A discerning whore monger

I do like buying a woman. But I am absurdly discerning. If she has any sense of being a whore, I am not remotely interested. I am not interested in touching her vagina—the pussy of a strange woman is just downright disgusting. Indeed, pussies are disgusting. It is precisely this that can transform them from a stinky, stank hole into an Eden of unbounded pleasure. For once I’ve learned to trust a pussy, once I’ve come to appreciate the woman, her body, her manner, then I can find her pussy the most glorious thing in the world. I would gladly spend hours down there, tending to it with fingers and lips and tongue, lovingly coaxing it into a frenzy unique to it: it begins to moisten, loosen, to swell a bit, sometimes to ooze (I’ve heard of women who ejaculate—I’ve even seen videos—but never encountered it and, frankly, am glad for it). This strange pit of human being, this vague depth of exposed flesh—where’s its skin?—at least the cock has skin!—this grotesquerie can be the invitation to another world, where skin and form give way to undulating delight, human uni.

But on some skank who sells it, yuck. So when I pay for a woman, I’m paying for a very particular thing. I need her to be fresh, her skin glowing with health and vitality. She needs to smile and sparkle just a bit. Her teeth must be in good shape, her breath fresh, not with toothpaste but with a cleanliness of soul. And, most importantly, her fingers must be elegant, lean, feminine. Few things repulse me more immediately than a woman with masculine fingers. I find hands perhaps the most erotic part of woman.

And so I mine and excavate the web in search of this elusive, pristine slut. Yes, whore advertise on the world web web: all hail the internet! I examine her photos like I was a diamond dealer. I download them, blow them up in Photoshop, looking for any glimpse I can catch of her hands. Her toes, too: a sloppy big toe can kill the whole thing for me. And then there’s the language she uses. I may sound like a prick, but she has to be able to spell. And that’s not because I think she needs to be educated or proper but because I want to think that if she’s taking out an ad advertising her body that she’s taken the goddamn time and energy to spell check.

And, I have to tell you, after all this expenditure of energy, I do find the perfect woman to buy. Thank god for the sex positive movement and the lack of interesting career options for semi-bright, semi-creative women: these are the true treats of a free market system. And thank god for the internet for readily facilitating this free market, this economy of desire between my debauched needs and the availability of frisky 20-somethings who dig dick and money and don’t feel completely humiliated by yanking my shlong.