YBFJ

CHAPTER: The Door Was Already Open

Roberto.
That wasn’t even his real name.
He changed it every week, depending on the season.
This week, he was Roberto.
Last week, he was Sky.
Next week? Maybe Bliss. Maybe “Angel with Two Holes.”

But tonight,
after the Kid Rock concert,
after the knock, knock, knock,
he was Roberto.

⸻

He said he just got off work.
Didn’t say what work, but I knew.

He had that sugar-burned breath,
like he’d been eating men all night
but didn’t swallow.
A sweetness, cheap cologne, and sweat—
that tang of lube and latex
and money made without memory.

A male prostitute,
if you wanted to say it cold.
A mirage,
if you wanted to say it hot.

⸻

He told me he was done with the streets.
Said, “I just wanted to see you again, vampire.”
That’s what he called me.

“Vodka and cranberry vampire—with lime.”
He laughed when he said it,
like I was some bitchy drink order
that kept coming back
even after the bar closed.

⸻

I didn’t smile.
But I poured us both a glass
from the bottle under the sink.
No ice. Just sweat and heat and
a little red flood.

He leaned back against my altar
and didn’t even ask
what the bones and black lace were for.

He just said,
“You live like you want someone to save you
but you’d bite their fucking face off if they tried.”

And that’s when I knew
he was either in love with me
or suicidal.

⸻

Roberto lit a cigarette.
Blew it into my face.
I didn’t move.

He said,
“You gonna kill me this time, vampire?”
And I said,
“Why the fuck do you keep coming here?”

He shrugged,
licked the tip of the lime wedge
from my cup and whispered:
“Because this is where the hurt tastes right.”

⸻

I didn’t respond.
I was already hard.
Already broken open.
Already starving.

And he knew it.

⸻

He took his clothes off
like a prayer,
or maybe a joke.
Maybe both.

⸻

He was thin, but not weak.
Dirty knees.
Bruised hipbones.
Tattoo of a crucifix melting on his ribs
and a price tag written in Sharpie on his thigh:
$40 for love, $20 for mercy, $10 for silence.

He never charged me.

⸻

We fucked like we’d never speak again.
Or like we’d always be trying to forget.
It wasn’t romantic.
It wasn’t clean.

But it was true.

⸻

Afterward,
he curled into my side
like I was the john who tipped best,
and said,
“Levi, I lied. I’m not done with the streets.
But I thought if I could sleep next to you,
just once without charging—
I might remember who I was before I started selling it.”

I didn’t say anything.
Because I didn’t know if I was comfort,
or just a different kind of sale.

⸻

He stayed the night.
He left before sunrise.

And I, the vampire,
vodka and cranberry in hand,
with a lime wedge now gone dry,
sat up on my air mattress,
covered in bug bites and sweat and prayers,
and whispered:

“Come back and bleed better next time, Roberto.”