- Character Profile
- Profile
[ JOHN DOE ; An unidentifiable man, one with no known name, one given to those with identities that are hidden or cannot be verified. ]
> Trigger warnings: Depictions of an underage sex worker, but please consider the time period and age of consent in olden times! This story contains no sex scenes and things are kept vague on purpose. Warnings for exploitation and general NSFW themes. The main theme of this short work isn't the sexual aspect, but rather, confusion regarding asexuality.
“You’re losing your ‘cuteness’, you know. You gotta’ stop growing, JOHN.”
“‘Cuteness’... eh, was I ever ‘cute’?”
“You were. Now ya’ ‘desert warrior’ blood is coming through…!”
“What warrior blood? My father was mudarrib al-khayl, a horse breaker, ya’ idiot.”
JOHN sat splay legged upon the floor cushion with a partial grin and sent an incredulous look across at the woman snickering across the way-- she wore nought but thin, translucent cloth against her thighs, their iridescent sparkling designed to catch whatever light could be snatched from the candle-lit cellar. He was not much dressed himself. With a multitude of gold chains ensnaring his throat and the rattling of disks upon a similarly coloured belt, the boys harem shorts barely scraped the deep reds of knees.
Some small part of him knew Cerise was right. The men of the brothel preferred their boys young and thin and round eyed, perhaps he had been so at fifteen, but now at the age of seventeen… JOHN looked very much like a man, was taller than most of the clients and could no longer soften his image with swathes of shimmering fabric, they did nothing to lessen the breadth of wide shoulders. It was cause… for some alarm. Everyone knew most working boys were dismissed after reaching a certain threshold of burliness, and this had been the longest the epileptic had ever held a job before, two entire years; the plentiful breaks allowed for time fits and recovery, the kind Madame did not think his sickness would bring a plague upon the whore house and clients would never even know of the affliction, no matter how many times they visited. Compared to manual work this line of employment also meant seizures became far less frequent than before, and it hadn’t required him to possess any sort of intellect or schooling to get into; it was the perfect job. Beds, baths, food, all included! And laying down was not hard. Performing was barely any harder. At first the boy had not been very good at pretending… but after a few bumpy months the ‘act’ became natural, I am an exotic Suldazan boy, and I will show you how we do things in the desert.
… Not that he knew what they did in the Deadlands, JOHN had been young when he left the southern breadth of the second continent, and knew the culture only from family. More lies, making up stories, whispering in another language into the ears of Ilican citizens that would never know what he said; sometimes it was little more than jibberish. There was a keen sense of satisfaction that had developed from obscuring the truth from people that wished to use him, like a subtle playing of power that was privy to only one party. Popularity and money drove him. They admired and lusted after his torched caramel skin and tugged at the gold of his neck and waist to watch the discs there spin prettily and thought that, in that moment, they were wholly in control of a barbarian snatched from the sands-- their delusion only made JOHN want to push the lies further and further until they could barely be parsed from vague, far-away legends.
But boys were not boys forever. Neither did the amusement of sex work flourish in the later months, the courtesan was developing a problem that was causing a horrid and ever-present soreness that seemed only to get worse as time went on. Shifting about uneasily upon the cushion he lent his tongue to a half chewed roll-up of tobacco and fished for a lighter amongst the tat-filled desk. The intake of nicotine caught alight would not heal the pain, but it did lessen the anxiety once the damn thing caught the wayward sparks.
“... You’re not workin’ tonight, I take it.” Cerise watched the fidgeting with a touch of open concern sparkling in baby blue eyes.
“Naw. I… cant.” Softly heated words of embarrassment, JOHN kept his gaze squarely on the embers dancing by his lips. “Still can’t find a solid way to get it up.”
“Maybe you’re sick.” She was shot a glance that caused her to add quickly, “Like, not the normal sick, but a new sick. Ain’t no-one as young as you got erectile dysfunction.”
“‘Hate that term. It isn’t ‘dysfunction’, it’s… I dunno’. When I was younger I was super hormonal, so I think I was jus’ riding off of that. Now it’s different. S’like… nothing turns me on any more.”
Peoples bodies had never really aroused him, the act of sex was good enough but its beginnings and afters had never excited him whatsoever and thinking back upon it, the worker realized that the only reason he had ever been able to perform in bed was simply because he was young and horny and nothing else. Nothing ‘normal’ really inspired the feeling. No mundane, dirty thoughts, no flittering touches, the feeling came from nowhere and came often because of age; kissing was disgusting and the kinks he favoured could most definitely not be applied to ordinary scenarios. In fact, whatever sinister likes had manifested in his young head were often rejected by clients when they rarely came about due to their nature, which was hilarious to him considering it was a brothel and ethics had long since flown far away.
Things had to get more extreme in the pursuit of happiness. Asks usually turned down now taken, knives and blood, harsh restraints, slave collars and whips, chairs for watching parties, once a woman had dolled him up like a pony and forced him to all fours to neigh and trot. Yanked rope, air denial, pretend necrophilia. Nothing compared to those finicky likes within… but at least the scenarios were interesting, fun, painful yet thrilling and some sexual gratification could be gleaned from them, unlike with the customers who wanted nothing but for the boy to be a doll upon a bed to grope and kiss and fuck. Monotony that bled into… nothingness. No feeling. No emotion. Once the sentiment took root it began to grow like a cancer within him, boredom, these people were idiotic and dull and never wanted to talk, so like a puppet to a tune the worker danced his little dance and sung his little song and then…? Nothing. No amount of hands or no fantastical tools used could bring him to a sense of sexual fulfillment. As weeks stretched into months of spotty duty, JOHN found himself… barren.
It did happen on occasion, after some length of time of refusing himself any sort of self or client pleasure the pent-up frustration did summon up a spectacular performance… an out-right, willful and hostile denial of anything sexual, but what use was a prostitute that could not do the task on command? One that had to wait to get biologically exasperated before actually performing…? JOHN used a free-hand to ruffle bark-coloured locks in annoyance, how was it that everyone else could imagine up bodies fucking in their heads and get immediately aroused but when he did it there was absolutely no physical response?
“I’m done for,” He admits candidly with a rush of smoke, “I’m swollen from forcin’ it, I dunno’ if I’ve ever really felt anything when people touch me… but it used ta' be easy to get on with it anyhow. My body just did the work for me. Now I’m jus’ numb to it all.”
“Don’t say that. M’sure you can service others without bein’ serviced yourself.”
“Ain’t no-one going to want to be touched by someone who clearly isn’t turned on themselves. It’s off-puttin’... I know ‘cause they told me.”
“I mean, the old women usually don’t care… they jus’ want company either way.”
“Great. I’m gonna’ be an exclusive whore to old ladies.” An extravagant sigh, the hand-made cigarette has turned to ashes in his mouth and burns no longer, it is spat harmlessly to the side where it manages a weak bounce off of the stone floor. “This is how the ‘Desert colt’ dies… young, sore, and with a body that needs ta’ be denied pleasure for two weeks at a time in order t’get hard.”
“...” The blonde girl tried her hardest not to giggle, feigning a stuttering cough that received a sharp raised eyebrow in response, “Well… yer’ not a colt any more, you’re a stallion--”
The pillow thrown against her head was lithely dodged with little effort, the barely restrained snickering rising to a hacking chortle as she spied JOHN’s moody demeanor in the flickering light--
“M’ not a stallion without the part that makes me so!”
“Listen, ya’ fool! We don’t have to tell Madame. We’ll… we’ll hide it.” Cerise rose with good intent to sit beside the downcast male upon the breadth of the large cushion, shoving him playfully yet softly with a bare thigh and a chipper voice. “Stall it out. Ask for reduced hours so it’s less suspicious, an’ only take clients that wanna’ talk or get rub-downs an’ bloweys. I promise JOHN, I won’t tell a soul.”
JOHN tipped his pretty head to the side and rested the heel of his hand against it, regarding her with autumn eyes barely concealing licks of sadness. A moment was taken to mull over the words.
“... Y' promise?”
“Aye. We two fuckers in the same grimey hole, you and I.”
“... Thank ya, I think. 'Sure it’ll be okay, somehow.” Mumbled out softly, lending a hand to the ladies leg to give it a gentle squeeze as thanks for the reassurance. The boy did not really believe it, not with the looming age problem atop of the rest, but the sentiment was appreciated. A touch of bitterness flavoured murmured words, “I need this job… can’t go back to what it was like before. ‘Was more broken back then than I am now.”
“You aren’t broken, you clown. Like, if ya’ really think about it… what’re we, but a big meltin’ pot of our flaws…?”
“... When d'ya get so wordy,” JOHN teased a touch with a sudden breezy tone to disguise his internal anguish, now using the hand that had gently patted her so to shove Cerise a little, “You’re right, but… ya’ almost sounded learned, then.”
“We all got troubles, idiot! It ain’t being learned, its just common sense. No-one’s ever completely whole, and if they say they are, they are lyin’.” A finger was jabbed in his direction as if to accentuate the point, “You’re jus’ like everyone else, fits ‘n all-- hey!”
Her kindness overwhelmed him with such a sudden feeling of loveliness that the boy shoved her unceremoniously from their perch to the ground, taking great care not to use too much strength-- he did not really know what to do with such kindness but humorously shove it away, before the feelings dug too deep. It was also repayment for the lie. If he was like everyone else, then the world would be stuck in a perpetual state of anarchy and chaos because nothing would ever get done, not if everyone fell down with seizures on the regular. The action saw Cerise sprawled upon the ground with flame-light crawling about delicious curves, the fabrics of the womans body rendering her almost entirely nude; sky-light eyes lifted up to meet his and saw wicked amusement there. She did not protest, did not yowl out in pain, instead the female took practised hands to the swell of her breasts and spread bare long legs wide open,
“... You turned on now?” She purred upwards, half lidded. JOHN shook his head, allowing a small smile to slip onto his lips.
“... No, not at all.”