Getting ready is ritualised. The cake of pomade, the ribbon of his belt, the creviced opening of his torn jeans so just a bit of pale skin shows through...
There's a little makeup in it too, his eyes have been weighed down by even darker circles lately, and he knows they don't like that. He has to be pretty.
What they do with him is their business, he tries to enjoy it but mostly he sees it as a hassle. There was a girl once, not much older than he. She'd had given him his first taste of it, and he supposes he must have loved her. But she left.
And the men that replaced her were nothing like the softness she'd wore. He's soft too, but now it only marks him into their bitch, something to break and something come in, and he supposes it's wrong, but even if he wanted to leave, he'd have to tell his mum, and he can't do that. Everyone downtown knows where he lives, his school, everything– it's a trap.
So Dan finishes putting on his mother's concealer and powder, fakes a little rogue to color what's gone and takes off the makeup that had covered the deep hickey on his shoulder. They like their marks. He isn't here to argue.
He takes a small bag, unlocks the door, relocks the door, and goes out for the night.