Untitled (Tristan-WIP)
by: Swanky

Rating: currently about PG-13
Summary: The story of a highly successful, male prositute. A simple propisition gets him in over his head. A dark and mysterious client brings with him more trouble for Tristan, and suddenly he's reminded why he doesn't take long term employment and why he rarely services females. (Most of this is NOT written yet.)
Warnings: Prositution, homosexual relationships, cross dressing
Author’s Notes: This story is FAR from finnished. I would REALLY LOVE it if people told me what they thought of this one. It's actually untitled as of yet, but I have been using "Tristan" as a working title. Any sggestions as to what I should call this one would be much appreciated! Thanks! ;o)

~*~

Tristan

I watch as the cars pass through half-lidded, kohl rimmed eyes, a lit cigarette hanging loosely from my red stained lips. For what seems like the millionth time I run my hand through my messy dark hair, carefully shaking little droplets of water away from my face. It has to be raining today, doesn’t it? I could leave if I wanted to; go home and sit around for the night. I’ve already made more than enough to cover my expenses this month, and it’s not even the fifteenth yet. But what is there to do at home, anyway? And I can’t help but wonder if maybe tonight will be the night that he comes looking for me.

I’ve been waiting for him for weeks; since our first encounter. I’ve never had a client that had actually pulled at me before, and I can’t help but wish for that fairy tale ending. Taking one last drag off my smoke, I throw the butt into the gutter and let out the smoke in one long sigh. I know it’s a stupid fantasy, and the movie wasn’t called Pretty Man, besides. And still, I can’t shake the feeling that someday soon my life is going to change again.

It’s the same feeling I had right before I met Cookie. Not the most self-respecting person I’ve ever met, but after three years working in this world, I can see why. I was on my last leg when I met her. Sleeping where ever I could; park benches, under bridges, even on the church steps. I hadn’t eaten in days, and I hadn’t showered in weeks. And so there I was, trying to hide from the wind under some old damp newspapers on what had become ‘my bench’, when Cookie found me.

I knew right away that she was actually a man, but it didn’t make her any less beautiful. If anything, she was all the more alluring because of it. She’s definitely one of the best looking girls on the strip; legs to the ceiling, tight lithe form, full pouty lips and the biggest deepest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Cookie was the most beautiful woman I had ever met, and I couldn’t fault myself if my cock gave a little twitch to her in greeting.

“Hey kid,” she called in her husky voice as she sauntered over to me. “Wanna get off the street for the night?”

I couldn’t help but think that it was a stupid question. Of course I wanted to get off the street, and not just for the night if I could manage it. I was young, barely sixteen, and eager. I shook my head without any of the caution I now possess.

“I can get ya someplace to shower, a bite to eat. I’ll even make ya up nice,” she purred, batting her eye lashes at me. My mind was already set, the promise of food and ridding myself of the stench that had lingered about me for longer than I could remember too alluring to resist. But I had learned something in my time on the street; nothing came free.

“What do you want?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Not much.” Her tone was evasive, and I noticed a light blush creeping slowly across her cheeks.

“How much is not much?”

“I got this client see… look, kid. You’re pretty put out. I seen ya around here for a few weeks now. Lemme buy ya somethin’ to eat over at Murph’s and I’ll tell ya about. Ya don’t like the idea, no prob, you get a free meal and I’m out ten bucks. Ya got nothin’ to loose.”

She stood there expectantly as I considered her offer. She was right of course; I most certainly had nothing left to loose. I stood up, shoving my grungy hands into the pockets of my even grungier jeans. I gave a curt nod of my head in the direction of Murph’s, indicating that she should lead the way.

Murph’s is the place to be for our type; dark, dingy little place with low prices, greasy food, public bathrooms and no moral code. The women behind the counter are as likely to be making their money the ‘old fashioned way’, as we like to call it, as any of us out prowling the streets. Murph is in his sixties now, and like the door says, he’s been running the place since the late fifties. I have to hand it to the man, he’s taken the turn this end of the neighborhood has taken quite well for a man his age. It doesn’t bother him that there are more boys working the street on the other side of his windows than women these days. “Whether you got a prick or a cunt, you still need to make your money,” he says with no contempt.

“There’s no working in here,” she mumbled to me as we approached the door for the first time together. “So keep it in your pants, eh?” Murph’s always had this rule; you get a hankering for the flesh in his place, you buy one of his girls, if they offer. The second anyone crosses the threshold they’re ‘off duty and off limits’. Cookie’s always thought that Murph was a great guy for offering us a place to rest, a place to hide even. He’s got his good points, but just like anyone else around here, he’s really only looking out for himself. The cops lay off him if he can keep things to a minimum, and so he does.

Cookie walked over to the counter and chatted with one of the waitresses there. I can’t remember who anymore, they come and go so fast. A couple of men sitting at the bar gave me lingering glances that made my skin crawl, and when Cookie noticed she grabbed my wrist and pulled me to the back of the bar and up a dark, narrow staircase. Before I knew it Cookie had unlocked one of the rickety doors and pulled me inside.

“God! I told you to keep it in your pants in there! Ya tryin’ to get me thrown outa here, kid?” She hissed as she pushed me into one of the cold metal folding chairs at an old cracked wooden table.

“What? I didn’t do anything! I was just standing there.” Things didn’t look to be going so well between Cookie and I, and for some reason, it bothered me.

“Ya really didn’t do anything, did’ja?” She asked, her tone slightly awed. I watched as she cocked her head to the side, her thick dark hair flopping over one of her amazing eyes. Cookie made a little noise in the back of her throat, half snort, half sigh. And in that moment, I knew my life had changed again.

A car pulls up in front of me, pulling me from my memories and back into the present. I stroll over to the car as the window pulls down a few inches. Silently I laugh at the futility of this. The john doesn’t want to let the rain into his car, but if he picks me up I’m going to get his car wet anyway. The windows are tinted and all I can see of the man behind the wheel is a glint of light from the dash across his eyes.

“You lost, buddy?” I ask. It’s my typical line. I’ve got a persona and it sells, I see no need to change the way I work, even though Cookie is always telling me I should shake things up a bit.

“Is that all you ever say, Tristan?” A familiar baritone drawls from behind the glass.

“`Ello, Nigel. How have you been this past week?” Nigel. One of my regulars; I see him at least once a week. He was one of the first men who ever asked me to take him. At times I think that I was the first man he ever slept with.

“Not too bad. You looking for a ride?” My eyebrow pops of its own volition. Nigel is always straight foreword, always has been. It surprises me that he would attempt wittism when he knows he doesn’t need to with me.

“What’s up, Nigel?” I am unable to keep my curiosity from seeping into my voice.

“I have a proposition for you. Get in.”

“I’m on the clock here, Nigel.” I say, trying to sound impatient, even though I’m still more than a little curious.

“If you’re that hard up for cash I’ll pay for your time as well as your dinner.” He knows I’m not. I’m the most successful boy on the strip at the moment. There’s only one step up from here; permanent employment, and I’m not looking for that.

I give an over dramatic sigh as I walk around the car and pull open the passenger side door. This time I laugh out loud at Nigel’s preparation; there is a towel covering the soft fabric seat. I intentionally plop down on the seat and pull the door closed harder than necessary, still chuckling. Nigel shakes his head as he pulls back on to the road, but doesn’t say anything.

“Where are we going?” I ask. I am staring out the window and the surrounds are changing. The further we go the less people are on the streets, the less garbage is flying around in the wind, the cleaner and sturdier the buildings become.

“Well, first I’m taking you to a hotel room.” I send him a sidelong glance, but before I can remind him of earlier indication that he just wanted to talk, he continues. “You are wet and your makeup is running.” I bring my hand up to wipe at the corners of my eyes. “You need to get cleaned up a bit before we can go out.”

“If you wanted arm candy for the night, you should have told me. I would have gone up stairs and changed.” I state evenly. Nigel has never asked me to accompany him anywhere before. He has a wife, and unless he’s gotten kinkier in the past week, taking anyone but her out on the town would be dangerous to his marriage.

“No. I do not need ‘arm candy’ as you so eloquently put it. I’m taking you to dinner because I feel like it, and then I have a proposition for you, as I said.” I think about this for a moment before my eyes begin to twinkle. Nigel has been with me for two years- two years exactly, tonight.

“Do you still remember your anniversary with your wife?” I ask, allowing my voice to show some of the pleasure I feel at his remembering something so small.

“Yes,” he states firmly, and I can feel my spirits drop just a bit. Then, after a moment’s pause, “but only because my secretary reminds me. And before you ask, I have not begun sleeping with her.” This is a running joke between the two of us. Nigel’s secretary is nearly sixty, and ‘a bit rotund’ as Nigel would say. About six months after he began coming to me, Nigel forgot his cell phone at my room. Every hour the blasted thing would buzz about some meeting or appointment until I finally figured out how to turn it off. When he returned to retrieve it, I asked him if he had missed all his appointments for the day. When he stated that that was why he had a secretary, I replied that I thought secretaries were for screwing. Even now, sitting beside him as we drive further into the nicer section of town, a year and a half later, I cannot repress a slight snicker at the memory of his face.

“Do not make fun of me, child.” Nigel chides me, but I hear the slight tinkle of amusement in his voice. I turn from the window as he clicks on the blinker. It’s darker in this car than his usual one because of the tinted windows, and I can’t help but admire the way the shadows and slivers of light play across his features. Nigel has never been the best looking man in my service; his nose is a bit too big and his face is scared from his teenaged pimple-popping days. The little green arrow flashes on and off, casting just enough light across Nigel’s face to see his eyes shining. In this moment I have to admit that there is something about Nigel that is alluring. His eyes are always smiling, and even if he’s not the best in bed, he makes up for all his lackings in personality.

My eyes are drawn to a large, brightly lit hotel as we pull off the road and up to the valet. Nigel slips out of the car as the valet pulls open my door for me. The fact that I’m a man may be easily masked by makeup, but with my jeans wet and clinging to every curve of my lower half it’s not hidden tonight. The valet notices- his eyes running down my body, pausing for a fraction of a second at the row of buttons that runs from the low waist of my jeans down between my legs- but he maintains the level of decorum expected from a high class joint such as this and doesn’t say anything.

Nigel comes up behind me, placing his hand on my lower back as he hands the valet the keys. Gently, he guides me through the gleaming glass and gold doors into the extravagant lobby. I remember coming here once, before my parents died, when I was just a small boy. I feel the same sense of astonishment now, though my naivety and childish wonder is gone. I know what happens behind those numbered doors. I know why the ledger is full of “John Smith and Guest”. And I know how much that polished brass urn could get me in a hock-shop. I know, but I am still awed by the overwhelming wealth of it all.

I have no choice but to keep walking through the opulent lobby- Nigel’s hand on my lower back is a soft but firm motivator. The little bell of the elevator dings and the doors side open, revealing a short girl in a red uniform on the other side. She smiles and I can’t help but notice how young she looks. She is my age at least, perhaps a few years older, but her face is round and innocent, small freckles splattered across her nose, shining brown eyes that still hold a world of hope. She is young.

“Going up?” She asks, her voice still pleasant and welcoming, though I can tell she has been asking the same moronic question all night and is getting quite tired of it. Of course we’re going up, there is no where to go but up.

Nigel returns her smile, nodding his head as he gently guides me into the elevator. He does not remove his hand, but rather slides his fingers further across my waist so that they rest more firmly on my hip. The simple touch is comforting, and I am grateful for his thoughtfulness. I do not like elevators, I don’t like any small, confined places, and Nigel knows this about me.

“Ninth floor, please.” The young girl taps the ninth button with her long, thin, graceful finger as the doors slide closed again.

I can see the whole elevator reflected on the polished brass doors. It’s interesting to look at the world this way. Everything glows, looks newer, brighter, cleaner. I can’t see the details of Nigel’s face clearly, and there is a slight smudge just under his left eye hiding his disproportionate nose. He looks tanned, dark and alluring. Through the golden shimmer he seems to be the epitome of class, grace, and power.

I turn my eyes to my own reflection. The golden tint hides most of the grime on my clothes and body. My hair stands up in all different directions, casting a dark shadow over my eyes and hiding my ruined makeup. My reflection reminds me of a poorly painted wall- the old color seeping through the streaks of fresh new paint.

My eyes drift across the smooth surface of the doors as the bell signals our floor. I catch the girl’s eyes for a moment before the doors slide open again. They are wide and gleaming with something almost like recognition, but not quite. I turn my head to look at her as Nigel steps out of the elevator. I try to tell her with my eyes ‘Yes, I’m no older than you. Yes, you are very lucky.’ I don’t wait to see if she got the message before turning away and following Nigel into the hallway.

I don’t like small confined places- they have a tendency to strip away your barriers and carefully constructed masks in a very short period of time.

~*~TBC~*~