Untitled.
So this is most probably really badly written... but hey, it broke the writer's block. And I had serious writer's block.
ps. the ending is crap. you are forewarned.
***
He can’t stand it for much longer, because it’s the smell of sweat and blood and shit and sex all tangled up together in the smoky stifling heat of the basement that is making the bile rise in his throat. He’s cold, and when he thinks about it, good health be fucked because nobody else in this shithouse even has a blanket for themselves let alone one to spare. Survival right now might well be dependent on the sharing of body heat but damn it- he’s had enough fucking body heat to last the rest of his life.
Besides, the cold is… okay, he muses, because really there’s nothing else he’d like better than to be a little cold since all he ever remembers is sweat and heat and suffocation and fucking. And after all that was done there was also the cold, but he knows it was a different cold… an empty cold. The sort of cold that seeps through the bones and into the soul. Then like a fucking lather, rinse repeat… it’d happen all again. Heat and suffocation and the empty cold. This, now… this isn’t as deep. As far as he can tell, it stops at his bloody skeleton. Better to be goddamn cold than goddamned smothered, even for a short while.
He knows he got into this business because all he wanted was to be touched, to fell real, instead of living in goddamn isolation. He’d lived for so long with a heroin-addicted mother and gaol-addicted father that it seemed natural he’d begin offering up his arse to the first person who’d take it. Easy way to make money too, so long as he charges reasonably and works each night. It’s a small price to pay for love.
Only it wasn’t quite what he thought it would be. He got most of it right, spot on almost with what life would be like as a whore. But, he thought- and perhaps it was only a fucked up romantic idolisation- that he’d get the attention he’d so long been denied. He developed a habit of watching the men, but the men never watched him back. Just another person to add to the list of fuckers-who-make-it-life’s-mission-to-ignore-him.
So he let’s his teeth chatter violently as he clutches thin wisps of his t-shirt tighter around him and stares at the other occupants of the room. He’s pretty damn good at staring, very much used to staring. Clever really, to have perfected the art of staring so he could watch all the people who fucking refuse to even look at him, regardless of the fact it’s his arse they’re screwing and his mouth they’re violating. They refuse to look in his direction… to look at his face- like it will bring their little fucked up reality into focus, will make them guilty over who they’re bedding. And really, it’s oh-so-bloody-well-clever that he’s staring, because he’s gotten to be a really good judge of humanity- even from a distance.
He finds that the middle and lower class working men will mumble apologies after they’ve come, will quietly leave the pay on the small broken table while he is left to wait on the mattress for the next man. It’s almost nice in a way. Their guilt makes him feel human, like there’s a part of him that shows he’s broken, just like that god-forsaken table.
But then those men who are in positions of power- the lawyers, CEO’s and bank managers of the world- they hardly feel any guilt over what they do with you so long as they don’t look at you while they’re fucking doing it since- after all, you fucking well offered it in the first place. They, unlike the mildly successful, are what he deems as the favoured clients, the returning customers for simply that- they’ll return, with pockets overflowing with fifty dollar bills. At least they acknowledge you once they’ve satisfied their cocks, all ready and waiting and eager to organise the next meeting.
He snorts with bitter laughter at the memory of those men using that term- ‘a meeting’, as if the fucking roles are reversed and he is the client and not the foggy arse of a man in the tailored suit who comes to him every Wednesday night because he has a penchant for the younger man, and his wife just isn’t cutting it any more.
And yet here, now, in a small cramped basement that smells of sweat and blood and shit and sex he’s amongst the other boys like him, relishing in the cold after so much false warmth and missing touches. He stares at his comrades, the rent boys who have been saved rather ironically because of a demolition notice on the worn out building they’ve been working out of. He stares at them, and notices that for the first time in his life…
Figures. The only place he’ll belong, the only place he’ll satisfy his own cravings… the end of the bloody world. He stands, and crosses the room to another kid who’s probably only a year older than him. He isn’t refused the small patch of rock he newly occupies and so he takes a chance, open his mouth.
His voice sounds strained and hoarse, but he hasn’t had much opportunity to use it because there’s no damn chance to talk because it’s usually preoccupied with someone’s idea of fun. Do you want to know something? He asks, and his new companion turns his head. Sure.
We’re at the end of everything, but it’s finally right. His companion looks confused. Why?
Because I’ve been staring out for so long… but right here is where they stare back.
ps. the ending is crap. you are forewarned.
***
He can’t stand it for much longer, because it’s the smell of sweat and blood and shit and sex all tangled up together in the smoky stifling heat of the basement that is making the bile rise in his throat. He’s cold, and when he thinks about it, good health be fucked because nobody else in this shithouse even has a blanket for themselves let alone one to spare. Survival right now might well be dependent on the sharing of body heat but damn it- he’s had enough fucking body heat to last the rest of his life.
Besides, the cold is… okay, he muses, because really there’s nothing else he’d like better than to be a little cold since all he ever remembers is sweat and heat and suffocation and fucking. And after all that was done there was also the cold, but he knows it was a different cold… an empty cold. The sort of cold that seeps through the bones and into the soul. Then like a fucking lather, rinse repeat… it’d happen all again. Heat and suffocation and the empty cold. This, now… this isn’t as deep. As far as he can tell, it stops at his bloody skeleton. Better to be goddamn cold than goddamned smothered, even for a short while.
He knows he got into this business because all he wanted was to be touched, to fell real, instead of living in goddamn isolation. He’d lived for so long with a heroin-addicted mother and gaol-addicted father that it seemed natural he’d begin offering up his arse to the first person who’d take it. Easy way to make money too, so long as he charges reasonably and works each night. It’s a small price to pay for love.
Only it wasn’t quite what he thought it would be. He got most of it right, spot on almost with what life would be like as a whore. But, he thought- and perhaps it was only a fucked up romantic idolisation- that he’d get the attention he’d so long been denied. He developed a habit of watching the men, but the men never watched him back. Just another person to add to the list of fuckers-who-make-it-life’s-mission-to-ignore-him.
So he let’s his teeth chatter violently as he clutches thin wisps of his t-shirt tighter around him and stares at the other occupants of the room. He’s pretty damn good at staring, very much used to staring. Clever really, to have perfected the art of staring so he could watch all the people who fucking refuse to even look at him, regardless of the fact it’s his arse they’re screwing and his mouth they’re violating. They refuse to look in his direction… to look at his face- like it will bring their little fucked up reality into focus, will make them guilty over who they’re bedding. And really, it’s oh-so-bloody-well-clever that he’s staring, because he’s gotten to be a really good judge of humanity- even from a distance.
He finds that the middle and lower class working men will mumble apologies after they’ve come, will quietly leave the pay on the small broken table while he is left to wait on the mattress for the next man. It’s almost nice in a way. Their guilt makes him feel human, like there’s a part of him that shows he’s broken, just like that god-forsaken table.
But then those men who are in positions of power- the lawyers, CEO’s and bank managers of the world- they hardly feel any guilt over what they do with you so long as they don’t look at you while they’re fucking doing it since- after all, you fucking well offered it in the first place. They, unlike the mildly successful, are what he deems as the favoured clients, the returning customers for simply that- they’ll return, with pockets overflowing with fifty dollar bills. At least they acknowledge you once they’ve satisfied their cocks, all ready and waiting and eager to organise the next meeting.
He snorts with bitter laughter at the memory of those men using that term- ‘a meeting’, as if the fucking roles are reversed and he is the client and not the foggy arse of a man in the tailored suit who comes to him every Wednesday night because he has a penchant for the younger man, and his wife just isn’t cutting it any more.
And yet here, now, in a small cramped basement that smells of sweat and blood and shit and sex he’s amongst the other boys like him, relishing in the cold after so much false warmth and missing touches. He stares at his comrades, the rent boys who have been saved rather ironically because of a demolition notice on the worn out building they’ve been working out of. He stares at them, and notices that for the first time in his life…
Figures. The only place he’ll belong, the only place he’ll satisfy his own cravings… the end of the bloody world. He stands, and crosses the room to another kid who’s probably only a year older than him. He isn’t refused the small patch of rock he newly occupies and so he takes a chance, open his mouth.
His voice sounds strained and hoarse, but he hasn’t had much opportunity to use it because there’s no damn chance to talk because it’s usually preoccupied with someone’s idea of fun. Do you want to know something? He asks, and his new companion turns his head. Sure.
We’re at the end of everything, but it’s finally right. His companion looks confused. Why?
Because I’ve been staring out for so long… but right here is where they stare back.