A word of caution: This story's a little more heavy-duty than my others so far. It contains scenes of non-consensual sex and exploitative sexual situations. It also makes heavy use of the term 'boy' in its colloquial sense - that is, to indicate a male of younger age and lesser status than the speaker. It is not a reference to children. All characters are 18 years of age or older.
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New York City, 1902.
Frank:
I saw the dark-haired boy first, as I was stepping out of a late appointment with my tailor. On the opposite side of the street by an alleyway, leaning, kicking a toe with a heel in the comfortable slow rhythm of one who's done a deal of this sort of thing and expects to do more. A lot of waiting, a life lived largely outdoors, on the street, to somebody else's schedule.
But what really caught my attention was the way he'd positioned himself at the exact corner of the building, the edges of the bricks no doubt cutting in, indenting along his spine if he'd been there any time. Was he in the alley, or not? If not, he was likely to get a unpleasant surprise sometime soon.
Any alleyway is only nominally about access or egress. Mostly they function as sheltered marketplaces for dubious transactions. This particular alley, I knew, was given over to the sort of dubious transaction that takes place between young men in need of ready cash and older, wealthier men in need of release.
Had he been down there? Was he about to go down? Was this...this hovering in the borderland him trying to steel himself, summon up the courage?
He'd notice me staring soon, and if he
was
whoring, it wasn't unthinkable that he'd be bold enough to cross the street, parade his wares for closer inspection. I didn't want that. I'd never involved myself with street urchins - I didn't need to. I could make other less risky arrangements, and they'd worked well for me thus far.
It was widely known about the city that Frank Leyland was interested in the arts and could be counted on to sponsor the efforts of those young artists he considered promising, and so far as I could tell, it remained far less widely known that Frank accepted...encouraged, even...creative expressions of gratitude for his support.
I lit a cigarette and drew out the paper from under my arm, unfolding it to a quarter-sheet, appearing to frown down at it, cutting my eyes repeatedly across the street without moving my head, wanting for some reason to know what would happen next. After a few minutes I saw him suddenly straighten, pushing fluidly away from the wall as another boy emerged from the alley.
Ah...he was waiting for his friend.
The other boy came fully into view now, under the halo of a gas lamp, its radius widening as the day's light failed. My breath caught in my throat - I saw stars, heard thunder, broke out in a sweat all over. Oh, sweet lord, he was beautiful! I never saw anyone so beautiful. Not in the last twenty years, anyway.
His cap was clutched in his hand and his hair was curling and golden-blond, longer than a schoolmaster would've permitted, coiling beguilingly around and below his ears. I couldn't, of course, make out his eye color, but in profile his face showed a neat, regular nose, full lips, a strong jaw.
He was healthy looking, straight shoulders and lovely limbs, and it was hard to imagine him ever being short of custom down an alley... My upper body lurched forward in sheer animal instinct, but fortunately my reason maintained control of my feet, keeping them firmly planted to the sidewalk. No, Frank...
They were talking together now, the dark-haired boy watching, listening intently to whatever it was his companion had to say, head to one side like a bird, a hand resting on his mate's forearm, as though in reassurance.
The blond boy shook his head slowly and replaced his cap, and the dark one's palm came up to clap him on the shoulder lightly, before moving in, rubbing briefly between the shoulder-blades with the heel of his hand. He stepped back, and made some comment. The blond one's posture relaxed, and he threw back his head and laughed.
I heard it, echoing across the street, I saw the expanse of soft exposed throat, and my long-held resolve to have nothing to do with urchins crumbled in an instant, slipping through my fingers like sand, like water.
They turned to walk away, close side-by-side, nudging one another intermittently. I watched them go for now. The dark-haired one had been down the alley too, before I arrived - I could tell from his gait. Both of them, then. In for a dime, in for a dollar...
I remained for some time after they'd retreated into the dusk, continuing my charade with the paper, keeping half an eye on the traffic in and out the alleyway opposite. There was nothing remarkable about it, or about the alley itself - nothing to suggest it was notorious.
Of course, that's the whole point. There were probably a thousand others of precisely the same sort about the city, anonymous featureless slots, dark gashes in a sea of pale facades. And yet somehow, people knew...even people like me, who'd never ventured into one.
Never ventured into one? My conscience nudged me uncomfortably as I tucked the paper under my arm again, and set off walking in the opposite direction. Like a great many things, that was a matter of definition...interpretation. Truth was, I had many a time intruded into one vicariously.
I discovered, by innocent accident the first time, that the goings-on of an alleyway situated beside a tavern - as so many of them are - could be viewed from above, if one took a first-floor room on a night when the better, street-facing suites were all already spoken for.
Thereafter, I always selected my hotels, when travelling, for their exterior entertainment possibilities, passing myself off as tight-fisted in disclaiming the need for a front window. I would set the lamp burning very low, well inside the room, and take up position by the window, cheek at the glass, my heart thumping, an answering pulse in my awakening cock, peering down at an obtuse angle, shapes gradually emerging from the gloom as my eyes adjusted.
I like to watch. I've always liked to watch. But it's a difficult past-time to indulge. People who are sharing a deep intimacy understandably desire privacy, and people committing a public indecency are...similarly leery of attracting an audience.
A lot must needs be inferred in such a situation, for if you're to remain unseen, the angle will be awkward, and the darkness permits very little detail. Just shapes, moving masses, edges blurred and bleeding into their surroundings, lacking depth or texture - simply blunt contrast and motion. Big shapes, smaller shapes, pale flesh, dark serge, glowing cigarette-tips bobbing about.
Depending on my position, I might see the smear of a face descending to waist-height, might discern the subtle rhythmic movement following, becoming quickly shorter, more choppy, signalling an impending explosion, before the thing was done and the crouching or kneeling figure came to his feet, dragging a dark sleeve across a pale visage.
Or I might see the process interrupted mid-way, the stooped figure hauled upright, whirled swiftly around to face a wall...might, sometimes, catch a brief glimpse of suddenly exposed buttocks, near luminous in their whiteness, before the other figure stepped forward to obscure them, leaving me with nothing to go on but a pair of pale hands braced against the dark brick, a capped head lolling down.
The sagging, sinking, of the head screamed out defeat - capitulation, rather than co-operation. I'd usually turn away at that point. A boy who
wants
to be taken will arch spontaneously, his head reaching back in helpless, instinctive seeking of the author of his pleasure. Whereas this...was an exchange in which passion played no part. It was desperation, not desire, that drew boys down these dark corridors.
At moments like these, I'd feel grubby. Wouldn't you rather, Frank, watch a young man give himself
willingly?
Well, yes I would. But where are you going to find such a thing?
* * *
I went back early evening two days later - told my tailor I didn't like those buttons after all, to use the smaller ones. Then I slipped outside, lit a cigarette, and looked about me.
No-one leaning on the corner. No-one anywhere in sight just now. But humans are creatures of habit if nothing else. I hid behind my paper and settled down to wait as the twilight crept slowly in and a light mist gathered.
After about three-quarters of an hour, the dark-haired boy emerged around the corner, cap askew, hands in pockets. Instead of leaning though, he turned to his left and began to walk.
This wasn't in my plan. "Hey! Boy!" I called out.
He stopped dead, pausing a second before turning, head only, slow and wary.
"Come over here," I instructed, beckoning to him.
