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Understanding “whore”

I have what can be referred to as an unnatural fascination with whores. To be clear when I say whores I mean prostitutes; women who sell sexual access to their bodies for payment. I don’t see this as an unrespectable profession. From the kothas of the once illustrious Hira Mandi to the modern day dial-an-escort services, I see it all as one of the highest forms of art. And if I can respectfully sell my writing for a living, I see no reason why their art should have a lower standing than mine.

I saw my first whore out in the real world when I was 12 or 13. The town where I grew up had an area (like all towns) where one might go to procure a whore. Incidentally, this area was near the bus stand. So late one night I was out with my mother and sister to enjoy the delicious treats that were available in those streets after midnight (I mean food, not hookers, you pervs), I saw her.
A young woman; maybe 25 years old. She was carrying a red leather bag that was slung across her chest. It went nicely with her tight white t-shirt and blue denim skirt. The clincher was the mile-high patent leather heels that she wore. She looked more beautiful than the thousands of dolled up women I had seen in my town.
It was strange to me then, to see a lone woman out in the streets at that hour, yet she looked self-assured enough to seem perfectly safe. My mother nudged me and pointed in her direction.
“She’s a prostitute,” she said.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“It’s a look,” she said, “I just know.”
To me it seemed, if there is a look, it must be confidence.
As we ate our paranthas sitting in the car on the side of the road, I couldn’t stop looking at her. I watched her laugh and get into a white sedan. It was amazing, this kind of liberty. All my life I had been told I must be careful in the dark; I must not get into cars with boys and here she was. Just because she was willing to sell what the whole world feared would be taken from me by force, she was able to do anything.

By the time I was fifteen, my mind was made up. At some point, I would have to be a whore. Not only had I continued to ascribe to the theory of liberty but owing to all the literature available I saw the concept of whores as aesthetically pleasing. Their worlds seemed magical to me. As did their sex lives. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t actually believe the men they fucked were good in bed or even cared about their satisfaction. But I was sure of one thing; the objectification they experienced would be unparalleled in any relationship and that was the element of their sex lives that I wanted. Yet, I was a fifteen year old girl who did not have a clue as to how to get involved in a ring of prostitutes nor the courage to do it. So I settled for the next best thing. I let my lover pass me around.
I will never forget the first time (or any time after, really)
The man he had sent me to was a “friend” of his; I was to tell him I was an eighteen-year old woman. That was also the first time I ever lied about my age. I had no idea how or where he had found this guy, no clue as to what he had told him about me, no idea what he would do to me.
I just knew what I was to do.
Dress in feminine clothing.
Knock on the door and introduce myself (with a name and backstory that had been provided to me).
Turn to stone.
Let him fuck me.
Ask him to pay me.
Leave in an hour.
He dropped me off at his house and told me to call him if I felt unsafe. For an instant, I considered just backing out from the whole thing and just sticking to admiring whores from a distance for the rest of my life.
But I got out of the car and walked on without looking back. “Turn to stone,” I kept telling myself, “Turn to stone.” I was afraid and nervous, but all I had to do was hide it.

When I saw him, I realized there was no way I could be sexually attracted to this man. He smelled of sweat and whiskey. He was short, puny and extremely hairy. His wrists were covered in religious threads and his fingers in birthstones and other crystals. He said his name was Manish, I have no more reason to believe that now than I did then. After all, my name is not Parvati.
Soon enough, I noticed something very interesting, he seemed more nervous than I was. That made me feel more confident, all of a sudden, it was clear what I had to do.
I had to perform.
That came very naturally to me given I had been on stage since I was a toddler, so I found a character. Parvati, the seasoned whore who had myriad man-seducing tricks up her nonexistent sleeves. I liked the way he looked at me; like meat. I enjoyed how he licked his lips when I pushed my breasts forward and played with my hair. I inched closer to him and put my hands on his lap. I could feel it coming; the sudden and only burst of confidence he would display that evening as he grabbed my hand and pulled me towards him.
After that, it was just sex. Instead of doing what came naturally (which in his case was retching), I mentally traveled through all the good sex I had had so far in life and reapplied the performance.
After we were done, he paid me even before I asked. He thanked me, I smirked and left. I walked out into the street. I walked for at least ten minutes before I called my lover. I felt great; the fear had dissipated and given way to a confident sense of superiority. Just for a second, I allowed myself the luxury of believing what I had done was hard and I could be proud of myself for going through with it.

This activity remained a regular and escalating fixture of our relationship for a few years. Somehow still despite the liberation and the sense of security I had garnered, I did not feel as commoditized as the whores in my fantasies. I did see the world of the whores but I did not understand it.
For this purpose, the first thing I did when I started college was to find and sign up to work with an organization that rehabilitated and facilitated the lives of whores (and in this case, drug addicts, mostly because the two often tend to intersect).
What I saw there was so very different from my conceptions of commercial sex work that I was ashamed of my naiveté. I had read stories about trafficking and forced sex work but I had continued to relate to even those as if the women involved had a sense of autonomy and eventual power. What I saw in my work was a lot different than what I thought I had seen in Kamathipura or glorious stories of G.B. Road. It was pain, destitution, disease, hopelessness, abandonment, immoral recourses, addiction, suicide, societal boycott, anger, depression; emotional damage so deeply seated it would rival the demontor’s kiss. It was real and gut-wrenching.
And despite all we thought we did to help; there was no way out. We did our best to provide a moment of solace, the illusion of legal protection, medical help, physical protection and counselling services but at night when we lay in our warm, safe beds these exploited women once again spread themselves out to make someone else money. The reality of the concept so deeply aesthetic me, much like everything else in the world, was corrupt.
Yet, it did not deter me. In fact, if anything, it made me more determined to fulfill my need to be a whore. It was like I had something to prove; I needed to show (myself) that a woman can want to be a whore on her own terms and even for her own pleasure. I just had to wait a while; I just had to wait until I was single. I needed my autonomy to be able to set myself up for exploitation. I needed to be responsible for myself to ensure this entire process didn’t end in counter-productivity.

Less than a year later, I was single. And I can tell you, I was ready. I had learnt everything I had to, I knew how to protect myself, I knew exactly what I wanted out of this endeavor; all that was left to do was find myself a “pimp” to work with.
So I contacted a whole bunch of “escort” services. The idea, for me, was to go to the cheapest one possible. One where my value would be lowered enough for me to monetarily feel almost worthless. A few of the cheap ones turned me away; perhaps they feared I was a cop or a reporter working on a story. I dumbed myself down, dressed myself up with the airs and graces that above all looked cheap and forged ahead in my quest to become a whore. Finally I came across a “college girls” service that was cheap and that i had a good feeling about. They too turned me away a few times, but I knew persistence would pay off.
Finally after five phone calls they agreed to meet me. After keeping me waiting in a dingy room for over an hour, I met the man who presumably ran (but did not own) the operation.
He walked around me. Taking me in. He asked me questions no one had ever asked before.
Why I wanted to sell myself for money?
When had I lost my virginity?
Whether I knew how to suck cock?
I gave the answers I had rehearsed, worried my real reasons would make me seem insane to these people.
He touched my breasts, my arms, my back and my ass. He put his hand between my legs. I blushed and looked down. He told me about rates, cuts, and availability. He told me about the rules with which his organization was run. He told me I would never be allowed to communicate with any of his other girls unless someone ordered two women together. Jealously was a real problem, I realized.
Later, he introduced me to the first of the few women I would ever meet in this endeavor. She was a brash, older woman. Everything about her was matter-of-fact; she felt it necessary to warn me against what I was planning to do. She told me this man would tell me that he would call me when he had work for me but really he wanted me to call him begging for work. She even gave me tips on how to dress.
I went home heady and ready. I knew this was my moment. I had to be a whore now or I would never do it again.

I started work.
Sexually speaking, it was delightful and disgusting. To this day, I can guarantee that I haven’t felt objectified the way I did then. These men I visited sometimes in the middle of the afternoon and sometimes in the middle of the night saw me as nothing more than a creative need-fulfillment mechanism and saw no need to pretend otherwise (at least until the needs had been fulfilled). I had fun with it, I created characters and sometimes (with the ones that really wanted to talk) invented stories that would seem ridiculous if I repeated them to one of you. I knew they wanted an opportunity to feel sorry for me, to know that some horrible incident or twist of fate had led me to their beds but I wasn’t interested in demeaning them any more than I was interested in being demeaned. No, this entire five-month phase of prostitution was about upliftment. I was a whore by choice, and the men (who I still believe couldn’t intellectually buy me with all their grey matter) were my respectable customers.
There were incidents that in hindsight seem unsafe, reckless and downright misguided but in the moment they were necessary. I needed to know that I cannot take a profession so tainted with exploitation and erase those smudges just by believing i was respectably spreading my legs for dozens of men.

The whores were there before me, and will continue to prevail long after I am gone. There will continue to be joy, misuse, exploitation, money and abuse. I wish I could help all the whores that needed it, but I cannot, I am not even sure if it is my place to offer help.
There was only one whore I knew for sure I could help: me.
And when I look back through the entire journey of realization, fear, nerves, sex, men, abuse, doubt, pain, exploitation and action, I only see clearly the thing I set out to achieve.
Liberty in objectification.

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About ancilla9876

I'm a young, female, Indian submissive and masochist. I am many other things, of course. But this blog mostly deals with the contents of my lede sentence.

One response to “Understanding “whore”

  1. I read every word of your post. I’ve never heard someone else describe this desire so well, that I have long had too, to be used as a whore. I can relate to all of this! Glad to know I’m not alone. Glad to read it so well articulated. Glad you shared your experiences.

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