purchasing a lover
‘I would not have traded the delights of my suffering
for anything in the world.’ Gabriel Garcia Marquez
sure it’s an addiction. the allure of a sold woman.
a common prostitute, but to me, she is fascinating.
pick-up joints are hit & miss. but as long as I’ve got the
dollars to pay for it, I can always find a whore. & I’ve known
some very good whores.
I’ve known them, I’ve spoken with them. I could tell by her tight
dress how firm & plump her tits were; I’ve wondered if her
nipples became erect when she had sex, if her cunt lubricated
naturally, or if she used something artificial & mendacious.
the discoveries I’ve made, I could write poems about.
and so I do.
there was Marta, of Spanish blood & Gypsy eyes. she ‘suffered’
from an affliction unique among working girls: she was
multi-orgasmic. her pained expression told me she tried to resist it,
even as it sparked like a blown fuse in her perditious enclave. she
gripped me more tightly each time, not to hasten my own explosion,
but because she was under the thrall of her merciless witch-sister.
I told her, ‘you come a lot.’ she said ‘I come too much.’
and those others, beautiful & sexually dynamic. the red-haired
harlot, who undressed her blonde girlfriend in order to incite a
ménage-a-trois. the dark city woman, who let me sleep in her bed
after our sex, while she went back to the bars & the drunken
soldiers. but when she returned, she would not let me fuck her again.
these lurid sexual encounters, I can recall each one, laconic yet
glorious. each pretty whore, as if she never abandoned me…
(Art: Max Autrey)