Morality is not mine to give.

I was distressed to discover recently that a friend of mine has moved from live web shows to porn, that might sound like the pot calling the kettle black coming from a whore but there has always been a tribal disdain between prostitutes and porn ‘stars’. People not in the sex trade tend to laugh at this, but for us its a matter of principle.

The arguments go something like this, the porn queens see it as a measure of sustainability, an act they do to support themselves, desperation, its a career certainly, but they tend to use the excuse that they are porn stars and at least they are not whores. They see whores as a cheap profession, and possibly in other countries it is. The average a whore will make in the vicinity of 300-600 per hour an attractive, well spoken woman will be more 800-1500 per hour. A porn star will make between 1,000 to 3,000 depending again on how attractive she is and what she is prepared to do for the camera.  A porn queen will do on average, 2-3 ‘jobs’ a month, a whore will do between 2-6 clients a day, 4-6 days a week, for a whore it is a far more lucrative profession, they are the ones with the fancy cars and wardrobe.

Most whores see girls who do porn as white trash, laughable isn’t it? We do the same thing but one is private (most of the time) and the other on camera for everyone to see. The thing that we, whores, think separates us is that we  practice safe sex and have certain work place safeties, we see porn as a betrayal of this, and also that porn is an instigator of the more violent and vile side of sexuality, it feeds unhealthy fetish and yet many of us practice and service that part of the market.

My friend and I had a long and sometimes difficult series of conversations over it, that at times ran hot and hostile, but, one thing I have learned from my not so fairy tale younger days is this, I’m no saint, I have seen people do and be far worse than whores and porn stars, to sell yourself is to learn a vast humility in many things, perhaps this made me a better person, after the illusions of my youth where torn from me I had to re-asses people in entirely differing ways. Most of my friends have been what society looks down their nose and most of my clients have been ‘decent men’ as they appear to you. I said to her, in closing that I’ll till love her, even though I disagree with her choice, to me its all commerce, she hasn’t joined a far right political party, she isn’t judging people on a set of arcane rules that damn people for what they do not what they are, she is doing what all creatures on this earth do, survive as best they can.

Morality is born of comfort, not struggle, your moral struggles with your lusts and wants are laughable when put to actual survival, people should remember that, judging is to take your ideals and try to apply them to someone who isn’t you.

Oddly a friend of mine alerted me that a mutual friend had taken the same path, he was distraught that she would do this, all I could offer is your life is your struggle, it’s often as difficult to make your own way, all things being relative, fix your own problems, others will do as they do regardless, as it should be. Our morals are personal guides, the moment we preach them to others we become oppressive, who am I, who are you so say that our way is the better one, I don’t believe in a greater power much less that I am one.

The secret life of a former Melbourne call girl and her Ode to Melancholy.

Those of you that read and listen to music a lot, watch weird out there films, and read obscure poems will notice that I tend to title my blogs after them. I’m not great with titles, but I have got a serious memory in the little blonde head of mine. So here within I write a double salute to two of my dearest shadows.

I’ve been wandering a lot lately, wandering like I did when I first arrived here in the wilderness, what I think is wilderness. It’s pretty, lovely to take pictures of but I have the distinct feeling that I should be somewhere else, I have itchy feel, I need more.

It’s been warm, not blisteringly hot like the past month but in the mid 30’s c so as I said I’ve been doing a lot of wandering.

At dusk I wandered to hill on the farm and watched the last night fade, beautiful little bats come out to eat the insects in the air, they fly too fast to get a good look at them, you could mistake them for birds. But there are few birds that are silent. Standing there in a short, thin mini dress and shawl, I felt calm, cool and as I watched the tiny bats hunt insects I felt a tinge of sexiness, a hint of evil, queen of the damned. There is a dichotomy there, I’m still confused for an innocent years younger than I am but I feel old, and I am certainly far more experienced than hundreds, possibly thousands of women.

Lady and whore, I think about that often, far too often, I am not unaware of the dichotomy within myself, I was raised to despise what I became, and I have carried that with me, and allowed those who were my masters to intensify that opinion. I accepted the assertion that because I sold myself I was tainted, forever spoiled and unworthy of the least worthy but ‘pure’.

Purity is a construct, a concept with its roots and sum in religious blindness. Paradoxically tied to the idea that intercourse makes the flesh impure even thought all gods implore humanity to ‘be fruitful and multiply.’ Only on the terms that the copulators not participate in the act for any other reason but to produce offspring. Honestly, think about this, why are we made as we are, why is the need for sex so burned into our bodies, second only for the need to feed?

I can argue, I can plead but billions will argue back that this is the will of gods and who am I to say? Who am I to argue with our culture? Even those not given to worship, even these will argue back that to offer your body for coin is bad, at least bad, more so abhorrent to decent folk. I even half believe it myself, though I feel often less corrupt that the mob, the general populace who don’t question they obey, for to obey without question is what we should do.

Then there is my life, my actual life, when I passed the days of my illegality into a workplace that gave me some measure of security and vast sums as a reward for not only my physicality but my company, my social abilities and my knowledge. I found a confidence, abilities and rewards in my unchosen profession that made me who I am now, able, intelligent and wealthy. There is that word, wealthy, a dirty word, in the context of the flesh, its is fine for a man to make his money off the backs of lesser men, but for a woman to make her wealth by her own flesh, that is an abomination.

Many women are inconfident in this, but I am fully aware of my looks, it was, as my mother taught me a gift to be pretty, I am young, I look innocent but  am far, far from it, and this is the problem. At my age I should be thinking of marriage to as capable, handsome and wealthy a man as I might be able to snare, I could do this, I could do this easily now but unfortunately I am infested with melancholy. What, where and who I have been weighs heavily on me and I am consumed by my thoughts, in the words of my former pimp, “you’re way too pretty to think.” Unfortunately I do, for the most part every man I have lain with, most people I have spoken with I have been disinterested, half in, half out of the situation with my mind in another place, burning bight behind cold practiced looks of transient ecstasy and girlish stupidity. I have forever worn this mask.

My friends accuse me of thinking too much, perhaps they are right, is this the ultimate joke of human evolution, that we have, for the sake of survival developed brains that in their profundity have become liabilities and are to our detriment?

Two days ago I spoke to another friend, she is also like me, we spoke about alienation, I told her I feel alone in this world, and have done most of my life, but for the few instances where I found love and camaraderie I can be alone, at will in the densest crowd or conversation. she told me she did as well, she sad this is the human condition. I sigh, and loop in those thoughts. This used to pain me, it used to drive me to find a like minded mate, a man who I might lean on in times when I felt small and fragile, but thus far, I have failed tragically, yes I could settle for one, but even those past few intense relationships I let them go because I found that what I am was ruining them. Now this has stabilised, I don’t feel these sharp regrets and loneliness, but I need more, thought what that might be I am at a loss to say.

I miss my former life I felt some power and purpose there, but that clearly wasn’t enough to sustain me either. I am forced to conclude that I am not different but the same, I search in the light and the dark and my greatest mistake was to assume that they are different, they are the same, it’s only that what we are told renders one bad and the other good.

I have not found comfort in this answer just more to ponder, yet it is progress and for that I must be content. I take my pills, I put down one book in my mind and look for another.

Ode to Melancholy



The Exquisite art of the Samurai sword

I like to watch people, yes, that’s creepy, I like to watch them, and as I do I wonder about what forges one of us in a different way to another. I also reflect on my own making, wondering how much is nature and how much is nurture.

What started me thinking about this was I was absently running my hands over myself this morning – not especially to arouse myself – but it did make me think about how different people find different things arousing. In our flesh and in our minds, we make what we are in tangible and demonstrative ways.

I know what feels good to me, the things that I find appealing, things that stimulate my mind and my senses. We can train these things of course, what of it is inherent? People are born, as a block of metal – if I can use the sword metaphor. Life, influences and experiences temper and beat us into shape. From the violent blows that harden us, to the soft, loving and sensual attention that polishes and sharpens us.

The results are beauty or ugly depending on how you interpret the sword, everything I’ve seen, felt, experienced points to an ‘eye of the beholder’ answer.

I was a very different thing as a girl, now I think I am becoming something different again to what I was in my teens. I used to think that change was impossible in people, but maybe there is a cut off for that?

Of all things people are the most interesting, unravelling their complexities is a joy, getting to know and love them one of the most intoxicatingly addictive things. Of course to loose them, much like withdrawal, painful, sometimes mortally so. I like to do the same to myself, less chance that I’ll leave, this isn’t egotistical but unravelling oneself can be as interesting, challenging and dangerous as a lover.

I highly recommend wearing nothing to bed.


Originally published in Sapienta Sapphica.

I am not you.

We are small things, tiny in the vastness of a world that just is, despite wisdom’s of our forebears, ancient writings and the nascent science we have struggled to nurture.

Why am I here, what is my purpose in all of this? Who am I, will I find someone who will treasure me, help me to make a place in this?

My family instilled in me that I should always be striving to better myself in all ways, yet I am stumped for a purpose for this as well, doubt, lack of fulfilment even with such understandings as I have seem insignificant at times.

I watch a world beautiful and seemingly purposeful trashed for the wants of luxury and the edicts of faiths hell bent on delusion and selfisim. All those who have told me that their way is the only way terrify me, learned as I am the more I learn the less I believe them.

Let me help you seems to me to mean that they want me to help them become more popular, vain or to use what I might lend them, physically and otherwise.

Only in calm voices, the unsure, the mild have I ever seen kindness, love and acceptance. The man on the podium, the pulpit, the self assured political commentator I see only a lair with agendas not so hidden that I could not smell a rat.

Those that are innocent, those that are moral never say that they are, the pleading of the loud voice that protest their innocent purpose against the body of their actions that prove otherwise stun me, as I am also stunned that they gather followers as the Shepard rounds sheep to a coral to make his mob.

You say you have the answer, you point at vacuous truths from like minded uncaring dogmatists and call that evidence.

I see nothing of truth here, all my life I have listened to you and not been convinced, there is not guide to life, no purpose that can be so small as to be contained in one book, one party one conspiracy theory. The world is larger, the cosmos larger still, and small as I am, tainted and unsure as I am,  I sure as there is a world that I have no faith in you.

We might know this reality only by unbiased learning, we will only know ourselves with our own personal dedication to honesty, to have the strength to read ourselves without a book, without a reader but by our hearts unhindered by the shouting defamation of others.

I am uncertain, but I will find my own way.


Originally published in Sapienta Sapphica, not long ago.

Who the fuck is Marcia Brady?

Ranty pants time… As we all know everything awesome happened when you where young, us millennials don’t know shit and we are a waste of oxygen. Self centred, narcissistic and stupid – every last one of us! I mean really, we don’t know who Bob Dylan is and we screw up our noses at you when you try to enlighten us? I’m sure you where not like that when you where kids, no, you where awesome, the time when you grew up was the golden age.

So what happened bell bottoms?

I sat through a conversation last night between two old people who were shocked that I didn’t know who this Marcia was, that I didn’t have orgasms over the Brady bunch theme sung by a gaggle of fifty year olds. Fashion was so much better when they were – um – my age. Cars where better, life was better, bla bla tv, radio, bla bla – I wonder why I lost interest.

If I ever get clucky shoot me, I don’t wanna be these people.

Elvis? That spaz in the glitter jump suit with the bad hair cut and hairy chest? Eew! Yes I have heard of the Beatles actually, no I don’t have a shrine to them. Or ‘records on vinyl’ dafaq is a record anyway – I’m such a Philistine! I can see how those big crackle sounding plates that scratch when you enter the room are so much better than a digital file. Yeah shoulder pads how you must have partied with those and boofy big hair. Wait you actually have hair? I don’t really need to now that, I promise I am not interested in going down on you.

You only had pot and alcohol to binge on! No ecstasy and cocaine to fry your brains on? Wow you haven’t lived! That time you threw up in your purse sounds awesome, memories huh?

Listen old ladies, and you too grandpas over there talking about Led Zep, of you where so awesome how come the world sucks?

That’s Marcia? And the big deal is what, you wanted to be or shag her?

AYBABTU bitches!

Gods of war.

We all love to think we can be the hero, in our wet dreams we take a bullet, crawl through a mine field then have a fight with the villain and beat him to death with our bare fists. That’s Hollywood talking there, I’ve seen and felt enough violence to know that it ranges from a dull pain to so strong you vomit, shit your self or lose consciousness. That’s the reality of pain. I’ve seen hard men cry, piss themselves and beg for mercy without exception, girls too, but they do it faster.

They all think, and even I did that you can hold out indefinitely, die before you break but its not true, it’s not even a little true, most people after less than five hard punches will give in. A small injury to your extremities, a removed tooth, ear or nose and you will sell your mother, I promise you.

I remember being surprised that a hard punch made me cough with pain I was amazed at that reaction, it felt like chunks of agony when being expelled and I gave up and apologised to my abuser.

You’ve seen the hero be shot in the leg and keep walking? Bullshit, a bullet, even if it goes right through you will cause almost supernatural levels of bruising, I’ve never been shot but I’ve seen men howl for mummy and beg for mercy. In the torso they’ll beg god for death if it pierces their stomach, liver or spleen. Get up and fight? Yeah right, good luck with that Batman.

To some extent, with constant punishment you can and do get used to high levels of pain but even then something will shock you and everyone, without exception has limits. You remember all of those moves where the saint burns to death on the stake and their faith sustains them, I’d bet my last dollar that’s myth. There is nothing that works faster than heat at making people scream.

so you can learn to take a punch, a slap, pinch and a bit of choking, what’s the secret? You learn to accept its going to hurt, and you take it, its that simple.

Every now and then you hear about people doing superhuman things in the heat of the moment, a soldier keeps going after being shot, a mother goes into a burning house to rescue her child, maybe, I haven’t seen it but ok, I’ll give the benefit of the doubt, I’m just saying I’ve never seen such a thing and I’ve seen a lot.

Hollywood, along with our Judaeo-Christian-islamic culture worships suffering and vilifies sex, its ok to show gratuitous violence but sex is evil, how many times in movies is sex followed by violence and death? Its ironic to me that the supposed point of Jesus was to rid us of sin, to teach love and compassion yet what we worship is his torture, martyrdom and suffering. It is noble to display incredible suffering in the path to heroic salvation and intimacy is a path to sin and death.  This is where I see the roots of what is wrong with us, a perversion that has become so ingrained and the idea that the reward for this is eternal reward.

We the jury.

Judgement machines, that’s something that sprang into my mind last night as I was in the cue at Safeway. Ahead of me where a couple looking at a gossip mag with the latest round of anorexic movie stars, behind me two women heaping scorn on chubby tv stars. And I myself had been thinking I look like shit and should have put make up on.

The government, migrants, deviates, crime, the economy, men, women, kids these days, we all have a favourite topic or two that we like to push as the reason its all going to shit. Some of us blame the external world, some blame each other and others – we can’t get past ourselves as the thing that sucks in our lives.

I came to the conclusion that people get off on judging, it makes them/us feel better by lowering the bar on others, ‘well at least I don’t/am not –‘ there is the pay off, if other people are worse then maybe that makes us better. I don’t see that as any different to the excluding form of nationalism that seems to be so fashionable now, its the migrants, the terrorists, the liberals, the godless or the overly devout – everything is their fault.

I do it too of course, we all do, most of us are raised on this, most you didn’t get your parents opinion beat into you but it was programmed by subtle means. “We don’t do that”, “Only x kind of people do that”, our elders told us that from childhood up.

This extends to us, do you remember your mum giving you that look as a kid when you reached for another drumstick? That disapproving tisk at what you’d chosen to wear that day? The fiery lecture about how ‘ladies’ behave? You’ll have had something similar and I wonder at the ripple effects these things have.

This compounds and multiplies as we find peers that agree with us, you can see it here, opinion pools like rain in the gutter, be it right or wrong isn’t the issue, if you have an opinion and you find willing support then, for all intensive purposes, it becomes fact.

There is a statistic, a urban myth, a bias, a famous quote, a song, a bible verse and a meme to prove anything isn’t there.


Originally published in Sapienta Sapphica 06/2013

My heroine Enheduanna

Enheduanna first known writer - her name in Cuneiform script

Enheduanna first known writer – her name in Cuneiform script

There are a great many people I admire in this life, and many who are dead, I was tempted to write about Charles Darwin, the suffragettes and even musicians, but some time ago a friend told me about an ancient priestess who is thought to be both the earliest identified writer and Poet. Her name was Enheduanna she lived around 2270 BC and was the daughter of the Sumerian King Sargon of Akkad. Her mother was Queen Tashlultum.

To cement his political power he sent his daughter to be a high priestess to the goddess Nana – or Sin as we later called her – suspiciously. This proved a great success and Enheduanna was very successful in her role.

The wrote three works which survive to today and is mentioned and depicted on several notable texts and monuments. I did manage to find one of her poems to the goddess Inanna. I find it interesting that a woman back then was so well educated, powerful and revered, for all the apparent failings of the ancients they where not bigots. In one of her poems she talks about the temple and ritual prostitution, of homosexual and transvestites as plainly and normally as they are.

It seems to me that these people, superstitious and brutal as they where also showed an open mindedness and natural simplicity to their lives.

The Adoration of Inanna of Ur

An  interesting thing that I have also learned is that most cultures in the pasts’ worship involved ritual sex and temple prostitution, including the Israelites and the Temple of Solomon, the place where the ten commandments where stored also had temple prostitutes. Apparently God himself is far more open minded than his flock.

Of course I realise prostitutes revolt most people, and that isn’t why she is my heroine, but the chances were she was one, strange isn’t it that a king would allow his daughter to be a prostitute and happily, it just goes to show how much culture has to say about these things. I identify with her, literate, confident, powerful and still feminine. I imagine how I, and my kind might have fared in such a culture that didn’t despise and fear sex and lust but expressed it, celebrated it. I’ve found it true that perversion is the result of suppression not the result of indulgence or brazenness. Some will argue that spirituality is intrinsic to the human experience yet so many deny that sexuality is also or a part of that, that’s something I don’t believe.

I don’t advocate prostitution, I don’t advocate being a slut either but I also object to those being vilified, hating other people for their wants or trades such as these anyway.

Originally published in Sapienta Sapphica 11/2013