Before the lockdown, Reed's life had rhythm.
It wasn't glamorous. A hustler's work never was. But it was clean, in its way--tight edges, reliable routines, the easy choreography of transactional affection. Hotels at noon. Condos after dark. A bar downtown where the bartender let him use the back booth for the discreet types. Men with strong grips and weak marriages. Women who didn't want to be adored, just obeyed. Couples with strict rules and trembling hands.
He dressed sharp, fucked well, and always left before sunrise.
And he liked it. Or rather--he liked the version of himself who liked it. The one who knew how to be anything: soft, sharp, dom, sub, prize, punishment. The one who knew how to get paid without giving anything real away.
---
Then the pandemic hit, and everything stopped.
In the first spring of lockdown, everything shut down. With clubs dark and hotel lobbies silent, he found himself suddenly unemployed. No touch, no tips, no cash.
Abruptly, the money dried up. The streets emptied. Reed sat in his apartment in a bathrobe for three weeks, watching the world shrink to a series of blue-lit screens: news feeds, dating apps, old clients who wanted Zoom calls and dick pics and to pretend nothing had changed.
But it had.
You can't fuck through Plexiglass. You can't flirt through N95s. And suddenly, even the lonely ones didn't want company. They wanted groceries. They wanted safety. They wanted silence.
Reed didn't spiral. Not right away.
He rationed his savings. Made lists. Jogged in the mornings. Did press-ups at home. Deleted old numbers. Binged a TV show. Learned how to make banana bread, just like everyone else.
But, despite everything, the quiet got loud. And very lonely.
---
Then one night, a friend texted him - a fellow hustler he'd known for over five years. Just a meme at first--something about ordering a dildo and a pizza and getting the same guy for both. Then a follow-up:
"Ever heard of Secret Menu?"
It wasn't an app. It was barely a whisper. A network of bored sex workers and broke delivery drivers who realized there was overlap in their clientele. You signed up for DoorDash. You joined the right Discord. You wore a tiny badge on your jacket. And if someone tipped high and asked for "extra sauce," you knew what it meant.
At first he scoffed. After all, he was a seasoned pro. Give him fifteen minutes and a big enough tip, and he could make a married man cry. Menial food labour seemed... beneath him.
So he held out, always waiting for the lockdown to finally end the following month, always watching the end date get pushed back again, and again, and again...
One day, when he'd had enough of his bank balance dwindling and the trail of his mayor's broken promises - he wrote back.
"Send an invite."
---
Adjusting to his new normal proved challenging.
The work was different now. Grittier. Less polished. He swapped his tailored suits for hoodies and joggers, condoms for takeout bags. And he set to work - hustling, as he'd always done. Prowling the streets, always hunting for his next opportunity.
Occasionally, he'd get a nibble. A flick of the eyes, noting the badge he wore clipped to the front of his hoodie. And he could still turn it on when he needed to--lean on the car window in a low-cut tank, hand over a bag of dumplings like it was foreplay. Let them get a peek of something they didn't know they craved until it was three feet from their door.
Some nights it worked. Some nights it didn't. Some nights it was just food, hours spent waiting outside takeout places, queue number in hand, endlessly driving from one place to another, stuck in a perpetual cycle of churn.
He wasn't sure which one he preferred.
---
Over time, Reed found a routine, slowly but steadily rebuilding a roster of select clients - people who knew what to ask for, on a regular schedule, and who'd pay handsomely for the privilege.
That evening, Reed arrived at exactly 7:30 p.m., stepping from the silent elevator onto Michael's polished marble entryway. He barely registered the cool gleam beneath his shoes or the subtle fragrance of sandalwood lingering in the air. His reflection moved alongside him, impeccably groomed yet detached, an echo of practiced perfection. His mind was already elsewhere, operating automatically.
Michael answered the door after a single perfunctory knock, his silver hair perfectly styled, wearing the familiar expensive casualness Reed had grown accustomed to seeing. Michael glanced over Reed briefly, nodding with habitual approval. "On time, as always," he said evenly, turning away without further greeting. Reed followed him in, setting the takeout on the desk. They both knew it wouldn't be eaten.
Inside, the condo's lavish minimalism was striking--every surface polished, every object placed with sterile precision--but Reed's eyes drifted past the luxury, as his mouth feigned interest.
Michael poured him scotch without asking, handing him the heavy crystal glass. Reed accepted it with mechanical poise, tasting the burn without enjoying it, letting Michael's confident voice blend into the hum of white noise in his mind.
They danced toward intimacy with clockwork predictability. Reed stepped forward when Michael did, tilted his head just enough, offered the correct smiles, the calculated touches, everything arranged just so. His body responded automatically, knowing exactly when and how to react, his eyes fluttering at the right moments, his hands tracing his lover's body the way he'd always done.
Throughout their choreographed sex routine, Reed felt distant, feeling more spectator than participant, emotionally numb and disengaged even as he made the right moans and noises, Michael gripping him firmly, thrusting powerfully into him.
Afterward, Reed showered briskly, the hot water doing nothing to wash away the detached hollowness he carried like a constant shadow. He dressed methodically, returning to the bedroom to find Michael's generous tip neatly placed on the bedside table. He picked it up silently, counting without real interest before tucking it away.
"Next week," Michael said, already looking at his phone, voice disinterested.
"Of course," Reed replied, his tone sensual, empty, rehearsed.
Leaving the condo, Reed's reflection flickered by again, expression carefully blank. The polished surfaces, elegant décor, and expansive views no longer impressed him; they merely reflected his emptiness back at him, a hollow shell moving through a world of meaningless transactions.
He stepped into the elevator, closing his eyes briefly, a grim thought surfacing despite his efforts to suppress it: another stain on my soul. He pushes it down roughly, hardening his expression, as the elevator quietly descends back into the indifferent city night.
So went Reed's days and nights.
---
And then, one night--a new order.
No notes. No secret code. No history.
Just a name and a tip.
Reed checked the order again: Eli K., Lucky Noodle, delivery #311. No special notes. The tip was generous, but nothing unusual. He shrugged it off as easy money, zipped his hoodie just low enough to tease, and headed toward the suburban edge of town.
The rain was persistent, coating everything in a slick sheen. Reed parked, grabbed the bag from the passenger seat, and glanced briefly at his reflection in the side mirror, giving his damp hair a practiced shake. Just enough to look accidentally appealing. He knew the look well.
He approached the front door, knocked gently, and waited.
The door opened quietly, revealing Eli in oversized clothing, fuzzy socks, and rumpled hair. He seemed startled for a moment, eyes wide as they flickered over Reed, then settled into a warm, shy smile.
"Oh--hey. Thanks for coming all the way out here. Sorry about the weather."
Reed smiled back, tilting his head just so. "No worries. Rain makes it interesting."
He let their fingers brush as he handed over the bag, holding the contact just a half-second too long. Eli blinked, flushed faintly, then stepped back a little, clearly unsure what to do next.
"Your tip was pretty generous," Reed said casually, his voice pitched low, inviting Eli to take the bait. "Much appreciated. Special occasion?"
Eli looked genuinely startled, then laughed nervously. "Oh - you're welcome! No, I just... figured the drive out here was pretty long, especially in this weather. And gas is expensive right now..." He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks growing visibly pinker.
Reed raised an eyebrow. Waiting. Expecting more. But Eli only shifted awkwardly, as if unsure.
"Seriously, thanks," he added, flushing a little more. "I've had three people cancel my order just today because of the distance. You're the only guy who came out all the way here". He paused, glancing away shyly. "Stay safe out there, alright?"
Reed paused, thrown off balance by the earnestness. "Yeah... you too."
Walking back to his car, Reed frowned slightly, puzzled. Most customers who tipped this much were after something extra, a hint of flirtation or more. Eli hadn't seemed interested in playing along, which was unusual. Sliding back into the driver's seat, Reed shook his head, dismissing the encounter as an odd anomaly.
As he drove away, the faint question lingered in the back of his mind--one he quickly brushed off, refocusing instead on the next delivery and the simple promise of easy money.
