Being born a woman is an awful tragedy. Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars—to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording —all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to seduce them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yet, God, I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.
I used to be a prostitute. I had a no anal rule, and a client raped me anally. I had cried and tried to escape. He said it wasn’t rape, because he paid, and you can’t rape a prostitute
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I once had a male coworker ask me, “Why do girls wear yoga pants or tight jeans and then get mad if I look at their ass?” I said, “If we get mad, it’s because we’re not wearing it for you. We’re wearing it because we think we look good in it, and we want to feel confident. Or because it’s…