I don’t feel like talking anymore. I have no one to talk to. My mouth has said enough today. It smiled forcedly, whispered nonsense, uttered names I don’t even remember. It lied. It convinced. It deceived. It sucked. It felt. It fell silent just when it should have screamed.
And now, when the whole circus is over, when the shop windows have gone dark and the street smells of rain and fatigue, I have nothing left to say out loud. My mouth is silent. It refuses to play roles anymore. It refuses to be the instrument of others.
So I write. I write with the part of me that never knew how to lie.
My cunt.
Don’t laugh. It’s not a poetic metaphor. It’s the only place in me that has never changed the truth. She knows everything. She keeps score of a life that neither my mother, nor my friends, nor my clients could ever understand.
When I’m alone, I don’t open my soul. I closed it long ago, with a lock and forgotten prayers. Instead, the other part opens up. The one that everyone knows, but no one understands. That’s where my true story is written, not in movies, not in shop windows, not in bought moans.
There, they gather:
- the shame I never felt, but know I should have
- the desires I never asked for, but led me everywhere
- the obsessions that consumed my years
- the disgust, the longing, the emptiness, the madness
There, in that small and vulnerable place, is the library of all the men who have passed through me. But especially those who were never mine.
Everyone thinks that a whore writes her story with her mouth. That everything about us is what comes out of our lips: a cheap kiss, a false reply, a promise we never intended to keep. Lies that last an hour.
But no. The real story is not in the mouth.
It’s below. Much below. In that place that everyone thinks they possess, but no one reads.
When the mouth is silent, the cunt writes.
It writes honestly. It writes dirty. It writes exactly what I can’t say.
It writes my disgust for myself, and it also writes my pride.
It writes the longing to be someone else, and it also kept me stuck here, where I am.
It writes the dreams I didn’t have the courage to tell anyone.
It also writes that ugly part of me that even I didn’t want to admit.
Today, for example, it writes that my fatigue is not physical. It’s spiritual.
Write that I’m tired of being the object of others’ desires, but at the same time I don’t know how to be anything else.
Write that sometimes, when the room is quiet and I lie on my back, I don’t want pleasure, I don’t want money, I don’t want anything.
I just want to cease to exist for an hour.
And then write the opposite.
That the thought of being used excites me.
That I’m made for this.
That nothing has ever made me feel more real than this filth I throw myself into.
Paradoxical, isn’t it?
But this paradox is me.
And if you don’t understand… that’s perfect. You don’t have to.
Blogs like this aren’t made for normal people.
They’re made for those who read between the lines.
Tomorrow I’ll start all over again. Another day, other men, other glances that undress me without knowing me. My mouth will work, it will play, it will lie. But here… here I write the truth.
And the truth is this:
When my mouth is silent, my pussy writes.
It says everything I don’t have the courage to say.
It betrays me and saves me at the same time.
It’s the only honest diary a woman like me has ever had.
Cand gura tace, pizda scrie
Nu mai am chef sa vorbesc. Nu mai am cui. Gura mea a zis destule azi. A zambit fortat, a soptit prostii, a rostit nume pe care nici nu le mai tin minte. A mintit. A convins. A amagit. A supt. A simtit. A tacerit exact cand trebuia sa urle.
Si acum, cand tot circul s-a terminat, cand vitrinele s-au stins si strada miroase a ploaie si oboseala, nu-mi mai ramane nimic de zis cu voce tare. Gura tace. Refuza sa mai joace roluri. Refuza sa mai fie instrumentul altora.
Asa ca scriu. Scriu cu partea din mine care n-a stiut niciodata sa minta.
Pizda mea.
Nu rade. Nu e o metafora poetica. E singurul loc din mine care nu si-a schimbat niciodata adevarul. Ea stie tot. Ea tine scorul unei vieti pe care nici mama, nici prietenii, nici clientii n-ar putea s-o inteleaga vreodata.
Cand sunt singura, nu-mi deschid sufletul. Mi l-am inchis de mult, cu lacat si cu rugaciuni uitate. In schimb, se deschide cealalta parte. Cea pe care toti o cunosc, dar nimeni nu o stie. Acolo se scrie povestea mea adevarata, nu in filme, nu in vitrina, nu in gemete cumparate.
Acolo se strang:
- rusinile pe care nu le-am simtit, dar stiu ca ar fi trebuit
- dorintele pe care nu le-am cerut, dar m-au condus oriunde
- obsesiile care mi-au mancat anii
- scarba, dorul, golul, nebunia
Acolo, in locul ala mic si vulnerabil, e biblioteca tuturor barbatilor care au trecut prin mine. Dar mai ales a celor care n-au fost niciodata ai mei.
Toata lumea crede ca o curva isi scrie povestea cu gura. Ca totul la noi inseamna ce iese pe buze: un sarut ieftin, o replica falsa, o promisiune pe care n-am intentionat s-o tinem. Minciuni de o ora.
Dar nu. Povestea reala nu e in gura.
E mai jos. Mult mai jos. In locul ala pe care toti cred ca-l poseda, dar nimeni nu-l citeste.
Cand gura tace, pizda scrie.
Scrie sincer. Scrie murdar. Scrie exact ce nu pot spune.
Scrie dezgustul fata de mine, si tot ea scrie si mandria.
Scrie dorul de a fi altcineva, si tot ea m-a tinut blocata aici, unde sunt.
Scrie visele pe care n-am avut curaj sa le spun nimanui.
Scrie si partea aia urata din mine, pe care nici eu n-am vrut s-o recunosc.
Azi, de exemplu, scrie ca oboseala mea nu e fizica. Ci de suflet.
Scrie ca am obosit sa fiu obiectul dorintelor altora, dar in acelasi timp nu stiu sa fiu altceva.
Scrie ca uneori, cand se face liniste in camera si ma intind pe spate, nu vreau placere, nu vreau bani, nu vreau nimic.
Vreau doar sa nu mai exist pentru o ora.
Si apoi scrie opusul.
Ca ma excita gandul ca sunt folosita.
Ca sunt facuta pentru asta.
Ca nimic nu m-a facut vreodata sa ma simt mai reala decat murdaria asta in care ma arunc singura.
Paradox, nu?
Dar paradoxul asta sunt eu.
Si daca nu intelegi… e perfect. Nici nu trebuie.
Blogurile ca asta nu sunt facute pentru oameni normali.
Sunt facute pentru cei care citesc printre rani.
Maine o iau de la capat. O alta zi, alti barbati, alte priviri care ma dezbraca fara sa ma cunoasca. Gura o sa lucreze, o sa joace, o sa minta. Dar aici… aici scriu adevarul.
Si adevarul e asta:
Cand gura tace, pizda scrie.
Ea spune tot ce nu am curaj sa rostesc.
Ea ma tradeaza si ma salveaza in acelasi timp.
Ea e singurul jurnal sincer pe care l-a avut vreodata o femeie ca mine.