My family fell apart, so I needed to get away.
How and by what means I didn’t know,
so I stole from department stores,
stuffing my sacks with brand name clothes.
Such balls I had, speaking to the clerk,
asking for different sizes, only to buy
a pair of socks.  I refunded those clothes
to other department stores until arrested.
I wasn’t always a hustler, but I had to leave,
so I learned to do whatever to get by.
It’s not that bad in a rest area stall,
being blown by an old guy, even if he’s gumming.
Not bad at all. With no teeth in the way,
there’s sure, pure sucking.  Grandma told me that I’d go
to hell for fornicating, but it’s hell being poor.
Poverty may be the mother of instruction,
but that education sucks, especially when
stuck in a rural town with a congregation
bent on frightening sinners into heaven.
Plus, I wanted to see how far
decent looks and my pathetic, vulnerable act got me.  
I surely succeeded, some life in New Orleans,
August heat, dancing on a bar, men
fucking on the pool table, balls on balls
in every corner. With Oh yea, daddy, harder daddy,
harder, fuck my hole, pop my brown cherry,
it’s hard to determine who wants a tea bagging,
who wants to dry hump me, smell my ass,
my boots to the brim with cash, beer bottles,
all across a sweaty, stinking bar,
my dick flapping from Viagra and stay-hard cream.
Near fainting, I was saved by an old man
who sprayed me with a water mister,
which I gladly welcomed, for he took notice,
said I reminded him of him when he was a young man
needing a place to live, tired of sleeping on someone’s couch.
He moved me into his guesthouse on Rue Dumaine,
paying for all my meals while he told his life story,
his husband dying young, a motorcycle accident,
how he met him like he met me.  
He only wanted me to jack off.  
Gosh, I said, is that all?
I’ve been doing that since yay tall,
pointing to a mutt on his hind legs:
I started on the lawnmower, the seat a bobbing,
so much vibration I came, so good,
I lost control, ran over Grandpa’s grave.
I shot my load in every room, on the Lazy Susan,
in the toilet, in the tree house, in the shed,
in the crevice of vinyl seats in a Ford Fairlane,
in a Sunbeam bread bag, a spoon handle up my ass.
I didn’t know his guesthouse’s a set for shooting porn.
Must be my big chance, I thought,
when offered $2000 dollars to do a 30-minute segment.
I even picked out a name: Brick Bailey,
hard as a brick, guaranteed a lay.  
But the shoot didn’t go my way--
Who knew I was lactose intolerant?
Can happen anytime, anywhere, in one’s life, my doctor later said--
I felt like an overburdened cow, dehydrated, near death.
I heard Grandpa’s voice, Time to put ‘em down.
I moved out. This porn is fuck fest, not shit fest,
the director said, the old man too embarrassed for me to hang around.
I joined Pamela, the one-armed prostitute on Dauphine Street.
That circus freak got all the action--
men love cumming on her nub--
so I got a gig at the Corner Pocket
known for pimply boys in stained underwear
dancing on the bar.  I had blackheads
but not pimples, both disgusting.
Buy hey, if you’re into that, man, so be it.  
Who am I to pop the natural order of things?
I quit when Ms. Do, the owner,
ends up dead, her throat slit, her Cadillac
nearly pushed into a bayou.
That could happen to me, I thought, drinking,
taking any drugs that people give me,
just hoping, they’ll be the only one for me.
But she taught me something.
When anyone asks me, What do you do?
I respond, I don’t do you.
Who am I kidding? I’ll do anybody,
even fuck the cottage cheese of a fat lady,
eat the ass of an old fart with dingle berries, fuck the armpit of a retard.
I just need to get paid.
I could complain, but haven’t I done enough?
But my life’s good, by God.
I can go anywhere, some how,
as long as I’m needing and still willing.
I give them what they want, and that’s what I know to do.