Those Tomcats

Disclaimer: I know I said I wouldn't do sequels anymore, but "My Subway Angel" got such a good response from you guys that I was inspired to write more on Doug. And hey, who knows, if I get good feedback on this, I might be further inspired to at long last finish my "Learning the Ropes" story. Tell me what you think.

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"My name is Doug, and I have breast cancer." All I can think as these poor, gaunt, fatally ill women were looking up at me as I stood before their support group was, "Don't laugh, don't laugh". Their wide eyes overflowed with sympathy and grief for my imaginary condition. I didn't have the heart to tell them I was only there for the refreshments.

How did I end up here? I had a crappy part-time cleaning service job. I lived with Raphael, who pretended to be my friend just long enough for me to move in with him.... then kick me out on my ass after an argument. I had the world's most beautiful boyfriend, who doesn't want to know me now that I'm on the street and need him most. Life is like that-- when it rains it pours. All the good stuff comes at once and then you pay for it with ten times as much bad stuff. I've been completely abandoned by everyone I know and love. I could go to my sister and mother, who live in a small apartment with barely enough room for the two of them and a cat, but you have to understand. I've been the man of my nuclear family since I was ten. The crazy old man who sired me didn't have it in him, so I had to step up to the plate. All my life, I've been the rock, the plaster holding together what was left of my family after we escaped that old, violent lunatic. My mother and kid sister don't have much money, and they certainly don't need a moocher like me eating up all their food and sleeping on the kitchen floor.

Better they think I went on with my life and forgot about them for a while, than let them see me like this.

So this is the depth to which I've stooped. You'd be surprised what you're capable of when you're homeless and starving, though crashing support groups is a new low for me. Usually I just go dumpster diving, or stand by the Burger King waste baskets waiting for people to approach with their meager leavings then steal their trays. I've tried going to soup kitchens but it's like prison – intimidating and overcrowded. Further, if a bunch of guys see a new face and they want that dude's food, they're going to come over and take it, and there ain't a damn thing that new dude is gonna do about it. Just being *around* a soup kitchen is dangerous. And it's not like the food tastes any better than vomit. Begging on the subway for food is risky, cause it's illegal. Transit cops are a bunch of douchenards who are always uber-pissed 'cause they aren't good enough to be real cops. Real cops can be bitches too. Especially since now you can't even eat or put your feet up without worrying about some stupid fine. Sleeping on the subways is good and bad. Good because regular people won't bother you. Bad because you've got a lot of competition, and other bums will definitely try to knife you for your shit.

I primarily stay in Brooklyn, because I know my way around. I know which buildings are empty and aren't part of gang territory, and I know which store owners don't pay too much attention to their outdoor merchandise. I've been bold enough to go up, try on a shirt and just walk away with it, leaving the old nasty one behind. I will go to a fruit store, fill a few bags and just walk away. (Thrift stores are my favorites) I've only had people chase me a handful of times, and I was only caught once. Not many people are suspicious because I try not to look like a bum. I go into restaurants and clean my hands and face often, and when possible, take a hooker bath. (A hooker bath is that quick wash-down prostitutes do to freshen up in between johns)

Lately I've taken to trading with a few other residentially challenged persons such as myself. There's Percy, this old dude with 2 teeth and more hair coming out of the mole on his chin than he has on his head. He lives in Prospect Park al though I rarely go in there, especially alone; I'd be just asking for problems. We usually meet by the subway station. He apparently knows a lot of kids, so I can always get some canned food or a cigarette lighter in trade for whatever random toys I can steal. Then there's this crazy woman with tits down to her knees; she lives in Crown Heights and will take any kind of cigarettes I can bum off people. She gets me those trick metro cards with the bent edges that will get you past a turnstile every time. (They don't work on the bus though; I learned that the hard way.) And then there's Marlo, who hangs out in Canarsie. Even filthy, he's a beautiful sight – tall, lean and wiry, with thick, shoulder length curly black hair, dark brown eyes and a scraggly beard. He doesn't carry anything on him, because he's super-religious and he thinks God will provide everything he needs. Perhaps I go to see Marlo too much, but despite our conflicting opinions on a higher power, we get along famously. Strangely enough, it is I more than God who provides for him. In fact, I've gone to great lengths to steal unique foods and gifts he would appreciate. What he offers me in return isn't material. It's security, company and advice, which has probably been the reason I'm keeping myself together as well as I am.

In other words, I love him, and the fact that he's so religious makes me hesitant to let him know. Tonight I find myself on the L train once again, on my way to see Marlo. I can always find him inside the Holy Family Roman Catholic church helping out in confession or just sitting there quietly staring off into space, which is exactly how I find him tonight. I sit down next to him and mutter quietly into his ear.

"Psst. Ey, meng. Joo gots da blow? I gots da green."

After a long moment he turns to me, his thick eyebrows knitted. "Behave, midget, you're in God's house."

"Yeah, he tried to lock me out but I got in through the doggie-door. That'll show him, eh?" I reach into my pocket when I see him inhaling, preparing to tell me to have some respect. "Besides, I come bearing gifts. You hungry? I got you some cheese."

"I...*cheese*?" His eyes light up. He's so fucking beautiful. He unfolds his hands and touches the foil package. His arms are so dirty they're black, all the way past his elbows. He kind of reminds me of a cat that way, how some of them have limbs of a different color. "Wow, it's cracker barrel. Where did you get this?"

"Some shmoe left the trunk of his car open with bags of groceries inside...haha, then took some upstairs. I grabbed what I could and ran. You want to eat this here, or outside on the lawn?"

He gives me a solemn look. "There's a man who roams the station who could use this more than us."

"Are you kidding me??" I stuff it back in my pocket angrily. "That guy could'a come out and kicked my a--"

"Doug!" He cuts me off. His shout slices through the oppressing silence of this place and echoes ominously. I allow a moment of silence to follow. His dark, dramatic eyes burn with insult. "This. Is. God's. House." He grits his teeth and points towards the door. "We'll continue this conversation outside."

I give him a wide-eyed, sorrowful expression and sulk towards the door. He mutters a prayer and eventually follows me.

We sit beneath the singular tree out in front. He used to call it the Twin Gardens. I'd retorted with, "a five-by-eight patch of dying, yellow grass does not a garden make." I suppose to someone who's never been outside this city, it's as much of a garden as he's ever really seen. We sit there in silence for a few moments and a big black man with a potbelly and a greasy muscle shirt walks by and hocks a big, juicy loogey right at the foot of the steps.

"Disgraceful." Marlo snarls under his breath.

"Down, boy." I massage my fingertips into his shoulder. "Most people have no idea what's going on around them. He probably didn't even see this was a church." He merely stares hatefully as the man shuffles away. "I'm going to compromise with you. I'll break this cheese in half. We share one half and we give the other to that dude in the train station, okay?" He turns to raise his brows hopefully at me. "It's probably better we each have a part, too much of this rich stuff would make us sick."

He grins, putting his hand on my arm. "You have a point. And I think I might be starting to rub off on you."

"Haw!" I start to get up. "That'll be the day. Now show me where this friend'a yours sleeps." __

That night, he insists on coming with me into Bensonhurst. We make our way to this old age home being rebuilt but abandoned. The bare, skeletal structure of the metal beams, rusted over from rain and wind was poorly concealed with wood and billboards with a picture of the promised finished product along with Hebrew text. It provides cover more than shelter, and it's harder to get into now than the original old age home had been, but it suffices. Marlo is duly impressed. We climb down into the ditch they'd begun to build into a basement, where I'd buried a Styrofoam cooler in the earth. He watches me with awe as I open the lid to reveal extra clothes, some toothpaste, and an assortment of old, tattered washcloths and a yellowing bottle of tap water.

"Wow, you really have it made over here, don't you?"

"I'm a packrat, I have little treasure troves all over this town. If you learned a thing or two from me, you wouldn't have to beg for change on the subway. You'd be able to forage for yourself and have everything you need."

"I *do* have everything I need." He smiles, and it gives me pause. He has such a broad, heart-melting smile that makes my innards tingle. There's a long gap of silence in our conversation where I just stare longingly at him and his dark eyes scan wondrously over the contents of my secret stash. I imagine him leaning over to kiss me. His long, wiry arms winding around me, his chest heaving against mine, our tongues dueling desperately with one another... That thought is interrupted by a nagging, almost painful itch on my scalp. I scrap at it like a flea-bit mongrel. I don't know how he keeps sane with his hair down like that. My hair is almost three times longer and I have to keep it up lest the itching drive me nuts. Being unwashed was the next to worst thing about being homeless for me. (Second only to the gnawing hunger, parching thirst and witless boredom, of course.) I can't even imagine having sex while being this filthy. I even stop masturbating when my senses are rent asunder by my own awful stench. That's why I wash up in public restrooms so often; even the sickeningly sweet chemical hand soap smell is better than sweaty, putrid flesh, subway grit and stale urine.

"This isn't much," I state suddenly, the overwhelming need to further impress him taking over. "You should see what I have stashed in Dyker Park. In fact, that's where we're going tonight."

"Oh yeah?" His eyes meet mine, that smile still big, broad and delighted.

"Oh yeeeaaaah." I chuckle. "In fact, we should head over there now before we miss it." I stuff the toothpaste and rags into my pocket.

"Miss what?"

"It's a surprise. C'mon, it's not terribly far."

We take the leisurely walk down to Dyker Park. He digs through random garbage pails along the way and finds an entire, untouched whopper. We share it. A few people give us lingering glances, but nobody says anything. If you've ever been to Brooklyn, a "park" is a sad little rubber playground or a few yards worth of fenced off grass for a baseball field. Dyker Park was a baseball field, a huge playground with actual trees, a jungle gym, a bacci ball and basketball court attached to a golf course with a bit of woods in between. If you walked around the entire thing, it would take you almost 2 hours. It was the closest thing we had to wilderness. The wooded area is littered with garbage and marred with used condoms, empty nickel bags and syringes. The trees are broken and carved into by bored, destructive teenagers on their occasional illegal raves. The worst part was in the dead of night, there was rumored to be a cult of Satanists who lurked there. One of my friends was chased by them; he said they were like ghosts. Our only real proof of their existence was the few dog or cat corpses they'd leave behind stuffed in garbage bags...their insides removed for sacrifice.

Despite all this, I was never afraid; I always felt at home here. When I take Marlo into the baseball field, he spots the hole in the chain-link fence leading to the wooded area. "Are we going in there?"

"We don't need to. My gift basket is buried right at the edge of the field. You don't want to go in there at night anyway." It's lucky that I know exactly where I put it. There isn't much light in here, and the edges of the field are so far away, when you're against the fence you can't even really see the road. He watches me unbury a small plastic cooler and take out some soap.

"What is that?" His thick brows knit. "Doug, is that soap?" He runs his fingertips over it as though trying to remember what it's used for.

"It's integral to my surprise." He gives me a quizzical look and I gesture towards the sky. "It's going to rain tonight, my friend. It's going to rain like a monsoon, and we're going to get clean."

He pauses for a few moments to look at me as though I were sporting a dildo on my forehead. "You're nuts, midget."

I gasp, feigning insult. "Why am I nuts!?"

"Okay..." He laughs, putting his hands out in gesture. "Okay, first of all, why get clean? We'll only get dirty again."

I wrap my arms around myself and sigh. "Don't you miss being clean, Marlo? Have you forgotten how great a shower feels?"

He sighs in return, his head lowered. "No, not really. How do you know it's going to rain anyhow? You got a radio in there too?"

I lift my nose to the air and huff in the scent of heavy condensation. "I smell it. And besides, I've had so many bones broken in my lifetime, I can predict the weather better than Al Roker."

"Haha! That's not saying much." Just then, there's a crack of thunder in the distance. Marlo's face goes pale. "Mother of God, you weren't kidding." I don't respond, I just close my eyes and smile, loving the smell of pending rain in the air. There's a cool, heavy breeze, the kind that you can hear, the kind that comes right before a storm, carrying with it a warning for anyone in tune enough to listen.

"There. You smell it now?"

"Yeah, I do. That's amazing." He pauses, looking uncertain. "Maybe we should find cover."

I feel the Earth beneath me sigh in relief as the first droplet makes contact with the thirsty soil. "It's too late now. We'll never make it." I open my eyes and I can barely make out his lean form, shrunken away in fear from the forces of nature like so many of the sheep of his faith do. I hand him one of the bars of soap. Lightning strikes and he shudders. I take off my shirt. "Embrace this. Trust me, it's going to be excellent. Though it might be easier if you took off that filthy wifebeater." It thunders again, and the heavens open up and it downpours with a vengeful anger, each droplet the size of a penny, soaking our hair, re-hydrating our skin, making the dirt into mud beneath out feet within moments.

"It's POURING! Doug, it's FREEZING!!" He huddles into himself, still holding the soap. "Good Lord, what are you doing??"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" I laugh, tossing my pants at him. "Live a little, Marlo! Can't you dance naked in the rain like a heathen for just one night? C'mon, praise Thor and get clean with me!"

"NO!" He screams, sinking to his knees, his arms wrapped tight around him. "You're a LUNATIC!"

"I've had better luck getting cats into a flea dip!"

"Please, Doug, let's find cover. Please?" He begs me, his eyes wide. I sink to my knees next to him, lathering the soap in my hands, then taking his, working the suds into his long, bony fingers, massaging in between them, getting the dirt out of his nails. He sits there quietly watching me do this. "Y-y-you're naked." He murmurs. The only reason I'm able to hear him over the perpetual hiss of the storm is because his quivering lips are right next to my ear.

I mutter back into his ear, getting dangerously close to him. "The wet clothes cling to you, make you cold. Trust me, I wouldn't steer you wrong."

"Ah-ah-are...are you gay? Is this a gay thing? 'Cause I've heard you talk about women before, and I never thought you could be..."

"Oh, just shut up and take your damn shirt off, for Chrissakes." I tear the tank top over his head and he gasps in surprise. "I can't believe I'm forcing a grown man to bathe. You're pathetic!" My soaped up hands knead and massage up his arms, over his shoulders and neck. He's breathing heavily, staring at me with big doe-eyes. "I'm your friend, Marlo. Being clean makes people happy. I just want you to be happy."

He swallows hard, putting his head down shamefully. "I am happy. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"Shhh. Just relax." With a grin, I move in back of him, my chest flush against his back, my thighs hugging his. I replenish the lather on my hands and slide up his abs, over his chest, and down his sides. His body softens and leans back into mine. His head lulls back, leaning against my shoulder. It takes every ounce of will I have not to sink my teeth into his neck. Instead, I reach into his lap and undo his pants. He tenses. "Slide them off. I won't make you uncomfortable. You'll see how much nicer it is without clothing." He nods and obediently lifts his ass up a bit to slide off his pants and underwear. We're both naked now, and I'm angled in a way where he can't feel my raging hard-on press up against the small of his back. He takes the soap he's been holding and begins lathering his legs and crotch. My fingers massage his scalp and the back of his neck. He groans in pleasure and arches himself back into me.

"Ohh God, this *does* feel good." He grits his teeth, grinding the back of his head into my chest. "I...I will never doubt you again."

"Good." I purr into his ear. "S'bout time you put that faith to good use." I knead his hair between my palms, getting it all nice, clean and fluffy, then let the rain wash the soap away. My fingertips then massage tight circles around his shoulder blades, down his spinal column and his flanks, moving gradually down to his hips. By now he's putty in my hands. My erection is blatantly pressed up against his back and he doesn't care. He's groaning and panting with long-buried hedonistic abandon, he's soaping up my thighs, reaching back for my waist, and when I feel bold enough to travel from his inner thighs to his groin, to my delight, he's hard as a rock. I soap up the thick, veined shaft, my fingertips caressing the sensitive length, making his pelvis buck against me. He swallows a cry and reaches back, pulling me closer to him by my head.

"Ohhhmigawd!" He gasps. "What have you done to me??"

"Nothing you don't want..." I plant meaningful kisses and nibbles along his jugular as my fist pounds his throbbing meat. His ass rises and arches against my cock.

"No, this...aahhh! aahh! Oh God! This is wrong!"

"Listen to me...this is an act of love, Marlo." My tongue drags over his slippery shoulders in between words. "Your god gave you this body...obeying it's needs isn't a sin."

"Buh-but not with you, you're a man, please!" His voice cracks with strain, but his body is relenting. My free hand lovingly cradles his loaded balls as I work at his shaft. His pelvis bucks against my fist. He needs this, and as much as he protests, he wants it just as much.

My breath is ragged with desire as I moan into his ear, "How long has it been...months? Years? Let me bring you pleasure, love. A man needs to get his rocks off as much as he needs food and drink." My fingers dance just over the head, making him jump and thrash.