Hath Not A Whore Eyes?
by Jonathan Quince
Wednesday, March 2, 2005 11:26:28
Having settled, now, that I may tolerate you in your moral depravity, I have, thus, herein sent you such outpourings of my heart. Which leaves, then, for your answer the question of whether a Christian lady, as you, may take kindly to a pornographer such as I.
And why not, pray tell? Did not Jesus Himself consort with the whore Mary Magdalene, engaging her with love as both follower and friend? An I be a whore by this trade of my lustful words, am I not ’least as worthy as one selling of her flesh? An your Lord did find some worth in a whore, wouldst you hold yourself higher than He?
Further, yet, as to my own lot and station, object of mine pride and your scorn: An I be a whore, hath not a whore eyes? Have not I a soul, a heart, a mind so ever-sharp and ever-seeking? And if, sanguine as yours, my blood runs in my veins, what, then, say you of my psyche’s deeper content? Are such of my ideas matching yours rent suddenly null, worthless for my whoredom?—and are these words of mine heart, writ in admiration, rendered void by but mine vocation?
Moral certitude is granted not by books, and not by churches; nary a preacher still has healed the truly guilty of self-broken hearts and souls. But yet, by only conscience within comes the salvation of clarity, the quiet peace of trueness to the self. Listen not, then, to those who condemn me: For their words may be cold comfort if, damning me, you find one day in sorrow’s cold embrace the meaning of forlorn regret, opportunity repulsed. My conscience grants me, a whore, the comforts of a saint; let not yours to chide you when, all said and done today in future’s past, time’s incorrigible march leaves you late for redemption.
And, yet still, I warn you: Scorn me if you will; it is your right to be wrong, and ’twill be only your loss for time’s march to tell. But do me not the travesty of loving me in pretense while insulting my ambitions. This path in life, whoredom of my choice and aspiration, is sought not by straying with the mewls of a sheep. Nay! and nay, a thousand times! Certitude, again, and righteous pride are blessings bright of which I am anointed. Straight of spine, with head held high, do I present myself: As God’s own man I am, do take me not!—or as God’s own man do take me.
Consider, now, sweet Ann. Think well of these words, I tell you; be hasty not in this so pondering. I spake hereof with my sincerity; stain not, thus, your honor by incautious spurning. And so having said, with thundering in my heart I now send this; by bated breath I do wait on your reaction.