(Sorry about a double posting. This should correct that. Daniel is homeless and increasingly hopeless, until he meets a Manager from The Facility.)

There wasn’t a choice, really, unless you count being homeless in winter as an option. I don’t.

My stepfather called me the predictable names and threw me out over Mom’s objections. That was the start of the slide down. I’d dulled the rejection with my favorite drugs, and with more drugs because hey, I liked it. Pretty soon I lost my job, of course, and I told Mr. Ghosh not to feel bad, that I’d earned it. He just shook his head. “You get clean, Dan. I’ll help you find something if you do that.” He’s easily the best boss I ever had, and a genuinely good person.

I found places to be. The downtown library was good, especially on rainy days. As long as I didn’t bother anybody and at least pretended to be library-ing, with an open book in front of me, they’d let me sleep. I checked out a book once in a while, but I had to stop because somebody more desperate than me stole my backpack with my library book in it. The librarian lady said I could pay for it a little at a time, so I come up with a dollar when I can. Whoever takes my money is always pretty fucking gracious about it, this guy who probably smells but doesn’t want his library card taken away. You gotta love librarians, you really do.

When I had the money for a bus, the mall was also good, but sometimes their security people could be real assholes. You better not be sitting on one of the benches and nod. Well, unless you were an old person; they could sleep there, but not guys like me.

Late in the day, when my stepfather was at work but after Mom got home from school—she teaches fifth grade—sometimes I’d go to the house. She’d feed me, wash my clothes, let me shower, give me some cash if she had any to spare. Moms love you no matter what, right? Even if you’re gay.

“Where are you staying, Danny?”

“I’ve still got friends, and they’ve got couches.” It was true at first, then a lie. I’d run through what friends I had. One night, maybe two, okay, but nobody wanted me longer than that, not even when I helped out. My specialty was cleaning bathrooms during the night, real quiet-like. They’d get up and find everything sparkling, even fresh towels if I could find the linen closet.

It wasn’t enough, but it got me some extra nights, sometimes a bag lunch like I was one more kid going to school.

Drugs aren’t free, so I started borrowing money from my friends, then stealing from wallets or purses, even taking small things I could sell, like jewelry. Basic junkie moves, although I wasn’t an addict, I don’t think. Lots of days I didn’t have the money to do any, and I didn’t get sick or anything.

Eventually I landed on the street, my biggest fear. The shelters fill up early, and they won’t let you in after they’re out of beds, not even to sleep on the floor with your coat over you. Churches turn you away, too, never mind a pew would be a fine place to sleep.

All you can do is keep walking so you don’t freeze to death in some doorway. It’s hard to stay awake, though.

So this man comes right at me, in a black coat and scarf and shiny shoes, which means he’s got a nice wallet. I pretend there’s a gun in my pocket. He’s startled, but laughs.

“Shut up! Just gimme your wallet, man. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Would that I could say the same. Do you need a place to go?” he says.

Shit, everything black, and the scarf could hide a white collar. He’s a fucking priest! “Not if it comes with a sermon and prayers.”

“What if it comes with a hot shower, clean clothes, and beef stew? I think that’s what they’re serving, but I could be wrong.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Listen to a proposal. They call me Manager. You?”

“Danny.”

“It’s not far from here. Maybe a quarter mile, a little more. Are you up for a walk?”

We don’t talk. I definitely don’t trust him. My mind goes to some weird places sometimes. What if he’s not a priest at all? Like, what if he’s a vampire, or some kind of demon? Or a garden-variety serial killer? That would about destroy Mom.

The building is that yellow-brown brick, lots of windows, the whole thing kind of squat and low.

“The organization I work for bought this building a few years ago,” the man says as we enter. “It was a parochial school, closed since I was a little boy. It’s stood empty for a long time.”

“You probably got it cheap, then.”

“Not as cheap as we’d hoped. The cafeteria’s this way. They’ll be closed, of course, but I have keys.”

It’s not beef stew but chili, with biscuits on the side. We chat while I eat, and I tell him my sizes. He takes me to a former locker room. “The gang showers don’t work yet, but we have three single stalls that do. Let me get you a towel, then I’ll see what I can find for you to wear.”

There’s soap and shampoo, a toothbrush and those bitty toothpastes like dentists give you, a comb. Tan cargo pants, a thermal shirt, a flannel plaid, and clean socks are on the bench outside the shower when I finish. “Sorry, we didn’t have a single pair of shoes in your size.”

“These are okay.”

“One of our charges is laundering what you had on, including the coat. It should all be ready by morning. I hope to speak to you after breakfast.”

“I’m staying the night?” Suddenly I get it. He clocked me as gay, wants to fuck. I haven’t seen another soul here.

“If you would. I should have asked. I’m afraid your coat is most likely already in the washer.”

“Then I’m stuck, I guess. What’ll it be?” I mean does he want a blow job or my ass.

“I don’t want to wake our charges with someone new. There’s a cot in the Nurse’s office.”

He leaves me there. I lie tense, not trusting one damned thing about this, but it’s late and I’m tired. I fall asleep, the deep dreamless kind.

“Oh. Hello!” It’s a woman in a white nurse’s uniform like in an old movie. White tights, squishy white shoes, even the little cap. A nice smile. “Who do we have here?”

“Dan. This guy—sorry, I didn’t get his name, just that he’s the manager or something—said I should sleep here. I can get going as soon as—”

“It’s fine. I just didn’t expect to find anyone. He’s left me notes. Apparently there’s been a delay, something about mending your coat?”

“I don’t know anything about that. They were going to wash it.”

“Washers can take a little tear and rip it wide open. He’ll be here in a few minutes to take you to breakfast. I might as well start the medical history in the meantime.” She asks the usual questions, but she hand-writes my answers with a fat pen, no computer in sight.

Maybe I’ve time-traveled? I almost smile at the thought.

“You seem to be in excellent health. How heavily do you use, and what’s your drug of choice?”

I’m not about to incriminate myself, so I don’t answer.

“All right. Homosexual or bisexual?”

Does it show that plainly? “Gay all the way.”

“They used to say it was ten percent, but I think it’s actually much higher,” she remarks. “How’s your digestion?”

“Fine, I guess. Yours?”

She smiles at her paper. Just then the door opens and the guy from last night is there. It’s not a priest collar, just a good black suit. “Let’s get ourselves fed. Don’t worry, Nurse, I’ll bring him back.”

We did pancakes and sausage and like that wasn’t enough, hashbrowns. Big glass of OJ. “I’m going to weigh more than I told the nurse.”

Over the meal, he makes an offer I can’t refuse. “You’re right. I won’t get a better deal anywhere, will I?”

“It appeared to me you were already living on the edge of society. This will be a much better life circumstance for you. Room and board, clothing, medical and dental as needed. Just for doing what you might have done for the price of a cheap motel room.”

How does he know?

When we get back to the nurse, she’s got two guys there in scrubs. “How was breakfast?”

“Excellent,” I say.

“Shall we get started, then? Everything off.”

“What?”

“I’ll examine you, then give you a series of enemas. The Attendants will ensure your cooperation.”

It’s not like I never had one. My first real boyfriend—a married guy with kids—was the fussy fastidious kind, and he’d give me one at the motel before he’d fuck me. Sometimes two. I think he liked doing it. Liked my reaction. It’s a pretty submissive thing to do, let somebody pump water up your ass.

The nurse gives me three enemas, then they take me to a classroom with those plastic chairs with a writing surface attached, all of them on the right. I’m left-handed.

There’s a questionnaire to fill out, mostly about sex. What do I know, what have I done, where would I draw the line at this thing or that, have I ever had sex for money or drugs, would I allow myself to be spanked, tied up, hit with a belt, fisted… There’s a whole lot of questions.

The man from last night takes me to a small room, nothing but a bed and an upholstered chair. There’s another man there, waiting for us.

“Call him Master,” the Manager says, “and do what he says as well as you can. You’re being evaluated. We can’t train every homeless drug user to the standard our clients expect, but you show more promise than some.”

“Ah, thank you?”

“I’ll leave you two alone, then.”

“I saw the video of your arrival. You clean up quite well.”

“That’s something I really hated about my, ah, situation, being dirty.”

“If you opt to stay, you’d have a two-year contract during which you can bathe as often as you choose, or as often as we choose, in exchange for your services.”

“Sex with clients, the other guy said, and what else?” There’s worse things than being a whore.

“The Facility doesn’t run itself. Our charges, once trained, bring in the income through repeat clients and their referrals, as well as manage the day-to-day operations. Do you have any work experience?”

“Fast food when I was a teenager. But I’m a fast learner. I could do whatever job you’ve got if somebody can train me.”

“That, too, is promising. We’ll probably start you at something simple—custodial, most likely—then consider kitchen or maintenance. I confess, we’ve been hoping for a plumber for a long time, with no success.”

“They make too much money to be on the street.”

His smile is unnatural. “Indeed. Let me also be abundantly clear. If we find you with drugs or paraphernalia, you are finished here. We will return to you what you arrived with, and nothing else. Is that understood?”

“Yes. You don’t have to worry about me. I want to get clean. Stay clean.”

“We devoutly hope so. You will undress. I’m going to give you an enema.”

“You don’t need to, this nurse already—”

“Some of our clientele want to give our charges enemas, and you will readily accept them when called upon to do so. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes. Of course. Do whatever you want.”

“What if I wish to spank you?”

I laugh, kind of nervous. “I guess. I’ve never, ah, you know…”

“You are a quick learner. There’s no time like the present, then, to get you started.”

If you read this far, you probably know how it turned out. I was with Master for a good twelve hours, and in that time he did, like, everything to me. And I was completely on board. I did shit I never even heard of, and he wouldn’t let me come, just wouldn’t. Himself, either. By the time he’d taught me what to do and how to be, I’d had maybe a dozen enemas, including a cold one that made my eyes tear, it hurt so bad. I got spanked over his lap like a little kid, smacked with a belt, and caned. He fucked me up the ass, of course, and had dildos and plugs and what I think was a lemon that he put in me, then reached in with all four fingers and pulled back out, again and again.

I signed the contract, even though it was days before I could sit without wincing. Days later, the first time I needed to poop, it hurt so bad I asked to see the nurse, and she gave me an enema and made me hold it forever before I could relieve myself. It barely hurt at all, except my pride.

So I bought into the whole thing, my life as a charge of The Facility complete and fulfilling. I didn’t mind the nightshirt, including when it was arranged to show my beaten ass after I’d been to Corrections. It didn’t happen very often.

Most of the other charges were okay, although I’d get pretty frustrated when they didn’t do their work. Manager told me not to cover for them or pick up the slack; they needed to learn to live with the consequences of their behavior.

I could live with the consequences of their behavior, too. I liked seeing their asses all red or striped, even the women.

The way it worked, I think, was that a client would contact Manager to say what he wanted, both the activity and the kind of charge, what they should look like and everything, and either Manager or The Masters would pick the right one for the job. Depending on the client, I guess you could go a long time without being chosen, if what clients wanted and what you had to offer didn’t align.

And I heard that sometimes, they’d get two or three charges ready, and let the client select after he got there. That never happened to me, though.

My clients were older guys, the silver foxes as well as the unattractive. Initially I judged them instead of seeing them as men with unusual needs I could fulfill, but I learned better—it took a few visits to Corrections to change my attitude. After that, I made myself look at them, really look, to see them as complex men, much more than their sexual interests. We might talk about things other than sex, so long as I didn’t ask that they reveal anything personal. Books, movies, places we’d like to visit, what language we’d love to learn, what if you could read minds, that kind of thing. Many eventually liked me enough to ask for me by name. Somehow I’d morphed from Dan to Daniel, and I liked that, too.

At first I didn’t have a specialty beyond “Whatever You Want.” One of the older unattractive clients I initially thought of as Mr. Toad—see what I mean about a terrible tendency to judge?— was into punishment enemas. He’d tell me what a bad boy I’d been, ask if I was sorry, and spank me when I announced I wasn’t. During the spanking he’d remind me I deserved what was coming.

The enemas were pretty bad without, you know, doing actual damage. He liked me to show how uncomfortable I was, how hurt and humiliated I felt, and I obliged. It was weird, not hiding it because showing pain or feelings was weak and gay. It was what he was paying for.

So I’d squirm and whine, announce how disgusting it felt and ask if I had to take it all, say I couldn’t, and beg near the end, offering to be spanked really hard if only he’d stop, please stop. He wouldn’t, but after I’d emptied, he’d spank me just the same, then leave me simmering while he prepared the next one.

I don’t think he even came, just gave me one enema after another until he’d used his allotted time, if that’s how it worked. Before he left, he huggd me, told me to be good, and thanked me with sincerity I found touching. I don’t think he’d ever had a good partner for this game until me. I told him I was honored to be chosen and hoped to be again.

Manager came to see me after I’d been with him, to tell me how the client had been so very pleased he’d left a generous tip, which would open my bonus money account, payable in full when I left at the end of my contract. “We ask that you trust us to be honest.”

“I trust you with everything else,” I said. “Ah, can you excuse me? Bathroom.” It wasn’t unusual for the enemas to work their way higher than they should, exiting my body later than was convenient. I learned not to be far from the plumbing.

The Masters were good to me. After six months and maybe a hundred and fifty sessions with clients, I got short furloughs to see Mom during the daytime on weekends. It felt strange to wear ordinary clothes again, strange and wrong. She was happy to see me, hugging and even kissing me, and so proud I’d gotten clean and healthy. “Where are you staying, Danny? Are you working?”

“Yeah. My job is, ah, confidential. There’s one of those non-disclosure agreements, so I can’t talk about what I do.” I’d have to tell Manager I’d lied, no doubt earning a visit to Corrections. “I can tell you it pays pretty good, though, and room and board is part of the compensation package. And dental!”

Mom wanted to know if there was a way to get in touch with me, in an emergency. “I should have that, Danny. You never know.”

“I’ll ask.” I guess I wasn’t the first. Manager had a phone number where a message could be left for me, delivered within an hour, often less. It was not to be used for anything that wasn’t an emergency. There was also a post office box where she could write. “I’ll try to reply, even though I don’t have a lot to say. Pretty much all I do is work.”

True enough. I did my custodial chores without complaint. This place was like a school or hospital, the floors being cleaned way more often than people do at home. At The Facility, of course, you got down on your knees and scrubbed, even though the front of your night shirt might get wet. I thought I’d die of shame the first time I had to do it with my shirt pinned up, showing the result of my visit to Corrections, but soon enough I kind of liked showing off how they’d beaten my ass.

When Mom had her hysterectomy, they sent me to sit with her at the hospital, in a jacket and tie, carrying flowers they bought. I iced out my stepfather, didn’t even speak to him. Fuck him. From what Mom had said, I was pretty sure he was cheating on her, too.

At the two-year mark, I didn’t want to leave. Manager said he’d speak with The Masters, see what might be arranged, since they’d been pleased with me overall.

The Masters paid for me to go to trade school where I learned commercial plumbing. They lined up a paid apprenticeship for a firm that only shafted the customers who changed their minds half way through the job. I slept in the dormitory at The Facility, but was gone all day every day except weekends, when I still saw clients.

Two years later, I returned to The Facility full time, where I started my dual career as plumber and Attendant. I got the gang showers working, and every toilet in the place works. I still serve a few favorite clients.

I don’t call him Mr. Toad in my mind any more. He told me his name is Haz Boyd, short for Hazard, named after his great great grandfather, and if I ever want to leave The Facility, to find him.

Sometimes I think about it. He’s a nice man, and probably rich. And old. Plus I’ve grown to really like what he does to me. Would it be so wrong to be his? Just thinking about living with Haz makes me want an enema, several enemas actually, and probably a spanking.

Then I think about everything The Facility has done for me, and I just don’t know. Maybe I should just present myself at Corrections, then visit Nurse. Although I hear Night Nurse will give you enemas until you’re begging for it to end. That’s more what I deserve.