The conditions under which women are always in danger of being considered as a whore, whether she wants to or not, are already in place before any decision can be made. The only choice that is left is to cower in shame and to assume a role characterised by an ever-insufficient humility – or to break with the rules. Prostitution as a result is the litmus test of feminism. Violence against women is violence against whores. Whether feminism is actually worthy of its name is ultimately decided by the question whether it is also the feminism of whores.
My new life as a lobby whore, or how an honourable gentleman kindly asked me to relinquish my civil liberties. #respectsexwork is something.
There once was a young man. By young I mean a member of my own generation. Born a few months before me. Same country, same time. The difference: I am a sex worker, he can afford sex work. The distribution of power is clear. Or not?
I don’t want to belong. I don’t want respect. I don’t want to be accepted, nor proper, nor fitting. I want the resentment, the hate of all who say of themselves they are normal.
After all most are suspicious. One is vigilant against participating in something only because everyone else is. A banal insight, really, anything but creative, the moral of every other great novel. Everyone dies for themselves alone. Nonetheless, people don’t get it into their heads that they’re alone, transcendentally lonely, solo, and can’t talk themselves out of it by saying they’re only doing what everybody does, that they’re adapting to the circumstances.
And if you get pregnant that is a divine gift, the greatest blessing of all! I love pregnant women!
He even said when I’m heavy with child, with a sphere for a belly and full breasts, he would definitely want to see me. I wouldn’t have to worry anymore, you can’t get doubly pregnant, hahaha.
Haha, and you’d also pay alimony?
Come off it, he said sternly, I’m not going to let you take advantage of me!
Hahaha, I laughed once more, snatched my things, my fee, and left the hotel room.
I queued up to Butler’s podium. When it was my turn I didn’t ask her about her theories. I asked her:“Dou you dare to dance?”An enchantingly embarrassing smile flashed across her face. There were so many waiting their turn in line. I should just dance alone.“It’s a party, isn’t it?”What a diplomatic response. My feeling: she was in a funk. It must have come as a horrid surprise for her to realize what was going on here: the enemy was leading her into temptation.