How do others perceive me?
He would stand outside the mansion for hours at end, from dusk till dawn. Far enough to be out of the security cameras' range, at least those he knew of and remembered. They may have changed. It was just so much easier, with his clients. He knew where he stood with them.There was money, there was a transaction, there was business. They saw merchandise - chest, nipples, mouth, cock, legs, ass - that was to their taste. They saw a man who wasn't fragile, who would take it, or would dish it out if so paid for, someone they could call names, someone they didn't need to care for afterwards, someone they didn't need to care for, and just use.
That, he knew.
And maybe, after all these years, that was all there was left to him.
Apart from what he'd seen in eyes so similar to his. But he couldn't be sure of what he saw there. He wanted to. He believed it when he was losing himself in them, and all the world was only the feel of marred skin under his lips, and cold eyes melting and melting him.
So he moved back and forth. He came and went. Like a tide attracted and repelled by the moon, at times getting in just to check if the doors were still open to him, inhaling sharply before pushing the doors, thinking 'this is the day they will be shut'.
And then back, and away. And then back, and outside. And then a new moon, and a solitary figure behind tall-panelled windows, out on the balcony over the ocean.
Ranuccio wasn't sure of what he saw in those eyes, how they reflected him, if they were seeing just like what everyone else was, no matter the words. He was a whore, after all. Everyone knew that. Did those eyes knew?
311 words / Ranuccio / Caravaggio (film)
That, he knew.
And maybe, after all these years, that was all there was left to him.
Apart from what he'd seen in eyes so similar to his. But he couldn't be sure of what he saw there. He wanted to. He believed it when he was losing himself in them, and all the world was only the feel of marred skin under his lips, and cold eyes melting and melting him.
So he moved back and forth. He came and went. Like a tide attracted and repelled by the moon, at times getting in just to check if the doors were still open to him, inhaling sharply before pushing the doors, thinking 'this is the day they will be shut'.
And then back, and away. And then back, and outside. And then a new moon, and a solitary figure behind tall-panelled windows, out on the balcony over the ocean.
Ranuccio wasn't sure of what he saw in those eyes, how they reflected him, if they were seeing just like what everyone else was, no matter the words. He was a whore, after all. Everyone knew that. Did those eyes knew?
311 words / Ranuccio / Caravaggio (film)