Pussyboy

Warholian

"Hello, I'm lookin' for Louis Tomlinson."

I came to this joint. This was a godforsaken joint if you asked me.

I was in Sara Gable Park. It was this high-end club in downtown Manhattan. The bouncer didn't believe - I think. I wouldn't believe me either. Coming here was a big mistake.

That man just called me up one morning and said that I could go to a club to clarify things with him. He texted the details after.

I don't know what drove me to go here but it wasn't reason. No fucking no. Maybe it was my ex-husband chasing after me in my own home. I was fuckin just irritated with his smug face. That fucker was the nastiest of all of them.

A man suddenly came up to that more than 6 feet tall bouncer. He had to go on his toes to reach the ear and even then the bouncer bowed to the side. Then afterwards, he looked at me, well, both of them. I just looked at them back. The man then started to speak.

"Mr. Horan, I presume?"

Nasty English accent. Clipped word endings and shit. They were wasting my time and fuck shit, time wasn't free for me.

"Yeah."

"Mr. Tomlinson has given me a note and a key for you. He left the club about 2 hours prior."

Fucking shit.

"So are you tellin' I've just wasted my fuckin' time here?"

I was impatient and poor. Who were these rich people anyway? Strutting in shit other people had to be fucked to get. It was a bad combination to be poor and impatient. No wonder, the rich were fucked in the French Revolution.

"I'm sorry but Mr. Tomlinson just left us with this."

I grabbed the note and that keycard cautiously. I was wary of these things. Was this a trick? Would I be kidnapped, raped, and killed, then some guido mafia shits would throw my body off the Verrazano Bridge. I didn't know but I took it anyway.

I looked back at them. That bouncer had this poker face and that English guy wore a straight expression with a slight apologetic look. That was shit. He wasn't even sincere enough about my time being wasted.

"Again, I'm really sorry about this."

With that, he went back inside that club. The bouncer found focus elsewhere. And that blinking neon signage of a cursive written Sara Gable was still blinking.

I looked out to the street because I could run out of this. Maybe, this was a joke and a cruel one.

My mother casting a big shadow in my life — love life. Her dictating my life to be married off and the shit part was that there was no one, just a book full of anonymous names of people.

I had to be married or else, the lawyer would be forced to sue me for negligent denial for my son. That was shit. I wasn't that fit of a parent but I sure as fuckin fuck wasn't going to give my son up.

So, I decided to go. Stupid me. Well, I was gonna find out how stupid I was if this was any consolation. So, I walked to the nearest subway station and looked over a map of the stations.

Looking over, I saw where. I had to get to the Upper West Side. It would be a train ride and a transfer.

Great!

I took it. The train ride wasn't that fuckin long. I managed to busy myself starin' through the glass windows even though there was nothing there.

When I did arrive, I absently walked out of the subway. Aling the train ride, my mood shifted. It was a tired expression. I was really tired. Who wouldn't?

I did however reach the place the note said and the key unlocked. It was a hotel or a hostel. I don't really know the difference but here it was.

The railings were shit. Full of iron rusting in the cold and wet climate. There was a lot of noticeable traces and areas of smudge of the once beige façade. The short black tarp roof before the entrance to the lobby was negligible.

In all the fuckin words of Shakespeare and Poe, this place was a shitty dump. I don't even really think roaches would wanna go here.

But I'm now here, so basically I'm in a now or never, no-other-fuckin-choice scenario.

Well, I went in. It was nicer inside. Some fuckin blight neighborhood homeliness was visible. Bullshit. The inside could've made the outside a run for its money.

The inside was shiny and basically, an alternate dimension. So casting all judging aside, I proceeded to the lobby. When I stood there, the short twink managing it looked up at me.

"What could I help you with today?"

"Tomlinson, and a room –," I looked at the keycard, "605. Yeah, that."

He typed in the computer in front of him and searched a little while. I looked at all the things in this lobby.

Marble.

Ottomans.

Linen drapes.

Lots of fuckin sheer.

Pastel.

Rich shit.

"Okay," he started, "now just take the elevator to the left and press the keycard first to the slot before pressing a floor. You can go."

"Okay."

I walked and followed his exact instructions. The doors were closing when suddenly, a hand stopped the doors from closing.

The elevator doors opened and it was him again.

Mr. James.

When he entered, he didn't notice me at first. But when he leaned against the elevator opposite me, he finally noticed me. It was deja vu.