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Easy Money?
Soon after that explosive abandonment of family and self I started to use the toilet and adjacent gardens at the top of the street to pick men up. It was a kind of dare to do what I was doing in full view of the street where I lived. At any time my parents could have seen me. I guess I hoped they would.
The toilet was set back in a garden just off the main road. I'd used it many times before but not as I was going to use it now. The first time I entered with new intentions my heart was racing and I had to admit to myself that I was scared. Of what? I'm not altogether sure. Perhaps, of not being found out. Inside my head though was an anger which demanded release. An anger which said, well, if they don't believe it, then go ahead and do it and make them pay for it. It was a crazy kind of disintegrated rejection which drove me. I was coming apart and in a strange kind of way what I was doing would keep me together. The moment I entered a man left. A couple of men were standing around by the three cubicles, which were all being used. I used the stalls and left. I still wasn't sure quite how to do things. That is, how to read the situation. I mean, how do you know which man is interested and which is just using the bog? When I left a man followed and I thought he was going to follow me into the gardens. He didn't. He went straight to a car and drove off. I decided to sit on a bench in full view of the toilets, and our street, and count the men going in and out. That way, I figured, I would know when a cubicle became empty and I could go back in. So that's what I did. I sat and counted. Two in. One out. That meant five in there all together. That's when the man joined me on the bench.
'Lovely day.'
I was obliged to answer.
'Yes it's okay.'
'Been here long?'
I was losing count and inwardly cursed this polite man's conversation.
'Yes. A lovely day. It's picking up again.'
I lost count. Damn it. Why didn't he just piss off and leave me alone. I'd have to go back into the bog to see how many were in there now. I turned and looked at the man telling me how much the weather had improved since last week. He was about thirty years old, dressed like an office worker and spoke kind of posh.
'I hope I'm not disturbing you?'
I shook my head and told him it was okay.
'You seemed lost in thought.'
'No. It's okay. I was just thinking...' I didn't finish.
'I was on my way home and thought a breath of fresh air would do me good. Do you come here often?'
'Yes. I live just over the road.'
'A local boy?'
'Yes. Just over there.'
'Would you care for a cigarette?'
I took it and he lit it from an expensive-looking lighter. Within seconds I was coughing.
'I am sorry. Do forgive me. I should have warned you. They are French. Rather strong?'
'It's great,' I coughed.
'Please, you must allow me to buy you a soft drink.' 'No need. It's okay.'
'I insist. I should have warned you. Besides, a cool drink will ease your throat. I insist.'
'If you want...'
'Then it's settled,' he said, standing.
I stood too and headed for the shop across the road. It was at this point that I somehow knew he was picking me up. This he confirmed at the pavement.
'Look, why not come home with me. I have just the thing. It's not far and my car is just around the corner.'
I tried to figure out how to raise the subject of money but he was way ahead of me.
'I have some interesting photographs you might care to see and I'll make certain you have enough to get home with.'
'Okay.'
He relaxed instantly. His car was as smooth as he was. We drove for about twenty minutes and he talked about all kinds of things. I listened. His house matched the car. The poshest I'd ever set foot in. He brought cold soft drinks and we sat on a huge sofa in front of a gas fire which looked like a coal fire. When the drinks were finished he took the glasses back to the kitchen and on his return closed the curtains and put a small side light on. From somewhere behind a bookshelf he collected a shoe box. The kind of thing new shoes come in. He placed it upon my knee and said, 'The photographs!'
I took the lid off and there was a pile of photographs of stark naked boys. All about my age or younger. Photographs which had obviously been taken in this very room. As I looked through them he began to remove my clothes.
Afterwards, the excitement gone and guilt flooding in, I raced to get my clothes back on. He pleaded with me not to go and asked me to stay to take a shower.
'Let me at least give you your bus fare.'
He handed me an envelope which a quick glance told me contained more money than I'd ever seen.
'Same time next week.'
'Okay,' I agreed.
He insisted on driving me back to the gardens so I let him. I met him each week after that at the same time and looked through the shoe box and got my envelope. Easy money, right?
That bench in the gardens became my office and I was becoming a confident operator. Thoughts about being dirty and committing mortal sins came to my mind frequently but I was getting better at keeping them from surfacing. In no time at all I could spot a potential punter or other boys working the same toilets and gardens. A kind of agreement developed with the other boys that we wouldn't try to steal each other's punters. The agreement worked out well for us and kept the prices high. I once made the mistake of having sex with one of the other boys. It wasn't quite a disaster but we both waited for the other to do for each other what punters did for us. That is to suck us off. That's what 99 per cent of the punters wanted. I was making enough to buy new clothes and never once did my parents ask me where they'd come from. This angered me but it was also a relief. There were times I wanted them to ask me so that I could tell them the truth.
I stopped working that toilet and gardens after it was confirmed that I'd become the lowest of the low. Scum! I was in a cubicle when the familiar note appeared. I now carried my own pen to answer these notes. A price was agreed but this guy wanted to do it there in the cubicle. I upped the price and he agreed. What the hell, I'd done it before and had never been caught. He pushed the money through and told me to take my clothes off. It was as risky as anything but I did as he asked. That's when the door was pushed open and he came in with another man. I couldn't scream or shout or anything but I did my best to get them out. I told them to fuck off and take the money. They told me to shut up and thumped me one. I became terrified and struggled in the small space to grab my clothes. They tore them from my hands and began to hit me.
'You're not going anywhere until we've had our money's worth.'
I was trapped and figured that the sooner I could get them to come the sooner I'd be out of there. That was a serious mistake. I should have screamed my head off. Both of them forcefully entered me! I'd never had this done before. They left me bleeding and crying. I just cracked up and lay on the filthy floor feeling just as filthy. The bleeding scared me more than anything else but I knew I couldn't go to hospital. What could I tell them? I was doing punters in a public toilet and they raped me? No chance! I cleaned myself up as much as I could with bog paper then folded my handkerchief so that it acted as a pad and placed it inside my underpants. I felt sick and dirty, but it was my own fault. I'd brought it upon myself. I mean, let's face it, I was in the wrong.
The bleeding and the pain continued for days and days and I went through all the handkerchiefs I had. I swallowed a load of aspirins in an effort to both ease the pain and put a stop to it altogether. This only made me sick and I vomited them back up along with everything else in my stomach. I vowed never to go back to those toilets. I couldn't set foot outside of the house for weeks. I avoided all conversation with my mother, and my father was hiding in his bottles of booze so he was no problem. Thoughts of suicide filled my head. It was a crazy couple of weeks. My mother did her best to find out what was wrong, much to her credit, but it was too late. How on earth could I tell her what had happened? It was very strange too because I was forever playing with myself. I mean, after what had happened you'd think that's the last thing I'd do. It was a further confirmation that I was scum, right? I thought about burning the toilets down but instinctively knew that it was the wrong place to burn down. I'd have to burn the whole damn city of Liverpool down with me in the middle.
The only escape I found throughout this pain was in my inner world of fantasy. I escaped in there as often as I could. I lived in there and became beyond touch. I could make believe it hadn't happened and that I was basically good. In my mind I became an altar boy again and went to mass every day.
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