NEW WRITING:

He lay on the floor, stupid and immobile. His chest was stilled and his fingers were stable. He blinked slowly and moistened his full lips. He thought of nothing, yet at the same time thought of everything. He tried to speak, but there was no sound, no voice. His throat was tied and bruised, his lips were broken and twisted - all were signs and signals of his profession, and his profession was the imitation of love, which in turn was the imitation of life. Maybe a half-empty imitation, but you can't argue with anothers lust - he'd tried. Lust has a value, and bruised lips and body are part of the price you pay - and the price that another flings bitterly into your face when they're done, and lust has gone its way.