You don't pay a whore for the fuck. You pay 'em to leave. To never ask for your name, or your number, or a second date.
Walking down the street hits different these days. Same ol' drugs and whores, same ol' stench.
Different me.
I keep telling myself that I've changed, that I'm not the man I used to be. And I wonder if it is regret that I sometimes feel. Regret over the bits of myself, left behind.
I asked him for his name. For two, maybe three seconds, he seemed genuinely puzzled. Caught himself quickly and offered me a charming smirk, as fake as the City itself. Told me I could call him however I wanted.
I paid and told him he would be Vincent for tonight.
Later I asked him if he wanted to know my name.
He refused.
After all... you don't pay a whore for the fuck.
You pay 'em to leave.
To never ask for your name.
Or your number.
Or a second date.
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