“A Tulip for a Violet”

A short story by dresdendevotchka

When a curious romantic bond forms between a male prostitute and an unstable young woman, the woman’s boyfriend is the cause of chaos between them. Rated M for language, sexual content, and some violence.

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Part 1

Beginnings

S.

My name is Sid Huntley, and I’m a male prostitute.

Some call me a man-whore, some call me a rentboy. But I prefer the simple male prostitute. It’s more elegant and makes me feel more important.

I don’t snoop around Las Vegas or London, searching for a fat middle-aged man to blow. I don’t wear flashy clothes or strut around to make my status known to the world. I don’t have a pimp or a madam or other bangtails to keep me company, even. I’m simply Sid Huntley and I have a loft on 31st street in New York City.

I don’t stand on a street corner with the heel of my boot resting against a brick wall, casually smoking a cigarette and waiting to be picked up by a customer. No, I wait for them to come to me instead. I’ve heard that I’m pretty famous on 31st street for being the best fuck around; but I don’t really pay attention. All I do is use the money from my prostitution to buy Chinese takeout and eat fried rice from a carton while watching Saturday Night Live on the weekends, my leg slung over the armrest of my couch. Occasionally I’ll have a customer climb my fire escape and demand my body right then and there. I simply laugh and they climb back down, ashamed.

And I’ve had all different types of customers. Men and women, young naïve boys, and even some naughty, naughty little teenage girls. Bisexuality is something that comes naturally to one when they work as a male prostitute. Though I do prefer women, I mostly get men. I don’t mind, but sometimes I long to stop blowing all together.

I’ve been told that I have gorgeous blue-grey eyes and a clean strawberry-blonde fringe that tends to fall across my forehead. I’ve been told that my lips are strangely attractive; slightly puckered and full, yet sensual. I’ve been told that I have a straight slender form to my body: from most I’ve heard that it’s very sexy, and from some I’ve heard that it’s too feminine. From a very small few, I’ve heard that it’s the most masculine thing they’ve ever seen.

Yet I’ve been told, by most, that my choice of clothes perfectly fits my slim shape. I tend to wear all black but with a bright accessory; I’ll often wear a black shirt, pants, and blazer, and then have a bright orange tie round my neck. Or perhaps I’ll wear black pants and shoes with a scarlet shirt. Yet my favorite is an all-black outfit with a glossy white belt. Of course, these are my whoring clothes. The full dark with a splash of color is oddly sexual to my customers; they feel as if the bright hue is my passion, and they must match it with their own through lovemaking and other monotonous acts.

When not whoring, I’ll wear pants and a button-down shirt, something simple. I can look so very different at times… One time I’ll be all male-dolled up for a customer with my black clothes and hydrant-yellow bowtie, ready to thrust or blow. Another time I’ll simply be wearing blue jeans with a calm green polo, turning the key in my loft’s lock with one hand and holding a paper cup of coffee with the other.

And because I have different clothes for casual times, I also have a more official job to go with them. I work in a café on the corner of my street, serving raspberry pastries on wax paper and cappuccinos with flavored syrup to the people who pop in and out. Nobody ever stops to actually sit down and enjoy their food; they ask for it, get it, pay, and leave… much like my night-customers. I’m able to make negotiations with future night-customers in the café without anybody getting suspicious, because nobody stays in the café but me on my shift. The boss is never in the front of the café to hear us talk about a future fuck, anyway, so it doesn’t matter.

Maybe it’s my British accent, for I moved from London to New York City when I was seventeen and am now twenty-two. Maybe it’s my thin yet sensually masculine look. Maybe it’s simply my ability to multitask with my jobs. I don’t know what it is, but my night-customers are triple my day-café-customers. I get more money whoring than truly working.

But my favorite places to hover by, my favorite places to meet potential customers, my favorite places to be at are the Wednesday matinées on Broadway. At least, they were my favorite places to be at until I saw her, the one who turned everything turvy-topsy and down upside.

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“See the one there, the man with the glasses and the puff-pants?” I pointed. “He was intent on shoving his little pecker in me everywhere last night.”

“Society.” Bella sighed and turned back to the concession stand. “Don’t know how to treat a rentboy right, do they?” She adjusted her Hairspray hat and began to walk back. I followed.

Bella. The most honest person I had ever met; her cynicism was a breath of fresh air to me. Everyone else told me that I could be having a better job, a better life than this… But Bella accepted me for what I was and didn’t complain. Probably because her life as a Broadway show vendor wasn’t much better than mine – the only difference was that she sold shirts and buttons while I sold my body.

“I told you that I hate the term rentboy,” I replied, watching Bella as she climbed behind the merchandise counter and took a twenty-roll from a customer. She was smart enough not to say anything else, as we were in public. I opened my mouth to change the subject when I felt a blow and suddenly fell backwards.

A young woman had thrown herself into me, though by accident or on purpose I didn’t know. A man sprinted up to us and looked down his long thin nose at her on the ground next to me.

I had been hit square in the middle of the chest by one of her sharp elbows, and I could already feel a bruise starting. It was then that the girl raised herself and sat down right on my bruised spot, a stranger sitting on my chest in a crowded matinée theater.

“I’ll never fuck you again,” she whispered fiercely to the man with the long nose. Her dark curled hair fell messily over her shoulders and obstructed my view of her face. She adjusted her sitting position and a sharp pain rattled my chest. I tried to tell her to get off me but she was also crushing my lungs.

“I’d rather fuck this man than you!” She motioned backward toward me, and I tried to wave politely to the gentleman and flash him a smile while moving as little as possible.

The man’s short throaty laugh dripped with malice. “You won’t be getting any more fucks from me, believe me,” he said and turned on his heel to leave the theater. He left the both of us, his lover and stranger, on a floor of the Hairspray arena. I realized that nearly everyone in the lobby was staring at us; one woman was covering her son’s virgin ears. I would have laughed at that, if only this god-awful young woman, no matter how thin she was, was not restricting my oxygen intake.

I shoved her off me and sat up, massaging the bruised spot on the middle of my chest. When she turned to look at me, I saw that mascara tears had been streaming down her face the whole time that she was yelling at her boyfriend. I felt chagrin from pushing her, but before I could say anything she had flown out of the theater, leaving behind only a gaggle of perplexed and disgusted Broadway customers.

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I briskly walked to my closet and picked out all black clothes and a lime green blazer. Night would be falling soon.

As I rumpled my shirt above my head, I turned toward the closet mirror and studied the dark purple bruise in the middle of my chest. Jesus, she had really knocked me hard earlier today. What a lovely mark for my customers to see.

And I didn’t even know who she was!

I buttoned up the black shirt only halfway, exposing the bruise; I put on the blazer in silence. But I felt as if someone was with me, here in my dark little loft. But who would be with me now? A potential customer, probably… Yet it was still too early for anyone to come.

I walked to my bathroom after slipping my pants on, leaving the fly partially open. It took me a few seconds to search my bathroom before noticing the dark-haired ball of a woman sitting in the space between my toilet and counter.

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V.

“Fucking hell!” The man from the matinée screamed and stumbled backward, nearly falling. I began wailing again, letting out the tears that had fought to well over my eyelids in the past few minutes.

He was so fine-looking, and I felt horrible for bruising his chest, his heart. The way he nimbly slipped his shirt off over his head and buttoned the new one with incredible speed; the way he shrugged his shoulders to get the blazer up and on and how he so smoothly changed his pair of pants. It seemed like he had had practice in dressing so quickly. I felt ashamed for watching him get dressed without him knowing, and I knew there was a blush creeping into my cheeks while the tears came harder.

“What do you want?” The bruise expanded with every one of his quick breaths; he was clutching his dresser with a trembling hand. “Do you want a fuck?”

I stared at him, my wide eyes blurry from crying. This time he came closer to me and gently, almost lovingly, pulled down the rest of his fly. He repeated quietly now, “Do you want a fuck?”

I shook my head, shook and shook it, shook it so much that I felt as if my neck might snap. “No, no,” I cried in the same ridiculous wail.

“All right,” he said and backed away from me, zipping his fly up quickly. I could tell that he was trying to steady his breathing as he put his beautiful long-fingered hand over his chest, obscuring the bruise.

After a moment of mortified silence, I attempted to brush my hair away. I was still crying, though quieter than before. “I’m sorry for… for bruising you,” I said, averting my eyes from his.

“Oh, this?” he patted the spot. “It’s nothing. I’ll only get half the money than I do on a regular night for it.” A sneer stretched his face, contorting his mouth upward in a nasty smile. My eyes moistened with fresh tears, though I didn’t understand what he was talking about.

“Yes, it is your entire fault,” he continued and buttoned up the rest of his black shirt. He wore such a peculiar outfit, so dark with such a bright blazer. The color of it stung almost as much as his words. As he cupped my elbow and helped me upward, I could smell cologne and a touch of something stronger on him that I could not recognize. I realized that instead of trying to help me up, he was trying to throw me out.

He forced me out the door. “Go on, get out!” he shouted and slammed it. I fell then, fell against the wall outside his loft and sobbed. I came here in the first place because I had nowhere else to go.

I stayed there for what I suspected was nearly three hours, my head buried in the crook of my arm as I sat against the wall with my knees drawn up. During this time, three people came in and out of his loft – one with each hour. The first was a short, thin man with a full head of blond hair and a rainbow bracelet; he came out with a shining face and a smile to brighten the dark of the hall. The second was a buxom, exotic looking woman who came in nearly as quickly as she came out. I heard screaming while she was in there. At first I was startled, but then I realized what was happening.

And the last customer was a rather doughy, plain-looking man with dull brown eyes. He took quite a while, and when he walked out, I saw a dark stain on his pants. It was then that the beautiful man from inside peered out and saw me still sitting outside his loft. I could tell from his expression that he thought I was nothing more than a pathetic crying object.

He closed the door but in a few minutes checked back and saw that I hadn’t moved from the same spot in hours. Quietly he slipped a tray toward me and shut the door. The tray had a bowl, a plastic spoon, a click-pen, and a blue piece of paper on it.

The bowl was filled with ramen noodles, cooked and hot. The blue paper read:

Hi. I’m Sid.

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When I finished eating, I flipped the paper over and wrote on the back:

Hi, Sid. I’m Violet.

Thanks for dinner.

And then I put everything on the tray and left it at the foot of his door.

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Thanks for reading; I’d love reviews!