But this is what I’m used to. This makes sense.
Being fucked hard, aggressively, by men who see me as an object. Their angry fists in my hair, pushing my skull in the dark.
The whirlwind of drugs and cum. Growling and bruises and control… The give and take.
They give. I take.
By the end of it, I’m numb. I know I’ve gotten off. I usually do, but I can’t even remember the orgasms after a few seconds, and I’m not sure what that means.
They leave me with my wrists bound by their expensive ties, covered in cum, and a little blood, surrounded by a pile of sweaty cash.
Typical Friday night.
Once I’m cleaned up and dressed, the sun is rising slowly over this island we call New York. I leave the club, fighting the urge to limp and trying like hell to leave the cut on my lip alone. The black Town Car is parked along the curb, as usual. But I don’t take it.
I never do.
In fact, I flip it off, walking the two blocks to the nearest subway station. The ride is sobering, as usual. I put in my headphones and listen to my favorite playlist, zoning out amongst Manhattan’s walk-of-shamers and people who work at this ungodly hour, even on weekends. The city is broken, and lonely, just like the rest of us.
When I arrive at home, I can’t help but gaze upward, eyeing the giant Upper East Side townhouse with a sigh.
I would love to watch it all burn…
Inside, the house is still quiet, shy of the staff who are already up, cooking and cleaning as quietly as possible. Not that it would matter… My parents are in their wing, which feels like miles away from this side of the house.
I ignore the looks they’re giving me while I climb the stairs and go directly to my bedroom. This is only a transitional period, I tell myself while I strip down and go for the shower. My reflection in the mirror catches my eye, all the bruises covering my flesh sticking out amongst my scattered ink.
I like them. Bruises remind me that I’m alive and susceptible to hurt. Like when I was twelve and I used to cut myself.
Just to feel.
While I shower, my mind flicks through images. Memories of tonight, with John Doe. I’m contractually obligated to pretend I don’t know who he is, although I definitely do. My parents donated to his congressional campaign. And the new stranger… he also looked familiar.
They always do. If I gave up the names of all the high-powered men I’ve bent over for, I could take down the city of New York singlehandedly.
I enjoy it, I do. I can’t act like I don’t, but that teeny, weakened little voice inside tries shouting up to my brain. I don’t want to be here anymore.
Get me out.
Get… me… out.
After my shower, I get into bed. And I pass out for hours. Many hours.
When my eyes open again, it’s dinnertime. And no surprise, I can hear my mother shrieking up the hall. I open my bedroom door, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and preparing myself for another installment of ‘scream at Ren until he realizes the error of his ways.’
“Rosa, I’ve told you one hundred times… If Mr. Xavier is due business visitors, we cannot have you all mulling about. It’s distracting and unprofessional.” My mother pauses her berating of the housekeeper for long enough to glance up at me. “Well, look who’s decided to grace the world with his presence.” Her gaze falls over my shirtless torso for a moment before she rolls her eyes and scoffs. “You’re unbelievable.” Then fixates back on poor Rosa. “Get everyone out of sight, right now!”
“Yes, Mrs. Xavier,” Rosa trembles, scurrying off to go shit herself. And I get it. My mother is definitely scary… to people who give a flying fuck about her bullshit, which I certainly do not.
“What the fuck is wrong?” I yawn and stretch my arms over my head. “I need my beauty sleep and you’re out here squawking like a demented bird.”
“Warren, enough,” Beth, my mother, shrills. “Your father is expecting company and you’re standing around looking like the epitome of a disappointment. Put some clothes on.”
I can’t help the huh look I’m giving her. “Dad’s company isn’t my problem. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to bed. I have work in a few hours.”
“Warren! I swear to God, we’re not doing this again!” She rushes me, grasping me by the arm so hard her acrylics are breaking the skin. “It’s bad enough the entire community knows you were kicked out of school for inappropriate conduct. And now you’re flouncing around the city like a common whore! It’s disgusting. Get your shit together, or we’re sending you to back to rehab!”
“Blah blah BLAH!” I shout in her face, and she flinches, gazing up at me like I’m the spawn of Satan. If the shoe fits, Mom. “You sound so boring and stupid. Listen, I don’t give a fuck about your yammering.” I rip my arm out of her grip. “If you wanted a normal son, you shouldn’t have fucked me up so bad.”
My mother’s blue eyes are wide, burning with unkempt rage in my direction as she goes quiet. It’s that silent fury that lets me know she means business. But sadly for her, I still don’t care. I physically don’t possess the piece of my chemical makeup that allows me to give a fuck what people think—especially my parents.
And that’s actually not the only part I’m missing.
“You’re living in this house,” she seethes. “We’re paying for your lifestyle—”
“I don’t need you to do that,” I growl. “I’m making my own money.”
“We are not speaking about that, Warren,” she hisses, her Botox not allowing for the facial reactions trying to tug at her skin. “What you do with your time is disgusting.”
“Why… because I’m a man doing it with men?” My arms fold over my chest. “Meanwhile, you slutting your way across the Columbia campus wasn’t a big deal…”
“Kenneth!” my mother shouts at the top of her lungs, making my ears ring. She storms away from me in a huff, darting down the stairs, likely toward my father’s office. “You need to get a handle on your son! I swear to God, I’m going to blow my brains out.”
“Don’t do me any favors, mother dearest,” I grumble under my breath, spinning back into my bedroom.
I would love to go back to sleep, but after that, I can’t. So instead, I get changed and go for a run. And when I come back, stomping into the foyer with my music turned up to full volume and the end of my water bottle in my mouth, I come face-to-fucking-face with the guy who fucked me and slapped me in the face last night…
John Doe’s friend.
In my house.
What kind of cosmic bullshit…?
Upon noticing one another, we both go completely still and stare for a solid ten seconds. His eyes fall to what I’m wearing… my skin-tight running pants and a sleeveless mesh workout top that shows off all my side tats.
I witness him gulp, and my gaze narrows.
My father’s business acquaintance, I presume.
His eyes shift around before he whispers, “What are you doing here??”
“Uh, I live here, Sherlock.” I sip from my water bottle again. “What are you doing? Let me guess… investing. Or were you just so taken with my skills, you couldn’t help but track me down? Wouldn’t be the first time…”