Jason can handle the roughness.
He can handle the hair pulling, the clawing nails, the biting.
It hurts, but it makes him feel like he's not supposed to be there- like in some fucked up corner of his conscience, he can still pretend that he's being forced into this.
But the truth is, he's not. Maybe a long time ago, but now it's just about the money and the pleasure and the single moment of thrill.
That's why Jason hates the ones who cuddle. There aren't many of them. People have places to be- no time to take a nap in the middle of the day with some kid they just fucked the living daylights out of. The ones that do stay, though, annoy Jason to no end.
They're usually older in their years, maybe on the deep end of thirty- They're the ones who offer to bring Jason out for dinner later, and can we maybe do this again sometime?
They're the ones who pat the bedspread in the cheap, filthy motel room (as if Jason hasn't been in this exact room just the day- or hours- before, naked and moaning for another man)- and ask Jason about himself.
So what's your name?
What's your favorite flavor of ice cream?
The sex is soft, tender, and yet it makes Jason hurt more than any bleeding bite or sore scratch. It makes him want like he's never wanted anything- want something more than the crumpled bills he gets for his hour of mutual pleasure, more than the red and purple marks all over his pale skin.
It makes him miss Bruce all over again. Miss his proud smile, miss the way he brushed hair out of Jason's eyes to shut him up (and it always worked), miss the way he whispered his name when they slid back under the blankets and slept...
Jason hates the ones who talk too much. Ask too many questions.
Because, to be honest...
Jason doesn't know how to answer.
