Chapter 3 #2
It takes forty-five minutes to reach Figueroa Street, also known as ‘The Stroll’ in LA. It’s a hot spot for prostitution. I only need to find the right person—the right guy.
The area is a reflection of my mood: decrepit, broken, and depressed.
Such a different world from where I live…
lived. It’s filled with strewn garbage, pot-holed asphalt, run-down strip malls, apartments, and dilapidated homes.
There are homeless people everywhere begging for cash and wishing for another life, along with half-dressed prostitutes in stilettos, who approach almost every car that stops at a light. Who cares if it’s early afternoon?
I’m almost culture-shocked. Every block I drive along reminds me of my privilege and wealth. As big as Los Angeles is, I’ve never explored its seedier side. If I need drugs, I have a bro who gets them for me.
Honestly, if I had to choose between wealth or poverty and not getting molested by my stepdad, I’d take poverty without hesitation.
I scan for male hookers. There are a few, but not as many as women.
Before this is over, I want to fuck him and have him fuck me.
I shouldn’t want to get fucked by anyone, but I need to know what it feels like to have someone inside me who isn’t out to hurt me.
Maybe they’ll even be nice. I just want to have some control back.
At the end of the two weeks, hopefully, I’ll gain some semblance of my dignity back.
I come to a section that has a higher ratio of male prostitutes than female ones. The men are of varying ages and mostly shirtless, showing off defined abs. Some are skinny, and their ribs show. Some look too damn young, but it’s hard to tell what their ages are.
There are too many cars on the road to see well, so I pull into the first available parking lot to walk.
Before I jump out of my truck, I look into the rearview mirror to make sure I look okay enough not to terrify the guy I find.
My nose is swelling more, and my eyes look like shit.
My aching face and head are annoyances, but I’ll live.
It’s my ass that’s the problem. It still hurts like a motherfucker, even with the analgesic salve. My hole still aches like hell, too.
After locking my car up tightly, I light a smoke and shove one of my hands into my jeans’ pocket before strolling along the corridor to find the man for me. He has to be just right. I don’t want to fuck any dude. I want to be attracted to his face as much as his cock.
“Hey, honey. Looks like you’re lookin’,” says one of the female prostitutes.
“Not women.”
She tilts her head down the block. “You’ll find whatcha need down there.”
I don’t trust her. She sounds like she’s setting me up for a trap. Still, I head in that direction, avoiding alleys. As long as I’m out in the open, keeping my eyes focused, I should be okay. I also need to make sure I don’t get arrested by some fucking narc.
It’s like I have a sign on my chest that says, ‘John.’ It’s obvious I’m looking to hire because I’ve already been approached several times.
Several of the men are as young as I am. Some are pretty cute. Others look like they’ve shot up too much heroin. My brain keeps telling me I’ll know him when I see him. I’ll know the right one for me.
“How about a good time, cutie?” says a male prostitute, who saddles in next to me and rests his hands on my chest. “Oh, poor boo, what happened to you, darlin’?”
“Do not fucking touch me.”
He raises his hands, a smirk spreading across his face. He’s attractive, but I don’t have a flicker of interest. I also don’t like his attitude.
“Apologies, dollface. I can make it up to you. I’ll give you ten bucks off for the best blow job you’ll ever have in your life.”
“Not interested.”
I move on, and the hooker is quickly forgotten. After I walk another block, I suddenly stop in my tracks. My heart races when I see him. I knew I’d find him. He looks like a fucking angel with the body of a sinner.
He wears cut-off jeans so short and tight you can see his bulge. His purple T-shirt is cropped and says, ‘Daddy’s Boy’ on the front. He finishes the look off with a pair of worn cowboy boots.
It’s not his tight, skinny body that draws me in.
It’s not his bleached-white hair that shimmers silver in the early afternoon sunlight, which falls over his ears and neck in choppy waves.
It’s not those red lips that pop on his pale skin.
And it’s not those thick, dark brown eyebrows, showing his real hair color, that draw me to him.
All those things suck me in, but it’s mostly the yellow bruising around his eye that has me gravitating toward him. Someone’s hurt him like I’ve been hurt. Who dared mark that angelic face? The thought has me feeling strangely angry and protective.
He looks to be about my age or close to it, and he appears sad. What color are his eyes? I’m dying to know. Desperate to know. I bet they’re as beautiful as he is.
Yep, I’m completely drawn to him. He’s absolutely perfect.
The closer I get, the more bruising I see along his torso and on one of his thighs. I swallow back the rage because he doesn’t know me. I don’t want him to be afraid.
He’s the person who’s going to help me live my life for the next two weeks before I go on to my next journey. Now, all I need to do is convince him with a shit ton of money.
When I approach him, he straightens his posture and fixes his hair before plastering a fake smile on his face.
I stand in front of him, and he’s watching me, waiting for me to solicit him.
But I’m completely sucked in by his eyes.
I knew they’d be stunning. How? I just did.
Complete heterochromia. He has one dark brown eye and one green one that’s the color of olives.
So fucking cool. So fucking beautiful. He looks ethereal, almost like he’s some elf lord.
I bet he’s expensive. Men probably want him all the time.
“Hi,” I say stupidly.