Boyxboy one-shot(s)

Not like the chickflick movies

The ballroom has always been a sight to behold. Bright sparkling light from gold chandeliers glistens the smooth marble floor. Silverware adourn the unoccupied tables, along with blooming roses of every colour imaginable. The ladies wear elegant silk gowns and the gentlemen wear suits and ties, in pairs gracing the dancefloor to the pleasant classical music. 

If they could speak, everything here would scream things like 'extravagant' and 'luxurious'. A college freshman with barely two pennies to rub together like myself would normally have no business here, yet this is exactly where I need to be. 

'Hey Jeremy, glad you made it' a hand clasps my shoulder. I turn to be met with a familiar endearing grin. In a business where most just see one another as competition, Adam is a real godsend. 

'Can't afford to miss it' I shrug bitterly. 'Our rent is due in three days.' 

'I'm sorry man' he eyes me sympathetically. There's no need to explain further: every one of us is here for one thing, and that's money. Think what you might, secretly we all despise ourselves. 

People often associate us with prostitutes. In a way it's the truth. We are gigolos. Women pay us to be their dance partner, companion, and in most cases, lover. Boy toys, that's what we are. Standing here among the aristocrats, we are no different from whores occupying lamp posts in the corners of the streets. We're just human beings who have run out of options. 

I smooth out the creases on my fancy shirt, straighten my fancy tie, then take a deep breath. As if on cue, I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder. 

My first client of the night. Except she's nothing in the ordinary. 

Behind me is the most breathtaking creature I've ever encountered. The girl looks no more than twenty, slender and petite, like a ballerina. Her hair is a river of blond silk, her skin velvety soft and spotless. Her black dress is simply styled, yet she somehow pulls it off with a silver chain around her neck. She wears hardly any make-up, but her face is that of a goddess. The only imperfection is her eyes: they're an unnatural purple, as if the orbs are hidden behind coloured contact lenses. That aside, all else dull to her like stars to the moon. 

The hell angel tilts her head and to my embarrassment, I realize I've been gawking at her like an idiot. My cheeks feel hot and have no doubt turned crimson. 

'May I help you?' I squeak, in a very manly manner, mind you. Her plump lips curl in amusement. 

'How much for a dance?' the voice comes out sweet but clear, with a hint of power and authority. Lassie is used to being in charge. Like anyone would deny her anything anyway. 

It doesn't make sense. Such a creation should have guys falling at her feet. What are the odds that she should be here unaccompanied and in need of a gigolo? 

'Are you sure?' I ask uncertainly. Again, her expression tells me I'm being an idiot. She slips her arm around my outstretched one and we head out to the dancefloor. 

Heads turn as we walk by. Some of my colleagues visibly gasp when they see my lady for the night. The object of adoration, however, seems completely oblivious.

'What's your name?' she asks while lacing her arms around my neck for the slow dance. 

I gulp nervously. 'Jeremy Taylor, ma'am.' 

'I'm Katherine. Don't need to be so jumpy, I won't bite.'  

Just completely harmless teasing. So why do I feel like she's just shared a private joke and I'm too slow to pick up on it? 

Katherine smirks slyly, as if knowing exactly what I'm thinking, but continues her interrogation nonetheless. 'How old are you?' 

'18' I bite my bottom lip, but she nods, seemingly satisfied for some reason.