The Mandatory Dark Alley
Feb 12, 2010 16:18:35 GMT -5
Post by Ghislain on Feb 12, 2010 16:18:35 GMT -5
**NEW NIGHT**
A rentboy leaned against a brick wall in the dingier parts of the city of light - someplace where the light didn't shine, unless you believed in out-of-body experiences and thought perhaps it did for those whose souls The Almighty dropped on by to collect after they'd skipped a mob payment or two, or maybe just slept with the wrong person. The latter happened rather more often than anybody liked to think about. After all, on this street, sleeping with the wrong person was the whole point.
Wearing pants that were teasingly worn thin at the knees and a long, grimy-looking coat (it was clean, but it was so old that by this point it hardly looked like it in the dusky light), though, surprisingly, a coyly silk shirt beneath this, Ghislain leaned back against the wall and lifted up an oily-looking beer bottle to take another swig and then spit it out. After this shit was done, and as soon as the shops were open, he was going to get himself a candy for having been such a good little boy. And then he was going promptly to bed in Appartment of the Week, which was unusually poor right now in a delectably disgusting fashion, a place without electricity and where the sound of shrieking domesticity - and the moaning-and-mattress-compressing counterpart to it, every married woman's worst bad dream and every married man's favorite nightmare - could be heard through the thin walls all around you. Many nights, he stayed up until dawn anyway, adding with merry spite the sound of brilliant and jaunty violin-playing to the melée. Tonight, however, he'd chosen to wear out his body as opposed to specifically his fingers, earning the privilege of fatigue and a bit of extra cash at the same time.
He put his bottle down on the ground again with a keen eye towards the sidewalk, waiting for someone to pass by who didn't merely tug their collar up the moment he started talking. If they glanced at him in curiosity - timid, mouse-hearted souls who maybe couldn't afford anything, and perhaps were more scared or repulsed or shocked than intrigued - they'd be halfway caught.
A rentboy leaned against a brick wall in the dingier parts of the city of light - someplace where the light didn't shine, unless you believed in out-of-body experiences and thought perhaps it did for those whose souls The Almighty dropped on by to collect after they'd skipped a mob payment or two, or maybe just slept with the wrong person. The latter happened rather more often than anybody liked to think about. After all, on this street, sleeping with the wrong person was the whole point.
Wearing pants that were teasingly worn thin at the knees and a long, grimy-looking coat (it was clean, but it was so old that by this point it hardly looked like it in the dusky light), though, surprisingly, a coyly silk shirt beneath this, Ghislain leaned back against the wall and lifted up an oily-looking beer bottle to take another swig and then spit it out. After this shit was done, and as soon as the shops were open, he was going to get himself a candy for having been such a good little boy. And then he was going promptly to bed in Appartment of the Week, which was unusually poor right now in a delectably disgusting fashion, a place without electricity and where the sound of shrieking domesticity - and the moaning-and-mattress-compressing counterpart to it, every married woman's worst bad dream and every married man's favorite nightmare - could be heard through the thin walls all around you. Many nights, he stayed up until dawn anyway, adding with merry spite the sound of brilliant and jaunty violin-playing to the melée. Tonight, however, he'd chosen to wear out his body as opposed to specifically his fingers, earning the privilege of fatigue and a bit of extra cash at the same time.
He put his bottle down on the ground again with a keen eye towards the sidewalk, waiting for someone to pass by who didn't merely tug their collar up the moment he started talking. If they glanced at him in curiosity - timid, mouse-hearted souls who maybe couldn't afford anything, and perhaps were more scared or repulsed or shocked than intrigued - they'd be halfway caught.