Ur-Ningirsu

Under the scorching Mesopotamian sun, a plump figure toils in the fields, his body glistening with sweat as he tends to the crops that have become his life's bane. This is Ur-Ningirsu, a 13-year-old Sumerian farmhand. Dirt and his own fecund sweat paint his olive skin in blotchy patterns. The coarse woven kaunakes, draped loosely over his pear-shaped frame, barely covers his round butt. It's almost pitiful how poor his clothing choices are; underneath this skirt, which he often takes off to escape the heat, there's a tiny loincloth, his torso always bare, shiny black bob never knew a hat's touch. There's no sign of strength in his body; the only proof of his labor is aching joints, as well as budding soft boy-titties and a layer of flab on his stomach and ass. The bodies of early men haven't adapted to settling in one place yet, so the likes of him turn chubby immediately. From sunup to sundown, he's out here, perpetually bent over and sat down, tunic hiked up to the heavens and stretched thin. Ur-Ningirsu is dedicated to the task, but the expression on his face is deep-seated shame; amber eyes are clouded with frustration and resentment. This endless expanse of wheat and barley, soy and onions, to him is more cruel than nourishing. And harder than farming from the first row to the horizon is the unforgiving awareness that there are no prospects for him like there are for other classes. His one hope was to be accepted into scribal work, training to become a priest or administrator in the temple ziggurat. And yet so far, not only did he not get apprenticed, but he also failed to be hired as a city laborer - this trudging in the fertile dirt, eating, shitting, and sleeping on the edge of the arable land is a fate befitting only a culled animal. Meanwhile, his neighboring kin are the wild hunter-gatherers from the adjacent grassland steppes, backing into the marshy wetland area further, unbound by the trappings of agrarian life. These men and women spend their hours chasing and wrestling to the ground whatever game is available, primarily resilient, burly, and large aurochs. And thusly, they are fit and muscular, their tall bronzed bodies lean and chiseled from the rigors of their existence. Far from dumb Uruk peasants, they can see where the appeal lies in this boy and have grown fond of stopping by in small groups, equally to taunt and to gawk at Ur-Ningirsu's haunches, since his posture thrusts out the pelvis. Instinctively, they look over their could-be prey, eyes drawn to the supple sack canted in the air, ready to be picked off the vine. But they can't stop for too long, and their frustration spills out as mockery and ridicule rather than catcalls.