Modern Day Courtesan
Quote:
The courtesan must live in the shadows. Is she in a state of fluctuating power and powerlessness?
yes. quite.
she is that space between desire and indulgence. keep the bait up, keep them chomping, stir fantasies, stir dreams, but all from a distance.
she can never be known, and she can never quite be reached. as much as she yearns to be touched, no one ever quite does. no one ever quite knows how. she shuts off a piece of her soul so that the blatent falsity of it all doesn't hit so hard, doesn't knock the wind out of her so completely.
how does this affect the way she exists in waking life?
the walk through plexiglass peer into other side of the pane, the floating reality, she must believe her own illusion, but truth itself distorted, nothing has a base of grounding and foundation in it. the temporal fleeting interest of her clients depends on her ability to continue to feed their inner monster - lust, that melancholy motivator of this madness. their desire for something forbidden.
how then, the courtesan must reconcile, how then to balance her own version of truth, her own desires for love and the fed black hole that keeps her returning to this space, where nothing is appropriate, where nothing is real, where she can be as dirty as she wants to be, in fact the more the better, where she can exist and prance freely, unbeholden to the conventions and strap down standards that society constantly imposes?
the fantasy world is a drug, to both courtesan and patron. she inevitably becomes a slave to her own self constructed fantasy world, her alternate persona, her addiction to the madness of it, the never ending kaleidoscope of men and their overwhelming desires to do this or that dirty deed, she maintains the poise, but indulges the dirt... each new experience, each new adventure fills and floods the possibilities of the next one. the stories come out one by one. some stay locked, some she forces out. the landscape of novelty becomes entrancing, new prospects beg to know wheres she gone, where she has been. elusive she remains.
the dance is complex, yet ridiculously simple. he holds the money, she holds the sex, but at any given time either could walk away, and allow too much time to elapse between fantasy and fruition.. and inevitably someone does. her through selective indifference, or he through a return to reality, a splash of cold water to his face, a reassesment of funds allocated. who wins, who is powerful now?
and as the interior hardends, as the wheeling and dealing continues, the yearn for reality, familiarity, the surreal tear inducing prospect of marriage, all grow stronger, locked in a dark room in the back of the soul... yet all the while, the belief, the conviction that this kind of life is foriegn and never-to-be spreads through the blood, through the marrow pervasively. love appears and is shunned. resented. dismissed. the cycle resumes.
yet the exercise affords her something unique. a space others dare not venture, a strength in spirit, a study of men. the opportunity to practice, the opportunity to weave. this strange value emerges, this strange notion that her body is not simply for pleasure, that it can be used for profit. she realizes that her mind can spin tales that bring the strongest to their knees, grasping at their crotches. is she empowered for this realization, or is she debased?
is she collecting charms and tools for the next victims, for her true love, for her self confidence, for her future children, for her potential great work of art, or is she simply delluding herself that any of this is real at all...
what is the calling of a courtesan?
the motivation, the purpose?
The courtesan must live in the shadows. Is she in a state of fluctuating power and powerlessness?
yes. quite.
she is that space between desire and indulgence. keep the bait up, keep them chomping, stir fantasies, stir dreams, but all from a distance.
she can never be known, and she can never quite be reached. as much as she yearns to be touched, no one ever quite does. no one ever quite knows how. she shuts off a piece of her soul so that the blatent falsity of it all doesn't hit so hard, doesn't knock the wind out of her so completely.
how does this affect the way she exists in waking life?
the walk through plexiglass peer into other side of the pane, the floating reality, she must believe her own illusion, but truth itself distorted, nothing has a base of grounding and foundation in it. the temporal fleeting interest of her clients depends on her ability to continue to feed their inner monster - lust, that melancholy motivator of this madness. their desire for something forbidden.
how then, the courtesan must reconcile, how then to balance her own version of truth, her own desires for love and the fed black hole that keeps her returning to this space, where nothing is appropriate, where nothing is real, where she can be as dirty as she wants to be, in fact the more the better, where she can exist and prance freely, unbeholden to the conventions and strap down standards that society constantly imposes?
the fantasy world is a drug, to both courtesan and patron. she inevitably becomes a slave to her own self constructed fantasy world, her alternate persona, her addiction to the madness of it, the never ending kaleidoscope of men and their overwhelming desires to do this or that dirty deed, she maintains the poise, but indulges the dirt... each new experience, each new adventure fills and floods the possibilities of the next one. the stories come out one by one. some stay locked, some she forces out. the landscape of novelty becomes entrancing, new prospects beg to know wheres she gone, where she has been. elusive she remains.
the dance is complex, yet ridiculously simple. he holds the money, she holds the sex, but at any given time either could walk away, and allow too much time to elapse between fantasy and fruition.. and inevitably someone does. her through selective indifference, or he through a return to reality, a splash of cold water to his face, a reassesment of funds allocated. who wins, who is powerful now?
and as the interior hardends, as the wheeling and dealing continues, the yearn for reality, familiarity, the surreal tear inducing prospect of marriage, all grow stronger, locked in a dark room in the back of the soul... yet all the while, the belief, the conviction that this kind of life is foriegn and never-to-be spreads through the blood, through the marrow pervasively. love appears and is shunned. resented. dismissed. the cycle resumes.
yet the exercise affords her something unique. a space others dare not venture, a strength in spirit, a study of men. the opportunity to practice, the opportunity to weave. this strange value emerges, this strange notion that her body is not simply for pleasure, that it can be used for profit. she realizes that her mind can spin tales that bring the strongest to their knees, grasping at their crotches. is she empowered for this realization, or is she debased?
is she collecting charms and tools for the next victims, for her true love, for her self confidence, for her future children, for her potential great work of art, or is she simply delluding herself that any of this is real at all...
what is the calling of a courtesan?
the motivation, the purpose?
posted by sheloves at 9:13 AM
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