Within forty-eight hours of running away, one in three adolescents will likely be solicited for commercial sex.
Within forty-eight hours of running away, one in three adolescents will likely be solicited for commercial sex.
THE STORY YOU ARE about to read has two major themes: survival sex due to homelessness and the seldom-documented, commercial sexual exploitation of a male. We will take a look at both.
“I’m amazed when I look back at the things I could do when I was high…” After several years, I became numb to the idea of sexual bartering. Turning a trick was the same as going and eating a hamburger.”
—Homeless youth, living on the streets since age ten1
Within forty-eight hours of running away, one in three adolescents likely will be solicited for commercial sexual exploitation, with an estimated 60 percent of runaway or throwaway youth at risk overall.2 “Throwaways” are defined as kids forced to leave home or prevented from returning home. In this overview, I use the term “runaway” to refer to both runaway and throwaway youth.3 A large number of runaways suffer from abuse and neglect in the home and are not typically running “to the streets” but rather “from home.”
Squat houses are commonly used by homeless youth. Featurepics.com.
Once on the street, these youth are left to fend for themselves, with an estimated 70 percent engaging in “survival sex,” defined as the exchange of sex to meet basic needs such as food, shelter, clothing, drugs, or money.4 Many homeless youth come from chaotic and dysfunctional families. Due to this lack of parental guidance, homeless youth often lack the problem-solving and conflict-resolution skills needed to survive on the streets. This makes them highly susceptible to the dangers associated with survival sex: STDs, rape, and murder.
“I remember my first experience working with street kids. It was twenty years ago, and I was a young and undertrained volunteer helping at a youth shelter in Washington state. The kids came to the drop-in shelter periodically to get a hot meal or a good night’s sleep. The rules were few: Follow the curfew and no weapons. In keeping with the rules, the kids would leave their guns and knives in the bushes outside until they left. Once I became a familiar face, the kids began to trust me with their stories. The stories were similar; these kids were staying in abandoned buildings called “squats,” controlled by men or women expecting some sort of sexual payment in return. The majority of these kids were engaged in survival sex—trading sex, the only thing they had to offer, for food and a place to sleep for the night. Sadly, twenty years ago, no one was talking about the commercial exploitation of children or survival sex among homeless populations, and we were ill-equipped to help them. If only we knew then what we know now!”
—Alisa Jordheim, founder, Justice Society
Just like the kids I worked with in Washington, most runaway youth congregate in urban areas.5 They tend to migrate in groups and move along a circuit from city to city, staying until pressure from local law enforcement gets too “hot.” One study shows that 54 percent of homeless youth form close social networks of several individuals they call “brothers.” With limited biological connections, street kids form their own variation of family relationships. One young man shares the sense of family he felt on the street:
“When you go through some of the things that we went through, it’s like going through a war together or something. You start to feel intensely about everyone in the group. You’d just do anything for them. … We would always be looking out for each other.”6
Despite the distinction in the law, the line between survival sex and sex trafficking is somewhat fluid because survival sex often leads to trafficking victimization. Ruby’s story, which follows, demonstrates how her initial experiences of survival sex led directly to human trafficking:
Starting at age five, Ruby was repeatedly raped by her brother’s father. By eighteen, she was on her own and low on money. About once a month, when she needed money to pay the rent, she would negotiate with men to exchange sex for money. At nineteen, she was heading out to a party with what she thought was a group of new friends when she found herself alone in her room with one of them. The man pulled a gun on her and stated that he was a pimp and that from now on she should call him ‘daddy.’ “I remember thinking, Is this real? Pimps are for real? I didn’t think pimps existed anywhere but the movies before then.” For the following three months, Ruby was forced to sleep with “too many men to count” and was watched every second. At some point, she gained the trust of the woman in charge of guarding her, and Ruby was able to make her escape.7
How real is the problem of commercial sexual exploitation of boys in America? Information suggests that 10 to 50 percent of exploited youth are male.8 It is hard to get a clear picture of the extent of the issue because most boys do not self-identify as victims. This lack of self-identification is often fueled by the shame and stigma associated with male sexual exploitation—labeling the child as gay.
There is a common misconception that the most sexually exploited boys are homosexual, bisexual, or transgender. Studies show that the majority of victimized boys are heterosexual, with only 25 to 35 percent self-identifying as gay, bisexual, or transgender.9 There are several other key distinctions between the trafficking experiences of boys and girls. As referenced in Chapter 1, research indicates that boys and transgender youth in the United States are trafficked at slightly younger ages than girls— boys and transgender youth between the ages of eleven and thirteen; girls between twelve and fourteen.10 Boys are also considered to have a disproportionately higher rate of illicit drug use.11
On October 31, 2013, Marc Branch was indicted by a New Jersey grand jury on charges of human trafficking, engaging in prostitution with a person younger than eighteen, and other offenses related to exploitation of young men. As in Mr. Branch’s story, it is thought that approximately 95 percent of sexual exploiters of boys are adult males, many married with children.12
“It is alleged that Branch lured vulnerable young men, ranging in age from their teens to their early twenties, to his apartment by offering them money, drugs, friendship, and, in some instances, shelter. He allegedly targeted victims who were estranged from their families. He allegedly gave the young victims drugs and alcohol, fueling their drug dependency, so that he could control them and prostitute them to male clients, who paid up to $200 to engage in a sexual act.”13
Only a small percentage of male youth are trafficked by a pimp. Boys tend to work independently and are typically propositioned on the street directly by a buyer or through online and magazine ads.14 Sexually exploited boys call themselves “hustlers.” This term implies that they are “putting one over” on the johns and in control of the sexual transactions.15 Those few who do work under the control of a trafficker are extremely difficult to identify by law enforcement. Traffickers are known to require a “buyer” to perform a sexual act with the child in the presence of the trafficker. Because law enforcement officers cannot comply with this requirement, the trafficker can quickly identify a “true customer” from an undercover agent. Traffickers are said to take these extra precautions when trafficking boys because men arrested for trafficking young boys are labeled “short eyes” in the jail systems and suffer extreme hostility from other inmates.16
The secrecy and lack of support services associated with the commercial sexual exploitation of boys make it difficult to track and document. People do not typically think of boys as victims of this crime; therefore, the signs of abuse frequently go unnoticed.17 Sadly, boys are often considered as an afterthought in the fight against commercial sexual exploitation of children. One article said it well: A panel discussion about commercial sexual exploitation often ends with the words “… and boys, too.” 18
“I’d been on the streets for over two years, and the shame and disappointment made it difficult to even look at myself in the mirror. But that’s all changed. Over the past year, I’ve been on the road to recovery, and I now volunteer at a local drop-in center. The guys I used to hang with on the street now ask me, “How did you do it? Do you think I can get out, too?’ I say, ‘Man, if I can do it, anyone can—you can, too!’ I’m a changed man, and I love the person I am now.”
—Mike Gould, survivor
It took more than two years to find a man willing and able to meet the criteria for participating in this book project. The requirements were rigorous, and in Rich’s case, we had to make some exceptions. Rich was actually eighteen years old when he was first trafficked in Montreal, Canada, and then returned home to Providence, Rhode Island. His story is an accurate depiction of what life on the streets is like and is very similar to that of many commercially sexually exploited, homeless children.
I want to express my gratitude to Rich for his courageous commitment to share his story, giving us a rare glimpse into what young men face while being exploited on the streets.
Rich is a cofounder of Project Weber, a nonprofit organization committed to improving the health and well-being of male sex workers in Providence, Rhode Island.
“Rich, honey, snack’s ready,” Mom announces as she rolls her wheelchair to the sink. While she cleans the sticky bowl, I look at her long, brown hair and think about how pretty she is—even if she is handicapped. I survey the room: the old, worn, wooden cabinets; the bare brass handles; and that floor that is perfect for wearing socks on! Sliiddee!
Before sitting down, I shove three cookies into my mouth. Being a little kid has its perks.
“Honey, Grandma will be here soon to visit,” my mother says gently while drying the now-clean bowl. “I know you’re excited, Rich, but slow down before you choke.”
I smile, displaying a mouth filled with chocolate chunks. My mother is one of two people in my life who I know truly loves me. The other person is on her way to my house: Grandma!
The doorbell rings.
I just grin as I stand between Mom and the door she is now trying to open.
“Hello, honey,” Grandma says to my mom.
“Hello, Mother.”
“Grandma!” I scream.
“Well, who do we have here?” she coyly responds.
“It’s Rich!” I say, pointing to myself with two hands.
“Rich, you say? I am not sure I know anyone named Rich.” Her speech slows as if she is scrolling through her ancient memory.
Still pointing at myself, I franticly announce, “It’s me, Grandma! It’s your Cutie Pie!”
“Oh! Yes, yes, I believe I do recall that name. I am pretty sure it is on this big red package that I found outside on your porch.” She winks at me as she leans down and kisses my forehead. “I love you, Rich! This is for you!”
“I love you, too, Grandma!” I say as I hug her leg.
When the furious tornado of wrapping paper, tape, and cardboard subsides, there is a little five-year-old boy sitting on the floor with a brilliant red truck.
“Where are you, Rich?” Grandma asks.
I peek out from under the mess of wrapping paper and cardboard, pushing around my new, shiny, red truck.
“Vroom, vroooom! Here I am, Grandma.”
Grandma laughs, looks at Mom, and says, “He still has the fasteners around the wheels.”
They both laugh.
My mom is a good person. I love her very much. But I have to wonder, why did she ever marry my dad?
“Mom,” I mumble during bath time.
“Yes?”
“Vrooommmm.” My truck is making an amphibious assault on the Floating Duck Army. “Do you love Dad?”
“Of course,” she says. “That’s not a question for a six-year-old little boy, Rich.”
“OK.” Duck one is plunged to his death from the Tub Edge Cliffs. “Sometimes I wonder if he loves me.”
“Sometimes I wonder if he loves me, too,” falls off her lips faintly. “Rich,” Mom says as she wheels her chair closer to the tub, “you need to wash your hair.”
“Mom?” I say.
“Yes, honey, what is it now?”
“Ummm, did Daddy put you in that chair?”
“No, honey. Your dad has never hurt me. I had a tumor. Do you know what that is?”
I shake my head no, and small suds float off of my hair.
“Well, a tumor is like a big bump or a ball that grows in your body.”
“Is it bad?”
“Yes, honey, very bad. During the operation to take the tumor out, my back was hurt, and I never walk … ”
I lie back, thrusting my hair under the water. The sound rushes over my ears. I can see Mom sitting over me. Why does Mom have to be broken? Why does Dad have to hurt me? In my mind, my father’s words swirl in my head: “Faggot.” “Lazy.” “Piece of shit.” Maybe I am broken, too?
I grab my truck, sit up, and jump out of the water. “’Til we meet again, Floating Duck Army!”
Dad cracks open another beer. He slurps foam off the top, announcing, “Go play with your dolls, ya little faggot.”
“Where’s Mom?” I sheepishly ask my father.
“Where do you think?” he barks at me. “The hospital!”
I stand in silence, gripping my truck. What should I do? I think. She can’t leave me here with him. But she leaves me here every time she goes to the hospital.
“If I’m lucky, she’ll die! I’ll be free of the shackle!”
“What’s a shackle?” I ask as a tear rolls down my face.
“Are you cryin’?” “You lil’ faggot! You and your mommy! Geett over here,” he slurs.
He’s been drinking. I want to run. I freeze dead in my tracks. I look down.
“Look at me when I am talking to you! Dammit, kid, look at me!” he screams, removing his belt slowly and methodically, looking dead into my eyes.
“Y-y-y-yes, sir,” I stammer as I slowly tilt my head upward from his belt to catch his violent gaze. Just as I tilt my head up, I catch something from the corner of my eye. I hear the sound as if it comes from somewhere distant, not yet comprehending what’s happened. Startled, I try to pick myself up; my face is on fire. Was that a belt? I think. I tilt my head up again just in time to be cracked across the head a second time. Yes, that is a belt. I stagger backward to create distance between the two of us. He lunges for me. I throw myself behind the recliner and cover my head. I plead, “I’m sorry, Daddy, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again! It was my fault. Please, please!” Tears streak down my face. I begin to count in my mind, “One, two, three, four …”
I wake up. Where am I? Looking up, I see him victoriously bring the beer to his lips. He takes a deep breath. “Glad to see you’re awake again. Your aunt and uncle will be here at four. Be ready and packed. You’re staying with them ’til your mother is out of the hospital. I can’t have you here. Your mother spoiled you. You’re weak, and I don’t have time to take care of another invalid.” He spits wildly, and it hits me right in the face.
While packing, I think, Any place must be better than this one. I just wish my mom was here. I wish my mom wasn’t paralyzed. I bow my head so that my father won’t see me crying.
Where am I? I think. I rub my eyes. Immediately, fear grips me, and I reach my hands under the covers. There it is. Relief settles as I pull my toy from the bed. I speak to the person in the bed next to me. “Auntie?”
“Huh?”
“I’m hungry.”
“Go make yourself something.” She rolls away from me.
“But Auntie, I am too little to cook!”
“Shit, kid. Auntie’s head hurts. Go watch TV or something.”
I pull my truck close, trying to ignore the naked body pressed against mine. At least it’s finally daytime. Daytime is much safer than nighttime.
I pull myself from the bed and make my way, hungry and tired, to the television. After two episodes of Scooby-Doo and one episode of The Smurfs, Auntie finally appears.
“Turn that down.” She pulls a bottle from the freezer and pours the clear liquid into a glass of orange juice.
“Make me one,” I hear from behind. “Hi, sport,” he says to me with a wink. My stomach hurts.
Forcing a smile, I nod. In my head, I keep thinking, Why is he naked? I hate it here. There aren’t any beatings, but this is just as uncomfortable.
“Here’s your eggs.” I take the plate from my Auntie, who now has her robe belt undone.
I survey my surroundings while silently eating. This apartment is much smaller than my parents’ house. But I like the plush carpet. It’s an old, dirty green. It feels good on my feet as I sit chewing my eggs. I look at the pictures of my aunt and uncle as kids. From the corner of my eye, I see that my aunt’s robe is open. Yuck.
Why do they do that in front of me? It makes my tummy hurt. I glance over across the breakfast bar again and catch a glimpse of them kissing each other. This is gross. Why is he licking her? I’m never going to kiss anyone like that. I need to get away from this. I am looking for an escape when I hear, “Why do you look so sad, honey? You don’t like watching the love your auntie and uncle have?” Her hands are violating my uncle right in front of me.
“I don’t feel well.” Thinking quickly, I add, “I think I need to use the bathroom.” That should definitely get me out of here for a while. I begin moving toward the bathroom.
“Honey,” Auntie says.
“Yes?” I answer.
“When you are done, come into the bedroom.”
I slump.
What can I do? Holding my breath, I begin counting: One, two, three, four …
“Mom?”
“Yes, honey?”
“I need to tell you something.” I look at her wheelchair. “We watched a film in school this morning about molestation.”
She stops. I have her attention now.
“Ummm …” I trail off. “The things they said in this movie—they’ve happened to me.”
“What?” she responds, confused.
“Auntie,” I whisper.
“Oh, I see.”
“She kissed me on the mouth, and she and Uncle touched me.” I can’t help but look down. I am sweating. “Like on TV.”
“Well, you know how Auntie is when she drinks,” Mother says dismissively.
“But they’re always walking around naked. And they touch me. … ”
“Rich, they’ve been so good to take care of you when I’m in the hospital. I think you’re just overreacting,” she responds.
What happened to my mother’s attention? Why can’t she just save me for once? I run as fast as I can through the door and down the block.
I have been running for years, I think as we escape.
“Dude, that was sick!”
“I told you these faggots have nothing on us!” As the words leave my mouth, my father’s words ring in my head, “Ya little faggot.”
“Hell, yes!” I smile widely to cover the voice in my head.
“You two run fast,” we hear from behind as Jim bends over, heaving. “I can’t believe you meet all these faggots at the train station. Is it like a Gay Train Station?” In an announcer’s voice, he says, “Come ride us. We promise you’ll enjoy it!”
I half laugh at this humor to conceal my own identity. “That faggot we just kicked the shit out of,” I point behind Jim and Brad, “I’ve seen that pervert taking a fifteen-year-old boy home from the station. Sick pedo! He won’t be molesting any more kids for a while.”
It’s just a typical day in class, and I’m handing in another pointless assignment. My paper’s titled “What happens when the people you are ‘running to’ are actually those you are ‘running from’?” Just reading the title seems to make my teacher, Mr. Craig, seethe.
“I should have known that you wouldn’t be able to do the assignment correctly.” He stands up, looks me in the eyes, and walks to the trash can.
I won’t give this jerk the vindication of letting him know that I spent the evening getting my ass whipped by a drunk who marauds as my “father.” I won’t tell Mr. Craig that his assignment is a waste. I won’t tell him that all I can think of is running away—escaping the beatings. “Go play with your dolls … ”—my father’s voice echoes in my head.
In midthought, I hear Principal Higgins call Mr. Craig to the hallway. As I elbow Jim, I say, “Watch this!”
With my hands in my pockets and everyone’s eyes locked on me, I stand up. I whistle lightly and turn slowly, checking the front, the back, the sides. All clear. Giggling to myself, I draw a perfect elephant’s trunk with two large coconuts under it. My classmates’ cackles fill my ears. I begin a near-perfect caricature of Mr. Craig, including his giant forehead, elongated, my artistic license at work. Proud, I stand back and admire how my art classes have paid off.
“Rich!” I hear from somewhere behind me.
I whirl around to see both Mr. Craig and Mr. Higgins staring at me. Mr. Craig’s face is red with rage.
“That’s it, Rich. Come with me.”
The class bursts into laughter as I follow Principal Higgins out the door. I take a short bow, wink at Mary, and blow a kiss to Mr. Craig.
“How did you learn how to draw like that?” Jim asks, smiling at me approvingly.
“Where does this guy live?” comes Brad’s voice, obviously not listening.
“Two blocks this way,” Jim chimes in, pointing his finger.
“Art class,” I state frankly.
“You go to art class?” They both look surprised.
“For the last two years I have.” I have their attention. “It’s pretty awesome. Last week we got to make our own prints. I took the LA Gear logo from my shoe and made it into a T-shirt.”
“Nice.”
“Shit, man! That is rad!”
They are obviously impressed. I’m like a chameleon. I make sure to fit into any group. This way no one will know who I really am. I know I don’t.
“I think this is it,” Brad says, handing me back the piece of paper on which I had written the address.
Our attention turns to the house in front of us. It is a white, comely home with dirty, green shutters. “His name is Javier,” I announce to no one and everyone.
“You said he would have beer,” Jim asserts.
“I don’t know, man. I met this guy at the East Side train station where I grab the bus to get to art class. He always just chills there.”
“He a faggot?” Jim obviously remembers the pedo from last week.
“Nah, Jim. I mean, I don’t think he is.” I try to maintain the authority of group leader as I wonder what I may be getting us into.
Once inside, the party is going. “Here you go,” Javier says as he hands a beer to Brad. “Rich, glad you could make it!” He holds out two beers in the same hand. Jim and I each grab one. “To getting whacked!”
This room is old and musty, I think through my fourteen-year-old brain, which is affected by my fifth beer. The only way to describe these furnishings is “sixties.” This is definitely better from the outside than the inside. The twenty or so people here all seem to be young. Only two are girls.
All of a sudden, Javier grabs my hand and pulls me toward the living room. I yank my hand away quickly as I follow him around the couch, doing my best to balance. I wonder, How long have I been here?
“I have something that will change your life.” He smiles at me as I take the seat beside him on the couch.
“OK,” I say suspiciously.
He hands me a thin tube with a round cutout in the end, similar to any pipe you’d use to smoke weed. He drops a small, yellowish rock into the pipe.
“What is it?” I hear myself ask through the fog of alcohol.
I hear nothing in response. I take my first hit.
“What time is it?”
“It’s two,” comes the response from a vaguely familiar voice.
I look up and ask, “A.M.?”
Javier smiles down at me. “No, P.M.”
“What?” I am so lost right now. “Is it Sunday? Have I been here all night?”
He laughs loudly. I can hardly contain how annoyed I am right now.
“No, it’s Tuesday. I told you it would change your life. I never lie!”
I refuse to speak to this jerk. After surveying the room for my friends and finding that they aren’t here, I gather myself. “Javier, what the hell was that?”
“Crack.”
The words echo in my head. Did I really just take crack?
For the entirety of my sixteen years of life, I have been seeking a way to erase my past so that I may become all that I know I am. I am seeking to right the wrongs that have been perpetrated against me. My mind swirls amid the thoughts of the past: “Ya little faggot.” “Why is he naked?” “She’s a victim, too.”
As I reach in my pocket, I look for the thing I need most. Where is it? “There you are!” I pull a hard rock from my pocket. Some people don’t believe in love at first sight, but I have been in love with crack since our first meeting at Javier’s house. I inhale as deeply as I can. Within seconds, it becomes apparent that nothing can stop me. I am invincible!
I look at everyone on the floor of this trap house*, lifeless bodies strewn about. Two kids, little girls, in a corner play with a makeshift doll. I smile. I reach in my pocket and pull out a half-eaten pack of crackers. “Do you need some food?”
The girl with the brown hair nods yes. The blond-haired girl seems to avoid my gaze at all costs. I hand the three orange crackers with peanut butter in the middle to the brown-haired girl. She slowly reaches forward, takes the crackers, and hides them under her shirt. It really feels good to help, I think. I grab my bag and head out to “the rest of my life.”
In thirty minutes, my new job at Subway starts! This is my fourth job in three months. I don’t need much to survive. I can always find a couch to crash on or a squat house to catch some shut-eye in. If worse comes to worst, I can go home and sleep there for a few nights. But things haven’t been safe since I quit school.
With my seventeenth birthday approaching next month, I want to save up money and get out of Dodge!
“Hey,” I say as I enter Subway. I have been working here for six months, and I have managed to save almost four hundred bucks, spending the remainder on crack. I have noticed that I am spending more and more on drugs these days. But I have it under control. It is just nice to avoid life once in a while. I think I will stop doing drugs when I go to New York City.
I’m ready for a fresh start. For five months, I haven’t touched crack, I’ve got my shit together, I found an apartment, and I even started a new gig at a home improvement store. But life here in Providence has become a little mundane.
As an escape, I’ve been planning this trip to New York City for months. Last summer, I was there for a concert; the people and the culture spoke to me. Finally on my way, I lean back in my seat on the bus to get comfy for the long ride. After checking into a hotel, I focus my endeavors on exploring this amazing city! I walk down the street, feeling immediately dizzy in the shadow of the high-rises. I love this city.
Buzzzzzzzzz goes the alarm. It’s too early. Where is the aspirin? I’m greeted by a headache that serves as evidence of last night’s overindulgence.
Shower. Shave. Pack, one item at a time, folded, placed neatly in my bag. It’s been a great week, but I have to leave today, I sadly inform myself.
I wedge my foot in the door to gain leverage, hoisting my bag around the bed and out the door. Once I’m outside the hotel, I spot a young man, no older than seventeen, approaching me. He looks disheveled and lost. “Hello,” I say as a courtesy.
“Hey, man. Is there any way you could spare me some change? I am hungry. Please, man, I would really appreciate it.”
“No, you’re not.”
“What? Seriously, I am hungry. I haven’t eaten in days. I am away from home, and I need to buy a ticket home. … ”
“You don’t have to lie. What are you on?”
“What?”
“I’m not a cop or a narc. I am not even from New York.” I take a moment so he can comprehend what I am saying. “If you are honest, I promise to make it worth your while.”
“Crack,” he states more directly than I’m prepared for. My mind immediately goes back to Javier’s, the trap house, my father, my aunt, my mother. “Ya lil’ faggot.” Maybe he isn’t lying. I smirk. I continue walking as he paces beside me. Clearly, he notices that I am mulling this over. I see myself in this boy. “How about this?” I inquire. “You find someone who will sell us weed, and I will pay for the weed. We can share it!” He smiles back at me when I tell him this. “I will even buy you dinner, too, once our appetites kick in. What do you think? Deal?”
He leers at me suspiciously. I can see trust isn’t something this kid has in abundance. In the end, like a true addict, he says, “Yes, I’m in.”
We walk down the street. “I’m Rich,” I state without looking at him.
“David,” he says without glancing in my direction, either. “You stay here?” he asks more curtly than I think he intends. The paranoia that goes hand in hand with crack is not foreign to me.
“This is the place,” he says. I hand him a twenty. “Wait here.” He disappears into the house.
Just get the pot and get out of here, I think as I sit down on the curb.
“He didn’t have any,” David says, walking up to me. He places a dime bag of crack in my hand.
Did he really get turned down for weed? I contemplate. Whatever his reason, David has me. I salivate just holding it.
Behind the hotel, I take the pipe from David. I swallow. “OK,” I quietly mutter. “Let’s do this.”
A smile immediately spreads across David’s grim face. He pats my shoulder approvingly. I nod solemnly. The alley behind the hotel is dimly lit. I am conscious enough to notice that. I look around, wondering if anyone will come around the corner. I fall euphorically against the block wall.
The reprieve from reality is nearly immediate. I am free. Here and now, my crack is all that matters. I know I will never see the hardware store again. I am at home on these streets. This is where I belong.
It’s been weeks now since I’ve been living on the streets. David is showing me the ropes. He shows me the safest place to sleep in the park. It seems we will need to be looking for squat houses in a couple of weeks, when the cold weather sets in. He also leads me to the best Dumpsters to eat from. When we just want a break, we go eat some meals at the homeless youth shelter, but not often because we prefer the freedom of the streets. Sometimes we beg for change, but most of the time David just “does his thing” and brings back some cash.
“Give me a hit!” David demands.
“I’m out!”
“What the hell? What did you do with the rest?”
“Don’t blame me! I have paid for all our fun!” I am annoyed.
“We need money. Quit fighting with me. Let’s find some cash,” I say with the conviction and paranoia of a crack fiend.
In my mind, all I can think is that “this kid” needs to go hustle some cash. I don’t care what it takes. He’s just a faggot anyway, I think. He did trick himself out to men on the block. While he never said that’s what he was doing—I knew. I see these guys staring at him, older guys who look out of place on the streets. David sees them looking, walks over, and they leave together. Within about thirty minutes, David is back with cash. I don’t ask, and he doesn’t share. It seems strange—he’s the same kind of faggot I would have kicked the shit out of in my younger years. But we need cash. We hustle. We do what it takes to survive.
“Did you have any luck?” I ask.
“Nah,” he says.
“What about him?”
“Who?”
“Him, right there,” I say as I point to a burly, brown-haired man. He has been staring at us since we started our discussion.
“It’s worth a try.” David shrugs as he heads across the street.
I never ask David what is required of him during these transactions. I don’t want to know. He’s a faggot, I think again as I watch him from across the street. How could he do it? How could he let them touch him? How could he touch them? Prostitution is way below me. As my father’s face appears in my mind, I feel disgusted. I see him yelling those words at me. My father has ingrained in me a total hatred for these people—and for myself.
“He’s not interested in me.”
“Why the hell not? He’s been staring over here for ten minutes at least!”
David’s voice lowers, and he says, “That’s because he wants you.”
“What?!”
“Chill, man!” he says firmly. “Just hear me out. This guy doesn’t want sex.”
“Why the hell is he here if he doesn’t want sex? Is he trolling the prostitution district looking for a good deli?”
“Nah, man, he’s got a fetish,” David says without emotion.
“A fetish? And what kind of donkey show is this john looking for?”
“Listen, this dude has real money! And he wants you. So shut your mouth and listen to me.” He looks angry. “I am not going to miss out on good money because you’re being a bitch. Man up!”
“Screw you,” I say under my breath.
“Go talk to him!”
I know he won’t stop until I do, so instead of fighting, I walk briskly across the street; all the while, this guy is just staring at me. Well, actually he is staring at my legs.
“Hey,” he says sheepishly.
“Hi, man. My friend said that you wanted to talk to me.”
“I have money,” he states bluntly. “I am just going to lay my cards on the table. I have been staring at your feet, your boots, for the last fifteen minutes. I will pay you eighty dollars cash if you go into this parlor with me and let me lick them.” He points at the sex parlor behind us.
“No sex?”
“No sex,” he says firmly.
I follow him across the road with trepidation, keeping my eyes glued to the red “Sex and Peep Show” sign we are headed toward. Am I really doing this? I think. We walk through the front door, he gives the man what looks like a twenty, and we are escorted to a room. This room is no more than 8 feet by 8 feet. There is a bench along the back wall that substitutes for a bed, and on top of it is a thin mattress, if you could call it that. On the other end of the room is a sink.
I think, I need to wash my feet. I blurt out, “I need to wash my feet.”
“Nooo!” he yells.
That stuns me. Why is he yelling?
“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s just that, well, I get more turned on when feet are unwashed.”
“Oh,” falls off my lips with surprise.
“Take off your shoes and socks.” As he says this, he begins to unbutton his pants.
The next thing I know, I’m laughing. I mean, this guy is licking my feet. Really? What the heck am I supposed to do? Faggots are sick! My mind is flooded with thoughts.
“Stop it now, or I won’t pay you!” he grunts.
“Sorry,” I say. David and I need the cash.
They say that you never forget your first time. This john will undoubtedly live in my memory—my first. I know I can do this. This is much easier than when I was a child. I need to survive.
I take his eighty dollars, which is the least valuable thing I have gained from this experience. Now it’s all changed, and it’s my turn to bring in some cash.
“Where’s the doctor? I need to get our crack prescription refilled!”
“Woot, woot! Yes, Doctor Rich! Let’s get that prescription filled!” David jokes.
We are two guys, taking back our lives one high at a time, as the clock “tricks” away.
“Hey, Ma. It’s Rich.”
“Honey, I can hardly hear you. Where are you?”
“I’m alive. Just needed to hear your voice,” I say. With this confession, a tear trickles down my face. Maybe I’m not as dead inside as I think I am.
“You there? I can hardly hear you.”
“Sorry, Mom, I’m outside of the bus station. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Grandma’s dying.”
The phone falls from my ear. I remember my little red truck, my grandma, the love. As I pull my phone up to my ear, I hear my mother in the distance.
“… [O]ne week to live, but she could likely die in the next twenty-four hours. Please come home, Rich. Please.”
I can hear her pleading with me. “OK. Wire me the money. Tell Grandma to hold on ’til I get there.” I hang up the phone before my mom finishes talking.
“David!” I shout.
“What? Why do you look sad?”
“I have money coming. Let’s stop by Western Union, then get f’ed out of our minds.” I wipe the tears from my face. Goodbye, Grandma. I will never see her again. I know this.
I remember watching the teardrops of blood run down my inner thigh. Fissures—often the result of anal sex.
Six foot three, blond hair, disheveled, he speaks to me with that stark accent of the French-speaking Canadians. I think, That is the problem with crack. It makes it hard to focus and understand what’s going on. What is going on?
“How do you like it, baby?” I hear. How does such a promising young man as me find himself here?
As he sits four feet from me, I wait. This is part of the game. At some point, he will be wanton enough for the main attraction. I just hope it isn’t soon. This free crack is too much fun.
The next few days blur together, as Mr. Boy Lover watches me, high as a kite, for days. Is it wrong that I’d go through it again and again? Am I sick? I am not sick! I am powerful! I am seductive! Who are these men to feel that they can lord their power over me? I am the one in charge. I am the one who lures, and they—they are the ones who take the bait. Dumb faggots!
I realize he is staring, just waiting for my euphoria to wear low enough. He wants me to remember and know what is happening. His eyes meet mine. I know that this glance is different. It is not the same glance I would see in the eyes of a new trick. This is the glance that is given before the attack. Some animals lure prey; others attack and overpower. Mr. Boy Lover is of the latter. And I know in this moment that my attempts to run would be futile. I scream. “Please, no!” I hold my hands out to keep him at bay. He approaches methodically and directly.
What happens next I’ll live over and over again through the history of my mind. He grabs me by the hair and forces me over the desk, face down. The shock is already setting in, and my dissociative abilities, honed through years of ritualistic abuse, gives way to full-blown detachment—One … Two … Three … Four I feel the warm sensation of blood. The rest is a blur, but the humiliation fills me from head to toe. I drop to the floor as my bowels release.
That’s when he does it. He already has all I am—my dignity, my identity, my power—and yet this sick pervert feels the need to go further. Perhaps he does it to show me who’s boss—as if I don’t know. He leans down slowly and deliberately, his gaze never leaving mine. Slowly he runs his hand through my shit and pauses, staring wildly at me. I look down. As I do, he caresses my face, from my forehead down to my chin, leaving a warm, watery trail dripping from the corner of my mouth. I slump my head down to the floor, devastated.
“Get out!” he shouts. I gather my pants quickly and stumble back to the streets to find David.
This has been a good week. I was able to land a Sugar Daddy last Wednesday! He let me live at his place for the week, and I can tell he will invite me back again. There is nothing better than a Sugar Daddy, especially in the winter. I hate sleeping at the shelter. This is a nice reprieve. Last year’s Sugar Daddy was one of the best—he was a chef, and he fed me crepes, soufflé, and gourmet sandwiches. It was amazing! I hope this new trick is a repeat customer. Who doesn’t like free room and board? Well, I guess it’s not totally free. But making his every wish and fantasy come true is a small price for a warm, food-filled home. Plus, I can use all my money from work during the day to buy more crack.
“Are you Rich?”
“Yes, what can I do you for?” No worries today.
“I was told you are the best,” he says.
I wait to answer, pondering if this guy works for the NYC police. He is short and pudgy. I can’t imagine that he does. “I am.”
“How much?”
“For what you want—no condom—it’ll be one hundred and twenty dollars,” I say matter-of-factly.
“I’ll supply the crack if you promise not to give me any trouble,” he says, pulling out a bag of crack.
“I think we have a deal,” I say, and I wink at him. This day is getting better and better. He hails a cab, and we both get in. As the cabby takes off, the comfort of the seat overtakes me, and my eyes gently shut.
The bounce of the taxi suddenly awakens me. It’s dark out. Looking at the cab’s dashboard, I check the meter to realize that it says $182. “Where are we?” I ask my current john.
“We’re here. Sorry the ride was so long, but I’m a private person. I don’t want to do this anywhere that I can get caught.”
He seems genuine, but I can’t shake this feeling that something’s not right. He grabs my hand and says, “Come on, I don’t want anyone to see us.” He hurries me toward a large older home that is obviously sectioned into apartments. We climb a fire-escape-looking ladder on the outside of the building to the second floor. He opens the door and ushers me in. “I need a hit.”
He pulls a pipe from the cabinet next to the refrigerator, places a large rock of crack in the pipe, and looks at me. “Before we smoke, I want to set some ground rules. I need you to respect me. This will all be perfect if you promise not to cause me any trouble.” With the pipe in his hand, he walks through the kitchen and into the living room. “Do you understand that I need you to respect me?”
“I hear you. Yeah, yeah, I’ll respect you,” I say. I give him the answer he wants to hear, but something seems off. Why’s this queer so hung up on respect?
“Change in here,” he says, and he returns to the kitchen. I put down my backpack and quickly take off my clothes. Let’s get this over with. Something about this place bothers me—really bothers me.
“I pulled out my old massage table just for you, so lie down,” he says.
“OK, whatever you want,” I say as I lie on my stomach. Something is off.
He begins to massage my back, and before I know it, this queer’s put a cloth around my neck and is trying to strangle me!
Frantically, pushing him away, I leap from the table and search the room for my belongings. Where’s my backpack? It has everything I own—passport, clothes—everything.
Now I’m really frantic. “Give me my backpack! Where’s my backpack, you queer?”
I run to the nearest room to look for my stuff, and that’s when I hear them. There’s someone else in the back room. Queer and I aren’t alone.
Running back into the kitchen, I see an old T-shirt on the back of a chair. I grab it and dart out the door. “Help! Help!” I scream as I run naked into the road, still holding the T-shirt. A car barrels toward me in the dark. I stand in the middle of the road and wave my arms, jumping up and down. “Help! Please stop!”
The car pulls over. “Are you OK?” an older woman asks from inside her Buick.
“Please help! Call the police,” I say. I don’t know if she understands the frantic mess coming out of my mouth, but she opens the passenger door, pulls out her cell phone, and calls the cops. I began to count in my head: One … Two … Three … Four. …
The police arrive; I am huddled in the older woman’s passenger seat, pantless.
“Sir, what’s going on?” asks a female voice through the window. “Please step out of the car; here’s a towel to cover yourself with.”
I step out of the car. “He has my stuff, my license, my clothes!” I am almost shouting at her.
“Sir, you need to calm down. Who has your belongings?”
“The man that lives in that apartment.” I point to the second floor of the old converted apartments.
“What is his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No.” I look at the ground, realizing how crazy I sound.
“Well, sir, I am going to go check with this man. You stay here with Officer Jenkins.” She points to a second female cop who is with the driver of the car. “But I have to be honest. We may not be able to get your belongings back. We have no right to enter a personal residence. If this man does not corroborate your story, then you will have to be taken to a shelter or the hospital.”
I look down. “I have to go with you when you talk to him. I think he will return my stuff if he sees me with you.”
“Sir, this is against protocol. But there aren’t many options, so I am going to let you come with me to talk to him. But I do not want you to enter the residence under any circumstance.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I walk toward the apartment, towel wrapped around my waist. I knock on the door.
My pudgy friend answers. “What the … what did I say about trouble?”
“Look behind me.” I point at the police, who are twenty yards away. “Give me my shit, and all this goes away—just the fantasies of a paranoid crackhead.”
He looks at me. He looks at the police. “Fine.”
He returns quickly and hands me my bag. I open it quickly and take inventory. I hold out my hand.
He pulls out his wallet. “No more trouble.” He hands me the money.
It is unusually hot, I think while sitting on a park bench. It is the kind of day when you can feel your socks sticking to your feet. I laugh thinking of my first trick. That was almost ten years ago. I have been on the streets since.
I am not in the habit of rolling up my sleeves, but the weather requires it today. People amble to and fro past me down the walkway. And similarly, my mind wanders through the fog of the past decade: “Faggot,” Grandma, my truck, Mom, Father. I’m nothing. I’m a man who spent his whole youth seeking to attain life. But I have nothing to show for it. I am an empty shell of a man sitting on a park bench, slowly dying. If I die, I think, smiling, I will finally be at peace.
Inside, I am empty. Shallow. Unfulfilled. Dead. Shameful. And lost. I notice a man walking toward me from afar. He looks at me just like my first trick did. It is a look I have become all too familiar with. I’m a junkie, my arms are covered with visible track marks, and I’m a mess, I think. What does he want with me? I already know. He comes up to me, leans in, and whispers into my ear. I look up. Dazed. Confused.
He looks down. Intent. Unsatisfied. Desirously. “How much?”
I think, I’m a junkie. I am a junkie! Don’t you have a soul? Don’t you see me as a person?
He whispers again, a little louder, enunciating his words slowly. “How much?”
I can see he is getting annoyed. Good for him. I just sit enjoying my haze.
And slowly my lips form words. At first I don’t realize what I am saying. I gaze opportunely into his lifeless eyes. We are both junkies. This guy is no more a “man” than I am. He is a junkie just like me. In the same way I want to get high off crack, he wants to get high off sex. I understand him; he understands me. That which he hates in me, I hate in him.
I don’t know if I say all that’s going through my mind out loud or just think it, but he turns and walks away.
Just like him, there’s no fix that will truly satiate me.
I am done with this life.
The pamphlet said this is the place. I look up at the front of the building. It says, “Providence Church.”
“Hey, friend,” a man says, extending his hand. “Your first time here?”
“Yes,” I say nervously.
“My name is Mark. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” He smiles.
I don’t know why, but I believe him.
Once inside, I meet some other people. Nothing new is being said. Mark stands up to speak. He starts. “Hi, my name is Mark, and I’m an addict.”
I have heard this on TV before. I guess it really is like this.
He continues, “I used to be a male prostitute. I was addicted to drugs. I had sex to survive and to support my habit. When I was a kid, my dad was an addict. He beat me and my two sisters. His favorite pastime was calling me ‘faggot. … ’”
What’s that feeling? I think. I put my hand on my face. I’m covered in tears. I cry because I know this story. This is me. I keep sobbing for an hour. Mark walks over to me at the end of the meeting; my face is still red from tears. He grabs my hand. I slump.
“Sit up, Rich. You don’t need to slump anymore.”
“Will you help me?” my voice croaks.
“Yes,” is his confident response. “What can I do to help?”
“Will you drive me to a rehab?”
As I walk out the door, I think of my grandma. I think about my truck, her love, my innocence. I wonder if I will be able to find what I have lost.
Perhaps a better family unit and better role models in my life could have steered me another way.
The only intervention I can see that would have helped me as a child when I was abused was if school therapists, teachers, and/or counselors got to the root of my behavioral problems (class clown, bullying other students, etc.) instead of labeling me as a “bad kid.” I had so much sadness and pain built up inside with no outlet, so all of that pain turned to anger, and the walls went up. I guess this is typical for boys who have been abused, from others I’ve spoken to.
In my teen years, the path that I chose may have been altered if I had known that there were others like me who also had been abused and had issues with their sexuality. Knowing that I wasn’t alone might have eased my mind when I was thinking that I was “the only one who is going through this,” which made me feel like a freak and fueled my drug addiction and the behaviors that followed. More open support in the school system might have helped.
Staying away from people, places, and things associated with that life, and abstaining from drugs and alcohol help me maintain my freedom. I deal with my feelings today.
Understanding the psychology of men who pay for sex helped me forgive these men somewhat, although in some instances, I still have strong resentment. Resentment is like poison. When it comes up, I try to let it go to keep my sanity. Anger can often put me in a negative place, and I refuse to have my emotions controlled by my past anymore.
The loving support from a twelve-step program is what gave me a foundation to build a life. My best friends, Jimmy and Tom, and my sponsor, Mark, have given me unconditional love and support for more than a decade and continue not only to be in my corner, but also to serve on the board at Project Weber, the nonprofit organization I created.
My mother also is my hero. Paralyzed from the waist down at nineteen and confined to a wheelchair since, she is truly one of the strongest people I have ever known.
It’s hard for me to give direct advice because I didn’t listen to it when I was a kid. I can only share my experiences. Since I was very young, I was warned of the dangers of drugs, prostitution, and disease. I chose not to listen because I didn’t value my life. Only now do I find its value from surviving through the pain and horrors of the life I lived. I had to experience the darkness before I could appreciate the light. Hopefully, just reading this book and the testimonies in it will be enough to cause people to see things from another perspective.