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fic: JUST ABOUT SEX (1/1) Adult

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  • Minisinoo Girl
    JUST ABOUT SEX Minisinoo Summary: A night in the life of a streetwalker http://www.geocities.com/minisinoo/justaboutsex.html Warning: ADULT - ADULT - ADULT.
    Message 1 of 1 , Apr 9, 2001

      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
      warning attached.


      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
      watches me.

      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
      pride left.

      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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