The Man Even Whores Loved
A mythic tirade from the world's safest man
Note from the Author
What follows isn’t a polished essay. It’s a scream. A prayer. A confession wrapped in sarcasm, grief, and just enough humor to keep it from collapsing in on itself.
I wrote this during a season when I was holding the world together for everyone but myself. It’s messy. It’s mythic. It’s human.
If you recognize yourself in here—good. But also: this isn’t an indictment of you.
It’s an exhale from me.
I’m not asking for sympathy. I’m asking for resonance.
So take a breath. Step into the ache. And know this:
If it finds you, it was never just mine to carry.
The Exhale
She curled into my lap like I was a prayer she didn’t believe in but needed to whisper anyway.
“I didn’t think I could feel this safe,” she said.
Not seductive. Not sweet. Just… true.
And then she fell asleep.
Still half-undressed. Still lightly trembling. Still holding on to my thigh like it was the last honest thing she’d touched in weeks.
I stared at the ceiling, my arm around her, thinking: How the hell did I become this man?
The one people pay to be near… but end up weeping on. The one strangers fuck, then ask for silence. The one even whores—gods, even they—say feels like home.
I used to think I was discovering myself. But maybe I was just a mattress. A sanctuary. A hospital bed no one refilled the IV in.
I was the safe place. But I never knew where I went to feel safe.
It comes naturally—almost too naturally. I see the ache, I feel the hurt, I know the need—so I intercede.
I become the pillow. The safe, quiet place you lay your head when nowhere else can. I become the container you empty yourself into. The void you bare your soul to.
I’ve had complete strangers stop me in bookstores and whisper secrets they didn’t even know they were keeping.
I’ve had clients built like castles—thick-walled, defended—lower their drawbridges just to walk out to me.
I’ve sat across from suited men at business lunches and watched them crack wide open in the middle of their Caesar salad. Not because I asked. But because I heard what they didn’t know they were saying.
Yes, I’ve even had escorts—who I paid—curl up in my lap and tell me about their friends who abused them, their boyfriends who silenced them, their dreams that were slowly bleeding out beneath the surface. Like I was the man who could wish it all away.
Even my own goddamn mother used me as her confessional. Not because she trusted me. But because I was too soft to fear.
I don’t know why I became this man. But maybe I do.
Maybe the world senses something ancient in me. Maybe I’m stitched with the kind of presence that people collapse into when they can’t hold themselves any longer.
Maybe I was built to heal. And maybe that’s the loneliest thing I’ve ever had to say out loud.
Because here’s the truth: Being the safe place means everyone comes to land—but no one ever asks if you need rest.
They disarm themselves in your arms. They cry in your lap. They whisper the most sacred, terrifying things and say, “I’ve never told anyone that before.”
And then they leave.
Lighter. Seen. Safe.
And you’re left with the weight of all the things they finally let go of.
The room smells like them. The pillow has their tears. And your body is humming with a sadness that isn’t even yours.
But it lives in you now.
You want to scream, but there’s no one to scream to. You want to be held, but you forgot how to ask. You want to stop being sacred for just one goddamn night and be soft, small, and selfish.
But who holds the healer? Who witnesses the witness? Who the hell comes to your confessional?
No one.
Because you made it look too easy. Because safety became your performance. Because the moment you mastered stillness, everyone forgot to ask if you wanted to move.
And now? Now you’re sitting in the quiet aftermath of everyone else’s relief. And you’re not mad at them. You’re just…
empty.
A brief note: When I use the word "whore," it is not from a place of judgment or condescension. If anything, it is the world’s label I’m dragging into the light—not mine. I do not hold that view. I hold them.
Loneliness doesn’t hold a candle to emptiness.
You want to know how to stop feeling alone? Easy. You find me.
Because I give you that space. That strange, invisible permission to let it all fall out of you. I don’t even have to speak. You walk in, and it’s already happening. You feel my presence, and something inside you says: “This is where I lay it all down.”
I didn’t ask for this. I never wanted it. I still don’t.
But here we are.
Like God, in His ineffable wisdom, sneezed on the embryos of humanity—and forgot to wipe the snot from my slide.
This ain’t divinity. This is demonic.
Sometimes I wonder if God is looking down over the banister of time, sees me pacing a Target aisle like a mythic janitor, and mutters to himself:
“Ha! There he is. The little fucker won’t know what to do. I should grab some popcorn—this one’s gonna be good. Kind of like that time I fucked with Job. Only this kid’s gonna think it’s a divine glitch, not a deistic fight.”
Well guess what, Big Guy.
Fuck you.
Yeah, you may have made me this way. But I decide who gets to call me home.
Maybe I was never meant to have one. Maybe I was designed to be a sacred, emotional vagabond—traipsing the Earth with my shoulder bag of unspoken pain, offering fruit from Eden while never tasting it myself.
So go ahead. Laugh at me. Mock me. Call me a whiny little bitch if it helps you feel something. But until you’ve carried this ache through this life, in this nervous system, for this long?
Sit down. Shut the fuck up.
There. I said it. Are you happy?
Maybe now I won’t be so soft. Maybe now I won’t hold the peace.
Because I’m tired. Not pretend tired. Not vacation tired. Not “let’s set a boundary” tired.
I’m done.
Done being the rock. Done being the healer. Done being the man your friends run to when their worlds implode.
Done holding the world’s stories while mine goes unread.
And maybe—just maybe—I don’t want to be your safe space anymore. Maybe I want to be fucking held.
The Remembering
[Years later. Some quiet corner of the world. Warm sun. Window open. I find the old file buried on a dusty drive.]
“Hey, honey—come here, you’ve got to read this shit.”
[She’s making tea or folding laundry or being her gorgeous, competent self while I sit cross-legged like some retired bard stumbling across a journal from his mental breakdown phase.]
“Get this—‘Fuck you’ to God. All caps. No punctuation. Like I thought I was the first person in history to file a complaint to the Creator.”
[laughs]
“I even wrote this line: ‘I was too soft to fear.’ Like I’m some erotic monk in a post-capitalist monastery, dispensing truth for two dimes and a memory.”
She leans over my shoulder.
“Oh, wow. You were really going through it.”
“No kidding. Listen to this—‘God sneezed on the embryos of humanity and forgot to wipe the snot from my slide.’ Who says that? What kind of divine snot theory was I working with here?”
I keep scrolling.
She squints and points at the screen. “Wait—wait—did you actually write ‘even whores fell in love with me’?”
“Yup.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope. Dead serious. It was poetic at the time.”
She cackles. “Okay, now you have to tell me that story. There’s no way you’re getting away with a line like that and not giving me the deets.”
I shake my head, laughing.
“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”
“Oh I definitely wouldn’t. Which is exactly why you have to tell me.”
I smirk. “Fine. Later. But you’re going to owe me a foot rub for the emotional labor.”
She grins. “Deal.”
“Oh, and here—this gem: ‘Emotional vagabond carrying hurt around like it’s the fruit of Eden.’ That’s not writing. That’s an exorcism.”
[She’s laughing now. I’m crying a little, but like… the good kind. The kind where healing shows up in the form of being absolutely roasted by your own archives.]
And then I hit a line I forgot I wrote:
“I was the safe place. But I never knew where I went to feel safe.”
And suddenly, it’s quiet.
I stare at that sentence like it just walked into the room.
“Fuck,” I whisper. “That still lands.”
Because here’s the thing: I was tired. I was wrecked. I was too open and too raw and convinced no one would ever hold me the way I held others.
And maybe I had to write like that—feral and flawed and full of venom—because that was the only way I knew how to stay alive.
This wasn’t literature. This was CPR.
So yeah, I mock it. I laugh at my own theatrics. But I also bow to it.
Because it carried me here. Because even the wildest, most unhinged pages of that pain-filled manuscript were still me trying to matter.
And when I think about it now? I’m not embarrassed.
I’m fucking grateful.