Sometimes God Has A Kid's Face by Bruce Ritter (Covenant House 1988)The word on the street is, johns prefer chicken.
Father Bruce Ritter was a Catholic priest who rose to prominence in the 1970's and 80's as an advocate for sexually exploited children. His most well known project was the Covenant House, a group of shelters throughout NYC for runaway and homeless children and teens. An outspoken critic of pornography, Ritter was especially vocal about the depravity of the Times Square area. Like many anti-sex zealots, he failed to differentiate between child pornography/prostitution and sexually explicit material made by and for adults, going as far as claiming that Dr. Ruth was a pernicious influence. As it turned out, Ritter himself had failed to walk the righteous path. In 1990, a former male prostitute who had also appeared in pornography alleged that Ritter paid his living expenses in exchange for sex. Several others, including employees and residents of Covenant House came forward with similar accusations. He was eventually forced to resign from the organization that he started. It was the first of many child sex abuse scandals that rocked the Catholic throughout the 90's.
Sometimes God Has A Kid's Face was a short book released by Covenant House as a fundraising tool. In the book, Ritter recounts the beginnings and daily workings of his organization in short diary-like entries. Incredibly, Ritter practically outs himself as a chicken hawk over and over again. I can't believe it didn't raise any eyebrows when it was originally published. For example, although Covenant House cared for both boys and girls, and commonsense would lead one to believe that far more underage girls are sexually exploited on the streets than boys, Ritter writes almost exclusively about boys, particularly those in their mid-teens. His descriptions are all somewhat strange, almost inappropriate. For example, he describes one boy as wearing "skin-and-muscle tight brief cut-offs and a body shirt unbuttoned to the waist" while another is "not exactly skinny, but not well muscled. Not exactly effeminate, but not strongly masculine either. Sexually indefinite..." You can almost see the drops of drool on the page! At one point, he recounts a trip to Ft. Lauderdale during which for hours he cruises a strip popular with male hustlers, checking out the action. Eventually, he stops to pick one up who has asked him for a "ride." Here is Ritter's description of the encounter:
"Do you want to give me a ride?" he said.
He was a nice-looking kid, 16, maybe 17, I thought. Nice eyes, nice hair. A little scared , maybe.
"Sure," I said. The kid opened the door and slid gracefully into the front seat. It took my foot off the brake and the Mustang moved slowly up A1A. By now it knew the way.
"Are you a cop?" he said.
"No," I said and laughed-mostly to put the kid at ease. "Do I look like a cop?" I said.
"You never can tell," he said.
"I guess not," I said. "I'm not. My name is Bruce," I said.
"My name is Dan," he said.
"Where're you from?" I said.
"Minnesota," he said.
"How long have you been in Fort Lauderdale?" I asked and turned of A1A on to Las Olas.
"Three weeks," he said.
"Where are you staying?" I said.
"In a motel," he said, "but I lost my room."
I drove south on Birch Road and made a decision to continue the conversation.
"How are you surviving?" I said. "How are you making it?"
"Hustling," he said.
"Are you hustling now?" I said.
"Yes," he said.
"How much do you go for?" I said.
"$80," he said and hastily added, "but I do everything for that. I can go for less," he said.
And then my eyes began to burn and then they began to glisten and blurred oncoming headlights and I was glad it was dark in the car and he couldn't see the tears forming.
"How old are you?" I asked. It was getting hard for me to talk.
"Eighteen," he said, although there was not much conviction in his voice, as though he didn't expect me to believe him. (I didn't.) He was a nice-looking kid. A gentle face. "How long have you been hustling?" I said.
"I ran away to L.A. when I was 15 and got into it there," he said. "I've moved around a lot," he said.
The blue Mustang seemed to drive itself up Birch Road, and I pulled it over on a quiet side street a couple of blocks from where the kid jumped into my car.
I turned to face the kid, and I guess he could see the tears in my eyes. He looked at me a little uncertainly.
"Hey," I said, "I enjoyed riding with you. Thanks," I said. I reached into my pocket for a $20 bill. "This will help you with your motel room," I said. The kid became very still, his eyes frozen for a moment on nothing I could see.
"This is certainly different," he said.
"I know," I said. "Be good to yourself," I said. "Take care of yourself," I said. The kid hesitated-he didn't want to get out of the car. He opened his mouth to speak and then changed his mind.
I touched him on the shoulder. "Be good to yourself," I said again.
"Thanks," he said. "I hoped you wouldn't hurt me," he said.
The boy got out of the car. "Thanks," he said. "Later," he said.
I am sure this is exactly how the encounter played out. Only Ritter forgot to mention that the kid sucked his dick right before he gave him the $20.
Here is his description of another encounter with a different hustler:
In the jargon of the street he's known as "rough trade," and he plies his wares, himself, up and down the Minnesota strip. He is 15 and looks 18, and he's seen the elephant.
We faced down each other across my desk, casually, relaxedly, while I carefully arranged my face and my eyes and my mind so that nothing I said or did or thought or felt in the next hour was spontaneous or unconsidered. He offhandedly, with the practiced skill that needed no explanation, probed for my weaknesses, inspecting my jugular with the guileless eye of the corrupted young. Slow waves of depravity and innocence washed in shadows of darkness and light across his face.
He used the shreds of his innocence with a kind of detached, hapless malevolence to evoke my sympathies. By turns he was cynical and callous, winsome and desperate-for knowing moments at a time, vulnerable. He drifted in and out of reach, in and out of touch, constantly probing, watching for that moment of advantage.
Jesus, could his description be any more homoerotic? You could cut the sexual tension with a knife. Half the book reads like gay porn with the sex cut out.
