(no subject)
Title: If I Had Been Loved At Seventeen
Pairing: Patrick/Pete
Rating: nc17
Wordcount: 2714
Summary: Patrick comes into a handful of cash, and his friends won't shut up about his virgin status. When you're seventeen years old, that's easy math.
Prompt used: rentboy for hc bingo.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Author’s notes: This was probably one of the hardest prompts, just because I love hookerfic so much, and I had about thirty stories I wanted to write for it. Title borrowed from Gustave Flaubert.
Patrick pretty much hates birthdays. He’s got a double dozen cousins scattered over a dozen aunt and uncle sets, and it seems like every other week it’s someone’s birthday. Birthdays in the Stumph clan are all out events, family rituals making them all blend. Gran makes the person a sheet cake of their personal favourite flavour, a slab large enough to give everyone a cube of it. Half the time hippie Aunt Ronny tries to get them to use her homemade candles which drip scented wax onto the icing, almost every time Uncle John blinds the candle blower with twenty pictures. Everyone has a decade or more worth of birthday candle photos, sometimes Patrick wants to staple his together to see if he can make a flipbook from it and watch as his face gets bigger and more mature. The big screen tv always has a family appropriate comedy playing, the same five or six in rotation, only the brand of television making it different. Patrick likes the picture on a Samsung more than he likes the picture on a Toshiba.
In general, Patrick has to attend about thirty family occasions a year, and there’s really little payoff for all of it. Pretending to give a crap can get sort of exhausting, and really fucking boring. Some of the cousins can get away with bringing boyfriends or girlfriends with them, a few of the aunt and uncle sets don’t care if their son or daughter has a few friends over that evening. Patrick’s always grateful when there’s a new face. Even if he doesn’t talk to them, at least they have different conversations with others, which can sometimes stop Uncle Sheldon from asking for the fifteenth birthday in a row what Patrick’s college plans are.
The payoff is really rather literal. Almost all the relatives don’t bother with a gift, whether it’s that they don’t know enough about his interests to attempt, or because they believe money is more appreciated, Patrick doesn’t know. But when his seventeenth rolls around, he’s got ten cards displayed on the fireplace, silver paperclips keeping the cash inside. He’s not allowed to count it in front of everyone, he knows his mom would get mad and tell him to stop being tacky, his dad would probably snatch it from his hands. But when they all finally leave, after he’s done waving to the last departing car from the closed screen door, he snatches each bill and shoves them into his pocket until he can escape to his bedroom.
It’s a grand total of several hundred bucks. There’s a lot of things he could do with the money, with that much burning a hole onto his desk there’s almost infinite possibilities. Patrick can’t stop grinning as he starts typing up a potential list, cross referencing with Google for actual prices. It’ll be a game of financial Tetris; the best way to fit all his wants into each other so he can have as many as possible.
The list lasts for a grand total of three hours after he shows it to his friends in homeroom the next day. The problem is Jared just got a girlfriend, a slutty girlfriend at that. He cannot for the life of him shut the fuck up about having sex with her, and every time he mentions something Eric and Jay have to one-up him. Meanwhile Patrick’s got shit all to say, his silence badly hidden by eating his sandwich considering they’re all teenage guys and who the hell doesn’t talk while they’re eating? It’s not so much that they rip on him. It’s just a few jokes about innocent virgins, nothing he can’t handle. But by the end of the lunch hour Patrick’s got the list crumpled in the trash can, just waiting to be spilled on. He’s got better use for his money than another Wii controller. He’s going to get laid.
Patrick spends most of his afternoon classes thinking about it. It’s not like AP math holds his attention on a normal day, and any hint of sex spoils his ability to copy whiteboard after whiteboard of examples for the concept Jenkins is trying to teach. As far as Patrick can figure, it’s a four step process. He writes them down in the margins of his Geography notes, before scribbling over them hard enough to rip through the page. The girl sitting beside him has a tendency to space out then ask to borrow his notes, he doesn’t want her to see the plan in all it’s glory.
1. figure out where hookers are.
2. purchase one.
3. have sex.
4. give the guy money.
Technically that’s all he has to do, but there are four additional steps. They’re not mandatory but Patrick’s a pretty self aware guy, he knows they’re highly likely. The fifth is rejoice, the sixth is brag to every friend and acquaintance of his loss of virgin status, the seventh is use it as a talking point to show he’s hardcore to one of the few cousins he tries to prove his coolness to because he oddly enough gives a shit about what they think. The last step is the most obvious of the unlisted steps; Patrick needs to jerk off about it for the rest of his life. Or at least until he gets a boyfriend, because from what he hears from Jared, once he has someone he’ll never need to jerk off again.
At first the first step seems the hardest. After all, it’s not like people walk around with huge signs on their backs saying they’re hookers. Maybe it would be a bit easier with women; looking for someone trashy with fishnets and a shirt cut much too low. Although it’s not a very distinct profile, really. Pretty much any woman going to a bar flaunts what she’s got. But he wants guys, and they’re not exactly going to be revealed by amount of cleavage shown. His only hint is that he’s pretty sure prostitutes have places to hang out. Like drug dealers, or homeless people, there have to be places where criminal elements migrate. Patrick just needs to figure out where that is.
After school Patrick’s in the Yearbook club, the extra curricular that fit best when he made it perfectly clear to the guidance counsellor he wasn’t about to join a sport. As he’s one of the article writers, not a photographer, it’s pretty boring, but it does have it’s perks. They use the World Issues classroom, long tables with groups of chairs at the front of the room, five ancient computers lined against the back wall. They’re so old they have floppy drives, and Patrick’s always surprised they don’t have black screens with white text, but it’s the only classroom in the school with unfiltered internet, so he can forgive the Microsoft Works 95.
They have to meet once a week, with crunch times just before deadlines. Normally Patrick’s not much more than a body in the room, which seems to please the two editors that want all the control. Today though Cody’s being a dick, telling him to stop wasting time pissing around, without actually telling Patrick what the hell he should be doing. So Patrick ignores him and uses the unadulterated internet to try to figure out where the fuck he’s supposed to go for hooker related needs. Google is depressingly useless, all that comes up when he types in Chicago and prostitutes are newspaper articles.
In the end he has to rely on social knowledge. His dad always picks him up after school, a generally tense affair compared to his mom driving him to school in the morning. Patrick can’t help not having the same personality as his father, and for the most part is pretty happy with the person he is. Unfortunately not everyone in the family agrees. His dad seems to look at the fact that doesn’t have a clone as a grave fault of Patrick’s. He tends to show his disappointment through demonstrating his vast knowledge about everything, and at seventeen years old Patrick’s learned to use it to his advantage. In this case he picks someone on the sidewalk at random and says they look like a hooker. Of course his dad has to be the smart ass that replies with this isn’t the right neighbourhood and doesn’t hesitate to show off his knowledge of exact streets when Patrick challenges him with ‘oh yeah, where then?’
After the fried chicken fast food dinner, Patrick sells some lie about going with Jared to see a movie. It’s not hard, before Jared had to spend every waking moment fucking his girlfriend they used to see a lot of movies. Patrick parks a few blocks away, not sure what etiquette is about having a car. It seems sort of douchy to idle and point out the window at the guy he wants. His father is right, not that he’ll ever tell him that, for obvious reasons. The area is too industrial for the number of random guys standing around. Unless it’s a rave or warehouse party thing, but none of them have the glazed eyes and neon theme going. At least, most of them don’t.
Patrick hangs back as he tries to pick which one he likes. He’s only got the money for one, he needs to get what he needs out of it. He doesn’t want to ask one of the guys with glazed eyes. He gets that this is probably a shitty life, and that they might need drugs to make it better, but that doesn’t mean he has to trust someone that looks tweaked on crystal meth. Finally he decides, walking towards the guy in mismatched denim jeans and jacket. It’s probably good timing, judging by the way some of them are starting to glare at him like they think he’s a cop.
The guy grins at him, eyes twinkling under the shade of dyed red bangs. The colour is still sharp, so either he just did them, or he hasn’t showered since doing them. Patrick would bank on the latter, considering the lifestyle, but he doesn’t seem to smell rank. “Come for a devirginising?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s why you want me, right? Tell me what-”
“No, I’m not. For all you know I’m a sex addict and I need my fix,” he denies. Patrick’s not sure why he’s trying to preserve his dignity in front of a guy that lets people fuck his throat for a living, but he is. He’s sick of having people snickering at him just because he hasn’t had sex.
“No, you’re a virgin seeking help.” Patrick scowls at the man shaking his head. He’s pretty sure that a hooker isn’t supposed to argue with the client. “Tell me, what was it like in your fantasies? Who enjoyed what? There’s some stuff I don’t do, but I’ll redirect you if I have to. Don’t worry about it, you won’t leave the alley unpopped.”
Patrick thinks about it for a second. He’s a seventeen year old guy, he’s got a hundred jerk off fantasies. Twenty or thirty are in constant rotation, as the others pop in and out for variety. Some of them are obviously impossible, like fucking in a limo with a pool inside it because he’s that rich and famous and awesome, or fucking a robot. Alternatively, some of them seem wasteful for this, pretty much all of the ones involving handjobs. “I thought I could fuck you, but you could pretend you want to fuck me? Like we wrestled over it or something, but I won?”
The guy looks at him for a second. “Do you want to wrestle?”
Patrick has a feeling he’d lose. Or, more likely, the hooker will throw it. Neither will get him in the mood. “No, just -”
“Okay cool. You want to do this here, or? You look like more of a hotel kind of guy.”
Patrick nods, and lets the man lead him a block or two away. The motel is seemingly random in the middle of a warehouse district, Patrick can only guess some enterprising man or woman figured out the only real business in the area and decided to cash in. He pays for an hour, and the hooker snatches the old fashioned key from the tiny hole in the bulletproof glass.
“So, I’m a top who’s been forced to bottom. Great. Anything else?”
Patrick looks at him, then the puce carpet, then him again. Might as well ask, he decides. It can’t hurt, it’s hardly going to break the deal. “What’s your name. I mean, something I could call you, you don’t need to tell me your real one. Just I want-”
“To have something to call out when you’re making me take it. You can call me Pete.” Patrick nods, but he doesn’t think Pete sees it. Pete’s busy, slipping off his jacket and shirt, unbuttoning the five tarnished buttons that hold his pants closed. Patrick swallows. This is it, it’s fucking go time. He’s already paid for the room, he can’t back out now.
Pushing himself into Pete is sort of like eating the first slice of a Christmas orange. It’s fucking great, and you’re certain that you’re the luckiest person in the world for getting to experience it. And then you remember that it’s a common experience, and what’s more, you paid for it, and the knowledge tarnishes it a bit. Not enough to not eat the second slice, or the rest of the box in the kitchen, but enough to take away the wonder. Patrick can see why Jared can’t stop talking about it, fucking is hot and tight and eyerolling. He knows Pete’s probably faking the way his hands are clenching the sheets, but it makes him feel good.
Patrick smirks every time Pete speaks. It’s all a jumble of curses fuck you, I’m never doing this again and don’t think you’re fucking me next time and I don’t even like it, each broken up with poorly hidden groans that prove that Patrick’s won, and Pete likes it. If this was a real relationship, Patrick would totally be using every sound as a reason to make Pete bottom again. As it is, he just has a reason to pound in harder.
After he comes, he pulls out and falls to the side. Pre-sex he never would have considered putting his head on the pillow, post orgasm he doesn’t give a shit. Patrick lazily gestures to Pete and his erection. “gimme a second and I’ll take care of it.”
“No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
Patrick’s expecting him to jerk off, finish himself off so he can rest beside Patrick on the bed for the rest of the hour. Except, Patrick didn’t ask for that. So instead Pete stands and retrieves his clothes, tucking his still hard cock inside his jeans. Patrick winces in sympathy as he watches Pete do up his once gleaming buttons. It can’t feel good, it’s probably worse than a zipper.
Before his breathing is fully back to normal Patrick sits up and grabs his wallet from his pants. It looks like that’s what Pete’s waiting for, and the longer Patrick waits the more uncomfortable this is going to get. He’d really like the least amount of awkwardness possible attached to this. He counts out the money in twenties and fifties, and hands it over to Pete. He takes it casually, like it’s not his lifesblood. Patrick has time to notice that Pete’s nails are covered with purple chipping polish before both hands disappear into the whitewashed denim jacket pockets.
It’s not so much an escorting outside as there’s only one exit and they both have to go that way. Still, before Patrick can turn and start heading in the direction of his car, Pete says “happy birthday.”
“What?”
“Am I right? It’s usually when people your age want to fuck a hooker, like a new age changes everything.”
Patrick shrugs. Contrary to his earlier opinion, now he’d rather tell Pete the truth. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Happy birthday then.” Pete smiles before walking away, and Patrick lets himself smile back.
Pairing: Patrick/Pete
Rating: nc17
Wordcount: 2714
Summary: Patrick comes into a handful of cash, and his friends won't shut up about his virgin status. When you're seventeen years old, that's easy math.
Prompt used: rentboy for hc bingo.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Author’s notes: This was probably one of the hardest prompts, just because I love hookerfic so much, and I had about thirty stories I wanted to write for it. Title borrowed from Gustave Flaubert.
Patrick pretty much hates birthdays. He’s got a double dozen cousins scattered over a dozen aunt and uncle sets, and it seems like every other week it’s someone’s birthday. Birthdays in the Stumph clan are all out events, family rituals making them all blend. Gran makes the person a sheet cake of their personal favourite flavour, a slab large enough to give everyone a cube of it. Half the time hippie Aunt Ronny tries to get them to use her homemade candles which drip scented wax onto the icing, almost every time Uncle John blinds the candle blower with twenty pictures. Everyone has a decade or more worth of birthday candle photos, sometimes Patrick wants to staple his together to see if he can make a flipbook from it and watch as his face gets bigger and more mature. The big screen tv always has a family appropriate comedy playing, the same five or six in rotation, only the brand of television making it different. Patrick likes the picture on a Samsung more than he likes the picture on a Toshiba.
In general, Patrick has to attend about thirty family occasions a year, and there’s really little payoff for all of it. Pretending to give a crap can get sort of exhausting, and really fucking boring. Some of the cousins can get away with bringing boyfriends or girlfriends with them, a few of the aunt and uncle sets don’t care if their son or daughter has a few friends over that evening. Patrick’s always grateful when there’s a new face. Even if he doesn’t talk to them, at least they have different conversations with others, which can sometimes stop Uncle Sheldon from asking for the fifteenth birthday in a row what Patrick’s college plans are.
The payoff is really rather literal. Almost all the relatives don’t bother with a gift, whether it’s that they don’t know enough about his interests to attempt, or because they believe money is more appreciated, Patrick doesn’t know. But when his seventeenth rolls around, he’s got ten cards displayed on the fireplace, silver paperclips keeping the cash inside. He’s not allowed to count it in front of everyone, he knows his mom would get mad and tell him to stop being tacky, his dad would probably snatch it from his hands. But when they all finally leave, after he’s done waving to the last departing car from the closed screen door, he snatches each bill and shoves them into his pocket until he can escape to his bedroom.
It’s a grand total of several hundred bucks. There’s a lot of things he could do with the money, with that much burning a hole onto his desk there’s almost infinite possibilities. Patrick can’t stop grinning as he starts typing up a potential list, cross referencing with Google for actual prices. It’ll be a game of financial Tetris; the best way to fit all his wants into each other so he can have as many as possible.
The list lasts for a grand total of three hours after he shows it to his friends in homeroom the next day. The problem is Jared just got a girlfriend, a slutty girlfriend at that. He cannot for the life of him shut the fuck up about having sex with her, and every time he mentions something Eric and Jay have to one-up him. Meanwhile Patrick’s got shit all to say, his silence badly hidden by eating his sandwich considering they’re all teenage guys and who the hell doesn’t talk while they’re eating? It’s not so much that they rip on him. It’s just a few jokes about innocent virgins, nothing he can’t handle. But by the end of the lunch hour Patrick’s got the list crumpled in the trash can, just waiting to be spilled on. He’s got better use for his money than another Wii controller. He’s going to get laid.
Patrick spends most of his afternoon classes thinking about it. It’s not like AP math holds his attention on a normal day, and any hint of sex spoils his ability to copy whiteboard after whiteboard of examples for the concept Jenkins is trying to teach. As far as Patrick can figure, it’s a four step process. He writes them down in the margins of his Geography notes, before scribbling over them hard enough to rip through the page. The girl sitting beside him has a tendency to space out then ask to borrow his notes, he doesn’t want her to see the plan in all it’s glory.
1. figure out where hookers are.
2. purchase one.
3. have sex.
4. give the guy money.
Technically that’s all he has to do, but there are four additional steps. They’re not mandatory but Patrick’s a pretty self aware guy, he knows they’re highly likely. The fifth is rejoice, the sixth is brag to every friend and acquaintance of his loss of virgin status, the seventh is use it as a talking point to show he’s hardcore to one of the few cousins he tries to prove his coolness to because he oddly enough gives a shit about what they think. The last step is the most obvious of the unlisted steps; Patrick needs to jerk off about it for the rest of his life. Or at least until he gets a boyfriend, because from what he hears from Jared, once he has someone he’ll never need to jerk off again.
At first the first step seems the hardest. After all, it’s not like people walk around with huge signs on their backs saying they’re hookers. Maybe it would be a bit easier with women; looking for someone trashy with fishnets and a shirt cut much too low. Although it’s not a very distinct profile, really. Pretty much any woman going to a bar flaunts what she’s got. But he wants guys, and they’re not exactly going to be revealed by amount of cleavage shown. His only hint is that he’s pretty sure prostitutes have places to hang out. Like drug dealers, or homeless people, there have to be places where criminal elements migrate. Patrick just needs to figure out where that is.
After school Patrick’s in the Yearbook club, the extra curricular that fit best when he made it perfectly clear to the guidance counsellor he wasn’t about to join a sport. As he’s one of the article writers, not a photographer, it’s pretty boring, but it does have it’s perks. They use the World Issues classroom, long tables with groups of chairs at the front of the room, five ancient computers lined against the back wall. They’re so old they have floppy drives, and Patrick’s always surprised they don’t have black screens with white text, but it’s the only classroom in the school with unfiltered internet, so he can forgive the Microsoft Works 95.
They have to meet once a week, with crunch times just before deadlines. Normally Patrick’s not much more than a body in the room, which seems to please the two editors that want all the control. Today though Cody’s being a dick, telling him to stop wasting time pissing around, without actually telling Patrick what the hell he should be doing. So Patrick ignores him and uses the unadulterated internet to try to figure out where the fuck he’s supposed to go for hooker related needs. Google is depressingly useless, all that comes up when he types in Chicago and prostitutes are newspaper articles.
In the end he has to rely on social knowledge. His dad always picks him up after school, a generally tense affair compared to his mom driving him to school in the morning. Patrick can’t help not having the same personality as his father, and for the most part is pretty happy with the person he is. Unfortunately not everyone in the family agrees. His dad seems to look at the fact that doesn’t have a clone as a grave fault of Patrick’s. He tends to show his disappointment through demonstrating his vast knowledge about everything, and at seventeen years old Patrick’s learned to use it to his advantage. In this case he picks someone on the sidewalk at random and says they look like a hooker. Of course his dad has to be the smart ass that replies with this isn’t the right neighbourhood and doesn’t hesitate to show off his knowledge of exact streets when Patrick challenges him with ‘oh yeah, where then?’
After the fried chicken fast food dinner, Patrick sells some lie about going with Jared to see a movie. It’s not hard, before Jared had to spend every waking moment fucking his girlfriend they used to see a lot of movies. Patrick parks a few blocks away, not sure what etiquette is about having a car. It seems sort of douchy to idle and point out the window at the guy he wants. His father is right, not that he’ll ever tell him that, for obvious reasons. The area is too industrial for the number of random guys standing around. Unless it’s a rave or warehouse party thing, but none of them have the glazed eyes and neon theme going. At least, most of them don’t.
Patrick hangs back as he tries to pick which one he likes. He’s only got the money for one, he needs to get what he needs out of it. He doesn’t want to ask one of the guys with glazed eyes. He gets that this is probably a shitty life, and that they might need drugs to make it better, but that doesn’t mean he has to trust someone that looks tweaked on crystal meth. Finally he decides, walking towards the guy in mismatched denim jeans and jacket. It’s probably good timing, judging by the way some of them are starting to glare at him like they think he’s a cop.
The guy grins at him, eyes twinkling under the shade of dyed red bangs. The colour is still sharp, so either he just did them, or he hasn’t showered since doing them. Patrick would bank on the latter, considering the lifestyle, but he doesn’t seem to smell rank. “Come for a devirginising?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s why you want me, right? Tell me what-”
“No, I’m not. For all you know I’m a sex addict and I need my fix,” he denies. Patrick’s not sure why he’s trying to preserve his dignity in front of a guy that lets people fuck his throat for a living, but he is. He’s sick of having people snickering at him just because he hasn’t had sex.
“No, you’re a virgin seeking help.” Patrick scowls at the man shaking his head. He’s pretty sure that a hooker isn’t supposed to argue with the client. “Tell me, what was it like in your fantasies? Who enjoyed what? There’s some stuff I don’t do, but I’ll redirect you if I have to. Don’t worry about it, you won’t leave the alley unpopped.”
Patrick thinks about it for a second. He’s a seventeen year old guy, he’s got a hundred jerk off fantasies. Twenty or thirty are in constant rotation, as the others pop in and out for variety. Some of them are obviously impossible, like fucking in a limo with a pool inside it because he’s that rich and famous and awesome, or fucking a robot. Alternatively, some of them seem wasteful for this, pretty much all of the ones involving handjobs. “I thought I could fuck you, but you could pretend you want to fuck me? Like we wrestled over it or something, but I won?”
The guy looks at him for a second. “Do you want to wrestle?”
Patrick has a feeling he’d lose. Or, more likely, the hooker will throw it. Neither will get him in the mood. “No, just -”
“Okay cool. You want to do this here, or? You look like more of a hotel kind of guy.”
Patrick nods, and lets the man lead him a block or two away. The motel is seemingly random in the middle of a warehouse district, Patrick can only guess some enterprising man or woman figured out the only real business in the area and decided to cash in. He pays for an hour, and the hooker snatches the old fashioned key from the tiny hole in the bulletproof glass.
“So, I’m a top who’s been forced to bottom. Great. Anything else?”
Patrick looks at him, then the puce carpet, then him again. Might as well ask, he decides. It can’t hurt, it’s hardly going to break the deal. “What’s your name. I mean, something I could call you, you don’t need to tell me your real one. Just I want-”
“To have something to call out when you’re making me take it. You can call me Pete.” Patrick nods, but he doesn’t think Pete sees it. Pete’s busy, slipping off his jacket and shirt, unbuttoning the five tarnished buttons that hold his pants closed. Patrick swallows. This is it, it’s fucking go time. He’s already paid for the room, he can’t back out now.
Pushing himself into Pete is sort of like eating the first slice of a Christmas orange. It’s fucking great, and you’re certain that you’re the luckiest person in the world for getting to experience it. And then you remember that it’s a common experience, and what’s more, you paid for it, and the knowledge tarnishes it a bit. Not enough to not eat the second slice, or the rest of the box in the kitchen, but enough to take away the wonder. Patrick can see why Jared can’t stop talking about it, fucking is hot and tight and eyerolling. He knows Pete’s probably faking the way his hands are clenching the sheets, but it makes him feel good.
Patrick smirks every time Pete speaks. It’s all a jumble of curses fuck you, I’m never doing this again and don’t think you’re fucking me next time and I don’t even like it, each broken up with poorly hidden groans that prove that Patrick’s won, and Pete likes it. If this was a real relationship, Patrick would totally be using every sound as a reason to make Pete bottom again. As it is, he just has a reason to pound in harder.
After he comes, he pulls out and falls to the side. Pre-sex he never would have considered putting his head on the pillow, post orgasm he doesn’t give a shit. Patrick lazily gestures to Pete and his erection. “gimme a second and I’ll take care of it.”
“No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
Patrick’s expecting him to jerk off, finish himself off so he can rest beside Patrick on the bed for the rest of the hour. Except, Patrick didn’t ask for that. So instead Pete stands and retrieves his clothes, tucking his still hard cock inside his jeans. Patrick winces in sympathy as he watches Pete do up his once gleaming buttons. It can’t feel good, it’s probably worse than a zipper.
Before his breathing is fully back to normal Patrick sits up and grabs his wallet from his pants. It looks like that’s what Pete’s waiting for, and the longer Patrick waits the more uncomfortable this is going to get. He’d really like the least amount of awkwardness possible attached to this. He counts out the money in twenties and fifties, and hands it over to Pete. He takes it casually, like it’s not his lifesblood. Patrick has time to notice that Pete’s nails are covered with purple chipping polish before both hands disappear into the whitewashed denim jacket pockets.
It’s not so much an escorting outside as there’s only one exit and they both have to go that way. Still, before Patrick can turn and start heading in the direction of his car, Pete says “happy birthday.”
“What?”
“Am I right? It’s usually when people your age want to fuck a hooker, like a new age changes everything.”
Patrick shrugs. Contrary to his earlier opinion, now he’d rather tell Pete the truth. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Happy birthday then.” Pete smiles before walking away, and Patrick lets himself smile back.