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Clint Cash by J. Brian

by Robert Kurtz
Posted on January 17, 2023August 22, 2023

GOLDEN BOYS $5
no.9 — Clint Cash featured in J. Brian’s Golden Boys #9.

29TH Street
by Lyn Pedersen
It was over 95 in the shade and there was no shade in the dusty street over which the panting telegraph messenger pumped his bicycle, the wheels crunching laboriously in the dusty gravel.
Jack's soaked, shortsleeved shirt stuck to his thin chest. His legs and rump were too chafed to bear the seat, so he stood on the pedals. The dust was in his nostrils and eyes, and rode salty rivers down his neck and back. His balls still ached from getting roused up last night watching Shelby and Joe skating together at the rink. But then his legs and back also ached, and his head was pound- ing under the murderous Texas sun. Like his Aunt Hessie said, "It'll fry whatever brains you got, right
CLINT
CASH

thru your hat."
Suddenly a young man stepped off the curb right in front of Jack's bicycle, tall, well dressed, hand- some, a considerable erection showing under his soft trousers. Jack nearly ran into him, but the encounter was so close and so quickly over that Jack pedalled unsteadily away, with the image of the youth large, dark brown eyes boring into Jack's long, strong arms raised up as if to em- brace Jack the longish, sad face questioning, the full mouth a bit open, the soft moustache and eye- brows wanting to be touched.
Jack was more naive than it seemed possible to be. He'd just finished high school with honors. He'd grown up in a household where his parents fucked almost everyone in sight. But he'd turned his back on what his parents did. Sex, in his mind, was something nasty that men did with women, and that didn't interest him at all. He was fully, pain- fully aware of his desire toward other males - but it had never occurred to him that the desire had anything to do with sex.
But naive or not, Jack knew what the young man (at least four years Jack's senior) had to be doing down on Post Office Street. People who had busi- ness elsewhere did not pass through "the District." The young man had to be heading for one of the whorehouses, and that knowledge pained Jack. He had to fight back an overbearing impulse to turn back, to apologize to the guy for nearly running into him, to find some excuse to draw out the con- versation. He wished for nerve to come right out
and say, "Couldn't we be friends?" His memory dwelt on the young man's erection, and his own groin more or less duplicated it.
Now he knew he wouldn't dare deliver his mes- sage at the house on 29th Street until that had gone down. He got teased often enough by the whores to know better than to walk into any of the houses with a hard on though we must add that Jack was too naive to know such terminology.
The urge to drive back around the block was too great knowing full well that even if he did find the young man again, he'd not likely have nerve enough to speak to him, and if he did speak, he would only say something silly, not "I love you, I want to be your friend." But the young man was no longer on the street, and Jack realized that if he took too long on a route that went through the district, the other messengers would razz him later about how he spent his time.
He shifted his weight wearily from one side of the bike to the other, holding his arms the way the young man had thrown his up, knowing that he had to think about something else so his hard on would go down.
He tried to imagine that the row of tawdry shacks ahead (he had left the handsome Victorian houses inhabited by the white girls and had turned up 29th Street to the Negro district) were the handsome buildings of the Presbyterian College in North Texas which he hoped to attend next year. His eyes ham- mered at the worn, warped paintless wood trans- forming it into a vision of stone halls of learning.
11

Posted in 1960s, VintageTagged J. Brian

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