WHORE SAYS

(This is a poem I wrote when Daphne Gottlieb requested pieces on sex work, rape and revenge. She held a vigil for the late prostitute and convicted murderer Aileen Wuornos, and I first read it there. I recently recorded it on the podcast This American Whore.)

TRIGGER WARNINGS: rape, murder

WHORE SAYS

1.

i don’t know how not to be a whore
at the bars when i sit alone and sniff them out
without knowing, the lonelies, the men
in need of a conversation and a blonde
to buy drinks for, my scraggly bleach
job hanging like a rebel rapunzel
over this spotty powdered forehead
seeding new grease blobs that grow huge
and red like the tip of a wet cock
but it doesn’t seem to matter
as long as they find my eyes
and hold them, wanting to be held

i don’t know how not to shift
under a desiring gaze, mold
my see-through flesh
and words into whatever shape best fits
the need they hold empty and waiting
for kind ears, act of listening, reflection
to fill them like burning sun
pouring into salt water, gleaming
proof they still exist, can still thirst
and be thirsted for, dry throats
aching for words of acknowledgement
my water, water everywhere
and mouths that need a drink

i don’t know how they find me
waiting, somehow always
in the right place for their timing
and packing the heat of sleeplessness
that manic thinness of a glossy sheen
over the world wherein everything
is heart-wrenchingly touchable
just a lick away, too bright
for my glass eyes and vibrating
in waves i ride until i crash
into solid arms, thick hair
on rough skin telling me where he’s been
how long these strong hands
have not been held

2.

i don’t have an issue with the word: whore
i claimed it back in school, the cries
of ‘sex-crazed slut’ sliding off my back
like so many sliced silk slips

i like to work whore more
to my advantage, that’s for sure

if i had fifty bucks for every stupid
drunken fuck and every night
of rape whether or not
i named it such- well
it still wouldn’t be enough

the time it takes to learn
to set your price is rough

there is no school of sex
for pay, the only way
i found is falling
forward like the fool
following my heels to
the ones who tell me
what they do, how this
girl sells her self as jewel
set in gold and under lock
while yet another beauty
hocks her wares to those
who barely can afford her
care

the price is told
but cannot tell
the value of
the sold

3.

i know he knows i’m a whore
the gem dealer in los angeles
who has seen me working, entertaining
his gem dealing friend in tucson, this man
takes me out for whiskey and dinner
at a restaurant so chic they charge
thirty bucks for an appetizer cheese pizza slice

this dirty jewel gets under my skirt in the parking lot
sapphire-hard fingernails scraping, plunging
plundering, precious gets all the way
to a sofitel suite champagne bubble
bath before proclaiming with tongue
smooth as agate:

OH, I DO NOT PAY

i, drunk and covered in hermes suds
lift a slick leg from water
becoming thick like succulent ooze
and put one toe to his lips:
you cannot be serious

YAH!

YOU NEED SOMETHING
YOU CALL ME

I DO NOT PAY

i, pruning and reddening
slip a steaming hand in sweet muck
sticking one finger up my asshole
where i hide my back-up plan:
you are too far away, i say

GOOD GIRL

i, i, i bring my other hand
my empty hand
to his soaking thigh
pull him in
whisper:
this will be fun

my siren palm caressing
the bobbing fleshy orbs
between his legs i think of
eggs, bataille’s girl simone
was obsessed, wanted to feel
freshly peeled balls inside her
cunt, soft and cooling off
from death, deliciously still
and not yet broken, purely
vulnerable and defeated
lovely simone always got what
she wanted: eggs cracked
in the toilet

with teeth on his lips
wet hole riding his knee
free hand grasping stiff
cock, now the other
hand fondles and flicks
my back-up open
quick, gives a swift
blade slice to loose
skin holding his self
intact, releasing man
to sink into my waters
draining red and egg
whites running like hell
unleashed in a tsunami
of divine wrath, his gasp
my glory, my sin triumphant

he needs to be shut up so
my cunt is on his mouth
and nose and my hips
press down until all
i can see is the melting foam
of our designer bubbles
pushed aside by his
last thoughts rushing up
to shout but simply
bursting silently
like raspberry pustules

i decide to call room service
for a bottle of chianti
dark red in its fiasco
to match our bath

4.

no. that’s not how it happened
i don’t know how
to be a whore
sometimes

i, drunk and covered in hermes suds

do it anyway
let him do it anyway
it is done
anyway

i make sure to order breakfast:
eggs benedict
coffee
grapefruit juice

and two movies:
malice in lalaland
black swan

on his bill when i wake up
to find him gone at five a.m.

i think of that art party in brooklyn
where i was shocked to consciousness
at dawn on a picnic table by a man
who was ripping my dress open
my back covered in wooden scratches
I SHOT MY WADS OVER THE FENCE
he said. he sewed my torn front up
with wire, i walked to the train
without panties, blood running
down bare legs

i remember all this
chewing my eggs

and i don’t know why i accept
the gem dealer’s call
at eleven a.m.
oh yes, i had
a good time
i will
call
you

fuck you
pay me

showering doesn’t help much
his sweat has bonded to my skin
i secrete him

i consider stealing everything
tiny fancy shampoo, luxury towels
pretty box of succulents
fuck-soiled comforters
i could burn them
on melrose

i leave with my bag full
of booze from the mini-bar

and walk past the beverly center
are there busses in LA?
i catch one toward friends
hoping the little bottles
of grey goose and jack
will pay my toll
back into the world

5.

i don’t know how not to be a whore

i think of the lonelies, the men
in need of a girl who will take off
her dress and bra and tights and
panties so the men can wear them

the men in need of kind hands
soft lips, thick thighs, hot feet
a nose like their dead
wife’s nose

i don’t know why it’s a fight
with some of them
maybe he is too used
to business
to being ripped off

knowing could help
from wanting
to rip him
off me
tear him
like salty thin meat

i don’t have an issue
with the word:
whore
but i would like to form
a new definition:

the priceless one
who is always
worth their price

Coral Aorta
July 2012

coralaorta@gmail.com
twitter.com/coralaorta