Confessions of a Courtesan

It is not difficult to erase the black grease
Rubbed on my face by the societal sentinel;
I always hide it beneath the layers of foundation;
But the salacious shouts and the lecherous stares
Of the bricked walls of that shamed street
Bruise my body and make my soul bleed;
It has been three years since I gave my first nocturnal performance;
But the multiple injuries, intangible yet unbearable
Have still not found a respectable remedy.

I am a celebrated courtesan; a debauched artist;
The slit of my gown can arouse the dead passion of an old cavalier;
It can convert pulchritudinous maids into envying objects;
But the vexatious wounds that it partially reveals are seldom seen
By the mob that comes to me to quench their carnal thirst.
Rather the fading scars inflate the soaring income of my pervert boss.
But I am more pure than the fair ladies of the bright world,
Who behind the glass cabins of the deemed offices,
Shorten their skirts; and sometimes open their top three buttons of their shirts
And let their masters’ roving hands explore them for a salary hike;
I don’t know them personally; but their husbands are my regular visitors;
Many a night, after the exhausting encounters,
I have made birthday cards for their neglected children.