Red Light District
By Ekai Ungson
Warning: explicit theme.
The room was cast in a dim yellow sort of light when the bellboy turned a switch on to show them in. He looked around as the greasy man rubbed his fingers together. He shoved a few bills in the proffered hand. The man left without another word.
He took a quick look around. The room was sparsely furnished and rather small: one bed stood against the wall, next to a night table with a telephone. There was a door leading to what he hoped was a clean bathroom. He stepped aside to let his companion in.
It was her eyes that drew him to her in that dark street corner. She was certainly beautiful-- a cut above the usual fare found on the streets. her skin was porcelain smooth, her lips full, and those eyes: an indeterminate shade of violet-blue that seemed to hold a thousand secrets. She was tall, willowy, graceful-- given the proper attire she could pass for the daughter of a rich man, or a princess.
She turned to him, he locked the door.
"It's a hundred for every hour," she said softly. With her tone she could have been offering milk and cookies. "I'll go get ready." She took a shower while he took off his clothes, settled on the bed. Outside, there was a shouting match between a wife and her husband. He ignored them.
When she came out fifteen minutes later wrapped only in a towel, he dropped the magazine he'd been reading. Her hair was down and dripping wet, an incredible mass of wild curls in the color of midnight.
She came to him and he fell to her-- the towel was discarded, and then forgotten. She was cold under his hands-- but soft. Where he touched her she warmed. He ran his hands over her shoulders, down her arms, ran his fingers through her wet hair. Her eyes spoke of secret worlds. Not a single word was spoken.
He kissed her because he couldn't stop himself, surprising himself in the process. He didn't usually kiss women like her. She kissed him back, tasting of honey.
She smelled like white lilies, he noted, when he buried his face in the crook of her neck to breathe her in. Definitely getting in too deep, he told himself. Definitely losing control, and not wanting to stop it. Her hands were running over him, everywhere. He sucked in a breath and lost himself, damning it all to hell.
His first thrust into her was sweetly painful. The feeling sang in the blood rushing through her veins. He looked at her and she was just staring back at him, not saying a word, not anything. She held him closer, he let himself be held.
Even as she came, her eyes never closed. He joined her over the edge, drowning in their depths.
She lay on top of him, her ear against his chest, her hair everywhere, covering them both like a blanket. He could hear the buzz of the neon sign outside, a stray dog barking persistently, a car roaring past. Farther away, he could hear a police siren, and the sound of a lonely saxophone.
"You have beautiful eyes," he told her. This was also something he didn't do in these situations; he did the deed and left as quickly as possible, usually. But he felt a desire to hold this one close, feel her heart beating against his, and tell himself that he could love her; he wanted to love her.
She pushed herself up with her elbows and stared down at him with those dark, dark eyes. She placed a palm over his heart, it beat against her hand, falling for her. In her eyes she held an understanding.
"What is it?" he asked uncertainly.
"Nothing," was the soft reply. His heart was beating furiously. He was sure she could feel it, too.
When he woke in the morning, she was gone. From his wallet she'd taken a total of five hundred dollars. Nothing else was taken.
But something had been left behind.
A small piece of tissue paper, scrawled on with red ink.
"Don't fall in love with me."