Lorenzo Porricelli (Stormy-Family-Holidays)
October 31, 2011
Peeto stood at the brass rail that ran full length up the Haymarket Bar’s north wall on a floor to ceiling mirror. A dozen other hustlers joined him on the rail, most faced the bar, and the dwindling prospects for work that night. But Peeto stood with his back to the bar. His palm brushed one side of his hair back, and he stood easily, but his eyes caught quick glimpses in the mirror of johns checking him out. And comparing him to the others. Even though wet from the rain, he looked good. The jeans bulged in the right spot, and his white tank top missed making it to his waste by an inch, and added to the view. He had rubbed baby oil on his shoulders after the last trick, and they glistened under the neon.
The bar clock, like one of those old black-and-white school clocks that hung on the wall above the classroom door, said 1:55 AM, and though the clock was ten minutes fast, the bar closed in five minutes. A one-trick night. He hated working the streets, too many sickos and pervs, and drunks with no cash. At least in the bar he knew the johns were legit. So he figured. Or why the hell would they come chicken hunting in a bar. Too many witnesses. But if he had to walk the street, he had to walk the street. Maybe west a block, off Santa Monica, to the Formosa Restaurant parking lot. Wouldn’t be too much competition for the trade, most working guys hung close to the bar area. Hotels that charged by the hour were right there, and once a trick was scored it was back on the street for the next one. Boys were working, money was being earned.
“Hey, young man, how you doing?”
Peeto kept his pose, but turned slightly, and his lips lingered between a smile and a snarl. “I’m okay,” he said as he checked the john out from top to bottom. He always eyeballed the left hand first, and if there was a wedding band, he relaxed, just a little. The married ones were safe and clean, and they paid the most. Almost like they were getting rid of their guilt by shoving money at him.
“You’re working, aren’t you?”
Peeto shrugged. “Yeah.” Bingo. Big band. Solid gold.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Sure you are, and I’m the pope.”
“Okay, eighteen. How’s that?”
“ I don’t know.”
“You here to have some fun or ask a million questions?”
“Well –“
“Well hell. I’m working, the next question costs you twenty bucks.”
“All right, keep your shirt on. At least for now.”
“So?”
“You got a place?”
“Me? Yeah, the Century Plaza.” Peeto scanned the bar, was there someone else besides this question mark? Vic the bartender was flashing the house lights first call to get the hell out. And it was still raining. “There’s one next door – the Carter Hotel.”
“Let me finish my drink. You like to dance?”
“We going to be on Dancing With the Stars?”
“You’re quick. And cute. How long you been on the street?”
Every john asked that question, but Peeto smiled. “A week.”
The john smiled back. “That’s great.”
Fantastic, Peeto thought. He’s looking for a quickie with an almost virgin. Peeto knew he’d score big if he played this john as the parent. “I ran away from home. They always fought. And I caught it bad.” The guy had to like that. He’ll want to be family and take care of Peeto. At least for this stormy night. Very gently. And with big dollars. This would be a hugger and nothing more. Oh yeah. Maybe they could play till morning. No more work this night. No singing in the rain. Maybe he’d even get to sleep without anyone else in the bed if the mark leaves early. The room would be paid for till noon. That would be better than holidays in Heaven.
“What do you want, kid?”
“Two-fifty.”
“For the night?”
“An hour.” Peeto gambled. “Three-fifty for the night.” Why not. These kind were one-shot and out, sometimes less than thirty minutes. Their dreams were big but they never made it.
“No drugs?”
“Don’t use them.” None of his business, maybe some coke, a little acid, or a lot of acid, depending on the john. “I lied, I smoke weed.”
“Who doesn’t? And I got a few bones right here in my pocket.”
“You’re not a cop?”
“No – are you kidding?”
“Prove it.” If he was a cop he couldn’t put a hand on Peeto.
The john put his hand on Peeto’s shoulder and slid it down his chest, slowly. He stopped at Peeto’s waste and leaned over and kissed him lightly.
Peeto closed his eyes. This john was going to be so sweet. He might leave him some money for clothes. And a big tip. And the room. A few bones. Maybe some champagne. What a night. He just had to get this guy over and done with quick, they always leave after that. “Thanks,” Peeto said, and placed his head on the john’s shoulder.”
“Let’s go,” the john said.
Peeto grabbed his windbreaker off the rail.
“I have an umbrella,” said the john, “my car’s a block away.”
“The hotel’s next door, we don’t need to drive.”
“I got to get some stuff.”
Peeto looked at him. “Like what?” He asked, but he knew the answer.
“You don’t mind a few items, just to add some fun.”
“Cuffs?”
“Yeah, and maybe a whip. A small one.”
Peeto looked outside. The rain was coming down harder and had flooded the curb. Santa Monica Boulevard was a lake. “$500. Up front. One hour.”
“Deal young man, deal.”
Peeto quickly moved to the door. “Let’s go. Rain brings lots of business. I can score two more tricks after you. It’s a good night on the Boulevard.”
October 31, 2011
Peeto stood at the brass rail that ran full length up the Haymarket Bar’s north wall on a floor to ceiling mirror. A dozen other hustlers joined him on the rail, most faced the bar, and the dwindling prospects for work that night. But Peeto stood with his back to the bar. His palm brushed one side of his hair back, and he stood easily, but his eyes caught quick glimpses in the mirror of johns checking him out. And comparing him to the others. Even though wet from the rain, he looked good. The jeans bulged in the right spot, and his white tank top missed making it to his waste by an inch, and added to the view. He had rubbed baby oil on his shoulders after the last trick, and they glistened under the neon.
The bar clock, like one of those old black-and-white school clocks that hung on the wall above the classroom door, said 1:55 AM, and though the clock was ten minutes fast, the bar closed in five minutes. A one-trick night. He hated working the streets, too many sickos and pervs, and drunks with no cash. At least in the bar he knew the johns were legit. So he figured. Or why the hell would they come chicken hunting in a bar. Too many witnesses. But if he had to walk the street, he had to walk the street. Maybe west a block, off Santa Monica, to the Formosa Restaurant parking lot. Wouldn’t be too much competition for the trade, most working guys hung close to the bar area. Hotels that charged by the hour were right there, and once a trick was scored it was back on the street for the next one. Boys were working, money was being earned.
“Hey, young man, how you doing?”
Peeto kept his pose, but turned slightly, and his lips lingered between a smile and a snarl. “I’m okay,” he said as he checked the john out from top to bottom. He always eyeballed the left hand first, and if there was a wedding band, he relaxed, just a little. The married ones were safe and clean, and they paid the most. Almost like they were getting rid of their guilt by shoving money at him.
“You’re working, aren’t you?”
Peeto shrugged. “Yeah.” Bingo. Big band. Solid gold.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Sure you are, and I’m the pope.”
“Okay, eighteen. How’s that?”
“ I don’t know.”
“You here to have some fun or ask a million questions?”
“Well –“
“Well hell. I’m working, the next question costs you twenty bucks.”
“All right, keep your shirt on. At least for now.”
“So?”
“You got a place?”
“Me? Yeah, the Century Plaza.” Peeto scanned the bar, was there someone else besides this question mark? Vic the bartender was flashing the house lights first call to get the hell out. And it was still raining. “There’s one next door – the Carter Hotel.”
“Let me finish my drink. You like to dance?”
“We going to be on Dancing With the Stars?”
“You’re quick. And cute. How long you been on the street?”
Every john asked that question, but Peeto smiled. “A week.”
The john smiled back. “That’s great.”
Fantastic, Peeto thought. He’s looking for a quickie with an almost virgin. Peeto knew he’d score big if he played this john as the parent. “I ran away from home. They always fought. And I caught it bad.” The guy had to like that. He’ll want to be family and take care of Peeto. At least for this stormy night. Very gently. And with big dollars. This would be a hugger and nothing more. Oh yeah. Maybe they could play till morning. No more work this night. No singing in the rain. Maybe he’d even get to sleep without anyone else in the bed if the mark leaves early. The room would be paid for till noon. That would be better than holidays in Heaven.
“What do you want, kid?”
“Two-fifty.”
“For the night?”
“An hour.” Peeto gambled. “Three-fifty for the night.” Why not. These kind were one-shot and out, sometimes less than thirty minutes. Their dreams were big but they never made it.
“No drugs?”
“Don’t use them.” None of his business, maybe some coke, a little acid, or a lot of acid, depending on the john. “I lied, I smoke weed.”
“Who doesn’t? And I got a few bones right here in my pocket.”
“You’re not a cop?”
“No – are you kidding?”
“Prove it.” If he was a cop he couldn’t put a hand on Peeto.
The john put his hand on Peeto’s shoulder and slid it down his chest, slowly. He stopped at Peeto’s waste and leaned over and kissed him lightly.
Peeto closed his eyes. This john was going to be so sweet. He might leave him some money for clothes. And a big tip. And the room. A few bones. Maybe some champagne. What a night. He just had to get this guy over and done with quick, they always leave after that. “Thanks,” Peeto said, and placed his head on the john’s shoulder.”
“Let’s go,” the john said.
Peeto grabbed his windbreaker off the rail.
“I have an umbrella,” said the john, “my car’s a block away.”
“The hotel’s next door, we don’t need to drive.”
“I got to get some stuff.”
Peeto looked at him. “Like what?” He asked, but he knew the answer.
“You don’t mind a few items, just to add some fun.”
“Cuffs?”
“Yeah, and maybe a whip. A small one.”
Peeto looked outside. The rain was coming down harder and had flooded the curb. Santa Monica Boulevard was a lake. “$500. Up front. One hour.”
“Deal young man, deal.”
Peeto quickly moved to the door. “Let’s go. Rain brings lots of business. I can score two more tricks after you. It’s a good night on the Boulevard.”
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