Infidels

Billie Joe Armstrong is an 18 year old prostitute in the Oakland area. He works the job because it's the only occupation he could get since he dropped out of high school. He hates the people, the work, and the entire atmosphere, but he didn't see any other way to get money to tour with his band Green Day and to move out of his childhood home.

Billie Joe falls in love with someone on the job, but when things turn sour, he leans on an old friend named Adrienne Nesser, but it isn't until he is saved from cold and fearful nights by the man that would later become the love of his life.
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Chapter 1 - Satisfaction

"I'm going to need a couple of beers if I'm going to suck your dick."

Well, that ticked him off. Way to go, Armstrong, I told myself as his fist slammed into the corner of my eye. I could feel the color diminishing and I knew I would have a remarkable coal black shiner tomorrow. The agony I was in didn't stop the smart-ass remarks from rolling off my tongue; I can thank acid for that.

"Well, I'm going to need double the vodka now," I informed the dirtbag disdainfully.

He smirked strangely as he roughly forced me onto my flat stomach. My cheek was pressed up against the pillow awkwardly and my neck was aching from this occurring too many times before, but the prick didn't care. None of the men I sleep with care about my well-being. Fuck compassion; all they want is a piece of ass and a joint.

The guy quickly inserted his pride and joy into me (his dick, not his child,) without a friendly warning.

"A Valium - anything," I attempted again, still pleading for a social-pick-me up, but the dude wasn't having it.

"Shut the fuck up, Diesel," he muttered into my ear as I shivered with slightly terrified anticipation.

To ease your confusion, Diesel is the name I go by while I'm on the job. Yes, I'm aware of how ridiculous and peculiar it is, and I don't have much of an explanation for it. All I can really tell you is that, when I got the job, I didn't want the name Billie Joe Armstrong floating down the Berkeley streets. Everyone I associate with is oblivious to me having, and I wanted things to stay that way, so I needed a nickname. I worked up Diesel. It's totally random and odd, so it fits well with whatever the hell kind of odd and random mess I fell into.

This guys penetration ethic was possibly the worst I've ever come across. I've been working this job for the past five months, so I don't know if that's saying much or not, but he was pretty sloppy and ruthless with his insertion.

The acid I used moments before was still blazing through my petite body, so I was slightly delusional, and this poor, sick sap was going to have to listen to a fucked up Diesel.

"Ever heard of lubricant?" I questioned him.

He just grunted as a continuum or quick thrusts proceeded to please him, but disgust me. "I figured if you were in pain, you'd shut the hell up."

"That's considerate," I sarcastically chocked out as I inhaled dry air sharply. "I just assumed you got off on putting your sex partners through misery."

The guy smirked at my response. "What? You can't take this?"

I scoffed sourly at his query, and decided to challenge him with a bold statement. "I'm not that big of a whore."

He moaned euphorically in my right ear, which gave me the burning desire to vomit. "Just shut the hell up already and deal with it," he vigorously commanded.

I exhaled swiftly and couldn't help but wince at the anguish I felt pulverize my body. I painfully replied with, "You shouldn't cut yourself so short. You're a big boy, and big boys fuck up scrawny dudes like me."

He laughed, his hot breath that reeked of pot, beer, and some Italian food graced my neck. "I'll take that as I compliment, I suppose," he quickly informed before even more quickly adding, "Now shut the fuck up, kid."

"I'm not saying you have a twelve inch of anything like that, so don't play the arrogant card. And calling me 'kid' was a nice touch; now I assume you're a pedophile or-"

The dipshit gave a powerful thrust while taking a hold of my jet black hair. I yelped as he tugged it backwards painfully which arched my neck and hurt my scalp pretty badly. I give him props, though - it got me to shut up.

The velocity of the thrusts and the inertia of the bittersweet impacts silently told me he was about to blow. I, however, was about to split in half or scream bloody murder due to the antonym of ecstasy consuming my well-being.

I finally felt him let go of holding on. The boiling, creamy liquid entered my body, and the scumbag gave one final thrust before pulling out and collapsing in a pile of satisfaction beside me.

I was not satisfied, though. I didn't receive a pleasurable orgasm, but I wouldn't have wanted one even if human nature granted me a blistering spasm of euphoria. I didn't want my muscles to contract in such a way because I didn't want this dude to please me.

He was a low-life prick who didn't give a fuck about anyone other than himself. He wanted to get his rocks off tonight, that's all. I mean, for all I know, this guy could have a wife and kids; maybe his homosexuality curious side decided to shine suddenly. You just never know in this town.

He payed me in cash, and was out of the club faster than...something extremely fast. I knew I'd probably never see him again, but he had tattooed another helpless, demented memory in my subconscious that I would have to deal with for the rest of my life. I would have to deal with this extreme void of vindication, whereas that guy would just fight off a hefty slice of guilt - that is, if he has a heart, which I sorely doubt.

The feeling of eternal doubt was obnoxiously pulsing in my thoughts; a lot like the consistent pulse of torment that beat in my bruised eye. The douche nailed it pretty good; I was surprised an imprint of his knuckle wasn't forever immortalized on my aurora iris or something.

The majority of the area was black, but there was also a touch of yellow mashed around in the gruesomeness. It was not appealing at all, but my sour appearance wasn't the core of my worry. I was mainly concerned and fretting over what my mom and stepdad were going to say.

I was eighteen and still living at home. I know it doesn't bother my mom - I don't think she wanted her youngest child of six to move out - but it irked my stepdad, Lucas, to a noticeable degree. He didn't like me much, and I wasn't fond of him at all, so I imagine that he wanted me out the door at twelve AM on my eighteenth birthday, but I didn't have the money to leave.

I was a high-school dropout who couldn't find a job at a crummy ol' gas station. Nobody wanted to hire me, but I couldn't blame them. I mean, what did I have going for me? No finalized education is something people look down on, apparently. Who knew?

Since I couldn't find a job in the mainstream places, I had to search the underground occupations, and, I gotta say, people do some fucked up shit for money: sell organs on the black market, body-pack drugs, and, of course, prostitute themselves. Out of those three, I think the last one sounded the friendliest.

Straight prostitution pays nice, but gay prostitution pays a lot nicer. Besides, the amount of women that prostitute themselves for men is absurd. On rare occasion, you'll find a man that prostitutes himself for a hungry woman, but I decided to stick with the decent minority and violate myself for other men.

Five months ago when I applied for the job, I was stoned, drunk, stupid, horny, and naive. Having worked almost everyday since landing this job, I now wish I never applied. This shit fucks you up, and it's like the goddamn mafia. I don't know what the hell would happen to me if I was to quit, and I'm not sure I want to know.

After studying my new shiner and picking up my fresh cash, I left the club I worked at called Louis's. There was no official name for the shack, but the dude that ran it was named Louis, and no prostitute or stripper has a creative mind, so the hellhole just adopted his name.

Society accepted Louis's because society was oblivious to what went on in the back rooms. When you walk in the front, you see the cliche set-up of a strip club. Male strippers rock the poles, and eighteen-fifty year olds with raging hormones and dough to spare watch in awe; kinda sick, if you ask me. But, in the back, male prostitutes roam. As far as outsiders know, bathrooms and dressing rooms reside in the back, but they are dead wrong.

I sighed when I reached the small parking lot because I remembered that I didn't have my car. Something got fucked in it, and it wouldn't even throttle. My friend Mike said he would screw around with it and see what he could do, and I hope like hell he fixes it. I can already feel blisters on my feet from having to walk around everywhere.

I lit up my last cigarette to help calm my nerves that seemed to be trying to jump out of me. I decided I'd just say I got into a fight at Gilman, a punk club Mike and I go to a lot. I couldn't work up anything better, so I had to be very convincing in my explanation.

Why try, though? Everything always falls through for me, anyway. My sad attempt to ease my Mom's worry wasn't an exclusion, but, whatever. I can't say I tripped 'cause Lucas would laugh in my fucking face.

But Mom would have a heart-attack if I told her the truth, so lying to her and Lucas was a blessing at this point.

Wow, this is really powerfull Sarah. I can tell it's going to be a good read. I'm excited to read more!

OOOOOOOOOH! =O
I'll never look at Billie the same ever again. LOL
This story is SOO good!
I WANT MORE!

WELL HERE YOU GUYS GO. :]

Chapter 2 - Fighting

"What were you fighting over?"

I wanted to groan, but Lucas would lecture me if I did such a thing. Discussing this over TV dinners made the rock hard brownie taste even more sour than normal. I tried to have a distinct poker face, but Lucas could see through anything, whereas Mom couldn't. Well, she either couldn't, or could but just pretended because she was afraid of the truth her baby desperately tried to keep hidden. Either way, I knew she would believe me.

"Nothing, really," I told her. "I think the guy was just drunk. He was really angry, so he just used me as a punching bag."

Something Lucas knows well.

My mom sighed sadly as she scooped more of the tossed salad into Lucas's empty bowl. "That's so disgusting. People just can't handle their alcohol. They need to learn how to be more tolerant, or, better yet, just not use intoxicants at all." She paused, and I knew what was coming. She quickly added, "You know, this could be a lesson for you, Billie Joe. I'm sure you've dealt with peer pressure, but I hope you haven't listened to it. Intoxicants aren't good for anything, honey."

I really wanted to groan now. Everything negative that happened in my poor, pathetic life, Mom worked a lesson into it. Detriments were riddles to her, and she spent her days trying to decipher them. It was sad, really.

"You honestly think your son hasn't experimented with alcohol? All drugs for that matter?" Lucas inquired.

Mom shrugged a little before sitting down in a chair beside me. "I'm sure there's been some temptation, but Billie's a good kid, Luke. He deserves some credit."

Lucas scoffed slightly, and I suddenly felt like the elephant in the room. I wanted to but my midget legs to use and run the hell outta there, but I didn't have the strength to. I guess I'll just have to watch this trainwreck occur.

"You don't notice the stench of beer he sometimes reeks of? Dilated eyes?" he questioned, but quickly added, "Nevermind, Ollie. You're not home enough to notice your son's fuck ups."

"Lucas," Mom sharply warned.

I just swallowed hard and avoided eye contact at all costs. The dining room fell silent as the three of us picked at our 'food' soundlessly.

The silence ended when Lucas asked, "Did you get a job yet, Billie?"

Groan, groan, groan.

"Nope," I answered, my mouth full with some form of turkey, I believe.

"And why is that?"

I just shrugged as I washed the nasty substance down with a gulp of soda. "I guess nobody's hiring."

"Where have you applied at?" he asked me.

"A few gas stations, and the convenient store down on Maple," I responded civilly. "Gave a resume to McDonald's and FYE up at the mall, but I didn't get hired."

Lucas shrugged slightly, like he was confused. "Mike has a job, doesn't he?"

"Mike graduated," I reminded the SOB bitterly.

"And why didn't you?" he inquired.

"Green Day," I instantly replied.

He nodded. "And how's that going for you?"

"Fine," I said. "We have a show at Gilman on Thursday. We're trying to go on tour, but we haven't saved up enough money yet."

Lucas just nodded again, like that was all he could do; he was a fuckin' bobble-head, I swear. As you can tell, I don't Lucas that much. He is a self-loathing prick who takes his self-hate out on me. I wouldn't doubt if he physically and verbally abused a pack of gum; he strongly believes in personifications, I believe.

I glanced over at my mom, wondering why she was so quiet, but she just sighed and said, "I have to get ready for work. I have another graveyard shift tonight."

I looked away as she stood up to leave, but I quickly fled as well, because I didn't want to be stuck alone with Lucas. I didn't want the interrogation to commence, so I go the fuck outta there.

I went upstairs and locked myself in the bathroom. Lifelessly, I prepared myself mentally before I inserted my middle and index fingers down my sore throat and threw up the food I just ate in the toilet. I became bulimic when anorexia stopped working for me; I just couldn't deal with not eating. I'm still a teenager, so my appetite is still running ramped, so I couldn't refrain from eating shit regularly.

I practice bulimia because, in the prostitution business, thin is way in. No one wants to fuck a fat dude, unless you have an obese fetish, and not a lot of flawless, perfection seeking Californian's are into that shit. I've always been naturally skinny, but this self-destructive practice became a sick paroxysm to me, and I've been doing it for a while now, so it's become an addiction, in a way.

After my TV dinner was successfully flushed down the toilet, I wiped my mouth, disgusted with myself. I Listerene'd and made my way to bed. As I crawled underneath the old covers, I heard my Mom walk out the door, on her way to her waitressing job at a nearby diner, Rod's Hickory Pit.

I fell asleep with a burning throat, heavy heart, and a redundant pulse of anguish in my bruised right eye. Each time my eye pumped with pain, I saw the face of the creep that gave it to me. I felt and smelled his crude breath, and I fell into a dreamless sleep with that fucker in my thoughts.

O_O LOL
This is really good Sarah!
I WANT MORE NOW.
I WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS! xD

LOL THANK YOU.
WELL, YOU AREN'T GOING TO KNOW. I WILL NOT TELL YOU MY PLAN FOR THIS STORY. BUT IT IS EPIC.

But you can, however, see chapter three. :]

Chapter 3 - Mechanics

I don't know why people pay me for sex. It's not like I'm good looking or anything. I'm thin, which is good, but I'm too thin; scrawny. I would help that if I could quit the bulimia, but I honestly don't know what I would do if I went a whole day without shoving my fingers down my throat.

And I've never considered myself good at what I do. I've been sleeping with creeps for five months, but I didn't have a whole lot of experience before that. I've only had two girls in my life that I've really cared about; I slept with both of them, and lost my virginity to the first one, Jennifer. Jenny was great for the first couple of months, but after a year and a half with her, I realized how much I really disliked her. When it ended, I eventually got with a friend, Adrienne, who lives in Minnesota. Long distance was shitty, so we broke it off, but I still consider her a good friend. She's with this guy named Billy, and she's busy in college, so I don't like calling her all the time, even though I want to. I like hearing her voice. I only seem to call her when I really need her, though.

Don't I really need her now, though? I mean, my life is in the gutter right now, and I don't see the slightest glimmer of hope anywhere. My wallet is overflowing with money, but that isn't making me happy. Money isn't healing my emotional state. Plus, how can I just throw the money in Mom's, Lucas's, and my band member's faces? As far as they know, I don't have a job, and they would freak the fuck out if I told them what I do for a living. But if I say I have a job at a diner or some shit, someone like Lucas would ask too many questions and would be able to tell I was lying the moment the fib rolled off my non-silver tongue.

I started contemplating giving Adrienne a call, and how I could lie to Lucas better when Mike swiftly snapped his fingers in my face.

"Earth to Billie," he said. I just looked at him, and he just blinked. "Did you hear what I said? 'Cause I really don't feel like explaining it all over again, especially since you don't understand anything about cars."

I blinked hard, and said, "Sorry.. I was daydreaming."

Mike just grinned, and I knew he wouldn't get annoyed with me. We've been pals since the fifth grade; he's dealt with my short attention span for quite some time.

"The car's got damage because the shits worn out," he repeated, I suppose. "Stuff like the distributor cap, rotor, spark plugs and ignition wires contribute to improper functioning of the car engine. Worn out shit like that results in engine surging and heating and makes shitty engine sounds. Fucked up seals and valves makes an excess of oil consumption and a screwy exhaust pipe makes a weird, hissing sound..and that's what this piece of crap is doing."

I looked at my best friend, utterly confused. "What and the who now?"

Mike smiled and laughed a little. "Your car's fucked, Billie. Everything's worn out. You used your car too much and didn't check anything to see how things were working before it shit itself."

"Can you fix it?" I asked, wondering if he could cure the damn thing for me.

"I'm not a mechanic, Bill; I just know a lot about cars," he reminded. "You'll probably have to pay way more than it's worth since mechanics have been trying to rip people off since automobiles were invented. To be honest, I don't think it's worth it."

"Why?"

"Because the repair would cost more than the car is worth itself," he answered.

I just sighed. "Well, then I have no car, Mike."

He shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you, man. You can use my car whenever, but I've been getting a lot of hours at Rod's lately, so I'll need it most of the time. Can you use Lucas's car?"

I shot him a look, but the moment the question came out of his mouth, he realized how ridiculous it sounded. "Nevermind," he quickly said. "Just use mine. Or bug John for his."

John was a friend and drummer for our band, Green Day. He had a pretty busy job too, and he wasn't a guy I would constantly want to harass; he just wasn't that kind of guy. Mike was, though, and I knew I could count on him for a ride until I got a new car - whenever that may be.

I helped Mike clean up the mess he made by tinkering around with the shit in my car, and he left for his shift and Rod's. My mom was leaving in a few minutes too; her shift started a half hour after Mike's. That meant that Mike and my mom's car were both out of the question for me to use, unless I walked down to Rod's and borrowed it before they go off work, but I was too lazy to do that. And I didn't really feel like doing anything tonight either.

Tomorrow was our show at Gilman, and I also worked tomorrow too. Our slot at Gilman was fairly early - 4:00 PM. We'll probably play for thirty minutes, which is good because my shift at Louis's starts at 6:00 PM, so I had plenty of time to get out of Gilman, go home, work up a lie as to where I was going, walk to Louis's, and prepare myself to get violated in ways nobody ever should.

As Mike left and I walked up the stairs to my room, I thought about the mechanics of my life. The mechanics of my car apparently sucked since the damn thing decided to fuck itself, but what about the mechanics of myself? We're all made of wires and different systems, so what the hell is mine like? Physically, mentally, and emotionally - who am I?

Am I really made to be doing such a terrible thing to myself every night, basically? If I'm not, why do I find a sick fascination in the exhilaration of the adrenaline as it pumps violently through my fragile veins? And If I am built for such a lifestyle, why do I feel so disgusting? Why do I feel like I'm on the brink of losing my mind and breaking down every time a guy lays his hands on me? Why do I feel so..wrong?

I closed the door to my room as a way to lock all of these questions from invading my sanctuary. They already infiltrated my mind, but I was hoping they would dissolve away soon. I was in no mood to be haunted by a mistake I couldn't really fix.

It wasn't all that late, but I was pretty tired. Since I had a show and work tomorrow, I figured I should be well rested; I mean, I don't want to give a screwy performance for either one of those events. So, I decided I was going to go to bed early and sleep until I could sleep no more.

My plan backfired, though, when Lucas decided it was a good idea to come into my room (without knocking or displaying any warning whatsoever, mind you.) I knew this meant either A.) He wanted to talk to me about something very serious and couldn't wait until morning or B.) He was drunk and wanted to use me as an outlet for his aggression.

I'm used to abuse, and I hate the fact that I am, but, hey, what are you gonna do? I've been neglected for a long time; it mostly started when my dad died eight years ago. He left a widow who had mouths to feed and bills to pay with no help from Andy the Enigma. I was the baby of the family who used to be looked upon as innocent and cute, but I suddenly became just another statistic, just another mouth to feed, and just another body that gets in the way. Sorry you and Dad had to have intercourse and conceive little ol' me, Ma, but that's how things work. I didn't sprinkle fairy dust on your over-achieving womb, Mom, but I seemed to get directly and indirectly blamed just because I was born.

At least that's how I always perceived myself.

Anyway, Lucas came in my tiny bedroom. I smelled his odor and I didn't have to look in his brown eyes to know they were glassy and twitching horizontally. He stalked towards me slowly, and I didn't even try to maneuver away slyly like I have in the past. I just remained seated at the edge of my bed and tried to fight back a premature wince.

I needed comfort. I needed to know everything was going to be OK. I didn't want to have sex without correct intimacy and passion, and I didn't want to live a lie anymore.

I needed someone, and I knew who it was in a flash. As his fist struck my already bruised eye, all I wanted in the world was to hear Adrienne's steady, calm voice.

Awwww. lol
I'm liking this story, therefore, I NEED more.

Chapter 4 - Reason

I should've told my mom that I got the bruise from Lucas. That would've made him mess his ironed briefs. On the other hand, he has that goddamn silver tongue that he can slide all over Ma; the sickest form of manipulation, and I would know, so don't think I'm exaggerating.

On the other hand, would it have mattered? Yeah, he can wrap Mom up in his boyish good looks and apparent charm, but even if she did believe me, would it have made a difference? We're as dysfunctional as society makes, so a stepson-beater isn't really changing the game plan; it's just fucking up the players even more, if that's possible.

I shrugged those intrusive thoughts off. I didn't want to think about family issues the day I had to play a show. I suffered through a dawn and day of lonesomeness until the evening finally rolled around. Since Mike diagnosed that my car was officially fucked, we had to ride in his red shitty truck. Thankfully, Gilman's only a town away.

We met up with John and hurried on stage. I realized we were somehow fifteen minutes lately, so I was surprised some head-punk didn't pull up a straggler in the crowd, hand him a guitar, and tell him to bash it to interest the fellow freaks. That's what I would've done, at least, but I'm glad it didn't happen in this situation, though. If it did, I'd be heading to Louis's without a constant pulse of ringing in my ears and a Mary Jane buzz because you have to be stoned to withstand violating yourself. At least I do; if you're Little Ms. Perfect, then I don't know your pre-violation rituals.

So, we took the stage and played for irritated, impatient hardcore-punk fans. I assumed they were by the look of several pairs of dissatisfied eyes, but, hey, whatever, I don't care much. Hopefully, there were a few into it. Some antsy kids tried moshing, which only definitely works for a few of our songs, but those kids make it work.

Before I knew it, the show was over and depression set in again. I was able to get out my aggression on stage; pounding the strings on my guitar was like caving Lucas's clear complexion face in. When it ended, though, the sky fell and everything got rancid afterwords. Nothing new, but that doesn't make it sting any less.

I told Mike I had to take off, and he gave me a funny look. "Why? Just stay here with me; I heard some decent bands will come on soon."

Mike always uses music as a good reason to do anything, and it is, and he knew I thought it was, so I had to put my mind into overdrive and scramble for an excuse fast. I've known Mike for years, and he knows when I lie, so I suddenly felt like a douche for not planning this situation prior to opening my big fat stupid mouth. I didn't think, though - once again, nothing new, but that doesn't make it sting less.

"I-I don't feel too hot," I informed. "And I'm pretty tired. I think I'm just going to hit the sack for the night."

Ha. Great job, Armstrong. You lied to your best friend.

It's not a huge lie or anything. It's actually not a lie at all. I am pretty damn tired, and I am going to be hitting the sack soon - not in the intended way, but I didn't specify anything.

So it's an ambiguous lie. That doesn't make it any better.

I shrugged off the Schizo side of me, and blinked as a way to get my consciousness back on a sane track. When I opened my eyes, the bruise gave a stiff pulse, and Mike looked at me curiously.

"Yeah, I think that's a good idea," he said. "You look really tired. Do you want me to give you a ride home? It's pretty late and it's dark outside."

I should've said yes, but the blisters on my feet begged me to differ and reply with a simple 'no,' so I did. Louis's was only a few blocks away from Gilman, unlike it being forever away from home.

"Why not?" Mike asked, looking confused. "It's a long walk home and you look like shit, so I assume you feel like it too and you don't wanna walk all the way back to Rodeo. Do you?"

Of course I don't. Why would I want to exert energy and walk my sorry ass back to hell? No, instead I'll exert minimal energy and walk my sorry ass to an even worse hell just down the road.

"I could use a good walk," I lied. "Besides, it's nice outside. I can enjoy this place. And you can't see the refinery smoke at night that much, so Rodeo might actually look pretty."

He bought that for some reason. That, or he just gave up. Either way, I was in the clear and I left Gilman with a pit already developing in my gut.

Thursday night, about eleven; October 12th, 1990. I usually lost the track of the days, but when a day I worked on rolled around, the date seemed to be imprinted in my thoughts. Another day, another violation. Another reason to not want to wake up in the morning.

Reasons, reasons, reasons. The big, grandiose 'why' to everything. Every choice I make has a reasoning behind it; whether it's rational or irrational, there's a reason behind everything. The reason why I work at Louis's is because I couldn't get hired anywhere else and I was in need for money. I wanted money to get Green Day rolling and to move out of the house, but I trapped myself in a deep, dark pit.

You see, I'm making plenty of money. I could leave Mom and Lucas and get my own place on the nice side of Berkeley; maybe even a pad in Oakland! I could get an amp that actually works, and I could probably buy plenty more guitars. But I can't splurge money like that without someone becoming curious about my income. Especially Lucas and Mike - they notice everything.

Oh, well. I've been stuck in hell for six months, and I don't see anything changing anytime soon. That's just the way life is, I suppose.

I turned my mind off when I walked through Louis's doors and into the back room. Dressing rooms and bathrooms? No. Remember what I said? That's just what oblivious outsiders assume is going on in the innocent club. Too bad no one looks into things anymore.

First customer: done in less than ten minutes. Some guys can't hold their load, I guess. As for me? In pain the first ten seconds and finding, once again, no satisfaction or vindication in something so sensual and intimate.

Second customer: dragged things on. Liked to talk. Liked to hit. Liked to listen to me scream. Reminded me of the fucker that gave me my black eye. Walked out without giving me much of a tip, even though I deserved one by the way he rode me.

Third customer: in and out. Wanted to get his rocks off quickly. Didn't fuck around one bit. On the bed, clothes off, no probing or lubing. 'Oh, you seem to be screaming. Oh, well. Deal with it. Life's a pain in the ass, and so is sex.'

Break. The best time of the night. The clock read half past one AM, and I realized only been doing this for three hours. My shift was five hours. Fifteen break minutes left, and then I have to somehow survive an hour and forty-five minutes of anguish.

Fourth customer: don't really remember much. Break time is also blunt time, and anything else that's floating from prostitute to prostitute. The big thing the boys do is shrooms, but that doesn't interest me much. Pot and acid, and that's it, so that's what I used.

Fifth and final customer of the night: cute kid. Couldn't have been much older than me, which was surprising. I've slept with 25-45 year olds, but never saw an eighteen year old stumble his way into Louis's. No matter; that doesn't mean this boy is a saint. He's still wanting to fuck a poor guy, which is sick, so the guy isn't ranking in on my hero list or anything.

He looked nervous as he worked his zipper down, and that interested me. I watched him intently as he eventually stripped down to nothing. He had a similar body frame to mine, but his wasn't all shriveled up from bulimia. He actually looked healthy.

He hadn't looked at me until he was undressed, and looking like was about to climb onto me. I just stared at him and he looked back. I was about to go off on him; irritated at nothing, really, but he finally asked, "What happened to your eye?"

What? Is that concern I smell? A guy who wants to pay me for sex is acting concerned? Did I get sucked into the Twilight Zone? Did I die and go to a mixture of Heaven and Hell? Is he playing me? Am I hearing things? Am I dreaming? Or is there still hope for the sexual inferno that is the human race?

I stared at him, those thoughts raging through my head. I finally spit out, "What?"

OK. Not very productive, I know, but my brain was contemplating suicide due to utter confusion at the time.

"What happen to your eye?" he repeated. He reached his hand forward and very lightly touched the rim of the sore before slowly pulling his cold fingertips away. "It looks awful."

Thanks, Sherlock, that's so insightful. Didn't know black eyes were so unattractive. I'll have to write that down somewhere. Write a book, man. I'd buy it. Export it all over the world, make a buck or two. Let the whole galaxy know that bruises are disgusting and people don't want to look at them, so don't let some dude whack you in the face for no reason.

"Yeah, I know," was all I said, quite bitterly.

He looked apologetic. "Uh..I'm sorry. I didn't mean..I mean, I just.."

I came to the conclusion that this guy was an idiot.

"Are you here for sex or to ramble to a guy who is completely uninterested?" I inquired.

He winced at my question, probably feeling awkward listening to me demean myself so openly. "I..I was, but I'm not so sure anymore."

"Become a saint in .2 seconds?"

He actually smirked. And I died. Why do idiots have to be so cute, and saviors have to be so unattainable? 'Cause I'd totally get with Nelson Mandela - as long as he treats me good, I'm down.

"I wouldn't call myself a saint, but I'm not a bastard," he answered.

My eyes narrowed. "So..you became a non-bastard in .2 seconds? Because you obviously were a sick fuck when you walked through these doors, and you apparently just turned over a new leaf rather quickly."

He shrugged a little, and to my astonishment, he began pulling his pants back up, as if nothing happened.

"...What the hell are you doing..?" I asked, so sorely confused.

"I changed my mind. I don't want to do this."

I shook my head quickly. "What do you mean?"

He looked at me after his shirt was pulled over his head. He just shrugged again. "I've never been to a place like this before. I didn't know what the people were like. I thought the prostitutes were all cocky little fucks, but they apparently aren't."

"And you found out I was a good boy how..?"

He looked at me with all seriousness. "What's your name?"

"Where the fuck is this going?"

"What's your name?" he questioned again.

What do I have to lose? Nothing. "Billie," I answered.

He nodded a little. "You just..you looked scared out of your mind, Billie. And your eye..I'm guessing that happened here? Just walking to this room, I heard unspeakable things. Sounds of..hitting. Hurting. I don't want to be presumptuous, but..," he trailed off.

My mind was spinning a mile a minute, and the pot and acid I just took wasn't helping the situation. When I finally wrapped my head around everything that happened, I simply said, "Y'know, I've never met anyone as compassionate as you." He smiled widely, and I died again, but I said, "Don't act so proud - that's an easy accomplishment."

He gave a chuckle as he fastened his belt. "Sorry..I mean..you know..for wasting your time."

I just shrugged, letting him know I could care less. I checked the clock on the wall and realized my shift had been over for the past ten minutes. Pffft. Wish I could get some form of over-time for that, but Louis would never cough up money, especially for me. I don't know why, I'm probably the best-

"See you around, Billie," the guy said.

What, what, what? You're leaving? Why? Don't leave! You're actually pleasant. I've never spoken to anyone pleasant in this building. You have to stay. Either you stay or we leave together. Rational choice? No. But I do think there is a reason for it.

The nameless guy was about to walk out the door when I asked, "Do you wanna get a pizza or something?"

OOooooooh. This is getting rather interesting! LOL

This is really good Sarah, I can't wait to see what happens next!

By the way, are you not on Mibba anymore? Your profile doesn't show up.

Thanks, guys.
My Mibba decided to fuck itself Faye, lmfao. Here's the new one I made. :]

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Chapter 5 - Rare

His name was Zack and he wasn't very polite. He burped after eating a disgusting piece of anchovy pizza and didn't excuse himself. Not that I'm high-class or anything different from your average slob, but, sheesh, the dude needs a glass of dignity instead of a soda pop. Then again, the guy is talking to me instead of violating me, so cheers to rudeness.

Romeo's Pizza is the most cliche name for a pizza joint, and their greasy, nasty pizza doesn't make it cool. I'll probably throw it all up before I make myself do so on purpose. Oh, well. Two pieces couldn't kill me, right? Unless one of the unhygienic cooks decided to spill formaldehyde all over the damn thing, I should live for another few minutes.

Ugh, what the hell am I think about? Does everyone on the planet think nonsensical thoughts like me? Wouldn't a normal bisexual person be in his glory; sitting in front of a guy that looks like Zack? The answer is yes. I'm apparently abnormal since I'm imagining death by chemically contaminated pizza instead of checking this guy out.

Start a conversation, you idiot, I told myself. You're the one that was all, "Hey, let's get pizza." And it's a Saturday night. I'm sure he'd rather be anywhere but here with a scrappy kid like you.

"You look like an emancipated version of me, and that's a rare sight," he said casually, out of nowhere, unless he had been talking while I was having an in-depth conversation with myself.

I just made a face at this person who was basically a stranger. "How polite of you. Do you always talk to men you almost banged like that?" I inquired sarcastically.

"Only the cute ones," he one-upped me.

Sly guy. And complementive. How awesome.

"What about the ugly ones?" I asked, curious. "Treat them like dirt like the rest of society?"

"No, some of my best friends neighbors are ugly," he replied.

I smirked at that. How rare of me.

I could tell this guy was an ass, but that he was trying really hard to be kind. I mean, his heart is obviously not a black abyss of hatred. If it was, he wouldn't have zipped his pants back up twenty minutes ago. He wouldn't have politely declined my offer to pay for shitty pizza, even though he should be aware that prostitutes aren't a poor breed of workers. And lastly, he wouldn't have attempted to get my phone number from me after I returned home home (safely)?

"Why not?" he questioned, curious as to why I turned down giving him my number. In all honesty, the guy was lucky I had a midnight pizza snack with him. I didn't even have him drive to my house; I didn't want him or anyone for that matter that was outside my very small bubble of friends and acquaintances to know my address.

Yes, I have trust issues. But, seriously - do you blame me?

Then again, a burning impulse is what caused me to speak up and ask him to a night at the pizza shack. To the best of my knowledge, I've never done that before, and I say "to the best of my knowledge" because who knows what all I've done while doped with God knows what on the job. I don't know about you, but I'm definitely not dying to know.

"Because...," I started, but failed to give an adequate reply. So I just sort of sat there. Stupidly. Waiting for him to open his big, fat, gorgeous mouth so I wouldn't feel so awkward.

As if he knew it tortured me, he didn't say anything. The night was quiet; I heard nothing outside of his 1977 shit car. At least he has a car. The blisters on my feet could be pulsing with anguish right now.

The silence started to annoy me. I mean, the damn crickets weren't even chirping - those Peeping Tom bastards. So, I spoke up..pathetically.

"I don't know you that well," I said, stating the obvious. After that everything went down a very fast, rambling hill.

"All I know is that you weren't in the mood to violate me. That tells me you aren't a sick fuck - not much else. Oh, and I know you like anchovies. Who the fuck wants little nasty fish crap on a pizza? It ruins the whole concept. I bet a full-blooded Italian boy would slap some pepperoni on it before it got an inch close to the oven. Who eats that without being forced? Maybe that's why you didn't-"

I stopped short. You wanna know why? It's because he laughed. Who the fuck laughs when you fuck them over like I just did? Unless this was a joke. God, I'll kill him if it was. Fool me once, shame on me, fool me twice..

"Knock your funny bone?" I questioned, wincing a bit at nothing.

He just exhaled, and eventually shrugged. "Nah, it's nothing. You're right, I'm wrong."

"Oh, don't just knock off what you think," I said, slightly desperate for unknown reasons. "You're right, and I'm wrong. But I have a very low supply of trust to hand out, and you don't seem too trustworthy yet. That's all."

He nodded. "You're right, Billie. I said that already - what's left to do?"

"Uh, well, you could say something other than 'you're right'. For example, you could act like any other human being and get all pissy."

"And what would that achieve? What would that solve?"

Damn, this guy asks tough questions.

"Uh..well. Um. Well..it..might..uh.."

Zack nodded. "So productive."

Annoyed with both him and myself, I sighed. "Look, I'm not supposed to be the one getting pissed off right now. You're supposed to be acting like an ass."

"And it upsets you that I'm not..?" he asked reluctantly. "How does that make any ounce of sense?"

"Because I'm used to pissing people off," I replied quickly. "I'm a rentboy - it's my nature."

"In what sense?" he questioned.

I made a face. "Huh?"

"In what sense are you a rentboy?" he asked again. "In the sense that you let people rent your body, or that you use the money you earn from doing this to pay your rent?"

I sat there, stumped. Either the weed and acid use from hours before was dumbing me down severely, or this guy was good at pop quizzes; testing me on concepts I never contemplated before, or just never gave a shit to consider. Whichever it is, it made my brain hurt and my eyes sting with tears. Why? I don't know. Maybe it's because I felt so idiotic for not being able to answer simple, fucking questions. Or maybe it was because this random guy I've only said a few sentences to in my entire lifetime was showing me more compassion than any entity has..ever.

Realizing I was, once again, leaving him hanging, I cleared my throat unsophisticated and said, "It's just a slang term. I never took the meaning into consideration." He just nodded a little, and I reluctantly added, "I guess in the sense that I let people rent my body."

"Why?"

"Because I still live with my parents, so I don't pay rent."

He just nodded again, like Lucas and his fucking bobble-head of a..head. I wanted to tear his head off when all he did was that vertical gesture, but not so much with Zack for some reason. Maybe it's because I could tell his carmel brown eyes were actually digesting everything I was saying. With Lucas, he was like a fucking word repellent; I felt like everything I said to him didn't go through one ear and out the other, but just collapsed by his ear drum, to weak to even make it that far.

"Do you like living with your parents?" he asked, slightly changing the subject.

I shot him a look, silently telling him that was the stupidest question I had ever been asked.

He laughed a little. "Well, how am I supposed to know? Besides, you're a rentboy, as you label yourself. I figured you made enough money to leave home, if money was what was holding you back from leaving."

I shook my head. "I could leave if I wanted. I could probably buy myself a condo in Oakland if I wanted to. The thing is that my mom and step-father don't know I have this job. They think I'm currently unemployed. If I went out and bought a place, or even rented a shitty apartment, they would want to know where the hell I got enough money to sustain life outside from their house. And I can't bear to look my mom in the eye and tell her I let people pay me for sex."

"But you could tell you step-dad?"

I thought for a second, and shrugged. "Probably. If I wanted a nice shiner, I would. And he has a fat mouth - it's not like I could tell him and my mom wouldn't know. And my step-dad's your classic SOB, so why even try? Why even tell him? It would just make things worse, even though he doesn't give a rats ass about me or my well-being."

The conversation proceeded just like this. He'd ask me a question that I would honestly have to think about, and I would do my best at giving a solid answer. My brain was working faster than it had since I was in school. Weird to say, but I liked the insane brain activity.

I realized how late it was after taking a glimpse at his clock radio. It being super late, there was a good chance Lucas was up waiting. Unless Mom coerced him with sex or he passed out from beer, I should prepare myself to have a "talk" upon walking through the door.

I said my goodbyes, thanked him for the ride, and left. It felt rushed, and as he drove away, I remembered that I declined giving him my number. I suddenly wish I wouldn't have done that. I mean, I may never see this guy again. He might not even be from around here. He could live a billion miles away, and I connected with him. But I'll probably never know unless he happens to me in the mood for .2 seconds and stumbles his way into Louis's.

I feel like I'm not making sense. Oh, well. I'm probably not. What happened happened, and it doesn't seem like I can change anything. What's happening currently is me walking the short distance home. I directed Zack to a different house like I said since I seem to have privacy and trust issues. I really hate that.

I arrived home. No one was up. I consider that luck.

I crawled into my bed, which was amazingly warm and soft. As I drifted to sleep, I realized I didn't perform the daily ritual of puking my brains out. Part of me wanted to crawl out of the nice bed and get the nasty pizza out of my gut, but the other part felt accomplished and proud.

And pride weighs over nastiness every time.