Tenderloin Whore. Stones They Float.

Exploitation is exploitation. The biggest threat to me as a whore was violence.

That you would fuck me and then want to kill me was this residual AND NOW FOR A FEW LESSONS FROM YOUR REAL AND ONLY MASTER AND I WANTED TO SPANK YOU BUT YOU SAID NO AND SO NOW I AM GOING TO SMACK YOU AROUND UNTIL THE BRUISES INTERFERE WITH YOUR INCOME YOU FUCKING WHORE AND I WILL SHOW YOU THAT YOU ARE NOT THE TOP YOU SAY YOU ARE always married men.

And smoother than your baby’s face.

They always resist forking it over. They want to date you but the very word date to you means money, but not to him. These are never the kind of men who can afford to keep you. Financial violence is hour to hour a rotting and a tale.

But she plays for keeps and not in a playroom. Mine was painted completely black. A playroom of Succubus. That devil She usually has him on a short financial leash and she has made sure to give him 3–4 children it was always 3–4 children kind of guys how do i know this they would take me home.

Home was often somewhere in Marin.

Family gone wherever it is families go I would have no idea what families in Marin County do or where they go. It was not my world. This was always a violence of two worlds colliding, both of them different exploitations and not. While my world was in the Tenderloin, violence sans intermission, where men would arrive and pick me up at 729 Jones, an infamous SF building, but only to sex workers who were living at the edges of the Tenderloin. 729 was Post and Jones.

Jones Street is known around the world. It doesn’t come any harder than Jones Jones is mean and fucking men who are mean and everyone is mean as mean old shit in the Tenderloin is drinking gin and juice of Geary Street five am. When you are funnier than fuck.

Not that you, the reader, want to read bad words. Sensibilities being whatever. I have no ear for it. What I write is what I write, and when you say violence you do not mean us because we are not on your radar as even being alive and high as throats. After I write it, I forget about it, life moves too quickly to care much for writing and I am not a temple priest. Or temple slave. I survive The Life. That is what I do.

When I save it, that is the end of the thing. I move on. This is called the Violence of I Don’t Give a Fuck Because I have Seen and Tasted Everything. All. All. All.

Twice.

Bad words are a tender violence to you. You want to read about violence the le clean kinda violence like maybe you can find it at the library in the clean book not the kinda violence that comes with a gun a Real Gun. In the Tenderloin, I kept my entire collection of guns on the coffeetable and this show made some people who should be nervous nervous. But I can’t give you that kind of writing because it’s all too fucking real. I know this: You cannot even imagine in an academic way or intellectual way at all it just doesn’t work what it feels like and what the complications are of being shot. Not your area of expertise.

It gets real dark real fast girlfriend when the fucking Junkie Bitch Whore you are shooting is yourself. I sold a piece and some photographs by Billy Bowers to MACH called Junkie Bitch Where. We meant us.

I was not thinking what is a colostomy.

I don’t have one anymore. My guts healed all on their own and i bear those scars. My scars were famous and men wanted to touch them, but they were afraid.

You don’t know what darkness is.

I am not sure how I survived that. I read lots of stuff on depression. You have no clue. Depression is a violence to the brain itself.

The way I see anthropology today, when the depression becomes this conflict where you feel so squeezed in, the demographics are telling us someone has to go because while we may do many things, making more room in this stinking cave is not one of those things.

It’s like poetry.

You don’t really know it until you live on it. You can convince yourself in parochial and intellectual ways that you understand the consequences of violence but you do not.

Social class as violence. The rich sputter but no. But yes.

Those men would bring me to homes that literally took my breath away. This is a bad position to be in as a whore. I was always dumbfounded by the size of the spaces where these people lived.

I am lucky to get one room. And even then, my ability to hang onto it is at best tenuous.

So. Like. Where. Are. You. Going. To. Fuck. Me. I. Don’t. Get. Fucked.

Everyone gets fucked. This is The Life. The Life is fundamentally based on violence, and the cops that cover Geary Street will beat you up and don’t think for a moment you won’t get fucked.

Violence and rape are the status quo for the culture whose fervent representatives will scream at me it is not so.

It is so. Get over it. We get blamed for Living The Life. But you put it there, and you make the rules, and cops will punish you and rape you and beat you up and you are going to just take it because you are playing a very cagey game with violence, drugs, rock and roll, prostitution, and lots and lots of other men with guns. The police. I fucking hate cops. They are always smashing my cameras. Cops are easily threatened. If they were so effective at what they do, why are we living in fear. Another violence. In Paris, they came after my camera with metal pipes, but I could run quickly then. In SF, I kept a playroom across the street from a Police Station.

Try this violence on for size. The MAJORITY of my tricks were cops. The Life gets confusing to outsiders. The cop is this guy who has been threatening people all day and WITH his gun and he WILL use it. It’s a fucking dangerous job. Thrill-seekers abound. You do not know violence. Before the cop goes home he just wants for a short time not to be the one in charge he just wants to give it up and get fucked by this whore he sees.

Sometimes bondage. I was never averse to tying up a cop. I never worried about cops showing up at a whorehouse having an event. We called them parties because that is what they were.

Frequently, places where violence is a part of the scene. Almost simulated, flirts and hurts.

Violence in my world can be a language of definition as well. The word BOY means something to me that has no meaning to you. “Boy” is not about age. It’s about a mindset. I know men in their seventies who are boys and always will be. Boys of any age see themselves as navigating a sea of violence. It comes with the territory.

I commonly used coffins in playrooms. Ties up cops in coffins.

The cop who is fucking you on Jones between cars is one you tied up about a month ago. He had wanted me to fuck him with his gun. WTF. So you take the bullets out and you fuck him with the gun while the cop jacks off. Violence is not just an esoteric thing. I wanted to just do bondage because I saw as this potentially clean thing you tied them up and then you go home. But no.

It is a police state. We have created and recreated time and time again the police state we live in. Violence. Implied and otherwise. My tricks who were also drug dealers came with their own brand of violence deeply rooted in the irony of it all.

Like violence, especially gang violence, the kind that fucks the bitch and then demands her loyalty as a whore to service the men, violence is in the house, and not necessarily down the block or as far as next door, it could be breathing on the couch. Keeping it in the playroom there is no fucking playroom there is the whole damn house. Some people or groups of homo sapiens cannot and do not keep it in the playroom. People know they could learn things from whores. I am frequently treated not as a writer, or a whore, but like a witch.

Keep it in the playroom, people.

The military comes next.

Amazingly, not the US military. Most of them who wanted to fuck me were from Israel. I have no idea where people get their money and I do not want to know. But money and violence are connected everywhere. Any whore knows it is the human condition.

I only did one drug dealer. Mine. He was a cop. A cop with a gun. A cop who took what he wanted and what he wanted were some of those drugs to keep the tweakers tweaked. Drugs are like cash they buy you things.

Perhaps it is a moral failing. I would not know about that. I do know that stigma is a violence, and the entire planet is all hung up on the violence of the stigmatic. Please don’t comment on this I don’t want to fucking hear it.

YOU WILL HEAR ME is a subtle form of violence. They just want to talk. No. they don’t. They want you to agree.

So you nod your head a lot that you understand how hard his upper-middle-class new car every year life is with his wife and his kids and can he take you home some time the coast is clear and fuck you in his son’s bed.

I’m staring at the son’s trophies as his father is on top of me fumbling around. Fumbling around is the violence of place (his) and he doesn’t really care anything about you as a human being as those those human emotions all mixed up are for the son. You are the clone. It’s okay to hurt a clone or slap him around because women, too, are on his list.

I started carry a gun. Carrying a gun is a violence of although our last, not least. Let us censure the whores to pornographyland they have no place here in nice society. I don’t really care if you don’t like reading it. It is not as if anyone has a gun to your head. I have to write it. It’s the only way I know of to keep the violence out of my house.

When he tears open your rectum and you’re bleeding all over his son’s bed (the son smells nice), there’s a violence toward the son, and now he just wants to get rid of you and can you dress any faster. He checks the street for cars. I always brought a diaper in my bag. You never know.

If risk-assessment was not an illusion, we would never have technology.

Technology is a violence when some Internet stalker is stalking your house. He wants to kill you and fuck you, too.

The messages they leave you are amazing to behold. They would erase any hope for the human animal that you could ever harbor.

That the culture of violence is the culture of violence is hardly news. I know a whore who does rape porn and they put fake blood in her pussy. Violence is a lot like sex. I would tell you to keep it in the playroom, but no one ever listens, they think I am making it up, my books are nothing not even spit in the face of what reality is is while it spills out into the real world out there just line the tricks up like the Tenderloin and Jones Street all light up blue like fireworks go kaboom and you’re high on acid and the beauty of the neon tenderloin in that midnight sea of mongrel bitch soothes you and your dragon and his wrath and deeper than any tongue dreams of eating out all the winters of our history in the Tenderloin which has been damned by one or all of your various gods.

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