I am not very expensive. Not much. Not a fixed price. Sometimes I get nothing. Money leaves me. I spend it on food.
I don't like men. This is no problem. I avoid men. I can be by myself, for days. That's OK. I like being with women, I have certain needs, I need to eat, I am human.
I don't own anything. I have no money and no papers. Sometimes I get jailed for that. I don't own my clothes – the next woman I meet will throw them away. I don't own my thoughts and my body – the next woman I meet will do what she likes with them.
Most women call me bob, usually bob, sometimes bert or burt or barry or some name beginning with b. It is OK as a name, b, that is.
The lady and the tramp is what I call it. I'm sitting on a bench somewhere, in a town, in a park. She sits down next to me and I am in her world.
I do not try to escape. Why bother? Soon enough, after a couple of hours or years I will be on my own again – in different clothes.
She was good, very good to me. She fed me. She clothed me. She took me to parties. It was a good life. What was the problem? She drank.
Every day at one o'clock she downed a bottle of the heavy stuff and slept until eight. In the evening we went to parties, we went out, but she drank no alcohol.
One day after the usual bottle I shook the truth out of her. It was at that time of the day that her two uncles abused her as a child. She had had them murdered, but it didn't help none. She had to drink to forget.
The next day at one I took her to the woods and tied her to a tree. She screamed until eight. We went to a party, but she drank no alcohol.
Every day at one o'clock I took her to the woods and tied her to a tree. She screamed until eight. We went to parties, we went out, but she drank no alcohol.
One day the police came – walkers in the woods had heard the screams. Funny! They accepted my explanation, my lies.
One day she didn't scream. At eight o'clock I untied her. I never saw her again.
You think that I know women. How can that be? I am only a man named b.