The circus fucking sucked.

You were still so confused on how it got people each day. It was somehow wildly popular. It didn’t make sense to you.

It smelled of shit. Someone was always throwing up. The rides were dingy. There were always creaky sounds that meant that the place was a safety inspection away from the biggest lawsuit in history, and there sat you.

The measly trapeze artist. Number 18. The other 17 fell to their deaths. The only job requirement? Don’t fall to your death.

You guys were in the last couple days of the tour dates in the city. The circus made even the brightest places so gloomy.

Right now, the sounds being heard outside the Porta potty you were in, were as follows.

A crying child, the clown trying to make the crying kid happy, while doing the opposite.

“Shit, babe.” You heard from under you.

Insert Dom. Your manager/boss/fuck buddy. Heavy on that last one.

He played one of the jesters. Then counted money, then did illegal drugs. That was his day and it was his day for 8 years. He never cracked a smile. He was super negative. And this was one of those times where you both decided to take an early ‘break’.

You two weren’t in love in the slightest.

“Did you put on a condom?” You ask.

“Didn’t fit on my big dick, remember?” He smirked, then it immediately fell as his head fell back. “Fuck.”