"Of all the pathetic, bottom-feeding pieces of shit in this world, I'm the king of the pile," Andre Simmons spat.
He stood staring at a building that looked like it was held together by tetanus and broken promises.
It was an abandoned hellhole, the kind of place where the air felt thick with the smell of cheap cigarettes and desperation.
Tonight was the night. The night he'd finally shed the "V-card" that felt like a burning brand on his chest. But this wasn't the cinematic, heart-pounding moment he'd spent a decade fantasizing about. He wasn't supposed to be opening his wallet for it.
In his head, his first time involved a stunning blonde—the kind with lips that looked like a sin and breasts large enough to smother his insecurities. Someone who actually wanted him.
But that was a lie. A daydream for a guy with zero fucking game.
Physically, Andre had the tools. He was tall and had a face that didn't scare children, but his social battery was a goddamn desert.
Girls didn't just intimidate him; they paralyzed him. He was a veteran of the webnovel trenches, a shut-in who could navigate a fantasy world better than a five-minute conversation with a woman.
Whenever a "baddie" walked past, his brain short-circuited into a mess of stutters and flop-sweat. The rejections lived in his head rent-free, a highlight reel of his own inadequacy:
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"You're cute, Andre, but you've got the confidence of a wet napkin. I like real men."
"You're tall, sure. But you're a beanpole. I need muscle."
"I like guys with bank accounts, not just a tall shadow. Move."
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He'd fumbled every single one. He was addicted to the Tens, but even the Twos treated him like a glitch in the background.
"Every girl thinks she's a Ten these days," he muttered, his jaw tight. "Even the zeros have an ego."
So, he had pivoted. He'd found a way to win in a world where he was losing every day, Gooning.
It wasn't just a habit, it was a goddamn discipline. Since he was twelve, he'd honed the skill of isolation. Six years of dedicated degeneracy. Five times a day on the weekdays. On the weekends? He was a marathon runner, pushing past ten sessions until his brain was nothing but fried dopamine and static.
If there was a World Championship for this brand of filth, Andre Simmons would be standing on the podium with a gold medal around his neck.
He looked at the building again. Through the hazy windows, he could see the silhouettes of women in dresses that were more like bandages, eyes scanning the street for the next paycheck. The shame hit him like a physical blow to the gut, but the hunger for something real was louder.
"Fuck it," he growled, clutching his phone and his dignity in a death grip. "No more. I'm finishing this."
He marched toward the entrance, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
The women here were a far cry from the high-definition fantasies that lived behind his eyelids. In his mind, when he was mid-session, every woman was a goddess.
Here he could see the layers of filth caked beneath their foundation. He could smell the sour scent of unwashed skin and stale sex fighting for dominance against cheap, floral perfume that stung his nostrils.
They swarmed him like flies on a fresh wound, each one flashing a practiced, plastic smile.
"Come on, handsome, why the rush? Let's talk," one purred, her voice raspy from too many cigarettes.
"I'll give you the 'first-timer' discount, love. All night long."
"Ignore them, baby. I give the best rides in this city."
Andre didn't look back. He kept his head down, his stomach churning. These weren't the "Tens" he had promised himself. These were vultures, and he was nothing but a meal with a wallet.
His buddy Derick—the only guy who knew the true depth of Andre's desperation—had sworn there was a "Ten" on the third floor. Someone who didn't belong in a place like this. A girl whose rates were steep enough to keep the street-level addicts away.
"She better be a fucking ten, Derick." Andre spat under his breath.
He hit the stairs, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm. He started to run, taking the steps two at a time just to escape the hungry stares of the women below.
Finally, he reached the third-floor landing. The hallway was narrow, lit by a single flickering bulb that hummed like an angry insect.
"Derick said she was in room number..."
His eyes scanned the peeling paint on the doors until they landed on the one. Room 303.
He stood there for a second, his hand hovering over the wood. He felt like a man about to cross a finish line he'd been running toward for six years.
Andre stood before the door, his hand trembling so hard he had to shove it into his pocket. He took a deep, jagged breath, lunging for one last hit of oxygen before he committed to the filth.
"This is it," he whispered. "No more screens. No more fantasies."
He knocked. Three sharp raps that sounded like gunshots in the quiet, derelict hallway.
Nothing. Silence stretched out, long enough for the doubt to start clawing at his throat. He raised his hand to knock again, but before his knuckles could graze the wood, he heard it—the slow, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of footsteps.
The handle turned with a metallic click that echoed in Andre's chest. The door swung open, not to a cramped brothel room, but to a wall of shadows and the scent of exotic lilies and copper.
"Come in," a voice commanded.
It was husky, vibrating with a raw, primal authority that made the hair on Andre's arms stand up.
Andre glanced back down the dim passage, his lizard brain screaming at him to run back to the safety of his bedroom and his laptop. He felt like a thief caught in the act.
"Don't be scared now, darling," the voice drifted from the darkness, sounding closer now, warmer, like velvet wrapped around a blade. "I've been waiting for someone like you. Come in."
The "someone like you" hit him like a physical blow. Did she know? Could she smell the six years of isolation on him?
Driven by a mix of terror and a hunger he couldn't control, Andre stepped over the threshold.
He was inside. And the door slammed shut behind him with a finality that sounded like a tomb closing.