The Taste Of Something Sweet
Title: The Taste Of Something Sweet
Chapter: There may or may not be more. Unclear at this point.
Author: americanaffair
Beta:
Pairing: Jack/
Rating: NC-17
POV: 1st
Summary:
All that makes sense is this is not what I thought. This is bigger than it should have got. I could've been, should've been, would've been. You might've been, should've been, would never have been.
Warning: Prostitution, underage drinking, SEX WITH UGLY MEN FOR THEIR CASH. A small religious rant, so this isn't for a die hard Christ fanatic.
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone. They belong to each other themselves. Title belongs to that one really really bad band filled with weird guys who have big eyebrows and autism.
Author Notes: So, I was meaning to write more for this, then looked at the ending and realized that it was surprisingly suiting. AND THIS IS NOT. Let me repeat. THIS IS NOT the actual porn I was gonna post. I was just signing offline from a quick convo with my sister aholelabledlove and this had been bugging me to get into the open. Now I'm about to go draw until I fall asleep, and will post pictures of those later for your viewing enjoyment. If you catch my drift. Anyway. I'm thinking I might have a stickcam orgy tomorrow night, if anyone wants details just comment, Thursday and Friday I'm kinda time pressed because of the funeral and wake. Regardless, I love everyone, and by the end of tonight Sleeping With Giants ought to be posted along with a request OR this little baby idea that I'm playing with in my head. Or maybe neither. You know me.
And maybe this is just a pet peeve of my own, but I'm super sorry on LJ's behalf for not indenting my paragraphs like I formatted it to. *Glares angry at screen* I WILL EAT YOUR BABIES.
ONE MORE TIME, PERSONAL JOURNAL : bedroomdisaster LOTS OF COOL NONSENSE GOING TO BE OVER THEEEREEE!!
Buried six feet under six layers of flesh, existing is whoever you think you love. It's hard to see if it's for the one and only me. Because it's feeling like living a lie, nothing less than a pawn to games life play. Fingers once thought they held the upper deck, is it stupidity or naivety?
Break down the body like a cardboard box, brittle bones snap with the inhale of stale air nowadays. Lock it away, the general public isn't ready for a massacre of which to this degree. And did we not see it coming, but lift not a finger? Are we any better than a man with a ticking bomb strapped to his chest and a fear to keep him secured in lies?
To which, this makes no sense. And to whom it imply s and specifically addressed is neither you nor I.
All that makes sense is this is not what I thought. This is bigger than it should have got. I could've been, should've been, would've been. You might've been, should've been, would never have been.
Disgraceful. Dishonest. Uncommunicative. Disloyal. Disapproving.
Denying?
Shut your pretty lips while they're still there with a swipe of tongue and a dash of teeth. Seal intoxicated moans and groans like a creaking haunted house. And keep those pesky, wandering hands to yourself. Manners are seemingly hard to come by.
And I thought you said I'm so much better than this.
He's got his hands all fucking over you. “You're beautiful. I love you. Touch me. Let me touch you. You like that, baby? Yeah. Get on your knees. Expensive bitch.”
He's got his claim all fucking over you. “I know you said no biting. But you look so much better bruised.”
“Oh,” is that your voice? No, it couldn't be. The prodigy son moaning for a man for his cash? No. “God, yes, there.” Impossible. Highly unlikely. Someone else is controlling your vocal chords. It feels better to convince yourself you're a marionette.
“You like that?” Tempted to classify these noises he's making as purring, and to the inexperienced ear, it would sound like it. But the guy on his back was a KFC and McDonald's stockholder, half of their yearly revenue looked like it was inside his bloody guts. At least he'd probably taste good to a cannibal, if not a little over salted. The guy on his back is making noises like a monster truck engine. Huge, loud, and grunting.
“More,” that's what a real purr sounds like.
“More what?” His sweaty fingers are clasped around his fragile hips as his thrusts produce a distinct slap of balls to skin.
“More,” you roll your eyes. “Daddy.” Your voice squeaks slightly whenever faking a moan, knowing of the need to get off because this other dude is close and your cock is just hardly leaking pre-cum.
“Bitch,” that same fat palm slaps your ass and leaves a perfect five-star symbol on the pale skin. “Tell me you want it harder.”
“I want it, more, more,” there is no way those are your moans. Inside the head, furiously is the brain trying to focus himself on somewhere completely aware from here. A scene that didn't reflect on this. The would've's. The could've's. The possibilities. And the sex.
Your free hand was madly jerking running up and down your impressive length, as the guy was ramming ass like a machine in the worst of ways.
“Cum for me, slut, all over your fucking hand,” he orders, tightening the hold because he doesn't want to let loose first.
And you oblige with a loud moan, almost scream, and screwing eyes shut when that feeling of this fat ass cumming inside, wanting to vomit. At least you made him put a rain coat on. Those I'll pay extra's are never worth it. Prostitute knowledge.
The mirror was giving a dirty reflection back of his face, streaked heavily with lines from tears cutting down his cheeks and eyes bloodshot and coated in a ring of red from wiping away the evidence that can't be hidden.
Water was running from the tap, finger perched in the steady fall until the temperature felt freezing enough to make color return to the paler than average complexion he currently adorned.
Cupping shaky hands under the faucet, he brought the water to his lips and swallowed harshly, coughing at the same time. A gasp of air later, he regained average breathing pace and turned the switch to bring the stream from waterfall to steady, never ending drip.
Inside his rib cage beat his heart, fragile and weary after so many attempts of break and tear. Outside of the muscle, the ribs themselves were just hardly staying intact. Every intake of fresh air felt like being punched in the stomach and chest, making breathing just that much more useless and painful.
Maybe if he stopped breathing, it would go away. His eyes would glaze over with a haze of happiness, he'd collapse on the linoleum bathroom floor, underneath the dripping sink. Legs would buckle underneath his light weight, and no one would even find them until someone wondered why the apartment smelt like death and the bills weren't being paid.
In a casket he could sleep forever. No one can hurt you when your six feet under. Buried with, at least, whatever dignity he had left. In a casket he could finally fade away.
Everyone wants to be noticed, that’s what they say. Make them remember your name, because when your gone, that's all they've got left.
Not he. He wanted to disappear without a trace. Run away, nothing more than a name you can't remember with a face. He wanted to let his parents forget about the son they'd never really had, and forget about the choices they wish he'd never really made.
In a cheap casket, the most inexpensive they could find. In a cheap blanket. In his cheap clothes. Embedded in the Earth, worth about as much history as a dead rat.
You know you're far gone when death looks like a pretty nice forever vacation. You know you're already dead when Hell is here and happiness comes in a simple 666.
It just felt stupid. Idiotic. It was like skipping stones on a paper ocean. The truth underneath the fragile pulp will always break through. There was a bar of soap, a toothbrush, and some really old toothpaste splayed out in front of him.
“Clean yourself up,” the bellhop at the motel he'd stumbled out of said. He sounded harsh, reprimanding. Like a parent figure he craved.
Shocker, shocker, headline rocker. A boy with daddy issues. And mommy issues. Selling the body on the streets to compensate the love he never felt.
Fuck that shit.
There was five hundred dollars of fast money in his back pocket, mouth tasted like spit, and there was a bar down the street that hadn't heard of a alcohol limit since it opened up as a speakeasy. This might not be the high life, but a hit could send him flying much faster.
“Age?” The bartender looked at him, raising an eyebrow and a smirk was prominent.
“Old enough to be standing here,” he rolled his eyes. “Just gimme something with a punch and a cherry.”
The bartender rolled his eyes, flipping back brunette hair and bending over at the waist to lift a bottle of Jack Daniels off the floor.
“Oh yummy,” came a sarcastic tone from his vocal chords, the smirk to the tenth degree. “My namesake.”
“Jack?” The bartender stifled a laugh and reached for a glass, pouring ice and straight up whiskey into the cup. Solely with the pad of his finger, the glass was inched across the streaked and stained bar, condensation leaving a print of where he'd applied pressure.
He took a swig, before turning to make a smart ass comment about his cherry being unavailable, only to see a full glass in front of him.
“Figured you might want a few more to pop,” he winked.
“Hand me a couple v-cards too, eh?” Jack stared at the bar stool, wondering how many drunks had pissed themselves right there and decided it was a bad place for his precious ass to sit.
The bartender laughed and relaxed against the fading polish of wood. Somehow, the crisp white button down he wore had remained white. Rolled up to his elbows and a vest on over top, he looked too clean to be in a place like this.
But anyone can clean up.
In a place like this, you would be sure to find a glory hole in every bathroom stall and quite possibly sneaky sons of bitches cut straight in the wall.
In a place like this, everyone was either a pimp, prostitute, had been, or will be.
“Sexy little cat,” a big man wrapped a strong arm around his small frame and pulled him forward. “Want a hit of the easy E?”
“Big Greg,” Jack smiled as he pressed into the man's body. “You read me like a book.”
“You know me, sugar.”
Big Greg started some talk that Jack droned out of, his eyes looking back to the bartender's occasionally and nodding along with the man in front of him for the sake of his story. Wouldn't want to get thrown out on your first night back on the scene.
“Jack, they said you were outta the game. Playin' with the big cats now?” Big Greg handed him a cut off straw, making three pretty white lines on the club's glass tables.
Fashion statement and addict furniture. Modern designs for modern society, apparently.
“Can't resist what you know best,” Jack winked, shutting one nostril tight and snuffing up the line. “Sweet nose candy,” he hissed.
“Colombian grade,” Big Greg ran a few beads through his fingers as Jack took another hit. “Whaddya say you come workin' for me again Jack?”
“I got people to see and bodies to love,” Jack smirked. He could feel it. Always could feel it. His head wasn't there anymore. Entirely somewhere else. No longer himself, no longer in need.
Aunt Nora, Batman, Bazulco, Hubba, Bernice, Bernie, Bernie's flakes, Bernie's Gold dust, Big bloke, Big C, Big flake, Big rush, C, C dust, C game, Candy C, Birdie Powder, Bouncing Powder, Bolivian Marching Powder, Blow, Stash, Girl, Snow, Stardust. They're all the same. They all get you to the same place in a timely fashion.
Jack thrust his jean clad hips in the general direction of the crowd, his body bumping and grinding with that of a short girl. She had kool-aid blue hair, tattoo sleeves and a chest piece, but Jack could care less. It was that cancer stick dangling between her cotton candy pink lips that had been injected with street grade collagen.
“Mind if I take a drag?” Came with a wink, his arms hooking around her to steal it and sooth the nicotine desperation with a drag.
“Mmm,” she wasn't even there, either. She was lost farther somewhere. Farther in the depths of her mind. Farther in the deeps of her most devious desires and sinister monsters.
His hands slipped down to her studded belt, smooth as the music. Fingers hooked into pockets, groping around and hoping for either cash or a hole.
Cigarettes.
“Kiss?”
She nodded, their lips connected, and by the time they were pulled away, Jack's mouth tasted like mojito and his back pocket had a fresh carton of whatever she'd been smoking.
The girl winked, like she knew what had just happened, but Jack stopped caring awhile ago.
“Have a nice night,” he pecked her cheek, her big blue eyes had long since glazed over. An overly pierced face was suddenly attached to hers like a leech to blood and media to plausible controversy.
“Mhm,” he heard her murmur, unsure if it was directed towards him or not.
He'd flown so many times prior to, he knew his body well at this altitude. Sets of hands were on him, lips were in his ear, but he wasn't paying attention. None of them were worth the diseases that were probably strong enough to break through the cheap rubbers.
Besides, his body was his temple. Just a decrepit one where teenagers smoked joints on the steps and couples fucked in the stalls when no one was there.
His legs stumbled him back towards the bar, remembering that cup of precious cherries awaiting him on the stained wood.
But a pair of arms caught him.
“Jack?”
“God?”
Jack turned around, ready to punch the man in the face who supposedly did no bad yet had given him a failing life and nothing better. His fist poised to slam square into his jaw reeled back in fiery anger like a hot piece of iron branding into his skin.
Whoa. Slow motion, his own eyes scanned the skin and registered that no, this was far from God.
“Alex,” he, Alex, forced a stiff smile onto his face, tightening his grip when some big guy from across the bar checked them out.
“Alex,” Jack repeated, unable to hear the drawn out awkwardness his voice was currently playing to the tune of.
All around them, it felt like the room was getting hotter and hotter. Bodies were moving faster and faster. Jack felt sick in this so called God's arms.
Wouldn't it make sense to die in the embrace of God?
“Y-you should go home,” Alex pointed him in the door.
Jack laughed. Loud, intrusive, and sarcastic all in one. “Fuck home.”
“I know how old you are,” Alex whispered in his ear.
“You think being arrested changes anything?” And he suddenly just didn't give a fuck. He really didn't. Some sick part of him felt like running into the middle of that Boston street, purely to have some massive disease of an SUV slam straight into him. Snap his neck and cause internal bleeding. Pain is nothing but a state of mind, emotions no more than a chemical reaction.
“Just go home kid,” Alex shoved him again.
Jack's hands caught the door before his face. He turned on his heel to give a pointed glare, but what's-his-name was already gone. Like he'd never been there at all.
The moon was glaring down on the streets, not quite dead but not quite alive. There was the occasional shriek like giggle of a woman as her boyfriend reached down to place some sort of PDA on her exposed skin. Lonely men and woman smoking a cigarette while their boots slapped against the concrete.
Cars drove down the narrow streets and pulled into parking garages because there simply wasn't enough room for lots or driveways. People who lived in small houses and apartment buildings had their expensive vehicles pulled street side and ticking on a paid spot.
It was the perfect time to feel absolutely nothing at all.
Jack's fingers dug into his pockets, feeling the cotton lining of tight black skinny jeans. The hoodie he wore was so worn down to the fibers that pricks of goosebumps were arising along thin limbs, and every exhale was a plume of smoke.
Homeless people were crouched in black alleyways, warming their hands over a small burning fire and cuddling with cardboard in an attempt to retain some sort of body heat. A demented cat meowed loudy and rubbed up against one man's leg, who accepted the touch without a thought and began to pet the animal, clumps of fur falling off by every brush.
Religion was created as a way to explain things that happened. The ancient Egyptians had no idea how to comprehend that the sun moves across the sky as according to how the Earth spins. So they portrayed it as a man driving his chariot across the sky.
As time went on, and science still wasn't giving away proper reasoning, so the idea of this one single deity called God came along. And so the story goes.
Religion is a dumb man's way of defining happenings.
If religion was real, if the concept of God was real, then Jack would burn in hell as according to a man so supposedly deemed good by society that he can choose your fate. What about the man that murders from mental disability? What about the person with no other options? What about him? Why does someone deserve to tell Jack he lived an impure life like he didn't already know.
And would he take it back? No. Not for the sake of getting into something that appeared like a prestigious club. He would take it back for himself, not to remove the burden of Hell. Everyone's done something deemed bad. There is no perfect man.
That's how he knew God was a lie.
That's how he knew his death didn't even matter.
That's how he knew that he would never find his love, so looking was a waste of energy that could be put to something at least slightly more beneficial.
“Where you goin' pretty?”
Jack turned around, hand resting on his cocked hip. “No where.”
“I got a better location,” he winked, daring to step closer and expose himself underneath the streetlights.
First emerged the shadow that could've been Jack Skellington, but then came the body. Tall, slim, and sexy.
More than capable of not needing a whore. Then again, Jack had to wonder if he even knew he was a whore, or just some hot guy he picked up on the street.
“Yeah?” Jack winked, letting this guy hook his arm around his hip and lead him further down the street where Jack was aimlessly traveling.
Stars lined the sky, and if he squeezed his eyes tight and opened them up, fire works lit up the streets like a cigarette ash falling to the ground. He wheezed in air, continuing to keep up the fast walking pace while inhaling second hand smoke.
“What do you say we go some place where they'll forget our names?” This guy's hand was slipping lower, and lower, and Jack really didn't mind. In fact, out of most every guy who'd lead him to the motel on 72nd, he had no opposition to where the hand was going based on who the hand was attached to.
But anyone can clean up.
Chapter: There may or may not be more. Unclear at this point.
Author: americanaffair
Beta:
Pairing: Jack/
Rating: NC-17
POV: 1st
Summary:
All that makes sense is this is not what I thought. This is bigger than it should have got. I could've been, should've been, would've been. You might've been, should've been, would never have been.
Warning: Prostitution, underage drinking, SEX WITH UGLY MEN FOR THEIR CASH. A small religious rant, so this isn't for a die hard Christ fanatic.
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone. They belong to each other themselves. Title belongs to that one really really bad band filled with weird guys who have big eyebrows and autism.
Author Notes: So, I was meaning to write more for this, then looked at the ending and realized that it was surprisingly suiting. AND THIS IS NOT. Let me repeat. THIS IS NOT the actual porn I was gonna post. I was just signing offline from a quick convo with my sister aholelabledlove and this had been bugging me to get into the open. Now I'm about to go draw until I fall asleep, and will post pictures of those later for your viewing enjoyment. If you catch my drift. Anyway. I'm thinking I might have a stickcam orgy tomorrow night, if anyone wants details just comment, Thursday and Friday I'm kinda time pressed because of the funeral and wake. Regardless, I love everyone, and by the end of tonight Sleeping With Giants ought to be posted along with a request OR this little baby idea that I'm playing with in my head. Or maybe neither. You know me.
And maybe this is just a pet peeve of my own, but I'm super sorry on LJ's behalf for not indenting my paragraphs like I formatted it to. *Glares angry at screen* I WILL EAT YOUR BABIES.
ONE MORE TIME, PERSONAL JOURNAL : bedroomdisaster LOTS OF COOL NONSENSE GOING TO BE OVER THEEEREEE!!
Buried six feet under six layers of flesh, existing is whoever you think you love. It's hard to see if it's for the one and only me. Because it's feeling like living a lie, nothing less than a pawn to games life play. Fingers once thought they held the upper deck, is it stupidity or naivety?
Break down the body like a cardboard box, brittle bones snap with the inhale of stale air nowadays. Lock it away, the general public isn't ready for a massacre of which to this degree. And did we not see it coming, but lift not a finger? Are we any better than a man with a ticking bomb strapped to his chest and a fear to keep him secured in lies?
To which, this makes no sense. And to whom it imply s and specifically addressed is neither you nor I.
All that makes sense is this is not what I thought. This is bigger than it should have got. I could've been, should've been, would've been. You might've been, should've been, would never have been.
Disgraceful. Dishonest. Uncommunicative. Disloyal. Disapproving.
Denying?
Shut your pretty lips while they're still there with a swipe of tongue and a dash of teeth. Seal intoxicated moans and groans like a creaking haunted house. And keep those pesky, wandering hands to yourself. Manners are seemingly hard to come by.
And I thought you said I'm so much better than this.
He's got his hands all fucking over you. “You're beautiful. I love you. Touch me. Let me touch you. You like that, baby? Yeah. Get on your knees. Expensive bitch.”
He's got his claim all fucking over you. “I know you said no biting. But you look so much better bruised.”
“Oh,” is that your voice? No, it couldn't be. The prodigy son moaning for a man for his cash? No. “God, yes, there.” Impossible. Highly unlikely. Someone else is controlling your vocal chords. It feels better to convince yourself you're a marionette.
“You like that?” Tempted to classify these noises he's making as purring, and to the inexperienced ear, it would sound like it. But the guy on his back was a KFC and McDonald's stockholder, half of their yearly revenue looked like it was inside his bloody guts. At least he'd probably taste good to a cannibal, if not a little over salted. The guy on his back is making noises like a monster truck engine. Huge, loud, and grunting.
“More,” that's what a real purr sounds like.
“More what?” His sweaty fingers are clasped around his fragile hips as his thrusts produce a distinct slap of balls to skin.
“More,” you roll your eyes. “Daddy.” Your voice squeaks slightly whenever faking a moan, knowing of the need to get off because this other dude is close and your cock is just hardly leaking pre-cum.
“Bitch,” that same fat palm slaps your ass and leaves a perfect five-star symbol on the pale skin. “Tell me you want it harder.”
“I want it, more, more,” there is no way those are your moans. Inside the head, furiously is the brain trying to focus himself on somewhere completely aware from here. A scene that didn't reflect on this. The would've's. The could've's. The possibilities. And the sex.
Your free hand was madly jerking running up and down your impressive length, as the guy was ramming ass like a machine in the worst of ways.
“Cum for me, slut, all over your fucking hand,” he orders, tightening the hold because he doesn't want to let loose first.
And you oblige with a loud moan, almost scream, and screwing eyes shut when that feeling of this fat ass cumming inside, wanting to vomit. At least you made him put a rain coat on. Those I'll pay extra's are never worth it. Prostitute knowledge.
The mirror was giving a dirty reflection back of his face, streaked heavily with lines from tears cutting down his cheeks and eyes bloodshot and coated in a ring of red from wiping away the evidence that can't be hidden.
Water was running from the tap, finger perched in the steady fall until the temperature felt freezing enough to make color return to the paler than average complexion he currently adorned.
Cupping shaky hands under the faucet, he brought the water to his lips and swallowed harshly, coughing at the same time. A gasp of air later, he regained average breathing pace and turned the switch to bring the stream from waterfall to steady, never ending drip.
Inside his rib cage beat his heart, fragile and weary after so many attempts of break and tear. Outside of the muscle, the ribs themselves were just hardly staying intact. Every intake of fresh air felt like being punched in the stomach and chest, making breathing just that much more useless and painful.
Maybe if he stopped breathing, it would go away. His eyes would glaze over with a haze of happiness, he'd collapse on the linoleum bathroom floor, underneath the dripping sink. Legs would buckle underneath his light weight, and no one would even find them until someone wondered why the apartment smelt like death and the bills weren't being paid.
In a casket he could sleep forever. No one can hurt you when your six feet under. Buried with, at least, whatever dignity he had left. In a casket he could finally fade away.
Everyone wants to be noticed, that’s what they say. Make them remember your name, because when your gone, that's all they've got left.
Not he. He wanted to disappear without a trace. Run away, nothing more than a name you can't remember with a face. He wanted to let his parents forget about the son they'd never really had, and forget about the choices they wish he'd never really made.
In a cheap casket, the most inexpensive they could find. In a cheap blanket. In his cheap clothes. Embedded in the Earth, worth about as much history as a dead rat.
You know you're far gone when death looks like a pretty nice forever vacation. You know you're already dead when Hell is here and happiness comes in a simple 666.
It just felt stupid. Idiotic. It was like skipping stones on a paper ocean. The truth underneath the fragile pulp will always break through. There was a bar of soap, a toothbrush, and some really old toothpaste splayed out in front of him.
“Clean yourself up,” the bellhop at the motel he'd stumbled out of said. He sounded harsh, reprimanding. Like a parent figure he craved.
Shocker, shocker, headline rocker. A boy with daddy issues. And mommy issues. Selling the body on the streets to compensate the love he never felt.
Fuck that shit.
There was five hundred dollars of fast money in his back pocket, mouth tasted like spit, and there was a bar down the street that hadn't heard of a alcohol limit since it opened up as a speakeasy. This might not be the high life, but a hit could send him flying much faster.
“Age?” The bartender looked at him, raising an eyebrow and a smirk was prominent.
“Old enough to be standing here,” he rolled his eyes. “Just gimme something with a punch and a cherry.”
The bartender rolled his eyes, flipping back brunette hair and bending over at the waist to lift a bottle of Jack Daniels off the floor.
“Oh yummy,” came a sarcastic tone from his vocal chords, the smirk to the tenth degree. “My namesake.”
“Jack?” The bartender stifled a laugh and reached for a glass, pouring ice and straight up whiskey into the cup. Solely with the pad of his finger, the glass was inched across the streaked and stained bar, condensation leaving a print of where he'd applied pressure.
He took a swig, before turning to make a smart ass comment about his cherry being unavailable, only to see a full glass in front of him.
“Figured you might want a few more to pop,” he winked.
“Hand me a couple v-cards too, eh?” Jack stared at the bar stool, wondering how many drunks had pissed themselves right there and decided it was a bad place for his precious ass to sit.
The bartender laughed and relaxed against the fading polish of wood. Somehow, the crisp white button down he wore had remained white. Rolled up to his elbows and a vest on over top, he looked too clean to be in a place like this.
But anyone can clean up.
In a place like this, you would be sure to find a glory hole in every bathroom stall and quite possibly sneaky sons of bitches cut straight in the wall.
In a place like this, everyone was either a pimp, prostitute, had been, or will be.
“Sexy little cat,” a big man wrapped a strong arm around his small frame and pulled him forward. “Want a hit of the easy E?”
“Big Greg,” Jack smiled as he pressed into the man's body. “You read me like a book.”
“You know me, sugar.”
Big Greg started some talk that Jack droned out of, his eyes looking back to the bartender's occasionally and nodding along with the man in front of him for the sake of his story. Wouldn't want to get thrown out on your first night back on the scene.
“Jack, they said you were outta the game. Playin' with the big cats now?” Big Greg handed him a cut off straw, making three pretty white lines on the club's glass tables.
Fashion statement and addict furniture. Modern designs for modern society, apparently.
“Can't resist what you know best,” Jack winked, shutting one nostril tight and snuffing up the line. “Sweet nose candy,” he hissed.
“Colombian grade,” Big Greg ran a few beads through his fingers as Jack took another hit. “Whaddya say you come workin' for me again Jack?”
“I got people to see and bodies to love,” Jack smirked. He could feel it. Always could feel it. His head wasn't there anymore. Entirely somewhere else. No longer himself, no longer in need.
Aunt Nora, Batman, Bazulco, Hubba, Bernice, Bernie, Bernie's flakes, Bernie's Gold dust, Big bloke, Big C, Big flake, Big rush, C, C dust, C game, Candy C, Birdie Powder, Bouncing Powder, Bolivian Marching Powder, Blow, Stash, Girl, Snow, Stardust. They're all the same. They all get you to the same place in a timely fashion.
Jack thrust his jean clad hips in the general direction of the crowd, his body bumping and grinding with that of a short girl. She had kool-aid blue hair, tattoo sleeves and a chest piece, but Jack could care less. It was that cancer stick dangling between her cotton candy pink lips that had been injected with street grade collagen.
“Mind if I take a drag?” Came with a wink, his arms hooking around her to steal it and sooth the nicotine desperation with a drag.
“Mmm,” she wasn't even there, either. She was lost farther somewhere. Farther in the depths of her mind. Farther in the deeps of her most devious desires and sinister monsters.
His hands slipped down to her studded belt, smooth as the music. Fingers hooked into pockets, groping around and hoping for either cash or a hole.
Cigarettes.
“Kiss?”
She nodded, their lips connected, and by the time they were pulled away, Jack's mouth tasted like mojito and his back pocket had a fresh carton of whatever she'd been smoking.
The girl winked, like she knew what had just happened, but Jack stopped caring awhile ago.
“Have a nice night,” he pecked her cheek, her big blue eyes had long since glazed over. An overly pierced face was suddenly attached to hers like a leech to blood and media to plausible controversy.
“Mhm,” he heard her murmur, unsure if it was directed towards him or not.
He'd flown so many times prior to, he knew his body well at this altitude. Sets of hands were on him, lips were in his ear, but he wasn't paying attention. None of them were worth the diseases that were probably strong enough to break through the cheap rubbers.
Besides, his body was his temple. Just a decrepit one where teenagers smoked joints on the steps and couples fucked in the stalls when no one was there.
His legs stumbled him back towards the bar, remembering that cup of precious cherries awaiting him on the stained wood.
But a pair of arms caught him.
“Jack?”
“God?”
Jack turned around, ready to punch the man in the face who supposedly did no bad yet had given him a failing life and nothing better. His fist poised to slam square into his jaw reeled back in fiery anger like a hot piece of iron branding into his skin.
Whoa. Slow motion, his own eyes scanned the skin and registered that no, this was far from God.
“Alex,” he, Alex, forced a stiff smile onto his face, tightening his grip when some big guy from across the bar checked them out.
“Alex,” Jack repeated, unable to hear the drawn out awkwardness his voice was currently playing to the tune of.
All around them, it felt like the room was getting hotter and hotter. Bodies were moving faster and faster. Jack felt sick in this so called God's arms.
Wouldn't it make sense to die in the embrace of God?
“Y-you should go home,” Alex pointed him in the door.
Jack laughed. Loud, intrusive, and sarcastic all in one. “Fuck home.”
“I know how old you are,” Alex whispered in his ear.
“You think being arrested changes anything?” And he suddenly just didn't give a fuck. He really didn't. Some sick part of him felt like running into the middle of that Boston street, purely to have some massive disease of an SUV slam straight into him. Snap his neck and cause internal bleeding. Pain is nothing but a state of mind, emotions no more than a chemical reaction.
“Just go home kid,” Alex shoved him again.
Jack's hands caught the door before his face. He turned on his heel to give a pointed glare, but what's-his-name was already gone. Like he'd never been there at all.
The moon was glaring down on the streets, not quite dead but not quite alive. There was the occasional shriek like giggle of a woman as her boyfriend reached down to place some sort of PDA on her exposed skin. Lonely men and woman smoking a cigarette while their boots slapped against the concrete.
Cars drove down the narrow streets and pulled into parking garages because there simply wasn't enough room for lots or driveways. People who lived in small houses and apartment buildings had their expensive vehicles pulled street side and ticking on a paid spot.
It was the perfect time to feel absolutely nothing at all.
Jack's fingers dug into his pockets, feeling the cotton lining of tight black skinny jeans. The hoodie he wore was so worn down to the fibers that pricks of goosebumps were arising along thin limbs, and every exhale was a plume of smoke.
Homeless people were crouched in black alleyways, warming their hands over a small burning fire and cuddling with cardboard in an attempt to retain some sort of body heat. A demented cat meowed loudy and rubbed up against one man's leg, who accepted the touch without a thought and began to pet the animal, clumps of fur falling off by every brush.
Religion was created as a way to explain things that happened. The ancient Egyptians had no idea how to comprehend that the sun moves across the sky as according to how the Earth spins. So they portrayed it as a man driving his chariot across the sky.
As time went on, and science still wasn't giving away proper reasoning, so the idea of this one single deity called God came along. And so the story goes.
Religion is a dumb man's way of defining happenings.
If religion was real, if the concept of God was real, then Jack would burn in hell as according to a man so supposedly deemed good by society that he can choose your fate. What about the man that murders from mental disability? What about the person with no other options? What about him? Why does someone deserve to tell Jack he lived an impure life like he didn't already know.
And would he take it back? No. Not for the sake of getting into something that appeared like a prestigious club. He would take it back for himself, not to remove the burden of Hell. Everyone's done something deemed bad. There is no perfect man.
That's how he knew God was a lie.
That's how he knew his death didn't even matter.
That's how he knew that he would never find his love, so looking was a waste of energy that could be put to something at least slightly more beneficial.
“Where you goin' pretty?”
Jack turned around, hand resting on his cocked hip. “No where.”
“I got a better location,” he winked, daring to step closer and expose himself underneath the streetlights.
First emerged the shadow that could've been Jack Skellington, but then came the body. Tall, slim, and sexy.
More than capable of not needing a whore. Then again, Jack had to wonder if he even knew he was a whore, or just some hot guy he picked up on the street.
“Yeah?” Jack winked, letting this guy hook his arm around his hip and lead him further down the street where Jack was aimlessly traveling.
Stars lined the sky, and if he squeezed his eyes tight and opened them up, fire works lit up the streets like a cigarette ash falling to the ground. He wheezed in air, continuing to keep up the fast walking pace while inhaling second hand smoke.
“What do you say we go some place where they'll forget our names?” This guy's hand was slipping lower, and lower, and Jack really didn't mind. In fact, out of most every guy who'd lead him to the motel on 72nd, he had no opposition to where the hand was going based on who the hand was attached to.
But anyone can clean up.