On Which Level, of Personality-Prison, is Whore-dom a problem?

Those Pussycats of Whoredom

The pussycats of electoral whoredom unleashed themselves early this presidential cycle, and what an unusually large and whorish herd they are.

The numerous "they" have staked out their respective street corners in the night fog, their backs leaning against lampposts, with foot propped and cigarette dangling, whispering "Want a date?" as though they've always been truly and only yours, whatever your eager wants and desires.

Rudy's on one corner, propositioning both the straight and the gay. He's always loved both, but now one a little more than the other. It's a question of market forces -- acute supply to meet retail demand.

Hillary's on another corner, batting her long lashes at the peaceful, thoughtful types, although she has loved long and well the martial types, too. It's a theatre of regret and redemption at its finest.

Mitt left the Northeast reservation to stake out the corner near the Falwell-Dobson crowd, having had those old, identifying tattoos of tolerance and reason removed. Anything for you, darlin', and if you like, he won't even remove his boots for the missionary routine.
Three other corners are populated by those who once exclusively worked Capitol Hill -- Chris and Joe and John E. -- but have since seen the volume profit to be made in opportunistic whoredom for the re-converted masses. Every good, self-employed hooker needs to adjust to mutating demand, and these cuties can adjust on a dime: principles are dashed off and on as quickly as their lovely black stockings.

And then there's John M., he of reputed virtue for resale. Poor Johnnie is a sad, desperate case, having pretty much been used up by his own insincerities, and who now finds himself not infrequently shunned. Even in whoredom, time and infidelity just might catch up to you.
Finally we have the likes of, say, Dennis, who's the world's worst practitioner of the world's oldest business. With boyish face and narrow charm, he's a misplaced loyal and devoted lover of truth unto himself, hence he doesn't work the streets well. He detests offering quickies, and of course Dennis isn't an aspiring trophy wife, either, so his enduring lures are severely limited to a severely select crowd -- that of idealistic consumers not of this tawdry world.

What mostly odd shoppers we are at the emporium of whoredom. We claim to yearn for fidelity, yet we know what we're buying -- and fidelity ain't the word for it. Then we cry disillusionment when our paramour jumps the bed to go hustle the naval base or business convention.
But what, in God's name, did we expect? That the pussycats of whoredom had actually changed their spots?

No, the veteran, successful whores know how to curl that index finger and flash the come hither look. After that, after we're momentarily satisfied, we then deserve getting bitten in the rear, because deep down we knew it was coming and we only fooled ourselves.


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The Nazis, Fascists and Communists were political parties before they became enemies of liberty and mass murderers.

Old Granny