The Whore’s Lament

His head rests on my shoulder, his hand rests on my knee. I stroke his hair and tolerate the things he's telling me. He loves his girlfriend deeply, but she doesn't understand. Any talk of whips and chains is absolutely banned. I've heard it all before, of course, I hear it every day. There seems to be no limit to the sorts of things they'll say. His wife thinks he's disgusting, she won't do what he craves. His friends would laugh if they could see how he sometimes behaves. Of course, with me it's different.  There's not much I refuse. I understand their problems, so I'm the one they use. But what makes them assume I want to know about their wives? The magic of their meeting, their largely happy lives? They come to me and hold me, in ecstasy and tears. An endless procession, slaking lust and shaking fears. They give my poor emotions a wrenching, heartless stir, Then sigh, and put their clothes on, and hurry home to her. She's the one they care about, mine's the soul they rent. But can the world have sympathy for a whore's lament?