hustle

They’re never cute. Not ever. Not that it makes a difference. After it’s over, I don’t even remember what they looked like. Who they were. What they sounded like. Just how they felt. Yeah, how they feel. That’s what’s important. That and how much they give me. It’s probably best they’re all dogs. The uglier and fatter, the more cash I get. And they’re just a distant memory after the bills leave their hands. All but the softness of their skin. The warmth of their bodies. That stays with me forever.

I feel sorry for them. These skinny, methed out, coked up, disillusioned boy whores, who think that they’re going places. That they’ll meet someone to take them away from all this. To take them away to God knows what. A warm house. A safe bed. An uncomplicated life of domestic bliss. They can’t see this for what it really is. It’s no means to an end. It’s just an end. So they use to escape this world. But I like it. I like it because I see it for what it is. Everyone’s lonely. Everyone needs to be touched and made to feel special every once in a while.

That one looks like my seventh grade science teacher. Tall, lanky, receding hair line. Giant nose. This guy’s probably got a forest growing in their too. It was so gross, but I could never stop staring. How the nose hairs mingled and became indistinguishable from his moustache. His eyes are shifty. It’s his first time. Probably not picking up, just picking up a boy. You can always tell. He’s circled the block six times already. Slowing down each time. Staring us all down. Wondering if he can summon the courage. Or the desperation. I don’t approach them, though. I never do. They have to pick me up. And open the door for me. At least that. It's just respectful.

I think his name was Carlito. Strung out little Mexican boy. They found him in the dumpster behind Maria’s Pizza. His torso anyway. They found his legs in Bartlett Park. His head at Smith School’s playground. On the slide of the jungle gym. All fun and games I suppose. I saw him a couple times. Never spoke to him. I don’t speak to any of them. They all think I’m stuck up. Like I’m better than them. It doesn’t take much to be better than trash. Especially trash that doesn’t realize it’s trash.

He finally stops. Pulls up to the curb. Rolls down his window. He’s looking at me. It’s about time. Thirty minutes already and not a single bite. I was beginning to lose faith…How do you want to do this? Call me over? But that would bring too much attention to yourself, now wouldn’t it? Another trick advances, though he’s so clearly looking at me. He can have him if he wants him. They’ll be others. There always are. My seventh grade science teacher’s doppelganger, or maybe it really is my seventh grade science teacher after all…Mr. Kruller. Was that it? He mumbles something to the boy. Gestures towards me. The boy turns around, an ugly little thing, acne-ridden, pock-marked. Is it any wonder he would chose me instead of you? He turns around and nods his head in the general direction of a Mr. Kruller, if not the Mr. Kruller. I make a show of stepping off the wall and put out my cigarette for dramatic effect. I don’t even smoke, really. But it’s important to keep up appearances.

In the car, he’s all nervous chatter. Making this out to be more than it is, more than it needs to be. I stare straight ahead and tell him it’ll be 75 now, 85 later. He gets the hint and we ride along in silence.

The door closes behind us and he’s all over me. Hungrily kissing my mouth, holding my head tight between his large, bony hands as if I was going to suddenly escape. He rubs his head against mine and lets out the tiniest sound. A whimper, a sigh. He rips my shirt off, kisses my nipples, my stomach, strokes my arms up and down. I’m hard. I love it. He takes my jeans off, nearly tearing them in the process. But I don’t tell him to be careful. He is on top of me. I draw him closer because I love the pressure. I love the weight of his body on top of mine. I clutch him closer and closer, our bodies become one. And everything goes dark.

Silently, he drops me off. An hour, maybe two, has passed. I don’t remember anything about him. Who he was. What his dick was like. All I have is the 180 dollars he gives me. He likes to tip. The money is heavy in my front pocket, laying right next to my dick. I stroke it on the ride home. The wad of cash. My hands are still warm from holding him. My lips still tingle from the tickle of his moustache. If I close my eyes, I can feel his presence all around me, like an aura. He pulls off, the tries want to screech, but can say nothing. I re-take my place against the wall. Rub my hands up and down, up and down, up and down on my shirt. And quietly, I whimper, I sigh into the night.