Give me your rentboys, your whores, your not quite monogamous masses yearning to. Well. You know.
Location: A room. Of some sort.
Time: Not important, but probably late afternoon to early evening.
Seth Cuthbert, a small, slight boy with short Holocaust survivor hair stepped into the room. He stared at each of the gray walls, then sat down on a couch that seemed to be one of the main decorative features. After a moment, he was confronted by the entrance of another boy, an equally small, pretty sort of a boy in a top hat and a cravat. They were men's clothes, although the boy looked hardly older than sixteen. Seth blinked. "Hello," he said.
"Hello," said the pretty boy. "I'm the Saint. Who are you?"
"I'm Seth Cuthbert," said Seth, slightly puzzled. "You're a saint?"
"No. The Saint. It is different," the Saint informed him laboriously, and sat down next to him on the couch, a good deal closer than Seth would have liked. "And now," he added. "We wait."
"We wait for what?" asked Seth somewhat nervously. There was something fundamentally indecent about the Saint.
The Saint shrugged. "For the people to come. I expect they will. I," he added, with a flourish of one hand, "am a magnet. For people. Pretty people especially."
"I think you give yourself too much credit," said Seth
"You're here, aren't you?" pointed out the Saint.
Seth looked blank, then settled down to pout for a bit.
The Saint waited patiently, toying a bit with his top hat brim.
Location: A room. Of some sort.
Time: Not important, but probably late afternoon to early evening.
Seth Cuthbert, a small, slight boy with short Holocaust survivor hair stepped into the room. He stared at each of the gray walls, then sat down on a couch that seemed to be one of the main decorative features. After a moment, he was confronted by the entrance of another boy, an equally small, pretty sort of a boy in a top hat and a cravat. They were men's clothes, although the boy looked hardly older than sixteen. Seth blinked. "Hello," he said.
"Hello," said the pretty boy. "I'm the Saint. Who are you?"
"I'm Seth Cuthbert," said Seth, slightly puzzled. "You're a saint?"
"No. The Saint. It is different," the Saint informed him laboriously, and sat down next to him on the couch, a good deal closer than Seth would have liked. "And now," he added. "We wait."
"We wait for what?" asked Seth somewhat nervously. There was something fundamentally indecent about the Saint.
The Saint shrugged. "For the people to come. I expect they will. I," he added, with a flourish of one hand, "am a magnet. For people. Pretty people especially."
"I think you give yourself too much credit," said Seth
"You're here, aren't you?" pointed out the Saint.
Seth looked blank, then settled down to pout for a bit.
The Saint waited patiently, toying a bit with his top hat brim.
Comments
"He does not look like Tarzan," said Seth.
"Be quiet," said the Saint.
"I am," said the Saint proudly. "I pretended to be someone's wife once. They didn't realize it for a long time."
Seth moved several inches away from the Saint on the couch.
"I am indeed a back-of-the-chapel-during-study-hall sort of a person," the anachronistic creature agreed, moving over to Terence and sitting by him in a way best described as drizzling. "And I'm not that young," he added, smirking at Sev. "Guess my age."
Seth turned solemnly to Terence. "He says he knows you," he began. "Do you know who the hell he is?"
He extended a significantly-less-awkward hand to Seth and shook, in the style of his whorish brethren the world over holding on just too long. "You're too nice-looking to be awkward," he observed. "Loosen up."
The Saint, however, merely butted Terence's foot with his head and grumbled, "Is too."
"Your shoulder, huh. That's too bad - let me give you a back massage? I'm sort of famous for them. You'll feel better, I promise." He flexed his white hands invitingly.