. I used the "look-at-feet" approach again, since it had worked so well before. He finally came up and we did the usual patter about slow night, cold a little bit. Wouldn't I like a hot bath, he had a room right nearby, and so on. We agreed it was a straight blow-me blow-you job, full price, fifty quid, and a twenty quid bonus if I could do a double shot. I knew I could do that, no sweat. His eyes looked okay, but I couldn't see the pupils, because the irises were black, almost. No booze or beer. Looked like a TV Newsreader or sommat, real fine. Maybe five ten, five nine, nice shape. Well-kept hands, pricey clothes.
So I went with him up Regent and right at the Crate 'n Barrel, down to this little street behind Regent, and I started to get the feeling something was not quite right. There are no hotels like this guy shoulda been staying in, not in that direction, and there wasn't no traffic. My instinct was right, just not in time.
I hung back a little. Somebody grabbed me from behind and put something over my face, and I was just not there any more. My punter was in front of me, so it was another guy. I didn't even have time to get scared, it was so quick.
I don't want to talk about everything that happened to me by Monday morning. I screamed myself hoarse from the things they did to me, all dressed up in black leather and masks, in this room with black walls and no windows. I didn't get fucked, at least, but I sure got hurt. These guys were into pain like I can't understand. I got slapped, whipped, belted, burned with hot things on my back and neck, chained to a table thing that turned over itself. I got blown five or six times, and every time it was the same -- "cum in his mouth or you're gonna get more of the same." I came, and I still got more of the same. They . . . that's enough, that's all I want to tell.
When I woke up, in was in Hyde Park, right near Marble Arch. I had my clothes back on, but everything hurt. My head was throbbing like a drum, a headache like I'd never had before. I had no money, of course, not even the pound coins under my shoe soles. The Tube was closed, but I got back to the room, somehow convincing the driver on the night bus to let me on. Frankie wasn't there. I just lay on my stomach and went to sleep, crying and shivering.
Frankie was pissed about what had happened to me -- not because of what happened to me, but because I couldn't turn for cash, for at least a few days, and we only had thirty quid after he paid the room and a trench for him to look better for the punters, more sophisticated, and something or other else -- and it rained, all bloody week long. I spent most of the time on the mattress, on my stomach, the burns gradually turning from sharp pains to constant itches. Frankie brought me some cream he got at Boots -- it didn't come in a bag, so I figure he boosted it. I had to beg him to put it on my back, and it wasn't until I said that he could never mind, I'd get Eric to do it, that he told me to lay back down on the mattress, and he put it on, real gentle. I couldn't understand why he was so hard with me sometimes, then so nice.
Frankie turned only one "blow-you" by Friday, and the landlord's heavy threw us out that morning at eleven. Frankie knew where there was a place we could sleep, a squat up near the railway tracks that lead to Liverpool Station, and he drove the car up there. There was only fumes in the petrol tank, so he'd been driving it a lot. The way into the squat was through a loose board right above the tracks, and you had to crawl in. There was maybe twenty people squatting there, and Frankie paid some guy that looked like a pretty nasty case £10 for us to stay for two nights. The guy looked like he had the hots for Frankie, and the way he looked at me gave me the shivers -- it was like the second guy in the black room, those same stares through the holes in the black mask, cold and hating, cruel. I had nightmares about the black room that night, and woke up all damp. Frankie came to bed real late, but just pushed me over and went to sleep. I tried to edge into him, get him to put his arms around me in his sleep, but he rolled away with his back to me, and I gave up. The two guys in the corner were fucking, kissing, saying nice to each other, and I almost wanted to go over and ask if I could stay with them, but I fell asleep before I could get up the courage to do it.
I went to the 'Dilly with Frankie Friday night, because the bruises were almost gone around my face, and the burns were crusted over enough that nobody could see if I kept my shirt on. At least it didn't rain, but I noticed I didn't smell all that clean when I sat on the Tube to 'Dilly. I hadn't been to the baths since Sunday, what with the crap on my back -- I'd be sure an' get some social worker on my case that way. Get sent to a Home someplace.
I had a couple punters take a close look, but I guess they saw sommat, and they all spun off. By midnight I was getting real worried. Frankie got a punter, but I knew the guy, from what some of the others said. He was only a "wank you" kind, so Frankie would only get ten quid, and I had nothing at all. Then this old -- I mean really old -- guy that tried to get me the week before for a "blow-me" for a tenner (but I was a lot better than that, so I took another punter for full fare a few minutes later) he comes up and says I look like I need help.
I almost fell into it, almost let go, but then I knew what he was up to. He offered me five, not ten. I was hungry, we were desperate . . . I let him blow me in the alley behind a theatre for the fiver. He said something nasty, like it wasn't worth it, cause I stunk so bad he couldn't do it slow, and I went back to the squat. I bought a sausage roll at a cafe on the way, for 50p. Frankie wasn't back yet, so I just crawled in, found our corner mat, and tried to go to sleep. There were three people shooting up in the front of the room, two guys and a girl, and then they had noisy sex together. The two guy in the corner weren't there any more. I finally fell asleep as dawn began to break and the two guys stopped screwing the girl and telling each other how cool their dicks looked going into her. They didn't come, but I guess on that stuff, you don't need it. Thank God I never tried it.
I woke up when Frankie got back Saturday morning, when it was still dark, and kicked me in the foot. He said he only made a little, and took the four pounds fifty I had left, and said we had to go down to the Nest and turn at least six or eight tricks, count of because I was so bad at the game, and I chose sickos. He shoved me over to the very edge of the mattress and laid down, with his back to me. I asked him real soft to hold me, like he used to, but he snarled at me and told me to fuck off and grow up. I felt he really hated me then, for being a loser. I thought he loved me, at least a little, especially when he did me, but something changed in him from when I was ten or twelve and when I went on the game with him. He wasn't my brother any more, he was somebody else, and I was scared and lonelier than I ever thought I could be unless Frankie died.
I went back to sleep until the sun came
up and Frankie elbowed me awake. I didn't want to wake up. I wanted to
just never wake up. What was the point?
We get down to the Cottage a little before eleven, and do the usual. We stands together and wanks ourselves a little to get stretched, and as soon as a potential punter comes in, we do a little "oh shit" number like we got caught wanking, and I goes to the sink after doing my flies, and Frankie stays at the pisser a bit longer. If the guy looks like he's interested, like he takes the pisser right next to Frankie, Frankie flashes him, then takes his ass into the stall next to the last pisser, and I watch the punter. If he still looks interested, I goes up to the punter and says "he'll suck you off for a tenner," real low, like it's a secret. Works a charm. I collects the ten quid after the guy finishes up inside Frankie's mouth, and everybody's happy. (Only had one punter baulk at forking out the ten quid, at least for a minute -- Frankie explained that I was fourteen, and his car registration number was written down by our other brother, and if he didn't play fair, we wouldn't either)
It was a pretty good day for ol' Frankie. He turned nine punters in less than two hours, and that was with three interruptions and two false starts. Then the lunchtime lull, when traffic seems to drop off real bad, so we just stood at the stalls, bored.
Then all of a sudden this big guy is right behind us, didn't even hear his motor pull up, much less him walk in, and we did the flurry thing, but a little late, and the guy took the last pisser, right next to the stall. I goes to do the "handwash" thing, but not before I see this guy has a pretty big dick. Too much skin on it though. I looks over at the guy while I wash, and he's not your usual punter. He's maybe the same age as Frankie, at most, and somehow not English-looking. Maybe one o' them Germans, all clean-cut and Aryan but some how reminding me of Farmer John, too. Almost-white canvas trousers with pockets on the legs, and a red and black checked heavy shirt. Hair all buzz-cut, but not a skinhead, more like . . . like a cop! No, he warn't no cop. He's way more than six foot tall, and I think they stop cops at six-two or sommat. Maybe military? Yeah, that's gotta be it. His face is almost pretty, he's so good looking. I wonder if he . . .
I never noticed Frankie go to the stall, but all of a sudden, he says something like "Shove it in," and I can't believe he's done that, before I get the chance to discuss price. He's gonna do it for free?
The guy looks down at the Glory Hole, and I sees him tense up a little. His dick is getting longer, and I figure he must be interested. Maybe if I help Frankie get what he wants, maybe he won't be so mad at me -- maybe even forgive me. The guy looks over at me, and I can't look in his eyes. God, is he handsome!
"Go on," I says. "I'll watch out fer ya whilst he's doin' ya." I wish it was me, but not like that, not in a toilet, and I wonder what the fuck is going on in my head. "He won't bite."
The guy looks back at the Hole, and I look down at the guy's dick, and it's getting even bigger. It must be at least as big as Farmer John's.
"Jesus!," I said. "Frankie, yer gonna love this one." I looked back up at the man. His face looked back at the wall, then at me for a second, then at the Hole, and he turned a little, and I knew he was giving it to Frankie. I felt a chill up my neck, that Frankie was there and not me, somehow.
Frankie says something I can't hear, and the guy moves closer, turns more, and I just look at the most amazing back I ever saw. Shoulders wide as Farmer John, but not as thick, and a waist that can't be half as wide, with that "V" shape from under the shoulders right down to the waist. Hips not much wider than the waist, and a bum like a black guy's, all round and sticking out. Legs long and slim, and . . .
The guy shook a little, shivered down his back, and gave all the signs of a punter shooting off. So quick?
"Shit, man, ya come 'fore I even got a good taste!" whined Frankie. "Ya horny, or what? Stick 'er back in, an' I'll give ya another ride fer a fiver."
"Hey, Frankie!" I said too quickly. "I wanna go!" I never ought to a said that, it just came out of nowhere. I wanted to . . . do something with this guy, and not fer money. I was gay, just like I was afraid. Shit! I wanted to get out of there, out of the smell, the . . .
"Aw, shit, Noel," said Frank. "He din' have it in me mouth fer mor'n a second."
"Gotta go," the guy, pulling up his flies.
I don't know what made me do it, but I just walked up to him and said "Kin I come wi' ya to the car?" I wanted to . . . something.
"Sure," he said, and my gob rose as he looked down at me, so nice-looking, so . . . clean. He had a T-shirt so white it almost glowed.
I went out with him, and Frankie cursed at me, but I didn't care. It wasn't like he owned me, not really.
He had an almost new Escort, clean and shiny, and I was tongue-numb for some reason.
"Do you wanna . . . go again?" I think I said, just like any street hustler, except that's not what I wanted to be for this, but I didn't know anything else. What do you say to someone you really fancy? Someone your brother has just sucked off, who knows you're probably a . . . a whore?
"I think so," he said, looking down at me with a smile that I never got from nobody before. "I never got one of those before."
We got to the car and he got in and unlocked the door for me.
"A blow-job? Ya never had one before?" I got in. "Yer gonna like what I c'n do," I said. I wanted to show him how much better I could be for him, I just knew it.
I tried to think of where I could take him to demonstrate how I was the best he'd ever find, before he changed his mind, before he got away. I spied the trail that went down to the harrow behind the farm. "Let's park down there, by the wood." I pointed to the path.
You don't think I'll get stuck in the mud or anything?"
His accent wasn't German, it was American. "You a Yank?"
"Never had a Yank dick," I said instead of keeping my gob shut. Oh shit, how do I explain that? "Only had Brit dick, and one Frog." Came out by way of explaining, but it sounded like the kind of things the older guys on the 'Dilly would say, cold and . . . whorey. Oh shit, Noel, can't you shut your gob for once?
He didn't say anything, just drove down the lane, behind the trees. I touched his thigh, not because I wanted to, but there was no place else I could get my hand to go, and it had a will of its own.
"You sure?" he said, looking at me with a . . . I don't know, almost a shy look as he stopped the car and switched it off.
I couldn't answer, my nerves were all jingling, so I just opened his flies and belt and he pushed his pants and knickers down to his shoes, all at once. His dick was already hard, and was bigger than Farmer John by a lot -- inches longer, and bigger around. "Shit, it's huge!" I said, and I went to kiss it, but slipped on the console and ended up with the head in my mouth.
In for a penny . . .so I just did what I learned from John, and let him into my throat. He smelled like some kind of soap, and lemon and the smell form rotted wood, all clean and moist. I wanted it all, but I couldn't get the console out of the way, and there was no room between his legs because of the pedals. I pulled back slow, and did what Eric said I should do with my teeth and lips and tongue, trying to make him my slave.
"Move over towards this side," I said. "I can't get ya in all the way sidewise."
"You're going to get all of me down your throat?" he said kinda dreamy.
"Gonna give er a go," I said, looking down at him. He was more handsome than I could believe. Just like a movie star.
All of a sudden he got out of the car, like he was mad or somethin'.
"What ya doin'?" I asked
"Going around," he said. "My legs are too long to go over the hump."
I was afraid he was going to . . . I don't know, hit me or something, His hands looked like they could break my head open like a Christmas tree ornament. He walked around the car and opened the door to get in, and I got over the console to make room for him. He's a big fucker, I'll tell ya.
When he was back inside, I opened the top button on his flies and took out his dick, not believing that he would let me have it.
He made the seat go way back, and then the seatback went down, too, so he was almost stretched out, except his legs wouldn't fit under the dash. That left room for me, so I got down in between his legs and opened my flies, getting my little dick out of the painful bend it was in.
"Yer a big 'un, ain't ya?" I said, looking
up into those amazing eyes, crystal white, a black border around mostly
green and some brown irises. His face was better-looking than any movie
star I could imagine.
Six seven," he said. "I've always been . . . I kind of stick up in a crowd, I guess"
"I meant this," I said. "Ain't never 'ad one so big."
"Oh," he said. His face turned pink, like he was embarrassed. "You do this a lot?"
I decided to be grown up and brag a little. "Yeah. Me and my brother come here Saturdays fer a few hours. He gets most of it, but he lets me have one sometimes."
I licked the side of his dick like I'd learned from Farmer John. I really wanted him to feel the best. It was important.
"Why?" he asked.
"He gets tired after seven or eight, so I take the stall when he's had 'nough down his gob, an' he watches out fer me." I answered, paying little attention to what I said, more to what I was trying to do to him.
"Frankie's your . . . friend?" He opened his trousers completely again and shoved them down, but not to the floor, because I was in the way.
"Me brother -- but he don't like me, though." I don't know why I said that.
"Why?" he asked.
"Says I'm no good on the game."
"What game?" he asked.
I suddenly thought about what I was doing. This guy didn't know I was a "Dilly boy. He didn't know about what I had done. I didn't need to tell him everything. "His head game, I guess."
I took him back in my mouth, took a few breaths, and followed John's instructions. It went almost all the way in, smooth and easy, except near the base, when it stretched my jaws. It seemed to have a downways curve that made it easy for me to swallow.
"I can't take much more of that," he said.
I pulled up, and looked at him, so handsome and clean, and took a few more breaths then took him into me again, right all the way down. My jaw was a little tight, but I popped it, and my nose was in his pubes. He smelled so amazingly good!
He really was close -- I could tell, somehow, it was about to go off in my mouth. I pulled up to get a full lung of air, and just went all the way back down on him in one smooth stroke, feeling him slip right down inside me. I felt him surge, opening my jaws even a little more as his first shot went into me. I did the swallow thing in my throat, and then he shouted my name and just pumped his juice into me until I had to come up for air.
I was wanking slowly, and I couldn't catch up to him in time, but I was pretty close. Just as I pulled up enough for his dickhead to be on my tongue again, he shot again, and I felt myself start to come, too. He said he . . . never mind, that's what they all say. He caressed my head gently, feeling my ears, my temples. I felt real nice, wanted.
I sucked some more on his head, and he rewarded me with a little flow, and then all of a sudden three or four more spurts, like he was getting a whole new climax, and then it was my turn, and it felt really nice to do it with him.
We stayed like that for a little, then he just sort of shrugged me up onto the console again, did up his flies and stared at me until I had to look away. I felt my face get hot. All of a sudden, he got out, walked around the car and got in. I expected him to tell me to get out, but instead he offered me a cigarette. I don't smoke that often, but I didn't want him to throw me away, not yet, please not yet, let him tell me he wants to kiss me, hold me a little, talk . . . nice to me! So I took one and tried to think of something to say to this Yank with the beautiful eyes.
"Ya 'bout blew off the top o' me head," I said after the first couple of drags. "It's sweet."
"What?" he asked.
"Yer spunk," I said. "Ya live here?" I was so uptight I could hardly breathe. He was relaxed, casual, kept looking in the mirrors to make sure he could get out on his own.
"No. London. Isleworth."
"Nice. Ya rich?"
I struggled to find something to say, something to keep him there with me. "Isleworth's a rich man's place."
"It's right under the approach to Heathrow," he said. "You can count the rivets on the planes when they go overhead, they're so low. Can't hear a thing from six to midnight."
I thought of the planes I watched the Saturday before. I laughed a little at his joke. Americans are always laughing, arenít they? I looked and looked for something more to say, but I was gob-struck, totally. He looked at me, and smiled, but he didn't say anything else, and I was paralyzed. Shit, Noel, say something interesting!
"I guess I be'er get back t' Frankie," I finally said, giving up. "He'll piss off wi'out me 'less he's scoring."
"Giving a punter a ride," I answered. No point in trying to hide what I was any more.
He backed up a little to the clearing, and turned around. Frankies' Cavalier was gone.
"Shit, he's gone!" I almost wailed. "Shithead's done it again!"
"How you supposed to get home?"
"Ain't got none," I said, bitter as I came back to the real world. Where there hell was I gonna go now? Back to the squat? I wasn't sure anymore. Frankie would probable hit me for taking his punter before he got the chance to make his money. If he was really mad, he'd hit me pretty hard, and I was still sore from Sunday, and . . .
"What about your folks?"
I didn't know what to say. He didn't have a clue, and I didn't want to tell more.
"You want a ride into town?" he asked.
"Sure," I said. "Ya can drop me at the Tube." At least I wouldn't have to hitch again. That scares me, bein' all alone like that on a highway out in the country, especially if it gets dark. What do I do next? No choice but the squat, I guess. No money, 'cept the pound coin under each sole. The 'Dilly? It was Saturday night, probably get a punter, but I smelled bad, I had to do "blow-you's" until I got enough to get a bath and a mattress som'eres, maybe if I could do two tonight, that would get me some food and maybe I could find some clean used clothes at Petticoat Lane at the top . . . tomorrow was Market.
I wanted to talk to him, find out what it was like to be in America, look at him more, maybe . . . and I bloody fell asleep before I could think of anything to say . . .