<span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 8pt;"><em>Continued from the Brothel... (http://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=123765.msg5459026#msg5459026)</em></span><br/><br/><em>"The Kid" - Dean Logan - October 26th, 2011 - Somewhere between 1:00am and 2:00am - His home on East Broad Ave</em><br/><br/>The liquor had hit Dean a bit harder than he thought. He felt a bit more...light...on the bike ride home, as if he were floating slightly. It actually made him feel a little bit happy. It didn't last long, though. He locked his door, though he didn't know why. No one was gonna break into this house. It was Harrisville Falls, and if anyone here was willing to actually commit a crime, it would be on one of the rich families.<br/><br/>He hung his coat on the hook by the door, stripping his shirt off as he walked down the hall towards his room. It was a one-story rancher, enough for a wife, husband and single child. Or, as it were, a single child pretending to be an adult. There was an eerie pale glow from his room caused by his monitor, still powered on. He tossed his shirt into the corner, followed quickly by his pants. It wasn't until he had slumped himself in his computer chair that he realized he still smelled like the brothel...<br/><br/>...and of her.<br/><br/>Dean blinked, feeling as if someone had just plucked a dart into the back of his head. He sat forward, staring at his computer screen. Inspiration had struck. For months now he had been trying to work on a book of sorts. He was no good at fiction, and he didn't have enough interest or knowledge in any one particular subject to have anything to write about. Nothing, except for this town.<br/><br/>He opened up his word processor, instantly working on the formatting of the pages, how they'd be numbered fonts, headers, all the little details and shortcuts most users ignored. That is, if they were aware at all. He wasn't going to bother with a title yet, not until he had a better idea of what he was writing. But if Dean was an expert on anything, it was the disgusting crust upon the Earth that was New Harrisville Falls.<br/><br/>His fingers began to dart across the keyboard, his house filled with the<em>clickety-clack-clack-clackety-cluck</em>of every keystroke.<br/><br/><em>Like the pristine beauty of a super model or celebrity, New Harrisville Falls hides its true ugly nature through the artificial appearance of perfection. Every Sunday night the Church is filled to the brim with the faithful, the loving, the kind and the chaste. By nightfall, they fill a Church of a different sort. The women are on their knees, "praying" to a new deity while the men "sing" God's praise. Yet there is no salvation here, no fulfillment. Just a single man sitting in a dusty office, chewing on the exquisite cigar between his lips, counting the money from the desperate, lonely, sad patrons outside of his door.<br/><br/>Joshua Harris, a perfect businessman in the perfect town making a perfect profit off the perfect hypocrites.<br/><br/>Let me tell you about a little shack in a cornfield on the outskirts of town...</em><br/><br/>He stopped, leaning back in his chair. It was alright, not at all perfect. He'd need to make some changes, but for now it was alright. The one thing he knew, however, was that he'd have to go back. Dean would have to return, talk a bit more, learn who the faces were and what was going on.<br/><br/>He had to be discrete about it, though. After all, the first rule of Fuck Club was you don't talk about Fuck Club. Everyone is a different person with a different name, pretending they don't have problems. Despite the fact that they're only at the Gulch<em>because</em>they have problems. He couldn't help but smile to himself, loving this idea more and more. He was going to open this son of a bitch town wide open and expose it for the stain it really was.<br/><br/>He'd still need to be a customer, though. If he was going to be a customer, then he needed to learn how to be a worthwhile customer. He couldn't afford any more embarrassments, not like tonight.<br/><br/>For a moment he remembered Orchid, the lustful look in her eyes. He recalled her moan as her lips slid along his shaft. She remembered the look in her eyes as she laid beside him, wrapped her breasts around his arm as her fingers traced against his chest, her voice softly trying to comfort him...<br/><br/>He shook his head. No, not again. He wouldn't be embarrassed by that again, and he wouldn't approach her until he could show her his<em>true</em>self, his<em>true</em>prowess. After next time, she'd be begging to<em>him</em>for sex, and he'd have the power to deny it if he so chose.<br/><br/>He opened up his web browser, clicking over to Google. He'd need to do some research, first...<br/><br/><em>How to please a woman</em><br/><br/><em>How to keep from cumming</em><br/><br/><em>Kama Sutra</em><br/><br/>He Googled several phrases, though many results were either too pornographic or too simply written. He did, however, find a few recommendations, many of them excellent. He was going to have a busy day in town tomorrow.<br/><br/>Pressing his monitor off, Dean stretched out, yawning. He only now realized how tired he was. Pulling his chair back, he hopped forward and dropped right onto his mattress. It certainly felt nicer than the one in the Fucking Gulch, and it didn't have the stench of sweat and crotch embedded into the woven fibers...but it was missing her scent, too.<br/><br/>He shook his head again, pulling his glasses off and resting them atop his alarm clock. What, was he falling for her? Was he in lust with her? No. Too many women at that brothel to fall for just one. He had to think of something else. Pulling one of his pillows in, he started to think of his book, ponder how he wanted to organize it, what chapters to include. His planning became plotting, and his plotting became paradise as he envisioned himself on tour, signing copies of the latest New York Times best seller, waving to an audience as he sat down on Late Night, explaining the movie rights to his book.<br/><br/>Dean fell asleep that night with a sly grin on his face.