UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY - 12/2012

J.P. CHRISTIANSEN

The Beautiful Prostitute

She plies her trade away from common harlots’ tricks,
in a district of Copenhagen where low-life doesn’t play.

Her terminology is “hand-job, mouth-job, vaginal or anal intercourse”,
a taxonomy of animal lust choosing to come, by this, in this.

We leave the hotel-bar and go to my room
where she showers her past and a cleaning
of how she came to be who she is.

Heroin-dependence guides her behavior,
a downward-spiraling non-existential trip
which started four years ago,
but in spite of this
her face reflects a still-lovely woman
who could have been a sculpture for cosmetics,
her figure a pleasure on cat-walks,
an independent, well-educated female,
or the wife of a successful businessman,
the mother of happy children in a nice home.

I can tell she comes from good genetic stock,
a mother who didn’t smoke or drink during pregnancy,
a fetus well-nutritioned and cared for,
no father who abandoned a dysfunctional family.

From the top of her fine head,
with its long, thick, brown, tailed hair,
to her feet in high heels below tight jeans,
natural, full breasts in a white shirt
with three buttons opened,
her pelvis of misused organs and vulva,
this is a woman who shouldn’t be here.

Her beauty arrests our expected business,
and I tell her I wish to pay to have a talk about her past –
if a singular, fateful event stole her life
from what she could have been,

but nothing doing, she says...
the past too dark for her retelling
in lieu of just my orgasm,

but she soon relaxes and relents
when I pay for two hours of her time
as opposed to twenty minutes’ sexpertise.

We order some food and drink brought up,
and she starts with her normal childhood,
her home, schooling, and such beginnings,
a horse to ride on weekends,
a car of her own to take her places,
to arrive when she’s two years away from a law degree.

It was at a party given by a lawyer
she became acquainted with the heroin high,
and where her life led to this hotel-room, for now

where I sit across a table from her,
listening and reading the lovely face
beneath four years of having-to-have-it

the heroin-induced indifference to self-respect,
the derailing of life’s journey towards self-realization,
as feelings and emotions attached to her words
come and go in tired eyes unable to hide it all.

...

And now, she says,
you’ve got twenty minutes left on your tab,
so is there anything else I can do for you?









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