Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Her allure obscured the rationality of the room. The chipping away ceiling stained by leaks from the room above and the window’s frame all dissipated around her beauty as she moved closer, and Danny felt his own thoughts bend and blur the same way. He’d been so scared, but it was time. He was eighteen, cursed with pimples, poor eyesight and a pronounced Adam’s apple. No one was going to take his innocence, so he found her with a pocketful of twenties and his heart in his throat. Home felt forever away as he laid prone below her exotic pull, his pants removed and thickening sex exposed. She smiled at him, and he felt weak, but not with expectation so much as fear, like a baby gazelle wandering into a lionness’s line of sight.
“You remind me there are surprises in this life,” she purred.
“Please.” He heard the thin word pass between his lips. She kissed him fully, and there was a new energy awash in him, a warmth of sun beaten tide.
“Silly boy. New, fresh boy” she said to him. Moira is what her ad claimed, but he was not so young to believe it was her name. “I’m going to take good care of you.”
She took his hardness into her hand and he groaned, the architecture darkening, the music of the city grown to an inaudible murmer below his hastening breath. He was fading, and as he felt her lips on him, he suddenly sparked back to life, as if a curse was lifted; the details of his world surrounding him with a shudder and flash. He looked down at his wet, limp nakedness, and she was gone. In the window, an old fan whirred in the August heat. On the nightstand was the money he had brought with him alongside a note. He picked it up, lifting it into a shaft of orange light passing through the crooked blinds.
“On the house,” was all that was written in graceful cursive. Danny sighed deep. He knew it wasn’t what she did to him that was free, but what she didn’t do to him that would have cost dearly. (at Mercy)

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