One type of whore I haven't yet mentioned is the queen. Queens are male transvestites or transsexuals who dress like women; they are not homosexuals in the strict sense. Some of them dress so garishly that they are obvious even to the squares. Their mincing walk and over exaggeration of what they consider feminine is so outlandish that they couldn't fool anybody. But there are others with the same sex drives and more brains. They shave their legs, tape down their useless cock and balls, wear good falsies or get hormone injections to increase their breast size, dress like regular female whores, and wear the same high-type wigs that their sisterly sisters wear. They apply makeup heavily but not too heavily and modify their motions to a near approximation of a real female. They also work the lower-class bars and hustle on the street.
Those of us who spent any time around the Tenderloin could spot a dragster a block away, but the squares from Podunk and the servicemen got taken again and again. The techniques of their hustling were interesting. Of course, they would always try to blow a John if possible. If the John didn't want to be blown, these "girls" had a way of throwing their legs back and taking pricks up their asses. They had engaged in anal intercourse for years, and regarded their assholes as a normal woman regards her vagina. They would give their trick a story about being in a hurry, or being afraid that a boyfriend might come in, so they wouldn't have to strip- Then they'd take the poor bastard up the bung, and usually he never knew the difference.
Tourists were often taken, too. There's the story about a Cleveland salesman who went into a queen palace, or bar where transsexuals hang out, but he didn't know what kind of place it was. He picked up a girl and took her to a table in the back, where she bled him for a few overpriced drinks. He figured he was going to get his money's worth, and slipped his hand up her nylons. Just as he was going into shock from grabbing balls instead of cunt, the fuzz busted in and raided the joint. Mr. Cleveland was so embarrassed that the cops felt sorry for him and let him go.
There was a fairly high mortality rate among the queens in the Tenderloin. Sooner or later some suspicious John would find them out. Usually the queens just got the shit beaten out of them by an irate customer, but occasionally one would get killed. If the Johns didn't kill them, other queens, jealous over a stolen lover or some imaginary slight, would carve them up. Petty jealousies and irrational thinking were a way of life for the queens. They always made me sad, these poor souls, trapped in a body despicable to them, with their falsetto voices and continual mock-hilarity. On the inside they were so lonely and misunderstood that many of those who weren't murdered committed suicide. Maude, with her high blond wig, purple dresses, and net stockings, looking like a leftover from a macabre Halloween party, was a friend of mine. She was always laughing, always gay and happy, hadn't a care in the world. She was found dead on the floor of her ratty hotel room. Her severed cock and balls were in her hand, and near her was found a note which read simply, "Dearies: I never wanted them anyway."
Many came to the Tenderloin, ostracized from their homes and small towns all over the country, only to end up like Maude.
When I didn't go to Jack's after work, or if I didn't have a gig to blow, I would hustle. It never became a thing with me the way it did with many hustlers. I never counted to see how many tricks I could turn in a night, and I was lucky that most evenings I worked I could make between fifty and eighty dollars, or three to four tricks.
After being blown I would clean my tool and then get some coffee, or drop into the Streets of Paris for a while. In about forty-five minutes I would go to the men's room and try to work up a hard-on. If I was even half successful I would go back out to the street and look for another trick.
At first Bobby and I worked together, but it became increasingly difficult. He was never around when I was, and vice versa. If we ran into each other it would usually be by accident. I found out about other good hustling spots around the Tenderloin, and I used those, also. Further down Market between Third and Fourth in front of another hot-dog stand that had girlie films in back was pretty good. Still lower on Market was a theater that showed risquй movies, and standing in front of it wasn't too bad. The corner of Powell and Geary was very good on weekends, and Union Square was best during the day but dangerous as hell at night, when the freaks came out.
Sometimes I would cut school and work the square, because the Johns up there were mostly married businessmen who had the twenty and wanted to get it over with as quickly as I did.
It wasn't long before I knew every sleazy place in downtown San Francisco where a guy could get sucked off quickly and in comparative safety. There was hardly a glory hole I wasn't familiar with, the restrooms of various garages and restaurants, the backs of several alleys, the movies, the peep shows, the front seats of cars parked on side streets, and on and on.
I became an adept bullshit artist, making up plausible stories to suit what I thought the John wanted to hear. I even developed a number of steady tricks, homosexuals who would come down, and look specifically for me because they had enjoyed blowing me before.
At first it felt good, a nice, warm, soft mouth running up and down my shaft until I blew my load into it. But eventually I found that I was becoming like the call girl who has been around awhile. Over a period of time I got my cock sucked so often that I swear I couldn't feel it anymore; it was like the whore said, shaking hands.
Soon it all became a blur of faceless mouths rooting on my organ, dispassionately sucking out my juice to nourish the holes in their psyches. Day by day I could feel myself becoming harder.
By this time I was wearing Levi's that were washed almost white, and paper-thin. It was as close as I could get to being naked and still remain legal.' I cut a hole in the bottom of my right pocket so that I could, at will, stand on the street and with a few discreet strokes get myself "half-hard and handsome." One night two young men walked up near me. One was about twenty-five, small and effeminate-looking. The other was about forty and was built like a pro-football linebacker. They were eyeing my bulge and talking quickly to each other. The little one carried a small black case that looked like the kind in which custom pool cues are kept. After a few minutes he came over to me.
"Are you for hire?" he asked softly, wasting no time.
"Are either of you police officers?" I countered.
"Goodness, no!" He laughed. "We were wondering if you would do some specialized work for us."
"How special?"
He opened the little pool cue case just enough for me to peek in. It contained a black leather whip, taken apart in sections.
I whispered softly. "Are you two a couple?"
He said that they were.
"Then why don't you do it?" I asked.
"I love him. I don't have the heart anymore," he said simply.
We decided on thirty dollars and I walked with them to their car. The big one was George, the little one was Otis, and I introduced myself as Dick. In the Tenderloin there are no last names.
We drove to a small, brick apartment house on Polk Street. Their pad was on the second floor, with a beautiful view of an alley. Otis was an excellent housewife. The windows were covered with fine, lacy curtains and the sofa had doilies neatly pinned to the arms. Not a bit of dust or dirt was to be found anywhere in the place. They offered me a little glass of cheap wine, which I declined. I had heard too many stories about people being drugged, and made it a point never to take food or drink from a John. Usually I wouldn't go to a John's pad, either, although I made exceptions if I thought it was safe, Otis came close to me, put his arm lovingly around my shoulder, and whispered, "Order him around. Order him to do things for you. He likes to be humiliated before he's whipped."