I never had the luxury of a childhood. While other kids played in parks or rode their bikes through the streets, I was busy surviving. My mother did everything she could, working double shifts to keep food on the table, but it was never enough. My father? He was a ghost gone before I could even remember what it felt like to have one.
The streets were my real home. I learned quickly that the world didn't care about you unless you had something to offer. I was twelve when I started hustling—cleaning shoes, running errands for shopkeepers, even sneaking into bars to collect empty bottles for change. But no matter how hard I worked, it was never enough. Hunger was my closest friend, and sleep was a luxury I couldn't afford.
By sixteen, I had enough. My mother's tears, the empty fridge, the landlords knocking it was all too much. I left. I figured if I was going to struggle, I might as well do it on my own terms.
Nights on the streets were cold, cruel, and filled with dangers I wasn't ready for. I saw things no kid should ever see. I watched desperate men rob for scraps, young girls get lost in the arms of men twice their age just to have a place to sleep. I swore I'd never end up like them.
And then, there was her.
Sandra.
She found me one night, sitting outside a rundown club, stomach growling, hands in my pockets for warmth. She was older, maybe in her late thirties, with curves that men fought over and eyes that had seen too much.
"Boy, you look like life's been chewing you up," she said, lighting a cigarette.
I didn't answer.
She looked me over, tilting her head like she was trying to solve a puzzle. Then she smirked. "You got somewhere to go?"
I shook my head.
She exhaled a cloud of smoke and nodded toward the alley. "Come with me."
Now, I wasn't stupid. I knew what kind of woman she was one of the night crawlers, the ones men paid to keep secrets warm. But I had nothing to lose, so I followed.
Sandra had a tiny apartment, nothing fancy, but it had a bed, and that was more than I'd had in weeks. She fed me, let me shower, and then, as I sat on her couch, she studied me again.
"You're different," she said. "Ain't no street rat got a face like that… or a body like that."
I frowned. "What you mean?"
She leaned closer, running a hand down my chest, her fingers tracing my arms. "You ever been with a woman?"
I swallowed hard. I had fooled around before, sure, but never like that. Never with someone like her.
Sandra chuckled. "Boy, you don't even know what you got, do you?"
That night, she took me to bed. Not out of pity, not out of love but because she saw something in me. Something special.
And when it was over, when she lay there breathless, shaking her head in disbelief, she looked at me with a new kind of hunger.
"Frank," she whispered, "you ain't meant for these streets. You got a gift."
I didn't know it then, but that night was the beginning of something bigger than I could ever imagine.
Sandra wasn't just another woman. She was my first lesson.
And from that night on, I knew I would never be hungry again.