"I love my job, you do not say so? I do so willingly, I love it. I tell him, of course, but then so will not write it. The whores are compatible because poor women are forced by poverty and degradation by the need if they do it is the fault of the pimps who exploit them and men who pay them, in fact they are not guilty, the law: the exploiters are guilty and in some cases in some country customers. They are victims, if they could choose would certainly be good teachers or mothers, no?, Want a nice kitchen with a living room sofa elle a good husband who returns home at night and kisses saying hello love how it goes. The cashier at the supermarket, as did my mother, too. The logic is this, it is convenient to think so. But no, not true. I play the whore: I'm not a bitch, is different. I do it because it makes it a lot and is cheap, I do it part time only in the morning, afternoon, I walk around I'm with my boyfriend if he is free in the evening I do the babysitting two little girls, sometimes, two beautiful girls on the tasks and read books and put them to bed that my mother can not, is a lawyer, go back later.
I do it because I can give something to someone in need, too, believe? That's it. I do not want to play the part of the social worker of the Red Cross humanitarian doctor, God forbid, even if I know what I mean as a girl because then I thing there that I did, I went to twenty years in the former Yugoslavia in a field of an NGO to make a voluntary, one summer I did. But this is beside the point. I say that men who come here I see them, we pass the time, I see their swollen bellies crooked teeth, the cravat he needs to pretend to be important, the shoes that I feel sorry square. In the older I see the skin withered and limp pea, their shame and their stubbornness to prove that we do it again, I see young people who get the mask and behind all fears.
There are those who want to tell you the only no, there is one that comes here every Tuesday he wants me to reject it, he wants to tell him sorry but I just can not have the minutes I counted more to do, he wants to tell him: I have two minutes, count to 120 and then you go. I start to really count, to 30-35 when he was hard, I count 90 I say time is running out and he puts in, I told him 110 and he pushes, runs, feels that he no longer has time, and between I'll take ten seconds and I'll go from there. So enjoy. Sometimes he succeeds, not always. Poor guy. I always think of who knows what they did as a child. Who knows who is who is gone and he did not want. Back to a place of memory, from someone who does not want, this I think. I help him. Then of course after he is ashamed, he treats me coldly, sometimes evil is his embarrassing witness. Poor guy.
There is one on which I want fifty tie, hands and feet, back on all fours. If I say yes links I've been waiting I do not want him growing melancholy and another does not. Once he told his wife that he does not see him, he says, looks but does not see it, does not speak. The loves can not do without her for her indifference. "If you stay with me means that I love you too," he says. It relies on inertia. Then I tell him no Please do not let us do I wire this morning looking into my eyes and he is happy, no whispers turned whore, binds me pretending to rape and is good quarter of an hour. It 'clear, when you do this work, which is what they want you to do pretend that you do not suck: you do not see their depths, their decay, their secrets that they do not speak with anyone and maybe not even ever say to yourself, but on the contrary, you need not show sick of their bad breath and their smells, their dirt hidden in the folds of skin under his clothes gray, their poor lives somewhere permanently marked. Then they say sorry, sometimes, or poor child. But they are poor, not me. I open my legs, I keep them in, welcome them. They are the ones who need it, pay for it. I have learned to control nausea so long ago, I do not feel, not hear them where they suck.
fact. I take their money, they dabbed their flaws, make good wounds. It is not that it is always a walk, of course. Some days I do not want. Those who say "poor girl, you do need to do it because there are people like me who is forcing you, you'd be entitled to a normal job" just make me angry. This is a normal job. It 's a necessary work, because everyone can continue to bring glory to their families together and show solidarity and to bear their miseries. It 's a service. My mother was a cashier, I told you. The sucked. He got up in the morning and said that lousy job, then went there. He wanted to write stories for children, perhaps, or playing the flute. I do not know. He wanted another life, had that. No one would work if you do not need it: with the exception of missionaries and philanthropists, of course.
I trained to do the anthropologist. Good grades, enthusiastic teachers. My happy daughter of a university degree. I went to where they needed a volunteer, I saw the world. Then I came back here and all I found was a job at a lingerie store. Six hundred euro a month contract project. My boyfriend is an architect, working in an international study, travel a lot. One day at a friend's house we got to joke around, we looked at some websites, there were ads, offers: Virgin offers the pleasure of a thousand euro to be made. Virgin? We laughed. Where are the virgins? The pleasure of being taken? But how do they speak? Then in the evening I thought about it, and even the next day, all week and still a thousand euro, how long? Up to one hour, damn. The first time was difficult. I made an appointment to a guy via email, then did not go there. I thought, and if you kill me? Because you see then is the point: you're not afraid to let them do what they want to do. Are you afraid that you kill, after: with a knife, a pillow, you scaraventino down by a car in a ravine, you put the tape on his mouth and throw you to rot in the cellar. To leave no witnesses, is obvious. Maybe because their weakness is so profound, so unspeakable that will not, after that it remains a trace. That is the important thing is to stay here, safe, secure, with a secretary at the door. Sure, the company did not admit it. Knows how many marriages do not make sense if there was a legal and safe service to servility to pay? I do not want to do sociology cheap. I'm just saying I know from experience, having seen my grandmother to my mother my aunts my friends and myself. My boyfriend says when he's nervous or tired, give me a blowjob. He says, if you did I would one day another person, then laughs. But I know it's true. Says, is unbearable to go home and not find anything to eat. True for the laundry, goes for the shirts press. Applies to the good shape that you do with colleagues in the evening if you go and you've pretty stockings: wow, those people think, that cunt. Wow that man to have a case. Here, services. All services that could easily give it as a dedicated telephone line, a home shopping.
But no, they do so must their wives, girlfriends: it is their social role. The whores are used to cover the failures of the system: the wives and depressed alcoholics, those that do not address whether the word is not to tell you where you put the car keys, those that do not dye their hair because they do not give anything like, those who sleep until noon and then go shopping, those who work themselves to death outside all day and night are not nice, no, let alone become binding. Oh well, though I know that I talked too much and then these things you certainly do not write them. Our time is over in ten minutes to reach the next customer: one hundred euro too, of course, the same that she has paid for my time. I make five hundred euro every morning, yes. Net. Five days a week, on weekends I get to my boyfriend. Are ten thousand Euros per month. I pay rent, I remain eight thousand. Sometimes when I'm tired of lying 'stop' but I always think: where is another job that pays well? Not even a CEO. On the other part is right, is a system failure that has its price too high. To continue to believe that it's all right, all right, bitches must remain secret, commiserate, and well-paid late. So the car works. The work the children the Christmas holidays the old-age loneliness torments secrets hidden obsessions.
I do not cost anything, seems to me to make a good thing. They are useful for maintaining the gear, help people in need, gain, and I do not see it. I do not exist. Wives, girlfriends know, sometimes, and it's good enough for them: I do not exist, in fact. They pretend not to know their men pretend they do not need. Direct access from the parking lot. I feel strong, sometimes. Just wonder woman. I see them, I know them. I just have to open your legs, open your mouth, say yes or no when they ask and if not guess what they need. Where is the humiliation? What colossal nonsense. Humbled is the one who asks or who gives? I'm stronger than them, all of them put together. I can not stand them, defuse, soothe, excite. I am the servant, they pay me. The lady I am. "
"Cristina" is a chapter from the book "Malamore, resistance exercises to pain" Conchita De Gregorio
