Little Red Rides da Hood
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by Barry Lowe
Category: Erotica/Menage Erotica/Gay Fiction
Description: When he's not out in the ʼhood scrawling his graffiti art on the sides of buildings in the public housing estate where he lives, railing against 'the man', Carlos, known to his stepbrother and his gang as 'Red' because of the bright coloured hoodie he wears, is usually in the Men's room in the park, secretly indulging in his second-favourite pastime -- sucking the tension out of the local 'hood. When he unknowingly services a member of a rival gang who discovers his identity, all hell breaks loose. When he's called to the gang's headquarters to deny the accusation, he decides it's time to stand up for who he is -- even though he fears for his life.
eBook Publisher: loveyoudivine, 2011 2011
eBookwise Release Date: May 2011
4 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [47 KB]
Reading time: 26-37 min.
There was a forlorn park out back of the centre, on the other side of the entrance to the underground car park. Rusting children's slippery dips and swings were barely hidden by a line of trees obviously meant to shield concertgoer's from the horrors that lay beyond. The horrors of poverty and deprivation, lives swept under the carpet. Nothing obvious from the main road.
It shouldn't have thrilled me, but it did. Scratch the surface and the suppurating sore was revealed. This was 'home.' This was where I thrived. This was where I got me inspiration, something that was in very short supply of late. This was where I became 'me.' There was another reason for the excitement that coursed through my body. I couldn't see it yet, but I knew it had to be here. I was thrown off slightly by the cultural edifice behind me, struggling to get my bearings. I spun around and around until I spotted it, squat and ugly as it had always been. I ran toward it like an old friend.
It was the squalid toilet block where my real life began. Where I first began my graffiti. Where I first discovered my predilection for men. Walking around it, I admired its ability to endure; running my fingers across the battered brickwork where once my art had adorned the outside walls until an embarrassed city council had steam cleaned away my painted frustration at the futility of my life, although leaving remnants of colour still staining the cement.
I was surprised to find it open. It was ten years since I'd been here and still it smelled of piss and stale farts, booze and baby batter. Without worrying about the consequences, I stepped inside. It was dingy, the plumbing ripped from the walls, the urinal caked with rust and piss stains. Surprisingly, the three cubicles still had their doors intact to shield the modesty of the occupants. My work had been all but obliterated by countless graffiti artisans since my basic scrawls. And, of course, the ubiquitous invitations to partake of sexual pleasures on such and such a date, long since passed, or the open invitation to be here on a Tuesday at 2pm for the 'blow job of your life.'
Opening my backpack I found my spray cans and began to transform the first cubicle. You could probably accuse me of ego but the senseless scribbling and territorial markings revealed an appalling lack of ambition. I tied a bandana across my nose before I shook the can, that metallic marble rattle sending sparks to my dick. I was always hard when I made my art, probably due to a combination of the frightening prospect of being caught and the fact I was indulging in the graffiti artist equivalent of flashing.
It took a scant ten minutes before I'd turned the first cubicle into a cock-tinged bordello. If any man could sit on the stainless steel lav -- they were new -- and not get hard then he was either blind or dead. I was about to move on to the second when I heard the tell-tale scrape of shoes on the gravel outside. That was the usual early warning system queers gave one another on approach. My heart was racing. It might just be the police looking for a quick arrest, a gang on the prowl for a poofter to bash, or, I checked the date on my watch, Mr. Blow Job of Your Life. I didn't even consider the possibility it was someone with a legitimate excuse to use the public convenience.