Who: Dr Arthur Arden What: Opera and Hookers When: July 30 Where: The opera, then the streets, yo Rating: NC-17, trigger warning for sexism Status: Complete Arthur stood abruptly during the intermission, navigating through a sea of formal wear and gaudy jewellery. The opera was fine enough: hardly perfect, but enjoyable. The people, however, were disgusting. These upper-class moneyed individuals did not have any taste or dignity. They were here to be seen, not to see, and the entire atmosphere had therefore become suffocating. There was a rage that worked through Arden's very blood, and it mixed with feelings of squirming lust for the deep valleys of cleavage on display and red painted lips.
But they were whores. So many of them were whores.
Not Mary-Eunice, though. That lovely young lady was only a recent acquaintance, but there was something else about her...a hint of nostalgia, oddly enough? He'd never met her before. He'd never even met anyone like her, as a matter of fact, but she still summoned certain feelings. She was beautiful, that much was obvious, but there was a light within her. It was beautiful, and it almost made his heart ache.
Dr Arden drove for a few hours in the rain, his eyes focused forward through the blur of the front window. All he could hear in his mind was talk-talk-talk until it felt like his brain was boiling. His eyes had grown lazy and dull yet still tightly sharpened on what was in front of him.
Eventually, he found one. He found a whore, under the bridge. Her thin arms shivered in the dark, and Arden rolled up without really trying to. Arthur wound down the window but didn't lean forward. He waited for her to walk up and lean over his window, her filthy hands on his car. Her smile was dirty and enthusiastic, but Arden could see the despair behind those nicotine-stained teeth. In that smile, he saw a thousand secrets and they were the same secrets all whores had: shamelessness, tragedy, woe, pity.
"What's your name, handsome?" she asked. Boston accent. Ridiculous. "Stanley," said Arthur, and beckoned with his head a little. She jumped in. God, but this was easy.
"I'm Tamara," she smiled. "What's your real name, Tamara?" His expression was too cold and hard for her to try lying. She stammered a little. "Megan." Arthur nodded as if processing this information, and drove further on. Within five minutes, she began speaking again. "So, where we goin', Stan? You have somewhere? Or that back seat looks mighty roomy, even for a big tall fella like you..." She placed her hand on his thigh, and he shuddered. "Hands. On your lap." The banal menace in his tone forced her to obey.
He drove a little further, and found himself resenting her for obeying him so willingly. He was angry. He was irritated. And he was scared.
Arthur wanted to tie her up and fuck her. He wanted her punished, and hurt, and crying, and her very smile was an insult. Eventually, he parked at the side of a street and undid his bow tie. He held it lightly in his hands, becoming aware of the wrinkles and veins running over his once strong grip. "Stan?" Arden stayed quiet for a moment. "You should go," said Arthur. He reached into his pocket and fished some cash out. "Go now. At this time at night, I am not my best self. And you should go, before I do something that...will not end well." "But-" "Go. Now." Megan the whore slowly took the money, and left. Arden sat in the car for a few more minutes, and then drove off into the night. In the direction of Megan.