I had some terrifying johns, I had some boring johns, I had some disgusting johns – but the johns I hated the most were those who made fucking a whore into an art form.
Johns who collected how many whores they had fucked, remembering every position, every city, every degradation, every power trip they had.
These men collected whores as Victorians collected butterflies – celebrating a small space of life just pin it down in their desire for death.
I know these men, I have known since I was six.
Men who fuck and rape, men who batter and torture, men who accidentally on purpose murder – then frame it as art, and often named it as high art.
It is in novels by Norman Mailer, paintings by Whistler, in films, on TV, it with every generation of male artists from the Greek to Tate Gallery.
Everywhere men copy their hate and rage on the bodies of whores – then make feeble copies into their art.
I had johns who read “high art” porn to me, say “Lolita”, some “great” American novelist say Bellow or Updike, then forced their fantasies into my bodies.
I had painters fuck me in many positions, into terror and deep pain, saying they needed inspiration.
I had men imagining they were directors as they filmed me being sexually tortured – it can’t be porn, if they named it art.
My body was nothing but their canvas.
I had no life, no personality, no background, no desire, no hope – I was nothing but the object they created for their desire for absolute power.
These men would say they were misunderstood, that they were victims of their own creativity, that they had lost control by the power of the muse.
These men loved to speak crap – as they took complete control, and allow themselves to rape, torture and kill.
They would they were taken over by darkness, it was the animal in them coming out, they were bursting up society’s taboos.
Hell, they believe they are heroes – they are gods on earth.
The whores are bloody lucky to have such a great man inside of her.
I know these men in every cell of my body – and I hate them.
I hate their arrogance, I hate their sadism, I hate their self-pity, I hate their utter privilege.
They love to torture me – but for them it was detached into their next novel, next poem, next painting, next film, next work of their mighty genius.
They left me gasping for air – and expected me to grateful that I had fucked by them.
Wasn’t I nothing without their greatness.
Well, looking back they were just scum, not fit for me to step over.
They wanted me to be nothing – but I have more goodness and ability to be fully human than they would ever know.
That is my revenge.