You stand beneath the jaundiced yellow glow of a streetlamp on an empty corner in the middle of the Rainbow District. Blowing steaming clouds of foggy breath into cupped and stinging hands. Rough and weathered and chapped. Cracking. The cold slow burn of late October Upstate evenings descending upon you. Your fading, dark-creased leather jacket not enough to keep the coldness out. The slight crackle of internal warmth, internal flame—in, alive. Flecks of the black dried hide crumbling along spiderwebbed, veiny tears and patterns. Falling to the ground. Deteriorating slowly.

Some sacred cow suddenly dead for nothing.

Biting autumnal freeze eating you from the outside. Within.

Your own flesh turning thick, meaty. Rubbery. Lifeless. Blue. Frozen. Your hands unfeeling as they turn over each other. Rubbing. Friction. Forcing out the life, the heat. Coaxing the bloodflow.

Faking it.

Trying so desperately not to let the words “hypothermia,” “frostbite,” “amputation” float through your mind.

Look up these words in the dictionary. Realize the writing on the pages, the definitions do them no justice.

You can’t put this pain into words.

The dull ache of churning and empty stomach becoming unbearable. Bubbling bile corroding your chest, throat, tongue. Scraped-out, scratchy veins thin and torn. Searing pain screaming throughout shriveled arm and jagged trackmark and wracked body. Red raw flesh infected and swelling around overused and unclean puncture wounds.

Starving. Jonsing.

Famished. Strung out.

Malnourished. Addicted.

Desperate for food. Desperate for smack.

In the end, it’s all about the hunger.

In the end, it’s all about getting fed.

Trying so desperately not to let the words “scurvy,” “anemia,” “withdrawal” float through your mind.

You can’t put this pain into words.

Body shaking and convulsing. Trembling. Maybe from cold, drugs, hunger. Any or all. Realizing it doesn’t matter why.

Only here and now. What you need and how to get it.

It’s basic. It’s primal.

It hurts.

Indistinct cars with indistinct drivers obscured in the darkness of their vehicles, in the shadows of the street and the life, pass by. Some speedily, some at a crawl. Potential partners, benefactors, hourly-rate employers. You’re silent, stationary. Discreet and somewhat unnoticed, but solitary and alone beneath the streetcorner spotlight.

You always wait for them to make the first move.

Some slow to a stop, pull to the curb in front of you. You wait for the passenger’s-side window to roll down. You wait for them to lean over and unlock the door. You wait for an invitation.

You look, but don’t look. Never face-to-face. Never eye-to-eye.

You wait for it.

“What are you doing tonight?”

The stage is bare and you’re standing there.

Your heart sinks if they look you over and pull away, leave you standing there, rejected. You’re as worthless as you feel. As you know you really are. You’re unwanted. They’ve confirmed it.

Your heart sinks if they open the door and let you in. You swallow your pride and get ready to swallow a lot more.

There’s no time for pride when you’re hungry. Only what you need and how to get it. There’s nothing else.

The big ones, the burly ones, the bearish biker masculine ones, you’re their woman. You take what they can give. They’re big and rough and sweaty and putrid, and you hold your breath and close your eyes as they ride you, tear you apart. You try not to gag from the stench or they way they force themselves down your throat. They use you. They hurt you. You keep your mouth shut tight as long as they let you and you wait for it to be over.

But in the end, they put money in your hand and you can forget it.

The queens, they’re your women. You’re in control. You tell them, you’re a top, not a bottom. You tell them, you give it, you don’t take it. You tell them, you’re not that way. You’re never that way. They let you remind yourself you’re a man.

You’re always praying for queens.

But every open door is a prayer answered. Every open door gets you fed. Every open door is a fix.

Beggars can’t be choosers.

But you never chose this life. You were living it before you had time to make a choice. You never saw it coming.

Penetrated by a needle. Penetrated by some man whose name you’ll never know, whose face you’ll always try to forget. In the end, it’s all the same.

Your eyes are always closed.

You never see it coming.

And a red sports car comes to a stop in front of you as you finish pulling the last drag from the crushed nub of a no-name cigarette butt you found on the ground. A tinted window rolls down, and out of the corner of your eye you make out long wavy hair, long painted fingernails running through it, on the head of the driver. Catch a glint of light off a dangling earring. You flick the stubby filter of your smoke into a storm drain off the curb. Flip the collar of your leather jacket up. Flex the strands of muscle in your lanky arms and concave chest. Fake your best James Dean.

Look tough. Look like you don’t need it.

Look like a man.

This is the face you’ll wear tonight. If only for an hour.

The queens, they’re your women. This is they face they want to love.

Brief words are exchanged. The bare minimum. Efficient, businesslike. The door opens and you get in, leaving the window rolled down as the car pulls away and begins to speed down the street.

You look straight ahead, eyes on the road. You sneak sideways glances to your left at him, her. The pronoun game confuses and frustrates you. Fake breasts bulging beneath too-tight white-ribbed and sequined one-piece pull-over dress. Hem ending too early over knobbed knees and muscled calves. Rough and thick hands gripping the wheel. But tonight she’s your woman. A her. If only for an hour.

You realize with a trace of relief that tonight your back will rest upon a bed in her apartment or some hotel. If only briefly. The queens, they’re not the type to take you in alleyways or public toilets or in the car on dark and abandoned streets. The queens treat you better than any woman since your mother. The queens want to take care of you, make you happy, love you and be loved. You understand why so many women hate men. You smile.

You ask her if she has cigarettes, if you can bum one, if you can smoke in the car. She gestures to her purse behind your seat. She doesn’t speak. You realize she’s nervous. You wonder if she’s done this before. You feel empowered. You feel in control. You smile.

You grab the purse and rifle through it. You sift through tubes of lipstick, condoms, tampons. You find a lighter, a pack of distinctly feminine cigarettes, and her wallet. You thumb the thick wallet open to find a stack of large bills inside. You feel a rush the same as when you’re cooking breakfast in a spoon, when you’re clenching the belt in your teeth and pulling it tight around your arm, when you’re slapping and tapping two fingers up and down your wrist. You picture the wallet empty, your stomach and veins and pockets full. The anticipation gets you off. You smile.

You pull a long and slender cigarette from the pack and light it, drawing in your breath deeply, exhaling slowly. You lean towards her and hold the cigarette to her lips while she drives. Being classy. Being a gentleman. Winning her heart. Seducing her. Emptying her wallet.

She pulls at it lightly, gingerly. Timid. Anxious.

She turns to look at you. Eyes off the road. Cocks her head to the side. Coyly. The corners of her lips turn up.

She smiles.

Everyone’s smiling.

She slows to a stop and parks the car in front of a three-story brownstone in a respectable neighborhood, a street lined with many other houses just like it, sturdy and aged, prominent. Many other nice, expensive cars parked outside of them. None distinct. None unique. It’s late and the stoops and sidewalks are empty and quiet. You feel that she, your partner, your driver, your trick, is probably the most original element in this place.

She gets out of the car and you follow as she leads you up to the door. She fumbles with her keys in the lock and laughs lightly and nervously. You reach around from behind her and lay your hand on hers, steadying it. Resting your other hand on her hip, waist. Embracing her. Calming her. Winning her.

This is business. You sell yourself. You are a product.

You can be a twenty-dollar bathroom trick and be back on the streets in minutes with barely enough to cop a tiny hit of a fix and your stomach still growling.

You can be an all-night escort and spend the whole next day at the shooting gallery, out of the cold.

This is marketing. You decide who and what you are.

She leads you inside and up the stairs to the top flight. The landing is littered with countless pairs of heels, boots, pretty shoes. Stacks of unopened and unread junkmail. She apologizes for the appearance. You tell her not to worry. You don’t mind.

You’ve seen worse.

You’re being honest.

She opens the door and releases a wave of perfumed air from within the apartment. Incense. Floral. And warm. The heat and the scent wash over you and you pause. Your eyes close. Your head tilts back a bit. For a moment, you just stand there and take it in. For a moment, you just stand there and enjoy it.

She steps inside and flicks on the light. She kicks off her heels onto a small brown mat right next to the door and invites you to do the same, then extends her hands to help you off with your jacket, which she hangs on an antique-looking stand. The carpets, plush and pearl white, were just put in, she says. She hopes you don’t mind. She hopes you’re not offended. She’s overly gracious and you find it cute.

She sits you on her couch while she goes to get something to drink. Though it’s warm in the apartment, you still shake and tremble from the hunger. You’re glad for the wine she brings and drink it quickly and greedily. Hoping to catch a little buzz. Hoping to steady your hands. Hoping to loosen up. Hoping to numb the pain.

As you finish the bottle with long swigs, you gaze at the walls, the bookcases, the shelves in the room, all full of pictures and posters and framed prints and various images of Marilyn Monroe. The quintessential Warhol. Her skirt blowing up above her waist, her thick patch of dark pubic hair all but invisible behind too-sheer panties thanks to the watchful eye of the cameraman and a last-minute bleaching. Many more. Some new to you, some not.

These multi-color facsimiles. These revealed dye-jobs. You wonder who this woman really was. No one seems to know.

You look on the couch next to you and observe her. Your date. Your woman. Look at her in the light for the first time. Her platinum-blonde wig. Her white dress. Her pronounced chin and cheekbones. Adam’s Apple. Overdone makeup. Trace of shadow on the face. Like Marilyn’s telltale pubic patch.

She looks nothing like Marilyn. You’re not sure if she’s trying to.

She doesn’t look much like a woman at all.

The light is unflattering.

She leans over to begin kissing your neck, her tongue running along your ear as her hand roams over your lap. You close you eyes and try to enjoy it. Concentrating more on the dull sensation of the wine setting in. Not wanting to look. To realize. To accept. Wanting to move away from the light.

You ask her to move to the bedroom. You get up and walk with her hurriedly, her excitement visible in the spring and speed of her step, in the bulge pressing thunderously against the too-tight of her white dress, begging for release. She takes you by the hand and pulls you into a small room with a large and already-turned-down bed. She turns on the light and begins to pull off the dress.

You say, no, this is wrong. You say, no, leave it on. Shut the light. You like it better that way.

You know you are in control. You know she’s your woman. You know you can have it your way.

In the dark, she lays you down on the bed and straddles you. Laying down on top of you. Presses her mouth to yours. Her bulging false breasts against your chest. Her thickened manhood stabbing at your thigh. She moves her head lower, removing your shirt and taking your nipples between her teeth, gently. Sensually. Then lower, unzipping you and taking you in her mouth.

You close your eyes. It’s dark. You can’t see. Only feel. The warm bed cradling your sore and aching back. The warm air caressing your naked chest. The warm waves of alcoholic numb coursing through your mind and veins. The warmth and wetness of her mouth moving over you.

Her. Her. Your woman. In the darkness, in this moment, all you feel or know is her.

She turns herself on top of you. You, still in her mouth. Her, round and firm and on your face. Her manhood pressing dangerously close to your lips. You slide off her silky panties and move your hands over her smooth-shaven skin. Your fingers, tongue probe her.

In the dark, you tell yourself, it’s no different. In the dark, for all you see and feel, she is all woman. Your woman.

And as she moves to her knees and you kneel behind her, you look only at her back. You close your eyes. You feel. You reach under her and cradle her imitation breasts in your hands as you breathe onto her neck and into her ear. Warm. And feeling warmth.

And as you move together and she moans, all you know is her. Warm and smooth and inviting. Comforting. Generous. A client. A lover. A woman.

Your woman.

When you finish, you lay back on the bed and she cuddles close to you, running her fingers through the faint hair on your chest. Her head resting in the nape of your neck. Her perfume drifting up and filling your nose. Her soft voice whispering the nothing of pillow conversations.

And the lights are still out. As morning approaches, the room is still dark. The sun will creep through the windows soon and this perfect moment will end.

For now, you’re on the clock. For now, you’re comfortable. For now, you’re being cared for. Being loved. And these are feelings you don’t often know.

And you think you could lie here forever. You think you could live your life in this warm air and warm bed, with a warm body pressed against you and warm breaths and sentiments blowing in your ear.

You think of the money you’ll make, the high you’ll get, that rush like a thousand orgasms that will pass through you when you get back to the streets and score. You think of those dark streets, those shadowed alleyways, the cracked pavement and dirty faces and cold autumnal breeze.

It hurts.

And as you’re about to say goodbye, she says, I’m hungry. She says, I know a place we can go. A perfect little diner. She says, let me take you there. You must be famished. She says, I’ll pay.

And she’s right. You’re starving. And you can’t remember the last time you ate a real meal, a warm meal. But you can remember the last time you shot up, and it’s been too long, and the fire is rising in your scraped-out veins. And that hunger is all-consuming.

And morning is coming soon.

And she can tell what you’re thinking. She can see it in your eyes. And she says, please. She says, just breakfast. Less than an hour. She says, and then I’ll drop you off. Wherever you want to go. I’ll let you be on your way.

And you’re not sure why, but you say you’ll go. You’re not sure why, but you don’t want to leave her just yet if she’ll have you.

So you dress and head out to the car, her still in drag as the sky fades from black to hues of spotty blue and the world outside begins to rumble. She drives to a little luncheonette not far away, an old-fashioned place with an outdated color scheme and only three booths and many stools at the counter. You’ve never been there before, but she seems to know it well. She greets a small, olive-skinned man at the door who takes you to a booth and places menus in front of you. She refers to him by name.

The morning light begins to creep in the windows as the man pours two coffees for you, and you look out the window at the cars beginning to fill the streets, the people beginning to fill the sidewalks, the buses beginning their morning routes. You look at this busy outside world through the large frame of a window, through slats of sun-faded and dirty blinds, and it doesn’t seem real. You wonder who’s watching, and who’s being watched. You’re not sure.

She asks you what you’re thinking and you don’t answer. You instead ask for a cigarette and try not to look her way. The light, you’re sure, will be unflattering. You wish it were earlier, darker. You start to feel uneasy and wonder if you’ve made a mistake, if you should have left straight away.

You can’t bring yourself to look across the table.

You’re thinking about closed-casket funerals. People wanting to remember their loved ones the way they were.

You smoke the cigarette she gives you as the man takes your order. People begin to trickle in and take seats at the counter. You begin to feel trapped. You begin to feel eyes upon you. You wonder if she does too. You wonder if she cares. You wonder why you do.

When your breakfast arrives, you can barely look at that either. You feel sick to your stomach. You can’t tell if it’s nerves, withdrawal, uneasiness. You pick at some dry toast and feel the need to vomit. You tell her you’re sorry, but you have to get out of here. You get up and walk out the door before she has time to reply. Your head hangs low, and you look at the floor, the ground, the whole time.

You wait for her in the car, the window rolled down and finishing your cigarette, staring into the distance but not at anything in particular. Intentionally indirect. And your hand starts to tremble, the ash of your smoke flittering down onto your lap. The burn in your stomach starts to crawl through your veins and ends up in those little infected pinprick lumps near your elbow. You rub at them, trying to soothe it. Only irritating them.

They’re screaming at you.

They want to be fed.

And you hear the driver’s door open as she gets in, but you just keep looking away. Eyes glazing. Staring into nothing. The sun has risen fully and glare has started to beam off the windows of cars, the windows of the diner. Now your eyes burn too. It’s much too bright. You wish you had dark glasses to hide behind.

She asks you where you want to go. She says, where should I drop you off? Do you have a place? No, you say. It’s a stupid question. It irritates you. She wouldn’t know better, but she should, you think. You have no place.

There is no place for you.

So you tell her to leave you where she found you, though that’s far from where you’ll cop, where you want to be. You don’t want this to be any harder than necessary. It started there, you think, and it should end there. On the corner in the Rainbow District, where she’ll feel comfortable and at home, and you’re not sure how or what you’ll feel.

You don’t speak as she takes you there. You figure, you did your time. Clocked your hours. Earned your pay. And you’re through having to win her. And you wonder what she’s thinking now, and you don’t know why. You wonder if you’re hurting her. You’re not sure you care. But you don’t want to ask. You don’t want to look. If a tear has welled in her eye, you don’t want to see it.

Because this was business. You were a product. And you did what you had to do. To sell yourself. And sometimes people come to be disappointed with their purchases.

Buyer beware.

In the end, it’s only what you need and how to get it.

And as she pulls to the corner, you see her go for her purse out of the corner of your eye. She gives you a handful of bills, not all of it, but it’s fair and it’s enough. As you reach for it, she grabs your hand, and holds it longingly. You freeze. She releases your hand and then touches your face, guiding your chin up to look at her. You keep your gaze fixed low. You think, this is why you work nights. You think, maybe the men aren’t so bad. You think, at least they’re quick about it.

And she leans forward to kiss your lips, but you turn your head quickly and catch it on the face, grabbing the money with one hand and opening the door with your other, getting up and letting yourself out. She shouts after you, will I see you again? You say, maybe, over your shoulder and not looking back. She shouts, where will I find you? You say, around. Here. You’ll be back here.

You know it.

And you keep walking, and after a long pause, you hear the car pull away and drive off. And you feel relieved. In a sense. But empty in a million ways, for a million reasons. And you try not to think about it, and you let the hunger be your only feeling, your only thought.

Because it’s easier.

Because your head is weary.

Because this hurt is better than the other hurts you could be feeling.

On the street, they call heroin “boy.” Coke is “girl.” You don’t know why. You think, when boy and girl get together, it’s called a speedball. You think, when boy and girl get together, a lot of people end up dead.

You’re out on the street hunting for boy. The only thought on your mind is getting the boy in you.

Sticking the needle in.

Penetrating.

Tearing you open. Blood trickling out. Scars left behind.

You never chose this life. You were living it before you had time to make a choice. You never saw it coming.

In the end, it’s all the same.

And the next day, the money’s run out and you’ve come off the high and you’re feeling sick and hungry again. And you find yourself back on the corner. And you don’t know what you’re praying for. You wonder if it’s worth praying at all. You might as well just lay back and take it however they give it. Get what’s coming to you.

You think, in the end, you’re never really in control. You think, you might as well admit it.

And the night wears on colder than any other night you remember. And you think, it’s probably no colder. You think, you’re probably just more torn and tattered. Just like your jacket. There’s no more thick skin left to protect you from the harshness of the world. You think, you’re deteriorated. You’re helpless. You’re a victim.

And you realize the diminishing returns. You realize, the longer you’re out here, the more strung out you are, the more likely it is that the cars will just keep driving by without a second glance. You realize, it’s more likely the curbside stoppers will just roll away and leave you there alone and rejected. In your streetcorner spotlight. On display. Some spectacle of sickness with no semblance of anything you might call discrete. Just solitary. Alone.

You wonder who’s watching, and who’s being watched.

You’re not sure.

You wonder how you look to the outside world. To your observers. Your gaunt face. Hollow frame. Shaking. Convulsing. You wonder, is this a face a mother could still love?

You realize, it’s not. Not likely.

And then a familiar red sports car with an unfamiliar driver slows to a stop, pulls up to the curb. And the silhouette you see of the driver as the tinted window rolls down has no long wavy hair, no long painted fingernails running through it. And you can’t tell if it’s the shadows of the vehicle, or the shadow of stubble across his face. But the pronounced chin and cheekbones, the Adam’s Apple, they’re all familiar.

And you think, you should have prayed.

And you think, you should have fucking prayed.

And no brief words are exchanged. And you find yourself looking him in the eye, really for the first time.

And you realize, you’ve been here all night. You realize, you don’t know when the next trick might come along, or if he will at all. And you realize, you’re not in control.

He is. She is. It is.

You’re powerless.

And this is what the bottom feels like.

So when the door opens, you get in, leaving the window rolled down as the car pulls away and begins to speed down the street.

And he says, it’s good to see you again. I missed you. And he doesn’t seem nervous at all.

And the heater’s blowing at its maximum in the car, but you’re shivering and shaking worse then you were out on the corner all night.

As autumn creeps into winter, the sun sets much too early, and it gets much too dark and cold.

And you say, you missed him too. You realize, you’re going to have to work a lot harder to empty his wallet this time. You realize, you’re going to have to do a lot of things you don’t want to do. You wonder, is there any time for pride?

You’ve been here many times before. The situation is always the same. This is the business. This is the hustle. You are a product. You sell yourself. But this time, it feels horribly wrong. This time, the screaming inside you isn’t from those little bumps near your elbow. This time, you can already taste the bile rising in your throat, and you think, the taste of fear disgusts you.

And he says, I miss your lips. Your skin. And he puts his arm around your neck and draws you close. And his lips move towards you, and catch you on the face. And your throat bucks. Your chest heaves. You gag and wretch.

His skin, mouth no longer smooth. Scratching like pumice across your face and irritating the skin. And you wonder, is he already thinking of where else he’ll put those lips, that mouth? And you realize, you know he is.

You ask him, are you going to his place? He smiles. He laughs. He asks, where else is there to go? He asks, it’s not like we can go to your place, right?

You ask him, is he going to get dressed? And you’re not sure that will make anything better, but you ask anyway. He asks, does it matter? You say, you’re not sure.

You’re being honest.

He asks, will you still fuck me if I don’t? You don’t answer. You don’t know. He asks, you need the money, right? You don’t answer.

But you know you do.

And he puts his hand on your knee, and slides it slowly up to your thigh, and squeezes. He says, I’ve never had it that good. He says, I need you. He says, but I want you to take me as I am.

Take what he can give.

And you realize, you can’t. You don’t know why. Something doesn’t feel right. Maybe because it feels too right. Maybe because it feels too perfect. And you’re sick to your stomach. And your heart is racing. And you don’t know why.

And you say, stop the car. And he asks, why? And you say, stop the car.

Your hand is on the latch before he has a chance to respond. You’re opening the door, letting yourself out of a still-speeding car. And as your foot hits the ground, you’re ripped from the vehicle. Dragged out. He screeches to a halt, tires smoking, just feet away as you continue to roll and tumble along the street. Your fragile body splintering and fracturing.

And he gets out, and calls after you. You pull your broken and battered and deteriorated body off the ground as quickly as you can, and through pain wracks though you, you try to crawl away, to slip away, to run. Not in any particular direction. Not to any particular place. But away. And you’re not sure why.

And the voice that calls after you, it’s not familiar, even though you know it should be the same. And the hurt you feel, it’s not familiar either. It’s the hunger and the fall and something you can’t quite place. And you try to let the hunger be your only feeling, but it doesn’t work.

You’re bleeding. You’re broken.

And you run.

And you scream over your shoulder at him as blood and spit and bile gurgle in your throat and choke your words and heavy breaths. You scream, don’t. You scream, just go. Please, please, just go away.

And you run.

You don’t know how you’re going to score, or when. You don’t know if you need a doctor.

And you run.

You still can’t remember the last time you’ve eaten. You wonder if you ever will again. You wonder if it matters.

And you run.

You swear you hear his footsteps approaching fast from behind you, and you know that no matter how quickly you try to move, there’s no way to escape him if he wants you. You swear you can feel his hot breath over the hairs on the back of your neck. You swear you can sense his hands about to grip you, come down upon you, wrap around you from behind.

And you run.

You feel hunted, watched and powerless.

You’re basic. You’re primal.

You hurt.

You hurt.

And you run.

 

© 2003 Jim Donadio - Contributor's Bio