fic: JUST ABOUT SEX (1/1) Adult
- JUST ABOUT SEX
Summary: A night in the life of a streetwalker
Warning: ADULT - ADULT - ADULT. I'm not kidding.
Don't read this is you're underage and/or easily
Notes: Short, dark and weird. God knows where this
came from. See endnotes.
Disclaimer/Archive: Marvel owns, not me. Whoever
wants it, please let me know ... and keep the adult
I didn't eat today because I knew I'd eat tonight. So
I saved my boxes of macaroni and cheese, Ramen
noodles, and instant rice. It's the night for my best
regular john, and I dress carefully. I don't want to
piss him off. He's particular. I wash my hair and do
minimal makeup. Nothing on under black leather pants,
my cigarettes tucked in the waistband at the base of
my spine, tight shirt that bares my midrift and the
silver navel ring, heeled boots and short leather
gloves. This is his outfit. Once every two weeks.
The guy in the silver jaguar. He's never told me his
name. I asked him for it once, when he asked me for
mine. I figured he'd give me something fake but I'd
prefer to call him by a fake name than just 'Hey,
mister.' He'd shaken his head. "Call me John." I'd
laughed at that. But I don't call him John. He's the
guy in the silver jaguar.
Tonight, we meet as we always do, outside Jimmy's
diner. It's drizzling a little, fuzzing streetlights
and slicking the New York streets like summer sweat.
I'm glad I don't have to be out in this shit. Meeting
here is part of the deal. He feeds me as a prelude.
He started it, not me. "Your pimp may take most of
what I pay you, but he can't take the food out of your
belly," he'd said.
He's a little early tonight, leaning up against his
shiny silver car despite the rain, and waiting on me.
He gives me a kiss and tells me I'm pretty. He smells
of wet man and metal. Then he takes me in and feeds
me, lets me eat as much as I want while he watches and
drinks German beer. Sometimes he smokes, sometimes he
doesn't, but he always glares at me when I do � which
seems hypocritical. He's committing statutory rape
and soliciting a streetwalker, and he worries about
who sells me cigarettes? But he's an old guy so I cut
him some slack for old-fashioned values. We sit at a
booth that isn't entirely clean and listen to Vince
Gill on the jute box. The waitress has been bleached
until her hair is frizzy and her voice is hoarse from
a spring cold. When I'm done shoveling in food, he
asks the question he always asks, "Did you get enough
to eat?" His voice has a faint accent that I've never
placed. I nod, he pays, and we go out.
I get in his fancy car with its leather interior and
he takes me somewhere nice. That's another part of
the deal. No motels that charge by the hour and leave
the sheets unwashed and stiff. This is part of why I
dress carefully. The desk staff has no illusions
about what I am and why we want a room. But for one
night every two weeks, I pretend to be what I'm not:
high class call. We rotate between three places.
They're used to us by now, and all I have to do is
keep my mouth shut and let my fine features and ivory
skin do the talking. Pretty, pretty, like porcelain.
When I'm out with him, I'm good for the night. A real
dinner and a clean bed that I get to sleep in, not
just lay on with my legs open, belly down.
We go up to the room. This is the kind of place that
gives out key cards. Inside, I retreat to the
bathroom to freshen up. I sweep all the sample-sizes
into my pockets: shampoo, soap, hand lotion. Then I
brush out the tangle damage from all the windows down
in the car. My hair and my eyes are my best features.
This is the hotel with the little round bulbs above
the mirror instead of the big ones, and a shower
instead of a bath. I suppose I could remember hotels
by their names but it's not the name I see the most
of. I think I like this one best of the three. I
check my face. Just a little mascara and black
eye-liner to frame the clear blue of the irises. He
doesn't like heavy makeup. But I look good. I don't
need anything else. I go out.
He's waiting on me, lazing on the bed. His shirt is
off. He's not built badly for a guy his age. He
Now is my time to pay up for the grace of these
evenings. Of course he gives me cash just like any
other john, but I won't see most of it. My real
compensation comes in intangibles. Food, a nice room
and clean bed, a ride in a fancy car. The fact that
he's gentle. The others in my stable are jealous of
what I've got, so I minimize it. Sometimes, I feel
like I'm the one who should pay up. Which is
perverse, I guess. But given who my usual johns are,
he's a privilege of which I'm mindful. "What do you
want tonight?" I ask.
He appears to think about it, though I'm sure he
already had his mind made up. "Start with your mouth.
We'll go from there." It's blunt, but we don't play
games. That's the third part of the deal. The first
time he picked me up, he told me, 'Don't fake liking
it and don't fake coming; I don't need the ego-boost.
This is an exchange of goods. I feed you and give you
a clean place to sleep, and cash. You give me sex.
Oddly, I respect him for that. It puts everything up
on the table. He's never gypped me. I don't gyp him.
He gets good head, or a good fuck � whatever he wants.
Tonight, it's a blow-job. I unbutton his jeans and
pull them down, lick the skin of his thighs to prepare
him, listen to him groan. He has hairy legs, and
coarse, kinky fuzz around his cock. It's grey and
dark brown; I guess his hair was dark once. I run my
gloved hands up and down his thighs while I suck at
the soft skin over his balls. Before I move to his
cock, I roll a condom on him for my own reassurance,
though he's told me he's clean (and I believe him, but
that doesn't mean I throw out good sense). Then I get
to work. This is my best client, so I give out
accordingly and don't even need to smoke up to face
working him. I want to please. Not from love. Plain
obligation. He feeds me, he doesn't beat me, and he's
never asked me for anything really kinky. I wonder if
his woman does this for him, or if that's why he seeks
me out. I wonder if he even has a woman. He's a
mutant. He told me that, the first time he hired me.
"Do you have a problem with mutants?" he'd asked.
"Do you have a problem with cash?" I'd replied.
"I have no problem with cash."
"Then I have no problem with mutants." It's not like
he looks different.
It never takes him long when I use my mouth. He likes
being sucked off, comes fast and hard, makes a lot of
noise but tries not to buck too hard and choke me.
The condom saves me from the taste.
After, I peel off rubber and toss it in the trash
while he pants down from the sex-high. We rest a
while, say nothing. He doesn't even take off my
clothes this time, though he did let me ditch the
heeled boots. Not the gloves, though. He plays with
the ring in my navel and threads fingers through my
hair. He likes long hair. Most men do; that's why I
keep it down to my chin though it's a pain in the ass
to wash out given the lack of water pressure in my
dive of a room. He never talks much in the after
time. Smalltalk isn't his thing. I asked him once if
he liked sports. He said no. That was the end of
that conversation. Another time, I dared to ask what
he did for a living. He gave a lopsided smile and
said, "Save people like you." And what the hell did
that mean? Was he a social worker or something? Not
knowing how to reply, I hadn't. His words had made me
angry but I didn't dare show it. I'm practical � do
nothing to jeopardize the meal ticket. But how was
fucking me saving me? So what if he fed me first and
took me to a fancy room to suck him off? It made him
a nice john. He was still a john.
Tonight, though, we don't speak for a long while. He
continues to play with my hair. His hands are
calloused and gentle. Finally, I ask, "Why me?" This
is the question I've been working myself up to for
months. "Why do you always want me?"
Even more time goes by before I get an answer.
Finally, he says only, "Because you remind me of
someone. And you're special. More special than you
He sits up abruptly and starts pulling on his clothes.
"That's it?" I ask, sitting up, too. "You don't want
to go again?" Despite his age, he usually wants to go
twice. A blow job then a fuck, or a blow job and a
hand job with the leather gloves. He's got this weird
thing for leather and metal, but that's as kinky as he
"Not this time," he says. "I must get back."
"Your woman?" I ask, greatly daring.
His glare tells me that I pushed too far. "None of
your business. This is just about sex. Don't ask
questions I can't answer." Then his face softens and
he sighs. "You may as well know. This was the last
time, child. I must leave town tomorrow. I'm sorry."
My stomach plummets but I keep it off my face. I'd
known it couldn't last forever. Life's a bitch. I
take the highs I can get. But something in me makes
me ask, "If I'm so special, will you take me with
He shakes his head. "I can't do that."
Pride keeps me from begging. I do still have some
When he's finished dressing, he goes to the door and I
follow. He has the keycard. "Be sure you get
everything before you leave in the morning." He
always turns in the card before he leaves, but I get
to sleep in the room all night. Maybe I should resent
him for not trusting me with the card, but the fact
is, if he'd left it for me, I'd have taken advantage
of it. In this, as in so much else, he knows which
end is up.
Now, he presses money into my hand, my pay for the
whole night even though he takes only a few hours of
it. His usual tip is rolled up separately in an
envelope. "Food," he tells me. "Not crack or pot or
cigarettes or beer."
"Food," I echo, as I always do. And usually, that's
what I use it for, especially this time when it's the
last extra I may see for a while.
He studies me a long moment then, says, "I can't take
you with me. I wish I could. Maybe we'll see each
other again one day. But I can send you to someone
else. Check in the envelope. Good night." He kisses
me again, but on the forehead, like a benediction.
"And farewell, my beautiful boy."
He leaves me. The hall light catches on his blinding
white hair and with a casual lift of his hand, he
shuts the door in my face. Mutant power. The metal
lock clicks over.
I open the envelope. Five hundred dollars and an
address scribbled on a match cover. Some place in
Westchester. Greymalkin Lane. Beneath that are the
words, "He'll take care of you, Scott."
So, I guess I have a new john. I hope he's as nice as
the guy in the silver jaguar.
Endnotes: I cheerfully admit that the above is both
improbable and unsupported by anything that transpired
between Scott and Erik in the film. Roll with it. In
the comics, Scott spent some time on the street as a
pool hustler and a thief, and maybe other things that
the comics code prevents them from talking about. And
though I usually write him with the movie novelization
background � which is much more vanilla � here, I
decided not to. I'm on a dark-fic kick, it seems.
Blame the Ultimate story I did, "Chocolate Milk," for
getting me thinking on this.
Okay, okay, I'll go write on Climb the Wind now.
Feedback is welcome, as always.
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