My name is Justin Taylor and this is my story. I know there are plenty of love stories out there and many of them about hustlers, or former hustlers. I'm not pretending that my story is particularly unique, but I wanted a chance to tell it.

When I'd just turned eighteen, my father found out two things he hated about me. First, he found out that I wanted to study art. It wasn't his dream for me – He wanted me to be a business major and take over his profitable business "Taylor Electronics". He was the king of stereos and TV's and wanted me to take over the throne.

The second thing he found out was that I'm gay. It all came out, as it were, when I got into a shoving match with a guy from school, Chris Hobbes. Our fathers were dragged with us into a meeting in the principal's office. During the meeting Chris called me a fag and I didn't deny it. He was in denial about his homosexual tendencies, but I decided to be out and proud.

Dad was pissed. He told me that I had to give up my disgusting lifestyle and my desire for an art degree. As long as I lived in his house I had to follow his rules, none of which I could stand. I realized that the only way I could live my life the way I wanted was to get away from him. I loved my family, but being true to myself was important, too.

I told him off and a heated argument went on for a while. My mother tried to calm us down, but it became clear to me that Mom wasn't going to change Dad's mind. I pulled out a duffel bag and started packing. Within an hour, I was on the street with my bag in my hand, disowned.

I stayed with my friend Daphne's family for a while. I missed my senior prom due to lack of money. I also didn't have anybody to take. Daphne and I discussed it, but my heart wasn't in it. I finished the last two weeks of high school and graduated. I was the only kid there with no family in attendance. It sucked.

Daphne had plans to go off to college, so I couldn't live with her anymore. I was rather desperate, so I got a room in Vaseline Towers. It was a shithole, but it was roof over my head. I found a job at Pittsburgh Perk coffee house as a barista. It paid rent, but there was no money for food or anything else. I needed to supplement my income.

The first time I sold myself for money, I was pretty desperate. Some old perv wandered out of a bar a few blocks north of Liberty Avenue. I was in the alley having a cigarette. He flirted with me. At first I told him to go away, but then he offered me twenty bucks to blow him. I had less than a dollar in my pocket and no food in my gut. I don't know how I got the nerve, but I negotiated my price up to thirty. He agreed, put the cash in my hand, I dropped to my knees and blew him right there.

After he finished, I went to the Diner and ate like a king. Deb, the waitress there, has always been nice to me. That night I felt ashamed of what I'd done, but I was so fucking hungry, the shame dissipated. I realized that if I needed to keep food on the table, I might have to consider hustling.

The years went by. I won't bore you with all of the details, but I continued work in the coffee shop during the day and supplemented my income at night by hustling. After a few years I was no longer working the streets. I'd established a clientele of guys who'd call me and I'd go to their place and service 'em. My price for a blow job was one hundred: fucking was three hundred and never without a condom.

I made enough money to get an apartment I shared with two other guys, Andy and JR. They were in my same line of work, and I ain't talking about making lattes. It was definitely a notch up from Vaseline Towers, although JR was pretty much of an asshole. I just avoided him as much as possible.

I managed to pull in enough cash to enroll myself in community college and start my art degree. Between the coffee shop, school and hustling, life was busy. I never had time for a social life. I never dated.

So, here's the part where I tell you about my romantic life. There's not much to tell, I didn't have one. My johns were all generally good guys, who just needed to pay someone to get laid. Sometimes I'd meet a guy at a bar and find him interesting, but when we'd get close enough to kiss or do anything intimate, I'd push away.

I couldn't bring myself to get close to anyone. I loved my family and they rejected me. I tried to make friends in high school, but, after I came out, they all shunned me except Daphne. Even she moved away. I know that's not really rejection, but she wasn't around for me to tell my troubles to. My roommates were only interested in whether or not I could come up with rent. There was a gal from the coffee shop, Janice, that was a good work friend, but I didn't socialize with her much outside of the shop. I'm pretty sure that explaining to a good friend or lover you're a hustler at night probably wouldn't go over real well.

The fear of rejection paralyzed me. The idea of opening up myself to someone and then getting my heart stomped on kept me from getting close. I desperately wanted to love someone and be loved, but, I didn't believe it could ever happen for me. I'd watch couples walk down the street holding hands and I'd ache for the closeness. I'd sleep alone at night, wishing for someone to hold, to love.

Anyway, life went on for me. I graduated with my art degree, which meant, of course, that all I was asked to do professionally in that regard was the pretty chalkboard signs at the coffee shop. No one was hiring an artist. I didn't have enough spare time to do anything beyond sketching. I'd tried to establish a portfolio and, with my school projects, managed to put together a pretty good one. But nothing clicked for me professionally. Occasionally, I'd save up for some art supplies and do some paintings. I really wanted to work with larger canvases, but never had any place to do them outside of my apartment.

One day I when I arrived at the Diner and the place was in a commotion: some kid had been killed and thrown into a dumpster behind the place. Deb had found him. I went out back and recognized him. I didn't know his name, but knew I'd seen him hustling. A kid named Hunter recognized him, too. I'd met Hunter on the streets a couple of times. He reminded me of me about four years before. We talked to Deb and I drew a picture of the kid. We called him dumpster boy, until there was more information about his identity. We later found out his name was Jason Kemp.

I was sitting at a booth drawing a sketch of Jason and I could sense someone looking over my shoulder at the next booth.

"Not bad." Said the sexy voice.

"Thanks." I said. I looked up and saw this guy. He was gorgeous, tall, well-dressed and had this fucking charming smile that could knock me over. I'd been to the Diner a few times, but I'd never seen him before. I struggled for the next thing to say. "I hope we catch whoever killed this kid."

"Little hustler picked up one too many tricks." He said with a shrug. I was burning with the knowledge that I was a hustler, too, albeit a few notches above the boy being zipped into a coroner's bag.

Deb hit him on the back of the head. "That hustler was someone's son, asshole!"

Hunter piped in. "Don't forget, Brian, I'm a hustler, too."

Brian shrugged again. He stared at me intently. "And you?" His eyes bored into me. I could tell he was attracted to me. I also got the sense that he knew that I hustled, or suspected. I wasn't going to tell anyone of my secondary profession, particularly a guy who obviously didn't put much value on the life of a hustler.

"I'm an art school graduate. That's all you need to know." I clipped. I handed the sketch to Deb. "Here you go. I hope it helps." Detective Horvath took a statement from me and got my information.

She thanked me and I grabbed my coat to leave. Brian and I exchanged glances. I felt his eyes following me as I left.