Young Again

[MalReynolds]

It wasn’t her first time on the street, and if she had it her way, it wouldn’t be the last. Her fishnet stockings were dated, torn, but still maintained that sexy appeal that was inescapable. She had a charm and she could take you in just by looking at you, undressing you with her eyes until you were all alone in her room.

She wasn’t always a whore, though, and did she ever hate that word. “Whore� had such a negative connotation; she didn’t think what she did was wrong. All she did was “survive,� something a lot less evil than selling her body for money. The average John C. Cop wouldn’t agree and wouldn’t hesitate to slap the cuffs on and boogey all the way down to jail with her in the back seat, silent. She knew the law, she knew the risks, and she took them anyway. That was her life.

His life was different. He was raised in a house by a father with no mother, a father that pressed politics on his son about being a man, about playing sports, and how wrestling – although it looks gay – is really the most masculine sport you could play. The son didn’t agree, but didn’t say anything. Until he was eighteen, his father owned him.

The son had a sneaking suspicion buried deep in his subconscious that somewhere previous to gaining cognitive memory, father had pushed mother away, quite possibly on the blade of a knife, into a hole in the ground. He never spoke of this, only his dreams were haunted by ghastly images that he wasn’t even sure he had scene.

And so it came time, on his eighteenth birthday, his father, in all his infinite wisdom, decided to get his son a prostitute. Make him a man. The son was already more of a man than the father ever would be, but the father failed to realize this and set out into the city to find a suitable whore for his son, a suitable whore to “chase the gay� out of the only remnant he had of his wife.

He found her on the corner and offered her money to get into the car. She looked the car over, looked at the man inside, and politely declined.

“It’s for my son.�

The whore nodded, walking slowly over to the car, opening the passenger door and sliding into the seat, an action so many times performed before. Her head automatically slid lower, about to find its place in the man’s lap, but she caught herself before she lowered her head. That would have been embarrassing, it would have cost her stature. She had been chosen for a reason.

And so the son sat in his room, throwing a football to himself as the woman entered the bedchamber. She walked over to the bed, sitting at the foot, catching the son by surprise. His father said he had been out getting a gift, but he didn’t fully expect this. The same voice that questioned the fate of his mother in the back of his mind warned him that his father might try something extreme for his eighteenth birthday. Like most times, the son ignored the warning voice, despite the fact that it was growing louder with each second the woman was in the room.

“Get out. Get away. Get out now. You have to get out,� the voice called.

But his eyes were locked on hers. Her stare, her look… She was, for lack of a better word, intoxicating.

The voice in the back of his head told him that she was a whore, not to kiss her on the mouth, but he did, and she tasted sweet. Her eyes fluttered closed as he lowered her onto the bed, the voice gradually dying out with the sound of the creaking mattress and occasional grunt and groan.

It wasn’t his first time, that was for sure. He was the star football player on his high school team. But the women he slept with, the one he said he loved, was far too homely and secure about everything to please his father.

The voice in the back of his mind died out, the voice of reason that one experiences when they’re about to do something reckless in their youth. “Don’t skateboard down that hill, don’t put glue in the milk,� the thoughts that never cross your mind when you’re older.

His body tensed slightly as she climbed off of him. She looked different now, in this light. Her hair was shorter, more blonde, her breasts more perky than they had been when she entered the room.

And on the bed lay an old man, his youth stolen, transferred to the hollow shell of the woman who insisted that, “Officer, it’s just my job.� His heart slowed and stopped, his eyes rolling back into his head. He was both frowning and smiling at the same time. He had his reasons.

She grabbed his wallet and emptied out all the money she could find, opening the window and scaling down. There was a cave in the park she would go to sleep. No one ever went inside there, if they did, they would pass her off as a wino.

And she would sleep for another forty five years until it was time to awaken again, to feed again, to find her youth again.

But until then, the streets would be safe.

-

Mal

[esupin]

Whoa. Nice ending. Totally unexpected.


I liked this line

Originally Posted by MalReynolds

He was both frowning and smiling at the same time. He had his reasons.

[Layla-Day]

wow...that ending caught me by surprise

[FishFishRevolution]

I thought you were just using metaphors for too long, had to re-read it. Awesome.

[Tokzic]

Originally Posted by MalReynolds

He never spoke of this, only his dreams were haunted by ghastly images that he wasn’t even sure he had scene.

*seen

But I liked it - your stories are never ordinary.

[xObserveRx]

I so thought the whore was going to be his mother... nice ending though. :P

[Grandiagod]

Succubusses (or is that Succubi?) are way underated.

Seriously though, nice job.

[ayanepuck]

Well written. I enjoy your stories.