Date: Sun, 12 Nov 2006 23:58:33 -0500
From: carl_mason@comcast.net
Subject: STREETS OF NEW YORK - 3

STREETS OF NEW YORK - 3

Copyright 2006 by Carl Mason

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

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

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


CHAPTER 3

(Revisiting Chapter 2)

As two beautiful young men lay giggling and kissing in each other's arms,
Tom shivered with the glorious feelings that were coursing through his
body.  He had stayed in control of his "lower nature" for so long.  Had
everyone around him deceived him?  Were these feelings really evil?  He
nibbled on Dross's ear.  Was it wrong always to want this white-haired
prince at his side?  Was it evil to want to take the young man and cover
his muscled chest with kisses...and more?  Oh, yes, so much more - and all
night!  The truth of the matter, of course, was that what the bath didn't
drain from the dark- haired Apollo, the back rub surely did.  Further, had
the back rub missed anything, the orgasm would surely have exhausted it!
Within minutes the two young lovers were asleep in each other's arms.
That's one of the good things about beginnings, yes?  There's always
tomorrow!

(Continuing Our Story - First Light)

There was barely enough light in the room to see, but morning was obviously
breaking.  Atypically, the muscular athlete had not slept well.  In fact,
his body was as tense as it was just before the kickoff of the biggest
game.  Looking down, he swallowed convulsively as he saw the sheer beauty
that he held in his arms.  Dross's grin and lip movements said that he was
having one hell of a good dream!  Gently, he lay the youngster down on the
bed beside him.  No, however unfamiliar and even scary, these feelings
couldn't be evil.  Slowly, he bent down and sniffed Dross's lower stomach
and then ran his nose into the boy's white pubes.  The pressure in his head
was pounding...pounding.  Like a snake, his tongue flicked out and tasted
his love's glans.  Holding his breath, he gathered the beautiful flesh into
his mouth.

As the flesh twitched and then grew in size and hardness, he heard a soft
voice above him breathing, "Oh, yes, love...oh, yes."  Hands gently grasped
his ears and pushed his head further down the shaft.  "Yes,
love...yes...yes..."  Time seemed to stand still for Tom.  Colors flashed
before his eyes; his tongue sensed a viscous liquid.  Just as he was sure
that he would burst, he sensed that his heavy cock was spewing an immense
offering between their quivering bodies.  At that second, Dross's cock
spasmed and poured a heavy load into his welcoming mouth.  Mouths fastened
together, allowing nothing more than indecipherable sounds to be heard,
they held each other with arms of steel as their bodies twisted over and
over on the bed.

An hour or so later, the boys awakened...once again...and lay on their
sides, grinning goofily into each other's eyes.

(Two Weeks Later)

As he lifted a heavy box of food onto the wagon, Tony asked Tom (for the
fourth or fifth time) if everything were in good shape for the picnic.
"You know, Tom," he muttered, "I realize that things can go wrong.  Those
little guys who have been spending so much time underground, however, don't
see it the way we do."  "Relax, Tony," Tom replied.  My football coach
contacted the Department of Athletics at Columbia nearly two weeks ago.
They know that there are no parks or playgrounds down here.  That's why
they bought that uptown property on Morningside Heights.  Columbia needs
athletic and recreational fields, too, and they've outgrown their other
facilities.  Since they haven't started building the new campus as yet,
they are more than willing for us to hold our outing there for your little
guys - and as many of the older boys and young teens who care to come.  I
hear there's nearly forty acres of trees and lawns at the old asylum that
overlooks the Hudson.  As long as we don't enter the main building and
watch the cooking fires, we're ok.  As a matter of fact, three Columbia
footballers whom I've played against are helping out by driving University
wagons."  "Damned nice of them," Slats grunted as he manhandled a
galvanized tub filled with ice and sodas.  "Damned nice of you, too, to
provide all this food and drink."  "No big deal, Red," Tom replied.
Remember that my folks said they wanted to help.  They agreed with us that
getting those kids out of that hole in the ground and out into the country
for a while is a good project.  Ok, Tony, let's get this food wagon on the
road.  We'll meet up with the other wagons at the old tenement shelter."
The three friends snickered as they looked over at Tom.  "Glad there's a
farm boy around who knows which end of a horse goes forward!" volunteered
Dross with a wink.

Thirty-one kids - mostly little ones, but with a fair sprinkling of older
preteens and early teens - were snaking out of their shelter as Tom rumbled
up.  Blinking in the bright sun, they looked around suspiciously in every
direction.  Only seven had ever been in a wheeled conveyance!  As the three
big Columbia footballers lifted them into the wagons, there was a
distressed silence.  Within minutes, however, not even the horses could
hear themselves think!  They never did quiet down all the way uptown - and
their collegiate drivers were the heros of the moment.  As they entered the
grounds of the old Bloomingdale Lunatic Asylum that had been established in
1808, two University guards waved them through the gate and secured it.
Then it was a relatively long drive through great old trees, lawns crossed
by walkways, blooming flowers, and open fields until the reached a shaded
spot with a glorious view of the river.

Oh, there were games...and races...and prizes...and cut knees...and a bunch
of happy kids!  There were also four exhausted footballers, for the most
popular race of all was the "horsey race" where the big guys (including
Tom) served as mounts.  They could take a break and enjoy a cold soda
whenever they felt like it.  About mid afternoon, Tom dragged out the
grates and started several cooking fires.  Needless to say, the focus of
attention shifted markedly.  As a matter of fact, several fires were nearly
extinguished by flowing saliva as the gang crowded around!  Dross, of
course, was in his element, for he proudly told how German immigrants in
the 1860s sold hot dogs, along with milk rolls and sauerkraut, from
pushcarts in New York City's Bowery during the 1860s.  (From that point in
the outing on, Dross was as popular as the footballers, for a goodly number
of the waifs were German.  Armed with history, they strutted around, taking
full credit for the food whose smell was driving everyone c-r-a-z-y!)  One
of the Columbia boys even knew a song about Cony Island hot dogs which he
taught to the kids whose stomachs were beginning to growl like a pack of
German shepherds!  Finally, all of the food and fixin's were laid out - and
swept up as if engulfed by a major summer storm.  The crew made sure that
every little one was offered a second dog.  (Legend has it that one
thirteen year-old with hollow legs finished off five of the delicacies and
came sniffing around for more.)

Following a quick cleanup, the footballers brought out instruments and
there was a little music.  Naturally, the doggerel about the Cony Island
franks had to be repeated...ad nauseam.  It wasn't long before the whole
company was shouting, "The Bow'ry, the Bow'ry!"  They also tried, "East
Side, West Side, all around the town.  The kids sang ring around rosie,
London Bridge is falling down."  (The little ones didn't get all of the
words, but they had fun anyway!  And, of course, the other songs seemed
endless.)

Soon the hillside overlooking the Hudson was dotted with kids getting as
close to their heroes as they could possibly get and taking a short nap.
(The fresh air, the games, and the food were an unfamiliar tonic.)  As the
shadows began to lengthen, they were helped back into the wagons.  With
thanks, hugs, and no few tears, they soon set out on the long return trek
to a different world.

Tom and Dross stayed behind.  The leader of the pack was determined that
the area would be thoroughly policed - and so it was to the complete
satisfaction of the University guards who wandered by as light began to
dim.  With a feeling of satisfaction, the boys leaned back against a tree,
their arms around each other, and watched the light retreat, first from the
river and then the Jersey shore.  Soon it was completely dark.

Suddenly, Tom scrambled to his feet.  Throwing off his T-shirt, he dropped
his shorts and, but for his shoes, stood naked in front of Dross.  Reaching
down for the boy's hand, he chortled, "You ready?"  "Am I ready for what,
you big jock?" came the immediate answer.  "Well," Tom drawled, "I thought
you might run with me for a bit to work off the food.  The moon will soon
be up; it's warm; I'm horny!"  Mumbling under his breath, Dross allowed
himself to be helped to his feet and stripped by his ardent companion.  As
the kneeling footballer drew his shorts over his shoes, the white-haired
one reached down and nearly lifted his love to his feet, pulling their
naked bodies together.  They stood together for a moment, sensually
sniffing the other's flesh and flicking their tongues into hollows and
against stiffening nipples.  Tom was the first to grunt and come hard
erect.  Quickly, he knelt down, grabbed Dross's buttocks, and swallowed his
hard cock as he pulled him towards him.  After sucking vigorously...once,
twice, three times...he spat the boy's cock from his mouth, leapt to his
feet, and ran off into the shadows, laughing like a hyena!

"You...you...you!" screamed the Dutchman, adding a few choice epithets in
English and in German.  Breathing hard, he took off after his fleeing
adversary.  For reasons that are probably not all that difficult to
discern, Tom allowed him to catch up and send him crashing down onto the
soft grass.  Over and over they wrestled in the moonlight that sifted
through the leaves of the giant oak under which they lay.  Hungrily the big
footballer ran his hands over Dross's biceps, his pecs, the thick muscles
just above the knees, his classic buttocks, and the rock-hard,
precum-glazed protrusion that gleamed softly in the moonlight.  Tom growled
harshly, "Y-o-u a-r-e s-o d-a-m-n-e-d b-e-a-u-t-i- f-u-l" and roughly
jammed his lips down onto Dross's.  Seeing the tears that gleamed on the
youngster's face, he drew back.  "Oh, my God, Dross.  Have I hurt you?  I
am so sorry!"

Clearing his throat, Dross rasped, "You haven't hurt me, you big lug.  It's
just that I love you so much...in every way...more each day.  Let's run a
little more, ok?"  Brushing his lips more gently against his love's, Tom
whispered, "Ok," and they were off again along the walks and through the
trees, like two ghostly spirits running side by side, shafts of moonlight
occasionally illuminating the ethereal beauty of their passing.  After they
had stopped, rested momentarily, and given themselves in love, they slept
naked in each other's arms in a protected sylvan hollow.  When the sun
returned, it would be time enough to retrace their steps towards the Lower
East Side.

(In Fermento Veritas) [Latin: In beer there is truth.]

"I'm thirsty," Slats Monahan grumbled as the boys headed up the Bowery.
"Let's stop at that saloon on the corner."  "Which corner DOESN'T have a
saloon?" Tom snickered.  "Besides, how can either of us even get in?  When
I last checked, you were 15 and I had a few months to go before reaching
21."  "Not to worry," the redheaded youth replied.  "That saloon takes
special care of newsies [youngsters selling newspapers], bootblacks, and
other working kids.  Three-cent whiskeys...and a cute girl for not much
more!  Hell, they'll even serve a gang member if he's young enough...and
mean enough.  Besides, me Da's a friend of the owner!"  "Oh, yeah, gangs.
I need to talk to you about gangs," mumbled Tom.  "Better believe it!" the
redhead spat out.  "You're walking on thin ice, Tommy!"  As he neared the
open saloon door (a slight strut in his step), he continued to warble under
his breath, "Oh, that goil's a poil - too b-a-d she's from Noo Joissy..."

His eyes swiveling as the boys entered the saloon, Tom quickly canvassed
the contents of the room: a sawdust-covered floor, a potbellied stove, the
walls covered with mirrors, nudes, framed newspaper clippings, and chromos
of boxers and horses, a long bar, and the usual tables and chairs.  He
noticed only a few people in the small bar besides the bartender - an older
man...something of a derelict...with a young boy, two older teens, and a
rough-looking guy wearing a bowler hat, probably in his early 20s.  As soon
as they staked out a table, Slats went over to the bar and returned quickly
with two draft beers.  "First one's on me," he announced, slapping one of
the mugs down in front of Tom with an attitude that said no questions were
expected.

"Now I've got to tell you something about gangs down here before you get
yourself killed...as well as some people around you," Slats began.  "Most
everyone down here who isn't working his ass off is in a gang - and there
aren't that many jobs that you'd want to have."  "How about Dross?" Tom
interjected.  "He's not an infant or ancient and, yet, he's not in a gang."
"Well," Slats continued, retaking control of the conversation, "the Heinies
[Germans; a precursor of the term "Krauts"] are kinda strange.  Rather than
getting involved in the action, they kinda stay on the sidelines.  Don't
worry about them.  You'll find that the really important people down here
aren't German.  For instance, that white-haired pal o' yours, Dross, is a
nice guy, but he'll never amount to much.  Spends too much time at
school...  That's only for girls...and guys who can't do anything else!"

"But...but," Tom sputtered.  "Why would a guy want to be in a gang?"  "Look
at it this way," Slats continued.  "Most of the people down here - from
real young ones to guys in their twenties - are pretty much free to do as
they please.  Either they've made it clear to their folks that they intend
to call the shots in their lives, or their families couldn't support them
and kicked them out to make it on their own.  A guy on his own still needs
friends, and he also needs help with things like finding some food for
supper and getting it cooked.  Further, he usually needs protection against
those who would put him back under control.  You give and you get.  It's
that simple."

"You said I was on thin ice, Slats," interrupted Tom with some frustration.
"I don't get it.  What am I doing wrong that I don't see?"  Hooking his
thumbs in his pants pockets, the carrottopped teen leaned backwards and
growled, "YOU GOT YOURSELF NOTICED, BOYO, AND THAT AIN'T GOOD FOR YOU...OR
FOR YOUR FRIENDS.  Those lousy little kids who live in the abandoned subway
are talkin'...all over the Lower East Side.  You know...  If you and some
Columbia swells from midtown are going to be their friends, and do things
with them, and give them food, where is the gang going to be when it needs
loyal soldiers to protect its turf?  If you're really going to help others
down here, you've got to stay more 'invisible'!  You might also ask
yourself where they're going to go when you leave.  Most of them, Tom,
gotta stay down here."

Realizing full well that there were grains of truth in everything Slats had
said, Tom realized he had some thinking to do.  In fact, it was a good
thing he had spoken when he did, for he had been thinking of starting a
flag football league before the week was out.  (If playing areas weren't as
scarce, he would have already done it.)  Given the fact that Tom Arnold was
all too human, however, he was also frustrated and tired.  Almost
brusquely, he turned his head towards Slats and asked what was going on
between the old geezer and the little kid sitting on the floor nearby.

"Matt Scanlon?" Slats asked.  "He's too old to do much of anything, and he
never was that bad a guy.  The kid is Moshek Brodsky...dead
parents...rejected by relatives.  Common story down here.  Scanlon bought
him as a servant."

"BOUGHT HIM?" Tom snarled, got to his feet and walked over to the old
reprobate's table.  "This boy yours?" he asked in a monotone.  "Yep,"
Scanlon answered brightly.  "Got him fair and square.  He'd have been dead
within a week or two...didn't know nuttin' about living on the street."  He
reached down and tousled the tangled hair of the rail-thin, dark-haired
youth sitting at his feet.  The boy wore nothing beyond a ratty undershirt
and an ancient pair of shorts.  The legs of the shorts were so abbreviated
and cut so wide that nothing much about the boy was left to the
imagination.  "We're doin' ok, right, Moshek?"  "Name's 'Morris,' sir," the
lad almost whispered, cringing as if he feared a blow.  (His expression
suggested that he was a very early teen rather than a prepubescent, however
slight his frame.  A quick view of his groin when he shifted his legs
confirmed the impression.)

"How much do you want for him?" Tom asked, his voice without emotion.  "How
much you got?" responded Matt Scanlon.  Going through every pocket, Tom
indicated that he had all of three dollars, nineteen cents on him.  "Oh, I
guess three-nineteen would do it," the old codger cackled, licking his lips
and eyeing the bar.  "Done!" Tom said quietly, pushing the bills and coins
across the table towards Scanlon.  After counting his money, the old geezer
dragged the boy to his feet by an ear and ordered him to go over to his new
owner.  "Buy us a beer, young man, to seal our business," he commanded,
turning to Tom.  Confused, turning just a bit pink, the footballer said,
"You've got all my money, sir."  Looking at Slats, the old man cackled and
pitched him a coin.  "Och, yer friend's a foine broth of a lad.  Be a good
boy now and go get a beer for each of us!"

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

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


To Be Continued