She was the best whore I could imagine and she let me call her that too.
She said we were really all whores in a way, doing things for security, for belonging, for survival. Things we might not be doing if we could find another way.
She knew it was a dirty fantasy of mine and I think she enjoyed it too on some level. She seemed like the kind of person who would find a way to enjoy herself on her own terms no matter what.
She wasn’t really a whore. No one is. Not in the sense of the word we’ve come to know as an insult. How depraved we can be as sentient beings. Deprived, rather. Twisted and ashamed, hiding behind our force and anger and bank accounts, whichever is greater.
We’ve deprived ourselves of genuine love. It’s too weak. Too soft. Too simple. Too ew.
And that’s really the lie we believe that deprives us of our true joy and power.
The kind of deep inner power that lets us bare ourselves in front of a a stranger, body and soul and mind.
The kind of strength that lets us submit to each other’s power with grace and elegance.
She said she thought she was cursed with the sweetest blood that only spilled how blood gets spilled: through pain.
She wished there was another way to share her deep understanding of struggle and compassion, of love in its beautiful and terrifying forms.
I could hear her song in her moans, in her screams, in her silly little giggles.
And I can still hear her voice, pronouncing us all whores. We do what we need to, to survive. And some of us learn to love at the same time.
Those are the beautiful whores, she said, putting her finger on my lips.