When Beginnings End

I stand on the other side of the road for a while, just keeping an eye on the creepy, fat guy who keeps counting his money. He isn't wearing a track suit and he isn't smoking a cigar, but aside from that, he's everything I thought a pimp would be.

After having secretly snarled at him enough, I look to both sides and then run across the street. The guy notices me halfway, and I can tell by the way he straightens his back and puts his money away that he knows I'm coming for business and not for directions.

I puff once and then walk up to him. I stick my hands in my pocket, feeling the cash graze against my palm.

“If you're a cop, I aign't done nothing,” he says in a thick Jersey accents and leans against the brick wall. I have to fight myself in order not to roll my eyes.

“I'm not a cop. I'm here to talk business.” The cold tone in my voice apparently pleases this guy, because he simply smiles and disappears inside. I follow him up the steps and through the doorway into the dark, smelly house. It's known everywhere in Jersey, but the cops don't have anything on it. They have no proof of its use.

“Which one do you want?” he asks, stopping randomly in the middle of the purple-walled room. The black couch is the only thing that isn't bright and colorful and tacky.

“I saw a black-haired dude go in here an hour ago. He looked like he worked here,” I say and look around the room with a vacant stare.

“He's high-class, you know. Expensive.” He sounds so proud. As if sex is some kind of gemstone that can be refined. It's just sex.

“I want him,” I say quickly, wanting him to shut up, send the guy out and let us leave.

“I want half up front.”

“You can get 10 dollars for a lollipop. I aighn't paying for nothing until I'm done,” I say boldly, not caring if he'll punch me in the face or kick me out with no deal.

Luckily, he smiles.

“I like you, kid. I trust you.” He talks to me as if he's some proud father. No father could ever be proud of me.
“I'll go get the guy. Make sure to tip him good,” he says, winks at me and disappears behind a blue curtain. I roll my eyes, snarl at the mirrored ceiling and angrily stare at a corner of the room until the obnoxious guy returns with the boy-toy I want to play with.
“Take good care of him.”

-----

“Sit,” I tell the dark-haired guy and go into my bedroom to get the pot. I grab what I need along with a bowl of candy and go back to the living room where the guy is not sitting down. He's walking around the room, looking at pictures and touching my guitar.

When he sees me, he walks over to the couch and sits down next to me when I sit down.

I pull out a pack of cigarettes, leaning slightly towards the guy as I reach into my pocket. I glance up at him and he looks like he's ready to jump me. But it doesn't look genuine.

I offer him a cancer stick. He accepts. I light him up before I start roasting one myself. When I tear it apart and pour the tobacco onto the carton-boat, he blows smoke into my ear.

I hide the fact that it turned me on a bit and instead look at him with vacant, dead eyes. He doesn't do it again.

I heat up the pot, crumble it and mix it with the tobacco, before I roll a stick and pour the mix into it.

“You do realize I'm only staying for an hour, right?” the guy asks. He sounds confused, and with his rough, smoke-affected voice, the mix between innocence and naughtiness is just perfect.

“I'll give a large tip if you stay for two,” I simply tell him as I light the joint up.

“There are rules in this business. You can't just make up your own.”

“I'll give you 9,000. Is that enough to make you stay?”

I don't need to look at him to know that he's stunned. The fact that he doesn't answer is answer enough, so I simply take a deep drag of the joint and lean back in my couch. I place a hand behind my head and softly massage my neck.

I don't have to do so for long.

The guy's hands replace mine and he adds a bit more pressure than I did, which is just perfect.

I fade away in the pleasure of his hands massaging my neck and shoulders that when I open my eyes again, the joint has gone out. I quickly light it up again, take a drag and hold it out for the guy to take.

“No, thank you,” he mumbles. I look up at him and see his almost finished cigarette hang from his mouth.

I lean forward, away from his touch, and take the cigarette out of his mouth. I put it in the ashtray, letting it burn out on its own, and try to pass him the joint again.

He shakes his head.

I shrug.

When I blow out the smoke from my lungs, I make sure to exhale in his direction. I do this a couple of times, and after a short while, I can tell it's affecting him. He slowly slouches more and more, leaning back in the couch further and further. Three quarters through the joint, he's sitting the exact same way as I am – leaned back, not only in the couch, but also in myself.

This is when I pass him the joint again. This time, he accepts. His drag is short but smooth, and he doesn't cough when he starts exhaling. He keeps the joint between his two fingers – holding it as if it were a regular cigarette – and takes another drag, this time a little deeper. He coughs – which sounds more like a giggle – when he exhales after having kept the smoke in his lungs a little longer.

When he passes the joint back, it's worth nothing. It's about half a drag from reaching the homemade filter, so I just stub it out in the ashtray before I turn and attack his lips.

His reaction is slow, but eventually he wraps his arms around me and kisses back. Our lips move in sync with each other, and my hands are not afraid to get frisky and feel him. I touch his chest, rubbing my hand against his t-shirt to get a feel of it. He doesn't feel too muscular, but definitely not fat; just...smooth.

I run my hand down to feel his package, and he moans into my mouth. He's not hard yet, but I feel his cock twitch through the fabric of his tight jeans as I grope him.

I pull away from his lips and gasp for air.

“Bedroom,” I mumble and get up from the couch, simply just expecting him to follow me. I know my walk is not straight or sexy or anything, but it gets me to my bed and a few moments after, the guy falls down on top of me. He's not sexy either right now, but he's still a fuck and I'm still horny, so I get turned on.

I grab what I thought would be his ass, but turns out to just be his back. His lips magically start massaging my neck and I moan out of pure reaction. I grab him tighter and stretch my neck to allow him more access. He takes it. He licks my neck up and down and sloppily sucks on my collar bone.

I'm getting bored. I grab his hair and pull him up. He seems to complain, but I shut him up with my lips before he can do anything but moan.

And oh, does he moan.

I bury my fingers in his hair, feeling it tangle around them and messing it up. I move my other hand down and finally find his perfect, round, full ass. I squeeze it and he moans into my mouth, thrusting his hips forward. I lose the hold of his ass, but gain the feel of his crotch against mine. I can't help but moan myself.

Suddenly, he pulls away, and when I open my eyes, he's gotten his shirt off. His pale, white, seemingly untouched chest is exposed to me, and I follow his happy trail down to his tight package. I gaze at it, imagining what's behind that black zipper, and as if he's read my mind, he reaches down and slowly unzips. He moans like a whore is supposed to as he slowly pulls down his zipper, exposing more and more skin.

Commando. I like.

When his pants are fully open and his dick is sticking out, proud and mighty, I look up into his eyes.

“Undress me,” I mumble assertively, knowing he'll do anything I'll ask. And right I am. He starts unbuttoning my shirt with one hand as he struggles with my belt with the other. He gets them both opened, and he almost seems disappointed when he notices I'm wearing a t-shirt under my shirt.

He moves back on the bed a bit and reaches a hand out for me. I grab onto it and am pulled up into sitting position – my face right against his abdomen. He pulls my shirt off, then my t-shirt and then he roughly pushes me away from him. I land on my back. I should've licked his stomach. He didn't have a lot of muscle, but the skin looked so silky and soft that I bet it would've been like licking a candyfloss.

He opens the buttons of my pants and pulls them off of me. I just lie like a rag-doll that's being played with.

I am being played with.

He quickly removes my socks, before he crawls up and kisses my nipple. I don't feel much, but I appreciate his effort.

Again, I tangle my fingers in his hair and tug at it. I do it softer this time, and he seems to appreciate it when he looks me in the eye.

I stare into his eyes. I can't decide what color they are. One second, they seem blue, the next green and the next again, they look brown. And then they look gray.

I look down his chest and see his cock again.

“Take your pants off and stay on the bed,” I say, remembering what I wanted from the start. I sit up, and he quickly moves out of my way. I walk over to my dresser and open a drawer, finding the long objects I've kept as my sleeping pal for the past two weeks.

When I turn around, he's naked.

When his eyes fall to my hand, he shoots up – out of his sexy-pose – and pulls the sheet over himself.

“Don't,” he begs. He seems surprised. I would've guessed that a man in his line of work would've seen a SIG before. It's only a 9 mm.

I shake my head softly.

“No worries,” I say calmly.
“I won't hurt you.” I look down to see that his boner has died. The sheet is very close to his crotch, and his dick is obviously pointing down. Just like my gun.
“There's only one bullet in this, and it isn't meant for you,” I say, bitter-sweet, and lift the gun up so that it points towards the ceiling.

“What?” he asks desperately. He obviously can't believe it. He doesn't understand.

“I just wanted an audience.” He looks horrified, his eyes quickly switching between the gun and mine.
“I just wanted someone to care.” His eyes stay at mine. He looks horrified, but slowly, another feeling comes through. He's sad.

I smile.

“Thank you,” I say softly, then lower the barrel of the gun and place it at my temple.

“Please, don't. Please?” he begs.

He.

He has a name.

“What's your name?”

Hope goes through his eyes.

“Gerard.”

I smile wider – more sincere.

“That's a beautiful name.”

“What's yours?” is the last thing I hear before the click.