Exile
 
(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html 

 
Note:  This is my story.  The names and details have been changed to 
protect the privacy of those involved.  Some of this account has been 
reconstructed from memory, but most of it has been based on a journal I 
kept during these years. 
 
This is a sequel to _Wanderings_, which can be found on my asstr.org site:
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/wander/index.html

 

        "When I write, I can shake off all my cares." - Anne Frank


                                  * * *


Chapter One - Memory Protect  (Mf tg teen oral drugs reluc)


November 1981


It was just beginning to snow again when the sedan pulled up to the 
curb.  The window rolled down with an electric moan, and even across the 
sidewalk I could feel the heater.  The driver looked over and beckoned 
me with a tilt of the head, but I had already started crossing the 
sidewalk.  I knew why he'd pulled over.

"Got the time?" I asked him as I leaned through the window.  I'd been 
standing in the cold for nearly an hour; I would have done him for just 
ten minutes in his overheated car.

"Yeah," he said, taking a closer look at me.  The electric door latch 
unlocked with a thump and I climbed into the passenger seat.  I got a 
brief glimpse of him when I opened the door: fiftyish, balding, 
overweight, but with a neatly trimmed beard and wearing a nice suit.  
The car smelled of cologne and cigarettes, not at all unpleasant 
compared to some of the cars I'd been in over the past few months.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"How old do you think I am?"

"Sixteen?"

"Yup," I said.  I was really fourteen, but I'd learned the customer was 
always right.

He grunted, sort of a cross between a "huh" and a clearing of the 
throat, and then shifted in his seat.  I knew the next thing out of his 
mouth would be "I've got a daughter your age".

"I've got a daughter your age," he said.  The look in his eyes said that 
this was worth at least an extra $25, even for a hand job.

"Drive," I said.  "Cops're gonna be along any second."

He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.

"Where?" he said.

"What do you want?"  I knew plenty of quiet alleys and parking lots, 
good enough for a BJ or a quick jack, but if he wanted anything more 
we'd have to go to the rooming house on Chandler Street.  I had a deal 
with the owner there.

"Just um...just a...," he stammered.

"Head?"

"Yeah."

"Sixty.  Up front."

"Okay," he said.

"Take the next right, then a left on Thayer Street.  There's a parking 
lot on the left, about halfway down the block."

Five minutes later we pulled into the unpaved lot, shielded from the 
brooding row of lofts by a van.  Over the purr of the car's engine I 
could hear a band rehearsing somewhere.

"Here," he said, pulling three $20 bills from his wallet.

"Push the seat back," I said.  He reached down between the seat and the 
door and toggled an unseen switch.  The front seat eased away from the 
dashboard with an electric whine.

"What's your name?" he asked as he undid his belt and trousers.

"Lita," I said, lying.  My friend Cami told me never to use my own name.  
I'd chosen the name of a guitar player I liked, Lita Ford from the 
Runaways.

"Rita?"

"No, Lita."

"Lolita?"

"Close enough," I said, reaching between his legs to fish his penis out 
of his boxer shorts.  As I kneaded his half-erection he cupped my 
breasts through my sweater, gently squeezing them.  It was a gesture 
purely for his own benefit; I felt his cock growing in my fingers as he 
fondled my tits.  When he was hard I leaned over into his lap and took 
him in my mouth.  He smelled a bit funky -- sweaty, musky, a middle-aged 
man's smell -- but I'd smelled worse.  His cock tasted faintly of urine 
but, again, I'd tasted worse.  As I began to suck him I felt his hand 
roaming under my skirt, coming to rest on my bottom.

"Suck me," he muttered under his breath, "Suck it.  Suck that cock, 
baby.  Yeah, suck me..."  He was a Talker.  Some Talkers gave me the 
creeps, especially when they'd start to pretend I was someone they knew, 
a friend or co-worker for instance.  I'd wonder what movie was playing 
inside their heads.  A snuff film, perhaps?

But most Talkers were benign, content to spin their little narrative 
while I serviced them, muttering a play-by-play they could recall later 
while they furtively jerked off in the office or at home.  Nearly half 
the men I'd pleasured had been Talkers to some degree, from those who'd 
repeat "Aw, yeah" incessantly to men who referred to "that cock" and 
"those balls" with such detachment that it seemed as if their genitals 
were entities separate from their bodies.

This guy was somewhere in the middle of the spectrum, grunting and 
sighing when I bathed his cock with my tongue, and repeating "suck me" 
while my head bobbed in his lap.  His penis was circumcised, stubby and 
thick, with a hard shaft and spongy head that barely reached the back of 
my throat.

The squeaking of the seat springs began to get louder; I knew he was 
getting close.  His hand was now inside my panties, cupping my ass, and 
his monologue had tapered off into heavy breathing punctuated by the 
occasional "suck".  As I briskly sucked him I could feel his thighs 
tensing and relaxing through his trousers, his belly heaving, his penis 
twitching in my mouth.  Suddenly he groaned and tightened his grip on my 
ass as the first spurt of semen shot from his cock.  It was cloyingly 
sweet, something I hadn't expected, but there was no way I could spit it 
out.  I choked back his second and third spurt, swallowing hard.  He 
relaxed, sinking back into the car seat and releasing his grip on my ass 
as he let out a deep breath.

I released his softening penis from my mouth and sat up, brushing a 
strand of blonde hair from my face.  Flipping down the visor, I checked 
my makeup in the vanity mirror.  

"Cigarette?"  He flipped open the pack and offered me one.

"Thanks."  I finished reapplying my lipstick and took a cigarette, 
letting him light it for me.

"Can I give you a lift back downtown?"

"No thanks.  Just drop me at the corner."


                                  * * *


The hiss of steam heat and the smell of boiled cabbage greeted me as I 
walked into the foyer.  I trudged down the flight of stairs that led to 
the basement and let myself into the apartment.  The smell of gumbo 
simmering on the stove overpowered the neighbor's cabbage.  I shrugged 
off my coat and hung it up in the closet.

Cami was stretched out on the living room couch, gazing at the 
television from under hooded eyes, half of an unlit joint in her hand.  
When she saw me come in she folded her legs, making room for me on the 
couch.

"Delia's sleeping," she said, bringing the joint to her lips and 
fumbling with a pack of matches.

"She working tonight?" I asked, fishing in my bag for my lighter.  I 
handed it to her, tugging at her legs and pulling them on to my lap.  
She was wearing a short yellow silk kimono that set off her milk 
chocolate complexion.

"Two shows," Cami replied, passing the joint.  "You have dinner yet?"

"Nothing but coffee and cum since breakfast."

"Dee made gumbo."

"I know.  Smells good."  I passed the joint back to her and kicked off 
my boots, exhaling a cloud of pot smoke that glowed blue in the light of 
the television.  I settled back into the plush cushions of the old 
couch, absentmindedly caressing Cami's smooth legs.  She must have just 
shaved and moisturized; her skin felt as smooth as her silk kimono.

"Mmmm...that feels good, Annie," she whispered.  I leaned over and laid 
my head on her hip as my caresses progressed up her thigh.  As Cami 
began to gently stroke my hair, I parted her kimono and exposed her 
beautiful cock, half-hard and freshly shaved.  I pursed my lips and 
lightly blew on it, making it stir and twitch between her shapely 
thighs.  Cami had only been on hormones for a few months; her cock and 
balls hadn't atrophied like Delia's.  And unlike Delia, who looked to be 
between thirty and fifty depending on her makeup, Cami was sixteen.  
Despite her delicate facial features and budding breasts, she still had 
a teenaged boy's libido.  Erect early, erect often.

And erect she was.  She softly sighed as I parted my lips and let her 
cock enter my mouth.  Cami tasted clean, a trace of soap and skin cream 
on her shaft.  Unlike the previous nine blowjobs I'd given that day, six 
in cars, two in the hallways of buildings, and one in an alley, this one 
was done slowly, carefully, lovingly.  

Cami parted her legs slightly, letting me roll over on my belly between 
them.  Propping myself up on my elbows, I held her shaft with one hand 
and her balls with the other, guiding her spear back between my lips.  
Cami began to slowly rock her hips in time with the motion of my head 
between her legs.  Her hardness tensed and her balls twitched every time 
I swirled my tongue over her shaft.  I looked up and watched her hooded 
eyes begin to close and her expression begin to slacken as whatever 
pills she took before I got home began to take effect.  I sucked her 
faster, hoping to make her come before she passed out.

Cami's eyes opened again and she smiled at me as she tugged at my 
shoulder, pulling me up from between her legs.  I released her 
glistening cock, letting it flop against her thigh.  Cami reached for 
the zipper in back of my skirt, pulling it down.  I wriggled my hips, 
letting the skirt fall around my knees before stepping out of it.  
Skinning off my panties, I knelt over Cami's reclining form, reaching 
for her hardness and guiding it inside me.

As I drew Cami's cock inside me I could hear Delia waking from her nap, 
padding from her bedroom to the bathroom.  The door closed as I pulled 
my sweater over my head, water running while Cami fumbled with the clasp 
of my ratty old bra, toilet flushing as Cami's hands found my breasts, 
fingers pinching my nipples as our hips ground together and apart.  As 
our pace grew faster I could hear the bathroom door open again, Delia's 
footsteps getting closer, each step out of time with our thrusts.

"Don't be staining my couch, girlie" Delia said, throwing a towel 
between me and Cami.  She stood next to us, her long red silk robe tied 
loosely at the waist with a thin sash.

"No, ma'am," Cami said.  She stopped thrusting inside me and lifted her 
hips from the couch, sliding the towel under her ass before falling back 
into the cushions.  She resumed her rhythm, our hips rocking against 
each other.  I leaned over and kissed her, first on her forehead, then 
on her nose, then on her full lips, teasing her tongue out with my own.  
I could hear Delia pawing through my purse.

"It's in my coat, Delia," I said, breaking off my kiss.  "The money's in 
my coat."

"Uh huh," she muttered, padding off to the closet to get my coat.  She 
returned with it a moment later and set herself down in one of the 
overstuffed chairs next to the couch, watching us fuck while she 
rummaged through my pockets.  She pulled out the wad of cash and counted 
it as I turned my attention back to Cami, who was suckling my breasts, 
lightly biting my nipples while I rode her hardness.

"You need a new bra," Delia said, peeling a few bills off of the cash 
I'd brought home and placing them on the coffee table.  Her robe opened 
slightly when she stuffed the rest of the money in the pocket, revealing 
her half-hard penis and small, hairless balls.  As I leaned over and 
kissed her smooth ebony belly, Delia opened her robe a bit more, her 
cock stirring slightly as I gently kissed it.  I took her in my mouth as 
I rode Cami's hardness, feeling her expand slightly but never really get 
as stiff as the cock I had mounted.  Delia sighed and stroked my hair as 
I sucked her.

This wasn't going to be one of those rare occasions when I could make 
Delia come, filling my mouth with her thin semen despite her years of 
hormone treatments.  That didn't mean that she couldn't enjoy my 
blowjobs, though.  I had the feeling that this was the reason she let me 
stay with her and Cami, besides the money I brought home and the meals I 
sometimes cooked.  Every so often I'd manage to suck her just right, to 
make her body shake, to make her come.  Afterwards she'd hold me in her 
arms and rock me like a baby until we fell asleep.

This wasn't going to be one of those times.  Cami was close to coming; I 
could feel her stiffen inside me, her hips rising off the couch and 
lifting me up as she buried herself inside me.  A particularly deep 
stroke began to set me off, making me release Delia's penis with a sharp 
gasp.  She stepped back and began to stroke her glistening spear as she 
watched us fuck on her couch.

"Coming," Cami gasped, her cock throbbing inside me, pulsing as a warm 
feeling spread through my pussy.  She grabbed my cheeks and pulled me 
against her hips, our rhythm slowing and finally stopping.  I was close 
to coming and I rocked my hips a few times in an effort to feel the 
friction of Cami's softening shaft against my clit.

"Finish me," I whispered in her ear.  I didn't need to say it; Cami 
loved to lick her own cream from my sloppy sex.  Delia watched as we 
changed positions, making sure we didn't stain the precious upholstery 
on her thirty-year-old couch.  Cami was careful to keep the towel under 
my dripping pussy as she laid me back on the couch and ducked her head 
between my thighs.  I wondered if I'd come before the pills kicked in; 
more than once Cami had passed out while we'd made love.  This time she 
managed to stay awake, licking me clean and lashing my clit until I 
came.  I tugged on her shoulder to let her know I'd had enough.  Cami 
looked up at me and smiled, her eyelids heavy and half-closed.

As Delia padded back to her bedroom to get dressed and Cami lay back on 
the couch to doze off, I headed to the bathroom and filled the tub with 
hot water and bath oil.  A few minutes later I was stretched out in the 
old cast iron tub, letting the warm water chase the lingering chill from 
my bones, a chill from another day spent on the street sucking and 
fucking strangers for money.

It seemed as if every moment I spent alone I'd begin to yearn for the 
life I had lost: the house in Maine, Ramon and the boys, and Julia, dear 
Julia.  It had been not quite a year but it seemed like a decade ago.  
As always, my eyes began to well up with tears.  I reached for a 
washcloth and daubed them away.


                                  * * *


December 1980


Despite all my fears and worries about Ramon, Del, and Paco heading out 
on to the stormy Gulf of Maine in the fishing boat, it was actually a 
highway accident that took them away from me, a collision with a 
tractor-trailer carrying a load of timber.  Ramon and Del were killed 
instantly.  Paco, who was riding in the back of the van, bled to death 
before the ambulance could arrive.  Less than an hour after the funeral, 
I was in the custody of the Maine Bureau of Child and Family Services.

I was placed in a foster home in Portland, sharing a room with Denise, a 
sixteen-year-old chain smoking heroin addict who stole whatever she 
could from me, even clothes that had no chance of ever fitting her.  Our 
foster parents were a crusty old couple in their sixties; he was retired 
from the paper mill and drank all the time.  His wife cleaned houses 
part of the time and looked after us the rest.  Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard 
lived off of the money they received from the state for looking after 
six foster kids crammed into three tiny bedrooms.

I thought I'd only spend a couple of weeks here, as Julia was 
petitioning the state to have me released into her custody.  Numb from 
the sudden loss of my papi and stepbrothers, living with Julia was all 
that I had to look forward to.  But that couple of weeks stretched into 
a month and more, and on a blustery day the week before Christmas, I 
received news from a social worker that Julia had suffered a sudden 
stroke.

Julia's family came up to arrange for her care.  Whether they were aware 
of our relationship or not, I do not know.  Either way, I was shunned, 
and not allowed to visit Julia in the hospital.  She passed away three 
weeks later.  I never had a chance to see her or tell her how much I 
loved her.


                                  * * *


Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, they did.  Mr. Hubbard 
began to take a special interest in me.  It started with the occasional 
grope in the close confines of the kitchen, escalating to a forced kiss 
in the upstairs bathroom.  His breath was foul from Lucky Strikes and 
cheap whiskey, and the grey stubble on his face was painfully scratchy.  
I could feel him press his half-hard cock against my thigh as he groped 
me and slobbered on my lips.  The sound of footsteps in the hall forced 
him to break off his clumsy embrace.  Mr. Hubbard left the bathroom in a 
hurry.

The next night he did it again, cornering me in the bathroom and groping 
me.  When he tried to part my lips with his foul tongue, I pushed him 
away as hard as I could.  Mr. Hubbard was much stronger than me, and he 
kept me in his grip, forcing his knee between my thighs.  I tried to 
squirm away but he wrestled me to the tile floor, pinning me against a 
threadbare bathmat with his body.

"Wassa matter?  You a virgin?" he hissed.  I just nodded, wishing he 
would go away.  His grip relaxed and he slowly eased off of me.  He drew 
up to his knees and unzipped his trousers, fishing his cock from his 
torn boxer shorts.  His half-limp penis dangled from a nest of grey 
pubes.

"I'll get that cherry later.  Right now you gonna suck it, Amy," he 
said.

"Annie."  He didn't even know my name.

"What?"

"My name is Annie," I said.

"Who cares."  He put his hands on his hips.  His gnarly pink worm 
stirred.  I sat up and leaned into his crotch, taking his cock in my 
hands and drawing back the foreskin.  There was a rank, musty smell 
coming from his boxers, but I just held my breath as I took him into my 
mouth.  He hardened quickly.

I began to suck him, mechanically, efficiently, trying to perform the 
act as quickly as possible.  Mr. Hubbard unbelted his pants and let them 
fall around his knees.  His hips began to move to my rhythm, forcing his 
cock deeper into my mouth.  It was neither long nor thick, but it had a 
fat, bulbous head that dribbled thin drops of precum.

"Take your hand off it," he whispered.  I'd been stroking his shaft, 
sliding his foreskin back and forth.  I did that to make him come 
faster, but it also kept him from going too deep.  Reluctantly, I 
loosened my grip on his cock and he brushed my hand away.  Mr. Hubbard 
grabbed the back of my head and began to force his penis down my throat.  
His fat cockhead battered the back of my mouth, cutting off my breathing 
and triggering my gag reflex.  I nearly bit him as I began to retch, 
forcing him to withdraw momentarily.  

As I was catching my breath, I felt something in Mr. Hubbard's loosened 
trousers, something square, something familiar.  As I leaned back into 
his crotch and let him fuck my face again, my fingers slowly probed for 
the pocket.  Looking up, I saw his eyes were closed, his breathing 
heavy, his thoughts were elsewhere.  My fingers suddenly found the 
object in his pants: a wad of cash.  Keeping my eyes on his slackened 
face, and trying desperately not to gag, I slowly eased the money from 
his pocket and slipped it under the edge of the bathmat.

Mr. Hubbard opened his eyes and looked down, a crooked smile forming on 
his thin lips.  His creaking hips began to speed up and I felt his cock 
begin to twitch in my mouth.  Even so, the first spurts of his semen 
caught me by surprise, a bitter, thin liquid hitting the back of my 
throat.  I suppressed the urge to retch and spit it out, fearing his 
reaction.  I honestly thought that I wasn't going to leave that bathroom 
alive, that he'd strangle me or drown me in the tub.  Choking down his 
thin seed, I went limp on the floor.

Mr. Hubbard stuffed his flaccid cock back into his shorts and pulled up 
his trousers.  Without a word, he stood up and left.  I leaned over the 
sink, rinsing out my mouth for a few minutes before reaching under the 
bathmat for the money.  I looked at the roll of bills; mostly tens and 
twenties, maybe a couple of hundred bucks.  I wondered when he'd realize 
it was missing.

I left the bathroom, hiding the wad in my towel, and returned to my 
room.  Fortunately, Denise wasn't there.  I counted the money, $352, and 
hid it in the only secret place I had, behind the dusty old radiator 
next to my bed.  Setting my face into an expressionless mask, I went 
down to the kitchen for something to drink.  Rinsing with water hadn't 
helped, and I needed to get the taste of Mr. Hubbard's bitter spunk out 
of my mouth.  He was down there, sitting at the table, watching Mrs. 
Hubbard wash dishes while he drank his whiskey.  He didn't even look up 
at me; he just sat there, hunched over his ashtray and his glass.

I had already made my mind up to run away, somewhere, anywhere.  There 
was a problem, though.  Mr. Hubbard's perch in the kitchen gave him a 
good view of the front door, and the only other way out of the house was 
through the basement.  But the stairs to the basement ran from that very 
kitchen.  My only hope was to wait until they went to sleep, but Mr. 
Hubbard regularly stayed up late, watching television from under a haze 
of cigarette smoke.  By the time he went to bed, I'd be virtually locked 
in my bedroom with Denise.  Back in my room, I stuffed some clothes into 
a grocery bag and hid the bundle under my bed.

By the time "lights out" rolled around, Denise was already asleep.  I 
lay in bed fully clothed, with the covers pulled up to my neck, 
listening for Mr. Hubbard's footsteps on the creaky stairs.  After 
hearing his bedroom door close, I waited fifteen minutes before easing 
out of bed.  I retrieved the cash from its hiding place and pulled my 
bag of clothes from under the bed.  Denise was quietly snoring as I 
sneaked out of the room, across the hall, and down the stairs.  The 
house was eerily quiet and dark as I left it for the last time.

I walked for nearly an hour in a light snow, heading for the bus 
station.  Portland was deserted.  Even the bars were closed.  The bus 
station was empty except for a janitor mopping the floor.  He looked up 
at me for a moment and went back to his task.  There was no one at the 
ticket counter, just a sign that read "Open at 6AM".  That was three 
hours away.  

I grabbed a bus schedule and ducked into the ladies room.  In the 
privacy of a stall, I read the schedule.  The first bus wasn't until 
6:15, and that one went to Bangor.  I'd never been there and I didn't 
know anyone in Bangor.  There was a 6:30 bus to Boston, though.  I'd 
been there a few times with Julia.  I tried to remember where Margaret's 
mother's shop was located.  It wasn't too far from that hotel Julia 
liked, but I didn't know exactly where that was, either.  It seemed so 
long ago.  I closed my eyes and leaned against the side of the stall, 
trying to get a little sleep.

The sound of the bathroom door opening woke me up.  I grabbed my bag and 
hustled out of the stall, surprising the janitor as he wiped the sink.  
It was just after six, and the ticket counter was already open.  A 
middle-aged woman sat behind it, sipping coffee.  I bought a ticket to 
Boston and went to wait for the bus among the rows of plastic seats.


                                  * * *


Boston was like I'd never seen it before, shrouded in snow, shadowy in 
the light of a weak grey dawn.  The bus creeped through the slick 
streets, stuck in the morning traffic.  By the time we reached the 
Greyhound station, I'd remembered the name of the hotel and found it on 
a map in the bus station.  Ritz-Carlton.  It wasn't too far, just a 
couple of blocks away.  I walked there, partly to get my bearings, 
partly because I wanted to see it once more.  Julia and I had made love 
there; it seemed like a sacred place to me.

Standing in front of the Ritz, I looked across the park towards Beacon 
Hill.  Julia and I once went to dine at the home of some friends of hers 
who lived there, the Cabots.  In started walking in the other direction, 
crossing the sunken highway and into a neighborhood of brownstones and 
storefronts.  Just past the police station I entered a familiar block, a 
row of brick buildings with stores just below street level.  My heart 
leaped when I saw the sign for Shelly's store, in the middle of the 
block.

The windows were covered in taped-up newspaper.  A "closed" sign hung in 
the door.  I looked through the window where a corner of paper had 
curled back.  The store was empty except for the counters, also empty 
but for a single paper cup of coffee, half-full.  My heart sank.

I sat in a donut shop for the next hour, picking at a muffin and trying 
to resist the urge to cry.  Running away seemed like a bad idea now, and 
I mulled over whether I should go back to the foster home.  I could just 
take a bus back that day and Mr. Hubbard would probably never notice I'd 
been gone.  Then I remembered the bitter taste of his cum.  I took a 
gulp of coffee to wash down the memory.

I walked back to the hotel and then down the long street next to it, 
where Julia and I had lunched and gone shopping.  I stopped at every 
store on Newbury Street, looking in each window and lingering over the 
ones where Julia and I had been.  Walking down one side and back up the 
other, I  arrived back at the Ritz just as people began to leave work 
for the day.

I followed a throng of well-dressed men and women and over to Beacon 
Hill and spent the next hour looking for the Cabots' home.  A servant 
answered the door and told me that the Cabots were out of town for the 
winter.  She closed the door in my face and I began to walk back to the 
bus station.  There was a fast food place next to the station, so I 
bought a burger and tried to figure out what to do.

I couldn't remember where Brad's house was; all I knew was that it had 
been about a half hour away by car.  Nor could I remember the name of 
that law firm Julia had used, the one that was handling the petition for 
guardianship.   After eating, I checked the bus schedule.  The last one 
back to Maine was at 11:30 PM.  I put my clothes in a locker and headed 
back out to the street, wandering through Back Bay.  I found the big old 
library and went inside, finding a quiet, warm corner where I could cry.

I must have dozed off for a couple of hours, waking up to the sound of 
someone clearing his throat.  A bearded young man in a tweed suit leaned 
over and shook my shoulder.

"You can't sleep here," he said.

"Okay.  I'll go."

"You can stay if you like, you just can't sleep," the man said.  He had 
a concerned expression.

"Oh.  okay."

"Is there anything I can do for you?  You look lost."

"No, I'm all right.  I'm supposed to meet someone," I said.

"We close in an hour.  You're welcome to stay until then," he said.  He 
straightened up and left, pushing a cart of books down one of the rows 
of shelves.

I left a few minutes later.  It was almost ten at night and I started 
walking back to the bus station.  I made up my mind to take the last bus 
back.

As I rounded a corner near the station, I noticed that the streets were 
empty except for a few women standing here and there, smoking cigarettes 
and beckoning to passing cars.  As I approached the station, one of the 
cars slowed down and pulled over to the curb near me.  An electric 
window rolled down and a man called out to me from inside the car.  I 
stopped and turned, not quite hearing what he was saying.

"Excuse me?"

"I said 'What's up?'," the driver barked.  He was heavy-set, middle 
aged, and balding.

"Nothing," I replied.

"Wanna take a ride?"  I shook my head and continued walking as he drove 
off, slowly cruising the remainder of the block.

"Fuck you, bitch."  A bleach-blonde woman with a sharp nose was suddenly 
in my face.  She wore a white leather jacket, short red skirt, fishnets, 
and boots.

"What?"

"Fuck you.  This is my street.  You don't fucking work my street, you 
fucking cunt."  She punctuated this with a pop of her chewing gum.

"I'm not working," I said, still unclear about what was happening here.

"Don't fucking lie to me, cunt," she hissed, shoving me with both hands.  
I fell back to the sidewalk.  "I'll fucking cut you."

As she reached into her pocket I hurried to my feet and ran, tears 
streaming down my cheeks.  I kept going, block after block, all the way 
back to where Shelly's store had been.  I ran down the steps and hid, 
hoping that I hadn't been chased, wishing that the store was still here, 
that any minute now Shelly and Margaret would open that door and invite 
me inside with a hug and a nice hot cup of tea.

I'd scraped my knee getting off the sidewalk back at the bus station.  
It began to sting, and I noticed that my tights were torn and my knee 
was a little bloody.  I was pretty sure that I hadn't been followed all 
the way here.  The problem was getting back to the station for the last 
bus to Portland.  That prostitute -- I realized what had happened there 
and how she thought I was working her turf -- would probably still be 
there.  I didn't want another confrontation.

I spent some time in another donut shop; they seemed to be everywhere in 
Boston.  The manager kicked me out after an hour, so I wandered the 
streets again.  Even in this neighborhood there were women and young men 
on certain corners, soliciting passing motorists and sometimes driving 
off with them.  I steered clear of these streets.

There was a row of old mill buildings by an elevated highway.  A few had 
lights on upstairs, not the fluorescence of a factory floor but the warm 
incandescent glow of someone's home.  A door opened and I could hear 
footsteps and conversation, laughter mingling with the muffled sound of 
a band playing inside the building.  A couple of people milled around on 
the sidewalk for a minute and then drove off in a cargo van.

They'd left the door ajar, so I went inside.  There was a large tin-clad 
door with a heavy padlock and a sign that read "Wu Fong Specialties".  I 
walked up a long flight of stairs, following the sound of the band.  It 
came from behind another heavy door, this one painted plain black.  The 
music stopped and I heard a lock turning.  As the door opened, I ran to 
the end of the hall and ducked into a small bathroom and locked myself 
in.  It was a tiny space with a toilet and a sink, lit by a small bulb 
hanging from the tall ceiling.

Someone rattled the doorknob and I cleared my throat.  "Sorry," came a 
voice from the other side of the door.  After I caught my breath, I took 
off my torn tights and daubed at my scraped knee with a wet paper towel.  
It wasn't a bad bruise, but I was more upset over my ruined tights.  
They were keeping me warm.

I wanted to spend the night here.  It was warm and safe, but the toilet 
seat was broken and I wouldn't be able to sleep like I had in the 
Portland bus station.  The floor was disgusting, but a double layer of 
paper towels made it nearly habitable.  I bunched up my coat for a 
pillow and fell asleep.

 
                                  * * * 

 
(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html