The Illusion of Life

Sad Machine

The would-be Scotty sticks to him like a shadow, trailing his footsteps up to the room, watching his every move, the way his legs can't stay straight and he leans against the wall as he walks. The constant attention makes his skin crawl. Most men don't want to see. They'll give him a once over and whatever shame they've got bubbling under their skin will stop them looking any closer. This time it's Toddy who can't look.

 Toddy's regular enough at the motel now that the owner looks at him with apathy instead of disgust. He slides stained, crumpled dollar bills across the desk in exchange for keys tied to an ugly block of well-worn metal with the room number stamped on. He doesn't check the number; 18 is his room now.  

They reach the room and Toddy fumbles to get the keys in the lock. His fingers tremble too much for fine work these days. He should laugh; fine work was once fixing microcircuits.

They step inside and Scotty looks at the tobacco stained wallpaper. His nose wrinkles at the feint hint of piss that always lingers in the room. He looks like he wants to say something. 

"Walk away if you want," Toddy says. "Or pay for something better."

"No... this... this is fine." It sounds like he means more than the room.

"Yeah, sure. It's a hundred for an hour and you can do what you want."

Toddy dumps his jacket on the worn out chipboard cabinet and kicks off boots that scream hooker and leave his feet with scabby blisters. Scotty doesn't move.

"That's it then? We're not going to...?" He shakes his head and trails off and just for a moment Toddy lets himself wonder what he was going to say. He doesn't usually let himself feel curious anymore, but this guy looks and sound too familiar and it's prying something loose before he can shut it down.

Scotty takes out his wallet and counts the bills. "A hundred dollars," he says it like he can't believe it, like he'd expected more. Toddy is a cheap lay, an easy one, for people who can't afford pretty and experienced.

Scotty holds the bills out like he's passing over a glass filled with poison and Toddy takes them and counts them and shoves them in his pocket. It's a hundred, solid, and Toddy thinks he was right, the guy's never done this before.

Johns are usually demanding, but this guy just keeps staring at him, silent, unmoving. Toddy strips his clothes off quickly and lets them fall to the floor. Scotty watches him like he doesn't know how this is supposed to go.

"You haven't done this before, have you?" Toddy asks. "What are you, thirty? Never fucked a guy or just never done a hooker? Don't tell me you're a fucking virgin."

"Toddy..."

"Are you going to fuck me or what? Would you rather I just blow you?"

He grabs Scotty's belt, fiddles with the buckle, pulls his boots off one by one and throws them across the room. Scotty doesn't move. He could be a statue, barely breathing. Toddy wonders how fast his heart is beating beneath that parka. He tugs his pants down. Cheap, blue, cotton boxers. Thrifty, he thinks, like the real Scotty. No sign of an erection.

"Why are you doing this?" Scotty asks.

"Because you're paying me."

"That's it?"

"Do you want to do this or do you want to leave? You're not getting your money back."

"I don't care about the money, for fuck sake." He reaches out, rests his hands on Toddy's shoulders and Toddy watches the way his Adam's apple wobbles. His fingers feel tense, they squeeze a little too hard, but not like the johns usually do. It's like he's trying to be gentle but his body won't listen.

"I just want..." His words are shaky, soft, Toddy almost can't hear them. He almost doesn't want to. "I just want to be with you."

He imagines Scotty saying those words. If there had ever been a chance, he lost it to the booze. He chose what was important to him. This is all he has now. This shadow of something he never let himself want for real.

Scotty leans in close, their lips almost touching. Toddy closes his eyes so he won't see the details that aren't quite Scotty.

He's never kissed a customer before, it's always off the table. They're supposed to be something else, no tenderness, no love. Some other kind of fucked up fantasy. But he lets the kiss be something slow and tender and dangerous. Like a first kiss with a real lover might be. He feels the warmth of Scotty's breath, tastes the faint hint of coffee for the first time in weeks. Scotty kisses like this is real, like Toddy is what he's always dreamed about. Toddy wonders if he reminds this man of someone as thoroughly as he reminds Toddy of Scotty.

Scotty pulls back before the kiss can go deeper. "Christ..." he says, like this is something special. This is not how it's supposed to go. Toddy is supposed to be crying and screaming and bleeding. It's supposed to hurt his body, because his soul's already dying.

He grabs Scotty by the wrist and drags him towards the bed.

"Come on, you're paying to fuck me, not for a dance." But the words are empty and he doesn't know if this can be just sex and pain anymore.

He unzips the parka and runs his hands down Scotty's chest. His muscles are lean and tight beneath the shirt. He could be a super soldier.

Toddy pushes away the something in his chest that he can't quite identify. He drops his hands from Scotty's chest like maybe if he stops touching him he can stop this slowly sinking feeling from turning into something worse.

He lays across the bed, as he always does, spreading his legs out, showing his ass.

"No," Scotty says and he lays a hand on Toddy's back, warm, heavy, calloused. This man makes it so easy to imagine. "I want to touch you," he says. "I want to see you."

Toddy wants to say yes. He wants to turn over and see Scotty, he wants to fuck like they do in his dreams. "No. I don't do it like that."

"You said I could do what I wanted as long as I paid."

Toddy has forgotten how to say no. "Extra," he says. "It'll cost extra." That would be enough to convince most not to.

"Anything," Scotty says. "Whatever you want."

"Double." He doesn't care about the money. He wants to look at Scotty, not this man who almost could be him.

"Okay." So he lets this Scotty flips him over and he closes his eyes. Scotty settles on the bed next to him and pulls him over, wrapping his arms around Toddy's back. Toddy moves like a ragdoll. His arms come to rest over Scotty's shoulders, his legs wrapped around his waist.

"We don't have to do this," Scotty says. But it's just part of the game. This man is paying for the fantasy of something different than the others. Toddy should feel sorry for him.

Toddy rests his head on Scotty's shoulder and presses his nose against the crook of Scotty's neck. He breathes the smell of lemongrass. His old smell on Scotty's skin. It smells like something impossible. He can smell the cumand whiskey on his own breath and maybe Scotty can smell it too. It's stuck to him, steeped into his flesh like it's a part of him now.

He turns his head away and stares out the crack in the curtains to the glow of the streetlights. It's snowing. Coming down hard and heavy. He'll be out there again soon. Maybe it'll kill him. He grinds his ass against Scotty's limp cock and thinks he can do this one last thing.

He lets himself moan into Scotty's ear like they are lovers. Gives himself over to what this man wants him to be. He tries to imagine that he's in love, that he is touching him because it's what they've always wanted. He tries to remember what it's like to have sex when no one is paying.

He tries to think of what he might've had with Scotty.

His eyes start to sting. He doesn't think this man will like it when he cries.