Finger Prince posted:

I wake up in a corner booth still sticky with the shame of last night's orgy at the most elite hooker club in San Francisco. God it smells terrible in here. Like even worse than last night. All the fake cheese powder and sickly sweet energy drink miasma can't mask the unwashed funk of the current occupants. I pull what's left of my fishnets over my flaccid cock and pick most of the feathers off my chrome buttplug (at least I hope it's mine) before depositing it in my clutch, wrap my boa around my neck and head towards the door. I look back and it seems nobody has noticed me. They're all staring at their computer screens, no other sound than the mechanical clicks of their keyboards and the crackle of mylar junk food bags. I tiptoe to the exit, heels in hand, and catch the eye of the bouncer. Same guy as last night. Tyrone? Tyrell? Tim? I mime a "what the gently caress" look at him and he just rolls his eyes and shrugs. Well, whatever pays the bills I guess. I head up the stairs and out into the fog.