Date: Tue, 2 May 2023 00:28:30 +0000 From: Sam Tudor Subject: Rent boys revisited Part 30, Ian Part 6 Donate if you can, Nifty can use the money! And we can use the porn to fuel our JO fantasies. Ian's Story -- Part 6 About the same time that I connected with Marty, a guy named Devon, Black, hung, picked me up at the Meat Rack and invited me to his apartment for sex. I liked being fucked by him, and he introduced me to crack cocaine. It made sex even better, and, made me feel better when I used it, although I felt like shit after it wore off. It got so that I "needed" it, but was making enough money at the supermarket, and by cruising for sex at the Meat Rack, that I could afford to pay for the crack. Now, it is important to note that Devon was not hooked on it. He was smarter than his customers. This went on for a month or so, I was using more and more crack, it was costing me more and more, and I was missing work at the supermarket, and got fired. Marty was warning me that I needed to save up money so we could live at the Y in the winter, but I paid no attention. I figured it was OK, I would have more time at the Meat Rack, and the hourly rate was 10 times better than the supermarket, and, it felt really good, at least most of the time. Meanwhile I was feeling pretty shitty, much of the time. I was having night sweats, fevers that came and went, and was generally run down. Devon approached me one nice evening, I had just fucked a client, and had $100 in my pocket, and had not cum, and asked if I wanted to fuck, and, use. I was agreeable, and we went to his place. "I just got some H," he said, "want to try it out? The high is much better than cocaine." "Sure," said I, dumb as I was. I did. He showed me how to inject myself, I did it. The high was incredible. We fucked each other, the fuck was incredible, both ways. I found him another evening, and bought more, it cost more than the first time, but, I was not really hooked at that point. Eventually, I was hooked. And I was feeling worse when not high. I was basically worn out most of the time. And, between that and some pills Devon gave me, I was on a downward spiral. I was pissing my pants once in a while, and didn't give a shit, with a wet crotch sitting waiting to be picked up. At this point, hardly anyone was interested, and having lost the supermarket job, and the whoring income, I was getting to be a mess. Eventually, I tried to steal the wallets (and money) from more than one client. The most efficient way was to blow a guy in the park behind the museum and lift his wallet with one hand while giving him a great blow job. This was successful with quite a few. I left the emptied wallets of cash,at the bus stop, leaving the rest, figuring someone would return them, and that none of them would complain to the cops, since they would have to explain what they were doing getting a blow job, in the museum park. But, one of them had the guts to complain to the cops. Since I was still hanging out of the Meat Rack, it was easy to find me and I was arrested and put in the drunk tank. Nobody would post bail for me. It was a Friday and the first arraignments would not take place until Monday, it was before Judge Otis, so I was expecting my "get out of jail free" card to work. It didn't. I was to be kept until someone posted bail, or trial. No one did. I was allowed phone calls, more than the traditional "one", but to no avail. I did not know where Denny had gone, Mr. O'Reilly took my call, but told me to rely on the Public Defender. So, I languished. But, as the weeks went by, I had plenty of sex to keep me occupied. I was strong, I was willing, I could defend myself, and it quickly became know that I was available, and not too picky about with whom and what. I felt shitty much of the time, but attributed it to withdrawal from drugs. In the drunk tank, the first three nights, I pretty much kept to myself. My most usual words, were, "Get the fuck away from me!" Since most of my cellmates, which began with three on Friday night, 12 added on Saturday, mostly in the evening or overnight, and five more on Sunday, were drunk, or just mentally ill, and not tough guys, that worked well. No body raped me, and I didn't rape anyone else. And, I felt like shit since I was coming down off a high, and there was nothing there to make me feel better. "Drink a lot of water," was the only help I got. We all got to shit, and piss, and puke, into one stainless steel toilet bowl, without a seat, or a cover, but, at least, it flushed. There was one Puerto Rican guy, Ricardo, who appeared to be my age, and reasonably sane, and in good shape. He had been in my high school class, and although we did not hang around together, we did say "hi" on occasion. So, misery loving company, we hung out together. I was charged with sale of a controlled substance. I had not sold any, but, was intending to, to support my habit. Ricardo was charged with assault on a police officer. Nobody was willing to bail him out either -- neither of us had a permanent address, any assets, a legitimate job, or anything that would let a bail bondsman think we had any connection to the community, so we would show up, let alone pay his fee. Since I was going to be there for a while, I had an HIV test. It was positive. That explained part of my medical symptoms. It was also a death sentence. Ricardo tested positive as well. Sargent Kitzke, who was in charge of the jail, was really a good guy. If he was gay, it never showed, but he was OK with guys who were, and guys who were HIV positive. After our arraignment, on Monday morning, he put Ricardo and I in the same cell, both being HIV positive, and put us both to work in the jail laundry. Ricardo, unlike me, was not showing any symptoms at that point. And, after lights out, we had sex. I was feeling better, and felt horny again. I asked Ricardo if he were gay, he said, no, but he had no issue with having sex with other guys if it made sense under the circumstances, which it seemed to do, and that is how he got to be HIV positive, he having been in jail before. I asked if he kissed, he said, maybe, and I approached him, and hugged him, my cheek against his neck, and we mutually moved closer together, and eventually, lips to lips, we kissed. There being no rush, we were not going anywhere, we made it last. And, we were clearly both hard. I undid the fly on his orange jumpsuit, he undid the fly on mine, cocks pulled out, his was about the same length as mine but thicker, it was hefty, and heavy, and hard. Now, we were in a cell, with a sink, and a toilet, for just the two of us, so it was a lot cleaner, than the drunk tank, which frequently had vomit on the floor, despite the guards' best efforts at having one of us mop it up In our two man cell we could wash up, and Sgt Kitzke let Ricardo have his bulb syringe, which had been in his backpack, to clear out his hole, and mine. We did it. We stripped, it was not cold, and started to wash each other. One of the guys in the cell opposite told us to put up a blanket for some privacy, which we did. He also told us to hold off until after the 9 pm bed check, and to be sure to be back in our own bunks before the midnight check. Fucking was OK as long as the guards did not see you doing it, and if we asked Sgt. Kitzke, and had some money in what had been in our pockets when picked up, he would buy condoms for us, and lube as well. Since we were both HIV positive, and we could clean out our holes, condoms were not needed. I fucked him, soap and spit for lube, and he fucked me. My overall health improved, the food was passable, I got some medical attention for my symptoms, but the medic who saw me was pretty pessimistic about my life expectancy. It would be an infection that killed me, not HIV itself, so I should try to stay as heathy as possible otherwise. Ricardo and I were in that cell together, for six weeks, awaiting our trials. Sometimes we could fool around with other guys in the laundry, it was known we were HIV positive which limited our partners and/or what sex we could persuade them to do. But, I hated being locked up. Marty came to see me, as did Father Dennis, but not my mother, let alone my father. There was not much promise to my life, but, I was not suicidal, at least at that point. I had been through a lot, and was sure I could make it through more, and, maybe, in time, there would be a cure for AIDS.