This will be an ongoing short story series of TRUE STORIES about my life on the streets. I will post them as I get them written. The first of which (this one) contains non-consensual male on male sex. If that bothers you, DO NOT READ.
For those who wanted to know what happened to Houston (because you felt sorry for him), [RE: BOYS AVENUE], I've given it some thought and worked out his love story and am slowly writing that in between the Street stories.
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"Are you hungry?" the handsome Latino man who introduced himself as Teardrop asked me, rising from the concrete bench, where he found me, under Travis Park's memorial for the Confederate dead, "Come on, I'll take you to La Villita. It's just peanut butter sandwiches, but it's food. I just need to make a quick pit stop first."
I was homeless, doing a bad job of surviving on the streets of San Antonio, Texas for the past two weeks. I was broke, beyond exhausted from no more than a few bouts of sleep on park benches before the Park Rangers would wake me and tell me I couldn't sleep there. Furthermore, I was physically weak from lack of food. I hadn't had anything to eat since my first day in town.
I saw Teardrop a few days earlier in that same park, and again at a bus stop in front of the main branch of the Public Library, where I spent most of my time trying not to fall asleep, occasionally failing. He waved to me both times, trying to get my attention, but my embarrassment over my situation overwhelmed me, and I stupidly ignored him. When he saw me again, trying to warm the Autumn night's chill from my bones in the morning sun, he approached me and introduced himself.
I rose and followed him out of the park and followed him, my mouth watering with the thought of food, my stomach cramping from the lack of it.
He was about an inch or two taller than my five-foot-nine inches, and had a sturdier, stronger build. He was wearing faded blue jeans that bulged suggestively in all the right places with a white tee under a dark denim shirt. Having lost some weight, and not wearing a belt, I was doing good to keep my pants pulled up. His black hair was slicked back, away from his big dark brown eyes. There was a tear drop tattooed beneath his left eye.
We descended to the Riverwalk, down a flight of concrete stairs, and made our way south, into a less frequented section of the Riverwalk I didn't realize existed. We crossed the river at the dam, then continued until we came to a bridge. On one side of the bridge was a staircase that led back up to the street level that was lined with a bed of densely growing of shrubs, flowers and other plants.
"I stashed something under the stairs," he explained, "Come inside with me, so you don't attract any unwanted attention."
