LOVE ME LIKE ART

1

If the night pans the way I expect it to, we will be done in eight minutes.

"Bambi, you're magic. Do you know that you are?"

I hum a sweet yes.

The anthem of praise that purls from his lips is so sweet. It is like drizzles of honey cascading down my lips. It is like fire scorching my neck like it is brimstone, flaming out of control.

I never thought I would ever be a words of affirmation girlie, but somehow and someway, it is working. My head is now so big and my esteem is in a completely different stratosphere.

I turn my nose at me, my eyes still coloured in disgust as he stands in front of me—at my motel doorway, desperate.

"That ain't going to get you nowhere." I chew, rather lax on my gum.

I don't even attempt to count the crumpled notes that he has aggressively stubbed in my chest. I know what a wad of notes feels like.

I've been smacked with it. I've had it rammed down my throat like I am trying to plug a leak. Him cyan ramp mi.

He is short, nearly £350 short and came here strung like I would bend to his custom.

I've never been the one, never been that bitch.

"You know how much you're supposed toast me." I continue. I can't help that I am expensive. Good pussy costs money especially to men who want me to render them the turn of a lifetime.

I don't do discounts, payment plans or whatever else.

If he hasn't got, he needs to get the fuck out of my face... respectfully.

It's funny because this information isn't new to Mr Roswell. His dick and my folds are... what would you say, well-acquainted? I laugh as my mind quietly recalls.

I know him and certainly, he knows me.

He has maxed out credit cards, both in his name and in that unassuming house wife of his to drink at the feet of my fountain. Poor fucking woman.

I wonder, briefly... because thinking about them—the wives, isn't my game, if she has caught on to his deceit.

Not just his, but all the others.

If he is honest that me, in my full naked form, has twirled in the fabric of their satin sheets every other week since the moment his lips whistled that two-worded vow that feels like it doesn't mean much anymore.

I probably have made a lampoon of their entire marriage.

Laws ha'mercy. In my defence, I never promised fidelity, Mr. Roswell did.

"I'm not asking for a big package, Bambi." He tells me, as his brows are furrowed to negotiate. It is foolishly endearing that he thinks I am at the table. That I would be so willing to gash my price, because he is huffing at my doorway.

He thinks he is special, like I can't get what he can't give me from someone else.

I grind my teeth together as I move to pick up my blunt.

"But, you want me to give you a lil' something? You must think I'm a real dummy, Clive."

"No, I don't Bambi." His eyes, excited with specks of moss green surf my suspenders and I can feel and hear him drooling at the impossible thought of biting it with his teeth. "I thought you'd want to give me a little custom, given how much business I bring you, cutie."

I want to scream and blast something along the lines of Nigga, who the fuck are you?! Then I remember that I have a reputation to maintain so I wheel it back.