A healthy, sexually nurtured vagina regularly activates dopamine for reward, oxytocin for bonding, and natural opioids for pleasure. This suggests that pleasure—and especially orgasm—is not trivial, but participates in the formation of confidence, creativity, and a woman’s sense of self.
When I have truly good sex, my confidence rises dramatically. I feel capable, creative, lucid. I feel good about myself. It’s as if something inside falls into place and the world becomes habitable again.
— Naomi Wolf, Vagina: A New Biography
That’s what I’ve always liked about whores like you.
Because being a whore in a world full of misogynists—sons of fear and guardians of a morality they do not practice—is no easy thing. It requires an ancient courage, almost instinctive. A courage that does not ask for permission.
Last night I was with you, and you told me something that still stays with me. You spoke of slowness as a form of power. Of how the body is not always looking for speed, but for attention. Of how touching is not taking, but learning how to stay. You said there are encounters that are not measured by the ending, but by how long someone dares to inhabit another’s skin without running away.
And I understood something: you carry prejudices others are too afraid to even name because you have learned to look directly at what you feel. You walk in full daylight with your body open like a simple, everyday, honest truth. And that unsettles people. Because there is nothing more threatening to the insecure than someone who is not ashamed of their own desire.
They reduce you to numbers, to mouths, to rumors, while those who judge you tremble in front of the mirror. They call you “whore” not for what you do, but for what you represent: freedom without apology. Autonomy without a manual. A body without an owner.
You also told me there are nights that are clumsy, human, imperfect. That not everything follows clean fantasies or borrowed scripts. That real desire stumbles, laughs, adjusts. And I thought of how dangerous those words are in a world that only tolerates pleasure when it is controlled or punished.
They judge you by day and seek you by night. They insult you in public and desire you in secret. They mock you because, deep down, all they want is to live with that same bodily honesty. But they can’t. They don’t dare. So they pray. They pray for God to extinguish what they never learned to listen to.
That’s why, when they drink, when they lose themselves, they try to possess you in the lowest way possible. Not to touch you, but to punish you. To make you smaller. To take revenge on a freedom that leaves them naked.
I don’t prefer you in spite of all this.
I prefer you because of all this.
Because a whore is not so different from a revolutionary: both break the imposed order, both pay a price for saying “this body is mine,” both unsettle a system that needs obedience to survive.
And yes, they call you whores the way they once called women witches, heretics, mad. Always the same crude gesture: naming with contempt those who refuse to be domesticated. But history is clear—always has been: those who burn first are the ones who light the way.
Because eroticism is not pornography.
It is embodied consciousness.
And every consciousness that refuses to apologize ends up being revolutionary.
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