Prostitutes and Keyholes

Dedicated to my friend and mentor Philip F. Deaver and Angelic Edwards

This story contains heartfelt, deep, important, but adult content. Please feel welcome to click to read more.

“In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,” said Michael. “It’s been a week since my last confession and these are my sins,” he said, questioning himself. “What have I done that was so bad? I wasn’t going to confess my working around prostitutes, or looking through keyholes. Even more so, I was to never confess being with a girl that I had fucked.”

In 1968, the red-light district was several blocks from DuPont Circle in the Nation’s Capital; he recalled seeing downtown from the park. The business district with its white world, which was not familiar to him. The world was harsh with the reality of needing—not just wanting, but needing—to engage in sexual pleasure. Young, hungry, and lustful eyes darted back and forth, up and down, avoiding eye contact. No longer was he with his peers that he knew. He observed girls with their underdeveloped legs and nipples hidden by their blouses. Hookers, on the other hand, were fully developed adult women. They wore short shorts that revealed their well-developed bodies. The shorts exposed their tight, muscular thighs and the fullness of their asses. Their breastswere full and their nipples protruded through bra-less tops. He could not help but notice everything about their bodies. Their scars were not the scars of the girls he knew. These adult scars were not gentle, but to him they were hard. Still, he could not help but be aware of their faces for a brief second.

Street life taught many lessons and one lesson was not to make eye contact. The catch was to observe everything without being noticed that you are aware of every little detail. A quick glace and all the information was stored in his young mind. Frightened by their appearance, he tried to hide that he feared them through his body, emotion, and most of all his eyes. Whilehe seemed to be invisible to them he wondered if he was safe being around them. He felt undistinguishable: just another part of the decoration. To him they had no sense of warmth or any type of emotions, nothing that could expose their gentleness. He wanted to go back to his young friends. He only wanted to get lost in the world of television. He only wanted to watch his afternoon shows—The Cisco Kid, The Lone Ranger, and Superman—where he felt safe and understood. He dreaded this place and the people there.

Reluctantly, the first day he walked to the red-light district, which was known for its own type of violence. There were stories of pimps beating their whores and cutting them. It caused him some concern. Walking alone in the early morning looking at the sky, he noticed the sun shining through the clouds. There was no place to hide and he did not feel safe walking alone. He never felt safe on this journey to the tourist home. He was always afraid for his life. He had been robbed and beaten up by older kids earlier in his life. Once he was even robbed at knife-point and his money taken. People were not safe, he figured out for himself. Therefore, it was better to travel through the alleys where he could avoid people. He was used to walking in the alleys, blending in with empty, forsaken apartments. Like that kid who was hanging in that vacant apartment for hours alone. The alleys offered safety and protection from the world. It was safe being alone, and he did not have to worry about Scott—an older, big boy—trying to rape him again near his foster mother’s apartment one summer day.

The evening walks, as the sun began to set, left a shadow of insanity. It was startling to be surround by all the noise, pollution, and loud laughter. Feeling sensitive to his surroundings made him conscious of anything new in his life. He endured being beaten at home when he was younger. Often, the thought occurred he could die at any time. Hearing each word of the song “Say it loud, ‘I’m black and I’m proud!'” James Brown’s words traveled what seemed like the entire block. More fear descended upon him.

The exhaust of the buses filled with passengers left a trail of dark and choking smoke, as they hurried past him. The fumes of the buses with their heavy dark cloud of smoke encircled him, causing him to tremble.

The day started with seeing his aunt washing herself in the basin in the kitchen sink. Naked she stood there washing her breast and private area. Michael had gone to sleep with his masturbating half-brother and his first sight was seeing his naked aunt bathing. Her breast was extremely large to him and they were the breasts that squeezed him when she hugged him. His half-brother masturbating next to him on the pull-out couch. Returning home drunk, his brother would force Michael’s face into the wall and continue to masturbate. In the darkness, only light shined under the door. He felt that he was being pulled into darkness. This kind of darkness caused him to watch the light underneath the door. He fought against falling asleep with his half-brother next to him.

Seeing, smelling and the taste of death he wanted to avoid, but it was unavoidable looking at the carcasses of rotting animals, which included: dead dogs, cats, and rats. The decaying rats were flat and their skeletal remains covered the alley floor. The garbage cans back then were filled with rotten food, crawling with maggots. It was the smell of death that he tried to vomit out, but the smell remained like an overcoat made just for him. He often believed he would never make it out of this place alive. “I’m going to die here!” he figured. It was going to be a terrible way in which I’m going to die, he always thought. He had heard of people getting their throat cut like Richard had his throat cut, that left a scar around his neck. Or shot like Allen with five bullet holes in his chest. Or hot grease with sugar thrown on them like one of my uncles which left his body discolored. Bodies brought out of burning buildings wrapped up with what seemed like a wool blanket.

Yes, he was certain that his ending was going to be violent and painful. He would hide underneath the porch when his aunt would come to take him. He just wanted to go unnoticed. You must know how to hide, how to be invisible, he told himself.

In the tourist home, he swept the halls, cleaned the rooms, and took the dirty sheets to the basement. He sprayed for roaches which made his nose run and eyes water. The hooker’s day started about eleven in the morning went into the night. In the middle of summer he noticed the increased sensation in his body, a change in his thoughts, and that feeling, that desire, those nagging feelings inside of him: to have sex.

Cigarette smoke invaded his lungs when he entered the vacant room. This smoke was like a cloud in those dark rooms with the window-blinds tightly closed, without a peep of light. The furniture was old and used, lamps with crooked shades. The bed, wet with sexual fluids, smelled of sex and smoke. He never could escape those smells in his later years. He removed the sheets, emptied the ashtrays, and didn’t forget to breathe; but his reflex was to hold his breath. Holding his breath didn’t stop the sweaty aroma of two bodies connected. Anxiety began to overcome him. Day after day; Monday through Saturday he worked in this prison of trapped feelings, only to confess on Saturday evenings. Sunday, he went to Mass at Holy Redeemer Church. There was no way he could understand what was going on inside of him. Confused, afraid, and uncertain about what was going to happen to him. Warm tears slowly, soundlessly fell down his brown cocoa-colored skin. As he sat next to the pile of dirty sheets, he thought of his death. He wanted to die.

The walk from the tourist home become longer each day as the heat intensified. Sweat collected between his chubby legs with holes in his pants from his legs rubbing together. Painfully and slowly walking home at the end of the day. It was beginning to get dark. The evening breeze was muggy while the lights from the cars flashed, as they circled around Dupont Circle in the July heat. Silently, slowly, and with deliberation the night desk clerk approached the door, stopping to watch and see if anyone was around. He would bend down and peep through the keyhole.

Michael experienced a mixture of fear, excitement, and desire to be with a girl. Each night the feelings deepened leaving him with an emptiness. It was uncomfortable having a consistent erection and the pain that it caused. He desired to suck on a girl’s breast and have intercourse. Those feelings followed him into his sleep. It became natural to masturbate to try to control his need to be with a girl.

Older boys talked about girls that would have sex with boys. Donna was one of them.  It was not enough to just watch people having sex; he wanted to experience having sex also. The keyholes had been covered up and there was no more watching others, which had become his relief. He heard the moans and recalled seeing the woman on the bottom and the man on top with her moving in rhythm. With the movement of the man thrusting in and out of her. The more he thrusted the more she began to move in unison to his penis inside of her. Excitement returned each night that he witnessed these sexual interactions. In his bed, as his brother masturbated, he found himself unable to escape his feelings of wanting to have sex.

The house was big and the metal steps felt like a mountain. The door loomed over him. What he knew was Donna, the older of two sisters, would have sex with boys. He never had kissed a girl. He was a virgin at age 11. Now he wanted to ask for a girl older than him to have sex. His body begin to shake, on the inside hoping Donna would not sense his doubts, or his innocence. This was not the time to be innocent, it was time to act.

Donna was summoned to the door by the man of the house. She did not respond to his presence. His memory was of saying, “Could I have sex with you?” It did not make sense and he was not sure about what to do. He walked behind her like a puppy in heat. There was excitement, apprehension, and anxiety that having sex was going to happen. She opened the door to the basement, where there was a different kind of darkness, unlike the dark in the living room where he and his half-brother shared. This darkness was cold and clammy, and hazy. Each step was loud. He was apprehensive about making any noise. His weight seemed to betray him, as the boards complained, of the heaviness of his body. The other children called him fat Mike and they teased him that his dick was small because of his size.

The basement floor was cool compared to the heat in the house it felt cold. Old dusty furniture with cobwebs in the corner of the windows. A blanket covered a piece of furniture which Donna removed and laid, on the cold cemented floor. The blanket was old, tatted, and musty. She laid on the blanket and motioned to join her. He didn’t know how he got undressed, he only remembered that she kept her bra on and that he started to kiss her shoulders. It had begun and he didn’t know what sequence it all happened in, between the beginning and the end of being with her. Once on top, he did not know what to do, he only knew that he didn’t want to stop being with her. Apprehension turned into an uncontrollable burst of sweat covering his forehead dropping onto her. Still mindful not only of his weight on her, but his sweat also. She showed no signs of excitement, nor satisfaction. She remained calm and in control. He continued to kiss her body… When he attempted to remove her bra (he didn’t know how), she cried forcefully, “No!”

He froze. His lack of experience was clear. He needed her to guide him, and she did. His hands were wet, his body wet, and his penis hard. His hand firmly placed on the hairs between her thighs. He noticed that she was not dry, as he continued to feel her with his delicate fingers. She kept her hand on his and finally removed her hand, feeling the most intimate part of her body.

His fingers roamed around inside of her and finally stopped and he inserted his penis where his hand had been,with her help. His nose rejected the strong odor of her sexual fluid which was sticky on his finger. Hiding the need to vomit from her. She did not observe his facial expression after smelling her wetness. Michael experienced pain, as his foreskin was pushed back as he entered her. The pain was relentless. She, like the prostitutes he had watched through the keyhole, remained expressionless. He wanted some type of affirmation that he was doing it right and that his dick was big enough. Still, it was painful to be inside of her. Afraid to stop, he continued until she released her grip on his hips.

This was the very first time he felt close to someone. His hips and body ached from having sex and the need to continue to be with Donna. He only thought that he did not want to smell like those rooms that he cleaned, but was unable to forget those days and the hardness of those women. He felt weak and disoriented when he finished being with Donna. His stomach was turning and the sweat was thick on his body covering him like a blanket of guilt, suffering after being with her. It did not matter that he would vomit violently by the time he reached the curb. He watched his undigested food spatter in the street while shaken brutally. However, he would return throughout the summer until she moved. Returning to reexperience that need to be touched and to feel connected. His longing to have sex continued for many years, but this experience caused him to be intermittent in relationships. Often, he wished that he had not been exposed to this world of prostitutes and sex at an early age. The presence of being near a woman and her innocent touch was a reminder which slowly changed over the years, but he fought through those old experiences of being emotionally, physically, and mentally abused, neglected and shamed.