𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐔𝐋 𝐁𝐎𝐘 𝐕.𝟐 .

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧.

* * *

𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 , 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫 .

★
┌─⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─┐

𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠.

└─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─┘

𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐠𝐨'𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐯.

"mi duele la cabeza."

in my concentration, the brief comment almost makes me wince, biting my lip down as i tightly grip the last of angel's thick, wooly curls, twisting it around the plaited strand then running my fingers down the oiled ends to make them curl upwards like each of his other ones. i exhale deeply, wiping my fingers off on the towel on the table his snacks sit on that he carelessly eats while the loud television blares whatever cartoon aitana pretends to indulge him in, sitting at the table staring at her phone quietly like she has been for the last hour or so. i take a deep sigh as i crack my back, easing off the tense foundation of my shoulders and arms.

"mama is sorry." i hum, taking the towel and discarding it into the bathroom. "it don't hurt that bad, do it?"

he has curls, no doubt; beautiful ones i like to nurture and bless just like my own, but just like in everything else, his father seems to play a significant part in the waves that are much more submissive than my blonde ones . i walk barefooted out of the bathroom, back over to the dining room table the two sit at so as to inspect my handiwork; slick, long black braids showcasing the waves and spirals in his lengthy hair, complementing his long lashes and if anything, his resting mean mug he wears- the one i can only smile at considering i know exactly where he gets it from, and because i do i know he'll never quite be able to help it.

with the exhaustion in my back and the soreness of my feet, you would think that it's past midnight, but working even a few shifts as a cleaner is usually like that; a lot of effort, for a little cash. if i'm honest, stripping makes me more, even with the gleaming five star rates of the company i work at. today i did three houses, with a total of eight hours; seven to five for a hundred dollars that turned shortly into forty after getting all of what i needed. when i strip, i work a minimum of five hours. i leave with around six or eight hundred, but then again, the two jobs have almost nothing to do with each other. its two completely different services, and two completely different needs. the only thing that stays the same is the people and their entitled expectancy; their lustful glances never leave me, whether i am in sweats scrubbing their toilet with a toothbrush or on a pole shaking my ass, just like their nose never turns down to me while i speak to my older coworkers in the tongues of the heat we originate from, or when i force myself to smile and say no politely again and explain myself as to why, even when everyone knows already that i don't do private dances.

as a teenager, i used to find their moral struggle to categorize me as disgusting despite their innate attraction towards me ironic; it made me giggle, and it still does sometimes but most of the time, i don't think about it. i can't anymore.