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The woman in the window. Here I am naked. I am not hiding anything, nothing under the bra, nothing under the panties or the leggings. I will do anything if you have the nerve to ask. I am a prostitute. What is that ? And here I am outside in a coat of armor, musing at the ramifications of all this. There she is naked to the world. I was looking at her, with light such, that inside the room, she probably couldn't even see through. She may have been there all alone, with nothing to look at but herself, in the reflective window.
This was a concept. This was a work of art. This was the art of theater, a painting in a stream of museum portholes, that was alive inside the frame, and you could interact, enter the red door, go inside and say please ma'am I have money; can you sacrifice yourself to this libidinous creature ? And she says, "What do you want to do ?" And I think, I never thought of that, what does that mean ? And then she knows you are a first timer, and so she helps you. But how do you say it ? They have terms, short-cuts around the concocted fantasies of what you think you like, but are too afraid to ask, and are not sure, if even a prostitute would do such a thing; and then she would know, and so fortunate that she does not count.
Prostitutes are hated by good upstanding women no doubt. How could the prostitute not represent an admission of sexual failure to allure and retain, perhaps forgetting all those men who are incapable of attraction and allure in the first place. In a world of complete equality, if I use a prostitute, I should be able to be one myself.
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