What does it mean to pay for sex? It is a mind so dark, so nearly inconceivable. How is it born, what possesses it to disregard self respect and take so hastily what is not its, what will not be its, and what despises it at its very act of taking. Is it so foolish to think that the passage to which it entered this world would forever be its entitled property? Or did it, after years of practice and enforcement, learn not to feel? Or did it simply forget to feel?
What does it mean to pay for sex? Could it be a more sinister deed than that? Is it the domineering power that drives the hand to pay and the genitals to play? Is it her fault for swaying in such a way to render the senses blind but for pleasure? Did she choose you and relentlessly taunt until you justifiably prodded and she whispered the money from out your pocket? Or maybe it was a him; maybe it was his gentle stature that charmed you into his out. It was his silent submission, his unripe complexion that righted you in the wrong you were consuming.
But you paid. Power pleasure pressure ecstasy ignorance oneness closeness love lust compassion greed intoxication desperation whatever it may have been has died back into two, divisible by paper with faces yet unified in an encounter saturated with self-gratification. The deed is done. You paid. It never really was alive. It was an illusion, a brilliant Hollywood picture, a horrifically played out scene that would make Shakespeare tremble in the great beyond, but the curtain has closed, the credits are rolling, the illusion as broken as your bank and all that is left is you and the memory. She will be there in you, as sure as you were in her, and the next, and the next, and the next until you must sell yourself to him in order to pay for her. But maybe you did not pay. But of course you did not. This was just a penny back from the debt owed, if any crime was committed, it was she against you.
She owes you this; you paid for her to come, now she pays you to come. Her debt was so great that maybe even her mother owes you a share, maybe even the child she so foolishly allowed to grow will cover half the interest, but oh she is racking up debt faster than she can pay with every next day she audaciously breaths within your house. She begged you not to share her but it has gone too far and you must put your foot down. Burden as it may be, you graciously allow her to pay you back by soliciting her to your coworkers. Of course there is the issue of her appearance, her ribs have protruded so far past her tits that they would be better off growing nipples themselves than protecting whatever resides within their cavity. And that crooked nose and gaping grimace; she is hardly worth an Alexander Hamilton, and he out of anyone knows his value. It will be hard to deface his bill with her sin.
But what does it mean to pay for sex? Is it the emptiness that fills us? Is it a desperate need to feel connected that drives us to pay? Have we never learned how to make two into one? Have we so quickly forgotten Thumper's rule the minute Bambi learned it? Where was in on this path that we abandoned God, Darwin, Freud, mom, dad, our amygdala and every other trapping of conscious existence by the roadside and set off on our own, so drunk with freedom that we drifted into the destructive abyss of entitlement? Is it too late to turn, to even realize we need to turn? What will it take for us to understand the garden we defecated into a wasteland? More importantly, whom does it cost to return?