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Naked Life

Naked Life

Pityful life of a prostitute and how she feels everytime she gets picked up by a stranger for usage. A pun on dark world that is masqueraded.

Fall; and rise up again from your ashes. - Phoenix
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She was grey, nude. So was her shawl, the only piece of clothing she had around her. The shawl too had the torn patches like her heart still finds.

She was grey, black bruised all around her body, exploited. Iterating, her shawl was torn, and as a small kid would, peeps her nipple as discomfort knocks her door.

Her elegant body, she rested on a promenade, so cold felt her bums, those cheeks so soft she once used to flaunt about, was feeling the cold; literal, figurative. Her ravishing thighs were scared now, her hands locking the knees, her back on the fence surrounding beautiful sea. Ironical it seemed.

And men, men like me, men like you, held her hand, takes back to a place, a shelter was provided. Shelter of shame. She couldn't be repugnant enough to deny as when the shelter was snatched, a candy denied, would lead her to the nearest hot dog on wheels, and doesn't he as well shoo the dirt with disrespect.

It makes me laugh, a smile over the dark world that is masqueraded by the so called pleasant world of ours, the search of our happiness, trying to find positive in every aspect we can't face.

In a world where prostitution is a fashion, prostitution is a luxury, a business, something we are proud of, she was a prostitute. Well, she had two boobs and a vagina. She was a prostitute.

-PHOENIX

(I intend to offend none and the vulgar use of words are not used in an offensive way. It is reality and how God really did make us. So no offense or apologies. And by saying she was a prostitute I meant that she was used for sex and was exploited and thus in a way becomes an unofficial prostitute. It's a pun and pity expressed.)


Contributed By Kirti (Phoenix) Sejpal

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Annie wilson Senior Associate Editor

Reading this reminded me of one of Franz Kafka short-story

Rejection by Franz Kafka (Translated by Willa and Edwin Muir)

When I meet a pretty girl and beg her: 'Be so good as to come with me,' and she walks past without a word, this is what she means to say: 'You are no Duke with a famous name, no broad American with a Red Indian figure, level, brooding eyes and a skin tempered by the air of the prairies and the rivers that flow through them, you have never journeyed to the seven seas and voyaged on them wherever they may be, I don't know where. So why, pray, should a pretty girl like myself go with you?'
'You forget that no automobile swings you through the street in long thrusts; I see no gentlemen escorting you in a close half-circle, pressing on your skirts from behind and murmuring blessings on your head; your breasts are well laced into your bodice, but your thighs and hips make up for that restraint; you are wearing a taffeta dress with a pleated skirt such as delighted all of us last autumn, and yet you smile - inviting mortal danger - from time to time.'
'Yes, we're both in the right, and to keep us from being irrevocably aware of it, hadn't we better just go our separate ways home?'

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