New York Nights

         New York nights are cold. Well, at least, in November they are.

         Jeans and a t-shirt are not the most suitable things to dressed in, in this cold. That’s what he’s wearing though. He shivers, his flesh pimpled and red from the chill circling the city streets like a pack of starving wolves, picking off the weak as they wander aimlessly, and praying on those that dare to fall asleep in alleys and on park benches. Jensen is anything but weak. He has survived a lot. The same could be said of most of New York city’s back alley residents.

         Cars drive slowly by. None stop. He doesn’t expect it by now. The cold weather keeps a lot of the clients away these days; it’ll only get worse once winter sets in. Clients are slim, preferring to hit the clubs and pick up a trick or two there then come scouting the side streets and back alleys for a nice piece of ass, and there is an overabundance of competition for what little clientele there is out here. The ugly die quick out here. Jensen is lucky. He is pretty enough that he has gained enough regulars to get him through the colder months.

         A cop car cruises by, but doesn’t stop, too used to the sight of young men and women prowling the night streets.

         He peers down at his watch; a cheap gaudy trinket, easily replaced, like almost everything he owns. He finds the digital screen set at just six minutes past three in the morning. Time to turn in. He drags his fingers through his hair briefly in frustration. Two clients, two blowjobs, fifty bucks. It’s been a waste of a night. He thinks of home; not his crappy second floor apartment a couple of blocks from here, but his real home. The warmth, the comfort captured in time in his memory, preserved forever; even if such a place didn’t exist, never existed. In a month, he turns 19. He will have been hooking for close to three years. He’s tried to get legit jobs, but offers are few and far between for an under-aged hooker with a record.

         He would like to leave New York. Start over. Tried it once too. Got all the way to the edge of the city and found he couldn’t take a step further. Like in a time loop, he was trapped here; he knew no other place, no other way to live.

         He shivers and his breath plumes out before him in a smoky cloud. His feet are numb, scuffed up sneakers not providing nearly enough protection from the shivery cold of a New York night. He stumbles and trips, finding his balance with some difficulty.

         There are men approaching from the other direction, no, ot just men he sees now, women too; obviously just off the club scene. Leather pants, short skirts and way too much make-up. They slow when they notice Jensen, pointing, whispering, giggling. He ignores them, tries to brush past them. One stops him with a heavy hand on his shoulder, spinning him around to face their crowd. They look about his age, he notices now, a little older if he were to guess and he can tell immediately that they are smashed, every one of them. The stench of alcohol on their breath is fetid.

         They try to speak to him but Jensen can’t quite understand them between their drunken slurs and strange accents. He tries to pull himself from their grip but he can’t, he’s malnourished and just plain exhausted, not to mention half frozen, he couldn’t have put up a good fight if he tried. The man with his hand on his shoulder has only to tighten his grip and Jensen is whimpering in pain. He doesn’t know what these people want with him, three men, four women and not a one looks interested in Jensen’s line of work.

         They’re talking again and he can almost understand. They think he was staring at them; they are drunk, unreasonable, and they want any money he has on him, He only has what he made tonight and that’s not much. If he doesn’t get three hundred by the end of the week, he’ll be evicted, again, for the third time in as many months. He needs this money. So he does the worst thing a whore can do. He lies. He tells them he has nothing.

         They find the fifty bucks. It’s not much, barely worth their time, especially if it’s to be split between them. They don’t care, can’t care.

         By the time they’re done beating him his watch is telling him it’s three forty six. He can’t move. Can’t take a full breath. They must have broken something in him when they started kicking him. Jensen closes his eyes.

         It’s still cold. His blood is warm as it hits the pavement when he moves, cooling almost instantly. It’s making everything nice and numb though. Jensen isn’t sure he’ll be able to make it back to his apartment tonight. He closes his eyes, curled up in pain and numbness on the sidewalk. He’ll sleep, just a little. He’ll try to get up later but for now he is just too tired.

         Nights in New York you see, take a lot out of person.