Another Time, Another Place
When the banners were posted for the Challenge in Two Parts, fansee took one look at the Wild West banner and went nuts. Apparently she had been waiting all her life to write 19th C. Brian and Justin. She dragged me along with her, and the story below is the result. I blame gundamnook for inspiring fansee with the awesome banner below the cut.
JUSTIN
I was thoroughly tired of the sound of train wheels clacking on the rails, of the rocking of the coach, of the hard wicker seats, even of the glossy cards in my hand. Seven days ago, on August 15, 1885, I had boarded the Pennsylvania Railroad’s Chicago Limited in Pittsburgh’s Pennsylvania Station. Now I looked forward - somewhat apprehensively - to getting off at San Francisco’s Union Station. Where I’d go, what I’d do next, I had no idea. I was only grateful to have more coins to jiggle together in my pocket than I had when I boarded the train in Pittsburgh.
Mother’s savings from her household money had been only enough to purchase a coach ticket on the Pennsy as far as Chicago. After paying for that, I had $2.87 left, plus a bag with two ham sandwiches, two apples, and a large piece of marble cake. The apprehension I felt now was as nothing compared to the apprehension I felt when the train crossed the river, and I left Pittsburgh behind forever.
Yes, forever. My father made that very clear when he discovered what he called my ‘disgusting proclivities.’ He wanted to throw me out on the street the moment he comprehended exactly what it was Christopher Hobbes and I were doing in his study on Thursday afternoon nearly two weeks ago. Or, to be accurate, what Christopher was allowing me to do to him. Despite the ensuing theatrics, I was still a 17-year-old virgin.
When we were discovered, my father bellowed, my mother came running, Father struck me and threatened Christopher, and Christopher left precipitously. Mother refused to allow Father to show me the door immediately, physically stationing herself between Father and the door to his study. I believe that she intervened only because she didn’t understand what had happened. My father refused to tell her any more than that I had demonstrated “disgusting proclivities that make him unfit to live any longer in civilized society, or in this house.” The upshot of an hour of tears, yelling, and threats was that I was allowed to pack a portmanteau with such of my belongings as I could fit into it, and leave with my head up and a modicum of dignity. I also took the $1.50 I had left of my allowance and the $24.67 Mother had saved from her housekeeping money. Most of this went to pay for my train ticket.
I set straight off for Daphne Chander’s house, knowing no one would look for me there. The Chander’s are of African descent and so not ‘our sort of people,’ even though they are perfectly respectable. My friendship with Daphne is another long-standing secret of mine, and I knew the Chanders would take me in, as they did. I spent two nights there while I made my plans and purchased my train ticket.
To tell the truth, at first my shock was so great that the most I could do was to tell Daphne everything that had happened - Mr. and Mrs. Chanders got a thumbnail sketch - and go over all my possibilities with her. Most of our more attractive ideas, involving us both eloping to Europe, we had to abandon. We then deliberated on whether Denver or San Francisco would be a more exciting destination for me and decided that, since I plan to be an artist, the picturesque qualities of San Francisco were more desirable. Alas, I had only enough money for a ticket to Chicago. Once there, I determined that I would find work and earn the rest of my fare. Despite the uncertainty, I departed Saturday morning, portmanteau in one hand, Mrs. Chanders’ picnic lunch in the other.
We have just pulled out of the San Jose train station and are now on the last leg of our journey to San Francisco. I shall be heartily pleased to quit the train and hope never to have to spend the better part of seven days on one again. So much has happened to me in the past week that I can hardly believe only a week has passed. I am not the same person who left Pittburgh.
Once the train pulled out of Pennsylvania Station and I could no longer see Daphne’s forlorn little figure waving good-bye, all I could do was slump down in my seat and think about all I was leaving behind. Forever is a terrible word. Never to see my mother or father again or my sister, Molly, or St. James Prep and my teachers and classmates: I had to force myself not to cry again. I gazed at the scenery…nothing exotic to look at yet…and looked around at my fellow passengers in an attempt to turn my thoughts in a more cheerful direction. When neither attempt worked, I decided to walk the length of the train, in hopes that activity would take my mind off my troubles. Besides, I have always loved changing cars: stepping carefully over the connection between the two cars while the scenery seems to hurtle by so much faster than when you are enclosed in a car.
Three cars down from the one I was riding in, I came to the parlor car. An locale less like a parlor would be difficult to imagine. At first glance, everyone in the car seemed to be male and, indeed, there were only one or two women in the crowded car. The cigar and cigarette smoke hung in the air, despite the open windows. Tables and chairs, bolted to the floor, replaced the usual bench seating, and there was a bar at one end of the car. Card games were in progress at almost every table.
This did not seem like the sort of place my parents would approve of, but then they no longer approved of me, did they? I gritted my teeth, put on my most mature face, and started working my way through the crowd. No one gave me more than a passing glance, even when I stopped to look at the play at several tables as I passed them. One table in particular caught my attention. Five men sat around it, all of them smoking, all with glasses at their elbows. They played silently for the most part, only speaking in unfamiliar slang: “bring in,” “third street,” “river,” and so on. I watched, rotating around the table and observing each man for a while, and I began to see how the game was played. I also noticed that two of the men won more consistently than the other three and that they had quite a quantity of coins, and even bills, amassed.
The train stopped in Akron, and many of the passengers got off to take advantage of the facilities and stretch their legs, but the five men continued to play through the stop. Some time after the train pulled out of the station, one of the men got up to go to the bar for some refreshments. In the pause that ensued, I spoke up. “I’d like to play, too,” I said.
Now you have to know that, although I am almost 18, I look much younger. One of the guys looked up and said, “Get lost, kid.”
I said, “I have money.”
That got everybody’s attention. The guy shuffling the cards - he seemed to be named Charlie - looked at me and said, “How much?”
“Better than $5.00,” I lied.
There was a moment’s silence. Winston, the man who told me to get lost, said, “You lose your money, you’re out of the game. You understand?”
I nodded vigorously. “Of course. Certainly. Thank you.”
Morty and Butch moved their chairs enough to make room for me, and I pulled up a chair and sat down. I had been watching for close to three hours by that time, and I had gained a fair understanding of the mechanics of the game. More importantly, I noticed that Butch and another man called Eddie both lost more than they won, partly because their reactions reflected how good or how poor their ‘down’ card was. The other three players were in the process of relieving the inept pair of a great deal of money. Winston had been particularly successful, as his winnings attested.
As Charlie dealt a hand - one card down to each of us, then one card up - I asked, “What’s the name of this game, anyway?”
Winston snorted, but Charlie said, in the sort of kindly voice you use to small children, “Stud poker, kid.”
My down card was a 3♠ and my up card was a 5♥. The next two cards…both dealt up…were no better: a 7♠ and a 10♦, but I stayed in and lost 40¢. That made a big enough hole in my $2.87 that I had to start being cautious sooner than I would have liked. I wanted the men to think I was what I believe they call an ‘easy mark,’ but I didn’t have enough funds to do a bang-up job of it.
I folded immediately on the next hand and lost a total of 20¢ on the three hands after that, by which time I was taking quite a bit of kidding. I blush easily which can be helpful in situations where you are trying to convince others that you are harmless. On the sixth hand, my strategy paid off.
I was dealt Q♣ down and Q♠ up. Winston had Q♦ up. I knew it was unlikely that he had the fourth queen down, so I put in the first round nickel bet. He was dealt 5♠, I got 2♥. He bet the required 10¢ and I met it and raised him 5¢. He met my 5¢ to stay in the game. The next round Winston was dealt a second 5, the 5♣, giving him a pair. I received a useless 10♥ and bet 25¢. The other three folded. Winston met my bet and raised it another 25¢. I let my very real nervousness show, met his bet and called the hand. He had a J♣ down, so I won, 95¢ altogether. I tried not to show my relief, but had I lost, I would have been down $1.30, instead of up 35¢. Since Winston was the best player at the table, the win was a great boost to my self-confidence.
We played the rest of the day and through the night, almost to Chicago. The players changed, but Winston and I stayed at the table, only taking breaks for calls of nature and - on my part - to go back to my seat and retrieve my picnic. I had no interest in buying refreshments other than pop when Mrs. Chanders had made me such an excellent nuncheon.
Naturally I lost some hands, particularly when I had to bring in with a poor hand, but I won much more than I lost, and by the time we got to Chicago, I had $21.27 toward the next leg of my journey. That bought me a ticket to Davenport, Iowa, and left me with almost $5.00 seed money. After my perilous start on the way to Chicago, that seemed like a comfortable stash.
I caught a few hours of nervous sleep in the train station, then headed straight for the parlor car as soon as the train pulled out of the station. I played well at first, but after only two or three hours, found my attention drifting. I was tired. It took another couple of losing hands to make me realize I needed some rest. I excused myself from the table, to a certain amount of joshing for walking away a winner, and went to my coach car seat where I slept the rest of the way to Davenport, my head bumping against the window.
From Davenport, I had only enough funds to buy a ticket to Iowa City, but I was fortunate enough to sit down with the worst poker player I encountered on the whole trip. Mr. Whelan should never sample whatever he carries in a flask in his inside coat pocket while playing stud poker. After a short run of perhaps fifty miles, I was up almost $50 and feeling somewhat guilty about my winnings. I did not, however, feel guilty enough to give it back. Mr. Whelan was quite jovial despite his loses to me and to the others at the table, perhaps because of the contents of his flask.
And so my journey went: from Iowa City to Des Moines and thence to Omaha where I had accumulated enough funds to pay my way through to San Francisco. I had only enough money to buy a coach class ticket, but I had no intention of doing more than sleep in my seat. However, knowing that my fare was paid took a great deal of the pressure off, and I made certain that I took enough breaks from play to stay rested. I wound up my final game shortly after we left San Jose and was ready to greet San Francisco with $51.82 in my pocket or, more accurately, $11.82 in my pocket and $40 in my shoe. More importantly, I knew how I could support myself.
Disembarking at the terminal close to San Francisco Bay, I felt more apprehensive than I had since I sat down at that first poker table. While I was on a train, I had, in a strange way, a home and a certain amount of security. That was all gone. Now I was in a strange city, with no friends or acquaintances and no one to advise me. I was more aware than ever of my youth and vulnerability. I need to find a hotel and rent a room so I can stow my portmanteau. I’ll always look like a greenhorn as long as I’m carrying that damn satchel.
After standing on the platform hesitantly for a minute or two, feeling conspicuous, I stopped a Negro porter and asked him for directions to a respectable hotel, clean but not expensive. As I suspected, he was able to direct me to an near-by establishment, which I reached without making more than one wrong turn. Once found, the Jackson Hotel proved to be a four-story edifice where I was able to rent a room for two nights: $5.00, payment in advance.
The room was quite adequate, with its bed, bureau, and a small desk and chair, and there were two bathrooms on the floor. I made use of the facilities and ventured out for a look around, with the thought of climbing one of the hills that help make San Francisco the picturesque location it is. A rumble in my stomach reminded me of what I had not really forgotten: I was hungry. I turned back toward the railroad terminus, where there was certain to be somewhere to procure a meal. I preferred to begin my explorations on a full stomach.
The restaurant in the station did, in fact, prove to be quite adequate for my needs. I sat down at a table covered with a hardly-stained white tablecloth and ordered a bowl of soup and a cup of coffee.
While I was waiting to be served, I noticed a tall man at another table who looked a little familiar. I immediately looked away; I don’t like to encourage strangers to make my acquaintance unless we both have cards in our hands. Hence I was more than a little startled when a voice asked me, “Do you mind if I join you?”
It was the familiar stranger, of course. I hesitated. It would be safest to say No, but the idea of company while I ate was attractive. “You may,” I said.
He was tall and neatly dressed in striped pants, a vest, and a gray shirt with white cuffs and collar. He smiled reassuringly. “My name is Emmett Honeycutt,” he said, “and I recognize you from the train.” He sat down opposite me.
With his upturned nose and warm brown eyes, he did not appear at all threatening. I smiled back. “I’m Justin Taylor, and I don’t remember you. I’m sorry.”
“I got on in Sacramento, and you were engaged in play for almost the whole trip.” I thought I detected something of a southern accent.
“Are you visiting here in San Francisco, Mr. Honeycutt?”
He shook his head. “No. I was attending the funeral of a friend in Sacramento.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“And you? Are you here on a visit?”
“No. I plan to settle here.”
“If I may be unduly inquisitive, may I ask whether you have family here?”
That did seem unduly inquisitive. Daphne and I had read numerous stories of greenhorns in the Wild West. Inevitably one of the first things that happened to these young adventurers was that they lost all their possessions either to flim-flam men or to stick-up artists. I was determined not to let it happen to me. I said, “I prefer not to discuss my situation.”
Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of our meals. My companion was served a sort of a sandwich involving melted cheese, and I tasted my excellent fish soup, so thick that it might better be called a stew.
After a pause while we sampled our food, Mr. Honeycutt said, “You are cautious. Very commendable. I am worried, however, that you plan to continue your career as a gambler.”
I looked up from my soup. “Why should you be concerned about that?” I asked sharply.
“Mr. Taylor, there are many men in this city who would do you harm. Some of them would harm you because they hate what you appear to be, others would harm you because they want what you appear to be.”
My stomach clutched, and I stared at him. He looked back soberly. After a long silence, he said, “Do you know what I am talking about?”
I barked a laugh. “As my father said when he threw me out of our house, I have ‘disgusting proclivities.’” I blinked, keeping my eyes dry.
“Ah. Exactly so. I had very much the same sort of experience as you, at your age. I was fortunate enough to find friends who gave me advice on how to avoid most trouble. I would like to do the same for you.”
I ate another spoonful of soup, to give myself time to think. Lord knows I need help. “What would you suggest I do?”
“To go back to my original question, Do you plan to continue playing cards for money?”
“I have no other marketable skills. So…”
“Then you’ll need to seek out our fair city’s Barbary Coast. That’s where card games are played for money, including stud poker. The neighborhood is called the Barbary Coast because….”
I interrupted. “I can guess why,” I said. I learned my American History at St. James. “Algiers’ Barbary Coast was notorious for its pirates, slavery and general depravity. I assume San Francisco’s Barbary Coast is no better.”
“Exactly so. You wouldn’t last ten minutes there on your own. I tend bar, however, in one of the few establishments which you might find hospitable. If you will accompany me there, I will introduce you to the proprietor and see if he is amenable to allowing you to play there.”
This invitation sounded like the first step toward robbery, abduction or worse, but Mr. Honeycutt’s sincerity was persuasive. I was further reassured by the fact that it was a little past noon on a bright, sunny day. Sooner or later, I would have to take some risks in order to secure a life here. I resolved to take advantage of this opportunity. “Where are you taking me?” I asked.
Mr. Honeycutt smiled. “We are going to the Babylon Saloon on Front Street,” he said.
EMMETT
It wasn’t until after we pulled out of Stockton that I noticed him. I’d gotten on the train in Sacramento, just come from the funeral of Miss Godiva Upchurch. Godiva, or William Wordsworth Upchurch, as the pastor called her, was quite the Southern belle when I first arrived in San Francisco in ’75. It was to Godiva that I confessed that I wanted to jump ship and stay in San Francisco. She took me right under her wing, put me up until I found somewhere to stay, and gave me tips on how to avoid getting pressed as a sailor again. Without her help…well, who knows what would have happened to me.
When I got the telegram from William’s niece - it was William who went to stay with Mrs. Melody Upchurch Sandford, not Miss Godiva - saying that his consumption had taken a turn for the worse, I left for Sacramento on the next train. Alas, I was too late to express my thanks to him one last time. I stayed on for the funeral, which took place quite soon after his death. It doesn’t get as hot as Hazelhurst, Mississippi, in Sacramento in August but it gets hot enough, if you take my meaning.
For the first part of my trip home, I was too sunk in melancholy to notice my surroundings. Mrs. Sandford had given me a lock of Godiva’s hair in a locket that I had attached to my watch fob. As soon as the train left the station in Sacramento, I pulled out the locket and looked again at it. During her stay in Sacramento, where it was hoped the more salubrious climate would be beneficial, it had turned a steely grey. Perhaps she had been too ill to color it herself; perhaps the doctor had thought coloring would prove unhealthy. Any which way, there was no trace of glorious gold left in the precious lock I was contemplating. I turned my face to the window and dabbed my cheeks with my pocket-handkerchief to cover my weeping.
We had cleared Stockton when I felt enough in control of my feelings to get up and stroll through the cars. The parlor car was naturally of interest to me professionally since I am a bar keep at the Babylon Saloon on Front Street in San Francisco. As I was making my way to that end of the car, I noticed a considerable number of on-lookers gathered around one table. I stopped, too, and took a gander.
Seven gentlemen were playing stud poker, a favorite game among veterans of the War Between the States, both Union and Confederate. Four of the seven looked to me like grizzled veterans, the fifth was plainly a farm boy, the sixth - dressed in black from hat to boots - looked like a card shark to me, but it was the seventh player we were all watching. He was dressed neatly and expensively in a bespoke suit and a crisp white shirt with a high collar. His dark blond hair was pomaded and parted on the right side by a part so straight it was probably laid out by a surveyor. He looked clean-shaven, or more likely he was so young, he didn’t need to shave. That was why we were all gathered around the table: to watch a 12-year-old boy playing poker with his betters.
Not that he was an exciting poker player to watch. He played a conservative game, losing a little one hand, winning modestly the next. I stood around watching until he got up from the table, saying he was going back his seat. That was right after the train left San Jose, so I went back to my seat, too, and dozed until we reached the terminus.
I was hungry, so I stopped at the railroad café for a nuncheon. As soon as I walked in, I saw Jimmy McGowan seated near the door. Mr. McGowan and I have had an assignation or two in the past, but the last was probably over a year ago. It would have been unneighborly for me not to have acknowledged him. When I stopped at his table, he invited me to join him, which I did. I ordered a beer and asked for a sandwich, then told him about Miss Godiva’s funeral while he finished his chop. Then he excused himself, and I was left sipping my beer and waiting for my repast.
While I was waiting, who should walk in but the young card-shark from the train! While he seated himself and perused the menu, I debated whether or not to introduce myself. I like to think I would have whether or not I had just come from Miss Godiva’s funeral, but the memory of how she helped me after my arrival here was sharp in my mind. With only a little hesitation I got up, taking my beer with me, and introduced myself.
I quickly determined that he had no family or friends in San Francisco. Like me, ten years earlier, he was alone in a city that can be dangerous. Unlike me, he seemed set on embarking on a career that would take him into the areas of greatest peril. I asked him, flat out, “Do you plan to continue your career as a gambler?”
He looked back quite pertly. ““Why should you be concerned about that?” he responded, no trace of fear or uncertainty in his voice.
I was quite alarmed. Even more worrisome than his probable choice of profession was his appearance and demeanor. I suspected that he, like me, was of the sort who prefer the company of men to that of women. I said, “Child, there are many men in this city who would do you harm. Some of them would harm you because they hate what you appear to be, others would harm you because they want what you appear to be.”
I waited for his answer. When the silence stretched, I decided to be more blunt than is my usual style. I said, “Do you know what I am talking about?”
He did. That meant that there was only one place where he would be somewhat safe until he grew some claws: the Babylon Saloon.
I was somewhat disappointed when Mr. Taylor agreed to come with me with little argument. After all, he knew tarnation little about me, and to just pick up and follow me did not show good sense. On the other hand, his acquiescence simplified matters. We walked along East Street until we came to Front. The Saloon is only a few blocks over from East, so we arrived there in a fairly expeditious fashion.
We got there about 3:00 in the afternoon, when all was mostly quiet. We stepped through the double doors with their stained glass windows…windows that Mr. Kinney has replaced more than once…and into the long room, lit even in mid-day by half-a-dozen elegant gas-lit chandeliers. I was watching for my new friend’s reaction, as I doubted he had been in many saloons in his young life. Indeed, his mouth dropped open and he seemed transfixed. He was staring at the large picture behind the bar, illuminated on either side by sconces.
Mr. Taylor said, “What the….?”
I sighed. I have worked for several years in front of that picture, and I know that it is not what patrons expect behind the bar in a saloon such as the Babylon. “I’m afraid Mr. Kinney loves that picture.”
“It’s magnificent!” I looked down on the youngster, amazed. His blue eyes were sparkling. “That’s what I want to do,” he said. “I want to be able to paint like that.”
.
There is no accounting for taste. “Oh,” I said, “glad you like it.”
“Like it? I love it!”
I said, “Hold on a minute. I’ll be right back,” but I doubt he heard me.
Leon was behind the bar. I walked over, leaned on the bar, and asked, “Is Brian in?”
Leon looked back, unenthusiastically. “Why?”
“Now, Leon, don’t get all ornery with me. Is he around?” Leon is just plain stubborn about doing one extra thing. “I don’t want to leave my new friend alone.”
He made a face, but he said, “I think so. I’ll go get him.” He took one more swipe at the bar with his cloth and walked its length and through the inconspicuous door to the back room.
I rested one foot on the rail that runs along the bar, two or three inches off the floor, and waited. Mr. Taylor drifted toward me, never taking his eyes off the picture. He was standing next to me, still staring when Leon came back. “Brian’ll be out in a minute,” he said. He nodded at Mr. Taylor. “Brian’s gonna eat him up. You think you should warn him?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“No skin off my nose if you don’t. But when that boy starts crying all over your shirt front, don’t complain to me.” He turned away and started shelving glasses industriously.
“Mr. Taylor,” I started off.
“Justin,” he said, finally taking his eyes of the picture and looking at me.
“Justin. You are going to meet the owner of this establishment in a minute or two, and I want to warn you about him.”
Justin looked serious, even a little scared. “Why? Is he one of those men who will want to hurt me? ”
“No, no. Mr. Kinney would never hurt you a-purpose. In fact, Mr. Kinney is likely to be more than friendly at first, but it won’t last. Your best bet is to limit your association with him to business. I think he’ll be happy to allow you to play cards here; it will bring in the trade. But….”
We both heard the snick at the door to the back room closed. We turned and watched Brian Kinney walk gracefully toward us. I looked at Justin, and my heart sank. He had the same expression on his face he had had when he saw Mr. Schafer’s picture.
BRIAN
Quicksand.
The word sprung to my mind the minute I saw his face. I haven’t been fool enough to tangle with the real thing in a coon’s age but I can still vividly recall the fucking helpless feeling of being sucked in by a force that, at the time, seemed beyond my control to get out of.
The aforementioned muck changed my life years ago, and I’ll be damned if its emotional equivalent will do the same to me now that I am finally content with my lot. I can not allow a mere child to undermine what I have attained.
I arrived in San Francisco nothing more than a penniless guttersnipe fifteen years ago. I understand my ‘people’ were originally from Philadelphia. A civilized town I have never had the pleasure to step foot in. My worthless father contracted gold fever in the early ‘50’s and somehow finagled enough money to book passage to California.
As usual, his timing was off and his luck was nil. By ‘55 he was reduced to a farm laborer by day and a scoundrel in the Sacramento groggeries by night. One such evening he forced his affections on the banker’s daughter, and nine months later I arrived. Neither of them ever forgave me for that.
I prefer not to dwell on my abysmal childhood and merely mention it here so as to give credence to the rest of my story. At the age of fourteen my father let it be known that I had received enough ‘schoolin’ and it was time for me to start earning a man’s wages in the fields. I protested; I aspired to more than the life he led. He flew into a drunken rage, something that happened more and more often the older I got. A fist fight ensued, resulting in my final departure from his home.
After he passed out, I saddled the family mule and rode west. Surely, I thought, a town like San Francisco would have more to offer a young man of my tastes. You see, my father and I had no more in common than a last name. I knew education, be it in a school or on the streets, would afford me a better life than that of a field laborer and I also knew the women he lusted after did nothing for the stirrings below my waist. The fact that I was only getting hard by fantasizing about naked boys was something I certainly couldn’t discuss with dear old dad.
Heading out, I followed the Sacramento River and made good time but the god-damned mule didn’t stay with me long. While I slept the following night, she broke free and left me to hike to the Pacific alone, armed with a compass, my knapsack, and too little food. I was famished as I neared a small gathering north of the city.
It was a Sunday and what appeared to be a church social was being held in a clearing near the water. In my state I was hardly presentable. I had, however, designs to work my way along the marshy edge, which would afford me good cover until I was close enough to make a dash for one of the tables laden with food.
All was well until I stumbled upon a patch of fucking quicksand and panicked. My frantic attempts to free myself only resulted in me sinking deeper until I realized I must make use of my last resort. My call for help was answered by one of the picnickers. A Mr. Amory Giles extended his long, muscular arm and pulled me to safety. I realize now how symbolic that gesture was.
Mr. Giles was a successful San Francisco businessman seventeen years my senior. He and his wife, Delilah, ran an upscale drinking and dining establishment in the city and they took pity on me from the start. Their coupling had not been a fruitful one and while I was hardly the child they had hoped for, I was a likeable enough young devil with a strong back and a quick mind.
Our relationship began with a trade off: room and board in exchange for washing dishes, floors, tables, linens and any thing else in need of cleaning at the restaurant. Once I proved able with that charge, my responsibilities shifted to waiting on our customers, then procuring goods and finally keeping the books. Under Mr. Giles’ tutelage I learned all aspects of the business and something else far more important.
I came to know myself not as a freak of nature but simply a man, similar to many others, Amory Giles included, who preferred to fuck and be fucked by other men. While there was never any question that he loved his wife, Amory’s sexual appetite could only be fully satisfied by another man. Having me in his household proved to be a fortuitous arrangement for both of us. In addition, Delilah continued to reap our affection (and his cock) until the sad day she passed away, six years after my arrival.
Together Amory and I mourned our loss and comforted each other. By then, the townsfolk had come to accept me as his adopted son and no one was the wiser. Over the years, Amory introduced me to other fine gentlemen of similar tastes and my circle of friends expanded. Life was good.
Then, four years ago, Amory was taken also. I was left as his sole heir. The business changed names and focus since the one fucking job I never perfected was cooking. Babylon exists now as a men’s drinking and entertainment establishment. Gentlemen of my persuasion work behind the bar and at the piano, and I’ve hired a few attractive female entertainers to keep the rest of the male clientele happy both at the bar and in the rooms above.
Men like me are forced to live a double life. If we didn’t, we would either be celibate or dead. Fortunately, no one even questions where my affections lie. “Mrs. Kinney” has seen to that. As a matter of convenience for both of us, I have made an honest woman out of one of my employees.
You see, it just so happens that I admire the lovely Lindsay Peterson, and the lovely Lindsay Peterson admires pussy. To keep questions regarding our lifestyles at bay, we conveniently ‘eloped’ one weekend and now share my home. To the casual visitor the main level of our two story, wood frame home is the elegant residence of Mr. and Mrs. Brian Kinney, complete with a master bedroom and maid’s quarters. In reality, Lindsay shares that master with the maid, and I reside on the upper level. These sorts of arrangements are not unique but, as I’m sure you understand, necessary.
So this is the life I have carved out for myself and, once again, it is good. I am independent. I am successful. I am a respected member of this community. My ‘inner circle’ of friends live and love as I do…above suspicion. Where then, does one Justin Taylor fit in?
He doesn’t.
He can’t.
And yet…Goddamn quicksand. I am afraid I was no better at fighting it last night than I had been fifteen years ago.
It was early in the evening when Leon peeked into the back room to tell me Emmett had arrived with someone he knew I’d like to meet. To most of our patrons, that area is simply my office and it does serve that purpose well. In addition, however, the lock on the door allows for certain valued customers to conduct confidential, private business with me there from time to time. There are benefits to being the boss.
Emmett and Leon are compensated well for inspecting the applicants. In addition to the monetary tips, once I’ve had them, those three are usually happy to pick up where I left off. Since I prefer to fuck with a maximum amount of pleasure and a minimum amount of bullshit that means I don’t do seconds.
I assumed from the tone of Leon’s voice that this ‘someone’ had backroom potential so I tidied up a bit and checked myself in the mirror before emerging from behind the bar. What I saw was a cherubic-looking thing barely old enough to be out of knickers. Obviously new to town, I judged from his dress that he came from money and must have arrived via the comfort of the train.
San Francisco has continued to attract young men uncomfortable in their own skin and unable to function properly in the one-horse towns they rode in from, but this didn’t appear to be the case with him. While still a wide-eyed adolescent, he managed to carry an air of confidence about himself. Emmett’s introduction included the fact that Mr. Taylor had more gifts than just his beauty. He was, apparently… a goddamn card shark. That was a curious and unexpected talent in one so young.
This little detail added to his interest. As the proprietor of Babylon I was always on the lookout for a fresh idea or face that would increase my business. If this description proved to be true, Justin Taylor would surely bring in clientele determined to beat the kid and that clientele would drink.
“Card shark, huh?” I asked and the boy simply nodded. “How about you show us what you got.”
I looked around. “Henry,” I called out to one of the regulars who was involved in a poker game at a nearby table. “Deal this kid in on your next hand. We’re gonna see what he’s made of.”
If it had been possible for Mr. Taylor to turn any whiter than he already was, we would have witnessed it that second. He swallowed hard, turned to me and said, “Thank you, Mr. Kinney,” before walking over and taking his seat.
Hmm, I thought. Good looks and good manners too. You’ll be thanking me for more than that before the night’s over, kid.
I am a sexual man who, at that moment was grateful to be walking back behind the bar. My cock was responding to that Cupid’s bow mouth of his and what I wanted it to be doing to me. Having the evening to keep an eye on him would give me a little time to determine my next step. I already planned to fuck him but a man in my position, who wants to stay there, must be lead by the brain and not other parts of the anatomy.
One can learn a lot about a person by watching him play cards. Is he honest? Can he hold an intelligent conversation? Is he as a gracious loser as well as a winner? Can he keep a secret or do his expressions give him away? I was relieved to observe that Mr. Taylor excelled in each of these areas. It was apparent that the child had a brain to match his body.
Card shark? Not sure. By no means did he make a clean sweep, but judging from the stack of chips in front of him at the end of the evening, I reckon he came out comfortably ahead. That was good too. It meant he’d be back, as would the others, to play on another night and then another. When someone new rides into town and beats the regulars handily, business usually dries up until he rides back out again.
My cock let it be known that I shouldn’t take any chances however. Since Emmett sniffed this kid ou,t his sexual preference was not in doubt. I was intent on providing for it before sunrise. Things were winding down when Mr. Taylor excused himself. I assumed he was going to take a piss and before he got back, I stationed myself at the door.
“How’s it going?” I asked as he approached. “Have you had a lucky night?”
He stopped a foot or so away. “Just checking things out, you know. The other players, the feeling of the place, the fastest way out if necessary.”
He talked like a pro but I had a feeling this was uncharted territory to him. I was ready to call it a night and had designs on taking him along.
“Where are you headed?” I asked as nonchalantly as possible.
“No place special.”
“I can change that,” I assured him.
I had already told Emmett and Leon I’d be leaving with or without him and started down the steps and into the street. His footsteps behind me brought a smile to my face and a twitch to my groin. My home is little less than a mile from Babylon but last evening the fog was so thick one could barely see three feet ahead.
“Where are we going?” He asked somewhat anxiously after a couple of blocks. I suspected he had no idea where he was or how he would ever find his way back to wherever he was staying. At this hour it seemed a foregone conclusion, he wouldn’t be going there anyway.
When I responded with, “My place,” he got a little panicky. He stopped in his tracks and it was then I surmised he was a virgin and getting cold feet. I turned around and looked him in the eye.
“Are you coming or going, Mr. Taylor?” I asked as seductively as I could muster.
He stood his ground so I took a step closer and lowered my voice. “Or coming and then going?” Then I leaned in further so our mouths were just inches apart, “Or coming and staying?”
The street was deserted and as I have mentioned, it was so fucking foggy even if it hadn’t been, someone would have to have been on top of us to notice me grab him around the waist and pull him in for a long hard kiss. After which, convincing him to come along became quite easy.
“Nice place,” he marveled as we passed through the entryway and into Lindsay’s god-awful lace and floral print parlor.
“It’s not mine, it’s my wife’s,” I told him as I slipped out of my overcoat and laid it across the banister. That was a fact I needed to disclose upfront. And then it hit me. I never bring a stranger into my home for sex. It’s far too risky. What the fuck was I thinking?
“Wait a minute…you’re married?” His brow was furrowed and he looked concerned.
“As far as this town is concerned I am, and that includes you. Understand?”
“Sure, I mean…of course..um…does she know?” He stammered and I had to chuckle at his uncomfortable confusion.
“She’s the singer you listened to at the bar and yes, she knows. We have an arrangement. She lives down here with her girlfriend and I live upstairs.”
He breathed a sigh of relief and I reached out and pulled him to me. “Now I’m going to take you upstairs and fuck you but I’m telling you now, what goes on in this house, stays in this house. You got it?
He nodded and I attacked his mouth forcefully before heading up the stairs. By the time I reached my door I had shed my shirt and suspenders. Fucking a virgin takes time and there was little of that left to waste.
My quarters are as different from Lindsay’s flowers and lace as you can get. Dark wood polished to a high luster dominates the large room at the top of the stairs. Since I don’t cook, there was little need for a kitchen of any sort. I usually take my morning coffee downstairs and most of my meals out. Therefore, my home is predominantly taken up by a comfortable reading parlor with a bar to the right and a large bedroom and bath to the left. Simple, elegant and functional. I prefer its openness to the number of small rooms on the lower level.
I tossed my shirt onto a chair in my bedroom and began to unbutton my trousers. Justin was still fully clothed and didn’t appear to be in a hurry to lose any of them.
“You haven’t done this before, have you.’ It did not come out as a question and he was quick to take the defense.
“Sure I have, lots of times.” I didn’t find his confidence and poker face such a fucking great asset at the moment. I continued the line of questioning. "So...are you a top or a bottom?”
“Top.” He paused and looked as if he was reconsidering. “And bottom.”
“Oh, you’re versatile then.” I said with a slight smile. “For tonight, let’s say you be the bottom, alright?”
I didn’t give him time to answer or protest. Instead I covered his mouth with mine. With one hand behind his head, I used the other to unbutton his pants and release his rigid cock. He gasped when I held it for the first time. I was impressed with his length and girth. Breaking our kiss I could see the fear in his brilliant blue eyes.
“Relax,” I told him. “It’s going to be okay. Let’s get these clothes off first.”
I kicked off my shoes and then removed my socks and finally dropped my pants. Standing there, naked and hard, I watched as he nervously pealed off each layer of clothing. His skin was milky white and as smooth as an infant’s with blond hair covering his legs, arms and pubic area. He must have been a stranger to hard physical labor as there was not a callus to be found anywhere. He was toned but not overly muscled. Close to perfect in my eyes.
Once we were both naked, I brought him to me again, kissing him more softly than before. I wanted to convey in both my words and actions that I knew what I was doing and that he could trust me. Still standing, I used my leg to part his and rubbed his balls with my thigh while grasping his cock in my fist. I pumped him gently and he moaned.
“Like this?” I whispered in his ear.
“Yes,” came his breathy reply. “I’m not going to last.”
“That’s alright,” I assured him. “First I’m going to suck you and then I’m going to fuck you. You can come as many times as you want.”
I knelt then, knowing this was going to be one of the quickest blow jobs in history. Taking the tip of his penis into my mouth, I probed his slit with my tongue and tried to recall the feeling the first time Amory had done this to me. I was fortunate to have a gentle, experienced, older man teach me the ropes, and it was time for me to pass on the favor.
Taking him deeper into my mouth his hips started to move with a rhythm as his hands combed through my hair. “Fuck, this feels so good.” I heard him say as I tasted his salty pre-cum and felt his balls draw up. I was pressing my tongue hard against the underside of his cock when the first spasm wracked his body and my mouth filled with his fluid. I swallowed him and he gasped.
Letting his penis fall from my lips I looked up for his reaction. He was still attempting to regain his composure. His face was flushed and his breath was coming out in fits and starts. “That,” he stuttered, “that was spectacular.”
I slid on to the bed and pulled him down beside me. “Ready for lesson number two?”
“Is it going to hurt?”
“Not this part. Turn over on your stomach.”
I was about to do something I very seldom do but this kid was impeccably clean and the taste of his cock had given me a hankering to do the same for his ass. Rimming him would serve the dual purpose of satisfying that itch while helping to relax him and open him up.
Justin had no idea what he was in for when I wedged myself between his legs and began to lick from the base of his neck, between his shoulder blades, down his spine and into his crack. He let out a cry when I spread him and circled his hole. Taking it one step further, I forced my tongue into him and he began humping the sheets. Ah, I thought…to be that young again.
When he was sufficiently wet I replaced my tongue with a finger but not without warning. “This might hurt a little, Justin. If it does, bear down and it will help.”
I pushed in just to my first knuckle and stopped. “You okay?” I asked. I realized the responsibility I had to him at this instant. Good or bad, I would forever be associated with his first fuck for the rest of his life.
“Yeah,” he whispered. I circled with my finger before I pushed up a bit further. He was so tight and soft and warm. My cock was dripping in anticipation but I knew he needed to be opened more and he’d also need plenty of lubrication. Keeping my finger in place I continued to circle it and then began to move in and out. With my free hand I was able to reach the nightstand and grab the Vasoline. Thank God for Mr. Cheseborough’s concoction! I shudder to think what people did before his First Aid Jelly was available.
I could feel Justin relaxing and opening up for me. It was time to insert a second finger after coating it well with the salve. “I’m putting two fingers in, Justin. Just breathe and relax.” The boy was a natural at taking directions. With slightly more than a gasp, both fingers slid into place and in seconds he was moaning with pleasure and ejaculating for a second time.
“This is fucking amazing, Brian. I never dreamed it could be like this.”
I turned him over and we shared another long, soft kiss. “This is how sex is supposed to be.” I told him. “Never settle for less.”
On his back now I once again wedged myself between his legs. I was finally able to look into his eyes and could see much of the previous tension was gone. “On to one more thing, Justin. You ready?”
“Oh God, it’s really gonna hurt, isn’t it?”
I can honestly say it both hurts the most and feels the best.
“I want it,” he paused, “I want you.”
“Put your legs up,” I instructed, “on my shoulders.” I could feel his muscles shaking as he raised them. I didn’t take my eyes off of his face as I lubed my cock and then leaned over him. I positioned myself at his soft pucker and encouraged him to breathe deep as I made the initial push.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Justin yelped as the head of my penis slid in. “It hurts…does it always hurt?”
“A little bit, but that’s a part of it. Now relax.” I pulled back and he nodded slightly. “I want you always to remember this.” I pushed in again, “So that no matter who you’re ever with, I’ll always be there.”
Justin did as he was told. His resistance was gone and on each push in he would bear down a bit to help me get in further. The second I was completely in and hit his sweet spot he cried out with pleasure and a rhythm was set.
“This is fucking, Justin."
He repaid me with a smile that lit up the room and a climax that squeezed my cock tighter than I had ever experienced before. His orgasm triggered mine and we fell into a sweaty, exhausted heap.
“Oh my God, Brian.” he turned to me and exclaimed when we had both regained our composure. “You are like a fucking drug and I’m afraid I’m already addicted.”
It was either my gut that did a fandango when he said that or my heart. I’m not sure…maybe it was both.
He’s a child.
This is not in my plan.
It would never work.
Fucking quicksand.
JUSTIN
I am back in my room at the Jackson Hotel, thanks to the boy Brian found to guide me through the obliterating fog. It is 7:00 a.m., and I should be asleep, but I am too fired up to shut my eyes. Instead I have gotten out one of my pads of paper and a freshly-sharpened pencil.
August 23rd 1885
San Francisco, California
Dearest Daphne,
I have seen the face of God. His name is Brian Kinney….
Continued here.
JUSTIN
I was thoroughly tired of the sound of train wheels clacking on the rails, of the rocking of the coach, of the hard wicker seats, even of the glossy cards in my hand. Seven days ago, on August 15, 1885, I had boarded the Pennsylvania Railroad’s Chicago Limited in Pittsburgh’s Pennsylvania Station. Now I looked forward - somewhat apprehensively - to getting off at San Francisco’s Union Station. Where I’d go, what I’d do next, I had no idea. I was only grateful to have more coins to jiggle together in my pocket than I had when I boarded the train in Pittsburgh.
Mother’s savings from her household money had been only enough to purchase a coach ticket on the Pennsy as far as Chicago. After paying for that, I had $2.87 left, plus a bag with two ham sandwiches, two apples, and a large piece of marble cake. The apprehension I felt now was as nothing compared to the apprehension I felt when the train crossed the river, and I left Pittsburgh behind forever.
Yes, forever. My father made that very clear when he discovered what he called my ‘disgusting proclivities.’ He wanted to throw me out on the street the moment he comprehended exactly what it was Christopher Hobbes and I were doing in his study on Thursday afternoon nearly two weeks ago. Or, to be accurate, what Christopher was allowing me to do to him. Despite the ensuing theatrics, I was still a 17-year-old virgin.
When we were discovered, my father bellowed, my mother came running, Father struck me and threatened Christopher, and Christopher left precipitously. Mother refused to allow Father to show me the door immediately, physically stationing herself between Father and the door to his study. I believe that she intervened only because she didn’t understand what had happened. My father refused to tell her any more than that I had demonstrated “disgusting proclivities that make him unfit to live any longer in civilized society, or in this house.” The upshot of an hour of tears, yelling, and threats was that I was allowed to pack a portmanteau with such of my belongings as I could fit into it, and leave with my head up and a modicum of dignity. I also took the $1.50 I had left of my allowance and the $24.67 Mother had saved from her housekeeping money. Most of this went to pay for my train ticket.
I set straight off for Daphne Chander’s house, knowing no one would look for me there. The Chander’s are of African descent and so not ‘our sort of people,’ even though they are perfectly respectable. My friendship with Daphne is another long-standing secret of mine, and I knew the Chanders would take me in, as they did. I spent two nights there while I made my plans and purchased my train ticket.
To tell the truth, at first my shock was so great that the most I could do was to tell Daphne everything that had happened - Mr. and Mrs. Chanders got a thumbnail sketch - and go over all my possibilities with her. Most of our more attractive ideas, involving us both eloping to Europe, we had to abandon. We then deliberated on whether Denver or San Francisco would be a more exciting destination for me and decided that, since I plan to be an artist, the picturesque qualities of San Francisco were more desirable. Alas, I had only enough money for a ticket to Chicago. Once there, I determined that I would find work and earn the rest of my fare. Despite the uncertainty, I departed Saturday morning, portmanteau in one hand, Mrs. Chanders’ picnic lunch in the other.
We have just pulled out of the San Jose train station and are now on the last leg of our journey to San Francisco. I shall be heartily pleased to quit the train and hope never to have to spend the better part of seven days on one again. So much has happened to me in the past week that I can hardly believe only a week has passed. I am not the same person who left Pittburgh.
Once the train pulled out of Pennsylvania Station and I could no longer see Daphne’s forlorn little figure waving good-bye, all I could do was slump down in my seat and think about all I was leaving behind. Forever is a terrible word. Never to see my mother or father again or my sister, Molly, or St. James Prep and my teachers and classmates: I had to force myself not to cry again. I gazed at the scenery…nothing exotic to look at yet…and looked around at my fellow passengers in an attempt to turn my thoughts in a more cheerful direction. When neither attempt worked, I decided to walk the length of the train, in hopes that activity would take my mind off my troubles. Besides, I have always loved changing cars: stepping carefully over the connection between the two cars while the scenery seems to hurtle by so much faster than when you are enclosed in a car.
Three cars down from the one I was riding in, I came to the parlor car. An locale less like a parlor would be difficult to imagine. At first glance, everyone in the car seemed to be male and, indeed, there were only one or two women in the crowded car. The cigar and cigarette smoke hung in the air, despite the open windows. Tables and chairs, bolted to the floor, replaced the usual bench seating, and there was a bar at one end of the car. Card games were in progress at almost every table.
This did not seem like the sort of place my parents would approve of, but then they no longer approved of me, did they? I gritted my teeth, put on my most mature face, and started working my way through the crowd. No one gave me more than a passing glance, even when I stopped to look at the play at several tables as I passed them. One table in particular caught my attention. Five men sat around it, all of them smoking, all with glasses at their elbows. They played silently for the most part, only speaking in unfamiliar slang: “bring in,” “third street,” “river,” and so on. I watched, rotating around the table and observing each man for a while, and I began to see how the game was played. I also noticed that two of the men won more consistently than the other three and that they had quite a quantity of coins, and even bills, amassed.
The train stopped in Akron, and many of the passengers got off to take advantage of the facilities and stretch their legs, but the five men continued to play through the stop. Some time after the train pulled out of the station, one of the men got up to go to the bar for some refreshments. In the pause that ensued, I spoke up. “I’d like to play, too,” I said.
Now you have to know that, although I am almost 18, I look much younger. One of the guys looked up and said, “Get lost, kid.”
I said, “I have money.”
That got everybody’s attention. The guy shuffling the cards - he seemed to be named Charlie - looked at me and said, “How much?”
“Better than $5.00,” I lied.
There was a moment’s silence. Winston, the man who told me to get lost, said, “You lose your money, you’re out of the game. You understand?”
I nodded vigorously. “Of course. Certainly. Thank you.”
Morty and Butch moved their chairs enough to make room for me, and I pulled up a chair and sat down. I had been watching for close to three hours by that time, and I had gained a fair understanding of the mechanics of the game. More importantly, I noticed that Butch and another man called Eddie both lost more than they won, partly because their reactions reflected how good or how poor their ‘down’ card was. The other three players were in the process of relieving the inept pair of a great deal of money. Winston had been particularly successful, as his winnings attested.
As Charlie dealt a hand - one card down to each of us, then one card up - I asked, “What’s the name of this game, anyway?”
Winston snorted, but Charlie said, in the sort of kindly voice you use to small children, “Stud poker, kid.”
My down card was a 3♠ and my up card was a 5♥. The next two cards…both dealt up…were no better: a 7♠ and a 10♦, but I stayed in and lost 40¢. That made a big enough hole in my $2.87 that I had to start being cautious sooner than I would have liked. I wanted the men to think I was what I believe they call an ‘easy mark,’ but I didn’t have enough funds to do a bang-up job of it.
I folded immediately on the next hand and lost a total of 20¢ on the three hands after that, by which time I was taking quite a bit of kidding. I blush easily which can be helpful in situations where you are trying to convince others that you are harmless. On the sixth hand, my strategy paid off.
I was dealt Q♣ down and Q♠ up. Winston had Q♦ up. I knew it was unlikely that he had the fourth queen down, so I put in the first round nickel bet. He was dealt 5♠, I got 2♥. He bet the required 10¢ and I met it and raised him 5¢. He met my 5¢ to stay in the game. The next round Winston was dealt a second 5, the 5♣, giving him a pair. I received a useless 10♥ and bet 25¢. The other three folded. Winston met my bet and raised it another 25¢. I let my very real nervousness show, met his bet and called the hand. He had a J♣ down, so I won, 95¢ altogether. I tried not to show my relief, but had I lost, I would have been down $1.30, instead of up 35¢. Since Winston was the best player at the table, the win was a great boost to my self-confidence.
We played the rest of the day and through the night, almost to Chicago. The players changed, but Winston and I stayed at the table, only taking breaks for calls of nature and - on my part - to go back to my seat and retrieve my picnic. I had no interest in buying refreshments other than pop when Mrs. Chanders had made me such an excellent nuncheon.
Naturally I lost some hands, particularly when I had to bring in with a poor hand, but I won much more than I lost, and by the time we got to Chicago, I had $21.27 toward the next leg of my journey. That bought me a ticket to Davenport, Iowa, and left me with almost $5.00 seed money. After my perilous start on the way to Chicago, that seemed like a comfortable stash.
I caught a few hours of nervous sleep in the train station, then headed straight for the parlor car as soon as the train pulled out of the station. I played well at first, but after only two or three hours, found my attention drifting. I was tired. It took another couple of losing hands to make me realize I needed some rest. I excused myself from the table, to a certain amount of joshing for walking away a winner, and went to my coach car seat where I slept the rest of the way to Davenport, my head bumping against the window.
From Davenport, I had only enough funds to buy a ticket to Iowa City, but I was fortunate enough to sit down with the worst poker player I encountered on the whole trip. Mr. Whelan should never sample whatever he carries in a flask in his inside coat pocket while playing stud poker. After a short run of perhaps fifty miles, I was up almost $50 and feeling somewhat guilty about my winnings. I did not, however, feel guilty enough to give it back. Mr. Whelan was quite jovial despite his loses to me and to the others at the table, perhaps because of the contents of his flask.
And so my journey went: from Iowa City to Des Moines and thence to Omaha where I had accumulated enough funds to pay my way through to San Francisco. I had only enough money to buy a coach class ticket, but I had no intention of doing more than sleep in my seat. However, knowing that my fare was paid took a great deal of the pressure off, and I made certain that I took enough breaks from play to stay rested. I wound up my final game shortly after we left San Jose and was ready to greet San Francisco with $51.82 in my pocket or, more accurately, $11.82 in my pocket and $40 in my shoe. More importantly, I knew how I could support myself.
Disembarking at the terminal close to San Francisco Bay, I felt more apprehensive than I had since I sat down at that first poker table. While I was on a train, I had, in a strange way, a home and a certain amount of security. That was all gone. Now I was in a strange city, with no friends or acquaintances and no one to advise me. I was more aware than ever of my youth and vulnerability. I need to find a hotel and rent a room so I can stow my portmanteau. I’ll always look like a greenhorn as long as I’m carrying that damn satchel.
After standing on the platform hesitantly for a minute or two, feeling conspicuous, I stopped a Negro porter and asked him for directions to a respectable hotel, clean but not expensive. As I suspected, he was able to direct me to an near-by establishment, which I reached without making more than one wrong turn. Once found, the Jackson Hotel proved to be a four-story edifice where I was able to rent a room for two nights: $5.00, payment in advance.
The room was quite adequate, with its bed, bureau, and a small desk and chair, and there were two bathrooms on the floor. I made use of the facilities and ventured out for a look around, with the thought of climbing one of the hills that help make San Francisco the picturesque location it is. A rumble in my stomach reminded me of what I had not really forgotten: I was hungry. I turned back toward the railroad terminus, where there was certain to be somewhere to procure a meal. I preferred to begin my explorations on a full stomach.
The restaurant in the station did, in fact, prove to be quite adequate for my needs. I sat down at a table covered with a hardly-stained white tablecloth and ordered a bowl of soup and a cup of coffee.
While I was waiting to be served, I noticed a tall man at another table who looked a little familiar. I immediately looked away; I don’t like to encourage strangers to make my acquaintance unless we both have cards in our hands. Hence I was more than a little startled when a voice asked me, “Do you mind if I join you?”
It was the familiar stranger, of course. I hesitated. It would be safest to say No, but the idea of company while I ate was attractive. “You may,” I said.
He was tall and neatly dressed in striped pants, a vest, and a gray shirt with white cuffs and collar. He smiled reassuringly. “My name is Emmett Honeycutt,” he said, “and I recognize you from the train.” He sat down opposite me.
With his upturned nose and warm brown eyes, he did not appear at all threatening. I smiled back. “I’m Justin Taylor, and I don’t remember you. I’m sorry.”
“I got on in Sacramento, and you were engaged in play for almost the whole trip.” I thought I detected something of a southern accent.
“Are you visiting here in San Francisco, Mr. Honeycutt?”
He shook his head. “No. I was attending the funeral of a friend in Sacramento.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“And you? Are you here on a visit?”
“No. I plan to settle here.”
“If I may be unduly inquisitive, may I ask whether you have family here?”
That did seem unduly inquisitive. Daphne and I had read numerous stories of greenhorns in the Wild West. Inevitably one of the first things that happened to these young adventurers was that they lost all their possessions either to flim-flam men or to stick-up artists. I was determined not to let it happen to me. I said, “I prefer not to discuss my situation.”
Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of our meals. My companion was served a sort of a sandwich involving melted cheese, and I tasted my excellent fish soup, so thick that it might better be called a stew.
After a pause while we sampled our food, Mr. Honeycutt said, “You are cautious. Very commendable. I am worried, however, that you plan to continue your career as a gambler.”
I looked up from my soup. “Why should you be concerned about that?” I asked sharply.
“Mr. Taylor, there are many men in this city who would do you harm. Some of them would harm you because they hate what you appear to be, others would harm you because they want what you appear to be.”
My stomach clutched, and I stared at him. He looked back soberly. After a long silence, he said, “Do you know what I am talking about?”
I barked a laugh. “As my father said when he threw me out of our house, I have ‘disgusting proclivities.’” I blinked, keeping my eyes dry.
“Ah. Exactly so. I had very much the same sort of experience as you, at your age. I was fortunate enough to find friends who gave me advice on how to avoid most trouble. I would like to do the same for you.”
I ate another spoonful of soup, to give myself time to think. Lord knows I need help. “What would you suggest I do?”
“To go back to my original question, Do you plan to continue playing cards for money?”
“I have no other marketable skills. So…”
“Then you’ll need to seek out our fair city’s Barbary Coast. That’s where card games are played for money, including stud poker. The neighborhood is called the Barbary Coast because….”
I interrupted. “I can guess why,” I said. I learned my American History at St. James. “Algiers’ Barbary Coast was notorious for its pirates, slavery and general depravity. I assume San Francisco’s Barbary Coast is no better.”
“Exactly so. You wouldn’t last ten minutes there on your own. I tend bar, however, in one of the few establishments which you might find hospitable. If you will accompany me there, I will introduce you to the proprietor and see if he is amenable to allowing you to play there.”
This invitation sounded like the first step toward robbery, abduction or worse, but Mr. Honeycutt’s sincerity was persuasive. I was further reassured by the fact that it was a little past noon on a bright, sunny day. Sooner or later, I would have to take some risks in order to secure a life here. I resolved to take advantage of this opportunity. “Where are you taking me?” I asked.
Mr. Honeycutt smiled. “We are going to the Babylon Saloon on Front Street,” he said.
EMMETT
It wasn’t until after we pulled out of Stockton that I noticed him. I’d gotten on the train in Sacramento, just come from the funeral of Miss Godiva Upchurch. Godiva, or William Wordsworth Upchurch, as the pastor called her, was quite the Southern belle when I first arrived in San Francisco in ’75. It was to Godiva that I confessed that I wanted to jump ship and stay in San Francisco. She took me right under her wing, put me up until I found somewhere to stay, and gave me tips on how to avoid getting pressed as a sailor again. Without her help…well, who knows what would have happened to me.
When I got the telegram from William’s niece - it was William who went to stay with Mrs. Melody Upchurch Sandford, not Miss Godiva - saying that his consumption had taken a turn for the worse, I left for Sacramento on the next train. Alas, I was too late to express my thanks to him one last time. I stayed on for the funeral, which took place quite soon after his death. It doesn’t get as hot as Hazelhurst, Mississippi, in Sacramento in August but it gets hot enough, if you take my meaning.
For the first part of my trip home, I was too sunk in melancholy to notice my surroundings. Mrs. Sandford had given me a lock of Godiva’s hair in a locket that I had attached to my watch fob. As soon as the train left the station in Sacramento, I pulled out the locket and looked again at it. During her stay in Sacramento, where it was hoped the more salubrious climate would be beneficial, it had turned a steely grey. Perhaps she had been too ill to color it herself; perhaps the doctor had thought coloring would prove unhealthy. Any which way, there was no trace of glorious gold left in the precious lock I was contemplating. I turned my face to the window and dabbed my cheeks with my pocket-handkerchief to cover my weeping.
We had cleared Stockton when I felt enough in control of my feelings to get up and stroll through the cars. The parlor car was naturally of interest to me professionally since I am a bar keep at the Babylon Saloon on Front Street in San Francisco. As I was making my way to that end of the car, I noticed a considerable number of on-lookers gathered around one table. I stopped, too, and took a gander.
Seven gentlemen were playing stud poker, a favorite game among veterans of the War Between the States, both Union and Confederate. Four of the seven looked to me like grizzled veterans, the fifth was plainly a farm boy, the sixth - dressed in black from hat to boots - looked like a card shark to me, but it was the seventh player we were all watching. He was dressed neatly and expensively in a bespoke suit and a crisp white shirt with a high collar. His dark blond hair was pomaded and parted on the right side by a part so straight it was probably laid out by a surveyor. He looked clean-shaven, or more likely he was so young, he didn’t need to shave. That was why we were all gathered around the table: to watch a 12-year-old boy playing poker with his betters.
Not that he was an exciting poker player to watch. He played a conservative game, losing a little one hand, winning modestly the next. I stood around watching until he got up from the table, saying he was going back his seat. That was right after the train left San Jose, so I went back to my seat, too, and dozed until we reached the terminus.
I was hungry, so I stopped at the railroad café for a nuncheon. As soon as I walked in, I saw Jimmy McGowan seated near the door. Mr. McGowan and I have had an assignation or two in the past, but the last was probably over a year ago. It would have been unneighborly for me not to have acknowledged him. When I stopped at his table, he invited me to join him, which I did. I ordered a beer and asked for a sandwich, then told him about Miss Godiva’s funeral while he finished his chop. Then he excused himself, and I was left sipping my beer and waiting for my repast.
While I was waiting, who should walk in but the young card-shark from the train! While he seated himself and perused the menu, I debated whether or not to introduce myself. I like to think I would have whether or not I had just come from Miss Godiva’s funeral, but the memory of how she helped me after my arrival here was sharp in my mind. With only a little hesitation I got up, taking my beer with me, and introduced myself.
I quickly determined that he had no family or friends in San Francisco. Like me, ten years earlier, he was alone in a city that can be dangerous. Unlike me, he seemed set on embarking on a career that would take him into the areas of greatest peril. I asked him, flat out, “Do you plan to continue your career as a gambler?”
He looked back quite pertly. ““Why should you be concerned about that?” he responded, no trace of fear or uncertainty in his voice.
I was quite alarmed. Even more worrisome than his probable choice of profession was his appearance and demeanor. I suspected that he, like me, was of the sort who prefer the company of men to that of women. I said, “Child, there are many men in this city who would do you harm. Some of them would harm you because they hate what you appear to be, others would harm you because they want what you appear to be.”
I waited for his answer. When the silence stretched, I decided to be more blunt than is my usual style. I said, “Do you know what I am talking about?”
He did. That meant that there was only one place where he would be somewhat safe until he grew some claws: the Babylon Saloon.
I was somewhat disappointed when Mr. Taylor agreed to come with me with little argument. After all, he knew tarnation little about me, and to just pick up and follow me did not show good sense. On the other hand, his acquiescence simplified matters. We walked along East Street until we came to Front. The Saloon is only a few blocks over from East, so we arrived there in a fairly expeditious fashion.
We got there about 3:00 in the afternoon, when all was mostly quiet. We stepped through the double doors with their stained glass windows…windows that Mr. Kinney has replaced more than once…and into the long room, lit even in mid-day by half-a-dozen elegant gas-lit chandeliers. I was watching for my new friend’s reaction, as I doubted he had been in many saloons in his young life. Indeed, his mouth dropped open and he seemed transfixed. He was staring at the large picture behind the bar, illuminated on either side by sconces.
Mr. Taylor said, “What the….?”
I sighed. I have worked for several years in front of that picture, and I know that it is not what patrons expect behind the bar in a saloon such as the Babylon. “I’m afraid Mr. Kinney loves that picture.”
“It’s magnificent!” I looked down on the youngster, amazed. His blue eyes were sparkling. “That’s what I want to do,” he said. “I want to be able to paint like that.”
.
There is no accounting for taste. “Oh,” I said, “glad you like it.”
“Like it? I love it!”
I said, “Hold on a minute. I’ll be right back,” but I doubt he heard me.
Leon was behind the bar. I walked over, leaned on the bar, and asked, “Is Brian in?”
Leon looked back, unenthusiastically. “Why?”
“Now, Leon, don’t get all ornery with me. Is he around?” Leon is just plain stubborn about doing one extra thing. “I don’t want to leave my new friend alone.”
He made a face, but he said, “I think so. I’ll go get him.” He took one more swipe at the bar with his cloth and walked its length and through the inconspicuous door to the back room.
I rested one foot on the rail that runs along the bar, two or three inches off the floor, and waited. Mr. Taylor drifted toward me, never taking his eyes off the picture. He was standing next to me, still staring when Leon came back. “Brian’ll be out in a minute,” he said. He nodded at Mr. Taylor. “Brian’s gonna eat him up. You think you should warn him?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“No skin off my nose if you don’t. But when that boy starts crying all over your shirt front, don’t complain to me.” He turned away and started shelving glasses industriously.
“Mr. Taylor,” I started off.
“Justin,” he said, finally taking his eyes of the picture and looking at me.
“Justin. You are going to meet the owner of this establishment in a minute or two, and I want to warn you about him.”
Justin looked serious, even a little scared. “Why? Is he one of those men who will want to hurt me? ”
“No, no. Mr. Kinney would never hurt you a-purpose. In fact, Mr. Kinney is likely to be more than friendly at first, but it won’t last. Your best bet is to limit your association with him to business. I think he’ll be happy to allow you to play cards here; it will bring in the trade. But….”
We both heard the snick at the door to the back room closed. We turned and watched Brian Kinney walk gracefully toward us. I looked at Justin, and my heart sank. He had the same expression on his face he had had when he saw Mr. Schafer’s picture.
BRIAN
Quicksand.
The word sprung to my mind the minute I saw his face. I haven’t been fool enough to tangle with the real thing in a coon’s age but I can still vividly recall the fucking helpless feeling of being sucked in by a force that, at the time, seemed beyond my control to get out of.
The aforementioned muck changed my life years ago, and I’ll be damned if its emotional equivalent will do the same to me now that I am finally content with my lot. I can not allow a mere child to undermine what I have attained.
I arrived in San Francisco nothing more than a penniless guttersnipe fifteen years ago. I understand my ‘people’ were originally from Philadelphia. A civilized town I have never had the pleasure to step foot in. My worthless father contracted gold fever in the early ‘50’s and somehow finagled enough money to book passage to California.
As usual, his timing was off and his luck was nil. By ‘55 he was reduced to a farm laborer by day and a scoundrel in the Sacramento groggeries by night. One such evening he forced his affections on the banker’s daughter, and nine months later I arrived. Neither of them ever forgave me for that.
I prefer not to dwell on my abysmal childhood and merely mention it here so as to give credence to the rest of my story. At the age of fourteen my father let it be known that I had received enough ‘schoolin’ and it was time for me to start earning a man’s wages in the fields. I protested; I aspired to more than the life he led. He flew into a drunken rage, something that happened more and more often the older I got. A fist fight ensued, resulting in my final departure from his home.
After he passed out, I saddled the family mule and rode west. Surely, I thought, a town like San Francisco would have more to offer a young man of my tastes. You see, my father and I had no more in common than a last name. I knew education, be it in a school or on the streets, would afford me a better life than that of a field laborer and I also knew the women he lusted after did nothing for the stirrings below my waist. The fact that I was only getting hard by fantasizing about naked boys was something I certainly couldn’t discuss with dear old dad.
Heading out, I followed the Sacramento River and made good time but the god-damned mule didn’t stay with me long. While I slept the following night, she broke free and left me to hike to the Pacific alone, armed with a compass, my knapsack, and too little food. I was famished as I neared a small gathering north of the city.
It was a Sunday and what appeared to be a church social was being held in a clearing near the water. In my state I was hardly presentable. I had, however, designs to work my way along the marshy edge, which would afford me good cover until I was close enough to make a dash for one of the tables laden with food.
All was well until I stumbled upon a patch of fucking quicksand and panicked. My frantic attempts to free myself only resulted in me sinking deeper until I realized I must make use of my last resort. My call for help was answered by one of the picnickers. A Mr. Amory Giles extended his long, muscular arm and pulled me to safety. I realize now how symbolic that gesture was.
Mr. Giles was a successful San Francisco businessman seventeen years my senior. He and his wife, Delilah, ran an upscale drinking and dining establishment in the city and they took pity on me from the start. Their coupling had not been a fruitful one and while I was hardly the child they had hoped for, I was a likeable enough young devil with a strong back and a quick mind.
Our relationship began with a trade off: room and board in exchange for washing dishes, floors, tables, linens and any thing else in need of cleaning at the restaurant. Once I proved able with that charge, my responsibilities shifted to waiting on our customers, then procuring goods and finally keeping the books. Under Mr. Giles’ tutelage I learned all aspects of the business and something else far more important.
I came to know myself not as a freak of nature but simply a man, similar to many others, Amory Giles included, who preferred to fuck and be fucked by other men. While there was never any question that he loved his wife, Amory’s sexual appetite could only be fully satisfied by another man. Having me in his household proved to be a fortuitous arrangement for both of us. In addition, Delilah continued to reap our affection (and his cock) until the sad day she passed away, six years after my arrival.
Together Amory and I mourned our loss and comforted each other. By then, the townsfolk had come to accept me as his adopted son and no one was the wiser. Over the years, Amory introduced me to other fine gentlemen of similar tastes and my circle of friends expanded. Life was good.
Then, four years ago, Amory was taken also. I was left as his sole heir. The business changed names and focus since the one fucking job I never perfected was cooking. Babylon exists now as a men’s drinking and entertainment establishment. Gentlemen of my persuasion work behind the bar and at the piano, and I’ve hired a few attractive female entertainers to keep the rest of the male clientele happy both at the bar and in the rooms above.
Men like me are forced to live a double life. If we didn’t, we would either be celibate or dead. Fortunately, no one even questions where my affections lie. “Mrs. Kinney” has seen to that. As a matter of convenience for both of us, I have made an honest woman out of one of my employees.
You see, it just so happens that I admire the lovely Lindsay Peterson, and the lovely Lindsay Peterson admires pussy. To keep questions regarding our lifestyles at bay, we conveniently ‘eloped’ one weekend and now share my home. To the casual visitor the main level of our two story, wood frame home is the elegant residence of Mr. and Mrs. Brian Kinney, complete with a master bedroom and maid’s quarters. In reality, Lindsay shares that master with the maid, and I reside on the upper level. These sorts of arrangements are not unique but, as I’m sure you understand, necessary.
So this is the life I have carved out for myself and, once again, it is good. I am independent. I am successful. I am a respected member of this community. My ‘inner circle’ of friends live and love as I do…above suspicion. Where then, does one Justin Taylor fit in?
He doesn’t.
He can’t.
And yet…Goddamn quicksand. I am afraid I was no better at fighting it last night than I had been fifteen years ago.
It was early in the evening when Leon peeked into the back room to tell me Emmett had arrived with someone he knew I’d like to meet. To most of our patrons, that area is simply my office and it does serve that purpose well. In addition, however, the lock on the door allows for certain valued customers to conduct confidential, private business with me there from time to time. There are benefits to being the boss.
Emmett and Leon are compensated well for inspecting the applicants. In addition to the monetary tips, once I’ve had them, those three are usually happy to pick up where I left off. Since I prefer to fuck with a maximum amount of pleasure and a minimum amount of bullshit that means I don’t do seconds.
I assumed from the tone of Leon’s voice that this ‘someone’ had backroom potential so I tidied up a bit and checked myself in the mirror before emerging from behind the bar. What I saw was a cherubic-looking thing barely old enough to be out of knickers. Obviously new to town, I judged from his dress that he came from money and must have arrived via the comfort of the train.
San Francisco has continued to attract young men uncomfortable in their own skin and unable to function properly in the one-horse towns they rode in from, but this didn’t appear to be the case with him. While still a wide-eyed adolescent, he managed to carry an air of confidence about himself. Emmett’s introduction included the fact that Mr. Taylor had more gifts than just his beauty. He was, apparently… a goddamn card shark. That was a curious and unexpected talent in one so young.
This little detail added to his interest. As the proprietor of Babylon I was always on the lookout for a fresh idea or face that would increase my business. If this description proved to be true, Justin Taylor would surely bring in clientele determined to beat the kid and that clientele would drink.
“Card shark, huh?” I asked and the boy simply nodded. “How about you show us what you got.”
I looked around. “Henry,” I called out to one of the regulars who was involved in a poker game at a nearby table. “Deal this kid in on your next hand. We’re gonna see what he’s made of.”
If it had been possible for Mr. Taylor to turn any whiter than he already was, we would have witnessed it that second. He swallowed hard, turned to me and said, “Thank you, Mr. Kinney,” before walking over and taking his seat.
Hmm, I thought. Good looks and good manners too. You’ll be thanking me for more than that before the night’s over, kid.
I am a sexual man who, at that moment was grateful to be walking back behind the bar. My cock was responding to that Cupid’s bow mouth of his and what I wanted it to be doing to me. Having the evening to keep an eye on him would give me a little time to determine my next step. I already planned to fuck him but a man in my position, who wants to stay there, must be lead by the brain and not other parts of the anatomy.
One can learn a lot about a person by watching him play cards. Is he honest? Can he hold an intelligent conversation? Is he as a gracious loser as well as a winner? Can he keep a secret or do his expressions give him away? I was relieved to observe that Mr. Taylor excelled in each of these areas. It was apparent that the child had a brain to match his body.
Card shark? Not sure. By no means did he make a clean sweep, but judging from the stack of chips in front of him at the end of the evening, I reckon he came out comfortably ahead. That was good too. It meant he’d be back, as would the others, to play on another night and then another. When someone new rides into town and beats the regulars handily, business usually dries up until he rides back out again.
My cock let it be known that I shouldn’t take any chances however. Since Emmett sniffed this kid ou,t his sexual preference was not in doubt. I was intent on providing for it before sunrise. Things were winding down when Mr. Taylor excused himself. I assumed he was going to take a piss and before he got back, I stationed myself at the door.
“How’s it going?” I asked as he approached. “Have you had a lucky night?”
He stopped a foot or so away. “Just checking things out, you know. The other players, the feeling of the place, the fastest way out if necessary.”
He talked like a pro but I had a feeling this was uncharted territory to him. I was ready to call it a night and had designs on taking him along.
“Where are you headed?” I asked as nonchalantly as possible.
“No place special.”
“I can change that,” I assured him.
I had already told Emmett and Leon I’d be leaving with or without him and started down the steps and into the street. His footsteps behind me brought a smile to my face and a twitch to my groin. My home is little less than a mile from Babylon but last evening the fog was so thick one could barely see three feet ahead.
“Where are we going?” He asked somewhat anxiously after a couple of blocks. I suspected he had no idea where he was or how he would ever find his way back to wherever he was staying. At this hour it seemed a foregone conclusion, he wouldn’t be going there anyway.
When I responded with, “My place,” he got a little panicky. He stopped in his tracks and it was then I surmised he was a virgin and getting cold feet. I turned around and looked him in the eye.
“Are you coming or going, Mr. Taylor?” I asked as seductively as I could muster.
He stood his ground so I took a step closer and lowered my voice. “Or coming and then going?” Then I leaned in further so our mouths were just inches apart, “Or coming and staying?”
The street was deserted and as I have mentioned, it was so fucking foggy even if it hadn’t been, someone would have to have been on top of us to notice me grab him around the waist and pull him in for a long hard kiss. After which, convincing him to come along became quite easy.
“Nice place,” he marveled as we passed through the entryway and into Lindsay’s god-awful lace and floral print parlor.
“It’s not mine, it’s my wife’s,” I told him as I slipped out of my overcoat and laid it across the banister. That was a fact I needed to disclose upfront. And then it hit me. I never bring a stranger into my home for sex. It’s far too risky. What the fuck was I thinking?
“Wait a minute…you’re married?” His brow was furrowed and he looked concerned.
“As far as this town is concerned I am, and that includes you. Understand?”
“Sure, I mean…of course..um…does she know?” He stammered and I had to chuckle at his uncomfortable confusion.
“She’s the singer you listened to at the bar and yes, she knows. We have an arrangement. She lives down here with her girlfriend and I live upstairs.”
He breathed a sigh of relief and I reached out and pulled him to me. “Now I’m going to take you upstairs and fuck you but I’m telling you now, what goes on in this house, stays in this house. You got it?
He nodded and I attacked his mouth forcefully before heading up the stairs. By the time I reached my door I had shed my shirt and suspenders. Fucking a virgin takes time and there was little of that left to waste.
My quarters are as different from Lindsay’s flowers and lace as you can get. Dark wood polished to a high luster dominates the large room at the top of the stairs. Since I don’t cook, there was little need for a kitchen of any sort. I usually take my morning coffee downstairs and most of my meals out. Therefore, my home is predominantly taken up by a comfortable reading parlor with a bar to the right and a large bedroom and bath to the left. Simple, elegant and functional. I prefer its openness to the number of small rooms on the lower level.
I tossed my shirt onto a chair in my bedroom and began to unbutton my trousers. Justin was still fully clothed and didn’t appear to be in a hurry to lose any of them.
“You haven’t done this before, have you.’ It did not come out as a question and he was quick to take the defense.
“Sure I have, lots of times.” I didn’t find his confidence and poker face such a fucking great asset at the moment. I continued the line of questioning. "So...are you a top or a bottom?”
“Top.” He paused and looked as if he was reconsidering. “And bottom.”
“Oh, you’re versatile then.” I said with a slight smile. “For tonight, let’s say you be the bottom, alright?”
I didn’t give him time to answer or protest. Instead I covered his mouth with mine. With one hand behind his head, I used the other to unbutton his pants and release his rigid cock. He gasped when I held it for the first time. I was impressed with his length and girth. Breaking our kiss I could see the fear in his brilliant blue eyes.
“Relax,” I told him. “It’s going to be okay. Let’s get these clothes off first.”
I kicked off my shoes and then removed my socks and finally dropped my pants. Standing there, naked and hard, I watched as he nervously pealed off each layer of clothing. His skin was milky white and as smooth as an infant’s with blond hair covering his legs, arms and pubic area. He must have been a stranger to hard physical labor as there was not a callus to be found anywhere. He was toned but not overly muscled. Close to perfect in my eyes.
Once we were both naked, I brought him to me again, kissing him more softly than before. I wanted to convey in both my words and actions that I knew what I was doing and that he could trust me. Still standing, I used my leg to part his and rubbed his balls with my thigh while grasping his cock in my fist. I pumped him gently and he moaned.
“Like this?” I whispered in his ear.
“Yes,” came his breathy reply. “I’m not going to last.”
“That’s alright,” I assured him. “First I’m going to suck you and then I’m going to fuck you. You can come as many times as you want.”
I knelt then, knowing this was going to be one of the quickest blow jobs in history. Taking the tip of his penis into my mouth, I probed his slit with my tongue and tried to recall the feeling the first time Amory had done this to me. I was fortunate to have a gentle, experienced, older man teach me the ropes, and it was time for me to pass on the favor.
Taking him deeper into my mouth his hips started to move with a rhythm as his hands combed through my hair. “Fuck, this feels so good.” I heard him say as I tasted his salty pre-cum and felt his balls draw up. I was pressing my tongue hard against the underside of his cock when the first spasm wracked his body and my mouth filled with his fluid. I swallowed him and he gasped.
Letting his penis fall from my lips I looked up for his reaction. He was still attempting to regain his composure. His face was flushed and his breath was coming out in fits and starts. “That,” he stuttered, “that was spectacular.”
I slid on to the bed and pulled him down beside me. “Ready for lesson number two?”
“Is it going to hurt?”
“Not this part. Turn over on your stomach.”
I was about to do something I very seldom do but this kid was impeccably clean and the taste of his cock had given me a hankering to do the same for his ass. Rimming him would serve the dual purpose of satisfying that itch while helping to relax him and open him up.
Justin had no idea what he was in for when I wedged myself between his legs and began to lick from the base of his neck, between his shoulder blades, down his spine and into his crack. He let out a cry when I spread him and circled his hole. Taking it one step further, I forced my tongue into him and he began humping the sheets. Ah, I thought…to be that young again.
When he was sufficiently wet I replaced my tongue with a finger but not without warning. “This might hurt a little, Justin. If it does, bear down and it will help.”
I pushed in just to my first knuckle and stopped. “You okay?” I asked. I realized the responsibility I had to him at this instant. Good or bad, I would forever be associated with his first fuck for the rest of his life.
“Yeah,” he whispered. I circled with my finger before I pushed up a bit further. He was so tight and soft and warm. My cock was dripping in anticipation but I knew he needed to be opened more and he’d also need plenty of lubrication. Keeping my finger in place I continued to circle it and then began to move in and out. With my free hand I was able to reach the nightstand and grab the Vasoline. Thank God for Mr. Cheseborough’s concoction! I shudder to think what people did before his First Aid Jelly was available.
I could feel Justin relaxing and opening up for me. It was time to insert a second finger after coating it well with the salve. “I’m putting two fingers in, Justin. Just breathe and relax.” The boy was a natural at taking directions. With slightly more than a gasp, both fingers slid into place and in seconds he was moaning with pleasure and ejaculating for a second time.
“This is fucking amazing, Brian. I never dreamed it could be like this.”
I turned him over and we shared another long, soft kiss. “This is how sex is supposed to be.” I told him. “Never settle for less.”
On his back now I once again wedged myself between his legs. I was finally able to look into his eyes and could see much of the previous tension was gone. “On to one more thing, Justin. You ready?”
“Oh God, it’s really gonna hurt, isn’t it?”
I can honestly say it both hurts the most and feels the best.
“I want it,” he paused, “I want you.”
“Put your legs up,” I instructed, “on my shoulders.” I could feel his muscles shaking as he raised them. I didn’t take my eyes off of his face as I lubed my cock and then leaned over him. I positioned myself at his soft pucker and encouraged him to breathe deep as I made the initial push.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Justin yelped as the head of my penis slid in. “It hurts…does it always hurt?”
“A little bit, but that’s a part of it. Now relax.” I pulled back and he nodded slightly. “I want you always to remember this.” I pushed in again, “So that no matter who you’re ever with, I’ll always be there.”
Justin did as he was told. His resistance was gone and on each push in he would bear down a bit to help me get in further. The second I was completely in and hit his sweet spot he cried out with pleasure and a rhythm was set.
“This is fucking, Justin."
He repaid me with a smile that lit up the room and a climax that squeezed my cock tighter than I had ever experienced before. His orgasm triggered mine and we fell into a sweaty, exhausted heap.
“Oh my God, Brian.” he turned to me and exclaimed when we had both regained our composure. “You are like a fucking drug and I’m afraid I’m already addicted.”
It was either my gut that did a fandango when he said that or my heart. I’m not sure…maybe it was both.
He’s a child.
This is not in my plan.
It would never work.
Fucking quicksand.
JUSTIN
I am back in my room at the Jackson Hotel, thanks to the boy Brian found to guide me through the obliterating fog. It is 7:00 a.m., and I should be asleep, but I am too fired up to shut my eyes. Instead I have gotten out one of my pads of paper and a freshly-sharpened pencil.
August 23rd 1885
San Francisco, California
Dearest Daphne,
I have seen the face of God. His name is Brian Kinney….
Continued here.