Prose

Callboy

Chapter III

-x-

Fifty patrons later and I can finally say I feel somewhat clean from that day Tony forced himself in me many times in a single encounter. One hundred patrons later and I think everyone has gotten over the love bites on my skin and has left me enough time to heal. My skin has returned to that near flawlessness that is necessary for a callboy to have.

Today is my "off" day. Every couple weeks we get the opportunity to rest and recover from work. I can honestly say I am very grateful for these breaks. I wish they were more often, but I suppose I can suffice with this. It's better than nothing.

Of course, on an "off" day there's not much to do. Without patrons to see ever hour until you're too exhausted to open your eyes anymore, there's very little to substitute with. We don't often get the chance to walk out. In fact, I'd say we don't get any chance at all. Not even Number One has that much more freedom when it comes to being able to walk around freely.

I would think it's actually more strict considering Number One is the most selling item in this whole business. If Number One is gone... well, that just won't do, will it? Of course, the situation changes if Number One's absence is due to either death or being bought off.

Things change around quite a bit.

Like a ladder, once Number One is gone, someone has to fill his place. And there's only one direction to go: up. Number Two gets Number One's spot and Number Three get's Number Two's spot. All the numbers thereafter aren't so important. Just the top three spots.

If it could ever be my choice, I wouldn't care about what spot was what, or why the hell it even mattered to rank anyone. But I have to care. I'm Number Three. I'm on the edge of living a more luxurious life and a shitty one. I have to look out for anyone who might dare to knock me off my spot.

It's hard work.

Always being cautious, always putting on some extra charm, always doing a little more than necessary to make sure the customers keep on coming. It's like a competition. A really sick competition. There is no real prize for getting first place. No reward. Being up top doesn't necessarily mean you'll get a better chance at becoming free.

You just happen to have more opportunities to con someone into doing it.

But it's harder to do than one might think. To actually get a patron to buy you without having any second thoughts is... difficult. And to know you'll belong to them instead, well, it makes you reevaluate whether or not you're desperate enough to just take any fool willing to take you off the market.

Like saying if Tony ends up buying me. Would I accept it? I may not have a choice in the matter, but will I willingly go to his side simply because he's offering to take me in? Maybe, maybe not. Sex with Tony is... rough. And long. Who knows what sort of lifestyle I'll have to wake up to every day in comparison to my life here.

I almost don't want to ever find out. If there is any man that is crazy enough to buy me off the market, I hope it's not Tony.

Sighing quietly, I lay on my bed, in my shared room, reading a book that I'd already finished three times already. It's rather boring the fourth time around, especially when I have nothing else to read. I don't have a lot of possessions; all the books I have (so few as they are) I've already read at least ten times each already. Maybe even more than that.

Sometimes I wish there were something to do during these off days, but then again, the rest is much needed. I prefer the peace to being constantly worked. Yet that doesn't stop me from being bored.

Closing my book, I put it away and turn onto my back. The ceiling is plain and dull above me, nothing remarkable about it at all. I've stared many times at similar ceilings, be it in this room or some other room where I'm serving another customer.

Bedroom ceilings are the only ones I get to see; not restaurants, not luxurious bathrooms, not casinos, not swimming pools... Just bedrooms. With the same sort of texture and paint job and reinforcements in case the patron wants to utilize certain devices or have some naughty fun.

If it's not some ceiling, it's the pattern of the wallpaper or the fabric of the bedsheets or the fibers of the carpet or the tiles in the bathroom. They're all the same. I don't ever get the chance to see anything except these same scenes. It's enough to make a person sick.

I close my eyes and drape my arm over my eyes. I would rather take a nap and catch up on sleep that I've missed out on than waste the time I've got by thinking about useless things. It's much better that way.

But sleeping outside of my normal schedule is hard, believe it or not. I'm used to being something close to an insomniac, only getting a handful of hours (if even) during the night after my last customer that getting the opportunity to sleep in the middle of the day when I would normally be working is bizarre.

It's a habit that I can't quite change in just one day.

I continue to try, though. For the sake of my own health and the fact that I don't have anything better to do, I continue my attempts to fall asleep.

Eventually it works and I end up dozing in a light sleep for a while. It's a light, dreamless sleep. When I wake, it's to the knocking of my door. I startle, instinctively panicking and thinking that perhaps I forgot to care for a patron today and I'll be punished.

But when the door opens and the Caretaker doesn't give me any hint that I'm in trouble, I sit up and look at the man perplexed.

"Get in," the Caretaker says and shoves a boy through the door.

I frown in confusion, not sure what's going on. Why in the world would a Caretaker make some boy who isn't even my roommate enter the room? Did the Caretaker take him to the wrong room? Was this supposed to be some sort of new form of punishment? Things like this usually don't happen during my days off.

"He's your new roommate."

I stare incredulously. "What? What happened to..."

I can't finish the sentence because I realize I don't really remember my roommate's name. Sad as that may seem to be, but it's true. When people come and go often, with only a set number remaining because that's all they can do, it's hard to keep track.

"He's been removed," the Caretaker says. Removed. In other words, he's probably dead. Or was punished so severely, he might as well be dead. I can't think of what he might have done, but there are only so many options to choose from that'll get you killed.

On those words, the Caretaker leaves, closing the door roughly. Certainly a lot harder than necessary. But it does its job. The boy jumps, startled by the loud noise. He doesn't look at me at first, just stares at the ground as if it's going to eat him, but then slowly, nervously, he lifts his gaze to look at me.

Once our eyes meet, he looks away again. I dare say he's afraid to look at me. I don't see why, but what do I care in the first place? Except for empathy, anything every remotely more sympathetic towards another whore is pointless. Even if you make friends with each other, there's no point. Someone's going to die or get bought eventually. Why give other people memories to tie them to this god forsaken place? I'd rather remember as few things as possible. Not the people, the whores, the patrons, the Caretakers, Mistress, not the training, the food, the events, the fucking... none of it. I'd rather forget. I don't want that sort of burden dragging me down.

Besides, this kid looks like he's new. He's probably trouble too. The new ones are always full of trouble. Either he'll be dead soon, or he'll learn to toughen up and bear with it. It's not my business to tell him which one to choose.

Lying back down, I drape my arm over my eyes and try to go back to sleep. It's hard to do, though, because soon, I can hear the soft sounds of sniffling. Great. He's crying. I'm no good with other people, nor am I all the sympathetic. Everyone has their stories and reasons for being here, and generally they're all the same. There's no point being any more sorry about someone else's troubles than your own. After all, you're just the same as them. Pathetic.

Rolling my eyes, I lift my arm a little to peek and see the boy crouched on the floor, hugging his knees and burying his face in the nest of his arms. It's a horrible and annoying sight to see. It reminds me of my old self, when I was young and first being introduced to this business. I used to cry to ate Amko all the time about how I was being treated.

Was this divine retribution or something for those times? Am I getting the same treatment as ate Amko did, but with this kid? Am I the ate now?

Sitting up again, I watch him weep, curled into his little ball. I move to lie on my stomach, facing toward him. It's none of my business, but if he's going to be my roommate, at least he can know some ground rules about what it means to sharing space with me.

"Hey."

The boy jerks and lifts his head. His cheeks are stained with tears and his eyes are puffy and red. There's a large bruise on his cheek; one of the Caretakers probably hit him. He has dark brown eyes and dark brown hair. His hair is messy and long enough to get in his eyes though not quite as long as my own.

I can't tell what age he is. He looks like he's in his teens. Maybe his later teens, I can't tell. He sure as hell doesn't act his age, though, whatever it might be. He has the attitude of a child. A babe, really. I don't like looking at his puffy, teary, youthful face because it's the type of face that you know doesn't belong here in this place. He doesn't belong in this business.

He knows that too. Otherwise, why would he be crying? But he probably can't get out of it; he's probably some poor kid who got stuck this way because of some chain of events. Or maybe his family sold him to pay off some debt. Hell if I know. It doesn't really matter.

The past doesn't matter at all. Who you were before you came here, where you came from, who were your family members, what sort of life you lived... It just doesn't matter because all that gets wiped away once you step inside these quarters. You can't keep looking at the past and remembering. Just look forward and grit your teeth. If you keep remembering, if you keep reminiscing and wallowing over something you can never return to, you'll just make it harder on yourself.

That's what I've been taught. This kid... he should know that as well. The faster he grows to accept his fate and stop wailing like a child, the better. I won't have to worry about being bothered by his presence because he's such a wimpy looking thing.

Did I ever look like him? Have I ever been so pathetic? Probably. But that sort of thing doesn't matter anymore. I can't remember so far back. Why should I? There probably isn't anything worth remembering anyway.

"Wipe your face. You look disgusting."

The look that crosses the boy's face is shock. I bet he doesn't know what to do with me. He probably doesn't know who he's rooming with. I may be sweet and kind to the patrons, but to the other callboys here, I either don't say anything, or when I do open my mouth it's probably to say something callous and blunt.

I can't afford to be kind and sympathetic to everyone. Such efforts are wasted. It just makes me soft and vulnerable to attacks. In this life, where no one cares about you or your well being, so long as you still have a functioning hole and look decent enough, why show care in return? Why give something that isn't given to you in the first place?

I can play, I can act, I can be the sweetest fuck you'll ever laid eyes and hands on, but beyond business, beyond the bedroom doors... I just don't have the heart to put effort into smiling. Even if I did try, they'd be fake anyway. So why lie? Why give anyone such false hopes? Why crush their hearts with such mockery? I'd rather be straight with everything. If I need to speak, I'll tell the truth. If I don't have to, I won't.

Even if the truth hurts and makes me the enemy, it's better to be stung than pampered and unprepared when the true blow really comes.

Twisting around, I grab a couple tissues and hand them out to the boy. The boy looks at me in bewilderment for a moment before tentatively taking the tissues to wipe his face. He even blows his nose on one. Ugh, it sounds ugly.

When he lifts his head again, I point toward the little trash can in the corner for him to throw away the tissues. He crawls over on all fours to drop it inside the cheap bin. I can see the back of his calves down to his feet, bare and dirtied and covered in scratches and bruises. He probably has more on the rest of his body but I can't tell.

"How long have you been here?" I ask as he crawls back to his previous spot. He looks up at me like a child. It's bizarre to look at.

"T-Two months."

Two months? He's been here this long and still can't accept his fate?

"Have you served anyone yet?"

He starts to shake his head, then pauses, then nods. "J-Just one. Th-They tried to g-get me to d-do it three times. I, I don't l-like it. I can't d-do it."

Well that isn't surprising. Not many people can. I couldn't, at first. But that's a story better left alone; it has no point being brought to the surface for reminiscing. Like I said, remembering just makes it harder on yourself. There's just no point.

"What division are---were you in?"

"L-lalaki... I think?" He looks at me as if he doesn't understand the question.

I shake my head. "Well you aren't anymore, kid. Lalaki and babae don't room together. If you're here now, you're now a babae."

Shock crosses his expression. "W-What?"

"Get use to it. You're now on the other end of the playing field."

It's humiliating to be in this division, I'll say this now. No man with any pride for himself wants to be the receiver of another man's dick. If unless, on some rare occasion they actually like it to begin with, no man wants to strip himself of his own pride and spread his legs like a woman in front of someone of the same gender. Certainly not for money either.

For me, even I find this degrading. Everyone does. It's simply a matter of just ignoring the pain and trucking on as if it doesn't bother you. It's the only way to keep from shattering and feeling completely worthless. If you can ignore it, and if you can just pretend, then you can force yourself to believe that it's not so bad. It's not as horrible as you think.

At least that's the theory. In many cases, it works. For some, though, no matter how hard your try, you can't help but crumble. There are a lot more babae "removed" from business than there are lalaki. Some men just can't take that sort of pressure.

I wonder if this kid will be able to do it.

I'm of the few who can. (Though even I have my moments where I just want to give up.) It's not easy. Not in the least.

"T-Then... I'll h-have to...?"

I shift onto my side and prop my head in my hand. There's no need for me to answer. He knows the truth just as much as I do. Yes. He will have to do the same things I do and put himself in a position that is lower than man, lower than women.

Tears well anew from the boys eyes and he hiccups with quiet sobs. The sound annoys me. I grab the tissue box and throw it at him. It lightly hits his lap and he wastes no time in tearing a few tissues out to mop up his face.

I wait until he's done, watching him. This kid... he will be quite a handful, I know that already. If I had the choice, I wouldn't babysit him at all. I wouldn't have him in my room. I'd rather have a veteran instead. Not someone new. Yet I don't have a choice. I can't do anything about our living arrangements. And now, anything that used to be my old roommate's stuff is now his. At least for the time being until he makes it his own space and gets clothes and accessories and trinkets that are solely his own.

"Your name?"

The boy looks at me through watery eyes. "N-Noah."

I'm not sure if this is his real name or his prostitute name. I'll take it as the latter. No one ever keeps their real name once they have a new one. If you can even remember your old name, you're lucky. You get so used to being called by your fake name, it becomes your real one.

Nothing of your original self stays. I learned that long ago.

"W-Who are y-you?"

I look at Noah whose eyes are bright with tears and wide with curiosity. He's like a lost, pathetic puppy. It's sad. I decide to humor him a little and reach out and pat his head as I would any real dog.

"Kahoku. Ate Kahoku. Remember that."

He looks at me a while then nods. "Okay, Ate."

Next Chapter