Curt rips his dirty nails back and forth on his jeans, scratching out the guitar rhythm that's speeding through his head (speeding as fast as it can without any actual fucking speed in his system, anyway, which is exactly the predicament he's currently trying to get himself the fuck out of).
The melody in his head is halfway between The Thermals and Ted Leo and he's trying to figure out how to get it heavier, how to get it a little more --
"Can you fucking stop?" The john is pissed, ducking down as they continue to walk. The guy is swivelling his head like some kind of fucking stupid-looking owl. Must be his first rodeo, because there's no chance that the cops are hiding sideways behind the birch trees, sucking in their donut-guts. The image is fucking funny, and Curt doubles over, wheezing with laughter. "The fuck you laughing for? Shut your mouth, christ."
Curt tries to catch his breath, but a second wave washes over him (sucking in their motherfucking donut guts) and he starts to laugh harder.
"I'm serious." The guy grabs him by the sweater, fingers getting purchase in the holes around his collar, and shoves him into the public restroom. Normally, laying a hand on Curt McCrae is grounds for getting your faced bashed the fuck in but the dude's got a baggie of speed in his pocket and Curt's not gonna jeopardize getting a hit tonight.
His hands are already shaking a little, his teeth are already grinding a little, it's been - what, a couple hours since he's had a hit? The last of his mom's oxys are long gone, and Troy always lies and says they don't have anything in his house stronger than a fucking Midol, so it's back to this bullshit again. Good old capitalism, supply and demand. Or maybe it's not capitalism, maybe it's, like, more of a barter economy, or like -
The john grabs the back of Curt's head, grips his hair tight, and shoves his face down into his crotch.
"Oh," Curt sighs, unbuckling the guy's belt. He wouldn't usually deign to give a blowjob to some random in the park for anything less than an oxy, but nobody's holding oxy tonight and desperate times call for desperate measures which, in this case, means a stingy baggie of speed. That'll do, pig.
As he eases the john's cock out of his underwear, Curt sneaks a glance up at the guy's face.
He's old, maybe forty. Weak chin, lines on his forehead. Curt thinks that maybe he looks a little like his stepdad, actually, except for the fact that the guy's got on a cheap-looking dress shirt and a loosened tie instead of a pit-stained wifebeater.
The john's cock is only medium-hard, but Curt takes it in his mouth, the scruff on his jaw scratching against the sparse, wiry hairs on the guy's sac. He doesn't bother worrying about whether or not the guy is clean, whether or not the taste on the back of his tongue is piss or maybe leftover spit from one of the other poor assholes working the park tonight.
To be fair, Curt hasn't brushed his teeth in four days, so maybe they can call it even.
but she never lost her head even when she was giving head hey babe take a walk on the wild side
and the coloured girls go
Sometimes he hums to himself when he's doing it, hums whatever's stuck in his head - the johns never mind, they always think it's for their benefit, the vibrations from Curt's throat zipping up their cocks all the way up to their brains, making them come without warning, choking him with spunk before he can even reach the second verse -
"Fuck," the guys spits, yanking himself out of Curt's mouth. There's a smear blood on his cock, and Curt belatedly realizes that he's nicked the guy with his (chattering) teeth. "You fucking idiot."
The john smacks his knuckles across Curt's face, bone on bone, metacarpal slapping against zygomatic -- is that the right word? Zygomatic? Curt isn't sure. He falls backwards onto the floor, hand flying up to cup his face.
"You little shit," the guy hisses, inspecting his dick for damage.
Curt stares up at him, hand still on his cheek, frozen except for the taptaptap of his fingers on the disgusting tile. He's trying to fend off the jones, trying to clear his head so he can figure out how to turn this around without fucking murdering the guy. The guy's still standing there, rubbing blood off his dick, and from this angle Curt's pretty sure he can see the little bulge of the baggie in the guy's pocket, and maybe if he can apologize nice enough, sincere enough, sir it was an accident, next one's on me -
Curt stares at him a moment longer, then explodes.
It only takes a few slow-motion moments, knuckles slamming against cartilage, against bone, before he stumbles out the door, hands covered with the stupid fucker's blood and mucus and spit.
No fucking way will Mister Billings let him into the apartment with half this guy's face smeared across his knuckles. He doesn't want to ruin his sweater, so he stops and rubs his hands on the grass, trying to get rid of the worst of it before he walks back to Troy's. Fucking Troy, who will give him a warm bed but, when he's crawling out of his fucking skin 'cause he can't get a hit, won't even give him some of his mom's leftover morphine? What the fuck is with that?
He's still crouched down, frantically scrubbing his hands before park security comes along, when he hears the guy let out a groan like a dying animal, the sound bouncing off the tile and echoing into the park like something out of a horror flick.
He pops up and is already two steps away from stepping back into the restroom (he doesn't know what the fuck he's gonna do when he goes back in, what the fuck is he supposed to do, fucking play nurse and fix the guy up? See if the dude has change in his pocket and call an ambulance from a fucking pay phone?).
He flicks the baggie in his pocket. Flickflickflickflick. Feels the shift of thick, pure powder. Runs his hand over his cheek. Considers it.
It's been hours since he's had a hit.
The guy can wait.