72Tweek let out a gasp of air as Craig collapsed on top of him, sweat sticking them together. Silken sheets rubbed across his stomach as they shifted. "That'll be two-forty." The blonde says, sitting up. Craig rolls the condom off and tosses it into the trash. He lights up a cigarette.
"Stay a while."
"It's an extra twenty dollars for every thirty minutes. Cough up or I'm calling the cops and telling them I was raped."
"You wouldn't do that." Tweek watches the smoke fade into the air.
"I would."
He wouldn't.
"Hmm."
"Two-forty."
Craig sighs and rolls onto his side, fumbling inside a dresser for his wallet. Tweek watches with a strange hunger as the man counts the bills. "Here, two-forty. You get the rest after we spend some time together." Tweek stands up and begins to get dressed. His underpants are gone for good, ripped down the left hip from when Craig got too grabby in the elevator. He sighs. That's forty dollars gone from his "paycheck" if you could call it that. The cheap satin lingerie isn't worth forty dollars but Tweek knows Cartman would rather die than hand off more money then he needs to. He begins to dress at a snail's pace. The blonde buttons his leather skirt without underwear and bites back a smirk when Craig gives out a hiss.
"You aren't going out like that."
"Whatever." Tweek knows he's pushing, he knows if it was one of the others they would still be in Craig's bed, whimpering yes to everything he says. Tweek understands. More regulars equals more money; more money equals better clothes and jewelry that equals more men that equals more money that equals one step closer to freedom. But if Craig was telling the truth, he would never let Tweek go, if he wasn't, then Tweek wouldn't be here at all. Most men don't like smack talk from their whores.
"Tweek?"
Here it comes.
"I love you."
"Yeah, whatever, Craig."
"Is that all you can say?"
Tweek finishes buttoning up his shirt. "Sure, whatever. That's an extra ten dollars, by the way." If it was anyone else, Tweek would have been slapped and pushed out the door before the queen of the house got back, but it's not, it's Craig and he forks over the money. Tweek tries not to snatch. The blonde counts the money as he makes his way to the door. Cartman, fat bastard as he is, counts all the time someone has been gone and subtracts the five minutes they get for their break. If they don't bring enough money, they pay for it out of their paycheck and then the next, most of the time, more people end up in debt to the fat bastard then making money with his "business". Tweek doesn't complain. It's a five dollar fee to whine, ten if you don't "shut your whore mouth".
"Tweek, do you love me?"
"Sure. And if I'm lucky, in a couple of minutes I'll love someone else too." The blonde slams the door shut and tucks the money into his knee high boots. His panty hose are torn down the side. That's another ten dollars. The boy resists the urge to run back and see if he can get some more time. He doesn't stop at the front desk and ducks his head. Cartman doesn't approve of regulars and Tweek needs the money. He stops in front of a street vendor and has the break the hundred. A fifty, a twenty, ten dollars in singles, the rest in fives. He puts the money back into his boot.
240+10-10-40=200.
It's been a bad night.
Cartman's rent; 200 dollars. Meals; 30 dollars.
Total; negative 30 dollars.
Tweek pauses outside the building. After a moment, he starts walking. It was possible that he would make more money, but unlikely. People liked fresh ass and with one look at him, anyone could tell he wasn't fresh. He would just end up wasting more time and throwing away more money. Besides, he was late for dinner. He might as well lose money on food then something else. The blonde shivers in the cold and walks faster, clicking down the sidewalk.
People give him disgusted, curious looks and he is shoved into a wall by a rough bystander. "Whore!" Someone shouts. Tweek keeps walking. He knows he's a whore, and although it bothered him at first, he had forced himself to get used to it. Sighing, the blonde simply allows himself to be glad Cartman has a thing for hermaphrodites and cross-dressers. Otherwise, Tweek would be walking down the street shirtless and in leather pants. Generally, you have two types of men buying male prostitutes; the full on out-of-the-closet people who want to fuck some manly-man type, or the men who are ashamed of being attracted to men but can't get it up with women. The last type want girly males to warm their bed, someone they can pretend is female. Tweek isn't that feminine, but with a shit load of make-up and dim lighting, it's easier to believe he's a girl then a dude.
Briefly, his mind flutters back to his high school days. His friends used to mock the people he has become, throw food at them as they passed by and laugh as they picked it up and began to eat. "Keep our street corners safe!" they would yell. Tweek wished he hadn't. The memories stung as if he was the one being mocked. Back then, he was going to take on the world and win. Now, he is no better then who he mocked, just more understanding. He understands hunger he understands hopelessness, and he understands the appeal of half-eaten food, even if the only way to get it is to have it thrown at you by snot-nosed punks. Most of the time, he wants to yell back and claw out their eyes. "Your daddy sure seemed to like me!" he wants to yell.
He stews in his angry thoughts until he comes to a run-down nightclub. South Park, the neon sign reads, and he scoffs at the stupid joke. It never ceases to make Cartman laugh and that's partly why he hates it. The paper slip on the door reads "closed" and a cold feeling overtakes him. He missed curfew. Chewing on his lip, Tweek hunches his shoulders and walks into hell.