Talk Is Cheap.

Nobody could lie and say the back alleys of America were clean. Once in a while, you could hear grunts and short, breathy moans. There was the obscene sound of skin on skin, the sound of tongues sliding against the other. If you turned the wrong corner, you could see a boy on his hands and knees. You could witness people being slammed into walls while their clothes were ripped open. Stay long enough and you could hear the squelching of fluids and the work of a tongue lapping his work up. The rolling of coins follow, clinking on the cobblestone floor along with hurried footsteps; and then they were gone. Upstanding citizens vanishing to where it was acceptable. That was where you stood, wiping your mouth on your sleeve, on the corner of Fourth and Fremont.

Fetching your coat from behind a small loose brick on the wall, you wrapped it around your small body, your last piece of clothing, ripped into pieces. Uniformed men always needed to take something from you to justify their cause. Your body felt numb; there was an aching throbbing at the bottom of your spine. You arched yourself up, trying to loosen your muscles but it caused a sharp stab of pain right there and ohfuck.

Curling into yourself, you half wanted to walk away and sleep already. But pay was pay and you were living hand to mouth as it was. Stumbling out from behind the alley, you leaned against your corner; face a betrayal to any pain you felt. You were calm, cool and collected, as though a real pioneer in this trade. Inside, you were shivering and tearing yourself up into two, knowing you were nothing more than a week old whore.

An unusually loud moan came from somewhere to your right. You ducked your head down as fellow pedestrians turned to stare. This business, it was supposed to be a silent affair. Hushed up sounds and sloppy kisses to cover up for orgasming moans. You avoided their accusing stare, reminding yourself that half of the people in disgust were serviced by one of your kind before. Nobody was perfect, the others said. You believed them.

A man walked past. Your “friends” on all the other corners watched the brunet with the smart suit and tie. His hat was perfectly positioned atop the luscious head of hair. He walked with an air of confidence. This man was not new.

You pushed yourself off the corner, trying to make a good impression. This customer knows exactly what he wants but you don’t. You decided to back off at the last minute, let Bryan from the corner after have him but too late. The man stopped in front of you, your corner, and grinned.

“Tonight’s a good night.” You hesitated a while, glancing around. The other boys were staring at him, malice in their eyes. You gulped down fear.

“I suppose sir, it depends on your whereabouts.”

“Then I’m pretty lucky myself.”

“Where are you headed to mister?” he asked, hoping the man would go away. His voice was too smooth, too comforting for it to mean anything more than lies.

“Five blocks from here. Just pass the corner. Do you happen to know what’s there?”

“It’s two for the price of one sir,” you answered, almost feeling disappointed. The man knew what he wanted, but what was not you. The men on that corner, they were effeminate. They were beautiful and graceful and delicate. And they were never hurt. Their heads weren’t bruised by a too hard slam against the wall- their knees weren’t scratched from the cobblestone floor. They were well taken care of. You were about to turn away, to dismiss the classy man who wanted something other than yourself, when you felt a soft hand on your chin, making you turn back.

“And what say you if I pay for two but I only get one?” His voice was spinning silk in your ears. Unable to turn away, you stared at the glossy lips and the full eyelashes; into the deep, brown eyes and past the pale skin.

“I would say you were easily cheated mister,” you licked your lips self consciously, fully knowing the other man was watching your tongue like a hawk.

“Even if it’s you?” Your heart stopped for a beat or two or five. Double the pay means one less customer to take. Looking at the man, you decided this is not a mere hour fuck, he would take his time, it would take a whole night. That could cover you twice. That man caressed your face with one hand as the other hand wandered lower. It ran up and down your sides, probing and threading over sensitive skin. Even through the material of the coat, you felt the determined fingers slide past bruises and bones to rub on skin. You couldn’t help it, you gasped and he gave a chuckle in your ear.

“Please sir, there is only yes and no. You cannot frequent for a trial,” you groaned out, your eyes fluttering close. “His hands were made of magic,” you thought as some sort of current jolted across your body, under your skin and you let out a sigh of pleasure in the middle of the street with everyone else watching. Instantly the man backed away a step and you felt a yearning for his body heat a second before relief hit you.

“How much do they pay you sir?” his voice held real curiosity but it still shamed you into looking away. Your slight chest was heaving; you were still short of breath. No other man has managed to extract such reactions from you in the one week.

“Enough mister.”

“Surely not, with that pretty face of yours. You’re worth more; I can give it to you.”

“I don’t think it’s necessary to flatter sir. I’m just a common whore.”

“I’m making you an offer. I ask you to work with me,”

“Under you, I guess was sir’s initial thought.” You didn’t try to hide the scorn in your voice just as he didn’t try to hide the jolted yearn at your voice sensually moving and hinting at the innuendo filled words.

“For me. We work five blocks away.” You felt your guts curling and twisting with every syllable of his words. Instantly, you tried pushing yourself as far back into your corner as possible, the ridges of the uneven bricks scratching into your back.

“I work alone,” you muttered.

“Even so, I can treat you better.”