Here is the first instalment of my new story, Seven Days. I can't promise just how often I will post, but I'll try to make it at least once every two weeks. I have three other stories I'm also working on, so the schedule is a bit tight :-).
It started out like a normal night -- a cliché, I know, but appropriate nonetheless. I am not a writer, and I won't pretend to be one, so I guess that could excuse me from using them. I am also not a singer, painter, entertainer, comedian, DJ or fireman. Those are all the things that I'd wanted to be over the years since my tenth birthday. Now, not even nine years later, I am a prostitute.
But I digress (heh, another cliché). Like I said, it started out like any other night in my dingy flat opposite the tracks -- with sex. I charge a twenty for a blowjob, an extra ten if the customer wants to fuck me, and another five if he wants to do it without a condom. Naturally, the price went way up if he should want to use chains, whips, cuffs, dildo's, beads, clamps, hooks or any other kinky toys, and I won't even begin to discuss how much dough the john has to pull out before he can cum in my mouth.
The guy who was fucking me doggy style, sounded just like that -- a dog. A great dane in the throes of brutal, uncivilised, animalistic pleasure. He also looked the part. His cheeks were saggy, drool was dripping out of his mouth and (no lie) his nose was wet. His cock was also huge, but that is a topic too putrid and disgusting for another human being to read about.
After what felt like hours, Dane (yeah, a pet name) finished and was out of the room even before I could drag my split ass off the bed to claim my money. I wanted thirty five big ones from him, plus an extra ten because he was overly hairy. That would have been enough to buy some dinner and maybe a drink or ten down at Stationeer's. Yeah, I drown my sorrows in whiskey. Who doesn't?
But back to the topic, here I was sitting on the excuse for a sheet that I called my bed with my sore ass, empty stomach and totally sober head feeling positively miserable. Then he walked in. He didn't look like my usual sort of customer. He had dirty blonde curly hair that cascaded over his shoulders, piercing yellow eyes (I swear, they were yellow) and was dressed in different shades of white that ranged from washing powder white to blinding-your-eyes-with-one-glance white.
His voice sounded like Santana plucking away at his guitar, producing a sweet, sad, melancholic melody. `You will die in seven days.'
Remembering that movie, The Ring, I gave him a highly disgusted look and said, `You don't look like that little bitch from the well. But if that's your fantasy, whip `em off and I'll only charge ya thirty.' But even as I said it, he disappeared. Not as in walked-out-the-door disappeared, but faded-before-my-very-eyes kind of disappeared. That seriously freaked me out, but I put it down to being an illusion and went about my business for the rest of the night, collecting only fifty four bucks of the hundred and eighty that I should have got.
The johns all know that I'm a pushover, so they use me for sex and rarely pay me afterwards. It was after midnight before I finally got to Stationeer's. Now, me trying to describe Stationeer's wouldn't do it any justice, but I will still try to get you to paint a mental picture in your head of the one place I can call home.
Stationeer's is a pub right next to the train station. With its green chairs and yellow tables it was nauseatingly harsh on the eyes. The pink walls, faded in some places, cracked in others were full of permanent marker graffiti, and like all the establishments around here, it was run-down, dilapidated, filthy and totally stank of urine. But unlike other establishments, it was run by a strong hand, Mama Marsh. She was an old woman, having barely any hair or teeth, and quite unsightly, but she had a sort of charm about her that made any gay whore love her to bits. She was the ultimate fag hag.
She smiled as I walked in, showcasing her precious last tooth, smack in the front of her mouth on the bottom, and fetched me a bowl of stew. She knew I would come -- I always came to Stationeer's for dinner. Despite the hour, the place was still quite full and would remain so until around 3 am. Only after I finished my food and my whiskey did she speak (or her version of it, anyway).
`'Ad a strange fella in `ere t'night' she said, working her tongue around her tooth.
`Oh? What was he like?' I asked, thinking of the prophet of death that showed up in my hole earlier that night.
`Was a righ' bitch, `e was. Walked in wih' `is white shreds an' curly hair, demandin' ta see ew.'
`Me? You don't say.' I said dryly.
`Wanted a fuck if'a ask'd me. `E look right `ot an' bothered.' She confided, winking a wrinkled eye.
`Yeah...' I said, `I'm sure...'
`Bu' it is a li'l strange fow someone like `im t'be askin afte' someone like ew.' She mused. `He looked right rich, that'un.'
`Well, I didn't see him so he means shit to me.' I said and promptly turned back to my half-eaten bowl of stew, suddenly not hungry anymore. With Mama Marsh having seen the strange guy, all theories of me being tired or hallucinating at his disappearance were null and void. I suddenly turned back to the old crock. If this guy was for real, I wanted to find out as much about him as possible.
`You don't know where he is right now, do you Mama?' I asked.
She started to shake her head, but just then the pub door opened and the handsome guy walked in. I didn't know if it was my imagination or not, but I could swear that I could see the snow falling through him, almost as if he was a heavily white-tinted window.
Or a ghost.
`Well, I mussay I s'pect tha's `im there.' Mama said, pointing to the stranger. He immediately spotted us and started making his way over to the bar where I sat. `Well, if he gives ya any trouble, ya jus' shout love,' and with that Mama Marsh went into the kitchen of the pub, probably to yell at the cook or something. She's a tough old bird.