SlinkySidewinder

     Julio’s homelife was a mystery.
     It was rumored his mother was a prostitute, and that’s why he ran away from home and sought refuge with strange men in downtown Sacramento. Maybe she pimped him; I’m not sure. It absolutely blew my mind to discover that an eleven year-old boy spent most of the day looking after his four year-old brother (Manuel), acting as his surrogate parent while his mother disappeared for days at a time. Then, at night, when Manuel was asleep, Julio would lock the apartment and pull on his hoodie, wandering the city streets in search of adult male company.
     How did he learn this behavior? Was his mother an inadvertent tutor, schooling him in the dubious art of seduction? Did he watch her every night, selling herself inside a cramped bedroom, trading integrity for cash? After a few weeks did he strike out on his own, soliciting dirtbags for physical attention, his innocence chiseled away by father-figures whose intentions were corrupt?
     Julio was a lean kid with close-cropped black hair, a mischievous smile, and intense brown eyes. In the psychiatric center, he either wore a Raiders jersey or a plaid shirt that he kept unbuttoned to his stomach, showing off his gold chain and six-pack. He did crunches every night, saying that he had to stay “strong and smooth”. When I asked him what he wanted to be for a living, he said, “A pimp. With a crib full of hos. And when they act up, I can bitch-slap them.”
     I replied that he was too intelligent for that profession. He smiled slyly and said he was kidding, he really wanted to be a pro football player. But something in his tone made me realize that being a teenage gigolo was a much more realistic goal for him. He knew nothing about sports, except that staying muscular and athletic (and acting like an All-American kid) made him more attractive to predators.
     Julio vacillated between childish innocence and wanton maturity. One morning a phlebotomist had to draw his blood and he refused. I coaxed him into cooperating, and when the needle entered his vein, he let out a heavy sigh and rested his head on my shoulder, as if a lifetime of stress was being sucked out of him with his blood sample.
     My saddest memory of Julio came one night when three kids were in the dayroom, watching a movie. It was 8 p.m., and we were watching Spy Kids. Julio frowned when the young sister and brother argued with each other. “She wants to screw him,” he said matter-of-factly. “Everyone wants to do it. So they should just get in bed.”
     Mark, a totally humorless, militant staff worker told him to watch his mouth or he would go to the Quiet Room.
     Julio shrugged. “I’m just sayin’. They want to have sex, so why are they hiding it?” A faint smile touched his lips.
     Mark tried to distract him. “Button your shirt, Julio.”
     “Why? You afraid you might see something you like?”
     Mark’s face turned purple. “Just do it. No one wants to see your skinny body.”
     “Plenty people like my body. Like you. I seen you looking at it.”
     “That’s it.” Mark got up, towering over Julio. He was a beanpole, but stood 6’5”. “Get up. You’re taking a time-out.”
     Julio smiled at him. “Make me, stud guy.”
     “If you don’t get up on your own, we’ll escort you into the Quiet Room by the arms.”
     “You wanna touch me, huh? Feel if my skin is silky muscles.”
     “Five seconds, Julio. One…two…three…”
     Julio lunged at Mark’s leg. He wrapped his arms around Mark’s thigh, giving it a passionate embrace.
     “Get off, Julio.”
     “Ten dollars, Mark. That’s how much I charge. You get full night of pleasure, I get two boxes of cereal.”
     Mark tried to wrestle him away. Julio grappled tighter, his smile provocative, his torso squeezed against Mark’s leg.
     Mark pried him loose and Julio bit his hand. Mark recoiled, then shoved Julio flat. He climbed on top of him, giving in to his anger, performing a function that Julio craved. He flipped Julio onto his back and tried to pin his arms down. Julio flailed about, brushing his wrists and forearms against Mark’s mouth, yelling, “See? I knew you wanted to kiss me.”
     Even as Mark pinned Julio’s limbs to the floor, Julio heaved his waist upward, grinding his buttocks against Mark’s groin, simulating something dark and terrible. When a worker appeared in the doorway, Julio bucked for a few more seconds; then his defenses crumbled and he began crying, sobbing that Mark was violating him and “didn’t have the right kind of love”.
     Mark straightened up, shell-shocked. His expression was both appalled and somehow guilty. When Julio saw the fear inscribed on his face, his tears gave way to anger and he scowled as if Mark had delivered an insult that could never be forgiven.