Street Kid

by Ned Williams

  Our suburb boasted a selection of community halls and quite a few clients took me to the occasional local music recital, art exhibition, play etc. I knew how to behave at these events and, instead of sighing and shifting about in a display of apathy; I actually enjoyed what we saw and asked the right questions to make them feel important. Because of this, my visits to small houses of culture became ever more frequent. One major discovery, at this time, was that great man of the theatre, Master Will Shakespeare. The revelation occurred when I was taken to see that epic: Othello as performed by the local amateur drama group. I lost all sense of my surroundings and entered the world of the playwright–poet. The story of the vulnerable outsider who is grossly misunderstood and the telling of a ‘forbidden love’ rang bells inside my boyish head and moved me to tears. Next day, from the school library, I borrowed the only copy of the play they had. In that pristine copy, purchased by the school some ten years earlier I tried reliving my experience. It worked. My school friends must have thought I’d wanked myself into a state of insanity instead of blindness but I took no notice. Steadily, over the next few years, I saw as many of Shakespeare’s plays as the local theatres would permit. This love for the Bard is still with me and now, I simply can’t imagine life without him. I’ve never recovered from my first experience (nor do I want to). It was my Pandora’s Box where Degradation rather than Hope was left behind.

  Very quickly, there was another, more immediate little discovery. I was treated by another client to go and see, in the city, a touring production of Puccini’s opera ‘Tosca’. At my young age, I was swept along with its beauty and passion. However, I noticed that I was constantly being given the eye throughout the whole evening. So, I had stumbled on yet another potential market place.

  My trips to the town became a permanent feature at week–ends. And, with a lot of help and advice from Andy, I took the occasional sojourn during the week.

  Over the next few months, Andy methodically added the rest of the pick–up places to my gazetteer. That infamous park with its aging statue; the miles of railings which boys could use as pitching posts enabling richer clients to drive up and down to choose the piece of meat they wanted to while away an hour or so; ‘The Steps’ upon which, during the day, remained the domain of students from the annex of the University, became, at night and weekends, transformed into a de Mille epic. As each road, square, park, pub, club and toilet was indicated, it soon became apparent there was a lot of competition from other rents. I had no idea there were so many boys and young men who were on the game. Many were students who topped up their meagre grants by selling their bodies. It was easier, quicker and far more lucrative than serving bitter coffees in clapped out cafés. Because of this, there was a fairly constant flow of new talent ready to satisfy the demands of clients.

  The regular rents called these educated prostitute students, ‘Temps’. They were generally ignored by the rest of us and left to work the streets alone. We never included them in our network of information and loyalty. This was chiefly their own fault and worked very much to their disadvantage. Many a student was seen to be picked up by a total stranger and then, perhaps a week later, he’d be back at his pitch but now sporting cuts, and a black eye or two, or his arms in slings. One particularly memorable case involved a lad who ended up with an efficiently mashed face, a broken arm and plastered leg, who had to click around on crutches. This particular ‘Temp’ had returned to work the streets and, believe it or not, managed to be a major ‘turn on’ for quite a few punters. I suppose they wanted to care for him, mother him, or some such wish fulfilment.

  Many places Andy showed me, I never went near again. Besides, there were so many of these nooks, crannies and corners, I would have needed a road map to grasp them all. So, I will refrain from boring you with details. As each of these lesser places loom in the story, I’ll fill in the gaps, but, until then, if you will forgive me, I will let them ride. However, there were three vitally important places which need some explanation because they feature so predominately in the rest of this tale. They went under the names of ‘Alfio’s’, ‘The Green Goddess’ and then, of course, as I have already mentioned, there was ‘The Steps’.

  ‘Alfio’s’

  ‘Alfio’s’ was a minuscule coffee bar run, indeed, owned by a young Italian called, amazingly enough, Alfio. He and his even younger brother, Carlo, had opened it two years previously when they moved to our illustrious city from somewhere in Scotland. I don’t know if they were gay or not but they certainly knew a good money–spinner when they found it.

  The bar was located in an arch under a bridge, directly beneath the main railway line. On a fairly regular basis, the whole place rattled and shook as the timetable dictated. The space for customers was tiny. It measured about six feet by twelve. There was a small serving counter behind which the brothers did their best not to get in each other’s way. It was captivating to contemplate the intricate culinary ballet which they performed. I don’t remember them ever dropping a single plate, cup or saucer. As there was no room for either tables or chairs, the place didn’t offer them. A few stools were provided for the slightly more infirm of body – but that was it. Their customers had to stand up to drink their stunning, fresh coffees. Around the walls ran a narrow shelf which allowed plates of fresh, delicious sandwiches to be balanced in comparative safety. Alfio accompanied the serving of all snacks with random snatches of tenor arias from the Italian Opera repertoire. Any more than a dozen customers would have caused a major problem in ergonomics. During the day, their catchment area was local shops and offices. If anyone called in, they would have seen a thriving business. Unfortunately, the lack of space prevented it from being a really successful enterprise. There simply wasn’t enough room for the number of customers required to attract the big money. How, you may wonder, as indeed did most of the daytime purchasers; how could this miniscule café support the livelihood of both its entrepreneurs?

  Well, at the far end of the public area was a door. Even within the miniscule confines of the café, it could be easily missed as a full length curtain covered its presence. Beyond this curtain and its secret door was a small room. This room was the real source of their income.

  The little room made the place extremely popular with the twilight people. It catered for the murky orgy mongers. That room was about half as large again as the main café area and was completely dark. To ensure no light would sneak in, the owners had painted it black. There was neither window nor electric light. The room was only available to the more cautious public on evenings and week–ends. When it was open for business, Alfio and Carlo decorated it with rent boys. Customers would come into the coffee bar, buy the obligatory cup of coffee, pay a further substantial fee to the brothers and enter the inner sanctum. Only guys up to the age of about thirty could go in. Its motto became, ‘Another night – another orgy’. Not surprisingly, this black, back room went under the affectionate and singularly appropriate name of – ‘Calcutta’.

  We were paid by Alfio himself who divided out the money between us. It was very lucrative as the anonymity which the darkness of the venue provided proved exciting to the many punters. As we boys were the main attraction, he always treated us extremely well. Alfio instituted a system for those who went there to work. First, we were required to book in. He had a small black book(!) where either he or his brother recorded our names (real or fictitious) along with the time of arrival. We left our jackets and valuables for them to guard and into ‘Calcutta’ we went. For a small charge, he would look after the punter’s possessions as well. These personal effects were as safe as houses. Nothing ever went missing. When we’d had enough (as they say), of this sightless groping, we checked out with them. The only thing missing was a punch card. He then calculated the time we’d worked against how much he’d taken over the same period and gave us a very generous percentage. He knew he had to pay well, to thereby ensure a regular supply of youths. At the end of each day, he destroyed the daily time shee
t so there would be no running record of ‘Calcutta’s’ users. I never felt he cheated us. In fact, we nearly always came away with more money than we thought we’d actually earned.

  Now for inside ‘Calcutta’ itself.

  Because it was so dark, it was impossible to know who you were feeling, wanking or fucking. The only brief respite from the gloom occurred when the curtain was lifted and the door opened to allow the access or exit of a client. The room was usually packed with sweating bodies and, on especially busy nights, there was a queue in the café itself, waiting for ‘Calcutta’ to empty a little. I dread to think how many arses my young, eager cock stretched. By moving to another part of the room, it was easy to avoid being screwed, although many people tried, Also, if someone was busy working on me, I could easily remove my weapon from the grip of their hands, lips or bottom and make out I was shooting my load in copious quantities, which, of course, I wasn’t. It was fun and quite exciting having to feel for sex. In the dark, heads, and bodies contorted in all sorts of seemingly impossible positions. Hands groped and enjoined with adjacent mini–scenes. There was one time I remember when I had two open mouths on my cock, one on my balls, a couple more tonguing my arse and more who were licking and feeling my body. I must confess, that time, I did come. Well, who wouldn’t?

  Apart from its obvious advantages, because it was situated on the edge of the pick–up area, ‘Alfio’s’ became one of our most regular meeting places.

  Today, the café is no longer operational but the front, now boarded up, remains. When I first saw its current condition, my heart leapt with joy and sorrow. Joy, because it hadn’t been destroyed but sorrow because, apart from the façade, nothing remained of its past.

  I don’t know when, how or why it closed. I’d love to find out what happened to Alfio and Carlo. (Or would I?) Maybe they went back to Scotland – or Italy. I can see them now in a little café with a dark back room under a railway arch in Milano... No. Forget it! Leave the past to the past.

  ‘The Green Goddess’ – Etc.

  ‘The Green Goddess’ was a completely different kettle of fish – larger, cosy, warm, welcoming. The first time Andy took me there, Paolo was sitting in a quiet corner being chatted up by a stick insect. As we entered, Paolo’s worried face lit up. Using us as a convenient excuse, he managed to get away from the skinny, little man.

  “Am I glad to see you two! She…” he nodded in his usual unsubtle way towards his previous host, “wants me to shit in her mouth while I bugger ’er with a cucumber.” In spite of the loud telling of the trick’s most intimate desires, Paolo waved and smiled politely at the forlorn looking man. He then, with a grimace, turned back to us. “I ask you, what does she think I am? Don’t answer that!”

  The ‘stick’ must have seen and heard Paolo’s attitude because he scurried out of the door pursued by Paolo’s derisive laughter. “If that’s the sort of thing she’s after, she’d be better off hawking her vegetable at ‘Mo–Mo’s’.”

  Now, I had never been to ‘Mo–Mo’s’ and, if reports were to be believed, I had no desire to! The place was a refuge for the more extreme sexual depravities.

  Paolo and Andy started gossiping about some club or other that had been raided the previous weekend, so I took the opportunity to look around the cream coloured interior.

  The large coffee bar–cum–caf’ had a deceptively small frontage. It was run by a loud mouthed, mad Italian woman called Renata. Her accent was so thick; it wasn’t unusual for her to write down what she was attempting to say so we could understand her. Like Shakespeare’s Luce/Nell in ‘The Comedy of Errors’, she was ‘No longer from head to foot than hip to hip. Spherical!’ Behind the counter, she’d had built a raised platform in a forlorn effort at making herself appear taller. The trouble was, when she had to come out to collect the empties, she shrank by twelve inches or more. Her husband, who was permanently shackled in the corner so he could lovingly administer his beloved coffee machine, was her perfect foil. He said little but glared a lot. One could forgive customers for thinking that his wife was trying to starve him to death.

  Unlike ‘Alfio’s’, I don’t know if either of them knew their precious, thriving business was being used as a meeting place for rent boys, but, as long as we bought refreshments, they didn’t complain. Renata even helped us by acting as a useful poste–restante. This facility began years ago when boy ‘A’ left a written message with her to pass on to on to boy ‘B’. Boy ‘B’ gave his reply in the same manner to be passed back to boy ‘A’. Renata proved so conscientious in ensuring the messages reached their destinations, soon, everyone was using her for the same purpose. It had now become an established method of keeping in touch. Every time any one of us went in, even before she commanded her husband to conjure up another cup of hot liquid, she would peer into her little box which contained recently deposited billet–doux.

  The café itself sat about thirty covers. The tables were Formica topped and stank of diluted vinegar. This, because Renata lovingly sloshed them down with a filthy rag dipped in a bucket, brimming with the evil stuff. She constantly banged around behind the counter. I don’t think she was capable of putting anything down quietly. Her husband (no one ever found out his name), when the racket had stretched his nerves to breaking point, would roar at her. There then followed ear–splitting exchanges of more overheated Italian. To retaliate, he began to sort out his cups as if they were rats and it was his personal mission to beat them all into submission. On especially acrimonious evenings, the decibels generated by the pair of them could have qualified for a Government Health Warning.

  Believe it or not, it was a fun place. Unlike ‘Alfio’s’, ‘The Green Goddess’ was a good little earner in its own right. The food was hot, cheap and plentiful. I don’t know who actually did the cooking as we never saw the chefs. Raised voices of protest and frustration periodically emanated from a serving hatch situated behind the counter but the opening was too high to actually spy them. When they sounded as though they were stopping just short of murder, Renata and her husband would join in. At such times, the Government Health Warning became a National Emergency.

  The scrubbed, planked floor lacked only the spit and sawdust but we loved the place. If Renata caught us laughing at their antics, she’d screech at us and then, within a short space of time, join in our merriment. She called us her ‘Bambini’ and outrageously mothered us. Yes, we adored her.

  ‘The Green Goddess’ and ‘Alfio’s’ were havens of relative calm and normality in our crazy, dangerous world. No matter what time I went in, I could usually find a comrade. And, because of the message service which Renata ran, vital information could be communicated quickly and efficiently.

  If it hadn’t been for these two coffee bars and the unique entertainment each provided, life on the racks would certainly have been poorer.

  The ‘Etc.’ of this section’s title represents the last important place of which you need to know. It was, and still is, a grand, ancient set of steps leading from a busy road down to the start of the old dock area.

  Imaginatively nick–named ‘The Steps’, they were solidly built by solid workers in solid granite. Measuring about ten feet across, they wound backwards and forwards in three mighty sweeps of twenty large treads. The stone balustrade was about three feet wide and ideal for comfortable lounging. The rents would gather on these steps to gossip and wait for the punters. When they came, our transient employers walked up and down the flights and selected their staff. On a busy night, ‘The Steps’ looked like a poorly rehearsed Busby Berkeley extravaganza – except boys replaced the famous MGM girls.

  The atmosphere on ‘The Steps’ was more relaxed than most other meat racks. There was a good view of the roads leading to and from them, so ‘Lily Law’ was unable to lurk for a surprise swoop. They could be too easily spotted.

  It was here most of the ‘Temps’ hung out. They could be anonymous. I also had the feeling that, because of their proximity to the docks, the ‘The Steps’
must have had a long sexual history. It was easy to imagine them being used for centuries as pitching posts for prostitutes. It wasn’t hard to picture them, say, two hundred years ago, being populated by much the same types of youths as now – except, they must have been of both sexes.

  Contrary to what you might have come to expect, the local council lovingly maintained ‘The Steps’, not a couple of mad Italians!

  Making My Mark

  Slowly, extremely slowly, I started to become a regular addition to the available boys who were for hire. Andy was true to his word and looked after me and ensured the rest of his immediate clan offered the same protection. Guided by Andy’s kindly and watchful eye, I was introduced to various clients who made few demands and were easy to service.

  Jacko managed to get out of me that I had a flair for drawing and he, being the gossip that he was, quickly whispered this little nugget to the rest of the gang. Soon, they were asking me to make sketches of them and I did so gladly. This was a considerable feather in my cap and assisted in my being accepted even more by them.

  Naturally, there was one exception to this sense of order. It was Paolo. There was one client with whom he fixed me up to, I suspect, have a gentle revenge for my first day’s gaff. Graham was a nervous man in his forties who covered his nervousness by being edgy and a little ‘in your face’. He was into ballet and his flat was filled with memorabilia. The wall space was covered in posters and photographs and on the floor stood various display cases holding ballet shoes, bits of costume and props along with his more precious, autographed photos. The lay out and order of these items was so precise that it felt like I was walking into some sort of terpsichorean shrine. Our session was pretty straight forward, except, before we actually got down to it, he went into his bedroom and changed into a tutu. This one off session did nothing for me. Later, Paolo beamed as he asked if I had enjoyed myself. As I took it in good part, he slapped his hand on his thigh, squeaked with delight and gave me a huge, friendly hug.