Skip to content

Breaking News


Since CU students are on spring break this week, they opted to suck tequila out of Juan’s belly button instead of evoking my sage love advice.

For punishment, I’ll doll out spankings. But first I’m going to spin a ripping-fine yarn about homeless sex.

Once upon a liver ago, I lived in the RiNo district in Denver, but before it was all fancy. It was all empty warehouses and I lived two doors down from the Gold Star Sausage Company which, when (allegedly) spraying for roaches, would unwittingly send the critters migrating to my abode to spoon me.

The wee duplex I lived in for $375 a month shared an alley with the Larimer Lounge and Meadowlark. Smokey, Denver’s finest transient and poorest celebrity (toothless, guitar-slinging, vodka-chugging alley rat), lived behind my house. He acted as my bodyguard/adopted vagrant. And although pungent, somewhat intrusive and full of wet, foamy kisses for my cheek, he was ultimately just concerned for my safety.

To bring home the beer bacon, I’d ride my bike to the now-defunct Market Street Station, hop on the B bus to Boulder for the night newspaper shift, and return after midnight. As I’d cruise down the alley to my backyard, I’d always hear, “Goddammit Christy, don’t you ride here after dark. You have no idea what goes on in this alley.”

Yeah, yeah. Here’s a sandwich and $2.50 for your gut-rot vodka. See you tomorrow.

Soon enough, I experienced what Smokey attempted to shield my eyes from. There was oral sex, the obvious prostitute bringing home her crab-encrusted bacon, and then the fat sweaty sex. (There’s still a healing scab in my hippocampus where that memory resides.)

As I was leaving for work on a Tuesday, I mounted my bike mere feet from a pair of transients flopping around naked on top of a sleeping bag. When busted in broad daylight, there’s usually an obvious scramble for cover. But not here. The broad’s flapping jugs slapped roughly against her spare tire, which was being physically hoisted up by the dude. They were both soaked from the July sun. Or the delirium tremens.

You’re welcome for painting that pretty image.

Distressed, I told Smokey. This was my alley, goddammit.

“Don’t worry baby. Don’t feel left out. I’ve got your back.”

Left out? Whatever, Smokey. Just chase ’em off.

Then one day while drinking at the Whiskey Bar with a pal, Smokey comes banging on the outside window, summoning me to come hither.

I didn’t feel like it. I sent my drinking buddy out with a cigarette and a dollar.

“I was just screwing this prostitute in the alley and I want Christy to know that I was screaming her name.”

“Well then,” pal said.

“And the prostitute kept yelling, ‘that’s not my name,’ and I’d yell back, ‘shut up bitch, I already paid you $5.'”

Ah. Left out.

I suppose I should feel honored that I was being included with my name being screeched in ecstasy amidst the climax of a $5 whore and a homeless man in a downtown alley.

So, thanks Smokey for having my back.

Christy Fantz: