He does not care for appearances, they are less honest than masks, they lie without proclaiming they are doing so.
Sometimes he does think of sex, he is human after all. A particular person in particular flits across his imagination and at times he will allow the image to stay a bit longer. Sometimes, when he dreams, he is lost in it. But he awakens feeling sickened, his mind befouled and his stomach threatening to rebel. It takes the city air and purity of purpose to feel clean again.
What is worse is that he is not as unaware of sexual technique as the other Crimebusters seem to believe. He heard the muffled cries, and whimpered instructions through the paper-thin walls. But there were also times were hunger drove him to kitchen, where he would find they had not made it to the bedroom. As a tiny child he had been scared, confused, and uncomprehending. He could not understand the contorting bodies, the slap of flesh on flesh. At thirteen he did understand, and not just understand the unclean animal response, but something of how to pleasure a man, or a woman. Just because it sickened him, it didn't mean he didn't understand.
He had awoken to painful erections, made more so by his inability to relieve himself. There was no image not tainted, even if he kept his mind utterly blank the images would intrude, the pretty flowers, the snarling humping forms of his mother and whoever had paid her that night. Then, sickened, it would go flaccid in his hand and he would lie back, struggling to keep his gorge down, cold and empty but still in pain.
Author Note: A bit different from my usual style. If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving a comment!