So I was sitting on a picnic table out in California...

Whimsical Musings of a whore: An unfiltered walk through the Whore's memories; both recent and long past.

When this guy came up to me and asked if I was a love worker. 'A what?', I asked. He had a thick German accent and I thought, 'perhaps I misheard.' No, I had heard him correctly; he was indeed asking if I was a love worker. A 'love worker', for those who aren't up on their German lingo, is person who receives money for favours, better known in these parts as a 'Whore'. I am neither; I am a Tart (or so I tell myself every single night as I cry myself to sleep.) How this man knew I was a 'love worker' I don't know, but I do know that I was not pleased with being called out.

When I'm out and about tarting it up I am quite receptive to being approached by strangers for a bit of fun (so long as they're paying; you dig?) but when I'm on my muther-fucking vacation- Back the fuck up off me bitches! Even Tarts need their days off! So of course, being in a sour and dour mood I yelled at him in my best german, 'Nein doch!', kicked him in the shins, and retreated to my hotel room as quickly as Tartly possible. The incident had me a little freaked out; when people look at me, do they smell, 'Whore' or was this just some freak occurrence? He was German after all and they are so... German. What will happen if I walk into a church? Will I be set a blaze; will I combust into a shower of flaming fabulouslessness; will I go up in a flame of glory... wait, that only happens to vampires. Okay, so what if a nun passes me; will she attack me with her cane, or if a rector strolls by, will he drop to his knees and start blowing? These are serious things to consider... perhaps I should swing by St. Patricks and put this to the test...

-The Tart