Horizontal Lives

True Tales of the Infamous Courtesan: Persephone N. Hades and her Horizontal Life underground. How she got there, her mis-adventures and her struggle to re-surface.

Tuesday, December 14, 2004

A Whore's Breakfast

Didn't check my work voice mail at all this weekend. Did so this morning.

Message left on Saturday:
"Hey Geisha, you whore. What the fuck? Your outgoing message takes what? five fuckin' minutes? And by the way, it's Saturday so how am I gonna leave a fuckin' switchboard number, you stupid cunt?"

(Actually, it's two minutes and explains who I am, what I offer, and requests a work number that I can contact through a switchboard, for my own safety and security reasons. Any thinking, sensitive man would understand that a single girl in my profession needs to be wary of oh, such minor things like muder, rape, theft, arrests. Duh.)

The message continues:
"Who the fuck do you think you are? Let me tell you. You're a frickin' prositute whore, slut, piece of trash--asking me for my data? Fuck you. And by the way, tell your doctor he put too much collegan in your lips. You look like a fuckin' Grouper. Fuck you." (Click) (No return number.)

On the one hand of course I'm relieved he put himself out there so I never, by accident, made the mistake of seeing such a crazy misogynist.

On the other hand, his comments hurt. No matter how thick a skin I think I have by now, words like that always penetrate.

On a third hand, he might be right. Although my lips are natural, there are times I look in the mirror (usually on low self-esteem days,) and see reflected back, exactly that--A big fat Grouper. Or a guppy. Depends on the morning.

Not something I want to be reminded of on a Monday morning with a busy week ahead. It's hard enough being naked all day at work. Scrutinized. Double the energy of an 'every-other-life job. Needing, Having, Wanting to please. And underneath it all, feeling I look like a Grouper? Ugh.

It's 9 am. I delete the message and pour myself a glass of champagne in a beer mug. As the elixir flows into my shoulders, my belly, my mind, my spirit, the violence of his message dissolves. I know I should have coffee and a muffin like everyone else. But it's not the medicine I need.

In an hour or so, I'll be having 'sausage'.

(Great way to stay slim. Perhaps I should write a book called "The Courtesan's Diet."? Or: "Staying Slim the Courtesan Way."?)

Is this why I think of that necessary glass of champagne in the morning as a 'Whore's Breakfast?'


At 8:21 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

I noticed that your first entry(October 2004) invited e-mail response.
How does one do this? I can't find the e-mail link on your webpage "horizontal Lives" Also a link to your webpage would be appreciated, though this may not be something you want broadcast widely. Since I cannot leave my e-mail as I am not a memeber of the e-blogger community, maybe you could address this in one of your later entries. I really do enjoy what I've read so far.
yours truly
a fan (and sometimes pain-in-the ass)


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