041923
all the blood shed, pain in my head;
It was worth every sleepless night. Pain radiating from my eye, aura penetrating past my skull—being close to death, naturally prophetic I have become. A choice it was not, this destiny a path spat down to me by the Gods. Oh Lucifer, I never knew how beautiful evil could possibly be. My worst nightmares washed over me with a heroic trip, you told me the truth of who I am—it does not make me better, though it appears I certainly have what not a lot of human beings do. I didn’t know it could be this way, you told me that faithful day sobbing in church… to become a prostitute—how could the universe say such a thing?
It was always there! To survive in this world is to succumb to the evils inherently embedded into the fabric of reality! This is why Jesus died for ME! So I may sin freely! Regardless of what others think, this does not matter! Only God may judge me, which everyone would know if they gave more than an ounce of thought to the words of schizophrenics who wrote the Good Book. A curse it may be, without individuals who hear more than the vibrations of this realm, our souls would be lost and never escape the material realm. Am I sincerely cursed if I feel my breath enter the unseen dimension?
Crying on the muni several hours before the unfaithful meeting, how shame had escaped me with the tears that had flowed from December onward. All the pain men gave to me, was it training for this reality that is societally perceived as utterly sickening? I was treated like a whore by men I loved with my entirety, eaten away by every lie twirled into my brain by those stringing me alone. Red twine about my neck, tugging me along as I do every action to make their orgasms happen; even as I give into their needs, my mind is racing thinking of all the pollution they’ve created with their gaseously empty words.
I was worth more than the cum put inside. I stewed and rotted for partners trapped inside technology, their eyes could not see the mortal woman eagerly on her knees. It was always my loss until they lost me.
Sunday, instead of going to church, I met up with a man who claims I’m his muse, he sees himself in me, whatever that means. Similar ethnicities, some logic in his words shown to me. He gave me the advice and confidence I needed to finally pursue this life that I feared living, he knows the streets better than me. It isn’t as scary as it seems, I have an upper hand in being privileged enough to not only be stereotypically attractive, but intuitively intelligent.
This man I met the following day, from a website that shall not be named—from D.C., he’s been looking for a new woman in the city. We only spoke, oh and he was incredibly late…but this did not deter me, I know how to keep myself occupied. Arranging for a meeting Wednesday, I was uncertain of what this would consist of till he texted me this morning (Wednesday) to meet him at a motel. I knew what it was, and I wasn’t sure what I was getting myself into…
Having started my period today, I was in a rush to make it dissipate. Two cups of coffee was all that I had on my plate, I did not eat a thing. Quickly I did Romanian deadlifts after a meeting with the non-profit I volunteer at, popped in some overhead presses—I was shaking, appetite not in site. I flossed and cleaned up, put on a little outfit, and I was out.
Opting to call a Lyft due to being short on time, this man was really quite pleasant. He lives nearby, asking if I have been to the H Mart, which I have not, because I am allergic to soy. We had a good chat about that, finding out about others he knows with dietary restrictions, and how he went on a trip to Japan with his husband. I wondered if he knew what I was, driving me to a motel that was only a couple miles from my house… he did not question my visible illicit activity. I decided I would give him a decent tip, if I were to sincerely be paid.
The man was checking in, he waved me in. I was afraid I would forget what he looked like, considering we only met for a brief time prior. There was a sign in this check-in office about sex trafficking… what have I gotten into…? I was quite nervous, this man being soft spoken in a loud city, I couldn’t wait to get to the room. I quickly took off my shoes, as did he; motioning me to get comfortable on the bed, this motel was not too bad in my opinion. He kept commenting on it throughout this visit, I sense he was trying to give off the perception that this was below him.
He asked if my friend had given me any advice on how to handle this situation (he had no idea I spoke with a pimp, assuming it was a female friend of mine).
“Cash in hand.” He joked that it’d be quite silly for him to go running away with money.
After a brief and sensual make-out session, he noticed I was still quite nervous, so I reiterated how I would feel more comfortable with cash in hand, that trust had to be established.
Hesitant, he got up and pulled a wad of 100s out of his jacket—four of which were mine. Into my purse it went.
Into bed he went, lifting up the covers inviting me under. I got comfortable beside him, my worries were eased—I would do anything now that I knew I was taken care of in that moment.
Oh, must I go into the gory details…?
More making out. Lots of breast grabbing, once he reached under my dress to cop a closer feel… “Would you like me to take this off?” So I did, and he took off his clothing. I presumed it was time to suck, and he put on a condom—I believe it was coconut flavored.
“You’re good at this.” Of course I am.
He wanted me on top, I went to get a towel for the inevitable bloody mess. I couldn’t get the whopping 4 inches inside, so he took it upon himself to get on top of me.
I won’t lie, being a sex addict, I really did quite enjoy myself. Since there was not a lot of length, it was akin to being fucked like a rabbit. The stimulation was not something I could complain of. I had been wanting sex all week, and I got what I wanted on top of being paid to do it.
Once he came, I got washed up really quick. As did he. And just like that, in under an hour, we were headed home.
We spoke more about the industry, how he had experiences where girls would take the money and leave, claiming they would scream. I could see why he was hesitant to pay me before intimacy, but I take far more risk in the end—assertion is essential when I am there to genuinely provide a service. He asked more about my job history (which I lack), notifying me that after a year of school, I will likely have the opportunity to be offered internships. Red flags in my head, suggestions at the potentiality of a better financial future in other avenues rather than this—I could only hope to see him again, but there are more Johns regardless of his decision.
I’ve already been stalked. Raped. Beaten. And not by strangers, by those I shared love with. Maybe this industry isn’t as bad as it seems, I have escaped death more times than I could think. I will continue to do this.
I do not feel shame, nor do I feel judged. I am comfortable with the future that resides in my mind’s eye. I don’t need anyone to tell me not to do otherwise unless they are going to change my life with the offering of bands placed before my feet. I don’t need false dreams and drugs to make me forget I am struggling. I am going to do just fine.