A bit more of the tale of urban delinquency, based on the kids we see every day. Like it? Tell me. Want more? Tell me. Don't like it? Tell me why.



Many stories are set in a fictitious, imaginary world where AIDS, HIV, and STDs do not exist. In the real world, they do. Play safe, take care. Protect yourself and your partner.

Street Kids


"Don't you want to ask?" I said as Dad drove home.

"No, I don't want to know." was all he said. He was still in a mood, so the rest of the journey was silent.

Mum had me lay on the settee when we got home, Dad said nothing till he was about to leave. "Back in two weeks, Son." was all I got even then. Still, at least he hadn't disowned me -- yet.

The week passed slowly, I got up, showered, came down and either sat in the kitchen to eat, or lay in front of the telly the rest of the time until I went for another shower or bath and back to bed, every day. I stayed in all the time, I didn't suppose I'd be allowed out even if I'd have asked. Someone from the school brought me work to do, and my books -- I didn't see if it was a teacher or one of the lads, I stayed stretched out on the settee, and Mum didn't ask them in. I did some of the work, half-heartedly.

"Mum, I want to go back to school next week." I said on Friday, I was so bored.

"No." she replied, and walked out of the room. `Don't argue.' I thought.

Dan and Jay called on Saturday morning to see how I was, I saw them through the curtains but Mum was very curt with them at the door and sent them off with little or no information. Somebody phoned a little later, but all I knew of it was hearing Mum say "No, he can't come to the phone." out in the hall. When she came back into the living room, I saw a `Don't ask who it was' look on her face, so I didn't ask.

I suppose I was meant to reflect on how `bad' I was during this fortnight, but although I did try to, being on my own made it hard. Talking about being hard, I tried to ignore that, too, when it happened, but at nearly fifteen it just happened more often. Saturday afternoon was awful: I watched the football on telly, and got hard. I changed channel to some old film, and got hard again. The kids' cartoons even made me hard, so did the soap opera Mum came in to watch later. The trouble is, when it got hard, I thought about -- well, at my age I would, wouldn't I -- which just made it worse. I tried to think of other things, and managed most times, but Saturday night's shower where I had to rub away any loose remaining stitches was a real killer. As I wiped my soapy finger around the site of my `repair', I thought I was going to cum without touching it. Bear in mind I didn't want to, I was trying to `change', so I turned the shower tap straight to cold and deflated the problem - except it came back as soon as I got out and dried off. I pulled on my night shorts and climbed into bed, but couldn't sleep. Automatically my hand wrapped round it, and I lost the battle. A picture of Rye's face in the hospital bed flashed into my mind, that last time when he'd pulled my hand onto him and I wanked him, and I just exploded. I must have shouted out as I felt everything from between my nipples and my toenails empty out, because as I just lay there gasping with an ocean of cum on my belly the bedroom light seared on and Mum stood there in the doorway.

"Mum, I -" I started to plead, but she just turned off the light and closed the door. I lay there for ages, not knowing whether to cry or be angry.

`Fuck this!' I thought after I'd given up on the choice, `I can't do it, why the fuck should I anyway?' - meaning change my ways. I got up, stripped off the shorts, wiped my stomach with them and threw them on the floor. I opened the drawer on my dresser, grabbed a t-shirt and pulled it on, then my old Levi's from the wardrobe and pulled them on too. Trainers and a black hoodie completed my dressing, and I was pleased to find a half full packet of fags and lighter in the hoodie pocket -- if ever I needed a smoke, it was now. I scooped the money from my dresser top, pushed the notes and change into my jeans pocket and quietly left the bedroom.

Mum must have gone to asleep already, her bedroom light and TV were off, so I crept downstairs quietly and slipped out of the front door.

The first fag was alight and I'd had three drags before I reached the street, boy was that good! Fuck knows what I was thinking about, but I wandered along aimlessly and as soon as the fag was finished, I lit another. Then, after that, a third.

"Hey!" I heard a voice call. "What's a boy like you doing out this late?" it said. Looking up, I saw a lad aged about 18 sitting on a bench. I hadn't even realised I was walking through the park by now. He was wearing a white Tracksuit, the jacket bearing the circular `Sergio Tacchini' label, and had his legs slouched out, with his hand inside the trackies waistband. It was dark, but the orange-tinged light from the streetlights in the distance lit the scene enough to see what he was doing.

My eyes lingered too long. "What'cher lookin' at?" he snarled.

"Don't know yer name." I replied arrogantly.

"Come an' sit down!" he growled after staring me out, adding "I'm lonely." mockingly.

"So am I." I said defiantly as I sat on the bench, not close enough to grab, but close nevertheless.

"So why're yer out?" he repeated, never taking his eyes off me.

"Jus' walkin'." I said, watching his fingers move under the white cloth.

"Walkin'? On yer own? Pretty boy like you shouldn't be on yer own!" he said, the wisp of a little smile on his lips.

"I ain't pretty!" I stormed, flashing him the best dirty look I could muster.

"Oh yes yer'are!" he said. I detected the start of a wicked grin, put me in mind of the baddies in the old black an' white silent films, it did. We just looked at each other for a few seconds, a few seconds that seemed to last for ever.

"Fallen out with yer boyfriend have yer? Lover's tiff? he said, grinning fully now.

The words `he's in hospital, leave him alone!' flashed stupidly through my empty mind. I dismissed them (why should he spring into my mind?) with a scowl, which must have made him think he was close to the mark. "Don't 'ave boyfriends!" I said.

"Play the field, then, do yer?" he smiled, scaring me a little.

"No-o!" I returned, spreading the word out negatively, attempting to dissociate myself from the line he was taking. I've never fancied anyone this much older than me, I thought, looking up at his face. No, I don't fancy him at all, I cancelled that with.

He moved quicker than lightening, pinning my shoulders on the high-backed bench with his hands and placing his face over mine. "I do!" he growled.

`Beer and chips.' I thought, as his lips pushed roughly onto mine, identifying the smell on his breath. I put my hands to his chest, trying to push him away - I suppose I could have done, if I'd really tried. He knocked one out of the way as his hand moved down, the fingers then sliding between the buttons on my fly. They popped open as he twitched them with the ease of an expert, and his fingers touched my cock. It wasn't hard, but it wasn't soft, either. "Commando, eh?" he said, lifting from my face an inch or two. I tried to push him off again, stronger this time, but he held, pinning me there. I pushed harder still, but felt the cool air on my shaft as he pulled it through the fly and slid the skin right down tight on it, then hesitated.

"D'yer want this easy, or rough?" he asked, a whispered threat. I stared up into his eyes.

"Kiss me again." I said.

His tongue swirled in my mouth, pushing mine aside roughly as his hand flayed up and down in my lap. I dropped my hands from his chest, the exposed arm circling round, up over his neck and holding his face crushed in mine. I turned the tables completely, making him do it, making him take me, mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue and hand on cock, gripping me fiercely and working me frantically, until I lifted my hips into his hand and shot hard into the gloom.

I was still shooting weakly as I relaxed my grip on him, allowing him to break free from my face and stand dazedly over me.

"Fuck, kid, you wanted that more than I did!" he gasped, wiping the cum on his hand onto my jeans as his ability to breathe returned. Silently I reached out and wiped my hand over the unmistakeable bulge in his white trackies, catching the lustful look on his face before I grabbed the waistband and pulled them down savagely at the front, taking his pants, if he'd been wearing any, down with them. His cock, wet from the precum he'd leaked whilst excited with me, jumped out curving up to the most pronounced helmet I'd ever seen. The shaft was long but no thicker than mine, and without waiting to be forced I jumped forward and engulfed the swollen crown between my lips, holding it by gripping just below it loosely with my teeth, not enough to call a bite but sufficient to prevent its escape if he tried to back away, as in fact he did.

"OW!" he screamed as my teeth did their job holding him, and as my tongue tasted the rib of skin underneath the crown's base I felt the blast of his cum hit the back of my throat four times, after which I released my grip and held the tender skin in my lips lapping up and swallowing further deliveries as they arrived. Still a cumslut.

As I finally pulled away and looked up at him, he slapped me hard on the side of my face, knocking me down onto the bench.

"Cockbiteing little whore!" he screamed as he held the tender flesh between his fingers, and I took my advantage, scrambled up and ran.

Although older, he was quicker than me and soon caught and tackled me to the grass. "Like it rough, do yer!" he shouted as I struggled unsuccessfully to get free.

He held me tight, pinning me to the grass and my mind rolled, thinking a million thoughts all at once, none of them good for my safety. Physically, everything was happening in slow motion, and I gradually analysed the situation, terrified though I was, looking for a way to get away.

He was struggling with my waistband button as he held me, and as it popped he pulled my jeans down over one thigh. Summoning all my strength -- I was determined wasn't going to be raped -- I somehow rolled him over, off me and kneed him hard in the balls all at once. As he curved his spine up toward me in pain, lifting his back, I dropped my head hard in his face, jumped up and ran holding my jeans up with one hand, them flapping open as I escaped. Fuck, my head hurt as well now!

I glanced round at the park gate, and saw him standing in the distance. He wasn't chasing me, so I hurriedly buttoned my fly and made off down the street, watching across the grass incase he suddenly came after me. He didn't.

Criss-crossing through the streets to avoid being followed, I made my way home the long way, stopping at the driveway to my house to light another fag. I walked round the back of the house and sat on the backdoor step, the scene of my whisky binge, smoking it and contemplating my luck.

Suddenly the kitchen light flared on, and I heard the back door lock turning. I jumped up and backed off to the lawn, expecting Mum to open the door and drag me inside. She didn't.

I heard the kettle click on, and the sounds of a cup of tea being made a couple of minutes later. The fag, burnt out by now, dropped from my fingers. Any second now.

"Lock the door when you come in, Anthony." I heard Mum shout from the kitchen, then -- nothing! After a few seconds, I opened the door slowly -- to an empty room. I locked the door, turned off the light and made my way upstairs quietly. Mum's light was off already. There was no way she could have drunken that tea by now, it would be far too hot even for -- I opened my bedroom door and saw why. The steaming cup of tea was standing on my bedside cupboard. I stripped off and sat on the bed, lifted the cup to my lips and sipped the searing fluid. I hadn't realised how cold I was, shivering in fact, until the heat reached my tongue. I sipped it noisily down as fast as I could, feeling the heat warming my inside, then curled over on the bed, pulled my duvet over my head and closed my eyes.

I think I was crying when I fell asleep, but I can't really remember and anyway, I would deny it if anyone ever asked.

Next morning, Sunday, I got up at abut nine and after pulling on a pair of sweatpants, wandered downstairs.

"Oh, good morning, you're early!" she said cheerily as if nothing, absolutely nothing, had happened in the last few weeks. "I'll do you a cooked breakfast if you like."

Now don't get me wrong, my Mum's great. Puts up with all sorts of shit from me, and we have this kind of understanding. If I've done something wrong, she'll tell me off. She'll tell me off, I'll ignore it, and we're both satisfied. Now with what's happened recently, and me sneaking off last night, I'm due one. A real big one. She turns, wiping her hands on the dishcloth and here it comes.

"Two of everything, Anthony? Bacon, sausage, egg? I can grill a tomato if you like, as well!" I nod my head in a mix of request and disbelief.

"Mum, about last night." I begin. I might as well commit suicide as get hanged.

"Cold, wasn't it? I thought you might need a hot drink." She said, sliding the grill pan laden with my breakfast under the gas. Damn, this wasn't working.

"Mum, I went out because I needed space to think. Then when I got to the park -"

"Anthony! I don't want to know. Stop this right now." She said furiously, spinning on her heel at the cooker. "Just picture your Father and me standing at your grave because you've got yourself knifed, or eaten away by that horrible disease." She said, and I saw her eyes were wet. Furious but tearful.

"What disease?" I asked, unable to think because of her temper.

"Aids." she said. "It kills hundreds of boys like -- you."

I jumped up and leapt over to her, and tried to comfort her with my hands on her arms.

"I don't suppose you're in the least bit careful, are you?" she said, her misted eyes staring deep into mine.

"What do you mean?" I said, still trying to calm her down.

"Have you even got any condoms?" she said, just about controlling herself. "And your friends? Do they use them?"

"Mum. I -" but I couldn't answer. I understood her anger, the fire that was consuming her from inside. Not because of what I was doing, but because every time, I was screwing my life up and throwing it away. My life, her own flesh and blood.

"The bacon's burning!" she said suddenly, pulling from my hands and turning back to the stove. It was over.

After breakfast I decided to go and soak in the bath for an hour. While I was there I thought through the events of the last few months, no, not relived them, thought through the other people, the reasons, the consequences. I was going to be fifteen in a few weeks time, and I wanted to be sixteen, seventeen, eighteen and all the other years of my life as well when they came. I thought it through - I'd grown up quickly, too quickly perhaps.

Bullshit, I hadn't grown up at all, I'd become a sex addict. I've taken my innocence, minced it up, chewed it and spat it out. I've got to stop now, while I can.

While I'm alive to.

I can, I must.

I must, I can.

I got out of the bath when it was too cold to bear, dried, and dressed in a t-shirt, clean jeans and an Adidas top, and walked confidently downstairs. Mum was in the living room, watching a programme about wildlife in Africa, so I sat beside her and watched too. I noticed her turn and glace at me occasionally, so I turned and smiled. She said nothing, she probably thought my brain had collapsed.

"Look, I'm trying, right?" I said when it happened again. "I know I got out of my depth, but I'm swimming hard for the shore, OK?"

"I meant it, you know." she said. "I dread answering the door to the police, here to tell me you're dead."

"Mmm." I said. Mum sure knows how to get her point across.

We had Sunday dinner just after one o'clock, and after helping to wash up I stayed at the table and tried to do some more of the schoolwork. For the first time ever, I wished I'd paid more attention to some of the lessons. Still, at least I tried.

On Monday, a social worker called. The woman spent quite some time with Mum, then they came up to my room where I was lying on the bed after tidying the room (yes, I know. But it was something to do, OK?) listening to my walkman. They knocked, and came in as I was saying "It's OK", the woman asked me how I was but as I was telling her I felt a lot better now thank you, she was just ignoring me and looking round the room, as if she had x-ray eyes and was looking for a drug stash or something. When she turned to go, I smiled sweetly and said "Well, goodbye. Thanks for calling!" in my best `well behaved' tone. I hadn't moved. She hadn't said anything else.

Then, a little later, someone from school came to take the work I'd done and leave some more. I think it was one of the teachers, as I heard a car pull up, but all I heard after the doorbell was Mum saying "No, he's asleep. He has to rest more now, you know, while everything heals up."

Whoever it was must have been satisfied with that because I heard the car go just after, and I stayed upstairs till teatime.

When I went down, there was a letter for me on top of the school books, marked `Private and confidential' with my name but the school's address.

Mum watched me open it, but when I read it I just ripped it up into as many pieces as I could, and threw it in the bin.

"Somebody's sick joke." I said when I saw she was looking at me with a `tell me what it was about' expression. "That's the best way to deal with it." I added, picking up the teapot left out on the table from the social worker's visit and emptying the teabags and remaining cold tea over the confetti.

Actually, that was to stop Mum digging the bits out and putting them together again.

`Antony', it had said (I hate people getting my name wrong), `I'll be gone when you read this. Thanks for telling them it wasn't me. Simon.'

See why I ripped it up? Sad though the guy was, I hated him because -- well, I didn't know really, then. It was only later I realised it was because Rye saw me get into his car. Much later.

The rest of the week passed as boringly as the previous one had, but somehow I felt better about things. More settled, if you like. Fuck knows why, but I did. One afternoon, just sitting gazing out of the front room window I saw some of the gang walk past the house, they didn't stop but looked up at it as they passed. Dan, Jay, Key and some other kid I didn't know. `Cunts!' I thought. Perhaps I was moving on.

Dad appeared Friday lunchtime, Mum was all over him, but he was a bit offish with me.

"Come on, we're going to sort your room out!" he said to me after lunch. "Why? It's tidy, I cleared it up Monday!" I told him.

"The other bed's coming this afternoon." he said as I followed him up the stairs.

"Bed? My bed's OK, I've only had it a couple of years?" I questioned.

"Not yours, Ryan's." he said, picking up some dirty clothes and throwing them out of the door.

It was one of those moments when you stop dead in your tracks, all the background goes white and the camera zooms in on your face, in the films. "Ryan's??"

I think I'd have been less surprised if he'd said "The Pope's" or something else unbelievable.

"Oh, I don't suppose your Mum's told you yet, Ryan's coming here when the hospital releases him. We're going to foster him. Give me a hand with this desk."