Tuesday, 11 December 2012

Puppy-Love Prostitute

JournalWord: Paid to be someone's puppy.


With his torn skinny jeans and shred-style long sleeve shirt, he struts against the wind to the glass doors. He taps his booted feet in the rhythm of his newest single, giving off quiet hums.

In his hand is his guitar case. This one likes listening to him sing, he remembers. He pushes open the glass door with his free hand, walking straight to the elevators. He gives the up button a press, glad that the elevator is fast, and walks right in. The doors slide smoothly closed behind him, and with a press of another button, the elevator is off.

He waits, his lithe frame relaxed. He rocks back on his heels, catching glances of himself in the reflected walls. Good. It doesn't look like he's grown. They like younger, shorter, men.

He watches the lip chain that connects from the middle of his bottom lip to his right ear. He gives his long shaggy hair a toss, spilling strands away from his dark brown eyes. He brings his free hand to the spiked collar at his neck and twists it so that the shiny buckle shows better.

A bell dings and the doors glide open. He casually strolls down the plush carpeted floor to the right door, the turned-down suspenders at his sides swinging with each step. Her doorbell rings and he doesn't have to wait long in front of the door. 

With a catch of a lock, the door is pulled open, a middle-aged woman with obvious expensive taste, greets the door with a smile. She flies into his arms, dispelling her brand perfume like a cloud around her, running her manicured fingers through his hair and down his small, taunt face. He flashes her a smile, dropping his guitar case and wrapping his arms around her slender waist.

"Madam! It's been a while!" he exclaims, his child-like voice giving her pleasant chills. His peculiar politeness is always a shock that pleases his clients.

She lightly fingers the numerous piercings running the length of both his ears. "It has, hasn't it. Mmm.." She snuggles her face into his neck, inhaling his scent. Marlboro cigarettes and strawberry licorice.

He gives off a fit of giggles when her cold nose brushes his collarbone. "Madam, that tickles!"

She smiles, bringing her face up from his neck and tugs his arm towards her room. "Come on! I bought your favorites!" Her youth gleams from her eyes, outshining the makeup and Botox in her face. His presence always seems to bring out the childlike behavior his clients wish to claim from him.

With another eager tug of his sleeve, he picks up his guitar case from the floor and follows her into her hotel room. The door shuts behind him, a soft 'click' echoing the empty hall.


I have experienced a prostitute phase, wherein I was constantly fascinated by prostitutes and needed to know everything about the profession. Yes, I consider it a profession. My scientific curiosity respects everything interesting. 

At one point, I was convinced that I should take research into my own hands and become a prostitute! (I can be quite extreme without realizing it. Good thing I have reasonable friends to deter me from my crazy endeavors!)

Anyways! Now I've got a medical thing going on that seems to peek into most of my stories...

This JournalWord brought on many ideas when I happened upon it in one of my journals (most naughty, and of which I may write about later ;D). I picked this idea because I liked the ability to change someone by presence. By choosing who you associate with is enough to drastically change your character and behavior, whether for the best or worst. 

In this case, the prostitute's presence invokes a positive behavior that allows his clients to relive a childlike happiness in simple gestures, like private acoustic guitar performances and candy. The cigarette smell is a reminder that he is still a man and that he is an individual with a separate behavior and lifestyle away from his clients.

Feel free to analyze your interpretations from my stories :) I would love to know!

Be good, 


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