1976

He wasn't beautiful.  He was a good-looking kid, but not beautiful.  About 20, maybe.  Maybe a little younger.  Probably not.  Would they let him work alone all night in their bathhouse if he was less than 20?  Probably not.  So he was 20.  Tall.  I can't bring his face into focus.  I remember he didn't have any hair on it.  And that the hair on top of his head was long, thick and brown.  But the seventies were a long damn time ago, and now I can't get a clear picture of his face.  I wouldn't know it now if I saw him on the street.

One thing: he wasn't hung like some of the guys you see in the bathhouses.  Not real big, if you know what I mean.  His balls were a good size, and his dick wasn't what you'd call little - not at all.  But not big.  Bigger than mine, I guess.  And cut.  Definitely bigger than mine.   And though the rest of him was milky pale, his dick was that dark, ripe-apple red that young guys get when they're hard.  Angry and shiny, dark red.  But I'm ahead of myself.

What I wanted (what I thought I wanted, anyhow) was his ass.  It was a small ass - small especially since it belonged to such a tall, long-bodied boy.  It was solid.  And it filled those little shorts he wore just fine.  Light blue cutoff shorts.  Powdery blue that clung to him.   His tee shirt hung loose so you couldn't quite trace how his broad shoulders tapered to his small ass.  But you could imagine how they did it - how his big shoulders became a strong back before giving way to a small waist and compact ass.  That imagined picture was lively and it stuck with me, even on nights I wasn't at the bathhouse.

From the first night I saw him, which would have been the first time I went to Ray's Steambaths, to the time when I decided I could have him was only a span of a few weeks.  As I got surer and surer of my way with him, I spent more and more nights there.  And when I say I was sure of my way, I don't mean to give the impression that I was much to look at, even then.   I was about 42.  And running to fat.  Not fat like I am now.  And not gray like I am now.  But not much to look at.  Back then I could still get away with combing my hair over. Now I'm just cue-ball bald.   And back then I managed a mustache.  Not a big one, but a nice small and thin one.  I'm not tall.  I'm probably a full head shorter than that boy was.   So when I say I was sure of my way with him, I’m not fooling myself that he was attracted to me.  I only mean that I knew he could be had.

I wish I could remember what his name was.  I can remember introducing myself.  But I can't remember what it was he said when he said his name, which is funny.  I guess I wasn't thinking much about his name.  I was glad when he smiled at me, though.  I remember that I was glad of that and I remember thinking that he had a good smile, and good green eyes that looked right into me.  But I didn't imagine he was interested.  Not in the way I was interested in him.  I just figured he was practiced at being friendly with people.  But I didn't yet know that he could be had.  Not yet.  Funny I remember his eyes were green.

I wanted to be around him from that first night, but I couldn't work out yet how to make that happen.  He seemed to spend most of the night in that front desk cage: checking men in, assigning them rooms or lockers and giving them towels and keys.  And when he wasn't doing that, he was cleaning those closet-sized rooms.  I know some guys had sex in those rooms.  A few waited naked with the door open for someone to join.  Some of the guys did those things and some just slept, I imagine.  But when any one of them left, it was the boy's job to clean their rooms: change linens, empty ashtrays, wipe messes.

Like I said, I wanted to be around him more, but I couldn't see right away how I could do that.  So I watched him close and after the first few nights I followed him.  I don't think he noticed me.  Not at first, anyway, and I'm sure he didn't realize what I was doing.  When he did see me, he'd smile and say hello, or sometimes just nod.  And flash the green eyes at me.  Eventually, I saw that there were times when he was free to talk - very late at night, or when he stopped whatever else he was doing to fold sheets and towels hot from the dryer. 

The problem was, I wasn't the only guy who was interested.  There were lots of guys who'd stop to talk with him.  Some would hang around the front desk practically all night, every night.  He had a little fan club and among its members were all kinds of guys:  young ones, old ones, skinny ones, muscular ones, fat ones.  All sorts of guys would talk with him. 

I’ll admit that, at first, that was pretty hard to take.  But then I realized I could get into the conversation if I had something to say or something to ask for.  I asked for change pretty often.  For the phone, when I didn't have anyone to call.  For the pop machine, when I wasn't thirsty.  For the candy machine.  That kind of thing.  Or I'd ask for a clean towel.  But never for a bottle of poppers or a cup of lube or a rubber.   I didn't think it was a good idea to make him think I was fucking around.   Asking for a razor was okay.  And matches, even though I don't smoke.  I asked for matches a lot.  And by now I was a regular.

I'm not sure how many nights (or weeks) it was when it hit me that, if I could find something wrong, something out-of-order, something for him to fix, I could come tell him about it.  I could even offer to show him the problem.  That way I'd get him alone for the couple minutes it would take to lead him to whatever it was he needed to fix. 

The first time, it was the toilet overflowing.  It took nearly a whole roll of toilet paper to plug it up, but that got him out of the cage.  On our way to the restroom, I explained how lucky it was, my walking by that toilet when I did.  Stupid toilet was always overflowing, he said.  He smiled, waving the plunger.  (When did he get the plunger?  I don't remember.  Probably not important to the story.  But that's exactly the kind of detail I can never remember, and sometimes it worries me.)

Just that fast, I felt I'd earned his confidence.  I saw that now I was helping him with his job. Now he could tell me his troubles, and know I'd listen.  I kept him company while he fixed the toilet and mopped the floor.  We were alone the whole time.  And I watched him.  I asked him about stuff, to help get his mind off the toilet.  He didn't seem to mind talking about himself.  Or notice that I was doing more watching than listening.  I guess, depending on your point of view, listening to a guy and watching him amount to the same thing.

Anyway, his answers to my questions weren't important then and aren't important now.  The important thing was that he answered them.  And that's when I realized, that very night, that he could be had.  I don't mean I could have had him right then.  But I knew that if I worked on him, pretty much this same way, sooner or later, he'd come around.  I'd have him.

After about a week and a half of jammed vending machines, empty soap dispensers, lube on the locker room floor – that kind of thing - he was calling me by name.   He was definitely warming up to me.  He wasn't interested like I was.  Maybe he never would be.  But he knew he could trust me, and that was the way I was going to get him.   Get him to trust me.  Everything was going the way I wanted.

I noticed he drank Coke, so I brought him a six-pack one night.  A week after that I brought him a carton of cigarettes.  He made as if to return them to me, but I wouldn't take them back.  Finally he just said "Thank you" and kept them.  Maybe he wasn't used to people buying things for him or maybe he was just being nice, I don't know.  But in the end he kept them.  That was a big turning point.  I was getting to him.  I could tell. 

Any time now.

It was a Monday, the day I decided to make my move.  It was perfect, because Tuesday was his night off and he wouldn't have to be at work until Thursday night.  He could relax. I'd bring him home and he could hang around as long as he wanted.  He could spend some time.  Like I said, he trusted me, so he’d be comfortable.

I took the day off so I could get ready. I cleaned the house.  I changed the bed.  I bought some lube and set it out of the way on my bedside table.   I scoured out the bathroom.  I did my laundry. I never used the kitchen (same then as now), so I didn't have to worry about that.  But there was nothing in it to feed him, so I went to the store to lay in some sweet rolls and some stuff for sandwiches.  Some chips.  Coke and a six-pack of Miller High Life.  Stuff guys that age like.  Pretzels.

I washed the car while I was out. I went to the bank and then I went home and took a nap.  The main thing was to be ready.  I'd have to be up all night until he got off work - 7:30 in the morning, I was pretty sure.   I'd want to be wide awake.  I didn't jack off all day.  I was saving it up.  I was saving it all up.

He started work at eleven.   I didn’t want it to look too eager, so I got there about midnight.  He checked me in as usual.  Said “Hi”.  Called me by name.  Friendly.  Said it was a slow night.  I smiled back at those green eyes, and thought to myself I was glad it was a slow night.  That was perfect.  He let me in, gave me my towel and my key and I headed off to my room.  Pretty happy, upbeat.  Very casual.

I stripped down and wrapped the towel around me.  It tucked in okay, stayed up around my waist, but just barely, which hadn’t been the case even a few days earlier.  These days, the towel wouldn’t even wrap all the way around me, and back then there were a few other guys like that that hung around the baths, so it shouldn’t have bothered me that the towel was a tight fit as long as it did fit.  But it bothered me a little.  I’d been feeling good and I wanted to look good.  Something like that wasn’t enough to change my mind, but it tripped me up for a minute.   Looking back on it, I wonder if I didn't think that the fact that guys like me didn't usually get guys like him made me want him even more.  Probably.

So I was ready.  It was a slow night.  Not many guys showed up at all.  So for the first part of the night, I just hung out at the desk and talked to him.  He was in a pretty good mood, joking and stuff.   Every once in a while I'd ask for change, and once for a book of matches.  He smiled and got them for me and I thanked him.  He seemed relaxed, comfortable with me.  So I didn't think he'd think anything of it when I followed him to watch him clean the first empty room of the night.

And he didn't seem to mind.  We talked like we did every night.  You know - I'd ask him questions about what he'd done that day, what his roommates were like, that kind of thing.  And he'd answer.   I never really listened to what he said, but I was having a good time.  I suppose that, actually, I was nervous as hell. And, mainly, I was trying to figure out how to say it.  How to present the deal to him.  I figured I'd want to make it a pretty nice offer.  And I didn't want to make it seem to him like I had to have it that bad.  I just wanted to spend some time with him, that's all.  Nothing wrong with that. 

And pretty soon he was done with the room.  I walked with him to the laundry where he threw the dirty linen in the hamper there, like always.  And then back to the front desk.

I was pretty wound up, by this point.  I figured I needed a quick walk around the place.  Give him some time on his own, some breathing time.  So I took a walk.  I don't remember looking at anything in particular.  I never really looked at any people in that place, because I already knew who I wanted, so what was the point?  You don't go looking around when you know who you want.

I went to the john.  I remember standing there at the urinal, holding my dick.  And I couldn't piss for some reason, even though it felt like I had to.  And I remember being annoyed about that.  And I thought, well, maybe if I take a dump it'll be easier to piss.  And so I went to the toilet instead and I took my dump and, sure enough, it was a lot easier to piss and so that was better.  And I cleaned myself up. 

I wasn't aware of using too much paper.   And I don’t think there was that much shit.  But when I flushed the toilet, goddamn if it didn't clog and start to overflow. 

So I went back to the front desk to get the boy, but he wasn't there.  And he wasn't in the TV room, either.  He sometimes went in there to empty ashtrays.    He wasn't in the locker room.  I walked around looking in the cubicles for him, but I didn't see him.   I went into the shower room looking, but he wasn't there.  And so, finally I went back toward the toilet and I saw him.  He was marching, quick-step, to the toilet, the plunger already in his hand.

"Jesus CHRIST," he said.   "They gotta fix this thing."

"Uh-huh," I said as we got there.  "Jeez.  How'd this happen you s'pose?"

"Fuck…  watch your step," he said, "there's shit everywhere".  

And there was.   There were turds, my turds, on the floor.  Little ones, but quite a few.  Hard little turds.  I really remember that they were hard and little.  And I was surprised, I guess, because usually my shit isn't like that.  And that night my mind was somewhere else so I hadn't really paid much attention to how they came out.   But there they were:  hard little turds.  There was a drain in the floor, so the water and the piss was pretty much just down to puddles, leaving nothing but turds everywhere.

I kept thinking how awful it would have been if he'd stepped on any of them.  But he didn't step on them and it occurred to me that he probably had done this before.  Many times before.  I wondered how many other guys who really wanted him had left their shit all over the floor for him to clean up.   I laughed at that.  Not that it was funny.  It was just a strange thought that made me laugh.  I was glad he didn’t seem to notice.

I wasn't really watching what he was doing.  Just keeping him company, watching him, not what he was doing.  Watching how quickly he moved and how easily he avoided stepping on my shit on the floor and how well he seemed to be taking all this.  I liked him even more for that.

And the words just started to rise up in me.  I couldn't stop them.  They spilled out of me like the water overflowing the toilet.  The same helpless feeling overtook me as overtook me half an hour earlier watching the piss and shit and water rising up and over the rim of the bowl.  And the words just came at once:

"I'd like it a lot if you came home with me when you got off work."

He paused just for a moment.   And then, just as though I hadn't said anything, he started working again.  He was mopping the floor now.  Where did the mop come from?  Where’d he get the  bucket?  But they were there just the same.  And he was using them on the floor.  My shit was gone now.  I hadn't even noticed.  And then he smiled at his work.  Without looking at me he said, quietly, "No, sorry.  I can't do that.  I have class in the morning."

I didn't even know he was a student. What kind of classes would a boy like that even take?  I'd have known about it, I guess, if I'd listened to him before.  He looked up at me, up from his mopping.

"I really can't.  Sorry.   But I think it's probably better we be just friends, anyway."

I felt the momentum slip away from me.  I felt him slip away from me.  Then I remembered the rest of it.  I remembered the rest of the offer. 

"I really would like it if you came home with me, see.  And I don't mind," I took a breath, "paying you.  I'd pay you really well.  Fifty," I said.  "Dollars.  Fifty Dollars."

He stopped smiling.  His eyes flashed at me in a way I hadn't seen before.  Not really green now, I thought.  He looked serious.  He shook his head slowly, keeping eye contact with me.  His voice stopped in his throat.  He cleared it.  "No." 

That was all.  And he shook his head again and looked away.

"I'm sorry," I said.  "I don't mean to upset you.  And I know this isn't the time.  But if you knew how long I've wanted you to come home with me..."

His gaze came back to me.  "No.  I can't do that.  I could lose my job."  He looked down at his damp sneakers.  "I can't do that anyway."

"Please."

"Sorry," he said.  "I have to finish this."

I watched him finish up.  He was quiet.  It was as though I wasn't there anymore.  And I watched him walk away.  I called after him, "A hundred."   I said it.  Then, just to make sure he understood:  "Dollars."  Almost hoping he'd say no again.  He didn't say anything at all.  He just kept walking.

I was ready to go a hundred fifty.  But there wasn't time.   He was gone.  And the moment was over.  And I felt it would never come back.  He knew what I wanted now and he'd be ready.    I'd messed it up.   I couldn’t fucking close the deal.  I’d never have him now.

I decided I'd just lock myself in my room.  I'd wait to leave until after he was off work.  That way I wouldn't have to see him again.  Not that night.  Not ever.  And it was a long damn time to 8 in the morning.  I spent it listening to men in the rooms around me having sex or snoring or talking quietly.   Four hours.   No book.  No TV.  No candy or anything.  Just me and my hell.   That's what it felt like.   But I waited because I didn't know what else to do.

8 in the morning came and I got up and took my shower, shaved.  Got dressed.  Didn't say anything to anyone.  Didn't see them, not really.   It was easy like that because nobody said anything to me.  And by now it was quarter to 9.  I wasn't certain he'd be gone, but I knew he was off work nearly an hour and a half ago.   So I was pretty sure. 

He wasn't there in the front desk cage when I checked out and so I started breathing easier.  I relaxed.  It was hard to force a smile at the older guy behind the desk.   It was hard when I said something to him, whatever it was.  Goodbye, probably.   But I hadn't talked in five hours and my voice felt strange and weak.  The dayshift guy buzzed me out the door.  And I went down the stairs and out to the street, squinting into the morning.  I figured that I’d never be able to go back there.

I saw him as my eyes adjusted to the daylight.  And a bunch of thoughts crowded into my mind.  Mainly, I tensed up.   Ready for a fight.  Something.   I froze where I stood, looking at him, not being able to read him at all.   It might have been five seconds before he said something or five minutes.  I don't know.

When he finally said it, he said it soft, almost a whisper.  "A hundred dollars."

I didn't say anything.  I nodded.  And we were both quiet a long time.  I'm not sure if I'd been shaking the whole time or only started when I noticed I was shaking.   I didn't think he'd be able to tell.   It isn't that much of a big deal.  I shake a little when I get excited or nervous and I was both.  So that was natural.

He said it again, a little more like himself, his eyes trained on my eyes once again, "A hundred dollars for me to come home with you.  And what?  Have sex?  A drink?  What?"  He looked away.  "Christ.  This isn't something I…   fuck it.  Never mind.  A hundred dollars for what?"

"Yes," I said. My voice sounded strange to me.  "Yes.   Hundred dollars and you come home with me."

He smiled an awkward and reluctant smile.    But it was a smile.  "You're a nice guy.   You could find some other nice guy.  That would be better.  Don't you think that would be better?"

I shook my head.  I didn't say anything but my mind was busy as hell.   I realized how close he was.   He was close to talking himself into it.  He didn't need me to push him.   Maybe my saying anything would queer the whole deal.   Better to stay shut up.

He kept going, "I don't do this kind of thing.  I've never done this kind of thing.  But I'm a student working at a bathhouse.  A hundred bucks.  A lot of money for me.   I -"

"Look," I said, "you come home with me, the hundred bucks is yours.   Just for coming home with me."  Help him deal with it a little.  "Anything happens once you get to my place, that's just something nice you're doing for me.  How's that?"

He laughed.  It wasn't a scornful laugh.  It was like a conspiratorial laugh.  Like he and I were both trying to talk some other part of him into doing something naughty.   And I laughed then, too.  We were both trying to talk some other part of him into doing something naughty.

"So where's your car?" he asked.  As though he'd intended to come with me the whole time.

It was a perfect coincidence.   We were already standing next to my car, so I answered his question by opening the passenger side door for him.  Perfect.  Very smooth.  And he slid in.  I shut the door behind him.  The sound of the door closing was the sound of a done deal.