Hola and Allo, I am the editor of an up and coming print magazine that deals with the very exciting topic of Whores, historical and contemporary. The magazine will also address issues of gender, identity, history and the arts. We are looking for writers always. But first we are looking to have the world weigh in on what it means to be a "whore". I would like to open up the discussion to more creative definitions than the usual " a whore is someone who gets paid for sex" partly because this is boring, and id historically untrue. A "prostitute" is someone who gets paid for sex, a whore is much more complicated. In fact during the middle ages, the term whore was actually an affectionate term. And then of course there are "food whores, media whores, attention whores, etc..." I am very interested what such far ranging and diverse writers like yourself have to say on the topic.
In return I have a story for you:

www.whoremagazine.net
WHORE OUTING
As the sun blazed outside I readied myself to attend the annual awards dinner for the entrepreneurial philanthropic foundation. Oooh what excitement! I was going as the date of my charming older male friend whose friendship I have cherished as he is wise, and very kind. And no, I have never slept with him. Other women might spend that last half hour working on their new sonata, or a painting rich in angst, that other woman might be harried with a host of other cares and so might wear a wrinkled skirt and a dab of lip gloss. Not I.
A whore knows the difference between public and private, she knows that the art of being is about presentation, she pays attention to the details of her person knowing that her job is to be what you need her to be. Coconut scented lotion is chosen for that island musky remembrance-not the cucumber as tonight she is not vying for the fresh and pretty award. A dab of darker red nail polish is applied to toes that haven't seen a pedicure in weeks as the shoes that go with my fantastic drapy crepe dress are open toed. A moment of doubt as I realize that the event is corporate and I could opt for the wool dress and sling back heels with a bow on the toe. But the job of a whore is to wow not to mix in and so glorious shoulders revealed, long earrings hooked, and wild hair spritzed with just a hint of vanilla, Miss Ginger is ready to leave the city and go mingle with the rich and drab.
The Santa Clara Country Club is our party destination, a monstrosity of manicured lawns and beige arches that sits nestled amongst the headquarters of the most powerful venture capitalists in Silicon Valley. These people have valet parking for a parking lot. And as everyone knows a true whore nthrives on fantasy, I was awfully disappointed that the country club looked like a church, and a protestant church at that. There were no tables fresh with white linen, no candles burning bright and to my horror---no trophy wives. I do like to consider myself an attractive and stylish woman but at thirty two with crooked teeth and hands scarred from years behind the bar, I am no blushing stunner. So imagine my dismay as I realize that compared to the tight poodled, suit jacketed corporate chicks, I was a raving beauty brash enough to make all the men scared to look my way. I could feel them eying me from behind though. Whores have highly tuned animal instincts and excellent peripheral vision-the peculiar talents of predatory prey.
So there I was, wine glass in hand, standing with my friend who is Indian who has of late, taken to wearing his hair long. The effect is oddly exotic. We make quite a pair. I can almost hear the whispers. These people so hungry, grasping at business cards, don't know that this man and I are indeed friends. That we forged our connection through long talks about spiritual matters, the ways of the world and finer points of being human. They don't know, they couldn't know as their world is one of bartering and trading everything they are for power, prestige and profit, that we actually deeply respect one another.
It matters not. I am is whore. So be it. It is the world that makes a whore, not the other way around and I begin to feel myself changing under their gaze. Wide-hips undulate beneath my dress, my lips curve provocatively with a sneer. No longer am I earnest, anxious little me but instead I am wild, a sex pot, the girl who smokes and barely hides her tattoos under sheer brown. I suddenly wanted to blurt out the story of going to buy heroin for a friend who was having heart palpitations due to a late-night coke binge. I wanted to start singing "Love for sale", I wanted to lick the ear of the older Scottish gentleman to my right who kept checking out my ass.
But I didn't. I am after all here in hopes that I might at least mention the magazine.I was netowrking-or so I thought. I was introduced to the woman who organized the event. Unprepared and feeling foolish I prattled on about successful women in business while the term "trophy wives" kept pounding in my brain. It was all I could think of. The woman was confused and as she tried to answer my silly question, a small stream of saliva flew out of her mouth and landed on my dress. Such a human moment. Though the spitting on the whore had already begun, I felt nothing but kindness for her. We are never really perfect are we. Despite my compassion, the woman grew frightened of me and her eyes begin to dart around like a nervous horse ready to bolt. But it is the woman next to her, an uptight powdered journalist for the Mercury news who suddenly locked me in her balefull gaze.
"What is the name of the magazine," she asked Oh shit-This is not going to go well. I tried to warn her.
"It is about women-my magazine," I said in a sort of careful tone. She insisted however, and when I said "Whore!" she recoiled as if I had slapped her. "Well, I will thank you not to feature me in your magazine" she spiat and then turned away.
I had been officially and suddenly snubbed. Her husband gamely asked what the magazine is about.
"History" I said and in attempt to reclaim my dignity I add that "She couldn't be featured anyway because those women who are-are um-dead."
Whew! I really showed her, I tell ya, I am so slick with this "snub me I'll snub you" crap.
Out for a cigarette I went to calm my nerves and remind myself that in most situations I am rather charming. But that is the beauty of being thirty-two and well-heeled-experience wise-I know what I am about. I know that that there are certain shades of limelight that can just wreck a girl's complexion. So I took a deep breath and headed back inside armed with knowledge that I would never see any of those people again.

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