I stand here on a street corner, daisy dukes and fish nets, my favorite Metallica crop top floating up on moonlit skin.
Monster truck inching close, breath pacing through the city streets, I walk to the edge of his dark lair to bite any hesitation. With curt words and close heads I smell the whiskey in his breathe. Pulling into the alley's grip, I let him lead and grit my teeth.
"Shhhh, I won't get busted again." the whiskey whispers against my ear, "Don't make a peep." Then I'm not sure if it's man or whiskey who turns me around in callused hands. He spits first, entering with a grunt, and my hands slide down the window with each ******.
5 minutes. I horn honks in the distance, long and mad, as whiskey man unloads on my back, along with his long, satisfied growl. That's it, with a reluctant 20 bucks, and I'm back biting the wind.