Whitman's an Asshole

"You're not serious. That's sick."


"I'm serious, and it's not sick...perhaps
a little sad but certainly not sick
"


Sandra is a dear and lifelong friend of mine. She's mystified and surprisingly repelled by my stating that I do in fact genuinely enjoy the company of my clients; that the ratio of good sex versus bad sex is more favorable amongst clients than it is amongst men I've found myself in traditional relationships with. I have no idea why this takes her by surprise and I'm shocked that although she feels fine - even intrigued about my part-time career choice, she's seemingly mortified to know that I enjoy it.

I know her history well and it mirrors my own right up until adulthood thus I'm baffled by how vehemently opposed she is to my actually enjoying sex that isn't entirely wholesome.

Together we've shared all of the typical landmarks of girls, teens and women and have always agreed on nearly everything, so how is it that while I discovered my g-spot, Sandra discovered righteous indignation?

The History:

The kindergarten years:

We have new neighbours - a family of five. The children (two boys and a girl) are playing in their front yard and I introduce myself by sprinkling worms into the oldest boys hair. This inspires the oldest boy to scream, the girl to laugh and the youngest boy to run into their house and fink on me. The girl comes to my home where I'm now grounded to tell me how funny I am and that she's going to beat her little brother up for telling. Sandra and I were both five at the time and that's all it took to make her my very best friend. It seemed we had a lot in common.

The Grade School Years:

Sandra and I have no understanding of why we must attend French class. We doubt we'll be going to France and we're inclined to agree with our parents' unfounded opinions about the French in Montreal. "Fucking frogs....all of them." We still have much in common.

The Junior High Years:

Sandra and I wean ourselves off of the Harlequin Romance novels that we use as sex education manuals. The bodice ripper romance pulp is replaced by "real" literature. Sandra pretends to love and have an earnest understanding of Walt Whitman. I think she's made a poor choice in the clearly pompous and gay Whitman and decide that my own most personally revered author would be Hemingway. Whitman was an overrated queer asshole, Hemingway was my hero. This has been and may always be our biggest difference of opinion.

The Highschool Years:

Sandra and I devise the great cherry-popping plan. This plan consists of nothing more than getting drunk and being sure to say yes that weekend when our respective boyfriends start their usual begging. We'll report back to eachother once the deed is done.
The report: Nothing much worth reporting. We both wonder why none of that Harlequin Romance stuff happened. We go through Sandra's collection of Cosmopolitan magazines to see what we did wrong. We discover that our only glaringly obvious mistake in the eyes of Cosmo was a failure to bother faking orgasm.We still don't know what an orgasm even looks like - we've only read about them. She pays her brother to rent us some porn for research purposes. Upon viewing these videos we are at once appalled and intrigued....we vow to be more scandalous, slutty and hopefully genuinely orgasmic in the future.We still have much in common.

The College Years:

Sandra and I attend different colleges but see eachother often. We think we're very worldly and regret not taking grade school French class seriously. We both want to go to Paris - and if not Paris, then Montreal where we can pretend we're in Paris. We never should have called the frenchmen frogs....they have sexy accents. Sandra intends to become a nurse and marry a doctor. I intend to become an artist and to meet my future husband somewhere in Europe while taking the starving artist bit to a whole new eccentric level. We're both constantly politically outraged and use polysyllables with wild abandon. We're well on our way to different paths, but still have a lot in common.

Now:

Sandra understands why moonlighting as a whore makes sense to me but she thinks it's "too contrived" if it involves marketing. She claims that she'd gladly accept money for sex, but that she wouldn't feel right about letting a man know that beforehand (huh?). And now, for whatever reason, however accepting she is of my part-time career choice, she's appalled by the fact that I enjoy it.

My dear friend tends to become not so dear at all once my enjoying "dirty" sex comes up in
conversation. This is the same person who joined me in highlighting all the most torrid parts of our mothers' Harlequin Romances, the same person who was always sure to point out the "10 rules of fellatio" type articles in Cosmo, the same person who agreed with me on Anais Nin's distinct lack of talent, but very admirable sense of sexuality.My most dear friend, for whatever reason, when discussing the sexual acts that amused us both so much in the past, now has a stick up her ass.


Having very similar opinions regarding nearly everything since childhood, I don't understand how we can see things so differently regarding this particular issue.

Until she can actually explain to me why it's "sick" that I'm inclined to enjoy sex that comes with a price attached, I'll have to assume that this is simply another little rift somehow caused by that fucking asshole Whitman.

XOXO. Miss Jones

"Henceforth I ask not good fortune. I myself am good fortune."- typical Whitman garbage.

"What is moral is what you feel good after." -the words of a hero,Ernest Hemingway




Posted by Miss Meretrix Jones at 7:10 AM