He was a prostitute using and abusing men and women, boys and girls, anything willing to pay and play. Sexual dragons Johnny could tolerate, favors and fantasies he could accommodate, drugs and alcohol he would instigate. The state of his consciousness repressed into repsychedeli; a place he felt the influence of past indulgences of any psycho-active ingredient.
Playing the game, Sara approached Johnny in the Bitch Tits bar, the City’s metrosexual ingot. The tight green net tank top he wore revealed a defined Brad Pitt six-pact and his arms were those of a gymnast. The bulges in his black leather pants said take me I’m yours. The three empty slammers on the bar in front of him, and his dilated retinas revealed ecstasy. She tagged him.
Sara? he said.
You call it, Johnny. Sara licked her lips.
…two hundred…whatever you want.
Want was an understatement. The day’s work had catapulted Sara’s anxiety into overdrive. A sexual fix might satisfy her, but blood letting would spike a brain nebula unparalleled.
After an hour of dictionary sexual perversion, Johnny’s Murphy bed jerked from their body weight when Sara’s plunged the blade into his neck. What a trip he thought when he went rigid, grabbing her wrists and snickering at her, but the warmth kneading his neck took priority. His physical strength disappeared, his mind turned into salsa. He viewed his future full of emptiness and disappointment, much like a politician. But he didn’t mind, he was only twenty-three, an escort; a man-whore, and messaging the small perky breasts of his Internet connection took him away.
Before he closed his eyes, after he had tried to grab Sara and buck her off of his relaxed body, euphoria took hold. A wave of ice numbed his detection of a knife deeply plunging into his neck. We’re now blood lovers were the words bouncing inside his head. He loved seeing the large smile covering Sara’s face when he closed his eyes forever.