Fellin

An insane, withdrawn boy who'll use any tool he can find

Description:
Bio:

“Damned if he doesn’t look just like that guy on the cover of Rolling Stone—you know, the hair band guy. Sebastian somebody.”

I later saw the photo, and he was right. Sebastian Bach. I’m so glad I missed that little bit of history.

+ They say that you always hurt the ones you love. That’s so stupid.

You always hurt the ones that love you.

Before my memory begins, I was not an only child. That is, I do not remember having a brother, but I remember being told that I had one. He was younger than I but less beautiful, and that’s why my mother sold me instead. I cannot resent that. As soon as the bitch wanted more money or just plain got tired of having a toddler around without his six-year-old brother from another man to look after him, she likely sold him, too. For all I know, she sold him to a butcher shop.

As I said, he was less beautiful than I. I became a whore, but he probably became a Christmas ham.

The good thing about being a whore from the time you remember is that there’s nothing better to compare it to. It’s really not a bad life for a child. Your chores are straightforward, and if they beat you too badly you make less money – so they don’t beat you too badly all that often. I do still have a morbid fear of water, since my pimp found near-drowning an effective disciplinary tool that left no marks. The scars on my back didn’t happen until after I got sold to one owner, and being a toy is much much worse.

But that part was later.

I was a very expensive pleasure, and I had a round of regulars. My chores (No, I will not describe them for your titillation. Use your imagination, thank you, and get your jollies off on your own time.) changed significantly as I grew more physically suitable for them, and I matured rather early. As a ten-year-old, I passed for twelve. As a malnourished twelve-year old, I was the picture of a flourishing teen boy, the near-perfect kind that never has skin problems or a cracking voice. (My mismatched gold and blue eyes add a certain charm to an otherwise intimidating spotlessness.) If Vogue magazine editors had been transported to the slums of Belfast in my childhood, I would have spent the rest of my childhood days sprawled in half-dressed splendor in front of a camera. I can’t quite explain why I skipped the awkwardness.

It was probably the deluge of testosterone and the significant amounts of protein.

Fellin

Night and Day succubinki