I used to buy my paper from Milou every day on my way to private finishing school because it made me feel like an adult. I eventually entered a local college and later followed my father into business. He was still there though, pitching papers and herding the younger boys, running around Paris barefoot. As Milou matured, he stirred feelings in me that were a terrible distraction to the supposed single heterosexual bachelor life I was supposed to live.

When I got my first paycheck, I lured him into an alley and asked him if he knew what men sometimes did together. He said he did. I had the feeling I wasn’t the first, but I was too horny to care. He became my drug. A couple times a week I’d leave home early in the morning and we’d disappear behind a building together, him on his knees with my cock in his mouth. I paid him well because he left me gasping.

One day I found him in his usual alley sitting next to a brand new pair of burnished red brown boots. “Yours?” I asked. He nodded. So that’s what he bought with the money I’d been giving him? Not alcohol or cards or probably not even rent. A pair of shoes. I had like five pairs in my closet. Guilt flooded through me. I’d been exploiting a poor newspaper seller so he can buy a pair of shoes. How can he look at me without contempt?

“Why aren’t you wearing them?” I asked.
“It’s not winter yet…no point in getting them dirty. Besides I have to buy socks first.”

I stared at him. Was he implying me that I should unzip my pants so he could buy a pair of socks? The whole situation struck me as ridiculous as it was vulgar.
“Why haven’t you asked me to just give you a pair of socks?” I said, frustrated with his contentment with his poverty.
Milou replied, “Well I ask, I’m a begger. If you give, I’m a charity case. If I buy, I’m a citizen.”
“How can you lower yourself to such standards to sucking cock for something as basic as socks?" 
That struck a spark in him, "Those are your standards! You well-to-do nouveau riche types are so preachy to anyone that doesn’t live a good Christian life like you do. Who said I was lowering myself anyway? I like sucking your cock thank you very much.”
I was torn between wanting to smack him and wanting to kiss him. I balled my gloved fists as the color rose to my face, “You’re coming home with me.”
“…What?” he blinked.
“How old are you now? Your 20s I presume? Have you thought at all about the future? You have no savings, no education. Are you still going to be sucking my cock in this alley when you’re 40?” Now there’s that look of contempt missing from earlier. “My apartment has an extra room. I don’t care if you sell newspapers until you’re dead, but I want you to stay with me. It’s warm and dry. I’ll pay you a fair wage to mind the house. Whether ‘minding the house’ includes sucking or riding my cock, that’s up to you.”

Milou didn’t answer right away, so I let him stew in the reality of his situation. I glanced at my watch. Drat. I’d wasted our coveted time together on lecturing him and now I had to go catch my train. I pulled a legal pad out of my briefcase and jotted my address in the corner, which I ripped off and gave to him. “I’m off work at 6:30, if you want to stop by after that. Think about it. I would like to see you again…either way.” I tipped my hat and turned to go. Milou stuttered something after me, but a little girl ran into the alley with an empty messenger bag full of coins and work called.

Milou didn’t appear at my doorstep that evening. Nor the one after it. On the third night, there was a telegram left in my mailbox. It was from the police.

[To be continued]