Homeless Haven

Wyatt Cooper spent several minutes figuring out why the young pole dancer on stage at Hershee seemed familiar. The young man being nearly naked and picked out by changing-color strobe lights had captured his attention and "where have I seen him before?" thoughts and put him off the hunt for a young guy among the patrons that had brought him into the bar. The hottie on the pole looked like the youngest one in here, so Wyatt's eyes and thoughts kept going back to him, as, no doubt, the bar management intended them to do. The guy who kept coming into Wyatt's mind as he scanned the room, Brad Tyler, was too young to be in here. Wyatt doubted that Hershee would hire underage pole dancers, with the employees at a club being determined by the liquor laws. The drinking age in Virginia was twenty-one.

Brad Tyler was only nineteen. Wyatt was pretty sure of that. He required the tenants in his place to register with him—IDs shown and all. Brad, who seemed to have no family and who was bunking with the two Tidewater Tech students in the apartment under Wyatt's apartment in the three-story Victorian building he owned on Amherst Street in Norfolk, Virginia, had registered with him and had obtained Wyatt's approval Wyatt's way—but there had been just that once. Maybe Brad had a different license, making him older, to show to the bookings manager at Hershee.

But, yeah, now that Wyatt was concentrating on him, the pole dancer was, indeed, Brad Tyler. Maybe he had another ID to flash that claimed he was over twenty-one. Lots of kids had them so they could liquor up.

Whatever, the guy looked good. He was very flexible and danced with a good sway to the beat. He also was the best prospect Wyatt saw in the bar tonight. Brad, had been a good lay that one time when Wyatt was approving him moving in with the guys downstairs and agreeing to overlook that the young man seemed to have come off the streets, homeless. His flexibility had come into play then too. The young guy had been restrained in every which way—very pretzel like—when Wyatt had penetrated him and still the guy had enough flexibility to fuck back on the shaft. And he hadn't complained about the taxing position. Wyatt now knew where the guy had learned his moves from.

There were a lot more older guys—older than Wyatt's thirty-six—here tonight than younger ones. Wyatt liked them younger—really young. And he was needing it. He'd brought Frank into his home and his bed when Frank was eighteen. It had been more than a month since Frank had left Tidewater Tech after a year and a half there, signed up with the Navy, and shipped out. Wyatt had had to press Frank to go through his last year of high school and then had wanted him to get through the computer programing associate degree at the technical college and work with Wyatt, who was a day trader. Frank had dragged along, saying he hated school, but letting Wyatt nag him until the day he'd come home with his naval enlistment papers.

There were a lot of Navy guys in here tonight. The Norfolk Naval Shipyard was just across the Elizabeth River, and there was a bridge from there over into Norfolk. Norfolk was crawling with naval installations, and the city catered to sailors. The problem was that the sailors in here tonight were older ones, and they were looking for the same thing Wyatt was. Some of them weren't looking for someone really young, like Wyatt was, though. Some of them were happy to hook up with someone Wyatt's age, and he was a looker and built well, so he was getting hit on by guys not knowing they wanted the same thing.

That was getting a little irritating for Wyatt, who hadn't been in the clubbing scene while Frank was with him, and he'd been here for an hour without seeing anyone he could be interested in—other than the Brad lookalike dancing the pole. But, yeah, he realized now that it was, indeed, Brad. Knowing the young man was one of his tenants gave Wyatt pause on hooking up with him here.

Brad was coming off the pole, Wyatt saw, and when he was out from underneath the lights and could see into the audience, he now saw Wyatt and registered surprise. But Wyatt didn't think Brad was registering any form of distaste. Quite the opposite. In fact, since Brad had moved in with the technical college students in the apartment under Wyatt's, the older man had sensed interest from Brad in getting it on with him again. Seeing Brad's smile tonight made Wyatt go hard. He was about to wave Brad over to his table when he saw a sailor corral the young man and, after a shared drink, some fondling, and meaningful looks, Brad took the sailor through a beaded-curtain doorway at the back of the bar.

Wyatt felt deflated. He had thought he'd find someone to go through the door with tonight, but so far he hadn't. And now Brad, who had got him stirring, was gone too.

When yet another, beefy, sailor slid into a chair at Wyatt's table, put a hand on Wyatt's knee, and said, "You're not drinking alone on purpose are you?" Wyatt said politely as he could that he had some place else to be, rose, and quickly left the club. It wasn't just that Wyatt now was thinking of Brad and "young guy"; it also was because the sailor quite evidently was an aggressive top. Two tops didn't have much of a chance of producing satisfaction. Wyatt went to his car, parked down the street and by the opening into an alley, and turned the ignition on. When he did so, he briefly put his head down on the steering wheel and felt sorry for himself.

Frank had been with him since the young man was eighteen. Wyatt had given him everything. He'd taken the Frank off the street, cleaned him up, sent him to school, and prepared him for life. He was happy Frank, who had worked two summers at the naval weapons station, had developed an enthusiasm for the Navy. They needed computer programing in the Navy as well as anywhere else. Wyatt would have preferred that his protégé go on to get a college degree after the technical school, but he didn't want to stand in Frank's way. And, if he admitted the truth, Frank had become a man sexually and didn't arouse Wyatt as much as he had when he was eighteen or even nineteen. Wyatt was finding himself looking beyond Frank, although he hadn't found anyone yet.

It was stupid for him to come to Hershee to look for someone, though. There wouldn't be anybody that young here. At nineteen, Brad was here, but he would have had to lie to be here. Brad was as close to homeless as a guy could be and not to have to sleep on the street.

Lifting his head off the steering wheel, his eyes slightly misted from feeling sorry for himself and his frustration, Wyatt put his red Lexus RC F sports coupe into gear, started pulling away from the curb, and felt a thump against his right front bumper.

* * * *

Slick's knees and the palms of his hands hurt. There wasn't enough padding on the floor of the Naval Recreation Department van parked in the alley off Chesapeake Boulevard to cushion his doggie stance. He was clutching two twenty-dollar bills, one each from the two sailors in the van. He couldn't reach his torn jeans nearby to tuck them away in a pocket. Maybe later, between taking the two guys in tight, sexy, Navy blues with the buttoned flies.

Sailor One was crouched over him. He'd taken a long time to get his cock inside Slick's channel, declaring repeatedly while he was doing it that the young man was as tight as a witch's cunt. It wasn't said like it was a complaint, though. The sailor was big and bulky. Slick was small and thin, just an eighteen-year-old youth. Thin because he lived on the streets, although he hadn't been out there long—he was naturally slim. He was dirty and smelly, he knew, as he hadn't bathed in a while. The sailor on top of him didn't seem to mind. In Slick's channel now, he began fucking the young guy in long strokes, one arm encircling the young man's slim waist and the other hand grasping the long, greasy strands of Slick's dirty-blond hair and arching the young man's torso back painfully. He was breathing heavily in the youth's ear, his teeth latched onto Slick's ear lobe.

Thrust, thrust, thrust. Slick was into it now. He was no virgin. He'd gotten into the rhythm and was rocking back into the cock on every thrust-forward stroke. He did this while living on the streets as much because he liked having a man's cock inside him as needing a bit of money to supplement the handouts and soup kitchens. It had been letting a man get his cock inside him—wanting the man's cock inside him—that had led to Slick being homeless on the street.

"Yes, yes, Fuckin' A. Give it to me!" he called out.

The sailor snorted, gave it to him, and came in a flood of cum.

"Your turn, Mate," he called out to the other sailor, who had been sitting in the front seat of the van and watching Sailor Number One doggie fucking the homeless young man on the floor of the van in the back.

"You'll come up here and keep a lookout?" Sailor Two asked. "I don't like that we're in a service van."

"Yeah, sure," Sailor One, agreed, rising on his knees and buttoning up the fly of his tight sailor blues.

"Was he—?"

"Tight and smells like a fish market, but he rocked back on it. He takes it. He wants it. A nice little piece for the price."

Slick had a thought of needing to review his pricing structure. Thing is that he hadn't been out on the street long enough to gain the confidence of the other guys out here who shopped their bodies. No one had given him a straight answer yet on the going prices.

"Kinda young, ain't he?" Sailor Two asked, as he came over the back of the front seat into the van bed, brushing by Sailor One, who was replacing him in the front seat.

"He's got a hole and he takes seven inches."

"You, seven inches?" Sailor Two barked, with a laugh. "You mean me, don'tcha?"

"I've opened him up for you, fucker. Say thank you, Gunner."

"Thank you, Gunner," Sailor Two said, hovering over Slick, as the young man turned onto his back, reached out for his jeans, and tucked the two Alexander Hamiltons in his pocket. "How do you want it?" Sailor Two asked. He had his cock in his hand, working it up more—it already was worked up from watching Gunner fucking Slick. Slick moaned at seeing that Sailor Two was thicker and longer than Sailor One had been. Slick had known he would be, though. The two had mentioned the first opening him for the second, but leaving some stretching room, when they were discussing who went first. The second sailor was younger, in better shape, and a lot better looking than Gunner was, as well.

"Fuck me, stud," the young man called out as he remained on his back and raised and spread his legs. "Any way you want it. It's your buy."

"You got it, boy," the sailor said, with a laugh, as he grabbed Slick's legs to widen the young man's stance and jerked them up, raising Slick's pelvis off the bed of the van.

"Fuck him good, swabbie," Gunner called out.

"You got it, Gunner," Sailor Two growled. He plunged his cock up into Slick's opened-up hole and immediately started to pump. Slick howled, and writhed under the young sailor, not in the least upset that he was getting a good fucking by a hunk. The young man went into a trance, every nerve ending concentrating on the thick cock stroking his channel, all references to the real, dingy world of homelessness around him fading away. He was being fucked good. He was being fucked better than Coach had ever managed. For the few minutes that lasted, he was in another world of being wanted, his body being worshipped, being the center of a hunk of a man's lust and need.

He went with the rhythm of the fuck, the man inside him moaning at the wonder of the total surrender and acceptance of the young man under him. For just a few minutes they both were in heaven. Slick held steady, thrusting his pelvis up into the young sailor's groin, crying out, "Yes, yes. Oh, fuck, yes!" as the sailor tightened and released, tightened and released, pumping his cum into the condom buried deep in the young man's channel.

Ten minutes later, the back door of the van popped open, and Slick, holding his jeans, was ejected. He had to swerve off to the side to avoid being run down as the van doors shut and the vehicle immediately went into reverse, backing out of the alley, onto Chesapeake Boulevard headed for the bridge that crossed the Elizabeth River over to the Naval Shipyard on the southern bank of the river.

Pulling his jeans on, Slick hobbled over to a line of trashcans, pulled his backpack up from behind a barrel, staggered out to the mouth of the alley, and collided with the front bumper of a red sports car.

* * * *

Wyatt had the parking brake of the RC F set, was out of the car in a nanosecond, and was racing around to the curb side of the bumper. It was starting to rain. A clap of thunder and the flash of lighting punctuated the panic of Wyatt's maneuver. In the light of the lightning strike, he saw the figure of a young man, a double backpack on top of him, sprawled out at the alley entrance. The young man had a confused "What hit me?" look on his face. Wyatt, with his interest in older teens, registered the blondness of an angel despite his concern that he might have hit a pedestrian.

"God, son. I didn't see you coming out of the alley. Are you OK? Where does it hurt? If it hurts, don't move." He looked up, one way down the street and then the other, for someone to call 911 or gauging whether anyone had seen the accident, while he checked over the young man. It was raining in earnest now. No one was on the street. The only light, a flashing neon sign, was projected over the entrance of the Hershee bar. He didn't want to go back in there.

"It's OK. I'm good," Slick muttered. "The bumper hit my backpack."

Or your backpack hit my bumper, Wyatt reflexively let run through his brain, already ready to deny responsibility, not that he considered fleeing the scene or not going to the young man immediately. He wasn't ready to just let go. The young man was heavenly. Small; a terrific face; long, curly hair, if a little greasy. But in dirty rags. He wondered how old the young man was.

"Are you out here alone? How old are you?" he idiotically blurted out, the young man's age having been what was running through his brain. He'd already gotten the notion the young man was homeless and wasn't accompanied by anyone who could claim responsibility for him.

"Old enough," Slick answered, also reflexively. Wyatt's groin gave a little lurch. But the kid was hobo dirty. He probably smelled too in close quarters. "I'm OK. There's nothing . . . ow!"

Slick had tried to sit up. "My leg. I think it's bruised."

Wyatt's chest contracted. The kid was hurt. Of course. The backpack took the force, such as it was, of the car's bumper, but the blow had put the kid on the ground—hip slammed down on the slight lip of the concrete between the road and the entrance of the alley. The kid had lurched out of the alley. Wyatt had to keep hold of that thought. The kid had hit the car; the car hadn't hit the kid. This couldn't be Wyatt's fault. But he had to do something. And the kid was beautiful. Just what Wyatt . . .

"Stay there. I'll call an ambulance. We need to have someone look you over."

"No. No ambulance. No police. No hospital. Shit, it's raining hard. Help me to get under cover." He tried to rise, groaned an "Umpf," and sat back down on the concrete.

"We should see how bad it is. And you need to get cleaned up to check that out. Look, I live just down Chesapeake Boulevard. We can go there. You can get cleaned up and we'll take a look at it. If you need medical attention, I'll take you to a clinic or something."

"Just get me over to—"

"There's a free clinic I know of where they won't ask questions if you can be fixed up without going to a hospital. First to my place to clean up and assess and then to the free clinic, if needed. OK? No questioning unless it's serious. Better then if you've been cleaned up. Fewer questions."

The kid was homeless, obviously. He wouldn't be dirty and dressed in rags and be hauling around a backpack that size if he wasn't—or worried about getting hooked up with authorities of any type. Not being IDed obviously had the kid more worried than his injury did. Wyatt needed to know how bad the kid was hurt or he'd always wonder. And he was an angel. Just the right look and size. Wyatt knew what would speak to him. "Look, I'll give you a meal too . . . and twenty dollars. Let's just check it out. I'm not more than a mile away. Or I could call the police."

"No! No police. OK, OK, I'll go to your place." Wyatt helped him up. The kid stood, favoring his right leg, but he was putting some weight on it. "Hey. This your car? Some wheels. You rich or something?"

"Yes, this is my car. I'll get you out of the rain. We'll take my car to my place."

That worked. Slick let Wyatt put him into the passenger side of the RC F, and he only grimaced slightly and gave a little moan at the pain of folding himself into the low-slung passenger seat. The little moan sent a flash of desire through Wyatt's body. But that had nothing to do with getting the young man cleaned up and checked out. Wyatt wanted to know that there wouldn't be any trouble from this. The kid being a sexy little thing had nothing to do with this—or so he kept telling himself. It wasn't like he had been shopping for a replacement for Frank. He'd offer to take a dumpy old woman home under these circumstances as well as a teen angel. Sure he would.

Wyatt wasn't lying—about far away he lived. He did live not much more than a mile away, toward the Elizabeth River and Portsmouth, just a block off Chesapeake Boulevard, on Amherst Street. They drove for a while in silence, the young man clutching the big backpack to his stomach.

"You OK?" he asked, to break the silence. "It isn't far now, I promise. The leg hurting you more or less?"

"Less, I think. You could pull over and let me out. I'll be OK."

"No, we should check it out. If you don't need medical attention, I'll drop you back wherever you want to go. You live near where you . . . where it happened?"

"Yeah, sure. I live here and there."

So, Wyatt was right. The young man was homeless. "My name is Wyatt. Wyatt Cooper. You're . . .?"

There was a moment of silence. "I'm Slick. Everyone calls me Slick."

"But that's not your real name, is it? It's not the name your parents gave you."

"No, it isn't. But you can call me Slick." It was obvious the kid wasn't going to be forthcoming—or chatty. The guy was asking a lot of questions, and Slick knew the look the guy was giving him. There was interest there in more than just if Slick's leg still hurt.

"OK, Slick. Here we are. Right here. Just a block off Chesapeake Boulevard, as I said."

Slick looked up at the story-and-a-half Victorian, with wraparound porches, set on a basement half out of the ground. "All of this yours?"

Wyatt laughed. "Yes, but I don't live in it all anymore. It was just one house when I was raised in it. But now it's three apartments. It's not just me in there. There will be others in the building." He laughed again, a little nervously. He had no idea why he was assuring the young man he was going into a building where he wouldn't be alone with Wyatt.

"Neat. The car's boss too," Slick said, as he opened the passenger door, gave a little groan, and rolled out onto the drive. The rain had stopped, but there still were lightning strikes close enough that a renewed deluge was threatened. Rain had been predicted to cover the next several days.

"Here, lean on me. I'll help you up the stairs. The main level is my apartment."

Wyatt felt the heat and smallness of the young man as they came together. He almost groaned himself in want and need. The young man fit into his side just right. They slowly moved up the front stairs to the porch, drawn by the light beside the front door that Wyatt had left on when he'd taken off for the gay bar. This might work out OK, Wyatt thought. This might be Frank all over again—but with a better ending.