Confessions of a Prostitute

You call me a prostitute.

Yes, I'm a whore, so what?

Yes, I'm a bitch.

Go find another fool,

who won't refuse to give it to you!

How many times did I pull you out of drunken fights,

and then you'd tell me in tears,

that it wasn't your fault at all.

I endured your constant cheating with bitches,

and you, like a beaten dog, swore,

that it was all your friends.

Those bitches made you, got you drunk,

drugged you with wine and even made you fuck a whore,

as you confessed to me later.

So what the hell, you filthy scum, are you throwing accusations at me?

I may be a bitch, but I'm not poisoned,

I've always been honest with myself and you.

Yes, I like it, I like to fuck,

and even more when they give me money,

but I always came back affectionate

creating a cozy home.

For others, I was the unfortunate one,

with a child abandoned by you,

pushed onto the terrible panel by a cruel, merciless fate.

I complained to my clients,

that I never knew love,

that I wanted real feelings

drinking wine with them.

That I'm a victim, that I'm "not like that,"

that it's just an evil fate,

that one more time and I, darling,

won't spread my beautiful legs anymore.

That I don't like any of this,

that I'm looking for pure love...

and then getting on all fours

I thrust back, taking cocks into my holes.

Yes, I'm a whore and I like it.

I've always been such a bitch.

They told me "let's go, beautiful"

and I went, delighted with myself to the point of madness.

I wanted it and did it,

giving myself to others.

Was I working?

No... I wanted to,

giving pleasure to them.

Yes, I'm a whore

and I like it,

I won't lie to you or myself.

I'm like this, subject to love,

don't throw accusations at me.