“What do you mean, yes, if I suck your dick?”

“What ya heard, kiddo. Yes, I might have a bed for ya, if ya suck my dick,” the guy said. The cluttered desk he was seated at as disheveled as Pierce himself.

“How—?” Pierce was struggling to find the right words and express his emotions rather than punch his way to a bed and a shelter for the night. He sucked in a deep breath and tried again. “I need a bed, dude. I’m homeless; you’re a homeless shelter. Help a dude out,” he said, on his best behavior. He hadn’t done that in a while. That was one of the benefits of living on the streets. No one gave a shit about you, and unless you were harassing someone, no one gave a shit if you had a fit.

Waiting for the charity worker’s reply was as nerve-wracking as waiting for a reply from one of his college applications, just two years before. The man glanced both ways as he’d done before, giving a quick check around him, even though they were in a small room, no bigger than two-by-two and with no chance of anyone overhearing him.

“I know, dimwit, I heard ya the first time. And what I said is help a brother out, and he’ll help ya back,” he said in a sly, infuriating tone, as if his whole life depended on that blowjob.

Pierce winced. “You are a charity worker, right? You’re supposed to help me no matter what. Not asking for oral, which between the two of us is really unethical,” he admonished, shifting from one leg to the other, making a real effort to not lose it and fuck up his chances of getting a corner in this crowded and smelly New York shelter. The silence in between their conversation was dressed with snores and some manic wails in the far distance.

The guy shrugged. “A guy’s got needs. Ya know what I’m talking about. Was talking to this guy on Grindr and suddenly my power died, leaving me all horny,” he explained with a nonchalance that was not befitting to the place.

“You know what?” Pierce had heard enough. That was the last straw. “Go and fuck yourself, you asshat. I’d rather sleep another night on the streets than suck your toothpick,” he spat. He picked up his old, leather suitcase that was waiting for him on the floor.

“Fuck you, bastard. I’ll be damned if ya ever get a bed in here,” the guy shouted at him as Pierce ducked outside, ready for some silence after such an upsetting encounter.

That was the problem with people. They could be real assholes when they started talking, so he preferred it when they didn’t. Best example? His own parents. Had they not spoken, had he not told them he was gay, they wouldn’t have kicked him out. He would still have a family. But people had to talk and ruin everything. Even himself. So he rather preferred to stay silent—when the monster inside of him wasn’t scratching to be released and wreak havoc at idiots like that pervert.

He tightened his fist around his suitcase handle and forced one foot in front of the other, pushing through the exhaustion and the numbness in his toes, a side effect of the imminent winter in New York City. He’d need a coat to survive it. A coat and a sleeping bag, among other warm things. He needed to find some but wasn’t sure were to look. If he had to, he was could steal them. Anything to survive that fucking winter.

His feet somehow led him to Central Park—perhaps habit, perhaps it was really just around the corner. He didn’t know, and he no longer cared. He just wanted to find a safe spot and close his eyes for as long as possible. He needed to rest. He hadn’t slept in four days.

The breeze rustling through the leaves gave him a cool welcome back to old haunts, and he quickly found a bench, solitary in existence, perfectly matching its new owner. He lay flat on it and trying to think warm thoughts. He put the suitcase under his head to keep it safe and shut his eyes for the first time in forever.

His face felt steaming hot, and liquid ran down his nose and wet his eyebrows. Was it raining? He was sure it wasn’t. He would have felt his whole body drenched in water. No. This was something else. He opened his eyes to find them stung by the toxicity of piss. Three guys wearing hoodies and smug expressions on their faces all had their dicks out, pointed at Pierce, and were relieving themselves on his sleepy face.

He sprang up and pushed one of them back. “What the fuck, man?”

The thugs laughed.

“Look, the junkie is alive. Bro, we were worried you had flatlined,” the guy he had pushed said.

“Are you serious? What the actual fuck? What is wrong with you?” he shouted as he wiped the piss off his face with the sleeve of his pullover.

“Look, man, we thought you overdosed or something. We were trynna wake yo’ ass,” another guy said and giggled like the sorry little girl he was soon going to be.

Pierce glared at him. “Overdose? Me? That looks more like your territory, fuckwit,” he replied.

“Hey, man, chill. Why you usin’ that language? We didn’t offend you,” said the third guy, playing it cool.

“You fucking pissed on me. That I take as a fucking offense, you asshole,” Pierce shrieked.

The laughter fell off the guy’s face and he assumed an offensive stance. He shoved Pierce backward onto the bench. His palm came into contact with the same mix of urine that was drenching his face. Big fucking mistake.

Pierce growled from between his teeth. “You’re going to regret that, dick.” Pierce kicked the guy’s groin, making him shudder and drop his upper body forward. Pierce pushed his foot on the guy’s face, and he flew back onto the ground. Pierce stood up again and raised his fists at the other two guys, ready to defend himself.

“Have I made myself clear yet?” he huffed, the anger in him still burning for some action.

He was disappointed as the perpetrators all ran off into the darkness without another word. Pierce grabbed his suitcase. It was drenched like him, and he cursed the skies for his shitty luck tonight. What more could possibly go wrong? So many months on the streets, and he had hardly experienced as bad a night as tonight’s.

He found the closest spigot, took his sweater off and put it to the side, his nipples hardening at the biting cold and the hairs on his arms raising to ward it off. He washed his face and hair, the ice cold water making him breathless and numb. That was it. He was going to die of frostbite because a bunch of idiots decided his face looked like a toilet.

He growled. He hated this. He hated not having a house anymore. Not having his own space. He didn’t appreciate how important home was when he had it. Now all he could do was hope he didn’t die overnight, sleeping on benches, subways, and tarmacs.

When he felt adequately clean, he grabbed his sweater and gave it a good soak. He was going to have to wait for it to dry, a hopeless pursuit already. He opened his small suitcase and pulled a t-shirt out. A jet black T-shirt he had been wearing back in the summer when his parents kicked him out. He pulled it on. This was going to be a stupid night.

Rafe walked past the busy streets of Times Square feeling breathless and unhinged. He hated begging at the horrible place, but every dime counted in his situation. It wasn’t enough, however. A count of the change in his hand told him so. It was never enough. It was only a supplement to make up for the hot cocoas he bought during the day. He always had to go north at the end of each day and make more.

Not everyone who occupied the streets of this crowded town chose to make money that way, but then again not every one of them had the effect a skinny Latino boy had on older men. Some were ugly old fucks, reeking of alcohol, too lost in their addiction to do anything about it, only beg for more booze. Some were too proud to sleep with people for shelter and cash. Some were just hypocrites, begging in rags during the day and being driven around town in limos in the evening.

Rafe had seen them all, met them all. Besides the fake ones, there were three kinds of homeless people in New York City: the old junkies, the new junkies, and the faggots. Rafe was lucky to only belong in the last category. He wasn’t going to put anything in his body to make him a dead man walking; he was hopeless enough as it was. His madre needed him and he wasn’t going to let her down by dying at twenty. Not if he could help it.

Oh, how he missed her. He hadn’t seen her in months, but he had heard her voice almost daily. He would call her every day at 4 p.m., when he knew she would be at home and his padre still at work. He never spoke to her, just listened to her voice answering the phone.

Thinking of his madre and trying to escape the hectic streets, if only for a while, had brought him to a side of Central Park where a young man was washing a piece of clothing. He looked annoyed, straining his sweater over a spigot of running water and mumbling something between his teeth. His torso was exposed to the cool night. He was fit. His muscles were as thick as both Rafe’s arms together, and his chest pumped full with veins. His ribs were a swoon-worthy sight. His hair was dark, but wherever the light touched it appeared ginger.

He noticed a small, rectangular leather suitcase. Brown and covered in stickers faded from wear. What was a homeless man doing with a vintage suitcase like that in the middle of Central Park? Had he stolen the bag? And if he had, what did the bag hold that was so important? Perhaps it contained money, the money Rafe needed to survive. If it was stolen already, then stealing it himself wouldn’t hurt anyone.

He watched as the man grabbed a black T-shirt from the ground next to the suitcase and pulled it on. Rafe found his opportunity. His feet initiated the run before he could stop himself and think twice. In all the months that he had been homeless, he had never stolen something of value. Until now.

While the man was still busy putting on the tee, Rafe grabbed the suitcase handle and sped away from the spigot. The darkness of the park gave him cover, but he continued to run through pathways and past trees until he felt safe enough to stop. He put the suitcase down and flipped the clasps open. Before he had a chance to lift the flap and sneak a peek at what was inside, though, he felt the sting of pain in between his shoulder blades and collapsed on the ground next to the bag, gasping for breath.

The owner of the suitcase appeared in front of him with a swift kick to the stomach.

“You stupid motherfucker. I’ve had enough for one night. You got me? Take your disgusting hands away from my stuff,” he said and lifted his foot, preparing a second attack. Rafe turned to face him and put his hands between himself and the man.

“Sorry, dude. I really need the money,” he said with a single breath.

The man picked his suitcase and kicked Rafe’s knees lightly. “And I don’t? Do I look like I’m the fucking Queen of England?” he growled and swore incoherently.

“I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know what else to say. Just…” Rafe took a deep breath, swallowing the pain in before he continued, “just stop beating me, okay?”

The man looked down at him, inspected his face and then spat on the ground next to him.

“Fuck you,” he grumbled and walked away, leaving Rafe utterly humiliated, lying on the ground, assessing his sores and his would-be bruises. The sounds of the city drowned as he came to the realization of what he’d just done.

“Éstupido,” he said to himself, slapping the tarmac under him. He wasn’t so much upset that he’d attempted to steal a suitcase but that he’d gotten caught and beaten for it.

He decided to stop feeling sorry for himself and continue his journey. He got up, dusted his pride off, and marched out of the park and up to Harlem, following Manhattan Avenue up to Morningside Park. A little over 110th was his usual spot.

He reached the dimly lit street where a couple of black boys were bending their miniature bodies to accentuate their best features and get one of the good businessmen to spend their Hamiltons and Jacksons on their asses. Rafe never had to do anything of the sorts. He just had to lean back on one of the cars and talk to the drivers. What most of them rentboys didn’t understand yet was that these guys were everyday people, perhaps lonely, perhaps shy or not confident enough in their skin, who still wanted to feel the carnal pleasures of sex. They weren’t billionaires who wanted a boy toy. Rafe had quickly picked that up. He was a smart guy, perhaps not science-worthy or an excellent mathematician, but he had street smarts, a much-needed skill if you were homeless.

In addition to his smarts, Rafe was a naturally charming kid. He was skinny, yes, but also relatively short, so his lack of weight didn’t look unnatural. He had a good round butt that was visible through any clothing he wore, and he tried to change outfits at least once a week, buying from thrift stores and discarding his old clothes. He didn’t have a lot of muscle anywhere else but his butt, but his skin was smooth like milk chocolate and his hair was trimmed military short. His eyebrows were black and thick and he loved that feature on his face. It added a touch of masculinity to his rather effeminate appearance.

But his hands? His hands did all the work whenever a guy was considering picking him up. They had never failed him. He had never been ditched for someone else. His hands were all over the guy before he had even decided. He would rub the driver’s window until the guy put his elbow out at which point he would guide his hand up and down their shoulder, gently, softly, fingers dancing ethereally and no matter if they wore a T-shirt or a suit, none could resist the feelings the delicate action awoke in them.

Rafe left his 'competition' to their business, and he relaxed against a van parked at the street. He rubbed his scalp and, taking a deep breath, felt the soreness on his back from where the guy had hit him. He hoped it wouldn’t get in the way of his job. He was about to find out, as a car stopped in front of him. Rafe had deducted that as soon as he relaxed, work would find him. He had also decided to add a tiny bit of sensuality to his movements and bam! He was in business. It worked every time.

When the car window rolled down, Rafe got to work. It was getting too cold to be sleeping in Central Park and getting beaten by handsome homeless guys.