And I thought WHORE was a Term of Endearment

I once got into an argument with a fellow stripper.  The manager stood behind me, escorting me out of the dressing room to see that our disagreement didn’t escalate to something more.  “You’re a whore!” She yelled after me.

I paused for a second after shoving my crumpled cash into a pocket of my purse.  “So are you.” I answered.  I don’t think either of us told a lie that night.

“Whore” is a derogatory word used to belittle a woman.  It strips the female of everything else about her, all of her positive traits, her personality, and all of her life’s accomplishments. It takes her down to her simple, biological, carnal nature.

“Whore” is the word a man utters as he peels his mistress’s lacey red panties aside and slides his fingers inside her.  She moans and lets him ravish her.  “Whore” he says again, and spanks her while he thrusts deep inside of her.  Her clothes are on the floor.  Only a thin gold chain rests on her chest, sticking to her moist skin and pink nipples.  His pants are at his ankles.  The world goes on around them while they are utterly oblivious to everything but the moment they are sharing, the moment that desire overtook them and they succumbed to basic, carnal needs.

Never mind her master’s degree or the charity she helps run.  Never mind the man’s professionalism, the business he built from the ground up, or the faith he practices every day.  The woman is a whore and I suppose the same could be said about him.

Whore.  Say it.  The word feels good in your mouth and better when it rolls off your tongue.  Do these people, this woman, not fit the word?

A whore is someone who enjoys exploiting her sexuality.  A whore immerses herself in it.  A whore is something that all of us (hopefully,) embody inside of us.

When I put my lipstick on at the mirror and line my eyes with thick, black eyeliner, preparing to spend my evening teasing and entertaining the opposite sex, I am gratifying the whore within.

I run out of the dressing room, anxious to take my place on stage and trip on my own shoelaces in my haste.  I tie them back up, check my makeup in the mirror, and stand tall, liking what I see.  In twenty-one more seconds it will be my turn on stage.  I will curl my body around the pole, slam my pleather boots on the floor, and pull at the sides of my G-string.  I will look into the eyes of the men in my audience and wonder which ones I’ll get to play with tonight.

Shortly, I’ll sit on a strange man’s lap and gaze intensely into his eyes, moving my hips slowly and gradually applying more pressure until I hear his breath quicken.  His hands will clutch my body a little more tightly.  I’ll whisper into his ear “so what is your fantasy?”  I will listen intently to what he tells me (because listening is important) and then I will tell him my own.

There are so many women who wouldn’t even consider becoming a stripper.  They would rather go bankrupt and starve than take their clothes off for money.  But I do it I don’t believe in spending seven years doing a job you don’t love.  There is something about the sexual nature of this job that draws me to it.  As long as it expressed in healthy, safe ways, sexuality is a healthy thing.

I love the unbridled sexuality that is ever present in the building I work in.  I love wearing fishnet stockings, dark red lipstick, and seven inch pleather platform heels.  I love being the object of desire and the center of attention.  I love dressing up like a whore and talking fantasy talk with strangers I’ve only just met.  I love that doing this makes me feel so very alive.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s