#and brand new a dry suit is ONE THOUSAND FUCKING DOLLARS

[itsfloortimebabey]

no bc why is a brandnew goodquality drysuit literally 1000 dollars. hello

[tabbysgotclaws]

In My  Line of Work - #Throwback

Wrote this shit a thousand fucking years ago (not literally, I think it was about two) but hey, figured it’d be a good way to pop this place’s cherry. Enjoy the sex and bloodshed, babes, it’s what you’re here for, right? <3

***

I've always found it funny that people like to call prostitution "the world's oldest profession." It doesn't speak all that highly of the human race's priorities, does it?

Paint on cave walls.

Discover fire.

Pay someone to fuck you senseless.

Get that in Latin, and we could engrave it at the base of every statue the world over - or better yet, build new statues, all shaped like giant brass cocks at full salute. That's the human mission statement in a nutshell right there: here, we have two types of animal, the ones with the dicks, and the ones getting fucked by them. And we will always - I repeat, always - be the ones with the dicks.

Yes indeed, the world's oldest profession.

I can think of an older one, but we'll get to that later.

It's outside of a motel called Restin' Easy that we lay our scene. Picture this: a gorgeous woman stands up against a sand-blasted brick wall, dressed to the nines in designer silks and a leather jacket. She's taking a long, sincere drag off a slender cigarette, and leaving blood-red lipstick rings on the unburnt white paper of the shaft. She's got the good looks of a 1960s movie star - a regular Audrey Hepburn in the making. Her black hair falls just above her shoulders, and sways gently in the night's breeze.

That's me.

The balding middle-aged man in the tan jacket with a face like a slapped ass, that's Dave. Yeah, Dave with the greasy skin that tosses back the neon rays of the glowing "VACANCY" sign above us. Dave the big spender, flashing the wad of hundreds in his faux-leather wallet.

Dave the asshole. Dave the John.

"Crystal recommended you to me," He says in an unbearably cocky tone, like I'm a new brand of aftershave he's been meaning to try out for a while, "She said you do things no other girl will do. That right?"

"More or less." I say, feigning a provocative grin.

When you've been in the business for as long as I have, you get pretty good at sizing up your customers with a glance. Sometimes, it's necessary to survival - you look the wrong way in this line of work and you've got a seven-inch stiletto buried between the links in your spine. Sex does weird shit to people's heads.

Dave, for all his faults, is easy to read. He wears a look of contempt, like he's too good for the situation he's putting himself in. He's wealthy, and entitled. He doesn't know why he's paying for sex - a man of his stature should be beating the ladies off with a stick, surely.

He probably sells used cars for a living, I think, suppressing a smirk.

"What can I do for you that Crystal can't, sugar?" I ask with an innocent flutter of eyelashes,

He grunts, one side of his mouth curling into a sneer.

"She was a little too...safe, for my taste."

"Too safe for you, huh? Ever considered trying to fuck a bear?"

"No, not like that. I mean, she was too vanilla. She wasn't comfortable with the things I wanted."

I raise an eyebrow and place a well-manicured hand on my hip, cocking my pelvis slightly to the side. Guys like Dave are almost like video games: once you know all the cheat codes, you're in the clear.

"Tell me, honey," I whisper to him in my most sultry drawl, "What is it that you want?"

What I expect is an answer, what I get is a grubby hundred dollar bill fumbled into my palm. Dave keeps scanning from side to side throughout, as though he's afraid of someone seeing him.

That's always a red flag.

"How about we go somewhere private, and then I'll tell you." He says, his voice oozing disdain.

I breathe a plume of smoke into his face and snuff my cigarette against the wall. On one hand, his rudeness pisses me off, on the other, I want it over with sooner rather than later.

The interior of Restin' Easy is everything that the facade would lead you to believe - old and chintzy, but with a certain charm to it, if you can look past the fine layer of sleaze. Think off-white shag carpeting, lamps that haven't been replaced since the seventies, and a pencil-moustached manager picking particles of cocaine from underneath his dirty fingernails. In short, it was my kind of place.

"Hey, John," I call to the manager with a playful smirk, "You got a room for me?"

His name isn't John, I know that much. But he reminds me of John Waters, so the name stays.

Not-really-John flashes me a grin back and fiddles with the lapel of his velvet suit, the lacquer in his hair rendered iridescent by the fizzing halogen tubes that hang above.

"Same as always?" He asks, his lisping voice softer than coffin-lining, "Number Seven's available."

I nod and he tosses me the keys, keeping Dave in tow. He's scowling like I've just spat in his face.

If anything's clear to me, it's that Davey-boy is used to better. He's a pervert with standards.

Smash-cut to room seven, an amateur porn set if ever there was one. In a certain sense, all hotel rooms - big and small, expensive and dirt cheap - feel like the same place, the same liminal area between destinations. They have the same walls, the same beds, the same dusty bibles in the bedside cabinets. Nondescript art of ports never visited and generic forestry grace the walls, and a minibar sits in the corner looking shameful, almost like it knows what it is. A shitty little robber with a conscience.

Dave looks out of place here, like he's being doctored into this image in real-time. He's still wearing that I-can-smell-rot-in-here scowl and avoiding eye contact with me for whatever reason. It doesn't exactly do wonders for my self-esteem, I'll tell you that much.

"So, uh, you ready?" I ask him, searching for an answer buried in the creases of his face, "I hope this doesn't take too long, honey. I'm hungry and the McDonald's closes at ten-thirty."

"It'll take as long as I need it to." He growls, loosening his tie.

I figure the uptight bastard would come-out a handful of sand after a perfunctory screw. He's never made love in his life - just fucked, and fucked badly.

In that moment, my hopes of having any fun tonight die on their asses.

Before I know it, he's pushing me onto the bed and starting to disrobe, revealing to me his fleshy, pale frame. There's a kind of solidness to him - not brick shithouse solid, but drying clay solid. As though with enough warmth, you could start twisting him into the right shape again.

I take off my leather jacket and shirt, and kick off my jeans, until I'm just in my bra and underwear. Without sounding too arrogant, I can tell by the look in his eyes that I'm better than he's had in years - but he's not appreciative, oh no. He looks at me the way I'm assuming Christopher Columbus looked at America - the look of a man ready to fuck shit up royally to assert his limp-dicked dominance over something beautiful.

I'd go into more detail as to what I look like without all those pesky clothes, but it'd cost you, sugar. And I don't come cheap.

Hell, with most of these guys I don't even come at all. See? Little bit of on-the-job humor, just to lighten the mood. What happens next is a little grimmer.

Once he's down to his underwear, Dave starts opening a briefcase he's brought in with him. I start wondering whether he expects me to sign a non-disclosure waiver or some shit, until I realize what he's producing from the case is a leather paddle covered in metal studs.

Naughty, naughty Dave.

"That looks painful," I giggle, fluttering my eyelashes, knowing the absence of fear would emasculate him, "I can see why Crystal turned you down. For a second, I just thought you must have had a funny-shaped dick."

For the record, his dick was of a relatively average shape and size. Nothing terrible, but not exactly remarkable either.

He just grunts, and runs his big, rough hands over the studs.

"You can't get this kind of action at home, huh?" I ask.

"Never in a million years," He says, finally turning to me, "My wife wouldn't allow it. But, then again, my wife isn't here."

He chuckles like a bad villain from a sixties movie would chuckle.

"Y'know, I've seen a lot of hookers, but none of them have been quite as mouthy as you," He says, taking tentative steps towards me as his erection began to bloom in anticipation, "I like that. Breaking you is gonna be a challenge."

I climb further back onto the bed, edging towards the pillows. The quilt feels cheap and rough on my skin - though I don't exactly have any high expectations for Restin' Easy. I don't come here for the comfort, after all.

"Word of advice, Davey-boy," I say with a salacious wink, "Take me before you break me. It'll make the beating more satisfying, don't you think?"

He doesn't say a word, refusing to concede to me, but he agrees. There's a soft thump as the paddle falls to the ground, and he crawls across the bed to me like a goddamn puppy.

I'd have laughed if I wasn't so excited for what comes next.

As expected, the sex is boring. For a man who carries a spiked paddle around in his briefcase like Patrick fucking Bateman, he's got a surprisingly dull preference for the missionary position - a position I'd always thought of as the mayonnaise of sex: good when you're in the mood for it, but too much of it and you lose the will to live.

He does tug my hair, though. I find that a little annoying, especially considering the price of having your hair done these days.

Once he's done and his body practically coughs into mine (thank god for condoms, or I would have caught his cold) he just collapses onto me, gasping and exhausted. It'd take another hour before the sad bastard would have enough energy to beat me.

And I've never been all that patient.

"Wow, slick," I find myself saying, with all the enthusiasm of a text-to-speech generator, "That really was something."

"Y'think?" He asks, wanting me to stroke his ego.

"Well, normally good sex can leave me satisfied," I muse, "But that just left me hungrier."

He gives an annoyed grunt and tries to hoist himself up, still awkwardly straddling me while he does it.

My painted lips are pursed into a tight grin, while my teeth begin growing from my gums and sharpening into vicious points. I have a mouth full of scalpels, and poor, ignorant Dave is none the wiser. This is something I've done before, so I know how to keep it hidden right up until the moment it all ends.

That moment, my dear readers, is now.

Without warning, I grab Dave by the fat folds on the back of his big, sweaty head and pull his face down towards me. My lips curl up over my teeth into a manic, open-mouth smile, showing him the piranha thing I had going on inside.

"Carol sends her regards." I hiss through my fangs with a cruel giggle.

There's a glimmer of terrible recognition in his eyes when I say that name. The universal look of "oh fuck, I've been caught" is plastered liberally across his face. The vain little turd looks terrified before he's even noticed my fangs, or that I've cribbed my one-liner from Game of Thrones.

He doesn't get a chance to respond. Within the next second, I've pulled him down further and clamped my jaws around his thick, piggish neck. He thrashes, but I wrap my legs around his waist and grab his arms, completely immobilizing him.

When I'm not hiding my strength, he's nothing to me.

Dave thrashes weakly while twin geysers of blood evacuate his throat, giving me a warm, refreshing drink - like coppery cocoa, that's always made me feel a little better about it.

It doesn't take him long to die, and when he does, the real feeding starts.

I'll admit, I have a tendency to black out when I'm in the middle of a good meal - like a premature food coma, you see? But, when I come back to the land of the living, I can see by the radium-green numbers on the bedside alarm clock that it's only taken me about fifteen minutes to do the damage I'd done.

When I looked down onto the remains of Dave Whatshisname, I see there's only bones left, and that I'm wearing a stylish, crimson apron courtesy of my meal.

Then, it hits me how full I'm feeling, and I collapse back onto the bed.

Cheap quilts. Easy to replace when there's spillage.

"Dave, you irritating fucker," I say with a groan, poking my bloated stomach, "If I can't button my goddamn jeans after this, I'm charging your wife extra."

Crap. That reminds me.

I lean over, feeling another pain deep in my belly as I do so, and grabbed my phone out of the pocket of my discarded jeans.

Carol. Carol. Carol. I've got her on speed dial.

When she picks up, she just says, "Is it done?"

"What? No 'hello'? Most people are polite to their hired killers, lady."

My indigestion is so bad that I barely have the strength to be sarcastic - oh, who am I kidding? I always have the strength to be sarcastic.

"Just tell me if my shitbag husband is dead."

I give an agonized groan as my stomach gurgles, as though dearly deceased Dave was protesting.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Dead, devoured, digesting. Whatever. You paid me yet?"

There's a long sigh down the receiver. Most people have that reaction when they find out I've murdered their husbands, but - to my credit - I never do it without being asked.

They need people dead, and I need to eat. Seems a fair trade to me.

"The money should be in your account."

"Sweet! And it couldn't have come at a better time, Carol. After your lard-ass husband, I'm probably gonna go up a fucking dress size. You owe me for my new wardrobe."

"You don't have to eat them, you know." She says, trying to pretend she's above it all.

"You're saying that from a human perspective. I'm not human, and ergo, we have different dietary needs," I say, wincing again from the pain, "But if you're satisfied with your service, I'm gonna save the biology lesson for when your husband isn't killing me from the inside. Okay?"

"I guess..."

"I need to hear you say it, Carol."

She sighs. Again.

"I am satisfied with my service. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Bye."

I hang up on her unceremoniously and collapse back onto the bed, throwing my phone to the side.

"Ten thou isn't enough for this shit." I groan again, my stomach ache ebbing and worsening as though on some kind of nonsensical schedule.

"Jesus Christ, look at this mess you've made!" I hear a shrill, effeminate voice ring out from the doorway, "I thought I told you to lay down a plastic tarp when you're doing your weird, hitwoman stuff!"

It's John. Not-really-John.

I find myself rolling my eyes at him, as he sashays into the room with a plastic bag and starts picking up the bones.

"That'll blow my cover, John," I say, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, "I'm posing as a sex worker. You know that. And nobody wants to have sex in a room that looks like the interior designer was Dexter Morgan. It's a pretty major boner dethroner."

John just shrugs and carries on picking up the bones. I always give him a little cut of the proceeds, so he doesn't mind doing some of the cleanup - I ate most of the mess, after all. And now, I'm just laying there, on the precipice of an actual food coma.

I love a happy ending, don't you?

Like I was saying earlier, I've always found it funny that people like to call prostitution "the world's oldest profession." After all, it's not just corny, it's patently untrue.

Before people even dreamt of paying to fuck someone else, they were paying to have them killed. And that, my dear readers, is why I'll always be in business, and why cheaters never prosper.