The Crip Whore

I figured that would get your attention.

I’m still not sure what the entire process was that made Baphomet think I was a good choice to work in the Sacred Whore space at Fusion, but it was made clear to me that I had to at least consider it. I was consoled by the fact that it was being lead by a fellow genderweird person whose sacred whoredom also manifests in a non-traditional manner. It also helped when I learned that one of my Clan mates was also going to offer their services at the same time. Finally, my new lover felt that their Patron also wanted him to participate.

Now, I have to be a little honest for a minute here. I’m not what you envision when you think of a whore, sacred or otherwise. I’m genderweird, and not in the (sadly) more well-known “shemale” way. My disability is becoming more obvious. I’m fat, and not “curvy sexy” fat, but “people feel free to comment on my size and diet all the time” fat. I’m also not very sexual in the traditional sense; I don’t do casual pickup sex, I don’t do public sex (heck, nudity), and I’m not even a really big fan of touching strangers. So how did I find myself working in a Sacred Temple of Qadesh?

The short answer is, Baphomet said, “Touch the untouchable.” Not the most clear or easy to understand God messages I’ve ever received, but it at least gave me something to work with. I decided my own boundaries – I would offer any sadomasochistic services (with a gentle preference for topping, although bottoming wasn’t out of the question) or sexual services that did not include penetration or full nudity on my part. (I would penetrate someone else, and they could be nude, but not me.)

I arrived with His Boy (the aforementioned new lover – and “His” is not “mine”, but the way I denote him as belonging to his deity) in kinda-matching outfits of black tank tops and black pants. The person organizing the space had made me a special cord to wear to signal that I was “working, which I slung over my shoulder and let drape between my breasts. I sat in my chair next to the altar and opened my toybag.

For the first hour or so, I mostly lounged with several of the other “specialty” whores. We were an interesting bunch – all genderweird in one way or another, and not there to specifically offer sexual service, and all open to less gentle, more cathartic sorts of interactions. Almost all of us were dressed in some form of black. We watched as several people, clients and workers, made their way into the temple space where the pretty lights and comfy mattresses were. I’m pretty sure all of us second-guessed if we were in the right space. But we waited, and by the end of the night, we all had our work to do.

I won’t go into detail about what I did, per se, as I feel part of the sacred work of a whore is to keep their client’s confidences. What I will write about is a moment of tension I experienced and the processing that comes from that.

After some time had passed, there we were again, the whores in black, sitting in the shadow of the altar. We noticed two presumably cis-gendered men standing by the fire, as though they were waiting for someone. I eventually asked the organizer what they were looking for. One of them was waiting for a specific priestess, but the other was looking for an experience any one of us could have provided. The only catch was that he had stated a preference for a “female”.

Now, in Sacred Whore space, I am not allowed to gender myself. I am to ask for and use third gendered pronouns, not to categorize myself as such, but because my mandate is to be all things for all people. If they look at me and see woman, then I must find a way to fulfill that for them. If they see man, the same. And if what really makes them squirmy in the pants is the fact that they can’t rightly tell, I can work that energy well, too. But what was clear to all of us is that this person saw us as being somehow deficient.

None of us are what I call “conventionally attractive”. We all have a range of extra weight, from “curvy sexy” on up. Now that I think on it, all of us have very short hair, like crew cuts or shorter. But we are very good at what we do – and I know this because I’ve played with the other two, and have had sex with both of them as well. We know how to wield our genitals as well as we know how to throw a flogger. And yet he waited. We continued to drink wine and talk about whore-like topics. Finally, the man left, unfulfilled. We were not meant to be his fantasy.

Now, there’s no shame in that. If I had come to have a specific experience and the only choice available was Gilbert Gottfried, I would have made the same choice he did. And maybe we were his Gilberts. But at the same time, he didn’t even deign to talk to us, to acknowledge our existence. We weren’t just there to fulfill some sort of whore fantasy on our parts, but because our Gods have wired us to be very good at sacred sex/kink. He could have taken a chance. Eh, less work for us.

I don’t know where the role of sacred whore fits into my personal cosmology. I know it’s a secondary, or even maybe tertiary thing for me, a once-in-a-while thing, as what I offer is very specific and fine tuned. I’m glad I was present for this ritual, as it turned out I was necessary.

The one client I can talk about won’t think of himself as a client at all, but when he reads this he’ll know I’m right. After we had serviced the clients present, His Boy and I decided to play together in the temple space. Part of me that routinely tries to ignore the Gods thought this was a decision of practicality – it would have been a pain in the butt to get transport from the temple location to the general playspace, with all of my stuff. But as things turned out, the Temple was the right place after all.

His Boy has struggled with self-image quite a lot. He was in a relationship for a long time in which he was given many negative messages about his body – specifically, that he was too fat to find attractive. This breaks my heart, as I think his body is perfect the way it is now, and I literally can’t imagine him looking the way his ex would have had him look. It has been made clear by the many spirit worker friends we have in common that part of the God-Yenta part of us getting together has been for me to make him feel sexy and worthy again, and I am happy to do that.

I laid him down on a massage table and we began to play, both in the SM meaning of the word as well as the more general. We worried that we were bringing too much frivolity and laughter to the solemnity of the Temple space, but then I remembered that part of my Job’s underpinning to is remind people that sacred does not always mean solemn. I punched and pinched him, and caressed and stimulated him. It was fun and painful and sexy all at the same time. One minute he’d be laughing and begging me not to tickle him, and the next he’d be practically cumming.

Then the point of it all became clear to me. There it was – all the self-hatred, the doubt, the residue left behind from years of being told in many different ways that he was not desirable. I don’t know if the sex play had let him lower his shields, or if it was just the right time for it to happen, but it became a tangible, visual energetic manifestation for me. I saw it over his solar plexus chakra, the one I most relate to the “sense of self as it relates the world”. It was dark, and thick, and wasn’t moving much at all. I asked him if I could do some energy work, and then I felt the Crip Whore hat slide back on my head.