Mike was a homeless man who knew his way around the streets. You could always go to him for a hit of crack, or for something more sensual. More sexual. And more… romantic, even. His gaping mouth may have been toothless and foul, but from it came tender words that would coax my ejaculate from within. “*Fuck me, you nasty little shit boy! Make it hurt!*”, he would gently moan. Sometimes I would regret seeing him in the alleyway, because I knew that before the sun came up, *I* would be the one cumming up that darkest of hidden places. In the cardboard box, beside the downspout, inside of the dumpster, covered with rotting food. While using creamed corn as a lubricant, I would find myself as a man. I’d be touched, deep inside, and something would come out. I may regret it, and I regret how Mike died of hepatitis C, but I’ll never forget him.