A friends blog gave me the fuel to get my old internal-diesel engine to choke up some power and do a last run for freedom before I am forced to start prostituting again. I am sick of selling myself, tired of being intellectually raped, bleeding to an intellectual death because of the fancies of my rich clients.
The horizon seems to be on fire, with spot lights fixed on me and my prowess for the rich. I am for sale, to be bought by some American Billionaire or may be an Oil Baron from the middle east. My skin looks flawless, I have the right experience serving very rich clients; I know what pleases them and I could help them get an orgy in minutes; but every minute reaching there I am losing myself. The labyrinth of Grey Cells damaged every time I am forced to undress my brain and open my thoughts to the clients man-hood and his efforts to reach a climax.
I am done with being nude, being on display for sale. I am sick of gagging on my own puke and the feeling of despair that follows me even in my sleep. The threats of hunger and death do not scare me anymore. Down payments do not matter nor the fear of losing the treasures I collected prostituting. A final leap for freedom from the clutches of the plastic world to the world of peasants. Simple and green and a board hanging out on my front door - "I AM NOT FOR SALE"