Page 157 - Stand by Your Man

How Buddy Left Me 145

Crow, one of the City’s oldest hustler bars.
Parked in the pickup, curbside on Market Street, Buddy
watched the foot traffic ebb and flow propelled by drugs and cash
and sex and cash. The male hustlers, hardly older than he was,
looked dirty, almost as thin as street people, especially with their
trashier young peroxide bitches in tow. He didn’t feel superior to
them, he told me. He felt different from them. He retreated to more
subtle ways in more casual places: movie theaters, legit bookstores,
Golden Gate Park, the rocky woods at Land’s End.
Sex was everywhere.
Always the scene was the same. Buddy never mentioned money.
He merely smiled that killer smile of his, exposing the appealing
gap between his two front teeth. Grown men melted. Here they had
this kid, this guy, this man who looked like he wouldn’t go with
anybody but God himself, and he was with them. They were very
big on tipping Buddy generously. If lightning could strike once,
maybe it could strike again. “See ya around, Buddy....OK?” Even
Johns, who were so tight they squeaked, out shopping for cheap
tricks, often and gladly doubled the going rate, at their own insis-
tence, for the fifteen minutes or fifteen hours spent in the pleasure
of Buddy’s company.
Naturally, everyone thought Buddy was a hustler, because
men paid him money for his body. But the truth was the men,
themselves faithless husbands and closeted fathers and gay cologne
queens, were the real hustlers. They hustled Buddy. His Sistine body
was worth more than their US Mint money.
The Johns flashed their cold cash. They asked him to give them
attitude. They begged him to flex his hard biceps. They implored
him to let them peel his foreskin back and chow down on his hard
cock. They beseeched him to set the twin cupcakes of his butt down
on glass coffee tables, while they lay underneath on their backs in
a sprawl of magazines, beating their meat, raising their faces to
tongue the hot glass pressed against his blond asshole.
The Johns knew what they wanted and they ordered ala carte.
Forty bucks for generic openers. Ten bucks more for this specialty
act. Twenty bucks more for that. Without even trying, Buddy,

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