Some of my clients were women, all of them well past their youth. But most of them—of course—were men. Men far, far from anything resembling beauty. But with money. And at the end of the day, that's the only thing that matters in this line of work.
I had my limits. No one got to put a price on my ass to fuck me. That was sacred. But come on—just because I didn't get fucked doesn't mean it wasn't sordid. Or disgusting. Still, I have to admit: that job pushed me to want something better. To finish high school. To get a spot at some public university. I needed to run as far as I could from my bloodline—that lineage of losers I was born into, the kind that drags you down into a life with no honor, drowning in physical, moral, and cultural poverty. I hated what I was. And I was afraid. Afraid that this life might be the only one I'd ever have. I felt like total shit every time I fucked old women who would've looked better as corpses. And I thought about killing myself when I had to serve those putrid faggots who, if they'd been born in ancient Sparta, would've been left on the mountain to feed the wolves. Because these clients of mine—the ones who sucked my dick, kissed my body, the ones I fucked for a few bills—they wouldn't have made it past the first genetic test to become muscled warriors looking for a glorious death. And yet there they were. Paying. And I was there, undressed, getting it done.
I came into the apartment with Irene. I guess now's a good time to say the place was big. It was one of those old apartments with high ceilings and rooms you could actually run in without hitting a wall. I used to think that if Miraverde's north side ever came back to life, that place could be worth a few million—like a flat in the Elíseos neighborhood or Las Luces. But I also knew that wasn't gonna happen. When fruit rots, it doesn't become edible again. Ever.
In my room, I turned on the laptop and put on a playlist with songs from Wong Kar-wai movies. The yellowish light of a lamp lit up the walls and ceiling. That was my world—spread across a modest stretch of space: books (most of them stolen), a set of weights in one corner, clothes in cardboard boxes, an iron, a stereo, CDs and DVDs already turning to archaeological relics, a double mattress on the floor, a full-length mirror, a small desk, and a lawn chair.
"Want something to drink?" I asked Irene.
"You got wine?"
"Pretty sure there's a bottle lying around in the kitchen. If not, there's definitely beer. But hey—before I pour anything, you should know I don't drink. Not even for a toast."
"Oh really? Looked like you had a beer at the party."
"I had it in my hand, but didn't take a single sip. Someone offered it to me and I took it out of politeness."
"You said we were going to have fun."
"If you need alcohol for that, I'll get you alcohol. But I don't think it's necessary. Real fun doesn't come in bottles."
"Then why'd you ask if I wanted something to drink?"
"Because water's a drink too."
"Alright. We'll do it your way. No booze."
The music kept playing. Karmacoma, by Massive Attack.
I walked over to the desk, opened a drawer, grabbed some rolling papers and the Ziploc bag with weed. Irene raised an eyebrow.
"Look at you. You don't drink but you do smoke."
"Weed doesn't fuck with your physical or mental health."
"Depends how much you smoke."
"This one's strong. Two hits and we'll be good."
"Good for what?"
"I guess we'll find out."