The fact is I should be writing my novel but the characters are not my favourite people right now. It’s not their fault they just reminded me, via somebody else in ‘RL’, no, scrap that, not real life, the internets of course, how actually these clever inventions I have made are really just thinly veiled versions of me. And other people in my life. Including Mr Foucault. Who sometimes is himself and sometimes isn’t. And I like fiction to be an escape from, and a window on reality as much as the next whore, but sometimes the window is too narrow and I can’t escape out of it. So I am locking the doors and closing the curtains and staying inside. But I promised I’d write so I write.
Whore. That’s the word I was thinking of. I often think of the word whore it is one of my favourite words. I like the way it conjurs up so many different images all at once. But they all come down to the same thing in the end, a woman with her legs open, waiting to be fucked. That’s what you see too isn’t it? I thought so.
The first time I got called ‘whore’ I was shocked. I think I may have blushed. I know it made my cunt throb a little. It’s ok, Mr Foucault isn’t here now I can’t imagine him saying the word ‘cunt’ can you? But the novelty wore off after a while. words are like that aren’t they? You can use them so many times and then they lose their power. I have found that with words like ‘love’ and ‘sir’ and ‘discourse’ and ‘gender’.
Where was I? Excuse me I am a bit tired. Oh yes, whore.
That whole Stephen Fry thing with the feminists. I got straight away how it was all about who was allowed to call men dirty dogs and who was allowed to say women are pure and honourable ladies and when gay men are acceptable and when they are dangerous perverts. And why women’s whole lives are led under the fear of being ravaged and raped and murdered by men. Yes, Germaine Greer crystallised that message with her idea that women would be in mortal danger if they went cottaging. In mortal danger of being ignored most likely.
Anyway the thing I missed out was how what the feminists were also insinuating was that nice ladies who are pretty enough and bright enough to have sex between ‘classy sheets’ and who don’t need to go out and fuck strangers in toilets, they are different and nicer than those other women. The whores. Whores do need to go out at night and fuck strange men and risk their lives in unlit streets with no husband to call to check they are ok. They need to not because they have an insatiable desire, but because they need the money. And luckily, those dirty dogs, men, are willing to pay. As Stephen made quite clear.
In a way, I think Stephen and the feminists were both suggesting that whoring around, whether for cash or out of uncontrollable libido, isn’t such a great thing. But Stephen included himself in the whoring, however limp and lame his attempts at whoring may have been. The feminists distanced themselves from the whores, both gay and ‘female’. Because nice girls don’t.
That’s what I was thinking about when I was distracting myself from being pissed off that writing a novel is not an escape from reality at all. And neither is sex. And that bastard Foucault knew both of those facts, so I am not sure why I need to repeat them, especially not in a fictional, fucking format.
But thinking about whores always cheers me up. They remind me about being human. And about the whore inside me, that’s never been paid, not in cash, though I have drunk a lot of free wine and eaten a lot of free dinners, and sucked quite a few cocks that I wasn’t in a massive hurry to suck. Does that count? Do I count?
I hope Dan reads this. I love the way Dan starts writing about one thing and then the next minute he has darted down a dark passageway and I am running to keep up with him. And then he mentions someone he was talking to, in real life, and then it all gets a bit messy and I don’t know what is going to happen next.
I am not a very good whore. And sometimes I am a bit of a crap writer. But the fact I am proud to be both keeps me going.
P.s. Sebastian Horsley wasn’t called ‘Whoresly’ for nothing. He was a proud whore and a lover of whores, and if Stephen Fry loved Sebastian that’s ok by me.
Result: Feminists:0 Whores: 3
I still have a novel to write.