I've
read your column for years, I guess you could say
I'm a long-time reader, first-time writer. This month
I lost my job as a Booth Whore due to recent law changes.
For
the past twenty years I spread not just my greasy
yeast box, but also my rear-entry "nether-mouth" in
exchange for the money and disrespect of the men who
need my type of sickness to get off. The years of
inserting garden tools and lathered fists into my
inner pencil holders to insure the financial well-being
of the full litters I spray liberally into your world
has left me rather unsuited to deal with jobs that
require things like computer skills, a high-school
diploma, and an IQ over 64.
I
dream of days when all a woman needed to get by was
a full figure and mouthful of semen. I dream of moments
that all I needed do to live comfortably was suck
down a black mouthful and pull a gray-toothed smile.
I could have been all that the world thinks is good
if not for men using and holding me down. The invisible
shackles of the patriarchy chain me to a cum-covered
mattress to lick up semen like a baby crawls to tit.
In
mind and the physical life. Men forcing me to empty
myself and their brimming nutsacks in return for a
life full of trips to the emergency room and back
alley; to the Toys 'R' Us and Burger King for balanced
meals of grease and hormones to develop my child's
spoiled streak and keep my tits animal-large. Beatings
at the hands of men dumber then even me when all I
wanted was to be taken care of. Every punch redeemed
me in the eyes of God...suffering brought cleanliness,
if only for a few minutes.
Death
through rape-inflicted social diseases is what I hoped
for. Instead of this sweet release of subtle suicide,
I lived. A backwards blessing of God, a mockery really,
what could be more cruel than keeping a whore alive?
Of
all the things I asked of God, the one answer I was
destined to receive was death. The only question left
in me is, when will it come? You are the closest thing
to God in the world of "sex workers," DebraJean. Please,
tell me how to end this ever-living pain of a waking,
no-way-back nightmare. I can feel nothing after the
years of self-imposed sex abuse. I don't know how
to get by in the real world.
Oh
dear...what can I say? You sound like you have made
some irreparable choices through your lifetime. More
than wanting to give you answers, I want to ask you
some questions. Why do you feel that men should take
care of you, yet you resent them as if they are responsible
for your situation? I wonder what made you stick
with this path, not what made you find it in the
first place. I see the pull of fast cash and good
fun in the name of work. In fact, I did on a lark
what you chose as a lifelong career. I spread and
shoved my gash for cash and pleasure with the best
of them, but I never thought of keeping open legs
for years. There is a time and a place that fills
me with nightmares. It's called your waking life.
Go
to the hardware store and find a length of thin nylon
rope. Don't worry about your fat brood needing a final
kiss-off. Don't buy them a last bag of chocolate "Ho-Ho's"
before you kill yourself; they will never care about
you. Walk outside and feel the rain on your face,
unable to wash away a bit of the landfill held inside
of you.
Use your transfer to get back on the bus and enjoy
the bits of plastic and cheap velour under your fingers.
Roll the rope in your hands, thin like most dicks
you've seen, and think about your death. Every moment
is our last, and it lives that way. Don't settle for
the Diet Coke on this trip back to Milwaukee...get
the regular. Breathe with the memory of your first
rape...feel yourself get wet. Go home and die.
