A/N: This series is less a series and more a disjointed selection of short stories about my favourite original character, Jason Bexley. They're all written from his POV, in the form of diary entries. In fact, that's exactly what they started out as, diary entries at diaryland.com. Please remember that it's all fiction. Also, Jason has his own cannon, and every story I write about him will be consistent with it, unless I state otherwise. So, I guess if you've read about Jason in one of my fan fics, this series will have all you need to know about him.

~Boy Whore - First Step~
I am a whore. I've been a whore since my sixteenth birthday, and I *don't* recommend it to anyone. The first step of that particular downward spiral is a hard one to take, but once taken it's even harder to escape.
It's not a glamorous life. It's not romantic. It's not like the fucking movies. It's not just a lot of screwing for a lot of money. It's painful, it hurts, it shreds your innocence and your trust and your compassion and your heart. Why do you do it, then? You ask. Because it also shreds your self confidence. You start to believe that there is no other life for you, that you're not worth anything more. It's fucking awful. I wish I'd never decided it was my last hope. I wish I'd never started strutting my stuff on the streets of Soho.
I still remember my first trick, like a shadowy bad dream. It was on the night of my sixteenth birthday, and I'd been on the streets for a few months already before I finally worked up enough nerve to actually do it.
I never knew the guys name. He was in his forties, wedding-banded and with pictures of his kids in his wallet. I hated him. Even as I pouted prettily and batted my eyelashes at him I hated him.
And he hated me, I knew it, or at least he hated the part of himself that wanted me, which is the same thing. And he hurt me.
I still remember it as the worst pain of my life. Of course, since then I've had worse, and far more painful, things done to me, back then I was an innocent. I'd never been touched like that before, never even imagined such a pain could exist. Maybe it was the tear of my stolen innocence that I'm remembering, as much as the blood.
We were silent in the cab we took to the shitty motel. I don't know what his excuse was, but I was scared half to death, and certainly speechless. I had no idea what to expect, absolutely none.
As it turned out, it was worse then any expectations could possibly be, anyway.
As soon as we entered the room, he slammed the door shut, locked it, and ordered me onto the bed. I sat on it meekly, not quite sure what to do. He soon solved that problem by coming over to me, tearing off my shoes and roughly stripping me till I was completely naked. At this point, I was still too shocked to be truly upset, but it was coming.
He lay me face down on the bed and pressed my face into the pillow. I can still smell it, the motel hadn't changed it's linen in a while it seemed, and the pillow smelt of sweat and sex, the foul odour creeping up my nostrils, choking me. Behind me, I could hear his zipper being undone and suddenly he yanked on my hips, bringing me up onto my knees and thrusting a finger, slicked with nothing but spit, into my virgin arse. I think I cried out then, but he ignored me, probing me roughly for a minute before forcing himself into me, with no condom. Then I *know* I cried out, in pain and shock and fear. Mostly pain.
He must have stayed there, grunting like a pig behind me, for a good twenty minutes, while I pressed my face into the filthy pillow and cried, not even bothering to muffle my sobs. He didn't care. Didn't acknowledge me as anything but an orifice, I s'pose.
Finally, he was done. He pulled out, which hurt almost as much as the entering, and zipped himself up. He then dropped a fifty pound note onto the pillow next to my head, and was gone.
I don't know how long I stayed there. A few hours, I think, before I could will my limbs into moving, forcing myself into a sitting position. I found the shower, tiny, awful water pressure, and seemingly a home to a familly of cockroaches, and stood under it for another half an hour, washing away all the blood and spunk before hopping out and staring in the mirror, into my blue eyes gone enormous with fear and shock and hurt. I tried to tell if there was anything different in my face, but it looked the same as always, apart from the huge eyes. I turned and got dressed, slowly, I was in a lot of pain, and left the hotel.
An hour later I was on my knees giving my first blow job for twenty pounds. With the money I earned that night, I bought myself a night in a B&B, a luxury I hadn't been able to afford in months.
And that was it. The fist step. Now, almost four years later, I charge upwards of two hundred pounds a fuck, always carry a condom and lube, and am rather more choosy. But I've had a lot of experience, and some of those experiences, I never want to have again.
Sometimes I miss that boy, the boy who walked the streets, starving, cold, but with his innocence intact. Sometimes I think that if I stare in the mirror long enough, I can see him there, hiding.
But then my lover for the night calls me to bed and he's gone again. I doubt I'll ever get him back