Boys For Sale In New York

All Prices – All Ages

Boys are for sale in this city. Twelve year old boys are selling themselves for 10 dollars at Times Square. Pimps are selling teenagers for 50 dollars every night at 53rd Street and 3rd Avenue. Lonely runaways are met at the Port Authority Bus Terminal by pimps, lured away by the promise of a free meal, and then beaten into prostitution. Boys, kept high on ups and heroin, are exhibited in a Christopher Street restaurant; ask and you’ll be told their prices. And for 100 dollars a call service will deliver the type of boy of your choice.

This is the world of chicken hawks, those men who enjoy sex with boys not much older then 16, and their chickens, those boys who out of desire, fear or pain, submit. It is a world of prostitution, beatings, drugs, and white slavery. And it is a world of big dollars, pimps living well off their stable. The high spending chicken hawks include a well known professional athlete, a television newscaster, a high church official, and numerous actors.

The centre of young male prostitution in this city is Times Square between 7th and 8th Avenues. Every afternoon groups of young boys, boys mostly aged 11-14, can be standing around Times Square store fronts. These boys largely Puerto Ricans, are for sale. You can go up to them or they will go up to you, it is that open. Business is conducted right on the street. A price is named and a boy will disappear into a movie theatre with a john, or for more money, into one of the cheap hotels near the Port Authority building.

These boys, the 10 dollar an hour boys, are independents. They are into the scene for usually one simple reason: the money. The word has spread around the South Bronx that money can be made by allowing yourself to be used by an old man in a movie. Ten dollars can be made for 10 minutes work. So each afternoon and evening, groups of boys come down to Times Square and hang around. The money is good, so no one complains.

Soon, though, these kids either leave the scene or are forced to work for a pimp. The pimp promises to get you more johns at higher prices. If you need a place to stay, the pimp will put you up. The pimp will house you, use you, sell you to his customers and then pass you onto another pimp when he tires of you. What happens if a boy wants to leave a pimp? He cannot. It is impossible. Thirteen year old boys are forced to become addicts, are chained to their beds, are beaten, are disfigured by lighted cigarettes. When a boy works for a pimp, he works until the pimp decides to let him go.

Since the most requested commodity by chicken hawks is a new face,, the pimps are always looking for new boys. The pimps stand like vultures around the Port Authority bus terminal waiting to descend on runaways. A young boy need only to get off the bus, a knapsack on his back, walk a few confused steps in the big city, before a nice man will offer him a free meal and a place to stay. Too often the boy accepts. By that night the boy has been broken in. He becomes the victim of what is called on the street, the rape artist. The boy is beaten. Perhaps he is drugged. And he’s working. All the money he makes goes to the pimp. All the child receives is a few meals and enough to keep him too stoned to resist. He is now part of the stable, a chicken sold from john to john until the pimp tires of him.

Since last June, Captain Kenneth Gussman and a special squad of six men from the police’s Public Morals Division have been trying to crack down on this business of selling boys. Working with Assistant District Attorney Robert La Russo, Captain Gussman’s squad has been responsible for 64 indictments. A look at the arrest sheets reveals the following:

  • A 15 year old pimp arrested for selling two boys. The boys are aged 12 and 13.
  • A pimp aged 14 booked for selling another 14 year old.
  • A pimp aged 19 booked for selling a 16 year old.
  • A pimp aged 17 booked for selling a 17 year old.

And the list of child pimps and prostitutes grows.

The Captain’s squad has also arrested the older professional pimps. These men freed on bail, can be seen hanging around Times Square most every evening. For example:

  • Hollywood Al, a seaman indicted for promoting prostitution, endangering the welfare of children, sodomy and sexual abuse. Hollywood Al gets his street name from his sunglasses. He is known to every chicken hawk in the city. He can be found on Times Square any afternoon or evening.
  • Ace the Spade, a black pimp, indicted for selling a 12 year old. Ace specialises in white runaways.
  • Cigar Murray, who runs a call boy operation out of the Village hotel he manages. Cigar Murray was indicted for promoting prostitution.
  • Sideburn Eddi, indicted for sodomy, sexual abuse, endangerment of the welfare of a minor, and unlawful imprisonment of a child. Until his indictment Sideburn Eddie was a psychologist at Kings Park hospital where he worked with disturbed children. Sideburn Eddie was finally arrested after allegedly keeping two brothers locked in his apartment for days. The brothers, according to the police report, were repeatedly raped by Sideburn Eddie and other men. How did the boys get to his apartment? They were taken from their Brentwood, Long Island, home by a friend of their father who promised to take them for a ride. The “friend” delivered them to Sideburn Eddie. The brothers are aged 11 and 14.

“What we are talking about” Captain Gussman emphasises “is not homosexuality between consenting adults. What we are making thfe arrests for is prostitution and imprisonment. Boys are being sold against their will. That’s the filth we want to clean up off the streets.”

It is a cold and very late night in Times Square, but the street still loudly lit with neon – is not empty. I walk down the street and eyes follow, wondering, hinting.

Am I a tourist or customer, these quick glances demand. In front of a theatre, I am finally approached. A black man with a large grey hat and shiny glass rings on his fingers does the talking. Behind him stands a young boy wearing purple pants, sneakers and a light corduroy jacket. His shirt collar is turned up to protect him against the cold.

The boy has blonde hair parted in the middle. His face, that nicely tanned, is that of a child – fresh and soft. He tries to disguise his age by puffing on a cigarette. The boy stands under the movie arcade, hands in his pockets, shivering. He is not wearing winter clothes.

His tan, his clothes, suggest Florida or California. How long has he been in New York? It is impossible to tell. He doesn’t talk. Behind the boy stands another black man.

He is not so fancily dressed. He also does not talk. He only stares. The four of us stand in the cold. The smoke from the boy’s cigarette drifts up into the neon lights.

“It’s cold out here. Why don’t we talk downstairs?” the man with the hat offers.

I follow the trio into the Subway at 42nd Street. Two transit patrolmen see the two black men and the blonde boy walking ahead of me. They look, but they don’t stop the boy. They don’t ask him where he’s from, what he’s doing out so late at night. The two transit cops continue walking, talking to each other.

They lead me to an underground penny arcade near the trains. The man running the place says hello to the man wearing the hat. There is a long line of target machines, 10 cents for 25 shots. No one is using the machines. We stand next to them.

The light down here is very bright. In this stronger light I see the black man’s coat is frayed at the cuff. His rings are a clear purple glass and catch the light as he moves his hand. The othef black man silently and quickly moves behind me. I move away. I don’t want him behind me. He realises this and moves away. The boy lights another cigarette. He does not talk. He puffs on the cigarette and starfcs down the sights of a rifle attached to a machine.

The man with the hat breaks the silence. “My rent is due tomorrow. Gotta pay my rent. Gotta make some money somehow. Got any suggestions?” he asks me. “What do you think?” I ask. The man with the hat laughs. “I got a little friend here, a nice little chicken, who’ll help me earn the money. Got any suggestions?” he repeats.

It’s a Tuesday night in Times Square.

Nevada is a chicken hawk. He spends 300 dollars a week buying boys. I met Nevada in his Upper West Side apartment. He is a tall, handsome man with thick red hair and dark eyes. He talks slowly and with a slight Boston accent, the city where he was born and attended college. He has lived in New York for the past fifteen years, working as an accountant by day, and living the life of a chicken hawk by night. I sip red wine and listen.

“You know, I’m not like most of the other chicken hawks. You don’t find many people like me around, I take care of the kids. I take them out to dinner. I give them 20, 25 dollars. I care about them. Look, you know what those kids on the street are looking for? Love and affection. If I find a kid on 42nd Street I treat him well. I tell a kid I’ll give him a place to stay but I’ll tell the kid right off, he’s gonna have to do something to earn his keep.”

“You know why 42nd street is full of kids’ Do you know why the runaways are coming off the buses? I’ll tell you why: it’s because something went wrong at home, and they‘re just looking for someone to take care of them. One summer I kept 17 kids at my apartment up here. Do you know what they cost me in food? I make sure all my chickens are well fed. I spent something like 750 dollars a month on food that summer. And then I had to give the doorman all kinds of tips to shut him up. Every time he’d threaten to call up the cops. I’d have to hand over another picture of the President.

“If I don’t get the kids off the buses, do you know who gets them? The rape artists will grab them. Let me tell you a story about one of them, about Steve, the rape artist. I get a call from this scum and he tells me to meet him at his house. He says he has a nice chicken for me. When I get there I find this kid tied to a bed. He’s been tied to this bed for four days already. Steve tells me he’s been raped 17 times. He says the kid resisted at first so he beat him, and just to teach him a lesson, burnt his initials on the kid’s back with a hot cigarette. I spoke to the kid. He was some poor 13 year old from Baltimore. You know why he ran away from home? Get this – he got a bad grade in Mathematics and was afraid his father would beat him. I mean a guy like Steve the rape artist is sick. I don’t see why people make such a fuss about me and my little chickens. I’m just looking for a nice boy. I’m willing to pay for a new face. What I’ll pay depends on what the boy will do. What kind do I like? I like sweet boys. My ideal boy has blonde hair and blue eyes. But I’ve been with all kinds. I would never go to bed with a coloured person though. I don’t consider myself a bigot…”

“You can buy any type of boy in this city, if you’re willing to pay. It’s no problem. On 42nd street the Pimps like Hollywood Al will take care of you. On 53rd and 3rd the scene is more expensive and older. The boys hang out down there in a restaurant when it’s colder. Usually there’s a row of expensive cars along the curb. The pimps make a deal and the boys disappear into the cars. If you want to buy a boy there, you see Mike “Nary” Muscles. He’s the big pimp. He handles johns from all over the city, shipping boys out to the Queens or Brooklyn. He’s a weightlifter or something. Upper East Side chicken hawks like this guy we call Rockefeller come by in their fancy cars. They get a high class crowd on 53rd Street.”

“Or if you want, you can get your chickens in the Village. Super Sam keeps his flock in a restaurant on Christopher Street, too. They’re just looking for a place to stay. Look, there’s even a number where you can call up and get a boy delivered to you. They say it’s a massage service. You can’t believe how big this thing is. Why there’s even a place in Connecticut where they take kids and make them pose for pictures.”

“The only problem is that there are just not enough new kids. New York makes kids too tough too soon. A lot of us chicken hawks, and the pimps too, drive up to Philadelphia to a place on 17th and Walnut on weekends to look for new faces. Or we go to the meat market in Baltimore. Or we hang out in Jersey City. The kids in other cities are much sweeter, much looser. They’re doing it all for the fun.

“Look, I’m not like the others. I never forced a kid to do anything. You’ll never find a kid who’ll say anything bad about me.”

Soon Nevada tells me I must leave. He is expecting a guest and he has to check on the roast in the oven.

Later that night I see the trio again. They are standing in a coffee shop underneath the Port Authority terminal. I watch them from the other side of the glass. The black man with the hat is talking to a tall man with glasses and lots of curly hair. The tall man is looking at the boy. The boy is kicking an empty paper cup across the coffee shop floor. The other black man is standing by the door, hands in his pockets.

The conversation continues. Hands are shook. Is money exchanged? Quickly the black man opens the door and the tall man and the boy with purple pants walk out together. The two black men remain inside the restaurant and order something. The boy follows the tall man, still kicking the paper cup as he walks towards the subway.

How easy is it to call up a pimp and buy a boy? Last weekend I tried a number in the Village and spoke with a well known pimp. This pimp has been twice indicted by the grand jury and is presently free on bail. The conversation went as follows:

H.B.: Hello, M, I’m Bob. I’m in from Baltimore for the weekend and I’m looking for chickens.

M.: Who gave you my name?

H.B.: A friend. Look do you have any chickens or not?

M.: Where are you?

H.B.: Uptown.

M.: Can you meet me uptown?

H.B.: Yes.

M.: OK. Meet me at 5 o’clock tonight at 42nd Street. At Grant’s. It’s a big restaurant. I’ll find you. I’m certain I’ll be able to take care of you.


Reprinted with love and thanks from “The Village Voice”, Greenwich Village’s community newspaper.

ED: Whilst realising that the above feature could be interpreted as being a piece of sensationalism, we believe that it will be of interest to many readers. It is a factually written article about a social phenomenon that was first examined by GN in Roger Baker’s review of ‘The Dilly Boys’ in our last issue. As always, we hope to receive your opinions about the subject of prostitution in the gay scene.

Kinky Call-Boy

19721001-04Twenty-four year old Roy Davis was sentenced to four months imprisonment, suspended for two years, and fined £45, on charges of possessing drugs, importuning and keeping a brothel.

He and another man were living in a flat in Nevern Square, Earls Court, which the police observed for a period of time. Clients were obtained through ‘male model’ advertisements, and test phone calls to the number given elicited an offer of ‘very kinky services’. The police, however, were content with observation.

Davis was alleged to have been operating as a call-boy himself. He admitted importuning, and being in breach of a two-year probation period imposed last December for unauthorised possession of 64 dexedrine tablets.

The magistrate advised him to get a job of work and become a normal and decent citizen.

Source: Kensington News and Post.

Trolling in Tehran

04-197208XX 04When I set off last year on a business trip to Teheran and other Iranian cities, I had the dottiest picture in my mind as to what it was all going to be like. The only thing that I knew as a fact was that Iran is the most curiously arrogant and corrupt place from a business point of view. With all this naughty bevaviour I had visions of potential gangbang at every street corner. Far, far from it dear Reader.

I suppose we all know that the slant of Moslem culture is towards an easy acceptance of homosexual behaviour both in the home and in public. I’d seen Arabs in places like Jeddah and Beirut walking hand in hand without the public giving it a second glance. But in Iran its all very very confusing. To start off with, in the great cities like Teheran or Tabriz, where there is some degree of western sophistication, overt homosexual behaviour barely exists at all.

But paradoxically, you have only to drive for ten minutes past the Mayfair of Teheran, up the mountains behind Shemiran, and you find a selection of chaikhanehs (tea houses) complete with beautiful dancing boys who entertain largely middle aged clients. You can find the same establishments in Meshed and Isphahan. The fascinating thing is that this sort of entertainment has been provided for the past 2,000 years, but today it seems only to be seriously patronised by the elderly gents who sit quietly drinking tea and watching the gyrations of the boys, some of whom are very beautiful indeed. They retire from ‘business’ at around 18 years of age, and more than half of them get married on the proceeds of their work.

But the gay young things of Teheran or Tabriz would not be seen dead in such a place. To them its all too old fashioned, stuffy and conservative for words. There are literally no gay Bars or Clubs as we understand them in the U.K. It is true that there are a few cafes where you might just have the luck to pick up something interesting, but it is very likely to be rent. You will be far luckier in the lounges of the better class western type of hotel.

I think that there is also a deepseated, but almost entirely unadmitted, resentment of the white mentality, and therefore of the white persons possible sexual approaches. I did meet two charming and highly educated Iranis, but they had both been to Europe, and knew the gay ropes well! They confessed that a white body did not mean all that much to them sexually, and that it was white women that were in demand …. not men!

This reserve is all tied up with the inevitable association of homosexuals with drugtaking hippies and wierdos who have passed through Iran on their way to and from Afghanistan, via Iran.

And that brings me to the matter of Hash and/or Pot. Unless you wish to be shot at sight or sent immediately without trial to prison, do not under any circumstances look for, attempt to buy, or even import any form of Hash. Whilst I was there for a mere 4 weeks on biz, no less than 4 people were shot out of hand because they had been arrested with it on their person.

Before I’d ever got there, people had told me the wildest stories about the goings-on in local Hammams.

I tried four in Teheran and two in Tabriz. They were about as turned on as a Sunday School Treat. In Meshed, which is a sacred Moslem city, complete with shrines of all sorts, I was politely directed to an ‘unbelievers’ hamman. All I saw there was a slightly deformed young man soaping his parts with rather more fervour than was entirely required … and that was about it.

But, and there’s always a but, if you do have the good fortune to meet an Irani who is a member of one of the select private hammams. I’m told that these are not all that innocent, and all sorts of things can and do happen in them.

I just didn’t have the luck to meet a subscriber.

So if you ever contemplate going to Iran for your hold, don’t imagine that its a riot of sex and fun. It’s so hot you can fry an egg on the pavement from April to October, and though it’s beautiful beyond belief, it’s bloody dull if you are looking for what is innocently known as Trade.