Pussyboy

Canarsie

There was some lighting that was pissing me off when I woke up. I didn't open my eyes yet since the light was being a fucking asshole with it blinding me.

"Oh," a lady's voice said out loud. I guess she's seen that I'm awake now. Are my eyes open yet? Who knows actually.

Whatever —

Light footsteps followed.

All I could cipher from the entire room which I assume is where I am is that there's this faint yet crisp buzzing sounding from my surroundings.

Then everything adjusted.

Nah—

Some jackass pointed a fucking flashlight straight to my eye — right then the left. What idiot does that to someone who just woke up from what I assume is a long fucking sleep?

Doctors, probably.

Anyway, once my eyesight cleared up and the buzzing in the room cleared too, I got a better view of where I am.

A room with sterile shit all over.

White walls and the sterile look.

Spartan?

I don't care.

Shut up.

Whatever.

I looked at the people around me and all I saw was the doctor facing behind me which for me was dangerous. I mean, what if I was some serial killer? I don't know why that was the first thought I had but it was quite logical to think that in my twisted world. I mean, I was a whore so it's all downhill from here.

Fuck—

I awoke again in what looked like some afternoon sesh uninterrupted. The sun was shining through the windows and I had lost that fuckin' headache or ditziness from earlier. That was when I realized that I was in a rich people hospital.

The walls were whitewashed but not the painted-over horror movie wallpaper types. These were the clean rococo ones — I don't know what they're called but they're the ones with the rougher matte on them but they were quite rich people Beverly Hills shit for me. Oh, stucco. That was that shit. Shit but beautiful shit nonetheless.

I sighed.

I slumped lower on the fluffy pillow. I felt the linen up on the skin of my arms and felt it all. The soft texture of the fabric and the bed itself. Was this a hospital or some asylum for rich and wayward has-beens?

Has-been—

I stopped at that word.

I was going insane to think that I was one of those even. I wasn't even anything at all so how the hell did I become a has-been?

For anybody to become a has-been, you have to be like, to have been something. Been somethin' is something I was never. I peaked at high school. That sexual teen that everybody worshipped as the high priestess of sex has become an obsolete religious icon for wayward clients who don't want to pursue sex partners but want to order them all like you do with pizza.

God—

"Niall."

He called.

Liam.

I looked towards my left from my slumping on the fluffy pillow my head was pushing down on like gravity — see, not all whores have no education. I did but what use was it all.

If there was anyone I didn't wanna see at this point, that asshole would be Zayn. But Liam's a close second, running up the ladder of impossibly irritating individuals in Manhattan that don't pay me to sleep with them.