A/N: So…. I blame this on the Drive soundtrack. Ya, let's go with that. Honestly, I have no idea where it came from, I just know that it happened because of Drive. Which, if you haven't seen it, what's wrong with you? Go watch it now. :P Anyways! Don't hate me for writing this because it kinda, maybe, might not have a real purpose or even structure. It just happened because I take the train to school and I get bored and so I write a lot of drabbles, and I actually liked these ones enough to string them together. :P Geez, and if you weren't questioning reading it before you probably are now! It's just cuz I'm a pro like that. Ehm…. Please comment! I love any and all things that y'all have to say and it makes me so happy to see you took the time to write me a little somesin' somesin'. Please enjoy. ^^
Your one thousand square foot apartment isn't exactly glamorous, but you do what you can with it.
After all, if someone's paying you for sex you want to do everything you can to dispel the 'nasty hooker' ideas that most of them are expecting. No one wants to get down and dirty in a place that looks like it could damage much more than their reputation. Since you can't afford anything outside of the shadier part of town (because let's be honest, you're good, but you're not Julia Roberts good. At least not yet.) you decide to focus on the inside.
Your place is sparsely decorated, the majority of your profits going toward hospital bills, but everything you have was carefully chosen, thought out months in advance. The cool greys painted on the walls calm, quiet, soothe. There's a pot of branches on the coffee table with handmade paper cranes hanging from each one- all varying shades of blue. It's a motif you've found often used in spas, which are certainly classier than here. To tie it all together you buy several of those glass jars with crisp scented oils and bamboo sticks. At first you'd tried incense, but the heady spice was a little too much, made you feel like a courtesan being passed from randy knight to knight.
Your bedroom is impersonal, but not clinical. The men you see don't want this to feel like a business arrangement, but they certainly don't want to be reminded that you're a bonafide "real boy" with a life outside of taking care of their every pleasure. It's a hard balance to keep, but you've been pretty good at toeing the line so far. There's a lot at stake. The bedding's monochrome, the walls are devoid of any pictures save abstracts. The humanizing touch is a vintage record player standing in the corner, and because you're classy like that you have a separate collection of vinyl's picked out just for when your men come calling. Music that's got a little grunge, a little quiet edge, but nothing so bold as to distract. It took a few tries to get the selection just right.
It's really not as bad as you'd thought it would be, hiring yourself out like this. You'd expected the worst in an effort not to fool yourself with just what you were getting into. You'd expected men with vicious appetites and a dark tint to their souls. Most days it's more like a rest stop for the lonely hearted. Even if it hadn't been, you'd never regret the decision. This was something you had to do and so you do it gladly. The ends justify the means. That's logic enough for you.
Luckily the first man you ever had turned out to be more of a boy, nearly a puppy to be truthful.
His name was Scott McCall and you gathered he was just as new to this as you were when he greeted you with a handshake and actually gave you his real name, first and last. He had big brown eyes, an adorable pout, and a crooked jaw with a smattering of scruff that compelled you to scratch at his chin while smiling like a dope. Of course you saved that for post-orgasm moments, but still.
He'd followed his high school sweetheart to an out of state college, leaving his family and friends behind, and when she'd decided they needed some time apart, he came to you for comfort. He likes to play it like you're more friends with benefits than 'he's got a need and you've got a skill'. You actually get along strangely well, conversation flowing easily and a casual intimacy even more so. He comes over and spends a great deal of his time bemoaning his situation, eats you out of house and home, and watches all the best campy movies with you.
Sometimes it all starts with horseplay, the two of you wrestling over the couch until it eventually turns sexual. But most times something or other will remind him of her and he'll start to get a little sad, which is your cue to make him happy in the way men love best. You provide a shoulder to cry on, lips to quiet with, hands to soothe, a whole body to lose himself in. He never breaks the illusion by bringing his own condoms or lube, by asking you to do things differently, to explore. He shows up, you lick his wounds, and while you're on the shower he sets the money in a neat pile on the nightstand and takes his leave.
Sometimes you genuinely miss his company.