Rentboy

stolen from him after he had trusted him. His boss had called him a nincompoop. Who said
    nincompoop anymore? And then the swine had outed him, if only to himself.
    He was the world’s biggest twit.
    As always the area bustled with pedestrian traffic. Gay pubs and shops lined the street along
    with fashionable boutiques and vintage clothing shops. At the alley beside Gimme Gimme, an LGBT
    gift shop, Edward stopped to look in the shop window. A red mug emblazoned with the words, Some
    People Are Gay, Get Over It , caught his eye. If only it were that easy. How was he going to tell his
    parents? If everybody at LSHTM knew, and it seemed they did, it would eventually reach home since
    his dad had been a professor there for years before retiring.
    With something akin to revulsion, or perhaps merely dismay, Edward noted that the smell of
    refuse and urine bothered him far less with each subsequent trip down the alley. For more than a
    minute he looked up and down for the large box Fox slept in. Maybe he had moved like a tortoise
    carrying his house with him.
    “You’re looking for him, aren’t you?”
    What appeared to be a filthy bundle of rags leaning against the wall moved.
    Slowly the man stood up. Edward stared at him nervously until a face emerged from between a
    filthy woolen hat and the top of an overcoat. “I’m looking for the Goth who’s usually here.” The
    Goth? What made him say that?
    “Haven’t seen him since he left with you yesterday. He ain’t here much.”
    “But he lives here,” Edward pointed out.
    “No, he don’t. Are you one of them pharmasexuals?”
    “Homosexuals,” Edward corrected. “And no! I’m not.” He glanced quickly around, wondering
    why he cared.
    “Then why was he giving you a handjob up against that wall?”
    The very idea that they had been seen, even by a tramp, caused a flood of red to run up Edward’s
    neck and cheeks.
    “Yes, all right, I’m gay.” Edward raised his voice, repeating, “I’m gay!”
    “Keep your hair on,” the tramp said. “Anyway, he’s too clean for a street kid. Haven’t you
    noticed how clean he is?”
    He had noticed that Fox was clean but had not thought it unusual. “I don’t have much experience
    with street kids.”
    “Well, I do, and I’m telling you, that boy don’t live on the street. He’s selling his arse for a bit of
    pocket money or a thrill, that’s all.”
    “Where does he go after he leaves here?” Edward asked.
    The old man held out a filthy hand. The nails were long, broken, and blackened. As much as he
    was loath to go any closer, Edward felt immensely sorry for the old man. What had happened in his
    life to bring him so low? Scrambling through the pockets of his corduroys he found a couple of two-
    pound coins. He pulled them out and pressed them into the dirty palm, and then waited for
    information.
    The man looked at the money, nodded, and turned away. “Ain’t got a clue.”
    Edward walked back to Tisbury Court. Fox had stolen his computer. Dr. Howard thought he was
    a nincompoop and probably guessed he had had a prostitute in his home. Even a tramp living in a box
    had taken him for a fool. He was the epitome of the bumbling boffin, and yet last night, just for a
    while, he had felt like the sexiest man alive. But even Fox had only want to steal from him and had at
    the first opportunity.
    Vibrations in his trouser pocket alerted him to his mobile. He pulled it out and looked at the
    caller ID. “Hello, Mum.” As he talked he walked along the noisy street, taking note every so often of
    a handsome young man and finding himself drawn to those with black clothing and eye makeup.
    Without his realizing it, Goths had gone from scary to sexy.
    “I’m arranging your birthday dinner, darling,” she said. “My summer solstice baby. I can hardly
    believe it. Thirty years old.”
    “Oh yes, my birthday,” Edward said vaguely. He stepped into the street and was accosted by the
    sound of several car horns.
    “Are you not watching where you’re going, Edward? Do you still need me to hold your hand
    crossing the street?”
    “It was someone else, Mum, not me.” He hadn’t a clue why he lied about something so trivial.
    But the fact was he was lucky to be turning thirty at all. He’d never paid attention on the street. He
    bumped into people and parked cars, nearly got flattened by moving ones, narrowly missed buses and
    taxis. People he trusted stole from him!
    “Good. You’re coming home on