The Lust Machine: Life of a Prostitute

I plunge my fingernails deeper into the hardened bed, as he enters into me with renewed vigor. I purse my lips to muffle my groans. He slaps me across my face as I contort in agony.

He puts his hand through my hair and pulls hard till I scream in pain. My eyes remain shut.He enters me rigorously. Brutally pounding me. Beast like. Till he reaches his climax, I’m his lust machine.

Finally, he falls forward on top of me, exhausted. I open my eyes and unpurse my lips. His hairy chest is bathed in sweat. I try pushing him away from me in disgust, but his weight bears down too much upon me. I give up. His bad, stinking breath accentuates my annoyance. I rest, I let out a sigh. A sad, satisfied sigh. Another job done.

There is a knock on the door. Time for the next customer to come in.

“Pooja . . . is it done?” A voice filters through the pores of the door.

The man on top of me is still panting. His huge belly is rising up and down in gigantic waves.

The knock on the door is more frantic now. The pounding reverberates in the small bare room.

“Pooja . . . time’s up! Next customer is waiting”

I grunt, and push against the man’s sweaty chest with my hands. He smells like old rotten meat. But, I’m used to all of it.

“Get up sir, your time is up” I say. He slouches his whale of a frame away from my body, and sits up.

Sweat trickles down his bald head onto his face. I hand him his clothes, and help him remove the condom.

“Sir, tips?” I ask.

He rummages through his loaded wallet, takes out a twenty rupee note and hands it to me.

“Sir . . . twenty rupees?”, I eye his wallet incredulously, “your tips are all that I get paid sir.”

“Fuck yourself whore. . . why should I pay you and the broker too?” he spits.

I ignore the throbbing pain in my heart and vagina. God is a bitch.

“Wash yourself before you leave sir” I say. He stinks like hell.

I had grown immune to the stink. Numb to the pain.  Emotionless to the the agony.


I get up from the bed and tie my hair up in a bun. I walk toward the sink, and splash water onto my face.

My black lipstick is smudged across my face. I wipe it clean with my hand, and dab a little water into my eyes.

I wipe the grime, the saliva, and tiredness from my face. I use the same towel that the bald, fat guy used on his tiny endowment. I dab rouge on my cheeks, and apply kohl to my eyes. Then I coat my lips with black lipstick repeatedly till it looks ugly.

People just consider me to be a machine at work. A lust machine. It is customer after customer, all night long. I feel my thighs contract in pain. My vagina is bleeding, three hours of repeated pounding. I wipe the blood away nonchalantly with a rag cloth.

I need to wash it. It is stained with dried blood cakes. Clots of my life.

I pull up my underwear and my pyjamas. I adjust my bra to amply display my bosom, and put on my top. I unravel my long hair, and comb it. A few hair strands get entangled in my brush. Not a good sign.

Customers love my hair. Long and silky smooth, jet black hair that extends beyond my waist.

I’m a prostitute high in demand. Beautiful. Slim. Heavy bosom. Long hair. Soft butt.

All men want me.

Men. I call them scavengers. Lecherous beasts.  Bitches. Scumbags. I stop for lack of a better word.

Right from those balding old men whose wares don’t even raise, to the little teens just out of puberty.

I place the comb on the sink, and throw a rolled up ball of my hair strands into the dustbin. It gets wedged amidst four used condoms.

Today, am wearing a polka dotted anarkali. Others times, I wear a netted lehenga. Or a sequinned sari.

I put on my high heels, and trinkets wrap my ankles like dew drops around a lotus stem.

I love dressing up. It makes me feel like a princess.

There is a knock on the door again.

“Ready?” a gruff voice questions.

“Just a minute . . .” I say, and apply more black lipstick on my lips.

The lips. The only part of my body that is truly mine. Completely mine.

Lips are the doorway to my heart. My entire body is for sale, but, my heart is not.

No man can access my soft, virgin heart pounding deep within my numb, wasted body. Man’s business is down under, nowhere else.


This is the first chapter of a five part series on the life of a prostitute. All characters are non-fictional.


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