Street Kid

by Ned Williams

  I don’t think they wanted to consider the possible repercussions of their actions. They had achieved what they had set out to do and, as far as they were concerned, that was all that mattered. It worried me that they could be so glib over their reckless campaign. I dreaded further retaliatory crackdowns by ‘Mr Plod’s’ friends. When I added this note of caution to them, I was shouted down. They informed me that I was ‘a proper little kill joy.’

  However, they were eventually proved correct as the blonde arm of the law was never seen again. I don’t know if he was transferred or whether he asked for less hazardous duties. I wondered if he told any of his colleagues about the incident or, perhaps, took a more circumspect line and kept it to himself. If he was moved to mention his group therapy session to his superiors they might have put two and two together and come up with a rampant four. After all, he was a specialist. The others he had shopped must have told the police during questioning, what they had got up to before they were booked. Therefore, m’lud, if all six of the gang bangers were rounded up and questioned, they couldn't all be lying especially if it corroborated other complaints from his previous busts.

  When they heard about it, our fellow gay policemen were not amused. They didn’t want to know who were responsible but we were soundly warned off from trying anything like it ever again. I presume, even though they were part of our scene, they felt the need to close official ranks. We hung our heads, felt suitably chastened and didn’t attempt a repeat.

  Curiously, the blitz on the gay underworld stopped for a while. Perhaps, somehow, ‘Lily’ had heard about the incident and thought if they pursued the same tactics, the whole disastrous story might come out. How would they be able to explain away what had happened, to one of their own in that quiet lavatory? And, believe me, come out it would – we knew a sympathetic journalist on the local rag who would have been only too delighted to report it!

  Adventures

  Iwas becoming more and more intrigued by the sexual peculiarities that many of my clients displayed. In an odd sort of way, I quite enjoyed them. Don’t get me wrong, they didn't turn me on, but it was becoming a fascinating, surrogate academic study.

  One client named Cliff rather disturbed and frightened me. It had nothing to do with my being unable or unwilling to meet his demands. He never wanted anything with which I was unwilling to comply. No, what made me disturbed and fearful was his constant desire to give blowjobs in unusual (and often dangerous) locations. He was turned on by danger. The more outrageous and difficult, the greater was his attraction to it. I’m certain he spent most of his free time thinking up new places in which to perform. Many gays prefer the determined search – the act of seduction above the full nitty–gritty. I wondered if Cliff experienced the same tingle by dreaming up and searching out crazy sights. The list of these obscurities was considerable. Some of the more lunatic places in which I'd been blown were; the Big Wheel in a fairground; the local museum; an aquarium; the library of a famous stately home and the public viewing gallery of a tall office block.

  Naturally, there came a time when we were nearly caught.

  One cold, dark and foggy evening I was huddled, shivering on ‘The Steps’. Cliff breezed, in a stately fashion, down the first flight to where I sat. He saw me, waved and winked, knowingly.

  “Ah, Carl, my fine young fellow! How have you been doing?” I smiled. “And might I say, you are looking particularly delectable tonight.”

  On my guard and with mock suspicion I answered “Thank you.” I knew this style of greeting of old. He used it when he'd been privately cogitating and had become inspired.

  “Don’t tell me,” I sighed, “you want to do it on a washing machine, in front of the screen, on the stage of the Roxy, during a showing of ‘From Here to Eternity’!!”

  He raised his eyebrows and grinned, “Now, there's a pleasing thought.” I laughed. “No, my boy, I thought we could have an encounter on the top deck of a parked omnibus in the main terminal.”

  “But it’s always busy…”

  “Yes,” he joyfully agreed.

  I stared at him in disbelief. “…twenty four hours a day.” The prospect of having sex on the top deck of a bus didn’t please me at all.

  “I know.”

  I smiled and shook my head, “You’re mad.”

  “No, just adventurous.” He was watching me intently. “What do you say? Are you game? ” I hesitated. “It will earn you some additional menace money. ”

  What could I say? – We headed off in the direction of our objective.

  As we approached the brightly–lit depot, Cliff spotted a lone double–decker parked slightly away from the others. “There, that looks a likely contender.” Luck seemed to be on our side, as only a few members of the travelling public and a handful of staff were in evidence. After casting an expert eye to survey the lie of the land, he inclined his head towards me.

  “I’ll take the lead and go first. Hopefully, I should be able to make it in one. If I remain undetected you follow on in a few minutes. Check?” He whispered as if we were about to begin an assault on Moscow.

  Although I nodded, I wanted to tell Cliff, there and then, that I was nervous – but I didn’t – or rather, I couldn't, because he was off across the Station like a vixen running before the hounds. I felt sure he would be challenged, but no one took a blind bit of notice. Before commencing my part of the journey, I wasted a little time by looking at the timetable for the Express Coaches to London. I didn’t realise the sheer number scheduled.

  When I thought the time was right, I turned and took my first step across the tarmac to the lone bus. At that very moment, luck appeared to take a holiday. Two coaches and a single decker growled and spat into the station – and they were full. Instantly, from every door, staff quickly appeared. My trick’s beautifully planned campaign looked as though it was about to be well and truly scuppered. The whole place had become instantly transformed from a quiet, sleepy ‘end of the line’ for buses into a rush hour orgy. Forlornly, I looked over to the mobile sex shop and saw my mentor on the upper deck, staring at me and furiously beckoning for me to take a chance and follow. After gulping hard, I saw his strategy. By using the throng, I would just be able to cover the tracks of my perilous journey. And it worked!!

  It felt surreal, sitting on the darkened top deck, looking out of the window at the muster of travellers going about their business whilst I had Cliff’s mouth clamped on my open fly. Although my interest was difficult to firmly maintain, I was somehow managing some sort of response. My eyes casually glanced towards a door marked ‘Staff Only’. I watched a driver with his conductor amble out convivially. My anxiety began to grow as I saw them make tracks for our moveable love nest. Muttering “Fuckin’ ’ell!” I drew my lollipop licker’s attention to this impending disaster.

  Suddenly, as if by magic, I caught sight of Paolo. He appeared from nowhere and marched straight up to the driver and his mate. He began to engage them both in conversation. He was waving, what looked like, a travel brochure under their noses.

  Cliff reacted with all the instincts of a cornered animal. We took the opportunity to make a quick getaway. Just as we broke cover from the bus’s boarding deck, Paolo finished his diversionary conversation and walked away. Thanks to him, we made it.

  Later that evening I went into ‘The Green Goddess’ and saw Paolo. He gave a knowing look. “That’ll teach you, eh Carl?”

  Although we'd managed to achieve our aim and gone unnoticed by the rest of the commuters, hawkeyed Paolo had seen us and had taken it upon himself to act as lookout. It took a good hour for my fright to evaporate. Only then could I begin to see the funny side of things.

  ‡‡‡

  Each rent had a number of special, regular clients who could be relied upon. That’s not to say that the tricks didn’t pick up one person to the exclusion of all the rest; it merely means that they only sought their ‘fun’ from a small and select circle of boys. When the urge came upon them, they
would arrive, see who was around but only pay to go with those they knew and liked. It was easier to use the lads who already knew what their particular proclivities were. This worked out quite well because if you weren’t part of a specific client’s circle it was easy to natter away with them without the pressure of wondering if they were seeking to pick you up. Also, we could keep the tricks and rents informed where everyone was – thus performing a public service.

  Having said all that, there were plenty of ‘one off’s’. Not all the punters wanted regulars but sought, instead, fresh meat for each encounter.

  One of these was an elderly man who must have been well into his seventies. He lived in a large house in one of the city’s wealthier areas. One day he arrived at ‘The Steps’ in a sort of minibus he owned where he collected together ten lads – myself included. I later found out that he always needed at least five but, if he could, tried for more. With ten of us he must have thought his boat had come in. As we drove back to his house, we were deafeningly noisy. The racket gave me a headache. To the casual onlooker from the pavement it must have all appeared quite normal. An elderly man was driving a load of boy scouts, dressed in civvies, on a weekend break – camping, perhaps? As he turned into the driveway of his vast house, he begged us to keep the noise down as he had inquisitive neighbours. Being good little rent boys who valued their jobs, we did as we were told. We walked demurely from the bus and filed in through his front door. In this crocodile line, we transformed ourselves from the boy scouts into a flock of reluctant novices dutifully obeying a fundamentalist Mother Superior.

  Once inside, he closed the front door and began to climb an enormous flight of stairs. The hall was covered in nautical prints. Vast scale models of sailing ships stood in a mute, frozen convoy inside glass cases. It was impressive.

  “Follow me, boys,” he quivered. “Come on, chase me – chase me.”

  In a strict single file, we ignored his request and sullenly tramped up behind him. At the top of the second flight we were shown into a huge room with drawn curtains. It was bare except at one end there was a single comfortable chair. The plain, cream walls were devoid of any adornment except the overspill of about two feet from the vast rubber mat, which covered the entire floor. The strong smell of rubber almost knocked us out. A line of carefully placed open newspapers formed a temporary bridge from the entrance to the only other door in the room.

  “Now, I want all you lovely, lovely boys to get yourselves in there,” he was indicating this other door, “and get yourselves down to the nuddy.” Bemused, we exchanged glances. “Can you do that little thing for me, eh, my little beauties?” One of us took a step into the room. “STOP!!” he screamed. We jumped. “For heavens sake, what's the matter with you all? What d’you think these lovely newspapers are down there for? You use them to walk on! Now, please, dears, do as you're told. I don't want my lovely carpet (!) ruined by your grubby shoes.”

  Because he was paying we did exactly as we were told. The side room was an impressive en suite bathroom, which could easily house a double bed–sitting room. The bath, alone, could have quite comfortably accommodated a small guestroom! Silently we stripped and, when ready, shuffled back into the rubber room.

  The Ancient Mariner had seated himself on the chair. He’d decided to change into something a little more comfortable – a woman’s frilly housecoat! On a seventy–year–old it wasn't exactly an appealing vision. What struck me was the self–control we all had. There wasn’t as much as a snigger from anyone.

  For the next hour he indulged himself in ordering us to perform his bidding. In great detail we were told exactly what to do. He was like a stage director handling a group of inexperienced but eager actors. Every move we made was the result of his constant barrage of instructions. I was happy to go along with all this provided he didn’t get it into his head that I was to be screwed. I was lucky. Because of the size of my tool, I think he probably visualised me as a stud and cast me accordingly. Things were going well when – about half way through the session, our OAP suddenly stood up with a bottle in his hand. ‘My God,’ I thought, ‘what's he going to do with that?’ I needn't have worried. He came towards the panting, heaving mass of youthful bodies and began to pour liberal quantities of Johnson’s Baby Oil everywhere. At first nothing unusual happened but, as the grim smelling stuff spread over our flesh, we began to slip and slide and slither uncontrollably. We started to giggle and laugh. The heat generated from the oil, combined with the heat from our bodies and the now slippery rubber mat, made me wonder if this was what it felt like having sex inside a giant butter mountain. My mind went back to Victor’s friend and the incident with Andy in the cupboard. Now, most of my fellow rutters knew I didn't ‘take it’ but in the confusion, more than once, I nearly lost my precious virginity. It was accidental, I was assured, because we had all lost control of our extremities. We were ordered to shoot our loads over one of our number. He chose the victim. Now, I don't suppose many people can say they’ve had nine youths stand over them and spray his naked body with cum. For me, it was quite an experience. Yes, Billy Muggins here, drew the long straw. During this intermittent shower of sperm, our client wanked himself off.

  This whole sexual ritual was crowned with ten of us taking a communal bath. Our client then, with great loving care, washed each of us in turn – all over! Picking up a mountain of unbelievably soft towels, he studiously dried our every nook and cranny. He then gave his fragrantly sweet smelling charges a lift back to the Centre.

  I don’t think any of us had a second visit. Because he liked each of his private orgies to have fresh, new faces, I couldn’t help wondering how many hundreds of boys he’d taken back.

  It was still early when we returned to the racks but, after that hour of solid, highly athletic sex during which I had shot my load twice, I was knackered. I absorbed a coffee at ‘Alfio's’ and went home for a heavy night’s sleep.

  Another strange client I had the misfortune to meet approached me whilst cruising ‘The Hill’ with Jacko and Ian. It was a young man who wanted to know if I was up for anything kinky. “Well, that depends on what you mean by kinky.”

  “Not kinky exactly – just dressing up, like, you know,” he hastily tried to reassure me.

  I thought, ‘Oh God, not another. What will it be this time? Leather? Labourer? Cowboy? Beach bum? Soldier? Copper? Tennis player? Footballer?’ – the list was endless! I mentally ran through the various personas, which I had, so far, adopted for various clients. “No problem,” I said, “provided it's not drag. I don't do drag!” He looked shocked.

  “No, no. Nothing like that.”

  After a few more bits of persuasion, and an assurity from Jacko that the stranger was safe (‘The Evil’, still very much in our thoughts), I agreed to go with him.

  There was nothing exceptional about his home. His taste in furnishings could, if anything, be classed as veering towards the minimalist. This apart, it could have been anywhere. He drew the curtains and switched on the lights. Amused, I pondered how many times I’d gone into a client’s room and witnessed the curtains being drawn in the middle of the day.

  “You stay in ’ere and get all yer stuff off. I won’t be a sec.” And with that, he went out of the room.

  I felt fine so I stripped and relaxed but when the trick came in, still fully clothed, I sat down and tried to look nonchalant although I suddenly felt embarrassed at being so underdressed. He was carrying a massive, bulging paper bag and a pair of plimsolls. Without even looking in my direction, he mumbled “’ere, put these on for me, please,” and handed me the footwear.

  Once I was attired I stood up. “How’s that?” For the first time since I’d changed, he looked straight at me. I started walking around and tried to appear thrilled at wearing the shoes and nothing else as his eyes seemed cemented to them. I casually began to play with myself to give him the fantasy to which, I presumed, was his turn on. He stopped me.

  “No, don’t do that," he said. "Don’t t
ouch it. Later, perhaps. Trot up and down a bit.”

  ‘Ah, so that’s it. He likes bouncing willies,’ I surmised silently.

  After about five minutes of marching backwards and forwards along the same bit of carpet, I varied things by bobbing up and down a little on the balls of my feet. Then I began using my initiative and went for a gentle trot around the sofa on which he sat. The sofa was in the middle of the room, so there was a clear trotting track around it. This time, I had made the right choice for he began groaning with delight. He'd pulled the paper bag towards him. ‘Now what?’ I thought.

  In the next instant, he reached inside the bag and began pelting me with its contents. Dozens of cream buns came thick and fast. I was so completely taken aback, for a moment I didn't know what to do. The trick was keeping up his bombardment and breathing hard with excitement. He aimed the buns at my pelvis and with many hitting their target, I was smeared with bits of pastry and fresh cream. Ugh!

  I had stopped running and, utterly stunned, faced him. “What the hell d’you do that for?”

  “Please, sir, don't be angry with me,” he begged.

  Now we’d moved onto my home ground. So – he wanted me to tell him off and perhaps punish him for what he'd done. “I’m fucking angry. Look what you’ve done you miserable little fucker.” This was a role I’d played many times before and as such, I slipped into it with all the subtlety of an automaton. “Get me a fucking cloth you miserable fucking wanker. I want you to fucking well clean the fucking lot off!!!” I shouted.

  “No, sir. Please. Please, don’t ask me to do that!” (Oops, I'd got it wrong.) His voice changed to something low and breathy, “Let me lick it off – all of it – every dainty crumb.”

  And he did – whilst I merely stood there and, yes, enjoyed it.

  After it was over, I dressed and he showed me to the door. He paid me and I simply couldn't resist it. “By the way, I think your room stinks. It's filthy with all those fucking cakes. Make sure you get of your stinking ass and fucking well clean it up from top to fucking bottom or I’ll never set foot in here again. And next time – learn to be a better fucking shot!”