The weakness of little children’s limbs is innocent, not their souls. – St. Augustine
Neofeminists consistently claim that all prostitutes are the victims of sexual trauma which renders us incapable of making competent choices. They arrive at this conclusion via the psychological defense mechanism known as projection; since the majority of neofeminists are themselves victims of sexual abuse which causes them to hate and fear men, it is their cognitive processes which are warped and delusional, not those of normal women. But since they cannot face the painful truth that their entire world-view is the product of severe neurosis, they explain the difference between their thinking and that of others by concluding that it is everyone else who is irrational while they are paragons of sanity. Since whores do not see the world as neofeminists do, we must in their minds be insane, and to have been made that way by that which they imagine as the source of all evil, the male sex drive. Having arrived at this convenient conclusion, they must then find evidence to support it in order to maintain the pretense of scholarship; this is accomplished by interviewing streetwalkers who are either in prison, drug rehab facilities or reclamation programs (in other words the most maladjusted segment of the lowest class of whores) and making it clear which answers they want by the use of leading questions. Women in such circumstances will generally provide authority figures (including researchers) with whatever answers they think that authority wants to hear, and those who do not provide the desired answers are explained as being “in denial” or suffering from “repressed memories”. In other words, neofeminist “researchers” practice a looking-glass version of science; first they decide on a conclusion, then hand-pick a sample which they believe will provide the proper results, then discard all results which despite precautions still tend to disprove the conclusion. The White Queen herself could not come up with anything more backward. But as I said in yesterday’s column about pimps, those in authority never let facts get in the way of their attempts to control others, and since the neofeminist position gives them a rationale for what they already intended to do anyhow they embrace it wholeheartedly.
Unlike neofeminists and politicians, I do not subscribe to a Machiavellian morality in which any amount of deception or sophistry is allowed as long as it serves to further my agenda. I wish that I could provide you with one study which disproves everything the neofeminists say, but you’ll have to content yourself with looking over a number of them which are generally less accessible because government grants tend to go to those groups which will produce the results the sponsoring agency wishes. I can also suggest that you peruse the websites, blogs and other writings of the literally scores of whores who will tell you the same thing I do: That in the 85% of our profession who aren’t streetwalkers, the majority are happy with our lives and decisions and did not embrace sex work because we were “damaged” in any way, but rather for the same reasons anyone else chooses any career, namely inclination, aptitude and perceived rewards outweighing those of our other options. I can also tell you about my personal history, which will at least explain how one individual whore came to pursue this profession.
I was born in New Orleans in the autumn of 1966 and raised in a small town nearby as the eldest of several girls born to middle-class Catholic parents, and though I’m sure my mother did her best she never quite knew what to do with me. You see, I was quite precocious, both intellectually and sexually. Not that I knew what sex was at that early stage, mind you; I just knew that watching certain scenes on TV made me feel “funny”, and even embarrassed if other people were in the room. Perhaps my early attraction to science fiction was partly due to the fact that a disproportionate number of these exciting situations appeared in Star Trek. In any case, I quickly learned that if I asked my mother about certain subjects I was invariably answered with complete silence, “What are you talking about?” or the dreaded “Oh, you know that already.” She seemed to labor under the misconception that my voracious reading must have already answered any question I might conceivably ask, so no other information was necessary. I suspect this is the reason I never developed the unhealthy attitude about sex with which many girls are inflicted; my mother never told me anything about it, positive or negative, beyond the obvious things like “it isn’t nice to pick your dress up over your head to show people your underwear.”
Mind you, I don’t believe she was that unhelpful with my little sisters; I honestly think I just made her uncomfortable. Because even though menarche took me completely by surprise (I had read about it in The World Book Encyclopedia but didn’t expect it before my 11th birthday), I know for a fact she explained it to my little sister ahead of time. By that point I knew better than to open my mouth about anything connected with sex, so I was forced to attempt to discover for myself the answers to such burning questions as why I found Mrs. Emma Peel so fascinating; not that the books I could find in the public library at that time were much help, but they were better than nothing. I was able to find information on such sensitive subjects all by myself thanks to the instruction of my 5th grade teacher, who also convinced my parents and the principal that I was so far ahead of the other kids I should be promoted directly to 7th grade, bypassing 6th; perhaps the fact that I was already starting to develop also had something to do with their decision to grant her request.
The first time the word “prostitute” was ever applied to me was almost two years later, toward the end of 8th grade; I was 12 years old and despite skipping a grade still the brightest kid in class. At that time the nuns used to give a form of punish-work called a “lollipop”, which was simply a complex math problem which had to be worked in ink with no errors or scratch-outs. I was often given them for talking in class, passing notes or the like, but found them childishly simple; the other kids disagreed, so “lollipops” were fairly dreaded. Well, one day during lunch I saw a male classmate fretting over such a problem, and being an insufferable little snot to people I disliked I couldn’t help saying, “Oh, those aren’t so hard.”
“If it’s so easy, you do it,” he sulked.
“Why should I do your punish-work?” I asked innocently.
“I’ll give you a dollar,” he said. This instantly caught my attention; my parents did not believe in allowances so I never had any disposable income until I could start cutting my grandmother’s grass in the summer. I knew I could work the problem in under two minutes, and $30/hour was pretty damned good for a 12-year-old in 1979. I agreed in a heartbeat, the money was paid and the problem quickly worked. This started a nice little business for me for several weeks; I was perfectly willing to work other kids’ problems for cash, and I reasoned they were still being punished by having to cough up the money. It might’ve gone on indefinitely but for the laziness of the boy who had hired me first. He was given a punishment composition, and I charged him $10 (2¢ a word) and told him he had to recopy it because the teacher would know my handwriting was not his. Well, the retard ignored my warning and turned in his composition done in what was obviously a girl’s handwriting; it was but the work of minutes for the teacher to compare previous assignments in order to determine whose writing it was, and we were both summoned to the principal’s office.
There was no way on Earth I was going to lie to a nun, and I didn’t really think I had done anything wrong anyhow. Ah, innocence! What followed was not pretty. The boy was dismissed and given a new punishment, while I was forced to listen to a lecture from the principal, then to wait in her office after school until my parents were summoned to a conference about how concerned she was about “Maggie prostituting herself in this manner.” That was the term she used several times, both to me and to my parents, and yes I knew what it meant. The trip home was made in silence, which was far worse than any yelling would have been, and later I had to endure several more lectures about how what I had done was wrong. But through all of this neither Sister nor my parents could answer to my satisfaction the simple question I asked more than once: How was what I had done different from performing any other service for money? After all, the assignments were not for grades, so it wasn’t cheating; I had in fact turned down several contracts for doing homework because that would have been. I was subjected to a lot of platitudes about punishment being for the edification of the one punished, and how paying me money wouldn’t teach them a lesson even if I had raised my rates dramatically. But I was no fool; I could see that what upset them had nothing to do with other kids getting off easy, and that if I had done their punish-work out of friendship it wouldn’t have been viewed as such a catastrophe. No, it was obviously the fact that I had charged for my services that disturbed them all so. I had clearly crossed an invisible line, and though my parents walked all around it Sister had clearly used the exact word she meant to use. Despite a middle-class background and Catholic upbringing, despite intelligence and education, despite never having abused any kind of drug, and in the complete absence of any history of sexual abuse, I was already on the road to whoredom. And as we shall see tomorrow, neither high school nor a university education did anything to change my course.