This is the first part of a story I started, then decided not to finish when I read it was better to write from the perspective of the one being fucked. I didn't want to just trash it though. I'm a two-finger typist, so these stories take up a lot of my time. I am submitting it as a one of (unless my followers demand more). I left the ending open, so you can imagine for yourselves what happens next.
*****
I remember it like it was yesterday. I was taking out the trash from the kitchen to the cans in the alley behind my house when I first saw him.
He was dressed in a blue hoodie and blue jeans that seemed a little big on him. Not in the baggy way you see some young boys wear their pants. He was wearing a belt and had them pulled up, they just looked like they were a size or two too big for him. Still, even in the baggy pants, I could just make out the high shelf of his bubble butt. I couldn't see the color of his hair or what his face looked like because of the hood, which he probably pulled up to protect him from the cold mist in the morning Spring air.
He was hunched over one of my neighbor's trash cans, looking for something. At first, I didn't understand why he was elbow deep in someone's garbage, then it occurred to me he must be homeless. I approached him hesitantly, thinking I might be able to help the guy out with some cash for a meal, or something. He must have heard my footsteps, because he turned, obviously startled.
That's when I saw his face. He was blonde, his curly bangs falling just above big blue eyes that seemed to have seen more than their share of hardships at such a young age. And he did look young, a teenager at most. I stopped dead in my tracks looking at his beautiful face, wondering how a kid ended up on the streets. He looked at me with an expression that indicated he hadn't decided to start running from me yet, but it was a definite option.
"What are you looking for?" I asked, smiling, trying not to appear like I was a threat.
"Nothing," he answered, the invisible chip on his shoulder was evident in his tone of voice.
"Then why are you digging through the trash?" I kept my voice light with humor.
He looked at the trash can, then back at me. "I don't know," he answered, looking suddenly embarrassed by the situation and moved away from the can. Shoving his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, he started walking away.
"Are you hungry?" I called to him, hoping to continue our excellent dialogue. He was so beautiful and young I feared for him. He turned to look at me over his shoulder. "You are hungry, right? I'm not the best of cooks, but I can make you something to eat."
Turning toward me again, he hesitated, looking back over his shoulder into the direction he was walking. I didn't blame him. He was probably used to people having ulterior motives, and I was a stranger to him.
"Come on," I coaxed him, waving a hand for him to follow. As I made my way back up the alley to my back gate, I looked back just once to see if he was following. He was. With his head downcast and his hands buried deep enough in his hoodie to stretch the fabric, he was slowly catching up with me. By the time I made it to the gate, he was right behind me. I held it open and gestured toward the house, then closed the gate and followed him across the lawn, admiring the view of his backside that those baggy jeans couldn't completely obscure.
Inside, I led him into the kitchen and sat him at the breakfast nook with a glass of orange juice and a taller glass of milk before preparing a fresh batch of scrambled eggs. There already was bacon, from my own breakfast, because I always cook the whole pack in case I want a BLT sometime later. After the eggs were finished, I loaded up the plate with bacon and biscuits then joined him at the table with a cup of coffee. He watched me sip my coffee.
"Oh, I'm sorry," I told him, "Do you want some coffee? You probably have a chill with the weather being what it is this morning." I said as I mentally kicked myself for not realizing he might drink coffee. He just looked so young, I didn't think he was old enough to drink coffee. I poured him a cup, then returned with cream and sugar. "It's chilly for this time of year. I guess there must be something to that climate change I'm always hearing about."
He sat quietly, eating his food like he was starving to death. He may well have been. He was small and a little on the skinny side, in my opinion. I couldn't take my eyes off his face. It was angelic he was so beautiful.
"I'm Callum," I said, introducing myself.
"Ant," he said with a full mouth of food.
"Did you say 'ANT'?" I asked, sure I heard him wrong.
"Yeah," he answered swallowing hard, "It's short for Anthony."
"Oh, I see. And am I right in believing you're homeless, Ant?"
"Yeah." His eyes fell, and I thought my heart would break. "I have been since my dad threw me out when I was eighteen."
"And how old are you now?"
"Nineteen."
"So, you've been living on the streets for a year now?" Ant nodded, filling his mouth again with food, his face taking on a happier glow. "That's impressive. I don't think I would have survived that long. I'm too accustomed to my creature comforts." I half laughed at my own silliness, and he smiled a smile that lit up his face, completely transforming it from that of a homeless youth to that of a happy teenager.
I watched as he inhaled the food, drank the orange juice and the milk. Sitting back, he loaded his coffee with cream and enough sugar to put me into a diabetic coma. He held the cup with both hands, sipping it as he looked around at the spartan décor of my white and chrome kitchen.
"You live here by yourself?" he asked, pinning me with his eyes.
"I do," I told him, "I used to live here with my boyfriend, Mathew, but he died about three years ago." I felt a familiar lump forming in my throat. Even though it had been three years since Mathew died, I still hadn't moved on. I no longer dated, and only socialized with the most loyal of my friends, friends who didn't eventually fall away when I didn't snap out of my mourning when they expected me to. You don't just move on from a fifteen year relationship.
"That's sad," he said, watching me try to suck a tear back, "I'm sorry about that."
