We left Paris at the Platte in separate cars. I followed Kylie to the two bedroom apartment she shared with her classmate on the other side of downtown. I must have gained the roommate’s approval, judging by expressions of shock and inaudible words of praise she covertly mouthed behind my back while I pretended not to look. It surprises me that women actually think we don’t see that. The swank little apartment was obviously too expensive for college students working on music degrees, implying that the girls were still getting help from their parents. The framed art deco pictures above the flat screen TV seemed at odds with the Hello Kitty poster hanging from Kylie’s bedroom door. Just enough innocence to convince mommy and daddy she was still their little girl; not so bold as to warrant rich girl shaming from fellow students.
Author: darkroom69
Tribute of Flesh, Part 1 [mf][interracial]
We chose Paris on the Platte as our meeting place. The modern bohemian cafe on the Upper West Side of downtown Denver was filled with patrons. At 11 am on Sunday morning, the coffee shop served as a point of fusion for hummus-eating hipsters and artistic emo goths. I entered through the front door to find myself awash in vivid hues emanating from canvas along the walls. Expressionist paintings and copper metalwork – pieces for sale by local art students – accented an otherwise drab brick-n-mortar interior. I was an outsider in what could be called yet another mecca for the younger members of Denver’s counter culture.
Of course, I wasn't here to make friends. After a weekend death spiral of night clubs and online chats, I had found someone to sate my desire for a warm body. She had posted on Craig’s List for companionship: SWF, student, 21, looking for “friends, and maybe more…”. The open call wreaked of the naivety and desperation of a little girl with few friends, far from the large, bustling family she left behind for college not too long ago.
Short story setup: Dark Places, P1 [m/f][prostitution]
Leanne never planned for any of this – the collapse of her marriage, being thrust into a cruel world with no skills or means to support herself, and definite not an addiction to narcotics. But this her lot in life. The designer drug to which she shackled herself was the worst of it all. Leanne was introduced to White Midnight at a New York nightclub. It had the odious combination of being three times more addictive than heroin, twice as expensive as cocaine, but lacking the incapacitating properties of either. It was the product of a Wall Street trader crowd that wanted to get high without losing the wits need for rapid calculation. Even worse, it had the side of effect of creating a burning, insatiable lust that sent her to dark places. With a habit she couldn't afford, and an aching desire she could control, Leanne began selling herself for money. Her penance would now be to forever find herself vacillating night after night between shame and ecstasy; self-loathing and consumption.