Merry Christmas, NYC. Adult. A chance meeting on a cold night. (standard:adventure, 3652 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 21 2020	Views/Reads: 1209/877	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
While walking home from a store on a cold Christmas Eve in New York City, man is stopped by a teenage hooker. He invites her in, only to feed her, leads to an odd but chaste relationship, no doubt aided by the holiday spirit.

Christmas Eve. Shit! Holding a heavy winter coat closed, buttons long
gone, I lean forward against the cold winds of December in Harlem. 
Running out of drink mix in my dingy apartment, I've been to Angie's. 
It's a small illegal store selling mostly stolen merchandise out of the 
basement of an abandoned building near my place. Being a frickin' 
holiday, all the normal businesses are closed this time of night. 

Despite the bracing wind, the street stinks. The entire frickin' city
stinks. Burning trashcans I pass keep the homeless warm but fill the 
air with the the odors of gasoline and unwashed bodies. 

You never know what kind'a goods Angie has. It depends on what local
hopheads managed to steal lately. But she did have Coca Cola. Plastic 
two-liter bottle jammed against my chest inside the ratty coat, I'm on 
my way home. 

"Ya wanna date, mister?" 

"Huh, wha?" I spin to the side, into a crouch, hand going to the back of
my belt in reflex. I've been daydreaming, the teenage hooker catching 
me unawares. I fight a pang of panic while looking into a wide eyed 
female face. My reaction must have frightened her as much as her 
question did me. 

At least I assume it's female. Or would be if two-inches of makeup were
scraped off. Her body, in a too-thin cloth coat, resembles the cartoon 
of Olive Oyl of Popeye fame -- straight up and down. Hell, she can't be 
over fifteen or sixteen years old. 

"Ya do or ya don't? Come on, man. I need the money." 

"What the hell you doing, kid? Does your mama know you're out here?" 

"Show ya'a good time, Jack. How bout a twenty, half-un-half?" 

"Go on home. Eat a cookie. Drink a glass of milk and go to bed, uh." 

"I'd rather eat you. Does fifteen sound good? I don't bite less-un you
want me to." 

My Coke bottle almost slipped free as she grabbed under the coat, trying
for my balls. Didn't make it, as a particularly chilly gust of air got 
inside before I could twist it free and close the opening. Damn it! 

"Come on. Please? I need the money real, real bad.” She brushed sticky
wet snow from anxious painted eyes. “A girl has to eat, you know?" 

Even an old reprobate can't be completely heartless. 

"You want something to eat? Why didn't you say so? I live down the block
and have half a roast in the fridge." 

"Ten, cash? I'll take five off for a sandwich, okay?" 

"Stop that shit. I'm not going to screw you. You want something to eat,
come with me. If not, get the hell out of the way. It's cold and 
miserable out here. I'm going home." 

This is a rough, very rough, part of town. Which is why I walk around
armed. Sure, there's a chance some cop will bust me for an unlicensed 
firearm ... but I'd rather pay a fine than die without a chance to 
defend myself. It's better to be judged by twelve than carried by 
eight. Most of my neighbors feel the same. Around here, it might take 
the fuzz an hour to get here, taking that long to talk four volunteers 
into a squad car. 

Homeland Security? What a laugh. Call "911" and scream "rape," "murder,"
or "I've been robbed," and you're told to go to the station to file a 
complaint. Do the same and whisper "terrorist" and the place is flooded 
with cops. And that Po-lice Sta-tion a few blocks from here? Hell, you 
can tell it by the twelve-foot barbed-wire fence. Yeah, ain't we 
secure? Well ... at least they are. 

With no answer, I shrug, turn, and walk toward home. After a dozen
steps, I hear a slow shuffling to my rear. I'm instantly alert, hoping 


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