A/N: This is the story's introduction. I hope you understand and I hope you like it.
It wasn't rocket science; it was sex. There really was no other way around it, he knew what he was doing, he knew how much it cost him and how much he gained from it. The real question was whether he had voluntarily thrown himself out of heaven by quitting his job. He probably had four or five customers a night, depending solely on his mood. They were lined up for months; his calendar was practically filled with dates and appointments for the next six months or so.
The men certainly enjoyed it; there have been no complaints and everyone comes back for a second go. He obviously enjoyed the money he received, it paid for his house, his car and his lifestyle, the attention he was lavished kept him confident and happy, the propositions and the offers told him he was beautiful, it gave him life.
The men ranged in every possible way. Shapes, sizes, statures, wealth, age. They were either looking for a no-hassle escort for the night's soiree, a sex toy with a pretty face and a frail body they could throw around and play with, a cute date to make them forget the stresses of the day or just someone they could cry to when love's game had become too cruel, someone to sleep beside and not with.
He really didn't have a preference in the beginning, or maybe he preferred those who paid him extra. He didn't have any reservations with his clients nor did he have any favorites who he treated more respectfully than the others. Every single one was the same. Whether their faces were bloated and ugly or sculpted and fine, whether they crushed him with their weight or could barely lift him from the ground, whether they were well-endowed or practically microscopic, whether they played rough or soft and gentle, it didn't matter because all they truly were are fat wallets loaded with his telephone bill and his mortgage and his monthly clothing allowance.
To let another man fondle you for a living, he decided, was a personal choice. It wasn't a bad one; it wasn't a moral one either. It was a personal one, meaning it depended solely on the person who performed it; their reasons were theirs and there was certainly no one in the world that had a right to judge them. For him the reason was simple; he was gorgeous and everyone wanted him, he had no particular skills, other than those in the bed, that could possibly feed him let alone support the lifestyle he was accustomed. So basically, he thought, 'why the hell not?'
Life was simple, he knew this. It was a dog-eat-dog world out there and if he didn't bite and kill, he would end up getting bitten and killed and that certainly was no way for a pretty face like him to die. It was all fine, really. Of course there's discomfort, and yes there are many moments were he wished he could quit it all, moments that made him cry, moments that made him realize he really had no choice anymore. Whenever a man paid their due, stuffed his face with money, they had a right to him, they owned his body; his mind was just there for the ride, his heart strapped to the seat, bleeding. When a client slapped him or called him a name or forced a kiss he couldn't do anything about it. He was just there for the ride.
Sometimes he felt as if he was choking on the very air he breathed. He felt suffocated by his situation, by the clients who pressured him for more, by his body that was practically falling apart. The ride was making him dizzy, more than that, it was slowly strangling him.
Until someone set him loose.
The ride was gone now, he was holding onto thin air.
A/N: in case you were wondering….this is Draco talking. gasp I'd die of shock if Harry ever talked like this…even if it IS all in his head.
