Bling Peter in my flip phone, bling because of the tiny golden gross that dangled above my nose and Peter from his email. There are other Peter's. Peter Johnson peter willie peter tuggher. There are more Peter's in my inbox than there are in the phonebook that sits covered in piss on the low end table beside the couch. So many stupid cock joke Peters I have to differentiate them myself. There's Flakey Peter, bad breath Peter, and Bling Peter.

He wants me. He asks me how much I make in a month. It's between 600 and 900 but I hate that little sneer he gives me. The crows feet digging their black talons into the corners of his eyes.
"2000 usually." I say petting his sunken chest, his liver spots passing under my palm like coins under a beachcomber’s metal detector."sometimes more sometimes less"

I want to bite his throat out when he chuckles and grabs my tit.
" I have that kind of money, what do you think about monogamy"
" never tried it"
He pinches my nipple, hard. I bare my teeth against his shoulder, raking them with all the restraint in me across his weak flesh.
He turns to cuddle me, wrapping his arm around my back and pulling me close. I fit against him like a cow around her calf, he's tired, thin. I'm fresh, full.
"I want to pay you 2000$/month to be mine. Only mine."
'Bullshit' my heart screams!
Big talk, little cock!
We lie quietly, as children play outside in the indian summer sun. Their feet rush back and forth in the ground level window.
Bling Peter sits up and we unglue. His paper mache skin, still damp from our mess, peels away and leaves me cold on the bed.
The projection clock my dad bought me in middle school shows the time. It's set 8 minutes fast so I can kick out the weirdos early or convince the good clients I'm not clock watching when we run over our time. Bling Peter is running over his time.
He digs 10 100's out of his wallet.

We lived in a cabin in the woods. Deep, deep in the woods. The winding dirt road full of free range cattle, kept in check by those wacky cattle guards.
"They cant see the bottom and it scares them" my dad would say, angling his leased sedan and rumbling over the grates. "So they won't walk on it"

Sometimes he sped up and hit them like a beyblade, letting his winter tires rip over the metal ribs so my little brother and I would scream as we bounced loose in the back seat.

He told us he was a contractor, he worked down in Vancouver for a few months and came back up to the interior with his pay. He fanned out 10 100 dollar bills in the living room, waving them in front of my eyes.

“They print them with maple syrup ink, that’s why they’re gold.” he said, “Smell, you can smell it.”
“I can! It smells like maple syrup!”

Peter tries to hand me the money.

He leaves it on my dresser in a neat stack and dresses himself in silence.
“I like you a lot, I want to make this work.” He says.

“I had fun too,”

“How do you like your coffee?”

“Triple Triple, small.”

“Sweet like you.”

After he leaves, I lay in my bed with the bills on my face and in my hair. I take a picture and send it to my chatroom friends.