I Want to be a Prostitute.

Does that make sense to you?


It makes perfect sense to me. My


Career would already be set.  I’d


Have Customers wherever I went.


Allow myself the fantasy – but what

About the illegal findings?


And the men forging a rift between


Themselves and their Wives.




How would I drum up Clients

In the first place? Not in a market

Aisle, in the mid-day. And certainly


Not on the street corner Wearing

Fishnet tights.


But then, How would it come up, come

about in a conversation?


Hi. I’m flirting heavily With you, Allow

me to wink and tell you a thousand.




A Thousand Dollars. Wink, Wink.


The most ridiculous think, I’ve thought today.




But what’s the best part about working –

Well, not WORKING, I wouldn’t want

To be WORKING as a prostitute. Only if it


was an attitude of added leisure, instead of

a Moneymaker for paying the kettle bills.


The Best part – no commitment. No man left

unpunished. And no little me bereft

With agony of abandonment. The Best part?


Maybe I’m not monogamous. Maybe I’m

Actually GOOD AT THIS! Does that frighten me?

A little bit. Men love to talk with me, and no, it’s


Not because of my cute face, and my lovely, curvy,

albeit some would say “thick”, beautiful body.


It’s because I can listen. It makes my life easier to

Listen to other people talk about themselves,


Or whatever else it is they wish to speak about.


It makes them feel better, and therefore,

By alliance, provides me with relief, above and

On top of the lightened pleasure of being


In one man’s line of sight for a few minutes.


Eyes, Eyes, Give me Eyes.


Fuck me on the side, too. You know how I like it.

Slap my face and make me squeal.



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