Dearest gentle reader,

I promise I will stop using this phrase soon.

I just felt it was important to give you a fair warning. This following chapter won’t be easy to read. It’s not easy to write for me either. I debated whether or not I should, but I think it’s important to know about some things, in all honesty, to understand what happened between me and Rashid. If you decide to skip some of the following paragraphs, I won’t hold it against you.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not ashamed of my past. I did what I had to do to survive, and it took me to where and who I am now. Would I have liked to forego some of the experiences I had? Gawd, yes. But I’m grateful that I survived and endured for as long as I did. Others weren’t as lucky. My mate T-Jay, who I met on the streets, overdosed in a back alley before his 21st birthday.

If Remy hadn’t died in front of me when I was 16, I wouldn’t have run away from home. I wouldn’t have been forced to sell my body. If I hadn’t, would I have still met the Vampire Louis that night? Would I have still met Rashid? I don’t think so. And I can’t imagine a life without Rashid. I’d do anything to be with him. But it wasn’t all pink ponies, rainbows and unicorns for us. We had to fight hard for each other and overcome some pretty big obstacles that maybe “normal” couples usually don’t face. We’re definitely not normal. And being friends with vampires and working for secret societies is only the tip of the iceberg.

So this is the story of my first time with a client. The first time I had sex in exchange for money.

When I ran away from home, I didn’t plan to; it just happened. I just had nowhere else to go. Not home, that much I knew. I didn’t have any money, only the clothes on my body. And they were splattered with Remy’s blood.

I can’t remember for how many days I just wandered around, aimlessly and lost. I begged for food and sometimes stole food when I was hungry. I stole clothes when I was cold. But I knew I wouldn’t survive for long without money. And despite everything, something became clear very quickly: I wasn’t ready to die.

There were moments in the following years that I yearned to be united with Remy, to join him in whatever afterlife there is. If there is one. But most of the time my sheer stubbornness told me I wasn’t done with this world yet. I don’t even know where that will to live came from, and I wouldn’t even call it that. I was just afraid to die.

I mostly kept to myself those first weeks, but I started to see things. Other kids, who lived on the streets like me, calling after men, whistling when they walked by, until the men stopped to talk to them. After a few words, they’d go behind a tree, in a darker corner of an alley, behind a dumpster. When they came back out, the men were zipping up their pants, looking around to make sure nobody saw them, and the kids had money.

I wasn’t completely naive. I knew what they were doing. I followed them and watched. It seemed quick and easy, and there was money. I still didn’t want to do it. It felt so wrong, and I was afraid. Just the thought of letting some of the men I saw touch me made my skin crawl and the bile rise in my throat. They didn’t all look like Richard Gere. And I saw how some of the kids looked when they came back. With a black eye or a bleeding lip. I didn’t see the rest of their bodies. Some didn’t come back at all. It scared the shit out of me, simply put.

You’d think living on the streets, homeless as they say, is the lowest you can go. But to do what I did, to get to that point to do it the first time, you have to sink to the absolute bottom of the pit. The days were getting colder, which was a relief at first, but the constant dampness crept into my clothes, and I forgot what it was like to feel dry and warm. While winter in New Orleans is a lot less cold than in other places, it’s not a picnic either.

I was starving. I knew that. I could feel it. I was dying.

I don’t think I ever made a conscious decision. No, “Hey, today I’m going to get a stranger to fuck me up my bum!” It just happened. I lost my fixed sleeping place when a bunch of older kids ganged up on me and beat the shit out of me. They stole my ragged blanket as well (that I had previously nicked from an older guy with no teeth while he was high on some drugs).

So now I am left wandering the streets again. I pace up and down an alley when I suddenly find myself whistling and calling after guys that walk past me. My whistling sounds pathetic, even to my own ears, like I am lying on a fucking wooden door in the fucking middle of a freezing ocean. I can’t remember what I called. It’s probably lame, and all I get are weird stares. And then he stands there. There is a light drizzle of rain, and it makes his reddish-blond hair look even darker than it is and curl up at the tips. He’s maybe my dad’s age, in his 40s. He has a coffee-to-go cup and a small paper bag in his hands. He looks around nervously and licks his lips. Then, making a decision, he approaches me.

“Are you hungry?” he asks me, and I nod. He looks down at the paper bag and hands it over to me. The label says “Rosalie’s Bakery”, and it contains three beignets, which I basically wolf down in an instant. The fat is making me feel queasy, but I fight to keep them down. The man hesitates, then offers me his coffee, saying he can get another one for himself later. It’s still hot and scorches my mouth, but I still down it, and it warms me up a little. He puts his hand to my face and caresses my cheek as I drink and swallow the last bites of sugary goodness.

Then he takes my hand and asks if I want to come with him. I’m under no illusion as to what he means and where this is going. I knew from the moment he gave me the beignets. I could have refused. But then what? I’m too weak to run away. He’s lean and not much taller than I am, but strong enough to beat me up or worse. So I nod and follow him into a darker corner of the alley.

There he kisses me, his tongue invading my scorched mouth, his hands glide under my clothes and feel my lank body. I’m really only skin and bones. Then he undoes his belt and zipper, and he pulls down his jeans.

“Go on,” he tells me, and for a moment I’m unsure what he wants me to do. He smiles and puts his hand on the top of my head like he’s a priest giving me his blessing. Then he pushes me down on my knees and guides my mouth to his stiff dick. He’s average size, but I still gag when he starts shoving his dick in and out of my mouth. I can hear him moan and feel his hands in my hair. Then suddenly he pulls me up again and starts kissing me again. I can feel him fumble with my own zipper. It’s broken, and I use a bit of string as a belt. He loses patience with the knot and simply yanks until my pants come off.

I yelp in pain, and he kisses my face, making shooing noises, and says he’s sorry. Then he gently turns me around, so I face the wall of a building. He presses against me, and I can smell his breath on my neck. There’s a minty scent to it, like he only chewed gum.

I know what’s coming, and I don’t want this. But there’s nothing I can do. It’s too late. This is happening now.

“What’s your name, boy?” he asks as his hands are fondling my bum and hips. I can feel tears pricking my eyes, and I tell him the first name that comes into my mind.

“Remy…”

I don’t even know if it’s an answer to his question or just a prayer. A silent plea for help. Please help me, Remy…

Then he’s in me. It happens so suddenly, so without warning, that all I can do to stop myself from crying out loud is bite down on my own fist. I can feel myself tearing as he pushes into me again and again. I can hear him moaning into my ear.

“Oh sweet Jesus… oh Remy… this feels so good. You’re so tight… sweet Jesus… your ass… you feel so good…”

Then one of his hands is on my own prick. “Let me make this good for you, too; it feels so good to be inside you…” And my own stupid, juvenile prick reacts to him. Goddammit. I don’t want this, but I can’t stop him. One of my arms is propped up against the wall, and my other hand is in my mouth. Tears are now running down my face.

Luckily, he doesn’t last long. His strokes and pushes become more and more erratic, and then with one last shove, he comes in me. I can feel his warm seed running down my legs, and I projectile vomit against the wall.

He makes a disgusted noise and wipes his hand on my shirt. It’s my own jizz I left in his fist. He looks uncertain as I sink down on my knees, all energy drained out of me. He pulls up his jeans again, and I can hear his zipper and belt go. Then he bends down to me, strokes my head and presses a few bills into my hands.

“Thank you, Remy,” he says, and then he’s gone.

I curl up to form a protective circle around the money and try to pull up my pants with my free hand as tears are streaming freely down my face.

This is how T-Jay finds me later on. We never spoken before; we just knew each other by sight. For all his flaws and mistakes, T-Jay was a good guy with a heart of gold who looked after others. I always thought he was a lot older than me, wiser than me, but he only started this life on the streets earlier than me. That day he sees me go with the client and then sees the guy leave. But I don’t come out again, and so he decides to check up on me, prepared to find my dead body. When he finds me alive, he stays with me until I have composed myself and helps me to stand up. He waits until I fix my clothes – he doesn’t try to help in case I don’t want to be touched (I really don’t) – then takes me to Covenant House. He tells me to never let “this asshole or anyone else” fuck me without a condom ever again.

He says more, but I only half-listen. I’m grateful for the company, grateful not to be alone. At Covenant House they let me shower; they have fresh clothes for me, a meal and a bed for the night. There’s a social worker, ready to listen, but I don’t want to talk. That’s fine; they only offer help; they don’t force it on you. I leave the next day with a new blanket and my own sleeping bag, condoms and some ointment. I find T-Jay again, and he decides to take me under his wing. He shows me some tricks and moves and also lets me crash at his place (a room he shares with others), and we look out for each other on the streets. I’m sorry I wasn’t around when he overdosed; maybe I could have saved him.

So, this was it. My first time with a client. One of my regulars. His name was Quinn.

You want to know the worst thing about this first time? He was really trying to be kind. He thought he was. He bought the coffee and the beignets for me because he saw me and saw I was hungry and cold. And he wanted me to enjoy sex with him as much as he did. He just didn’t know it was my first time. That I wasn’t prepared and I didn’t know what I was doing.

When he finds me again a few weeks later, T-Jay taught me to set boundaries. I tell Quinn, I don’t want to kiss, and I don’t want him to touch my cock. I think he’ll hit me, but he agrees without the slightest hesitation. I also put a condom on him, and he’s fine with it. After that he visits me every few weeks. I guess whenever he can afford it. Sometimes he invites me to a cheap motel around the corner and lets me stay the night. When he does, I let him kiss me, but my cock stays off-limits.

The last time I saw him was years after I stopped hustling. It’s a nice sunny day in spring, and I’m with Rashid. We’re walking across Jackson Square, and I spot Quinn sitting on one of the benches, apparently on his lunch break. When I see him, I freeze. Rashid notices and turns to me with a questioning look in his eyes. I just pull him close and kiss him passionately. In broad daylight. In the middle of the square. When we break apart, Quinn is gone.