No one will ever admit this, but it is true nonetheless: there is something sacred about those who sell their bodies. They are cherished by the deities of love and lust and abundance, are like oracles in their knowledge of humanity’s capacity for mercy and malice. Even the lowliest prostitute bears a grace and self-worth which can never be bought or sold. Their spirits burn bright even in the slums, shaming those who come for their services even as they willingly pay. Of course, the same cannot be said for those like myself who take no payment, who are bought with a smile or a drink or a rough hand beneath the table. We are beloved of no gods, carry no secrets worth keeping. We are sluts and whores, as much a step down from prostitutes as the gutter is from the palace. I suppose there’s something to be said for self-awareness, of course; we know we have no grace, no dignity, no worth. We care as little about our bodies or souls as the people to which we happily surrender. Still, I wonder what it would be like to be worthy enough of some sum, just once.