Thrifty Glamour?

This article is written in the first person of a male prostitute who is trying to sustain a lifestyle in the glamorous New York City. Read on to find out more. 

I looked across the vast hotel lobby ahead of me -- bright, gaudy, bustling with people and yet dark, cold and lonely.  The drooping chandelier on the ceiling, the tweaked and plastered walls, the two day old flowers in the vases told a story similar to mine.  Drink in hand and despair in step, I roamed the hall waiting for my chance to make my share of money for the night.  The smell of perfumes and wine filled the air, light glistened off the creamy pearls and diamonds that lay around the ladies’ throats.  A dozen women of calibre, known and yet  unreachable to me and a dozen men just like me stood in that pompous hall together, brought together for purposes as different as ice and fire itself.

New York city might be the city of dreams and what not, but in order to one to sustain in this beautiful city, one must pay a price.  The price I pay is none too high and yet too high -- dreams, here, can only be bought in order to achieve them.  The glamour here is thrifty for it only lies superficially in the sparkle of fake jewelry and the skyscrapers of New York city.  The glamour here is so thrifty that being a part of it, amidst the wealthiest housewives of the city, I can see through the thin veil separating fact from fiction.  If you opened your eyes, you would see it too -- beneath all the painted pomp of this plastic world.

The smell of carnal hunger and the unmistakable clicking of stilettos had hardly approached me, then I turned to look into the face of my predator for the night.  The burning desire in those blue eyes bore a hole into my head and stilled me for words.  I simply did nothing but stare back for a moment or two at the woman who stood ahead of me.  Tall and thin, she wore about her an air of faux sophistication. The sheer material of her extremely tight and short dress clung to her in such a way, that to one, it might seem as if the dress were a mould of her body.  The rubies in her ears glinted in the yellow light as if in warning when her red painted lips curved upward in an unmistakable manner of decision.  A thin finger was raised and I was beckoned towards the elevator.  Following the stranger and my client for the night, I entered that confined room of metal -- feeling as cold in my heart, as the fingers that now touched my neck.  

This is New York city, I thought to myself, as I shut my eyes and the doors of the elevator shut in on me for the night.

Written on 24th November, 2013