Will NOT Work For Dick

It is said to be the world’s oldest occupation, and I can believe it. The urge to procreate or fuck is one that unites the world, or most of it. People need to procreate to keep on going. History is full of stories of prostitutes and sex workers, and I respect that.

I have also done my fair share of sex work, which includes me posing nude for photographs, fucking strangers and sucking a girl’s asshole in movies, snuffing lit cigarettes out on a guy’s feet, and spitting in freaks’ faces, but from what I remember I have never actually accepted money from a guy for intercourse. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, and I’m sure I’ve done far more bizarre things. But wherever I go, people seem to think I am a prostitute.

My neighborhood is mostly Puerto Rican and not the nicest area in the city, but I don’t mind it. I just wish that I could lose the neon sign floating above my head that apparently screams out: “PROSTITUTE! WILL FUCK FOR MONEY! PLEASE INQUIRE!”

Then maybe people would leave me alone.

There have been times when I would have loved to get paid, times when I have had sex where I swear I should have gotten paid, but never times when I did. I don’t even get dinners or movies or rides home, maybe a drink if I’m lucky. But I’ll be damned if I can walk two blocks down the street, head facing the ground, in my dirtiest, most disgusting outfit without some monkey-shit giving me a “psssst” or pulling over his car and asking me if I want a ride.

At a better time, when I was more naïve, I used to think that these men were actually kind enough to want to give me a ride in their car somewhere because they did not want to see a lady walking outside by herself, especially in my neighborhood.

But I have learned, by actually getting into these pseudo-Samaritans’ cars and getting kicked out half a block later when they learned that I had no intention of putting their infested cock anywhere near my body, that they had no intention of delivering me to my destination and making my life easier. They just want me to suck them off or fuck them in the backseat or in an alley or in their apartment.

So I ignore such come-ons. Now.

I am, in fact, very pro-prostitution and I think it should be legalized, but I just want people to leave me alone. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.

As a kid, when I’d travel to the city from the suburbs with my father, he would pick out women and nudge me and say, “See her, that’s a prostitute.”

And these women, to me, just looked like everyone else, so I would always ask him how he knew. They were not wearing six-inch red high heels, miniskirts, and tube tops, like I thought that all prostitutes wore at the time. They were regular people doing regular things.

They also never stopped my dad and asked him anything, for a fuck or for some money. And I don’t remember these particular women even looking at my father funny, but he could pick them out of a crowd as if they were wearing big billboards that said “Ten dollars a fuck!”

Daddy always knew though, and he never hesitated to cloud my already-traumatized mind with ideas about these women. So I figure that I must have the same stench as these women did. The ones that my dad would pick out of a crowd and just know that they were selling sex for money. Which would be great for advertising if I wanted to fuck for money, but I don’t.

So how do I get this stench off of me? I have no idea! I could take a billion showers and not wash it off. I tried. I try to dress differently. It doesn’t matter. I try to make myself ugly, and they still proposition me. I leave my head down, and constantly stare at the ground, so as not to make eye contact with anyone . . . and the cars still follow, and honk, and crawl down alleys after me.

The other downside of being a prostitute that sucks for me is the fact that it is illegal. Not only do these cum-draining johns bother me, but the Chicago Police Department’s perv patrol is almost as bad.

Now that I have lived in this neighborhood for almost a year and most of the police have seen me and have never been able to catch me doing anything illegal, they have almost stopped bothering me, but when I first moved here, they’d stop me all the time and ask me what I was doing and always ask me if I was “working” and tell me that they would catch me and put me in jail. I guess they smelled the same stench.

Oh, and I won’t forget about the great tenants who lean out their apartment windows and yell, “You and your TRASH should stay out of our neighborhood. You’re RUINING it!”

Alas, there is no way of winning this battle unless I stop leaving the house entirely. I have even worn a shirt that declares, “I am not a prostitute.” But instead of making things easier, the shirt makes life harder, by drawing the regular creeps that stop and talk to me and then stupid idiots that want to comment on my fashion sense.

I am out of ideas. In the meantime, I have grown accustomed to it, and I am ever-vigilant and always expecting a little Mexican peanut-looking man to jump out of a garbage can and say, “Psssst . . . mamasita . . . how much?” And I reply by saying “NO” every possible way, verbally, and manually, using as many parts of my body and as many international signals I know for the word NO.

There are all of these clichés like “When in Rome . . .” and “If you can’t beat them, join them” that all tell me I should just collapse and give in to my fate, and since everyone else knows it, why the hell don’t I?

So maybe I should just start getting money for sex. Maybe the ultimate solution is to crawl into the garbage can with the little peanut-looking Mexican. I don’t know the answer.

For now, I’ll just wear a bag over my head until I come up with a better idea.