This is the story of my life

(Part 2 - Chiquita!)


Keller’s been my bleeding open wound for 16 years now –I say 20 when I’m angry; I tend to exaggerate things this way.

I met him on the beach, one evening as a glorious sunset was spreading bloody glints all over the ocean, 3 weeks after running away from home, from my town where winter stretches from October to April; heading south until the ocean stopped me. The bus left me among a crowd of sexy tanned young people skating, rolling, running on a street under the palm trees near the beach.

I was nineteen.

Three weeks later, seated on a low wall, wearing jeans and a sleeveless shirt, barefoot, I was counting my last bucks; if I didn’t find a job fast I was fucked. Shit, how could money desert me so fast?

“Hey,” a voice said near me.

He was standing there, his hands in his pockets, looking amused, his head tilted on the side. Looking me over.

“Been here for long?”

I assumed he wasn’t talking about the wall I was sitting on.

“Nearly a month.”

“Mmmm. Money disappears in no time, here.”


“I’m Chris.”

“Andrew. Call me Andy.”

It was the first lie; it came to me naturally. First step to damnation. First mistake.

“How old are you?”


He laughed, throwing his head back, running long fingers through his hair.

“Nah; no need to lie to me. Really?”

“Nineteen. Sorry to disappoint you.”

He looked me over again, very slowly, blue eyes taking me in. The sun had dyed my hair already, I still had those childish curls framing my face…

“You look younger.”

“I’m not. Now if you will excuse me….”

He held me back.

“Hey, it’s not bad; looking younger is fine. Some guys are ready to pay a lot for a little taste of the forbidden fruit.”

The Beecher part in me wanted to smack the insolent fucker and walk away. The Toby part wanted to hear the “pay a lot” thing again. The Toby part won; it always does.

“What do you mean?”

He sat beside me; he was a little taller than me, muscular and lean; he looked only a bit older than but a lot more experienced; tanned, blue-eyed, dark-haired tough guy.

“Hey, you’re hot,” he said, smiling, “I know people who might like you a lot. Pay for the privilege of having a hot kid in their bed.”

“I’m not a kid.”

He smiled; I can see why now; I should’ve been appalled; I was just making a fuss about my age.

“It’s what you look like that’s important; no one here gives a damn about what you are.”

He was running his fingers up and down my arm in a very distracting manner, the caress making me dizzy and weak.

“I’m not interested; what do you think I am? A fag? A hustler?”

Pathetic, I thought, mesmerized by the slow motion of his fingers on my skin.

He smiled, grabbed my arms and kissed me. I’d kissed some girls before, even fucked Helen Nobles in the back of my dad’s car and that’s about it. That kiss took me completely off-guard; slow and languorous and deep and…


He let go of my mouth reluctantly and kept his eyes closed for some more seconds, licked his lips.

“You’re a virgin.”

“I’m not.”

“You never kissed a man before.”

OK, I thought, don’t let the guy walk all over you.

“You’re not a man; you’re not that much older than me,” I said and I saw something in his eyes, something hard and dark and angry; it lasted for a second or two and vanished, replaced by the same amused expression he’d had from the beginning.

“You know what they say about being as old as you feel, don’t you?”

And he kissed me again, a hand on the nape of my neck. I lost the battle with that kiss.

“Come on, I live a little further, let’s go ant talk it over,” he said against my mouth.

He bought burgers and coke on the way; told me stories that made me laugh; he was the first friend I made in three weeks.

We didn’t talk much at first; drank a little, listened to a lot of music, crouched on the terrace of the huge sunny apartment.

“It ain’t mine,” he said as I looked around, “a friend’s letting me live here while he’s away. I keep an eye on his stuff.”

I nodded, overwhelmed as he passed an arm around my shoulders.

Then he asked some questions; I didn’t answer very precisely to any of them; lied about my name again and where I came from, my family, the reasons why I’d left.

However he was smooth and smart; at the end of the night he’d convinced me I was some kind of exotic rarity that needed to be appreciated for what I was. Sexy and looking awfully too young. He’d get me forged papers, he had friends who could do that; he’d choose the parties we’d go to, the people we’d meet; he’d take care of me, never leave me alone. We were going to make an awful lot of money and live like princes.

Before dawn I was kissed again, sucked off and fucked. Keller’s body was muscled and hard; his skin soft and silky, his cock a luscious weapon. None of Keller’s lessons ever felt like ; it didn’t even occur to me he was showing me the ropes, training me for the job. It was exhilarating and sweet and delectable. Lying in Keller’s bed, wrapped tight in Keller’s strong arms I thought maybe I’d found what I’d been looking for from the beginning; something that had nothing to do with my family’s cautious and reserved love that always made me feel like I was never quite what they expected, never tall enough, tough enough, smart enough; even when I was.

We were somewhat drank, maybe high; everything he said sounded easy and fun.

Yeah. I was stupid that way.

Forty-eight hours later we were partners and I was a hustler.

Less than a month later I realized I was madly in love with Chris Keller’s cock; Keller was madly in love with the money we made.

It sounds crazy now; he used to clutch the wad of notes when he was coming in my mouth; counting them again and again while he was fucking me.

But he held me, kissed me, fucked me through the nights under the stars on the tiled terrace when we weren’t invited to some party or after one of them when I felt too tired, too stoned; lay me down on a blanket, take care of me.

Sounds crazy too that I didn’t see it for what it was; prostitution, and him for what he was, a pimp. To me it was friendship and mutual help and hot sex.

“I don’t wanna lose you, kid,” he said.

“Please don’t call me kid.”

“OK, Chiquita.”

Chiquita. At the time it was funny.

Some more weeks and sex had no more secrets for me; I gave fabulous blowjobs and could recite Shakespeare while getting fucked and still pretend I was in heaven.

But only Chris sent me to heaven; I didn’t give in to no one’s caresses but his; otherwise it was just business and money and new people with gigantic ego and fancy houses and big blue swimming pools and sex toys. I wasn’t impressed; I knew that kind of people, they weren’t that different from the one I sometimes met at my father’s club.

It was bliss; a wicked dirty kind of bliss but being nineteen and in love helped forgetting about the wicked dirty part.

Until four months later I got sick and things changed.

The first thing the doc said was a blunt “Get tested; make sure it’s not AIDS.”

On the verge or a real panic attack I called Chris who shrugged it off. “You always used condoms; no big risk.”

“Almost always.”

“Don’t sweat it, you’re clean.”

“Yeah? And who are you to tell, anyway?”

“OK, tell you what? Do the test, do the fucking test, take it easy, go dancing, swimming, make new friends. Enjoy your holidays. I have to leave for a week or two, anyway.”

Almost always. The almost made the hell of a difference to me; some guys were ready to pay twice or more to fuck you bareback; Chris had never been pushy about that. “It’s your choice, baby.”

But he loved the money and I was happy to oblige.

Jesus I was crazy. And blind.

I tried to do as he’d told. Have fun. Shit, how are you supposed to have fun waiting for the result of a HIV test?

When it came back negative Chris, who’d come back home happy and smiling, shrugged again. “I told you! You should trust me!”

And we resumed our partnership, our common life in his invisible friend’s apartment.

If I’d had just a bit of a brain I would’ve wondered *who* this friend was who received no letters, never showed up, never phoned; I would’ve wondered what made Chris so happy when he came back from the mysterious trips which I was never part of.

I didn’t want to think about it; I thought everything was fine.

But I’d caught a glimpse of a possible disaster and suddenly the sun wasn’t shining so bright; suddenly sex with strangers was boring, or sickening even; suddenly I wanted to cry in the middle of being fucked by two or three strangers, making out Chris’ impassive bulk in the shadows; suddenly I didn’t feel like playing anymore and I began to use the word that made Chris cranky.

“No. Fuck, no, I won’t do that.”

He spent a lot of time talking me, fucking me, kissing me into things I didn’t want to do. He never got angry but sometimes I could see him clench his fists and turn his face away so I wouldn’t see how fed up he was with my whims.

I was beginning to think about my family a lot. I’d run away from it 10 months ago and now I missed it. My stupid whiny narrow-minded humourless parents; my younger brother’s pathetic jokes; my big room under the roof, the garden with the fountain, the old tree. The library, my books. I missed studying. I missed the cat and the smell of the roses in the garden; my parents were probably worried to death.

Jesus what was I doing here? For the first time I thought of leaving.


“The way you put it, it makes me sound so cold!”

“I’m trying to be honest. You said I should write it down the way I feel it.”

Keller’s been reading over my shoulder while I was typing; he looks… bothered.

He spent the whole day cleaning up my mess, doing laundry, buying groceries while I was writing.

“So I’m your bleeding open wound, uh? Don’t you ever consider you could be mine as well?”

Hmph. Of course I do; I’m just not ready to concede him this.

“I didn’t put you on the streets; I never treated you as just some whore.”

“Liar. Fucking liar.”

He shrugs and sighs and frowns, reads it again.

“It wasn’t only for the money. I loved you.”

“Yeah. Sure. Didn’t you say something like that yesterday already?”

“When you were waiting for the results of the test I was really worried. Just you know… I felt fucking ridiculous, falling for some guy like you.”

I look at him.



I don’t believe him. Or maybe I do. Maybe it’s not entirely a lie; I’ll never know.

“It was 16 years ago, Toby.”

“I know; I just want you to admit you mistreated me. That it was a fault. Come on, say it.”

He glares at me. Fuck off, the glare says. You lied about your name and everything, ran away from your wealthy family, pretended to be a poor stray cat... It was all a fraud.

Now I’m wondering *who* exactly can’t get over it.

We end sitting on the floor watching TV; my back against the couch, Chris locked in my arms, his naked muscled back against my chest, his warm stubbly cheek against my cheek, my fingers stroking his shoulders and his neck, listening to his soft growls of pleasure.

My own private bad guy, drug dealer and God knows what else. My enemy. My lover.

I wrote the easier part; I know he’s waiting to see how I’ll deal with my own faults. You might be surprised, Keller, I think.

But then he turns to kiss me and I stop thinking.



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