Ho-story

I was a sexual child. Children are not supposed to be sexual, but as sure as babies poke their little hands in their diapers, most girls who end up doing sex work remember popping out of the womb horny.

Most of us, too, develop early, and end up with the equivalent of a big, shiny Cadillac we don’t have a license to drive. That doesn’t stop guys from hanging around the dealership, though, talking about Don’t them headlights look fine and How ya think she rides? And it certainly didn’t stop me from slipping behind the wheel and taking a few test drives with myself.

I masturbated with such dedication you’d think I was being monetarily compensated. Every available surface became an aid in my ongoing mission to pleasure myself. I rubbed my nipples against doors and walls, stuck pillows between my legs, and let my hand fall asleep before touching myself because someone told me it would feel like someone else’s hand. I played with my ass in the bathroom, stuck my mother’s back massager on my clit, and raided my father’s porno. I fantasized about the pouting young boys in Tiger Beat, the experienced older men on my favorite sitcoms, and the cruel boys at school who called me “Lard-ass” and one in particular, who had broken my glasses at recess one day.

I know now those boys at school were so mean to me because they wanted to fuck me. They could feel the latent sexuality radiating off of me, sending signals to their underdeveloped hormones. But I was too smart, too brazen, and too impossibly scary for them. I was an adult taste like caviar, and they were accustomed to cheeseburgers.

So while I had the type of overstuffed body that made my father’s work crews whistle and spit Spanish phrases under their breath, I was daily being tormented and debased by a rabid crew of pre-teen boys still confused by their own boners. And that was the Molotov Cocktail, because it isn’t being a sexy girl that drives you to sex work in the end, or being horny. The lethal combination that so often leads to selling yourself out one way or another, is being a pretty girl who feels like an ugly one. And despite my soft skin, wide eyes, full lips, and voluptuous body, I felt like the ugliest girl who ever lived.

Women like me, women who don’t love themselves, are not satisfied with being the recipients of everyday desires. They don’t fill us up, don’t convince us that we are beautiful or worthy of love. We need the intensity of passion that comes from fulfilling a fetish or the unrealistic yearnings men feel for fantasy creatures like strippers or porn stars. We need dirty old men to quake with the need to feel our smooth skin. We need entire bachelor parties drooling at our feet. We need CEOs and VIPs begging and throwing money in their desperate need to get just one tiny piece of us, and only then, after these phenomenal displays of attention, do we feel attractive – for the next few minutes, anyway.