by Matsuri Yuri (祭百合)
Sheila was staring at the ceiling, counting tiles and waiting for him–and the boredom–to just finish. One would think a sex worker would have a thrilling sex life, but apparently they left that out of the pamphlet. Dylan always made a big fucking deal of going down on her, like it qualified him for sainthood or something. Then he’d moan like the guy version of a faking an orgasm, sloppily licking her, just missing the spot, messing up the rhythm like a bad song.