A life riding the rails.

Leon was as good as his word, something you soon learned was the most meaningful currency among the wayfaring travelers and lonesome pilgrims you met on your journeys. You learn fast who you can trust and whose words aren't worth a drop of your spit. You meet all manner of gummies, mopers, rank cats, tomato can stiffs, and the fearsome yeggs. It doesn't matter, Leon can always sniff them out and either "hand them a match" or con them before they try to make him a mark.

You also meet many hard working hobos. Travelers by trade and generous of spirit, and occasionally spirits. You still imbibe from time to time, on nights so cold even your King can't keep you warm, or days so hard you feel the aches in your dreams, but you are a long ways away from the driftless daydream daze of your weed stupors. You prefer to keep alert, so you can watch Leon's back and your own when he's not around.

That's when the hobos whisper like fishwives, when he is off on an errand or running down a line on the next stop. You hear what they mutter about you under your breath, "bread, punk, Angelina, breshun, geycat, hoboett"...but to your face they called you A-no. 2, her highness, or Barbie if you are on a first name basis. You pay them no mind, and they whisper less as the days go by and you grow from lazy little lamb to savvy queen of the road.

You have learned to love your new life. It's lean and cold and hard, and it has left your once smooth skin weathered and your dresses are rags and clothes line bargains, but you have gained an inner warmth that radiates and gives you an ageless beauty. You ride with your ancient, yet spry King and every night, every morning, and as many times as he can fit in between, he fills you again and again with his hard, generous warmth. You never do lose your blush, and you have your bindle's share of regrets, but when you are in his arms and he is inside you, it's like you're on top of the big cock candy mountain...and you never want to climb down...