By the way, all drabbles take place before the start of my book-in-progress. I was gonna call them "snapshots." But I didn't. This particular one takes place before Marcus becomes a Cap. 248 words.
Title: I'm Not Lyin', I'm Just Stunnin' With My Love-Glue-Gunnin'
Marcus turns the radio up. His favorite song is on.
"Can I be hermaphrodite pretty?" he sings. He looks in the mirror and shakes his butt. It's a good butt, so everyone tells him. "Am I an innie... O-OR AN OUTTIE?"
He's got a date in half-an-hour. He's had a date every day this week so far. Knock on wood.
Ripped bootcut jeans. Shirt one size too small. A dab of dollar store gel in his hair. Cologne slick like oil on the inside of his wrists and across his neck.
"Chasin' Hedwig's confusin' kitty! Suckin' cock erect'd by committee!"
Four dates, four different Johns. Although one was almost a threesome: A fat man sat at the foot of the bed, breathed slow and in control, and watched as Marcus fucked some woman with a jungle snake tattooed across her shoulders. The fat man's glasses were thick enough to be opaque, and the woman moaned beneath him. Her tattoo constricted with each thrust.
Marcus charged double for that one. He reckons he could've charged triple and gotten away with it.
He rubs his face now. It's sandpaper. He slides his thumb down the twin blades of his razor; it's clogged with old stubble, and he tosses it in the trash.
"Air out that botched vaginoplasty! GIM-GIM-GIMME HERMAPHRODITE CITY!"
Not a big deal. This John isn't interested in his face anyhow.
Marcus checks his reflection one last time and makes sure to lock the door on his way out.