I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
I swear, sometimes I wonder if I have a problem in my head or if I was just born with this abnormal craving.
Nothing is ever enough for me.
No one.
There are days when I have five clients and I go home… I don’t know how to say it… UNFULFILLED.
Not because of them. Because of me.
My desire is greater than time, greater than the schedule, greater than everything.
I look at myself in the mirror and see a normal girl.
Blonde, brunette, who the hell knows, because I change my hair more often than I change my underwear.
I see an okay girl.
But underneath that girl is a void that demands.
And demands.
And demands.
Sometimes, on my shift, when I hear the knock on the door, I don’t think about money.
I think: will this calm me down?
And every time the answer is “no.”
Not because it’s not good.
But because I want something that no one can give me.
I want to forget about myself.
About my body.
About what I feel.
To shut down my brain.
To feel something other than what I feel every day when I hear men breathing heavily and looking at me like a toy.
I don’t want tenderness.
I don’t want romance.
I don’t want hearts and kisses.
Those bore me.
I want something else.
I want intensity.
Pressure.
Loss of control.
I want that feeling that comes out of nowhere and makes my stomach tighten as if someone had hit me.
Sometimes I feel like my body can’t keep up with what my pussy wants.
The body gets tired.
It gets fat.
It gets thinner.
It dries up.
It gets angry.
My pussy never gets tired.
It demands even when I sleep.
And when I eat.
And when I shower.
And when I’m at the store.
And when I’m on the street.
I was told that this is an addiction.
That I should go to the doctor.
Take something.
Get treatment.
“Resolve my trauma.”
Trauma, my ass.
I’m not broken.
This is how I function.
This is how I’m built.
If I had a different head, maybe I’d be a teacher.
But… I’m a whore.
And I’m a whore with more appetite than I have.
And you know what’s strange?
I’m not ashamed.
I’m not hiding anything.
I actually like knowing that I can’t be satisfied.
That I can’t be “normal.”
That I’m broken in a beautiful way.
These days I’m a little tired.
Not my body.
My body recovers with a coffee and a shower.
It’s my head that’s tired.
My thoughts.
That desire that comes from places I can’t even explain.
And yet, tomorrow, when I walk into the booth and turn on the red light… I’ll know I’m home.
Among desires.
Among smells.
Among hungry glances.
Among men who are looking for something and don’t even know what.
My pussy wants more than my body can take.
But this is my life.
This is who I am.
And I don’t think I want to be anything else.
Pizda mea cere mai mult decât poate duce trupul
Nu stiu ce e cu mine.
Jur ca uneori ma intreb daca am vreo problema la cap sau daca doar m-am nascut cu pofta asta anormala.
Nu-mi ajunge nimic.
Nimeni.
Am zile cand vin cinci clienti si plec acasa… nu stiu cum sa zic… NEFACUTA.
Nu de la ei. De la mine.
Pofta mea e mai mare decat timpul, mai mare decat programul, mai mare decat tot.
Ma uit la mine in oglinda si vad o fata normala.
Blonda, bruneta, cine dracu mai stie, ca-mi schimb parul mai des decat schimb lenjeria.
Vad o fata ok.
Dar sub fata aia e un gol care cere.
Si cere.
Si cere.
Uneori, pe tura, cand aud bataia in usa, nu ma gandesc la bani.
Ma gandesc: oare asta o sa ma linisteasca?
Si de fiecare data raspunsul e „nu”.
Nu pentru ca nu e bun.
Ci pentru ca eu vreau ceva ce nu poate sa-mi dea nimeni.
Vreau sa uit de mine.
De corpul meu.
De ce simt.
Sa-mi opresc creierul.
Sa simt altceva decat ce simt in fiecare zi cand aud barbati respirand greu si uitandu-se la mine ca la o jucarie.
Nu vreau tandrete.
Nu vreau romantisme.
Nu vreau inimioare si pupici.
Alea ma plictisesc.
Eu vreau altceva.
Vreau intensitate.
Presiune.
Control pierdut.
Vreau senzatia aia care vine de nicaieri si imi face stomacul sa se stranga ca si cum m-a lovit cineva.
Uneori simt ca trupul meu nu mai poate tine pasul cu ce vrea pizda mea.
Trupul oboseste.
Se ingrasa.
Se subtiaza.
Se usuca.
Se enerveaza.
Pizda nu oboseste niciodata.
Ea cere si cand dorm.
Si cand mananc.
Si cand fac dus.
Si cand sunt la magazin.
Si cand sunt pe strada.
Mi s-a spus ca asta e dependenta.
Ca ar trebui sa merg la doctor.
Sa iau ceva.
Sa ma tratez.
Sa „imi rezolv trauma”.
Trauma pe dracu.
Eu nu sunt stricata.
Eu asa functionez.
Eu asa sunt construita.
Daca as fi avut alt cap, poate eram profesoara.
Asa… sunt curva.
Si sunt curva cu pofta mai mare decat mine.
Si stii ce e ciudat?
Nu mi-e rusine.
Nu ascund nimic.
Ba chiar imi place sa stiu ca nu ma potolesc.
Ca nu pot fi „normala”.
Ca sunt defecta intr-un fel frumos.
Zilele astea am obosit putin.
Nu trupul.
Trupul se reface cu o cafea si un dus.
Oboseste capul.
Gandurile.
Pofta aia care vine din locuri pe care nici nu le pot explica.
Si totusi, maine, cand intru in cabina si aprind lumina rosie… o sa stiu ca sunt acasa.
Printre dorinte.
Printre mirosuri.
Printre priviri flamande.
Printre barbati care cauta ceva si nici ei nu stiu ce.
Pizda mea cere mai mult decat poate duce trupul.
Dar asta e viata mea.
Asta sunt eu.
Si nu cred ca vreau sa fiu altceva.