I had some clients, women far from their youth. Now, of course, above all, I had many clients: men at the very opposite of beauty. But hey, they had money to pay, which is the only thing that matters in this business.
While I didn't allow anyone to put a price on my ass to sodomize me, the fact that I wasn't taken from behind didn't make the whole thing any less sordid or repugnant. Now, I have to admit that this job pushed me to fight for a better fate. It drove me to finish high school and aim for a spot in a public university. I needed to get as far away as possible from my ancestry, that bloodline of losers that marked me from birth and sunk me into the shame of an existence without honor, drowning in physical, moral, and cultural poverty. I hated being what I was. I was terrified that this kind of life would end up being the only life I would ever have. I felt like absolute garbage, screwing old women who would look better as corpses. Thoughts of self-elimination crossed my mind whenever I had to serve those rotten fags who, had they been born in ancient Sparta, would have been abandoned on a mountain to be wolf food. These men (my clients, the ones who paid for me, who sucked my dick, who kissed my body, and whom I sodomized) had never met (and you can tell this from when a man is just a little boy) the minimum genetic requirements to become muscular Spartan warriors seeking a glorious destiny filled with bloody battles.
I walked into the apartment with Irene. It seems fitting to mention that this apartment was spacious. It was one of those typical old apartments with high ceilings and rooms big enough to run in. I used to think that place, if times improved and the former glory returned to the north of Miraverde, could very well be worth a few good million, just like an apartment in the Elíseos neighborhood or the Las Luces neighborhood. However, I also thought that would never happen, because once a fruit rots, it never becomes edible again.
Inside my room, I turned on my laptop and played a playlist with the best songs from Wong Kar-wai's films. The yellowish glow of a lamp illuminated the four walls and the ceiling of my world, the place where everything I owned was gathered: a pile of books (most of them stolen), a set of weights and other exercise equipment in one of the corners, cardboard boxes instead of wooden drawers for clothes, an iron, a music system, compact discs and DVDs that would soon be obsolete, a double mattress on the floor, a full-length mirror, a small desk, and a garden chair.
"Do you want something to drink?" I asked Irene.
"Do you have wine?"
"Yeah, I think there's some in the kitchen. And if not, there's definitely beer. But look, before I pour you a glass, I want you to know that I don't drink alcohol, not even for a toast."
"Oh, really? I thought you had a beer at the party."
"I was holding it, but I didn't drink a sip. Someone offered it to me, and out of courtesy, I didn't turn it down."
"You said we were going to have fun."
"If you need alcohol for that, I'll give you alcohol. But I don't think that kind of garbage is necessary for someone to have fun."
"Then why did you ask if I wanted something to drink?"
"Because water is a drink too."
"Alright, we'll do it your way. No alcohol."
The music played. Karmacoma by Massive Attack was on. I walked over to my desk, opened one of its two small drawers, and pulled out a pack of rolling papers and the Ziploc bag with my weed. Irene said:
"Look at you, you don't drink, but you do smoke weed."
"Weed doesn't wreck your physical and mental health."
"Depends on how much you smoke."
"This stuff is really good and strong. Two hits, and we'll be set."
"Set for what?"
"I guess we'll find out."