Letter From The Modern-Day Courtesans

Greetings, gentlemen. I am here as a representative of the women you still feel torn about. We are the women who, when we gave you a bit of our flashing eye, our masterful pursed lip, made you feel momentarily like you were the regent of our great universe. We hope that you loved it.

You, of course, referred to Us to all of your friends as ‘that crazy girl.’ This, we knew. Yet privately we thought well of you anyway; we saw you as no one else has yet seen you. As a truly powerful creature who was broken for a moment. We saw in you both greatness and vulnerability, and we adored you.

Darling, we adored you.

Of course, when you said ‘crazy,’ what you meant was ‘hot.’ We made you feel crazy. We do wield our sexuality like a weapon against which you have always been helpless; we, with our wild hair, our manic ways, our dazzling magic. When you met us you sucked into your inert and sorrowful lungs a breath of what could have been, what you had always wanted. And we, with our tender hands (nail polish chipped, of course, the better to lend you toward writing poetry about our imperfections later) nurtured you gently toward it. Toward what? The better you, of course, the fiction of what you thought you should have had, should have been.

We have never appeared at a time that is convenient for you. We are sorry. We have preferred to hit you like a cosmic meteor, when you were not expecting it. You will always remember the first time that you saw us in flesh; you will recount to us later how much you wanted us then, and how sweet we seemed. How you did not know what you were getting into with Us.

Thank goodness we came along, though. We, with our black nails, our strange hair, and our luscious mouths, the ones you had admired guiltily in our pictures without wanting your girlfriends, your wives, to know. We are the women that tended and inspired you. We were ‘there.’ When you could talk to no-one else, we were ‘there.’ You didn’t know what you would have done otherwise.

We loved you. We asked for nothing back. You seemed so strong from far away, and then we approached you and we realized you were weak and needful. And then we loved you anyway. Oh, how we loved you. We understood you deeply. We knew how much you needed us. We made ourselves available.

You felt uninspired. You felt trapped. You felt alone, and most of all you felt frustrated, and there we were. Available.

We, your courtesans. We knew ‘your situation.’ We asked for nothing. We just wanted to know you. We just wanted to know you. We listened. We knew things about you that you could not tell Her. We comforted you and understood you in all the days that escaped her capacity or her willingness. We were the ones you texted at midnight. We were the ones you Facebook-chatted from work.

We were Just Friends, of course. We were your friend, your gorgeous and witching and red-lipped Friend. We didn’t ‘expect’ anything; we, you said, ought not to have expected anything, even on the night that you wept in our laps before you made love to us in our very own beds.

We loved you. We loved you so hard. And you knew it. You knew it right away.

And you needed it. You needed to feel valued. You needed validation. You were broken and without direction, and so we told you that you are good. You were tangled and without escape, and so to you we spoke rationally, we said ‘this is the way out.’ From us you had succor, you were assuaged, you felt stronger. In time you came to admire us as much as we admired you.

We didn’t want anything ‘back’; we did not ask for anything back. We told you that. You were aware that we had a number of casual partners and you were just one of them. It was not an issue. We are lighthearted, fear not. We just had so much love to give, we always have so much love to give.

Dear boy, (you were a man from far away and a boy up close). Dear Boy: When you had nothing we took care of you. We, with our electric hair and the unexplored and downy-soft, mysterious desert of our skin, we made you feel special – more than special. Like you had slipped into a land that was made for only you.

Here’s a secret: It was made for only you. We loved you so, so hard. You knew, and that’s why you took us home. Because everyone else wanted us, but we chose you. We chose you, and look how proud you were.

But we would not call you, nor text unsolicited. We would wait for you to message us. We got it; you were ‘going through a hard time right now.’ The intrusion of our presence was ‘confusing.’ We did not want to confuse you. You explained to us precisely where You Are At and we shouldered, like an ancient cape, the mantle of understanding. We have assumed responsibility; we are responsible for you. You told us How It Was. We were responsible and we were understanding and so we asked for nothing. We would never trouble you. We are here to help, not complicate Things. We know you. It’s for you; it’s okay, it’s okay.

We would not burden you with such minor things as our ‘needs.’  We ‘knew what we were getting into.’ Despite the fact that we have made love to you, numerous times, passionately and with full intention when no one else would, when even the Royal She would not, we have refused to darken your difficult and transient doorstep with our selfish ‘needs.’ You have asked for our understanding. We are trying to help you. We know better. We know better.

When you call on us, we will be there. This ‘situation’ operates under your terms. We are the ones you reach out to when you are in your most expansive desert of desperation; when there is no one else, there is us. You have asked us for patience and we donate it as generously as our blood. We are ‘here for you.’ We can ‘listen.’ You can call anytime. You can come over. We will care for you.

And we’ll do it so well. It is better with us than it ever was with Her and we know this because you told us more than once. We suspect you’ve told us this just because you fear we will tire of loving you, but deep down inside you know the thing we both do – we will never tire of it. Love is a malleable thing. You do not need to be our ‘partner.’ We know you ‘can’t give us anything.’ We will ‘always be friends.’ We love you, love is just a pure word, we love you, we love you.

When you let us know, evasively and in vague language as is your fucking way, that things are better now with Her, we understand. We knew what we were getting into; we knew, we understand. It’s what we wanted all along, we wanted the best for you. That’s what we hoped for, you know; we hope with all our hearts that you will find happiness as you leave us behind as just another fucking phase in your ‘personal growth process.’

Poor thing. You are still so confused. When you rise in the morning and you feel uncertain, you recall that you are desired by a beautiful woman and hold it dear, like a weapon against the private wars you wage versus your inadequate partner and your unfulfilled potential. We are glad we have given you that, we are so glad.

When we see Her we will hug her. We really have no problem with Her, really. She’s a nice girl. She’s just right for you, we understand how much you fundamentally love one another. We get it. She doesn’t know, poor thing. She is owed our sympathy. We will buy her a drink, because we make more money than that dumb and docile cunt does, and because you are too busy looking at us to realize She wants a drink. You told us nothing was Her fault, and so we make a magnanimous effort not to hold it against Her. We buy Her another drink.

It’s not her fault. It’s not our fault. It’s nobody’s fault. Isn’t it lovely how everything is all right, and nobody has sung a note out of tune?

You will do us the quintessential indignity. You will take us aside and you will ask, ‘are you okay.’

And we will smile fondly toward you, and we will say, with oblivious candor, ‘yes, of course, why not?’ We might even laugh a little. Because we knew what we were getting into. We knew all along. Of course we are Okay. And if by some miracle we were not, you would furrow your brow. You would become a little angry, or a little distant. We were the ones that should have known better. Uh oh, we dare not be anything other than completely and totally fucking Okay, in the face of all your problems and your needs and Hers. Sorry, we’re so sorry, no, nothing’s wrong.

You will feel stronger because of us. You will feel like a better man. You will tell us, half-drunk and in the bar’s smoking alley later, about all the things we have done for you and how good we have made you feel. We helped. You will thank us. You will go on at length about how fantastic we are, and how much we deserve. You are so grateful. We are such a wonderful woman. Someone is gonna love us like crazy one day, you tell us.

We’ll look in your eyes and we’ll see how bad you still want to fuck us and how easy we could take you home if we just decided to lay it on just a little bit. You are faithless.

We will tell you everything’s all right. We will assure you that we are still friends. We have known it all the while, that this is how we were meant to end up. We knew. We knew. We’ll text you two weeks later about how we’re coming to your event to support you and you won’t answer. We’ll text you three weeks later about would you like to do that thing together you said you wanted to do, and you will tell us that things are Complicated, as things are always Complicated with you, and how you’d like to but you really just ‘can’t.’

It’s okay, we’ll tell you. We’re still friends. When we have an event of our own to which we’d like you to come you will be busy and you’ll really want to’ve made it and we will understand. Because, as we’ve told you a million times, we knew up front what we were getting into. Because you’ve been so honest all the while, because if there is anything our friendship has going for it it’s that we have always been so fucking honest with each other. We are such good friends.

You will see us somewhere in passing and then later you will text us about how it was nice to see us. How we looked so beautiful. As if it was for you.

We want to write ‘fuck you.’ We want to write, ‘enjoy that mousy bitch who is less intelligent, less attractive, less interesting, less devoted and less of everything-fucking-everything than we are.’

But we write, ‘thanks :D it was nice to see you too,’ because we know we have given away our right to have a fucking dog in this fight. We knew what we were getting into. You need your space now. We ought to respect that. We ought not to burden you now that you are Happy Again. We understood your needs better than anyone, right? And that is why we must leave you alone now. We cannot ask you for anything. You are having a Tough Time. We should respect that. We shouldn’t complicate your lives further with our presence.

Dear Boy: On behalf of all of us, we hope you are happy forever with that less-everything-than-us broad that you chose because she did not frighten you as much as we did.

However, and here’s the thing we were lying about when we said I’m sorry-I’m-so-sorry: We are not, actually, sorry that we called you when you were with her. We are not sorry that we loved you just enough that you felt ready to go back to her, that we helped you Find Yourself so that you were able to Go Home.

We are absolutely not sorry that we expect to be remembered. And we are not sorry for the knife-stab you feel in your chest once you realize we do not want to be your ‘friend’ anymore. We aren’t sorry for how you feel when you learn we have told your friends everything, and they look at you like they’re a little repulsed. You are telling them about how crazy we are, and they will never tell you that you lost, Boy. You lost.

Dear Boy: We are the women you will remember in twenty years. In forty. We are the women that will still give you hard-ons on your deathbed. We loved you. And you can remember that, and maybe it’ll make you feel a little bit better about yourself. It always has, right? Wasn’t that what we were for, what our loving the hell out of you was for?

Look up our photograph, just as we are right now. Think to yourself, “I hit that.”

“I hit that.”

Yes, you did, Boy, dear Boy. That’s really what we were for, right? We are, of course, right. We have always been right. We will always be right, and we will always be okay. As for you, we are still – as we have always done – wishing you the best of luck.

Love,

Your Courtesans