Here goes another man. I watch as he slips one leg after the other into his checkered boxers before climbing into his blue ripped jeans. His eyes dart across the crimson-lit room in search of his silk shirt which flew off seconds after he barged into my room while unbuckling his belt. He still doesn’t look at me. After they are done with my body, they never look at me because in my face they find their greatest terror staring back at them — an unfiltered reflection of their own true selves.
“Time up, sir!” Neptune announces from outside the room. “Next client is waiting, and Venus needs rest!”
I am so happy to hear Neptune’s voice again that a smile almost steals its way onto my tired face. Last week, Aditya had locked Neptune up alongside all the queens in Ward 3 after someone reported that they were planning to escape the Black Hole. But the name of the villa is a metaphor understood only by those trapped in it.
“Sorry, Nep. I’m leaving now. I just need to find my shirt.” Client 119 replies as he raises the edge of the sheets still searching for his damned shirt. I hear Neptune murmur something at the door before walking away.
I’m now tired of being entertained by his apparent blindness. “It’s over there.” I say, pointing at the dark thing resting on the leather couch in the corner of the room which, a few minutes ago, was not a couch but a support for my flailing legs.
He still doesn’t look at me. I watch as he buttons up his tight shirt just enough to let his bulky chest breathe. The same veined hairy chest I drew my fingers across as he pounded into me so violently that it felt like he was digging for rare minerals.
“Take this.” He says as he mindlessly flings a wad of cash at me. He thinks his generous tips compensate for his stingy acknowledgement of my presence. He picks up his denim jacket, pulls out his car keys, and heads for the exit. I watch as he shuts the door behind him, pulls his veil of machismo back on, and heads into the night. There goes another liar.