SEXIS WRONG

Close Contact
Preston Peet
“Need a ride?”
The first time I’d heard this from a passing car, I’d been mortified,
letting the driver know in no uncertain terms that no, I
did not want a ride and to get the hell away from me. As soon
as the driver had pulled away, though, I regretted my quick
response. Having smoked the last of my cash buying crack
cocaine, I couldn’t believe I’d just turned down what promised
to be very easy money. At that point I’d not ever sold
my body for cash to buy drugs, but from that moment on, I
was on the lookout with the idea bouncing around in my head
until I finally landed on Palm Avenue, downtown Sarasota,
Florida’s cruise strip, landing a ride in short order.
From that night forward I’ve hustled in every city I’ve lived in,
both for drugs and simply for cash when on the streets trying
to figure out where I was going next. I tried in Tampa but never
had any luck, and Orlando was only slightly better. Atlanta,
while not as dry as some places, was the only place I’ve ever
been arrested on the prowl for a ride, garnering myself a misdemeanor
civil disobedience charge for not leaving the area
fast enough after some undercover cops told me to.
By the time I hit Amsterdam, I was busking for my cash,
but in the midst of such a cold, brutal winter, it was hard,
hampering my ability to make cash standing, playing guitar
on the streets, what with all that ice and snow everywhere.
Therefore, I did occasionally take the offer of a warm bed,
companionship, and some easy cash. In London I’d stayed
away from the hustling angle, managing to do pretty well just
playing guitar and singing, but now in NYC and completely
strung out, without a guitar, it was inevitable that I’d take the
offers when they’d sometimes come.
“I know how to make some money,” Sean leers at me as we
sit in Tompkins Square Park by the kids’ pool, regarding our
now empty cookers and rigs.
“Oh, yeah? How’s that?” I need my drugs and am willing to
try almost any scam to obtain more.
“I know a guy who lives up on 14 th Street, who’ll pay to give
you a blowjob and pay me for bringing you over there.”
At first I hesitate, not having turned a trick for over a year, but
completely without drugs, it doesn’t take me long to agree
to it.
After stopping at a payphone to make sure Jonathan is in and
open to a visit, we walk to the West Side, meeting up with
him outside a deli at the corner of 5 th Avenue and 14 th Street.
Exchanging pleasantries, Sean introduces us, then Jonathan
withdraws money from the ATM inside the deli. Sean takes a
couple of proffered bills and leaves. Jonathan leads me in and
up the elevator to his swanky sixteenth-floor apartment.
At this point I really only want to get this over with, whatever
it entails. I want my cash so I can hit the road. I’m jonesing
pretty hard for more cocaine and will need more heroin soon,
as well, not having had more than a bag all night. But Jonathan
is in no hurry. Unlocking his door, he holds it open, waving
me into the air-conditioned interior. As hot and humid as
the spring air is outside, I don’t pay much attention, still thinking
mainly of the next shot to come.
“What would you like to drink?” Jonathan walks to the bar
set up by the windows, through which there’s an incredible
view of downtown Manhattan, the World Trade Center towering
over it all.
“How ’bout a whisky?” I’m beginning to suspect this might
CLOSE CONTACT 217