Joel's Fiction

I found this really interesting fiction written by somebody named Joel from one of the Internet communities I’m a member of. His pictures looked pretty hot. Reading his literature made him hotter than expected.

I am standing in a corner, my back pressed against a wall, trying to keep myself within the two feet of dry ledge, safe from the rain. I remain unscathed mostly, except for my hair, glittered with spray and my jacket speckled with black spots where brown canvass is wet. My muscles tense with the impulse to hold myself in the cold night air, but instead I pretend, possibly bad at it, to look sexy, with a foot against the wall, hips thrust forward and a cigarette shared between my lips and fingers.

I pretend that I am not painfully conscious that I haven’t eaten dinner, nor lunch. I try to recall the last real meal I have eaten, but immediately shoo the thoughts away as the corners of my jaw slacken and my mouth water.

I smile at every passerby, hoping that my smile can pierce through the oiled fabric of umbrellas. All night, it has slid off like rainwater.

As tomorrow is named today in a flash of a second, I am aware that no other money-boys remain in the street.

I wonder if it shows, the ugly feeling of being the one at the school dance sitting down during lady’s choice. The music plays softly and I pretend to watch the dancers, or the lights or the way some unnamed wind has wandered into the school gym to play amid the cheap crepe paper decorations. As the second chorus comes, the hope that someone would ask me to dance because they like me would be replaced by the fear that somebody would ask me to dance because they were sorry that nobody was dancing with me. The song would end with me still sitting on my plastic chair, of course. Some girl is sitting down and, partly removing her first pair of high heeled shoes, would rub some soreness off her foot, yet smiling only wide enough to badly hide that she is overjoyed. Meanwhile, like a heavy gust of a warm air, the boy whom I wanted to dance with is walking with his chest in a huff, away from her, and fighting every urge to look back, ashamed by how wide and cheesy his grin is. I stretch my lips into a smile of my own and pull my eyebrows as high as I can to feign enjoyment.

Back to the present, I laugh aloud at the memory, though equally unclear to myself why I was laughing as to any of the passers by.

Maybe it was my laugh but suddenly you are standing in front of me. You will ask me for the time and I will say one o’clock; you mean how much and I mean a hundred. My price has been lowered severely by the passing of hours and also I am so happy to see you. You absent-mindedly brush-off some rain off my hair, pat my shoulders dry, while you yourself are standing in the rain. Here is where I hate myself because I imagine that you intentionally lingered your finger along my ear and my neck. You leave your room’s number and hotel and a stick of cigarette that will keep me company while I idle away a few moments before following you. During those few minutes the cigarette will burn and be flicked away, while I am slowly but surely falling in love with you. I assure myself that I am hungry enough to remember to ask you for my hundred after. Where your fingers were, my skin is still warm.