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xmag.com : June 2002: The Cum-Hungry Genius

Dear DebraJean:

I've read your column for years, I guess you could say I'm a long-time reader, first-time writer. This month I lost my job as a Booth Whore due to recent law changes.

For the past twenty years I spread not just my greasy yeast box, but also my rear-entry "nether-mouth" in exchange for the money and disrespect of the men who need my type of sickness to get off. The years of inserting garden tools and lathered fists into my inner pencil holders to insure the financial well-being of the full litters I spray liberally into your world has left me rather unsuited to deal with jobs that require things like computer skills, a high-school diploma, and an IQ over 64.

I dream of days when all a woman needed to get by was a full figure and mouthful of semen. I dream of moments that all I needed do to live comfortably was suck down a black mouthful and pull a gray-toothed smile. I could have been all that the world thinks is good if not for men using and holding me down. The invisible shackles of the patriarchy chain me to a cum-covered mattress to lick up semen like a baby crawls to tit.

In mind and the physical life. Men forcing me to empty myself and their brimming nutsacks in return for a life full of trips to the emergency room and back alley; to the Toys 'R' Us and Burger King for balanced meals of grease and hormones to develop my child's spoiled streak and keep my tits animal-large. Beatings at the hands of men dumber then even me when all I wanted was to be taken care of. Every punch redeemed me in the eyes of God...suffering brought cleanliness, if only for a few minutes.

Death through rape-inflicted social diseases is what I hoped for. Instead of this sweet release of subtle suicide, I lived. A backwards blessing of God, a mockery really, what could be more cruel than keeping a whore alive?

Of all the things I asked of God, the one answer I was destined to receive was death. The only question left in me is, when will it come? You are the closest thing to God in the world of "sex workers," DebraJean. Please, tell me how to end this ever-living pain of a waking, no-way-back nightmare. I can feel nothing after the years of self-imposed sex abuse. I don't know how to get by in the real world.

 

Full Of Dignity,

Zoë Nofuture

 

 

ZN:

Oh dear...what can I say? You sound like you have made some irreparable choices through your lifetime. More than wanting to give you answers, I want to ask you some questions. Why do you feel that men should take care of you, yet you resent them as if they are responsible for your situation? I wonder what made you stick with this path, not what made you find it in the first place. I see the pull of fast cash and good fun in the name of work. In fact, I did on a lark what you chose as a lifelong career. I spread and shoved my gash for cash and pleasure with the best of them, but I never thought of keeping open legs for years. There is a time and a place that fills me with nightmares. It's called your waking life.

Go to the hardware store and find a length of thin nylon rope. Don't worry about your fat brood needing a final kiss-off. Don't buy them a last bag of chocolate "Ho-Ho's" before you kill yourself; they will never care about you. Walk outside and feel the rain on your face, unable to wash away a bit of the landfill held inside of you.
Use your transfer to get back on the bus and enjoy the bits of plastic and cheap velour under your fingers. Roll the rope in your hands, thin like most dicks you've seen, and think about your death. Every moment is our last, and it lives that way. Don't settle for the Diet Coke on this trip back to Milwaukee...get the regular. Breathe with the memory of your first rape...feel yourself get wet. Go home and die.

 

 

X

 

 

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