I’d been risking my neck dealing drugs since I was about fourteen to fund my habit. After my first day at my new job, I was perfectly happy with the risk I ran of going to jail. No, seriously, I was.
At first, I figured it was just a job, and as long as it didn’t involve seeing Matt anywhere, it’d be fine. I went along to the interview, got called up a few days later being told I’d got the job and celebrated by running around like a kid on too much sugar. That was probably the only part of this job I actually enjoyed.
Aside from the fact that I’ve been used to very little responsibility, and being able to do whatever the fuck I wanted when I wanted to do it, cleaning wasn’t exactly the soul crushing, spirit breaking job I expected it to be.
It was the people that got to me.
Whispers of me being a tranny or a faggot or whatever followed me around literally from the moment I got there. I wrote my name up on the rota in the locker room and the tasks I’d been assigned for the week and instantly some asshole took the piss out of my handwriting. I don’t think I’ll ever understand how the way you write can spark off a rumour that you used to be a girl.
It wasn’t so bad, I s’pose. Most of it I’d put up with in school. It was when it got to lunch break that they started pissing me off, ‘cause by that point, I was having some serious cravings for some kinda drug – anything would’ve done. I’ll tell ya something, I have no idea how I managed to lie my way through the questions about drugs, but I was beginning to wish I hadn’t. Knowing where all the morphine is kept is, uh... not so fun, for a junkie.
“Oh, man,” I heard one guy laughing as I headed out for a cigarette break with a sandwich I’d gotten from the canteen, “I know, right? What’s the new kid’s name? Rayn, wasn’t it?” I stood out of sight, listening, “better make sure we don’t get too close in the locker rooms. He might come onto us or something.”
“Such a fag. And that handwriting. Anyone’d think he’s actually a girl or something. It’s not like he looks very masculine.” They laughed some more at that and I sort of toed the bits of loose gravel, suddenly not in the mood to eat anymore.
“Y’know,” a woman’s voice spoke, “I was there when he applied for the job. He had this other guy with him. They looked like they were... y’know, together,” she lowered her voice like it was a crime just to talk about it.
“Mhm, the guy with him was too close to him for my liking. Maybe he is gay,” she giggled, “gross.”
“And what’s up with a name like that? Was his mom retarded or something?” My gaze snapped up at that. Leave my mom the fuck out of this, asshole.
“My mom was not retarded,” I snapped, stalking over to them irritably. It’s kinda hard to be intimidating when you’re the shortest person there.
“Oh yeah? Then why’d she call you Rayn?”
“She was too busy dying to spell Ryan the right way,” I yelled furiously, my fists balling up. A couple of medics came over at that point, noticing that I was about to erupt. Of course, despite being a lowly cleaner, word of my faggotry and girlyness had spread fast enough, and I was the one who ended up with a reprimand for yelling at other staff.
Needless to say, I didn’t get home in a good mood.
“How was work?” Kyle asked as I slammed the door shut behind me.
“Fine,” I lied, going straight to the kitchen to make dinner. Tonight, we were having steak. That’s if I didn’t turn it into mince from tenderising it too much. Kyle followed me in, frowning at me taking my rage out on the poor defenceless piece of meat on the counter.
“I’m fine,” I said loudly enough for it to probably be classed as shouting as I smashed the tenderiser down on the meat particularly hard.
"You don't look it." I’d never have guessed.
“They called my mom a retard,” I told him, feeling the angry tears pushing their way forward, “and then I got the blame for causing an argument over it because they all think I’m a tranny faggot,” I dropped the mallet on the counter, putting my head on Kyle’s chest as he pulled me into a hug, kissing the top of my head.
"Why'd they say that about your mom?"
“’Cause my name is more stupid than my hair,” I said sulkily, feeling kinda more miserable about it than I did angry.
"Your name's not stupid. And neither's your hair," he reminded me, keeping me cuddled up to him.
“Whatever. I don’t wanna go back there again. And m’not in the mood to cook, either,” I added as he played with my hair.
"We can go for a meal, then," he smiled. I looked up at him, giving him my best wide-eyed-I-don’t-wanna-go-anywhere face. "My treat. Go make yourself pretty," he said, apparently not noticing. I guess it beat cooking, and it might end up taking my mind off what a shitty day I had. I went off and got changed into some skinnies and a shirt, letting him whisk me off to a restaurant of his choosing.
"Isn't this a bit on the expensive side?" I asked, looking around as we stepped inside.
"Like I said, my treat," he reminded me with a smile.
“I thought we had a wedding to be saving up for?” He nodded, not looking concerned by this fact in the slightest. I wasn’t sure we should be somewhere any more expensive than a diner.
"Don't worry about it, gorgeous. I had a little leftover from an old job." I figured there was no point arguing with him over it, so I just shut up and tried to forget that a side dish of garden salad probably cost about $20 in this place.
Kyle insisted on treating me to whatever I wanted, including the fancy wine. I might have ended up a little bit drunk. And argued with him over whether he was the pretty one or not. I kept telling him he was too nice and pretty to me, but when he was determined that I was the pretty one, and I was too drunk to argue with him anymore, I just sat there and blushed. He smiled and I leant my chin on a hand, not sure of my ability to hold my own head up anymore.
“I’ve been told I’m very pretty when I have my lips wrapped around a cock,” I tell him, looking up at him from under my lashes as I leant forward. “Do you think I'm pretty like that?" I giggled, watching his face go red.
"Tease,” he pouted.
"Am I pretty like that, Kyle?" I asked, giving him the innocent eyes. They didn’t really go with the topic of conversation, but it didn’t matter.
"You might be,” he said, his blush deepening.
“Wanna find out?” I asked, not waiting for an answer before I slipped off to the toilets. I had just enough time to pick a cubicle and kneel down before he followed me in. He didn’t take long to find me and slipped inside my stall, locking the door behind him. I smiled up at him, feeling like a shameless little slut behind the haze of alcohol. He returned the smile, his hand tangling in my hair with ease as I undid his pants and slid them down his legs.
I wiped a finger across my chin, clearing up a string of jizz that had escaped my mouth. I half looked up at him from under my lashes again, pretending to have gone all shy. "So what did you think? Was I pretty?" I asked innocently. He nodded, too out of breath to give me a proper reply. I rubbed my cheek against the inside of his thigh, sitting down at his feet as he let out a hum. I cuddle one of his legs against me while I rubbed the feeling back into my knees with my free hand, smiling happily as he played with my hair. I gotta admit, although the alcohol is definitely helping, this kinda thing isn’t so bad with Kyle. Especially when I’m the one that gets to initiate it. I liked how he didn’t force me to do anything I didn’t want to, and how I didn’t even feel uncomfortable when he was horny. I might feel like a whore when I do this kinda thing, but at least with Kyle it’s somehow strangely rewarding. I feel good that I’ve made him happy.
"Our food's gonna get cold," Kyle’s small chuckle cut my thoughts off. Once I’d managed to get back up, we headed back to the table. I caught sight of myself in the mirror on the way out of the restroom. I looked every bit as much as a whore as I felt. Kyle clearly didn’t mind, and I was too tipsy to care what other people thought. I was just happy to be with my fiancé.