It’s not my first rodeo. Just the first to make my guts churn.

Maybe it’s the wine, or too many eyes on my bare chest, but I don’t feel good. I say as much. 

Only one hears me. I see my reflection in the black of his dilated eyes. Animalistic. He says it will be alright.

So we gather upstairs. 

The dog gets locked in a crate. He hasn’t barked once. Maybe he understands. 

Hands touch my body. My waist. My cock. Enamored by the juxtaposition that is both. 

I inhale something and my head starts to spin. The room does too. 

We get to our places, but I am too nervous to perform. 

I said I can’t. It’s not ready. Not clean. 

I want them to hug me and say that it’s fine. That they understand. That they respect me. But even my shadow looks pissed. A bandit in the dark. Sorry. 

They instruct me to use the shower, watching me leave with a look that says “what are we paying you for?” And the truth hits me like a ton of bricks. 

Careful not to step on the cats, I lock the door behind me and exhale chemicals. 

What a sight I see in the mirror. Somebody I don’t recognize. A robot, not just a dildo. Stripped down to bare skin. Nothing but a baseball snapback, and a thin chain around its neck which they might use for choking later. How did we get here? Crying in the bathroom of a dumb house party. Old men clawing at the door for me. Nothing like the books I read as a child. Some distorted ending where Peter Pan sells pixie dust to Captain Hook. It’s a disgusting picture in my head. Tragically giving away his youth. At least not for free. I left my wallet outside, or else I would count the euros, rub them on my body so it would take note of its purpose. I turn on the faucet but the dial is sensitive. The temperature not right. I don’t even need it. I know I am clean. Just need to buy myself time. But for what? I look myself in the eyes as the spinning comes to a halt, and rattles my bones. Jarring like the end of a carnival ride. You’re cute, I think, with that innocent boy next-door look, but you’ve got all that filth underneath. And it shows on the curl of your lips. But that’s what they want. That’s what they paid for. You. Not me. I swallow my vomit and let my shadow lead the way. 

Up the stairs, in the dark, they are waiting. Sticks and stones, ready to throw. The bed is your stage, and the audience swells with a-n-t-i-c-i-p-a-t-i-o-n. The curtain rises. 

Electricity runs through my veins from high voltage batteries. “Where do you want me?”