Carl looks over when the manager whistles for him; the greasy man, with his slicked back hair and puffed up chest, is standing beside one of the plush armchairs towards the back of the lounge. In the chair, another older man sits: he’s solidly built and his hair is artfully messy, salt-and-peppery like his beard. His leather jacket is creased with wear and there are holes in the knees of his gray jeans. The red scarf around his neck should look dumb, but the shock of color is like blood across a blank page, striking and eye-catching.
Carl sways his hips as he walks and jerks his head just enough to keep his hair over half his face. He’s got a body to kill for, but his manager has told him time and again that no one wants to see the milky blankness of his bad eye. He figures tonight is no different. He struts over, ignoring the other catcalls and lewd comments, until he can stand in front of the man in the chair, in between his spread legs.
“You rang?” Carl asks, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. His manager scowls at him but nods to the other man.
and so it begins, kinda, sorta, i guess