This story is set in the 19th Century - some research was done, but apologies for any inaccuracies!
The Victorian boy was covered by small pearls of sweat, which only enticed tonight's customers furthermore. The little golden hairs glued to his forehead, as well as his emerald eyes, forced them to pay like he was indeed a treasure. He smiled deceivingly as to not spoil the illusion. He spoke slowly and quietly as if his precious words demanded effort to catch. He played hard to get even thought he had been trapped since birth.
Firstly caged by his mother, to whom poverty never taught any humility. That is if a woman, who left three weeping children on the streets to freeze, can even be called a mother. The hero of that tale had been his older brother, who with inherited selfishness tried to save himself from the cold. The 8 year old had gone from door to door until someone pointed to the nearest orphanage. He set his path and only sparingly had he looked behind, to see his brothers of barely walking age trying to follow the only familiar figure. In the end, what mattered was that all three brothers lived and so he was indeed a hero, title worthy or not. It was in that orphanage that Arthur met his second cage, one he shared with many boys his age, all abandoned and working hard to one day find a job as an exploited factory worker or a chimney sweep. The strict education and frequent punishments only ended once he was hired as a housekeeper to a house of sinful proclivities. When Arthur was first deflowered he was already long past the age of his debut, which had only intrigued more gentleman as to how such a well-guarded fruit would taste.
Three summers passed since that bitter evening, but now at 21 years old he was no ordinary whore, at least he wasn't paid like one. So he kept playing his part perfectly, even if to him the seduction felt solely disgusting and his words were dripping with insecurity.
What are jewels good for other than looking pretty? They are merely objects unworthy of love, yet worthy of money. Love was once described to Arthur as a pleasure that hurt deeply, however Arthur knew that was a lie as soon as it left the man's lips. He had already felt that way many times and still love had never warmed him, not even in a mother's kiss or a brotherly hug, not in the countless times he gave his body away and never by his own reflected face.
The summer nights passed, sultry and quiet. Quiet…since Arthur only let his voice get as high as his desire, and so he only moaned weakly against the pillow. Every night the act was the same. His client would then leave and Arthur could finally clean himself using a silky towel and almond oil, an expensive gift for an expensive whore. Then he would sip his cup of tea, he could by then savour every drop without the unpleasant saltiness of tears mixing with the taste. After this ritual was complete he could then cover his skin once again as if it had never been exposed in the first place and start again.
At last the first rains started alleviating him from the suffocating smell of dirty sheets. Cloudy skies meant he could leave his room unafraid of an unsightly tan. He could, for half of the seasons, be a gentleman during the day and leave the cotton garments only for night time. Occasionally a man he knew would spot him and quickly turn his head away in shame. On those days Arthur would return dismayed from being denied such a simple fantasy.
That day, carefully hiding his shillings in one of his pockets, Arthur crossed the streets. He was hoping to buy an easy book for him to practice his reading and writing skills, still very incipient due to the lack of proper education. The young man continued down the road, stopping only briefly to eye the gentleman inside the cigar-shop, or the dog barking from behind the gate. He was looking at the window display of the book shop when a sudden forceful push almost forced him to kiss the glass. He looked back bitterly to the assailant, but upon seeing that quick side look of shame he knew so well on the others face, he stayed silent. He knew his place, he knew his social status.
"Will you forgive me the misconduct? I must confess I was paying no mind as to where I was going," said the stranger with an equally unfamiliar accent.
"I beg your pardon, have we met?" Arthur eyed the man suspiciously. If that shamed look hadn't been recognition, what was its meaning?
"I think not. Why do you ask?" The words had been polite enough but the childlike smirk on the other's face made Arthur feel uneasy.
"No reason. Anyway, all is fine so get on, my lad." shooed Arthur. "Surely you have important affairs to attend to."
"Not quite. It is, after all, nice to have pleasant conversations, wouldn't you agree?" At that Arthur's eyes narrowed.
"Look, I can tell you're a stranger in this area and you are a man of status, so just trust me when I say you want not be seen with me."
Alfred looked down, confused, but finally decided on doing as advised.
"I shall go then. Enjoy a pleasant afternoon."
With a final chuckle, Alfred started moving away. Arthur shook his head as if by doing so he could also shake off any sinful thought he might have had about the attractive foreigner. The action was unfruitful, but he quickly realized as a whore there's no need to be ashamed of such unsavoury thoughts.
"Wait!" Arthur reached to grab the other's sleeve but luckily regretted the movement before his hand made any contact. How embarrassed he would be… after all chasing a man meant an immediate reduction of his value.
"Yes?" The man beamed in his usual childish manner.
"Can I have your name?" asked Arthur faking innocence.
"Alfred… Alfred Jones."
"Tell me, would it strike you Alfred if I asked as to how your sexual desires have been met lately?" Just like that the act was on.
"I'm afraid I d-don't understand..." he stumbled but by the blush on his cheeks, the british prostitute knew just how well he had understood the words.
"Well Sir, allow me to rephrase. I would be charmed to be kept company by you this lonely night, if so was your wish." How Arthur managed to always word such seductions so naturally after they struggled intensely to die before reaching his tongue, he did not know.
"Sir, I can ensure you I know not of what you speak. I arrived to this country this dawn and I am scheduled to meet my possible fiancée for the first time tomorrow. So naturally I…" Alfred gradually lowered his voice. "I have yet to experience the first night."
The british man paled significantly, dropping his emerald eyes to the floor in embarrassment.
"Your nature seems far finer than the men I've known and I do not wish to lead you astray so I'll take my leave."
"Can I at least have your name or shall we never meet again?"
"It is Arthur Kirkland, but you would have better luck finding me as the boy from the Venus Salon.." Arthur paused. "However you ought not to go there if you are set on your puritan ways."
"Thank you for the advice. I thoroughly enjoyed our talk but we both must go now." Alfred smiled as he turned away.
As Arthur walked his way home, a sudden tightness ascended from his gut to his throat, to the point he almost choked on his tears. Oh, how he detested that bitter taste of meeting clean people. How he hated dreaming about being one of them, about being glad he had been born.
"What can it matter?! You're tainted already." And so Arthur cried.
This story is posted on behalf of a dear friend, who has appeared previously on this account in collaborations, such as 'Colors of the Stained Glass Window.'