A/N: Heee, this one's one of my favorites. Jackson is just such an adorable little prick. :P
There's little disposable income to speak of in your budget, and as such your wardrobe has sort of fallen by the wayside (among many other things).
It's funny to think that this has actually upped your profile, though. Most of your shirts are faded and worn- a good deal of them too small to properly fit. The sleeves climb up into your armpits and the hems barely manage to meet the waist of your jeans. Any time you move your arms they ride up and varying degrees of skin peek out. The three pairs of pants you own all have holes, but certain ones have them in worse places. The cut of them was probably out of style ten years ago, but they hug your ass well enough and it's not like you've ever received any complaints- at least not any that you pay any mind to.
The one who did- a young guy, pretty close to your age you think, named Jackson- he's by far your most wealthy and most attractive John, but he's not much of one for pleasantries. The first time he saw you, scanning a local club for potentials, he gave you a thinly veiled once-over and called you a whore. You suppose you only reinforced the idea when you sucked his brain out through his dick five minutes later in the passenger seat of his Porsche. He still calls you a "pretty little slut" but at least he lessens the sting with a generous amount of cash after his visits as opposed to the less-than-impressive hand job he'd traded that first night.
Instead of weekly standing appointments like the majority of your boys he'll usually rent you out for any given weekend and bring an overnight bag to your place. The whole time he cracks jokes about how he's probably going to get shanked on his way over, or catch a venereal disease from your toilet, but he also makes you breakfast and likes to share hot baths and spends long hours waxing poetic about the softness of your skin.
Despite his arrogant douchebag exterior, Jackson likes to bottom nine times out of ten and afterwards you spoon for hours, his face buried in your shoulder. He whispers softly about how badly he wants to take you out to fancy restaurants, to cheesy romantic comedies, to spontaneous vacations in Paris and London and Madrid. He confesses how he hates waking up and not seeing you beside him, and every time he asks how much it would take to make you his and his alone, and you're reminded of just how he sees you before you can get too starry-eyed. It's a cold splash back into reality every time, but you're glad for it. Otherwise you just might take him up on the offer some day. Usually you just respond by disappearing beneath the blankets and making him forget he ever asked the question in the first place.
Once the beginning of the week rolls around he closes back up and stops calling you by your name- or at least the one you give all of them. He haggles and barters over your pricing, saying you talk too much and you never have the kind of lube he likes, and he should get some kind of frequent flier miles or an amazing performance discount or something. In the end he makes the check out for twenty percent more than you asked originally, kisses you goodbye long and slow, and calls you a fag as he closes the door. It's never not mind-boggling.
With the extra money you get your dad a present and buy an outfit suitable to wear to the hospital.