Coral Hull: Prose: Work The Sex: So would you sell your body to the body-fuckers? Hasn't every ...

I MACKENZIE KNIGHT I A CHILD OF WRATH A GOD OF LOVE I FALLEN ANGELS EXPOSED I

CORAL HULL: WORK THE SEX
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So would you sell your body to the body-fuckers? Hasn't every woman thought of it? Whether for the prospect of love after a few bourbons on a one-night stand, or as a housewife expecting a child, dependent on her husband's income? Have you ever given your body up to the body-fuckers? Handed your heart to the world on a plate, to the ravenous eyes guarded each side by the knife and the fork? The world of the body-fuckers is like a winter that enters the heart and remains. The sex workers are waist-deep in cardboard snow with their mini skirts and little red handbags. Their sexy eyes and butts and hearts of stones and rocks. Would you give anything more than stones and rocks, to the body-fuckers? Crazy women, always getting hurt, offering it up for nothing but lies, and more of the same.

I thought he was different. I don't know why he treated me like that. But the working girls understand the paying men. There's some real understanding going on around here, if you know what I'm sayin'. The way this life has been dished out to her, she was bound to end up looking like an old whore anyway. I spoke to a hooker in Kalgoorlie, who sucked on her rollie and sighed, 'The fantasy didn't last as long as the reality.' My body was a door through which to escape. Doors for the body-fucker to open with a view into that gigantic space, my absence. She is the original wooden doll, her lips sensuous, red and hostile. To sell my eyes is like selling heaven to MacDonald's. To sell my body is to depart through the door to my soul. Here is a story without a happy ending but midway through it there is relief. A prostitute is staring into a motel room mirror at her face, wondering if her profession now lives in her eyes. She notices a holographic fairy glued to a corner of the cabinet. Suddenly she smiles like a girl, yet she remains a prostitute. Sometimes there seems no place in this world for romantic love. To put it bluntly, no one loves her and never did. Yet as some women think, once you have entered the world of the prostitute that's what you will become. Will you sink or will you swim? 'Well, sugar, what else do you do? 'Well don't matter what else, sweetheart, 'cause that's all I'm judged for anyway.'

Your heart is the bait that captures the money of the world. You're anybody's in twenty minutes. You are suddenly in love with them all. The flabby, hairy, skinny, ugly, lonely body-fuckers. The machinery of sensation and emotion. His cock like a rudder to be steered in the right direction, while you stagger from one side of the yacht to the other in your damp wings, dressed like an angel with the mind of a whore. Did you bring your toys? Is this the final fantasy before spiritual annihilation? Let them into your cunt but don't let them into your heart. Sharlena said, 'Now you listen here, honey, there's no point in the search for compassion. Let's leave it up to speculation. The most unlikely ladies are prostitutes; the good religious girls and students supporting themselves through university.' Jackie said, 'All my life I have been a whore. The world laid me on a bed and fucked me until the innocence left my eyes. The way he fucked me in the back of a taxi, was like throwing a dead slab of meat onto a barbecue, his poor long little dick like a wet sausage, a married business man's sweat breaking out all over his brow. I didn't look at his face. That would be the same as looking at the wheels of a truck as it rolled backwards and forward across my child.'

You can talk to people you meet about your profession and the sensational skills involved, although perhaps not over dinner. You can tell your new lover about your busy lifestyle, so long as you lie. If he's in on the game as well, then that's okay, he'll understand. But you'd better make the sex enchanting, so that he thinks out of all the other men it is him you will finally fall in lust with. At least fifty more think you love them this month, at least while their pants are down, only to get disappointed each time you leave him to dry on the brothel mattress. You have your secrets tucked up inside your glo-mesh purse and little arse. You've worked your ring off, literally. You walk the world of cocks and crumpled skirts where all men fit into a type. So surprise me! Those lovely daylight hours are yours alone, while you sleep from dawn until midday. Throughout the afternoon cold showers and soothing creams regenerate the broken capillaries. You say that secrets isolate us from others, while you sensibly guard your double life. Since when has anyone told you everything? At least this way you are paid good money for your isolation. You have entered a room where you are not me, and one from which your body cannot escape.

    

This website is part of my personal testimony that has been guided by The Holy Spirit and written in Jesus' name.

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