The crusty old madam eyed up William Tenor skeptically, her webbed fingers absently twirling around a chewed up Bic fountain pen as she appraised him.
“You certainly look the type.” She finally admitted to him, her voice every bit as thin and raspy as he would have expected from such a creature.
Willy certainly couldn’t disagree with that, the “looking the type” bit… although he had to admit he wasn’t exactly sure what “type” of help this monstrously of a whorehouse frequently employed… he was relatively confident that his weaseley little red moustache and three-piece off-white pinstripe suite fit the bill quite nicely.
He followed the old madam around the back, past moldy water coolers and tacked up Giger prints and up to a door that read “Fetishists for Hire”.
Inside the sparse pink waiting room Willy cold already feel the cold pangs of anticipation, that, and his growing erection. The madam took no notice of him or his miniscule cock as she sat on one of the few imitation ivory barstools arranged in a nonsensical pattern about the odd little room. Willy sat too, waiting, his hands over his lap.
Finally, his name was called. And via a scum-ridden monitor, in a crowded room full of all sorts of other sorted “types” everything was explained.
“Fetishists for Hire” was set up to provide “service” to the hideously undesirable, but that service went far beyond mere sexual intercourse… hell, almost any starving hooker would suck off a pair of Siamese Twins for a crack rock (as the video [narrated by a tired sounding Billy Zane] put it)… but would that hooker ever truly worship them…. worship their deformities…no, only someone like Willy could do that.
Willy Tenor smiled, for he knew he had found a job in these difficult times.