The second part of Maggie McNeill’s column! Read the first part here.
Women are called womanly only when they regard themselves as existing solely for the use of men. – George Bernard Shaw
One major professional hazard for whores is the possibility of rape, and though it is much less likely for call girls than for streetwalkers it does still happen sometimes. In yesterday’s column I defined rape as I use the word and discussed the appalling ignorance which causes many people (including some women) to conclude that whores cannot be raped; I then described the first time I was raped on the job. In today’s column I will describe the second time and another incident in which I only barely avoided being raped; strangely enough it was the latter incident which was the most frightening of the three, for reasons which will soon be made clear. For those who missed yesterday’s column I will repeat this warning: Though I will do my best to describe these events as neutrally and without lurid detail as possible, it may still be a bit difficult for those of delicate disposition or women who have themselves been raped. If you belong to one of those two groups, you may wish to skip both this column and yesterday’s because I really have no desire to cause anyone distress. As I said yesterday I would rather not have to talk about it at all, but the only way to combat ignorance is with complete honesty, and that means discussing the ugly aspects of harlotry as honestly as the beautiful ones.
It was perhaps a year after the first incident that a regular customer of mine who was a wrestling promoter called me for one of his professional wrestlers, a champion from Honduras. The man spoke almost no English and I only half-forgotten high-school Castilian Spanish, so the details were arranged by my regular. The hotel wasn’t nearly as fancy as the Windsor Court but it was by no means cheap, and my regular was going to be in the next room, so even though I had a slight sense of foreboding I went ahead with the deal. As in the other call the first part went as usual, but soon after the client was inside me my true predicament became apparent.
The first sign of trouble was that he wouldn’t stop trying to kiss me. As I mentioned in my column of July 24th most whores never kiss our clients because of the desire to maintain emotional distance, and though I sometimes broke that rule if I felt some chemistry with a friendly, clean client, I certainly never did with men who seemed unable to kiss without being disgusting (which I will discuss in a future column). This guy I most definitely did NOT want to kiss; he had a huge, wet mouth and was a heavy smoker in addition to just generally being gross. But despite my protests and fighting he continued to kiss me roughly, biting my lip and sucking on it so hard it throbbed. When I finally succeeded in getting him to let go by biting him back, he started laughing like an idiot and sucking on my neck. Again I fought, pushing him off, and he moved to one of my tits, then the other, laughing and keeping me down in a wrestling hold so I could not escape.
Finally, I got my opportunity; he withdrew from me, reared up on his knees and announced, “No like condom!” and proceeded to pull it off. My legs slammed shut like a steel trap and I rolled off of the bed and dropped to the floor so quickly it almost made me dizzy. This seemed to take him off guard, so I quickly got up and started pointing at my watch, trying to make him understand that his time was up. It wasn’t, of course, but I managed to confuse him enough to cause him to hesitate while I started to get dressed. The next five minutes or so were like some grotesque comedy; he kept trying to hug and kiss me while I was trying to get dressed, then actually lifted me off of the floor several times and turned me around in his hands, talking to me in thickly-accented Spanish I couldn’t quite make out. If I hadn’t been so concerned for my safety it might’ve been funny. At last, though, I managed to get out the door, only to find my regular coming up the hall from the bar where he had been for the last twenty minutes, oblivious to my noisy struggles next door. It was the last time I ever saw him, needless to say!
Read the rest of the article here.
De Nederlandse Debatbond (NDB) stelt zich als doel het wedstrijddebat te bevorderen en ondersteunen in Nederland. Als nationaal overkoepelend orgaan vertegenwoordigt de NDB ongeveer 1.000 leden waarvan de meesten lid zijn van één van de debatverenigingen die Nederland rijk is.
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