Rogue Trader

I am currently working on a short-story about a day in the life of a prostitute. And no, although it seems to be a common reaction, I am not and never was in the business of soliciting (ie. selling my body for sex). My work is written purely from a fictional point of view and I have never (knowingly) been friends or acquaintanced with someone in this industry. However, the theme has got me thinking about how we abuse our minds and bodies every day as human beings albeit in different ways.

In a way, I think very few of us can ever truly say that they haven't had to forgo the dignity of our true interests, or passions in the pursuit of making money, which is ultimately what most people consider to be so wrong about prostitution: dignity. In the minds of some the art of making money itself commands respect. Let's face it, if our closest friends and family had sold sex for money then we wouldn't be happy, but if they made loads of money and never told us then we would think they're doing quite well? I mean, I would soon begin to ask where the money is coming from, so they'd have to at least make up a good story.

Money is money. Isn't it?