Unfinished cigarette. Rain comes down in sheets. Morning dark and wet and sordid. He stood under the awning to the adult novelty store - glanced with that hazy cloudy look of intoxication. Unfinished cigarette. I stood there silently watching the cars splash by. The rain bounced up and hit my pants leg under the awning. He had the look of a predatory lizard.

"I don't think they are open yet."

He shrugs. Looks at me then away.

"Wanna go get some Starbuck's?"

Wind howls sounds like whispers through dead trees we slip in and served hot coffee by imperialist fag. Julio reads his name tag. Stupid American queers. Wanna give him a B production dramatization and slam four pennies onto the counter for a tip, but I digress. I digress.

We sit in the window in big comfy warm chairs and - what was his name? Thomas, yes - thank you. I inquire why he was hanging in front of F Street Books and he smiles - eyes yellow pinpoints of fire - "Nothing else to do - was gonna jack off to some movies, I guess."

Three old queens swish into the cafe and eye us like rabid dried up vampires. I glare hostile back - one of the bloated hags fidgets, looks away.

"Where you stayin', Thomas?"

"Hotel Gateway above Horton Plaza. I't's a rinky dink small room but it's warm." He says and goes into a novella of coming down from Washington losing all and living on the streets. Not bad looking - half black half Chinese. His is wirery thin and I wonder if he's on junk.

Order a double espresso and sit watching the fools rush through the grey windy haze outside as the be bop jazz wails from hidden speakers. Snooty fag barista wipes down the counter.

Thomas looks up from his blueberry muffin, "Let's crash at my room. Get outta this rain."

Sure. Wouldn't you?

Make the two blocks through incandescent pools of shit and trash to his tattered old hotel adjacent to the fabulously rich Horton Mall. Through the cavernous lobby and up the ancient elevator. The room is a closet - cot bed, end table dresser - closet. Candy wrappers and take out food containers litter the room and an ash tray brimming over with butts, Dr. Pepper can used for the same purpose. Smell of ashes, mildew and dried semen.

Thomas lays back on his bed and I sit on the end table. His long skinny frame in worn jeans and frayed Dickies jacket. I can't help glancing at that crotch protruding like an obscene tumor but he gets it and starts talking about the porno shop and jacking off and coming...

"What some relief?" I ask lighting a cigarette. No time for pleasantries I guess.

"Yeah" Stretches and that lump in his jeans starts to expand. I hand him the unfinished cigarette an lay next to him with one fluid motion of unbuttoning his pants. No underwear. Thick cock flips out moistened at the tip shiny and transparent. Grab it and lick the head and he says ahhhh. Smell of musty clothes and rectum I suck and lick and stroke in mechanized movements of unpeeled raw lust. His toes point outward and down as he ejaculates in my mouth. Acrid - gooey. I swallow - whatever.

We lay smoking and talking and he puts the soft touch on me for five dollars. Hair products, he says. I smack the fiver into his brown bony hand and excuse myself. He mumbles something about sleeping. He hands me the unfinished cigarette.

I walk back out into the drizzling rain the sky the color of a dead channel and I head to the movies. Think I'll take in an afternoon of cinema - perfect day for it...