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Dear friends, it's time to end this blog and leave . I was wrong about many things. I've played to invent a character, that of Zingu, and let come to life and interact with real people online, to provoke and to really know who with another mask could never have known how I wanted to meet you. I do not know if you managed to talk Zingu own voices, or is a victim of the limitations of my imagination and expertise to bring life to a character independent of me. Zingu much of me, or how much of me is in it, just mark my failure as a writer, my weakness for certain issues I wanted to appear for personal brilliance or relief. In any case, has been more valuable my experience as a carrier of this mask, my experience as a creator of it. Wearing it, I had the opportunity to meet and Cristian Maurice. With your comments I have learned something essential about the nature of faith and the Christian spirit, and this has been the most useful that this blog has been for me, having met these people through the challenges or responses that might raise Zingu ... Maurice Christian and never turned their backs on Zingu, never criticized or embarrassed to talk to her, always offered their prayers and their hearts laid bare. No attempt reveal great truths of philosophy or give lectures, did not fall into provocations Zingu. For me, I went full of stereotypes about cures, but also eager to test my prejudices from the comfort and lack of risk of anonymity, has been a joy to see that you could be wrong about many aspects of the fact Catholic. In any case, I leave with much less certainty and many more questions than when they had the day I started this blog, and there's nothing like the pleasure it can accommodate the additional questions in the mind, to replace those answers that we found long ago in our first attempts to explain our place in the world in a moral sense, and today, the day he turned 30, have expired and are no longer avail myself to know where I stand.

No more straws.

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ADIOS TRAVEL THE FOX



Vengo ground. As never put photos, this time we will give you an image that shocked me. Here's a picture I took with the phone, and I've cut so you do not see us in the mirror. It's a dead fox in a pool in the garden of this house. It's actually more like a small farm ... The guy took me for a walk one morning, as if we were dating, given by the hand, as he likes. Come along and tells me the birds (he knows a lot of birds) "Look, a chatterbox, and that a tit, and I just stared at the ground so as not to stain the shoes. Suddenly I saw that way with soft hairs floating in a puddle on the move with a pole and left the corpse full of expression on his face. Funny how death discovers and exposes new gestures and expressions in one head, even after death. Until the eyes are completely rotten, the face of a dead man always retains the power of sight. This picture is I've been around this bridge in the immediate stage of memory. It is an image that you intend to dominate and lose the fear, to see it for what it is, a dead thing, as animated as the mud and leaves the pond, but in my mind I can never leave to feel something ominous in the expression of that eye and the mouth.

rest I tell you tomorrow, or whenever you can.

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Today I travel with A., the man of whom I spoke in the post titled Awakenings . It's a big step for him ... we're not far away, a place I want to show that he has much sentimental value. It is the people of their grandparents, an almost deserted village where he says there will be about 20 people in winter. He has a mansion in town, but we will not stop there, because he does not know what state is. For years I did not open. The house is apparently very large and as the photos that has taught me has shields on the front, huge doors, thick walls ... The site is depressing. Typical Castilian village, the kind that even the stones radiate a kind of cold and bad feeling that you are staying in the marrow of their bones. I hate the Castilian. I will tell you around on Sunday ... Buff-how long was I going to do

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PRAY

I asked the father Cristian in a comment if I pray. Another commentator, and from an unhealthy curiosity, want to know whether I pray or not. I'm not sure what you mean to pray. If prayer is talking with God, prayer, because my words are lost without answers, God does not answer. If prayer is talking to God, then I do not know if I pray. Maybe sometimes you talk to God, but I have not clear ...

There are things I have written that I do not know who they are. The other day I heard of a book on architecture, which was a strange phenomenon, that of the auction and details hidden to the human eye. An architect insisted on a shot in a dark corner of a room high ceilings, it was impossible to see from the ground. When the builders told him it was absurd that shot, because nobody else would, the architect replied that God does not see it. Juan Díez del Corral Perhaps we can clarify what the book was. In any case, what is certain is that I sometimes find myself trying to transcend, and for someone who I do not know who he is. Poetry helps me to try to glimpse what lies beyond the constraints of language, and perhaps at that moment what I want is the way to talk to God and how God appears in the words I say, they are words inhabited in their conmbinaciones I reveal a higher meaning. I said I was not going to publish my own poems. A Maurice copied him one in his blog, a very religious poem in the background. Perhaps a prayer for me. What I can not use the prayer is always, because I sound like a vacuum, as does the sexton old Verse León Felipe. As I decided to hide under, I copied one of my poems, I hope you do not laugh at me, there is nothing that makes one more vulnerable to the cynical to teach poetry. This poem I wrote many years ago while still living in my country town, and went on weekends to Razorfen we had, where my dog \u200b\u200bwas happy. Now everything is sold, and the dog died, but in those days, when walking alone with him and I was looking at the sky at night, sometimes I felt like God was there. Consider yourselves if this poem is basically a prayer or a wish of God. If it is true that prayer, these are my prayers.

The universe from the head of my dog \u200b\u200b

But if a man Would be alone, let him look at the stars.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

I do not know how many thousands of years I've been looking at the stars,
but I remember the first time I saw
had not yet invented the hours, weeks
had not appointed day
not even know the weather turns on itself and starts
without us
stops breathing with your lungs
leaving us in stone, air, heat, shrapnel

stars for the next big bang of the universe.

I do not know how many thousands of years I've been looking at the stars
I've forgotten their names, those with which

baptized when we decide that anything
can be locked in a word
dwell within our bodies.

I sit on the porch,
pat my dog, the two
tired of chasing through the woods
another sun that escapes us, and I see his ears
worry

tighten up and catch an evening breeze
whistling through the holes of the oaks
that skims the
Lunero the orange blossom and pushes through the dark
the croaking of frogs that inhabit
all puddles of the road. Mount

whole is drawn invisibly in the breeze
my dog \u200b\u200bwith his ears
notes.
I however do not see anything, just my memory

me back the memory of what a sun light
morning I wake up.

The little light that the sky is left
is drained by the stars.
Again I raise my eyes to them,
as used for thousands of years,
I wonder if my dog \u200b\u200bsees them,
and then entered his mind to watch the stars


came into his eyes and in that instant the universe is released
words
of ideas,
dimensions,
of
magnitudes that we
compressed to fit on our minds.
Mystery
becomes infinite and I can not see the stars.

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I decided that I will not make as much effort to hide. I will not say who I am or I will offer clues to discover that I have to discover. At the end we all end up coming to the surface, as the bloated corpses of the drowned who swallows the sea. I will continue telling my story, I'm behind her, looking to learn something about myself, or finding that there is nothing to learn. For starters I confess that I lied about everything in my story of how I became a whore, which is totally false, and after a bit I fabled in certain experiences, but the base is almost always true. I am a beginner. Let's leave it at that.

Why do I get into this? It was not to pay for my services, as stated in the topic of the crack whore. Get those things for me has always been free, just had to go with some men who have pockets full of candy to those who pay the company of people, and those who end up surrounding yourself with people who invite everyone leaves, or people looking for someone to invite you all. I belong to the second group, but soon was in the first. I do not like these men, in the end one realizes that they have nothing to offer me that after all can not buy sold, as it was in fact a long time.

simultaneously played it before with other work, a decent (to call in some way, although almost all jobs have some indecency), now I'm not worth it. I make more than I need to be a bitch, the other work I had become a kind of alibi, I ended up throwing away to sleep at home in the morning.

Things will change. Or why I have proposed since I had a big nosebleed. It was unpleasant to look like that, with blood dripping from the nose, and inside the throat. I stopped for a week, and then I began again. But that day I began to worry and I considered seriously put an end to all this, I thought to reach the Dec. 1 or my 30th birthday next year. The other day I went to the dentist, I hurt a tooth for a while. The dentist saw nothing but tinker. He said if I went and I was going to run out of mouth. That what had happened in the tooth was the first warning. I had a root canal, and then I put a titanium tooth. He tells me not notice anything, but it is a mark for life. Do not want to go there. If you only saw me notaríais no nothing, I have very good looking, always seems that I am more healthy than an apple, as they say ... but I keep having the feeling that something eats me inside. I eat what you eat my anxiety. Sometimes I have the feeling that if you do not throw anything in there, my body will feed on themselves.

this week makes me work harder. With my clients I always abstracted with the anticipation of pleasure was to come in when I got home. Now there is no reward.

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Frequency ANESTHESIA

I'm tired of the blog. As with everything I like, my addiction, my passion and finally, I get obsessed and ended up hating him. I'm the kind that he likes listening to a song a thousand times until I find it unbearable. I have become addicted to blog especially now that I have a little button down at all I can see blue (And you too), statistics this page. I spend too much time watching who enters and who exits, where they come from, how they come. Since I started the blog I left everything I wanted to read this month. Plus I'm tired of how I write. I get very literary, false fascia. I'm going to fucking bad novel, literary. I count myself like a character with a wounded narcissism that ends me as I turn off the computer and finally close the door to this world of strangers, I am telling you to impress you, my life's a bitch. It's a horror in which one can become, I reread the portrait I did of myself in this blog, and I realize all I use tricks to deceive you and myself about how I am and how I feel. It is healthier if you just write it monthly. O biweekly better. Ideally, erase it, but I'll give you a second chance ... I've written so much that I have a sensation of being in some way, and on his way to some truth, or to the finding of a big lie. I'll be back in two weeks and see what I do.

Sorry for the snobbishness of hanging a song by Chicane on my profile, I could not resist the temptation when I met her. Chicane, I think, are my greatest perversion. See you on November 30.

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AFFECTION IS COURTESY OF THE HOOKER FAMILY VISIT

One of the Frequently infudadas charges on the activity of the whores, is that everything we do in bed is artificial and therefore necessarily degrade the quality of sexual experience we provide. Some men, especially women (which surprises me a lot) purchased sex disqualified for being our pleasure fake. As if fingiéramos most times sex is paid or not. I would like to praise the artifice of makeup, costume and from the approach: that is what makes us deeply human, the right to use to represent an animal behaviorist, an ecstatic state who has started without possibility of return, its reckless drive toward orgasm. I sure the money echo powders are much better and more intense than that once I took for love. Everything is studied and choreographed, when stepping up the pace, when faking a breakdown of affection with a most loving erotic caress or a kiss on the forehead, when looking at infinity and moan as he loses his head disposed for the pleasure. There is nothing that gives them more satisfaction to our customers to think they are the ones that have made me lose control, which have led to my absolute commitment and have cleared the initial coolness and composure of a bitch. Male vanity has its best reward in the belief that they have managed to enjoy a whore. I always play to that with clients who want loyalty. Sex is all I sell, the affect is my courtesy. But affection ruining all the work of artificiality needed for the customer leaves satisfied, thinking he's got my delivery. It's really when I give that the dust begins to be somewhat awkward, that grin on my face can be grotesque and lose my positions ballerina accuracy both visually stimulating pays for the show to fuck. However this do not happen hardly ever. Would like him to enjoy a plate of rice to a poor Cuban whose house only eat rice every day.

mars love sex, do not amplify or improve it.

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These days I've had family visits. My parents have been in Madrid for a number of reasons. How difficult it is to lie well. A note I was not in tone or expression, after all, I have been a few years living pretending and used to respond to false names. For some time, most people I deal with in my day to day do not know my real name. It's better this way. I find it easy to represent well the paper so that I am very natural, so it becomes more difficult to maintain consistency in time lie, but that is nothing but a memory problem. Every time I add something new to my story, write it down so you do not forget me. I have a notebook house where I write, as a record, all the data I give to my parents and the rest of my family about my work and my workplace, a sort of log of the life that I have invented to keep them happy, or at least careless. In my life I invented for them a career performance closely linked to the degree they think they finished, a sector which are not at all familiar and which have few benchmarks to compare what I tell them. In any case, rather than the specifics of my work, I prefer to talk about my relationship with my boss and my co-curro, these people exist, that only have a presence in my imagination and of my family. I said previously in another post, I have no talent to invent anything from scratch, I suppose not entirely true, now that I think I could spend hours together talking about people at work. Sometimes when I talk to my parents tell me I have badly with some, along with others, that my boss has noticed me and I think I will raise the salary ... My father the other day I gave a talk on how he had to ask for my raise, and I then told him as it had been my meeting and as I eventually overcame the stress it caused me to ask for a raise, I looked into his eyes and I snapped all the arguments that my father had listed. And yes, I got the increase. My father told me I was proud of me, and would go far. Poor ... Though I suppose that I make happy case. It would be very selfish of me to face a truth that has not been prepared, there is no need. The day I started my business, things can boast of real, palpable and I can relax and let our guard down. I would say the type of business it is, but I prefer to be discreet, since my previous life will be erased, at least for a while. Then I might reconcile with that past life (this one I have now) and try to make some sense, but for now I will not lose by these dangerous twists and turns as they go those who aspire to that life has some meaning.

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GIORGIONE


was thinking if I put or not put a picture in my blog. At first I thought of not doing so, wanted to text only, but now I see a little dry, both paragraph without image that oxygenated. Also I do not know how to do that "Read", which lay at the end of a brief introduction to post on many blogs, and more digestible the first look at the page. I have decided that from time to time I will put paintings of women, the photos are too specific and make me hard, I can not imagine who serve as models as symbols but as specific subjects. I prefer the painting because it has all the power of an image built to be a symbol, a product of the imagination meant to be enjoyed not only by sight, but with thought. The problem with the paint (or at least with that I like most at this time, tastes are short me) is that the great paintings of women almost always made from the look of a man. The painting is a predominantly male art historically has always been so. Women who left us for contemplation are products of the imagination of a man. He is a man who thinks them, the dreams, set the canon of proportions, dressed, given the pose, color, gesture, and if they have a lot of skill, a touch of life, enough as to make them live in our collective imagination for centuries. But for all his skill, there is something in them that betrays us as spectators, the look with which we look is that of a woman looking at a man, they look at us. So my favorite painter of women is the Venetian Giorgione, he painted Judith and Venus with eyes closed or looking elsewhere. Judith painted it with the sword and the man to his feet as a Salome without the stain of his crime, but with an air of heroin. A painted Venus dreaming, as he let his hand rest on the pubic ... Giorgione knew that for him the inscrutable mystery was what they dream and what women fantasize, which is what when your eyes are looking back at us is not a reflection of the eyes that look. Giorgione not revealed himself the mystery of his painting, kept it with all the enigmatic charge.

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TRAVEL

strange trip. I had never gone so long with a client, and the truth is that I have paid well, I'm not complaining at all, or at least, nothing more than what I always complain. My client sells machines very large and very sophisticated. No more specific ... Each sale is a process of flirtation and seduction of the customer, almost a wedding, you have to know first, flirting a little, eat out, talk at length, and then maybe get the commitment of the sale and after sale, maintenance of the machine, which is a constant pour. As a marriage. If you buy the machine, you marry the one you sold. My client is a presentation, videos, brochures, maps and prices, interviews with potential buyers, leading them to eat and about four or five, it stops working and that's where I start working. My job is to offer not only sex, that would be easier, give some meat until it is exhausted and close the snack bar him back. The sex part is just the top end of each day. First we have to go for a walk, see some dubious tourist attraction as a sad zoo with three lions and a baboon pajillero toothless, or visiting a grave of a former President of the Republic (I'm in a republic, is all that I say). Then we go to dinner and have drinks, it's not dinner, because coca is put down to his eyebrows and he closes the stomach, but drinking it does baby. Food, and I ask as my hand, he leaves his, but he ends up a bottle of wine. I have no need to talk, he's an unstoppable torrent of words, and of course dinner, only takes your mouth with words and words. Meanwhile, I chew slowly and make as if I had a great interest in everything I said. The type is quite repulsive, never understand why not hire the services of a local prostitute, which are cheaper and I confess, truly beautiful. For less money than I'm worth, could have a piece of meat much more attractive. But the guy on the one hand is quite xenophobic or racist or what not ... the fact is that only likes the English, on the other hand, the locals said that they fucked a English long to come out to make sex tourism, so he prefers to bring his whore of Spain.

The client, call it X, sleep deprivation. Fuck me, and then stays up late putting stripes and writing in a journal. In a way I thank you finish channeling his verbiage in written form, and not pour into my ears the whole flow of words cocaine and ideas that will loose. When it is empty speeches, it pokes a pill called Alcyon, which he said is as powerful as the orfidal, but unlike it, does not leave you groggy the next day ... As you sleep, X begins to snore as if he had swallowed a jackhammer, and certainly not let me sleep. He knows he snores (I guess he will tell his poor wife every morning), especially when it becomes cocaine, and offered me his sleeping pills, but I'd rather stay reading. As the guy falls asleep, I get out of bed, I sit on a couch in the room and I start reading a strange book that I bought, I do not know if humor or horror, that I recommend to everyone ( Vathek by William Beckford). I loathe sharing a bed with most of my clients, and it belongs to that majority. In the morning, my client calls me up and fellatio morning, convinced that with this small pleasure, is drawn from all the pain of a hangover. Then get into the shower, puts on his suit, he slaps the face with a vengeance, for blood and the color begin to flow down her cheeks, and goes about their business. That is when I start to sleep.

Towards the end of the trip, there was one day I woke up at about three, with a call from the receptionist to give me a message: X was late, not coming to dinner, and gave me the address of the restaurant. I was not sure what to do, because he had already eaten and decided Vathek the daily gossip X. I'm usually pretty respectful of the privacy of my clients and I dedicate it to spy on their belongings, but there are times when I've won a book I knew I did not value, or that I have spied on the drawers, not to take anything, but curiosity (though in reality very few clients that I provoke curiosity, for the most rapidly classify a category just to see them). Are small evils that I suddenly become inevitable. Well, the truth is that I took a great surprise to read the diary of X. The guy looked even noticeable. His texts gave me the feeling that I was faced with the wonderful ruins of an intelligence destroyed long ago, covered with weeds and lichen, with just one column on foot, as the remains of Roman temples that make us close our eyes to recostruirlos with imagination, and see in our imagination all the splendor that one day should have. The sentences were long, full of twists, lost without getting anywhere and without any idea clearly shore, but here and there, emerging in all this chatter daring images. Appeared in prose poetry of a madman ... I remember two images that I loved: "Labyrinth of absence" and "cemetery clouds ...

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Back

I turn now. I've been traveling with a client. He's gone and flew to another city in this country where we are, for reasons of work. I'm still here, I will take the plane in the afternoon, and while doing time leave a note from a hotel computer, so that the few who read me do not think I've gone away.

I never gone so long with a client, or as far. Living together has been hard and long. My client is about those who are not supervised by his wife, was delivered without a brake on all sorts of vices ... drink, eat and take drugs without restraint. They know that once again it all comes back to peace first, under the supervision and tutelage of his wife, the woman who has become a retaining wall all the appetites that crowded into them, and pushing to get out as a violent flood of water and mud. Continue counting ... here all have eyes and speak English. I like to write outside of my little den.

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Today I woke up in bed for a client. Give Me a name, at least, give an initial A. He deserves to rescue you from ordinary customers. To begin with he was not fooling anyone with me, no one except himself, of course. But that is the noblest form of deception. A repeat customer is a lot, and which leaves me a fortune in the beginning of each month, when he has money. It is a methodical man, aside from your paycheck you need for mortgage, to eat and live in general, and what's left over, which is not enough, he spends it in me and in a collection that is very curious , I can not give him away specify risk, because I do not think there are many people who collect what this man collects. In any case, has the character meticulous, patient and careful collector, which is perhaps what interests me to tell. The guy is unattractive, timid, those in which I do not notice when walking down the street, not even a particularly nasty, none of his features would settle in my memory or even sit in front of me every afternoon on the bus that takes me to the apartment where I usually work. Until recently, he lived with his mother, a sick and handicapped are caring for years. Maybe that's why it remained a bachelor, who knows, in any case, the physical A could never have married a beautiful woman like that he likes. His house is a place where time stopped long ago, and where each object looks like a memory of someone who will not return. They spent one night each month since the mother died A.

to pay me to spend the whole night with him is enough money, and the truth that I prefer, because I find much easier to do several jobs in one night, mostly to make ends meet, when the johns charged and go to spend it with a heater impressive all week and are planning their night of sex, and have had time to simulate in his mind all the new fantasies that they will perform. Those days do not give me a break, so I prefer to retain customers give me a day what otherwise would gain at the expense of the thirsty johns vent end of the month. A love like me, has a romantic spot that inspires me I'm not sure if pain or tenderness, and strives to distinguish from ordinary customers. Do not want me to look like a john more and somewhat unresponsive john the common pattern: I always call me, my company is more interested than sex, I worry about not being bored or uncomfortable or uneasy, and is not a whore I feel when you are with him, wants us friends, but it is inevitable that I feel a whore, I charge a fortune, I will never discount or gift you a single minute more (and he asks me to give anything outside the terms of our agreement) and the truth is would never go anywhere with him if not for the money. It's sad, but true.

When I come home always brings a suit and asks me to put a fancy dress. He lets me dress, help me to dress, is one of the things that excite him. Then I used an elaborate dinner that he prepared, is good at cooking and stretches a lot, buying premium products. The two had dinner, we took a good wine and then we usually watch a movie together. She asks me to bring me the movies I bought the watch and then he'd pay them and keeps them. I love that we lay on a couch and see the movie embraced. After the movie we go to sleep, we talked a bit in bed and asks me to undress. It is a while caressing the body, with eyes of fascination, and then asks you to hug to sleep. Always takes a very powerful sleeping pill at night I go, it says if not, do not sleep, it is quite sleepless, and in fact, what he likes best of all we do is sleep in my arms, embraced. I did not hit my eyes all night, something that causes me some anxiety in this: the simulation of intimacy between couples, much less than it costs me a stranger fuck me to sleep with him or take her a lifetime together. In fact depresses me so much this poor man ... but I guess I give her monthly dose of happiness.

When I awake, still half asleep under the effect of the pill. He struggles out of recklessness that leaves him. I take my leave and he asks for a kiss. He knows that in the mouth I'm not going to give, but it just a kiss on the forehead looks at me with eyes of great sadness as I go. This is for customers who hurt me in a moral sense, it actually pays to be able to love and be loved, not for sex, and that is much more difficult to give. Do not put the pussy, but a bit of soul.

Sometimes we get paid for feigning love and affection. I know that if I did, A look at another bitch to give him that. It's part of our work that are necessary skills as an actress. When I came home I was thinking in his role, that of a bride, a woman who is bored with her husband quietly, watching a movie ... The two were acting, he and I, to create the image of a royal couple, whose gestures and their mutual relations are shaped by time. I wonder if I may ever be there, happily bored, lying on a sofa, hugging someone while away the time left before the TV, without any anxiety, without the anxiety of thinking you're missing something.

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Awakenings Likelihood

starting to get comments on my blog. Some are identified, others go in the dark, without leaving your comment, and others write something anonymously. I have nothing against that, I also write from a strictly anonymous. One of the first comments I receive, in response to my second post ( "I bitch about how my" ), accuses me of lying and of being a man. I reproduce it here:

What lies! I'm sure you're a guy.
What's your first time straight out of a movie from Hollywood.
very pretty hostess who will pick a famous drunk or drugged and when he sees the bills gets screwed. What an imagination
guy! Send any script to Spielberg

I reread the blog post today, after a nap Sunday, and give me realize that indeed, sounds like everything is a lie. Both the tone of my writing, as the narration of some events, they have that too literary point that will undoubtedly most closely related to the world of fiction that what we might expect from the blog of a bitch. Finally, what are you going to do. I understand that the blogosphere is very difficult to verify that in them is counted, and even more so when the perpetrators are hiding behind pseudonyms and write hidden in their burrows. Internet is the largest factory of lies the world's most prolific and less rigorous. Anyone who becomes editor of their own follies. Is sterile attempt to convince any reader of anything so far that you could be a night taxi driver Zaragoza, which is dedicated to writing the life of a whore that he imagine, even a priest could be disappointed, a housewife who is bored, a banker about to retire ... Could forge my story so that the truths that seem to lie, they were replaced by lies that seem true, but I do not want to convince you of anything, nor do I care to believe me or not believe me, and what is worse, I have no talent or imagination for fiction. I have to make do with describing my life, telling my own experience and to reflect on it: If someone you find useful or entertaining my thoughts will be a bonus to the relief that occurs to me telling myself openly, to speak of I can never talk to anyone who is on my side of bitch. Of course, you could talk to my clients, they obviously know I'm a bitch, but rather I sell my body and my time to give up a piece of my soul. I prefer honestly think I'm stupid and I have nothing in the head, rather than the brand of shoes that I buy with their money.

I love writing, I feel good, do it almost to compulsion, but contrary to what this anonymous to accuse me of being a man, I have no romantic imagination, and that I have not done anything since I have 12 years to swallow novels and imagine in them. I've always written journals, and especially poetry, but that is something I am going to fight, because there is nothing that gives me more ashamed that my own poems. Noto

the anonymous user, and on the front lines of the deacon Maurice, who thought I was a "pseudopersonaje", a resistance to believing that there whores who read, write, manage internet, talk about books and give all the twang somewhat pedantic or literary ... I do not know what to say, I do not know many whores, so I do not know how far turned a being unlikely. I guess this is the result of me always thought a novel character, as explained in my previous post. In the end I tell myself and narrate my life or at least the life of my conscience, since this distortion of who tries to sublimate a radical mode of existence through a literary look. It happens to Herr Peter, as you have seen (the link at the end of the previous post), and in some ways, albeit much cooler and less pedantic than mine, happens to another famous ciberputa, Miriam Blasco, coautura of yoputa , which just opened now a "blogonovela" about life in a hostess club . What would whores without literature? What would literature without whores? From the Bible to Truman Capote, everyone needs to put on their pages to a woman who sells sex to tell a good story.

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TIP: MORE AND LESS BOOKS TELE

A Don Quixote, as everyone knows (or says he knows) the books of chivalry him to lose head. He read them over and over again until they are believed, and his own folly was to replace the logic, morality and conventions of this world, for those books that had dangerous adventures around every corner, where ogres and giant kidnapped princesses, and men were heroes incorruptible, above the weaknesses of the men present. I copied a passage that I have always loved, in which Don Quixote, lost in the night into a dark forest trembles at every sound, thinking it is the beginning of a dangerous feat and said:

(. ..) I was born, by Heaven, this our iron age to revive in it the gold or the golden as it is called. I am he for whom perils, mighty achievements, and valiant deeds. I am, I say again, who is to revive the Round Table, the Twelve of France and the Nine Worthies, and has forgotten to put the Platirs, the Tablantes, Olivantes and straps, the Phoebuses and Belianises , with the whole herd of famous knights-errant of days gone by, doing this in which I live such exploits, marvels, and feats of arms as shall obscure their brightest deeds more.

Today, there is still one who ends up living in a world distorted by the literary. It happened to me. But it was not fantasy books, of romance and adventure, or products to evade, but books where I thought I would find, by way of revelation, the key to exposing the society and men, those books that stand as towers in the library of a teenager with vagaries intellectuals, who put at our disposal the painful truths about sex, love, god, family, etc ... we always believed we were being hidden so that directs our steps easy way. Diary of a Thief, Journey to the End of the Night, Under the Volcano, The Basement, Philosophy in the Bedroom, The Twilight of the Idols, The Flowers of Evil, A Season in Hell ... how long list of topics. I see in my library and I laugh at myself. Yes, I also read my good dose of books of chivalry, and part of my status as a prostitute I owe a very adolescent approach to some literature in praise of the damned. One could read a book by Nietzsche, Sade and Celine, and already smarter than anyone thought, and each book, it was much heavier burden of intellectual and moral vanity. I felt that after the great ideas that nourish us as children (those that I have enumerated, God, love, family, equality, democracy ...) I had only managed to see through the lies they the others were hiding. Everything was legal, because I thought my hands were already thinking tools with which to build and to dismantle the mechanisms of guilt or desire. All could be reduced unpleasant feeling with reason, why should not he be a whore? Is it really worse than being a secretary, or teacher or librarian, lawyer ...? He always found a thousand reasons why any human activity could be measured in terms of humiliation and indignity with prostitution. Why be indignant about 10 euros an hour when you can be indignant about a lot more money? And the sex they were just Judeo-Christian scruples without logical foundations, of which one was free, to reach total and absolute freedom to dispose of the body without prejudices, without guilt, without more rules than those of the naturelaza, which are the only wise and only asks us to survive. I must confess that I have always been much higher than other women to do what I do, and far above the common run of men by the power that sex gives me about them. I read and I am disgusted, is nothing more than a speech of arrogance. But I think people like me, we have refined to the point of passing any sexual scruples, and be free to have desecrated sacralizations all taboos and sex (the consecration of virginity, the linking of sex to love or anathematizing sodomy), we are again empty, empty ridiculous values, dogmas that constrict our relationship with our own bodies, repressive superstitions that plague us all night for a caress received by a stranger. That vacuum of which I speak, it's all a spiritual conquest, the interior feels like an abyss where everything falls and is lost in the dark, without a trace. Much love as desire. I had to destroy many things within myself to be who I am now, and only now I realize I really did not build a thought to be so, but it was enough to destroy what I had installed inside. So Sorry, as I said Ululatus Sapiens in his commentary, really, people like me empty is perhaps the best position is to re-fill of something, this time for something chosen.

another blogger I am quite impressed that I think has also fallen so damn alluring in the same way that I, only from the opposite sex. Herr calls himself Peter and I linked her blog which is a collection of quixotic chivalry misadventures, but modern. A romantic antihero that celebrates his life john, drinker, a lover of guns and with a nod to the Nazi aesthetic. Worth reading, because the quality of the narrative and descriptions are quite high. One not without the feeling of having been there before, as Herr Peter writes, from the hand of Jean Genet, Celine, or Malcolm Lowry ... I suppose it another hanging from the literature, as I believed it too, until it became a miserable character in the worlds of darkness that we both liked to read, as I am, too. Anything but be a hypocrite. Today

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curro no. Odd jobs I did two days ago, but I quickly closed the snack bar because he has been the rule. Other curran with the rule, there are always ways to contain it, but I do not like. I last long, three days, at most four. So no gigs these days and you're done. I do not make bad, I can afford such breaks.

today I had intended to tell my experiences with the priests. No fucking, because I guess if I've ever had a client so I will cure that. What I have had is very rare that a client asked me to dress up in women of Opus Dei. When you're asked to do things that are out of the norm, you can always negotiate the price of labor high, and in this case, the guy was absolutely devoted to his fancy, at this point that already has come in the mind path of desire until there is no turning back. It happens to the wishes as to the aircraft, when they have too acelarado the runway, if not soar, the track and crash just because travel is no longer to brake. This gentleman in question, I just wanted to dress up, had to act like a woman's Opus, and the game was that it perverted me and made me suck it until it ran, while he was a rosary. After run, the guy came running in anguish of shame and I guess also to blame. I left and take the condom, I wore such a hurry which was buttoning his pants and walking out of the scene (the French do not natural, but even with a condom, men say they love me as I suck) . The case is that the type planned well in advance of this scene. First I bought the clothes, I said that is the same as that put her sister, who must be a numerary of Opus. You had to see me with a skirt to the ankles, very thick tights, women's loafers black, dull, long-sleeved blouse tied to the neck and a chain with the image of the virgin who asked me to put that then brought before running off. Best of all, you asked me to comb her hair and her sister, and showed me a picture of her on a date prior to that had the same hair combed, horrible. For this if I did drop it on pasta, because it was a genuine attack on my hair. So much so that day could not get more customers to return to the salon. The type, in that appointment which gave me the script of his fantasy, he asked me how I found out it was the women of Opus, to work well and give the stick, and handed me a book, The Way, the Bishop may Escribá The priest who invented this order, or sect or whatever it is. My client wanted to simulate in a very rigorous kind of rape or sexual abuse to a numerary (I suspect that by his sister, who is the most terrible), and how he was dressed and the way he talks, his wedding ring, his chain the neck, seemed to me that he too could be the Opus. In short, the latter are speculations.

me process the paper led to me doing a little research on the Opus, which is a world that know only a very tangential ... Of course I do not read road. All I need a few pages to realize that reading was a little more rewarding for someone interested in literature than in teaching. Interests me very fond and slight, theology and I brushed some books on the subject in my moments of doubt, the truth, this is not strong naive, simple and full of candor and emotion of a devotee like John Bunyan, nor depth, almost frightening as a Christian thinker Pascal . I seemed like an intellectual and spiritual scam to hooligans of religion. Instead of road, that little can teach us about what you let them, the affectations of speech and taste, and aesthetic inclinations of the most recalcitrant of Opus (because after all, only trying to mimic the surface of a numerary not inside), I searched in the blogosphere, and found some very interesting and very enlightening when it comes to building the character of poor numerary who would be violated. Before crush anyone want to clarify that in my previous life, provinces met people who had some connection with the Opus, but I do not know to what extent. It was always people friendly and kind to me, and therefore do not believe to be the Opus will make anyone better or worse, like I do not think being a lefty or right, Muslim or Hindu, has nothing to do with the stature of a person . People always say you have this or that value, and defending this or that idea, but in reality, his stature can only be checked in the hard times of life, in war, in a disease, financial ruin , in the moments of heroism is required. Everything else are just stories that people tell themselves to feel better, or to be part of something and escape the loneliness of our hearts ... Do not get lost in a digression. I wanted to tell me I spent hours reading blogs of people's opus, and found true fanatics, with its closed and radical views made me to write reviews, which of course never published, because deep down they are nothing Christians, and their doors are closed to whores, homosexuals and all dirty and sinful people out there, away from his version of Christ. I want to highlight two, the first is a priest who is called Mira Heliodoro and is more concerned with preaching censorship, to define negative the rights of Christians, that is, saying that Christianity is not, rather than that is, putting more emphasis on what not to do that in light ... To prohibit, this gentleman to censure yoga, casts a suspicious look to a practice that only aims to make us better people, or at least, as I understand it, to keep the body healthy. It seems almost like being against pilates or gymnastics, is a product of a persecution almost paranoid look into what has an origin in another religious context ... impoverishing vision of religion that tries to be inclusive, but is kept pure from contamination by foreign elements of Christianity, and declares with certainty that amazing things can not practice then, without compromising the orthodoxy Christian practice, as if Catholicism not be an amalgam of religions, spiritualities and liturgies, which are stacked like layers that have been bringing the mountain from where we are to understand the stars. Don also likes to certify Heliodoro impurity and perversion of homosexuality, which in my opinion, is like condemning a lefty for being left-handed, because nobody chooses to be homosexual and can not be corrected. If it is true that God made us, and therefore God did so to homosexuals and not let them choose their own condition, then, what this man meant to say what God made a mistake in your design?

The second blog that surprised me is that of a post-adolescent, steeped in pride, that 22 years is dedicated to solving moral issues and give advice on the life of the soul, the infinite room full of twists that only the boldest dare to explore, and only the wise know map, soul judging by the way described this kid himself, or knows, or has scratched or has dared to plunge into its depths and contradictions. In your profile, our little moral guidance rather than to describe himself in personal terms, merely list their academic qualifications to cover many of auctoritas and crowned with the aura of the academy, which is where you aupa to speak, by throwing texts and mountains of links that refer us to all corners of the dogma. On the other hand, who by his high stature as an academic should be open to any race dialectic, does not allow dissent on his page, and although invited to do it all kinds of questions, he selects only those in which can look good as interpreter of official texts of the movement, as a Christian turns the other cheek to an easy criticism or cheer-leader of a person who has taken a radical decision with respect to religion. The boy is called Antonio Gonzalez, and his blog is titled "I am Opus Dei numerary, his profile, as told, reads:

I have 22 years. I am Opus Dei numerary. And I'm very happy to be. I have a website with many resources and blog that answers questions about Opus Dei. Moreover, my activities are varied. You could say that I am moonlighting. Better, so I take more time that passes quickly. Last September I finished the degree in physics, and now I'm doing a doctorate in physics. In the morning, aside from the PhD, I am studying Industrial Engineering. I'm in third. I've been doing both races simultaneously, but I recently more focused on physics. Anyway, the most interesting, as far as my favorite, arrives in the afternoon: Work in a youth club, with a large number of partners from Primary 5 onwards.

I encourage you to take a look at your page, because I assure you that you are going to laugh, and much, to the collection of misguided people who come to this dubious oracle. I particularly enjoyed the following entry which I copy to amuse a little, showing you the tip of the iceberg:

I have 16 years and I am from a village in the province of Jaén.
'm very practicing Christian. However curiosity

input into a search engine on the mortification and enter your bloog (BTW very interesting) and I read your words on the subject.
read that you used in these disciplines and sackcloth.
Although I'm young I've been tempted to use them several times, lthough I have never done, first because it was not entirely combencido, second because I have not had the means.
I would like to tell me your esperencia with the instruments of mortification.
I'd like more or less detailed pain produced by wounds and stuff.
not think I will ask for masochism.
Like I said I've been tempted to use them.
I would like also to tell me the spiritual benefits received by these practices.

antamano thank you your information.
A Salute.

As the Internet has the ability to interlink everything and create communities of thought that cross oceans and borders, I was soon finding other priests and religious who returned to restore my faith in the Church, or at least in the confines of the Church, there is always good men like Jesus, not afraid of anyone, do not close doors anyone, nor soul, nor those of the blog, and good listeners, leaving others to be judged by, and instead of preaching with confidence and pride, they do it with love and with enthusiasm. Unfortunately these treatments, increasingly, are at the extremes of Christianity, on the outskirts of the church, lost in a remote community. But a little of its light enough for Antoniogonzalez Heliodoromiras and stay in simple story, and for people who like this fucking cynical and unredeemed who writes, you need to know from time to time, there are good people, we lay quietly, knowing that good does not have all been defeated. In this journey through the web, I found Father Cristian , Concon, Chile, and Deacon Maurice of Playa Ancha. Humble priests, with their small parish, there in the end of the world, facing the sea, with no grandstanding, no grand pronouncements, unpretentious ... Who could feel God within themselves, as they ought to feel them. Although I do not believe, or do not know if I believe, I am comforted to think that if I read it, would pray for me.

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ADS HAVE STOPPED LISTING IN MY BLOG

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I just put ads on my blog. So maybe I'll teach you pay for a piece of my soul ... Whores only we strip for money, would lose power if not try to charge for this act of exhibitionism.

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Fugir pra bem longe e outro place BLINDNESS

I always animated version of "another star" by Stevie Wonder which Salome de Bahia and entitled Outro place. I've found a page out there and you put the link. The letter is different than that of Stevie, and begins with a voice full of energy injected into any sentence by frivolous it is, the spirit of Brazil: "Fugir e outro pra bem longe place ..." Far away and flee elsewhere. The following is a letter very vulgar, but Brazilian music is the message in the form not the content, and depth is displayed on the surface of things, so that you are trying to penetrate you find that there nothing beneath or beyond, it's all in the first blow of voice, not what the voice says, in the constant repetition of words that sound good as you carry a tune: fugir e outro pra bem longe place ... and that we sneak into each end until we hear the muscles, not your mind. The muscles respond the voice, and let the mind forget the words. Run away, far and elsewhere. I love being married to that phrase a tune to which my body can not resist, I'm singing to myself from time to time to remind me that I can always do it away and flee elsewhere.

The other day, at a dinner party a customer took me quite Cultureta, was discussed on what period of history would have liked to visit. One of them argued with absolute certainty, and with that tone of one who thinks everyone else is wrong and deserve to be interrupted because they know what they say, that the Athens of Socrates was undoubtedly the most exciting time that humanity has produced . Another told him that the Paris of the 20's, or Shakespeare's England were more interesting, there was one with a setting to learn the conquest of the western United States, because he said he had never dreamed about as little to the movies jeans ... then the girls asked us where we were going. I thought it anywhere, I stay in my time, and if anything, would travel to the future. Women, unlike men, we can say that any time spent was worse. The past does not offer places or spaces for us to lose the time on fantasies of time travel, this clearly is a pastime of the male imagination.

************

And now I will answer a questionnaire that is sent these people by mail and I usually delete them directly. I do wish of a great person who does not know who from the corner of Chile writes a blog that I recommend ... In this blog, he answered the questionnaire and thought that maybe no one answer from among those who had offered these answers. I felt sad to think I was alone, or writing in a vacuum ...


1. What time is it?: 11:54
2. Name?: Zingu (pseudonym, of course)
3. When is your birthday? : It does not ask
4. Zodiac Sign? I do not believe in the zodiac.
5. Where do you live?: Now in Madrid
6. Tattoos?: I had and I removed it
7. Were you in love? I
8. 're In love I do not know.
what 9.?
10. Loved someone so much as to mourn?: I cried, but I'm not so much love and so much pride ...
11.Estuviste in a car crash, yes, but it was not my fault ...
13. Full or Burgers? I do not know what are the full
14. Pepsi or Coke?: Gin tonic
15. Beer or wine: First, a beer, then the white and finished with red
16. The glass half full or half empty? : That there is something inside me just
17. Age: x
19. Favorite Number? : 3
20 .- Your favorite pet? : Labrador
21. Type of music? : One that moves me and touches me
22 .- Your favorite actress or singer: Lauren Baccala, Sarah Vaughan, Fernanda de Utrera
23.Flores: Poppy red, white and purple
24. Talking? : To make me laugh or make me think
25. Disney or Warner? : Independent
26. Restaurant or fast food? : Restaurant
27. When you were seen at hospital: long
28 .- Your love Platonic love is Platonic all my
29. How you see yourself in ten years: I do not see
30. Whose got this email? : A priest blogger
31. Which of your friends about this further?: Those who do not know what I do ...
32. Who do you think will answer this mail faster? No one, not an email
33. Who do you think it will take longer to respond? : No one writes on my blog
34. You would change your life? : Nothing
35. Favorite CD? : Piano concertos of Beethoven No. 5
36. Best feeling? : Honesty.
37. The first thing you think when you wake up?: What I eat for breakfast today
38. Storms like you or scare you? : I like
39 .- Your favorite place: a cliff overlooking the sea
what about the 40.?
41. What's on your bedroom walls? Books, music and photos
42. Write something to the person who sent you this email: Thanks for not afraid of me
43. Name the person may not answer you? : I do not know
44 .- Your best friends left me, then they were such good friends
45. Who I'd like you to respond? : I do not care
46. Favorite Sport?: To see, soccer, practice, ski
47. Shy (a) or extroverted (a)? : Shy feigned
48 .- Your best friends: the children's
49. Your nickname? : That I have put
50. You like that you give away, things that surprised me
51. You do not like you? : Too many things, beginning with my hair
52. Do you like reading? : Much
53. Speak any language? : English, Portuguese and
54 .- An anecdote? : For that you have my blog
55 .- You have been disappointed: I protect myself from them expecting the worst in people
56. Collect anything? : Shoes
57. Have a phobia? :
of spiders 58. Your favorite TV show? : The Office
59. Cold or hot? : Heat
60 .- Your favorite movie? : I prefer the novels
61. Team? : Betray me, is a provincial team
62. Send a message to all your friends: what, not going to read
62. What would you do if tomorrow were the end of the world? : Prada and try to steal heroin
63. You admire? : A straight people
64 .- Name of your first love (a): sorry, I will not betray me 65 .-
what he would give to your best friend, something I'd have
66 .- and your worst enemy? : nothing
q 67 .- A song makes you sad: "Wild is the Wind" by Nina Simone
68 .- A q you happy: Anyone Brazilian
69. What time is it?: 12:14

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Saturday morning. Tonight I have work with the blind. From time to time I called. He is married and has not always been blind. It was a car accident, she lost the airbag in the face and stabbed the lenses of his sunglasses. You should not write these gruesomeness in my blog, but in order to serve as notice because it happens to me has more than one. What surprises me is that you leave the dough in my services, because when you no longer see, what else gives you a whore 30 euros or a 350? What does he care that is pretty or ugly, fat or thin? Suspuse always in blindness, beauty is constructed with the senses that remain, and the freedom from the tyranny of the image, the chance of being attractive is multiplied: Just a beautiful voice, a soft-touch body and a pleasant smell to be as attractive as any other. There is the view out there to lower points and reduce the attractiveness of a person, just because a nose is an inch more than necessary, or because the eye color is too vulgar, breasts are a little fall and the areolas are too big and dark lip is fleshy enough ... small deviations make a face millimeter longer harmonious and beautiful, and finally we condemn such a large number of constraints when seeking pleasure from the contemplation of beauty, it seems better to be blind to gender. So many people we did not like would be fine, just by virtue of those attributes most profound and intimate despises the sight distance and immediacy with which collects data, and that only the ear, nose, mouth and yolks fingers can feel.

Well, all this thinking of blindness is false in the case of my client tonight. He still preferred to girls who can do qualify as beautiful, or rather "they are good." Pardon my lack of modesty about it, but why would I lie, after all I know I'm beautiful and traffic with my body itself. My client says there is something intelligible, which can be sensed without the participation of the senses, physical beauty of a woman. He noted he knows when he's with a beautiful woman and when a ugly. I always quoted to explain a poem by Ezra Pound is known about memory and I just found on the Internet, so I copied it for you to know English (I dare not translate, lest she messes): Tame Cat



It Rests me to Be Among beautiful women
Why Should one always lie about Such Matters?

I repeat: It
Rests me to converse with beautiful women
Even Though Nothing But we talk nonsense,

The Purring of the invisible antennae
Is Both stimulating and delightful.