I’ve had thousands of dicks. I’m not ashamed to say it. I say it with pride.
How many? I don’t know the exact number. I don’t keep track. But each one left something behind.
A smell. A glance. A slap. A moan. A stain on the sheet.
No two fucks are the same. It doesn’t matter that I work on schedule and everything seems repetitive—it’s not.
Every dick is a different movie. And I play in all of them.
There are some who rush in, zip up, take out their tool, and think that’s it.
They don’t even say hello. They grab my hips, wanting to turn me over like a piece of meat.
They’re not making love, they want to spill their brains inside me.
And I let them. Because that’s what I’m made for.
Others come in and touch me gently. As if they’re afraid of breaking me.
They caress my thighs, my back, breathe on the back of my neck.
It’s like I’m their high school sweetheart.
But it always ends the same way—they pull out and leave. Except they apologize first.
I’ve had cold, soft, tired, dizzy, oily, beaten, tattooed, pierced, skinless, thick, thin, perfumed, and sweaty dicks.
Each one left its mark on me. Not physically. In my head.
One tore my stockings, another broke my heart.
One fucked me to the beat of techno music, another in dead silence.
I felt everything. And I enjoyed everything.
Because that’s who I am. I’m the cunt who wants to feel. Everything.
Sometimes, when I lie naked on the bed waiting for the next one, all those girls come to mind.
Men’s girls who lost themselves in me. Who moaned, sighed, some even cried.
And I just watched them.
For me, it was just another Tuesday.
But I swear I wouldn’t change a thing.
I wouldn’t become a saleswoman, I wouldn’t go to the office, I wouldn’t marry someone “serious.”
I’m not into normality.
I’m into dirty sheets, broken mattresses, that position you’re too embarrassed to ask your wife for.
Tell me everything.
Put your hand down my throat and tell me my favorite dirty talk.
Because I don’t judge. I accept. I turn everything into pleasure.
Every dick has its own story.
And I know them all.
I don’t write them down anywhere, I don’t remember their names.
But my body knows.
They’re engraved in my flesh. In my tired smile. In the way I bend over when I put my foot on the edge of the bed.
I’m a whore. I’m a proud whore.
And I like it.
Because every day is a new novel for me.
And every dick is a chapter.
Fiecare pula are povestea ei
Am avut mii de pule. Nu zic asta cu rusine. Zic cu mandrie.
Cate sunt? Numar exact nu stiu. Nici nu tin evidenta. Dar fiecare a lasat ceva.
Un miros. O privire. O palma. Un gemet. O pata pe cearceaf.
Nu exista doua futeri la fel. Nu conteaza ca stau la program si totul pare repetitiv – nu e.
Fiecare pula e alt film. Si eu joc in toate.
Sunt unii care intra repede, trag fermoarul, scot scula si cred ca gata.
Nici nu zic buna. Ma apuca de solduri, vor sa ma intoarca ca pe o bucata de carne.
Aia nu fac dragoste, aia vor sa-si verse creierul in mine.
Si-i las. Ca-s facuta pentru asta.
Altii intra si ma ating incet. Ca si cum le e frica sa nu ma sparga.
Ma mangaie pe coapse, pe spate, imi respira in ceafa.
Zici ca-s iubita lor din liceu.
Dar tot la fel termina – trag si pleaca. Doar ca se scuzeaza inainte.
Am avut pule reci, moale, obosite, ametite, uleioase, batute, tatuate, cu piercing, fara piele, groase, slabe, parfumate si transpirate.
Fiecare si-a lasat urma in mine. Nu fizic. In capul meu.
Una mi-a rupt ciorapii, alta mi-a rupt sufletul.
Una m-a futut pe ritm de muzica techno, alta in liniste de mort.
Am simtit tot. Si m-am bucurat de tot.
Pentru ca asta sunt. Eu sunt pizda care vrea sa simta. Toate.
Uneori, cand stau goala pe pat si astept urmatorul, imi vin in cap toate fetele alea.
Fete de barbati care s-au pierdut in mine. Care au gemut, au oftat, unii au si plans.
Si eu doar ii priveam.
Pentru mine era o zi de marti.
Dar jur ca n-as schimba nimic.
Nu m-as face vanzatoare, nu m-as duce la birou, nu m-as casatori cu unul „serios”.
Eu nu sunt pentru normalitate.
Sunt pentru patul murdar, pentru salteaua stricata, pentru pozitia aia pe care ti-e rusine s-o ceri nevestei.
Mie sa-mi spui tot.
Mie sa-mi bagi mana-n gat si sa-mi zici curveala mea preferata.
Ca eu nu judec. Eu primesc. Eu transform tot in placere.
Fiecare pula are povestea ei.
Si eu le stiu pe toate.
Nu le scriu undeva, nu le tin minte cu nume si prenume.
Dar corpul meu stie.
Mi-au ramas in carne. In zambetul meu obosit. In felul in care ma aplec cand pun piciorul pe marginea patului.
Sunt curva. Sunt curva mandra.
Si imi place.
Pentru ca fiecare zi la mine e un roman nou.
Si fiecare pula e un capitol.