1997

I am forty-five years old and presently work in a large and popular house of ill repute in Gauteng, South Africa. I am a whore and have been employed here for the past nine months. All that it comes down to is the same old story in a different house, year after year. My routine consists of work, sleep, a bit of gym that I do to the best of my ability without equipment and back to the house again. Like a hamster in one of those little wheels that are put into their cages to keep them busy. I never see my family or friends and have lost my sense of humor. I never smile or laugh. I am always tired, hung over and cannot bear men near me. I hate the empty drunken conversations; the pawing and the invasion of my body by the hour. Not even the girls whom I love dearly do I find amusing at this stage of my life. And because of this my bookings drop as the clients sense my dislike and impatience. I am very tired and also broke. When I look in the mirror I find that I am still beautiful with an amazing body. But my face is hard and my eyes cold. I am dead but still breathing as my soul has been smothered by unbearable pain. I am a zombie going through the motions of life, constantly considering suicide, as my whole being silently screams out for release. No way forward or backward for a woman like me. Way back there I unknowingly sold my rose tinted spectacles and who wants to live in a world surrounded by the harsh realities of life? Certainly not me so there can be no future for me.

Yet I was an innocent once who fell into the game with good intentions. I was not going to be doing this for long, I remember telling myself when I first started selling my body, unaware that my soul was to be part of the deal. This is my story...