My Senses Will Not Let Me Be A Prostitute

My Senses Will Not Let Me Be A Prostitute

She said it like it was easy, when I asked for an idea on how to make some “senseless” cash she suggested it, like it was nothing. Like I could close my eyes and pretend that all my senses were gone, I looked at her, and then I told her:

I would be a prostitute if it wasn't for the smell.

The smell of semen stained goals, hopes and dreams.

The smell of men's lust and deceit - of them objectifying you - of them preying upon your low self- esteem like vultures, vying for whatever flesh is left and eating you down past the carcass.

I would consider being a prostitute if the smell of lubricant coated latex in the hands of a total stranger didn't make me cringe.

If this strangeness didn't feel so much like rock bottom, a last resort and defeat, when I prided myself on being a winner, then I might think about being a prostitute.

I might think about being a prostitute if hearing tacky plastic heels hit pavement in an unsure strut didn't make my heart halt abruptly.

If seeing a car slow to a stop and a tinted window roll down didn't make me fear for my life.

If hearing the sound of some strange man calling me “sweet thing” didn't make me want to cry and heave from the depths of my stomach. If the words “hoe”, “slut”and “whore” weren't filled disdain and self hate, I would consider it.

I would do it if seeing the look the eyes of the passersby didn't make me hate myself although I never really cared what people thought until now. If seeing my reflection in your rearview mirror wasn't so damning I would most definitely consider being a prostitute, especially if the taste of your flesh wasn't so sour and rancid. If it didn't always taste like losing. If sometimes I wouldn't taste the blood of my lip or cheek after you hit me, disrespect me and defiled me.

I would probably consider it if touching myself didn't give you so much pleasure and didn't fulfill one of your sick fantasies. I would consider it if your skin didn't burn me when I touched it. I would even do it if feeling around your car for my underwear didn't make me so ashamed. I would do it if the $50 bill you handed me didn't feel so dirty.

I told her, I would do it if it wasn't for Katrina, for your sister, for your friend, for your mother or for your daughter who already made that mistake. I would do it if all 5 of my senses would let me or left me.

It's not as senseless or as easy as you think.