The aristocrat sat down. No one he knew was there. This was a relief. No socializing with backstabbing bores. Bores. Did he just say that? Yes, he supposed they were rather boring. He grinned and looked around.
Whores, he'd meant to say. Whores. That's what they were. Lipstick freshened every moment. Lips plumped in wait for an "Innocent encounter". Pretending to take offence to cash if left on the bedside; believing their whoring had gone unnoticed (oh could they smirk) when given a credit card. What was the difference?
The men were whores as well. After his money and pieces of him. Though not willing to put out anything for it. Thank god for that. Greasy, buffed out bumps of life that they were. Thinking their crotches a perfect match for rosebud lips, yet stuffing them into the decaying mouths of trash. Laughing about it all the while.
In that, though, was he any different? When feeling the perfumed bodies of his affairs. Tarnishing the reputation they thought was uplifted by the mere fact that it was "his soul" they had reached. What did they expect? That he would marry them? That he would give them a good letter of recommendation? That he would sacrifice his position?
He let them believe his undying love. His secret love for them. His private, hidden from the public eye love. Their own crotches wet at the thought. So easy and smooth, pouted like their lips, ready to suck him dry of everything.
In this place, so soothingly murky and pallid in ambiance, he was free to entertain his desires. Without being talked about. The widening of his pupils could here be construed as simple adjustment to the dim lighting. One day She would enter a room. He fantasized this often. The tawdry waitress. He would surprise her. She wouldn't expect it. He would reach for her naked thigh beneath her skirt. It would press against his hand and slightly quiver then melt. He would pull her to him by the waist. She would let out a defeated breath of sound.
"What'll it be?"
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