Miami Whore Ch. 01

**As usual, all characters portrayed are 18+**

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A horn blared, heaving my spinning brain from its extended stupor. Blood rushed to the front of my head. My eyes fluttered open, greeted by a blur of beige and gray under a bright light.

The Miami fall blossomed before my vision's slow focus.

A chill ran down my spine, and I rolled over, feeling a layer of cold cardboard under my head. Even in Florida, sleeping outside was no paradise.

The blood rush began to subside, and I sat upright. The plain alley stared back, its cinder block walls and asphalt floor punctuated only by scrap papers dancing in the wind. The end the alley opened to the sidewalk of Southwest Tenth Street. On a morning such as this, it was like the city was born anew. The neon nightclubs and stinking bars of this part of downtown now slumbered. An occasional broken bottle or suspicious pool was the only token of last night's wild ecstasy. The sidewalks were devoid of pedestrians, and the only disturbance came from cars that would pass every few seconds.

I adjusted the waistband of the only pants I owned: Black Adidas women's short-shorts, lined with white polyester. Below them were a scuffed and filthy pair of white sneakers. The white graphic tee that hung from my neck was stained with liquor and dirt, its front bearing the name of some bar no one knew. It was far too big, but at least it was modest. The shorts, on the other hand, left little to the imagination. They were already a size too small, and their edges gripped my upper thighs and hugged my ass. When I bent down, they would slide until the waistband threatened to slide off my bottom.

I had only been homeless for a month, but to start every day with nothing was fighting everything I knew. Pedestrians would stare at my unkempt hair and clothes fit for someone else, their glares piercing my skin. The police patrol cars would slink along dark roads at night, their blue headlights like the prying eyes of a predator that hated its prey with a malice uncalled for- homelessness in Miami could put you in jail. I would fight the judgement in the bartender's voice as he gave me stale bread and chicken, leftover in a soggy paper tray. And worst of all, I fought my own self-loathing.

I had next to no employable skills. Getting a job in this district without experience was bad enough, and impossible when you looked and smelled like a street addict. The cops and churches were no help either. After my ex-girlfriend fabricated stories of domestic abuse, I became a 'person of interest'. Not enough for a manhunt, but enough to where the cops looking at me for too long made my stomach tumble. I was the lowest of the low.

The first few days of desperation I spent in hostels, paying for lodging and trying to hide my face. But then my account was frozen, and a mugger took my only backpack of belongings. Not that I had much anyway.

During the day, I was treated like shit. If I didn't hide, sneaking around alleyways and over fences, I got looks from walkers and thrown bottles from the bar owners whose buildings I lived between. The sun was my enemy. Like a modern day vampire, I was reclusive and desperate. But unlike a vampire, I lived among my tormentors. I had no towering castle or gothic estate, no intimidating teeth or scowl, and no magnificent cape.

But I had the night.

The night was camouflage, refuge, and wonder. It was the only time I could be in public, masked by the throngs of partiers and the ambient stench of alcohol.

It was also the only time I could earn my living.

Miami attracts a diverse crowd. You have middle-aged parents, young thrill-seekers, rich playboys and dirt poor workers, all looking to blow their minds with liquor, music, and lights. And sometimes, drunk women who get horny. And they take out their lust, spending their cash on lap dances, stripteases, and erotic poses done by me, for just a few dollars. For even more they can touch- cupping my bare balls, dragging their manicured fingers up my bare thighs, fondling my naked dick. And on the really lucky nights, I get into those bars I sleep behind. Some woman will bring me in, leading me with a firm grip on my wrist, to show me off to her friends. Or sometimes a bar owner will slip me payment to act as evening entertainment.

I'll slip off my tiny shorts, dance in a circle of drunk girls, and collect the cash and food they drop on me. Sometimes it'll be older women, their better judgment subdued by heavy drinking, who call me names and pour beer on my bare ass as I move to a song of their choice. Occasionally young college girls will think it's funny to play with me, taking pictures with my scantily clothed frame, with firm grips on my throat and ass. Once, a girl just a little older than me kissed me on the lips and then fed me her entire vodka seltzer by putting me in a headlock. Another time, a fat bar owner once paid me fifty dollars to wear an old pair of red sparkly women's heels and walk around naked, delivering drinks on a tray to ladies giggling at the sight.

Whatever the story, the aftermath is the same. I slip away when the pay dries up and the morning sky turns closer, to reclothe myself in a hidden nook and spend my hard-earned money on fried goodies from food trucks and stalls. Then, the day banishes my customers back to their hotels and apartments. And the sun banishes me to a quick rest in an alley of my choice.

This has been my life for over a month. I'm a bar boy. Not incredibly rare in Miami, but I do have some special talent that makes me stand out. For one, I'm only 19. My age gives me soft, supple, skin, and a skinny and lean build- treasured traits among horny bargoers, apparently. I'm also incredibly desperate. My homelessness makes me accept half the pay others get for a job, and the watchful bar owners know. I'll drop to my knees without hesitation, fully commit to a lewd dance, or degrade myself for tips if it means I get to eat. But my lingering suspicion from the law prevents me from adopting an alias like a lot of boys do, marketing myself with a recognizable persona. The only people who recognize me are the owners of the greasiest bars, and they have a vested interest in seeing me on the street and not in a jail cell.

So I remain a reject, condemned to this cycle of erotic nocturnalism, cowering by day and exhibiting my naked body by night.

When I first was kicked out of my apartment, I remember walking to shore and seeing the magnificent houses that lined the canal, like majestic roman villas. Modern estates for modern elites. I knew that many of them harbored older women, who hired servant boys for their elaborate parties or kept permanent boys-in-waiting on site for their daily pleasure. I dreamed of being the property of one of these gorgeous women. I had watched them in their backyards, sundresses snugly fitting their chests as they sipped mixed drinks and laughed in a world free of worry. I longed to be groped by women with elegant velvet gloves, who would make chuckle about how easy buying a boy was with the new administration. I wanted to feel their palms grope my ass as I scrubbed their marble floors, hearing their lewd comments about my figure made well within earshot.

And above all else, I wanted to pleasure them. I wanted them to use my tongue, to feel my genitals, to stimulate my asshole with colorful toys and restraining gear. One day, I could at least live out my servitude with meaning.

One day.

Another horn blared, and my daydream dissolved like sugar in an old fashioned.

I stretched my back, collected my thoughts, and stood up to meet the baby blue sky.

"HEY!"

A voice boomed, echoing across the brick walls of the alley. My neck froze. Panic swallowed me whole. I did not breathe. But I knew what was coming.