Pimp Love Quotes

In the days when hyenas of hate suckle the babes of men, and jackals of hypocrisy pimp their mothers’ broken hearts, may children not look to demons of ignorance for hope.

Summer has never been the same since the 2000 Presidential Election, when we still seemed to be a prosperous nation at peace with the world, more or less. Two summers later we were a dead-broke nation at war with all but three or four countries in the world, and three of those don't count. Spain and Italy were flummoxed and and England has allowed itself to be taken over by and stigmatized by some corrupt little shyster who enjoys his slimy role as a pimp and a prostitute all at once--selling a once-proud nation of independent-thinking people down the river and into a deadly swamp of slavery to the pimps who love Jesus and George Bush and the war-crazed U.S. Pentagon.

I remember you was conflicted Misusing your influence Sometimes I did the same Abusing my power, full of resentment Resentment that turned into a deep depression Found myself screaming in the hotel room I didn’t wanna self destruct The evils of Lucy was all around me So I went running for answers Until I came home But that didn’t stop survivor’s guilt Going back and forth trying to convince myself the stripes I earned Or maybe how A-1 my foundation was But while my loved ones was fighting the continuous war back in the city, I was entering a new one A war that was based on apartheid and discrimination Made me wanna go back to the city and tell the homies what I learned The word was respect Just because you wore a different gang color than mine's Doesn’t mean I can’t respect you as a black man Forgetting all the pain and hurt we caused each other in these streets If I respect you, we unify and stop the enemy from killing us But I don’t know, I’m no mortal man, maybe I’m just another nigga

The assertion that Americans love violence and bathe in it daily is a self-serving lie promulgated by fundamentalist religious types and America's propaganda-savvy gun-pimps. It's believed by people who don't read novels, play video games, or go to many movies

The other night we talked about literature's elimination of the unessential, so that we are given a concentrated "dose" of life. I said, almost indignantly, "That's the danger of it, it prepares you to live, but at the same time, it exposes you to disappointments because it gives a heightened concept of living, it leaves out the dull or stagnant moments. You, in your books, also have a heightened rhythm, and a sequence of events so packed with excitement that i expected all your life to be delirious, intoxicated." Literature is an exaggeration, a dramatization, and those who are nourished on it (as I was) are in great danger of trying to approximate an impossible rhythm. Trying to live up to dostoevskian scenes every day. And between writers there is a straining after extravagance. We incite each other to jazz-up our rhythm. It is amusing that, when Henry, Fred, and I talked together, we fell back into a deep naturalness. Perhaps none of us is a sensational character. Or perhaps we have no need of condiments. Henry is, in reality, mild not temperamental; gentle not eager for scenes. We may all write about sadism, masochism, the grand quignol, bubu de montparnasse (in which the highest proof of love is for a pimp to embrace his woman's syphilis as fervently as herself, a noblesse-oblige of the apache world), cocteau, drugs, insane asylums, house of the dead, because we love strong colors; and yet when we sit in the cafe de la place clichy, we talk about henry's last pages, and a chapter which was too long, and richard's madness. "One of his greatest worries," said Henry, "was to have introduced us. He thinks you are wonderful and that you may be in danger from the 'gangster author.

he loved sincerity, but only as he might love a pimp who could keep him in touch with the daily life of his mistress.

People snare when I tell them that I’m an emotional prostitute. But after my rebuttal, they begin to realize that they are one too. Like me, they have pimped their emotions for the affections of another. Like me, they’ve gone through life tormented by the idea of living a happily ever after, not realizing that the ever after isn’t so happy.

i was really into communal living and we were all / such free spirits, crossing the country we were / nomads and artists and no one ever stopped / to think about how the one working class housemate / was whoring to support a gang of upper middle class / deadheads with trust fund safety nets and connecticut / childhoods, everyone was too busy processing their isms / to deal with non-issues like class....and it’s just so cool / how none of them have hang-ups about / sex work they’re all real / open-minded real / revolutionary you know / the legal definition of pimp is / one who lives off the earnings of / a prostitute, one or five or / eight and i’d love to stay and / eat some of the stir fry i’ve been cooking / for y’all but i’ve got to go fuck / this guy so we can all get stoned and / go for smoothies tomorrow, save me / some rice, ok?

Pimps make the best librarians. Psycho killers, the worst. Ditto conmen. Gangsters, gun runners, bank robbers – adept at crowd control, at collaborating with a small staff, at planning with deliberation and executing with contained fury – all possess the librarian’s basic skill set. Scalpers and loan sharks certainly have a role to play. But even they lack that something, the je ne sais quoi, the elusive it. What would a pimp call it? Yes: the love.

Who dies best, the soldier who falls for your sake, or the fly in my whiskey-glass? The happy agony of the fly is his reward for an adventurous dive in no cause but his own. Gorged and crazed, he touches bottom, knows he's gone as far as he can go, and bravely sticks. I sleep on. In the morning I pour new happiness upon the crust of the old, and only as I raise the glass to my lips descry through that rich brown double inch my flattened hero. I drink around his death, being no angler by any inclination, and leave him in the weird shallows. The glass set down, I idle beneath the fan, while beyond my window-bars a warm drizzle passes silently from clouds to leaves. How to die? How to live? These questions, if we ask the dead fly, are both answered thus: In a drunken state. But drunk on WHAT should we all be? Well, there's love to drink, of course, and death, which is the same thing, and whiskey, better still, and heroin, best of all—except maybe for holiness. Accordingly, let this book, like its characters, be devoted to Addiction, Addicts, Pushers, Prostitutes and Pimps. With upraised needles, Bibles, dildoes and shot glasses, let us now throw our condoms in the fire, unbutton our trousers, and happily commit THIS MULTITUDE OF CRIMES.

Perhaps we were, all of us—pimps, whores, racketeers, church members, and children—bound together by the nature of our oppression, the specific and peculiar complex of risks we had to run; if so, within these limits we sometimes achieved with each other a freedom that was close to love.

We say we love self While pimping out our pussy Yet, our wombs scream help.

The assertion that Americans love violence and bathe in it daily is a self-serving lie promulgated by fundamentalist religious types and America’s propaganda-savvy gun-pimps.

You don’t get a second chance to make a first impression

A strip club is a con. It’s all about leading you on

Sex is sex, but love is sharing, caring, and respect. If you can have both together, great sex and real love, then you’ve got magic

Everybody at some level believes in it. It's a deeply seductive image. The image that we all want, as oppressed people, is an image of our masters finally loving us and recognizing our humanity. It is this image that keeps prostitutes with their pimps, the colonized with their colonizers and battered women with their batterers. Everybody dreams of one day being safe.

Someone asked me, “What do you have to say about Rajneesh after his death?” I said that the world has never seen such a pimp nor will it ever see one in the future. He combined Western therapies, the Tantric system, and everything that you could find in the books. He made a big business out of it. He took money from the boys; he took money from girls, and kept it for himself. He is dead and so we don't say anything. Nil nisi bonum (Of the dead speak not unless it be good)

I have no ideas, myself! Not a one! there's nothing more vulgar, more common, more disgusting than ideas! libraries are loaded with them! and every sidewalk cafe!...the impotent are bloated with ideas!...they dazzle youth with ideas! they play the pimp!...and youth is ever ready, as you know, Professor, to gobble up anything, to go OOH! and AAH! by the numbers! How those pimps have an easy job of it! the passionate years of youth are spent getting a hard on and gargling ideeaas!...philosophies, if you prefer!...yes sir, philosophies! youth loves sham just as young dogs love those sticks, like bones, that we throw and they run after! they race forward, yipping away, wasting their time, that's the main thing!

Then Montesquiou was mentioned, and somebody described his first love-affair, a Baudelairean love-affair with a female ventriloquist who, while Montesquiou was straining to achieve his climax, would imitate the drunken voice of a pimp, threatening the aristocratic client.

dont get me wrong oblivion I never loved you kiddo you that was always sticking around spoiling me for everyone else telling me how it would make you nutty if I didnt let you go the distance and I gave you my breasts to feel didnt I and my mouth to kiss O I was too good to you oblivion old kid thats all and when I might have told you to go ahead and croak yourselflike you was always threatning you are are going to do I didnt I said go on you inter- est me I let you hang around and whimper and Ive been getting mine Listen theres a fellow I love like I never love anyone else thats six foot two tall with a face like any girl would die to kiss and a skin like a little kittens thats asked me to go to Murrays tonight with him and see the cab- aret and dance you know well if he asks me to take another Im going to and if he asks me to take another after that Im going to do that and if he puts me into a taxi and tells the driver to take her easy and steer for the morning Im going to let him and if he starts in right away putting it to me in the cab Im not going to whisper Oblivion do you get me not that Im tired of automats and Childss and handling out ribbon to old ladies that aint got three teeth and being followed home by pimps and stewed guys and sleeping lonely in a whitewashed room three thou- sand below Zero oh no I could stand that but its that Im O Gawd how tired of seeing the white face of you and feeling the old hands of you and being teased and jollied about you and being prayed and implored and bribed and threatened to give you my beautiful white body kiddo thats why

The face that Moses had begged to see – was forbidden to see – was slapped bloody (Exodus 33:19-20) The thorns that God had sent to curse the earth’s rebellion now twisted around his brow… “On your back with you!” One raises a mallet to sink the spike. But the soldier’s heart must continue pumping as he readies the prisoner’s wrist. Someone must sustain the soldier’s life minute by minute, for no man has this power on his own. Who supplies breath to his lungs? Who gives energy to his cells? Who holds his molecules together? Only by the Son do “all things hold together” (Colossians 1:17). The victim wills that the soldier live on – he grants the warrior’s continued existence. The man swings. As the man swings, the Son recalls how he and the Father first designed the medial nerve of the human forearm – the sensations it would be capable of. The design proves flawless – the nerves perform exquisitely. “Up you go!” They lift the cross. God is on display in his underwear and can scarcely breathe. But these pains are a mere warm-up to his other and growing dread. He begins to feel a foreign sensation. Somewhere during this day an unearthly foul odor began to waft, not around his nose, but his heart. He feels dirty. Human wickedness starts to crawl upon his spotless being – the living excrement from our souls. The apple of his Father’s eye turns brown with rot. His Father! He must face his Father like this! From heaven the Father now rouses himself like a lion disturbed, shakes His mane, and roars against the shriveling remnant of a man hanging on a cross.Never has the Son seen the Father look at him so, never felt even the least of his hot breath. But the roar shakes the unseen world and darkens the visible sky. The Son does not recognize these eyes. “Son of Man! Why have you behaved so? You have cheated, lusted, stolen, gossiped – murdered, envied, hated, lied. You have cursed, robbed, over-spent, overeaten – fornicated, disobeyed, embezzled, and blasphemed. Oh the duties you have shirked, the children you have abandoned! Who has ever so ignored the poor, so played the coward, so belittled my name? Have you ever held a razor tongue? What a self-righteous, pitiful drunk – you, who moles young boys, peddle killer drugs, travel in cliques, and mock your parents. Who gave you the boldness to rig elections, foment revolutions, torture animals, and worship demons? Does the list never end! Splitting families, raping virgins, acting smugly, playing the pimp – buying politicians, practicing exhortation, filming pornography, accepting bribes. You have burned down buildings, perfected terrorist tactics, founded false religions, traded in slaves – relishing each morsel and bragging about it all. I hate, loathe these things in you! Disgust for everything about you consumes me! Can you not feel my wrath? Of course the Son is innocent He is blamelessness itself. The Father knows this. But the divine pair have an agreement, and the unthinkable must now take place. Jesus will be treated as if personally responsible for every sin ever committed. The Father watches as his heart’s treasure, the mirror image of himself, sinks drowning into raw, liquid sin. Jehovah’s stored rage against humankind from every century explodes in a single direction. “Father! Father! Why have you forsaken me?!” But heaven stops its ears. The Son stares up at the One who cannot, who will not, reach down or reply. The Trinity had planned it. The Son had endured it. The Spirit enabled Him. The Father rejected the Son whom He loved. Jesus, the God-man from Nazareth, perished. The Father accepted His sacrifice for sin and was satisfied. The Rescue was accomplished.

A few weeks ago, a pimp had fired a bullet into the mouth of a young SA Führer who had liberated one of his ‘girls’. On Sunday the Stormtrooper had died, and Goebbels’s newspaper Der Angriff had made a saint of the youth who had fallen in love with a whore and paid for it with his life, a martyr for the movement, or Blutzeuge as the Nazis called it.

Perhaps we were, all of us -pimps, whores, racketeers, church members, and children -bound together by the nature of our oppression, the specific and peculiar complex of risks we had to run; if so, within these limits we sometimes achieved with each other a freedom that was close to love. I remember, anyway, church suppers and outing, and later, after I left the church, rent and waistline parties where rage and sorrow sat in the darkness and did not stir, and we ate and drank and talked and laughed and danced and forgot all about "the man." We had the liquor, we had the chicken, the music, and each other, and had no need to pretend to be what we were not, This is the freedom that one hears in some gospel songs, for example, and in jazz.

When porn stars call it a day and head home with bruised and bloodied bodies, some of us attempt to have normal healthy relationships but our suitcase pimp boyfriends become jealous and physically abuse us. So instead we marry our porn directors or regress back to childhood and freeload off of 60 year old sugar daddies. I preferred sugar daddies because I desperately wanted the love and attention of my father.

Feelings of a Pimp They think I was a player because I was devoted to the game They thought I worked hard on my offense to break down these women’s defenses just to score They think it’s the body count that made me manipulate them into my arms to get between their legs They think I’m satisfied with a different woman in my bed every night When during the day, even my bed can feel the loneliness They think I love the easy women They think it’s for the cool points that my heart grew cold They think they have me figured out Another dog chasing after every female dog in the streets They think I’m happy with all the texting buddies, but no wife But they don’t know They don’t know how tired I am of this, how tired I am of myself How tired I am of living like this How tired I am of these games, but that’s the only way I can score with a chick They don’t know how after sleeping with these ladies, I wish I had more chemistry with at least one of them to cuddle, to give goodnight kisses and wake up beside They don’t know how loneliness consumes me With a phone filled with women’s numbers, I still feel unwanted and unworthy They don’t know these easy women make it easy for me to feel confident about myself; although it’s the wrong type of confidence I feel validated by them, I feel accomplished, I feel loved although I’m having sex with them, not making love They don’t know how tired I am of chasing fool’s gold Chasing fast women who would sleep with me in a heartbeat Leaving me with the empty feeling I felt before I started the chase The player in me is played out. I just want love, but that’s the only thing I can’t seem to find So, I keep pimping in hope of finding love Her insecurities were beautiful They opened the door for me as an opportunist She was the perfect candidate Oh so sweet, but oh so hurt How smart would I be if I didn’t capitalize? Some fellas get women drunk and have their way with them I was doing nothing wrong but pretending to be prince charming, just to get the same results I became what they needed emotionally I was the shoulder to cry on, the ear to listen to, the one person who understood I was a smooth criminal manipulating the innocent Did not feel an ounce of guilt because I was weak myself I was insecure I couldn’t help preying on vulnerable women In their weakness I found strength I was a coward, a “wannabe” player I was playing the wrong games, winning the wrong prizes The truth is, no strong man takes advantage of a woman’s vulnerability. It is a trait of the weak. Diary of a Weak Man

Cesca sipped from her coffee cup as she peered through the windshield into the darkness. Rain was falling hard on a San Francisco she didn’t recognize from her own universe, or from her time in the other Matt’s universe. The real darkness here had nothing to do with night. This San Francisco mirrored the moral corruption and decay of the society which inhabited it. She and Ariel had been here two days, scouring streets filled with perversion and hopelessness; alleyways inhabited by the homeless and mentally ill; sex shops catering to every perversion imaginable and unimaginable; sidewalks teeming with drug addicts and male prostitutes — some dressed as women; street corners inhabited by once lovely young women prematurely aging from selling their bodies to all takers — male and female; children of both sexes, from as young as seven and eight, dressed by pimps to attract pedophiles who cruised this part of the city nightly. Many of the children would be sold on the spot, never to be seen again. Sun-faded and now graffitied wall mosaics of galvanizing yet transient political cult personalities, erected by their blinded followers centuries ago, marked this alternate world’s gradual slide into an ethical, and finally moral abyss, from which it had never crawled out. "God, I can’t believe this is San Francisco,” whispered Ariel from the seat next to Cesca. “I feel like I need to run a bar of soap over my soul.

I was born in New York, but have lived only in pockets of it. In Paris, I lived in all parts of the city–on the Right Bank and the Left, among the bourgeoisie and among les misérables, and knew all kinds of people, from pimps and prostitutes in Pigalle to Egyptian bankers in Neuilly. This may sound extremely unprincipled or even obscurely immoral: I found it healthy. I love to talk to people, all kinds of people, and almost everyone, as I hope we still know, loves a man who loves to listen.

Aimée Thanatogenos spoke the tongue of Los Angeles; the sparse furniture of her mind—the objects which barked the intruder's shins—had been acquired at the local High School and University; she presented herself to the world dressed and scented in obedience to the advertisements; brain and body were scarcely distinguishable from the standard product, but the spirit—ah, the spirit was something apart; it had to be sought afar; not here in the musky orchards of the Hesperides, but in the mountain air of the dawn, in the eagle-haunted passes of Hellas. An umbilical cord of cafés and fruit shops, of ancestral shady businesses (fencing and pimping) united Aimée, all unconscious, to the high places of her race. As she grew up the only language she knew expressed fewer and fewer of her ripening needs; the facts which littered her memory grew less substantial; the figure she saw in the looking-glass seemed less recognizably herself. Aimée withdrew herself into a lofty and hieratic habitation.

She had done worse, all right, lots worse. She had been a thief, a pimp, a blackmailer, a junkie, a liar and a cheat. She had pretended to love men she had despised. She had done it all, and none of it had worked. Every time she got into a place where she might have had a chance, something inside her had fired up and she ruined her chances. Always…Her whole life was a clutter of three-day jobs, punctured ambitions and drug-deadened hangovers. 'Oh Lindy,' she cried out. 'Help me! Help me!' She clenched her pillow and sobbed. It had been more than twenty years since she had shed any tears for anybody. Now these tears were for herself.

So the bad Ninjamobile swept along on the great Ventura, among Olympic visitors from everywhere who teemed all over the freeway system in midday densities till far into the night, shined-up, screaming black motorcades that could have carried any of several office seekers, cruisers heading for treed and more gently roaring boulevards, huge double and triple trailer rigs that loved to find Volkswagens laboring up grades and go sashaying around them gracefully and at gnat's-ass tolerances, plus flirters, deserters, wimps and pimps, speeding like bullets, grinning like chimps, above the heads of TV watchers, lovers under the overpasses, movies at malls letting out, bright gas-station oases in pure fluorescent spill, canopied beneath the palm trees, soon wrapped, down the corridors of the surface streets, in nocturnal smog, the adobe air, the smell of distant fireworks, the spilled, the broken world.

As a black man Al, who went through the Civil rights fight in the 60s just like you did, and saw the first freedom bus burn in my home town of Anniston, Alabama, on May 14, 1961; I hated Dr. King for his non-violent philosophy. That did not change until I became a Christian later in life. Then I understood God’s biblical truth of love your enemy and do good to those who hate and persecute you. I think I have the right to tell you this sir; I think the likes of you and Jesse Jackson have done more damage to the black race than any white man will ever accomplish. You see as long as you can produce an ethnicity with a victim mentality to keep them in poverty, as the two of you get richer – you know like poverty pimps – and convince them that it is the white man’s fault because he has his boot on their necks, and as long as you teach our beautiful black women that there is a government out there to be their baby’s daddy, the two of you win. You are the self-proclaimed, appointed leaders of the black people. How we as black people have swallowed the lie that we have to have certain black leaders to get on the government teat escapes me.

Armed combatants in war, who surrender their individuality and usually their capacity for moral choice, become part of a herd of dehumanized killers. Sex in wartime is reduced to its crudest biological function. It is referred to in marching cadences and ribald small talk like defecation. Pornography, prostitution, and rape are ubiquitous in war zones. In war, empathy, compassion, and love are banished. Human beings, especially women, become objects, to exploit or kill. The violence and commodification of human beings for profit are the quintessential expressions of global capitalism. Our corporate masters are pimps. We are all being debased and degraded, rendered impoverished and powerless, to service the cruel and lascivious demands of the corporate elite. And when they tire of us, or when we are no longer of use, we are discarded. If the United States accepts prostitution as legal and permissible in a civil society, as Germany has done, we will take one more collective step toward the global plantation being built by the powerful. The fight against prostitution is the fight against a dehumanizing corporate capitalism that begins, but will not end, with the subjugation of impoverished girls and women.

Don’t cry Meg. It’s not that bad.” “It’s not that bad? Ha! I’m thirty years old, with two black eyes, a swollen nose, a big, honking, yellow knot on my forehead, and the haircut from hell. As if that isn’t enough, I had a transvestite in my bed this morning, my husband is a lying, cheating, cradle robbing, bastard, who at some point slept with my best friend.” Jack scooted over to the middle of the seat, and stopped listening to his head and wrapped his arms around her. Big mistake! From inside, four faces were pressed to the window. “My last orgasm-with a partner- was…hell I can’t remember when! I frequently knock myself out for entertainment purposes, I have little boobs, big feet, squishy panties, nosy neighbors and demon possessed fish. God hates me!” Jack held her tighter. “I have frequent flyer miles at the hospital. I fed my husband marijuana Ex-lax brownies and shoved a marble up his butt.” Jack pulled away to look at her and she was serious. And crying. Big, sad, alligator tears that made his heart swell. “My mother is a holy rolling, Catholic Dr. Ruth, complete with condoms and Rosary beads. I write about relationships and sex, both of which I suck at and I hired a Private Investigator to pimp me out.” Jack burst out laughing and she pushed him away and swatted his shoulder. “And now you’re laughing at me. Could things get any worse?

A pool game mixes ritual with geometry. The slow spaciousness of the green felt mirrors some internal state you get to after a few beers. Back at school, I’d been trying to read the philosophy of art, which I was grotesquely unequipped to do but nonetheless stuck on. I loved the idea that looking at a painting or listening to a concerto could make you somehow “transcend” the day-in, day-out bullshit that grinds you down; how in one instant of pure attention you could draw something inside that made you forever larger. In those days the drug culture was pimping “expanded consciousness,” a lie that partly descended from the old postindustrial lie of progress: any change in how your head normally worked must count as an improvement. Maybe my faith in that lie slid me toward an altered state that day. Or maybe it was just the beer, which I rarely drank. In any case, walking around the pool table, I felt borne forward by some internal force or fire. My first shot sank a ball. Then I made the most unlikely bank shot in history to drop two balls at once after a wild V trajectory. Daddy whistled. The sky through the window had gone the exact blue of the chalk I was digging my cue stick in, a shade solid and luminous at once, like the sheer turquoise used for the Madonna’s robe in Renaissance paintings. Slides from art history class flashed through my head. For a second, I lent that color some credit, as if it meant something that made my mind more buoyant. But that was crazy.

It was like a page out of the telephone book. Alphabetically, numerically, statistically, it made sense. But when you looked at it up close, when you examined the pages separately, or the parts separately, when you examined one lone individual and what constituted him, examined the air he breathed, the life he led, the chances he risked, you saw something so foul and degrading, so low, so miserable, so utterly hopeless and senseless, that it was worse than looking into a volcano. Outwardly it seems to be a beautiful honeycomb, with all the drones crawling over each other in a frenzy of work; inwardly it’s a slaughterhouse, each man killing off his neighbor and sucking the juice from his bones. Superficially it looks like a bold, masculine world; actually it’s a whorehouse run by women, with the native sons acting as pimps and the bloody foreigners selling their flesh... The whole continent is sound asleep and in that sleep a grand nightmare is taking place… At night the streets of New York reflect the crucifixion and death of Christ. When the snow is on the ground and there is the utmost silence there comes out of the hideous buildings of New York a music of such sullen despair and bankruptcy as to make the flesh shrivel. No stone was laid upon another with love or reverence; no street was laid for dance or joy. One thing has been added to another in a mad scramble to fill the belly, and the streets smell of empty bellies and full bellies and bellies half full. The streets smell of a hunger which has nothing to do with love; they smell of the belly which is insatiable and of the creations of the empty belly which are null and void. Just as the city itself had become a huge tomb in which men struggled to earn a decent death so my own life came to resemble a tomb which I was constructing out of my own death. I was walking around in a stone forest the center of which was chaos; sometimes in the dead center, in the very heart of chaos, I danced or drank myself silly, or I made love, or I befriended some one, or I planned a new life, but it was all chaos, all stone, and all hopeless and bewildering. Until the time when I would encounter a force strong enough to whirl me out of this mad stone forest no life would be possible for me nor could one page be written which would have meaning… Everybody and everything is a part of life... As an individual, as flesh and blood, I am leveled down each day to make the fleshless, bloodless city whose perfection is the sum of all logic and death to the dream. I am struggling against an oceanic death in which my own death is but a drop of water evaporating. To raise my own individual life but a fraction of an inch above this sinking sea of death I must have a faith greater than Christ’s, a wisdom deeper than that of the greatest seer. I must have the ability and the patience to formulate what is not contained in the language of our time, for what is now intelligible is meaningless. My eyes are useless, for they render back only the image of the known. My whole body must become a constant beam of light, moving with an ever greater rapidity, never arrested, never looking back, never dwindling. The city grows like a cancer; I must grow like a sun. The city eats deeper and deeper into the red; it is an insatiable white louse which must die eventually of inanition. I am going to starve the white louse which is eating me up. I am going to die as a city in order to become again a man. Therefore I close my ears, my eyes, my mouth. Infinitely better, as life moves toward a deathly perfection, to be just a bit of breathing space, a stretch of green, a little fresh air, a pool of water. Better also to receive men silently and to enfold them, for there is no answer to make while they are still frantically rushing to turn the corner.

THIS IS MY ABC BOOK of people God loves. We’ll start with . . .           A: God loves Adorable people. God loves those who are Affable and Affectionate. God loves Ambulance drivers, Artists, Accordion players, Astronauts, Airplane pilots, and Acrobats. God loves African Americans, the Amish, Anglicans, and Animal husbandry workers. God loves Animal-rights Activists, Astrologers, Adulterers, Addicts, Atheists, and Abortionists.           B: God loves Babies. God loves Bible readers. God loves Baptists and Barbershop quartets . . . Boys and Boy Band members . . . Blondes, Brunettes, and old ladies with Blue hair. He loves the Bedraggled, the Beat up, and the Burnt out . . . the Bullied and the Bullies . . . people who are Brave, Busy, Bossy, Bitter, Boastful, Bored, and Boorish. God loves all the Blue men in the Blue Man Group.           C: God loves Crystal meth junkies,           D: Drag queens,           E: and Elvis impersonators.           F: God loves the Faithful and the Faithless, the Fearful and the Fearless. He loves people from Fiji, Finland, and France; people who Fight for Freedom, their Friends, and their right to party; and God loves people who sound like Fat Albert . . . “Hey, hey, hey!”           G: God loves Greedy Guatemalan Gynecologists.           H: God loves Homosexuals, and people who are Homophobic, and all the Homo sapiens in between.           I: God loves IRS auditors.           J: God loves late-night talk-show hosts named Jimmy (Fallon or Kimmel), people who eat Jim sausages (Dean or Slim), people who love Jams (hip-hop or strawberry), singers named Justin (Timberlake or Bieber), and people who aren’t ready for this Jelly (Beyoncé’s or grape).           K: God loves Khloe Kardashian, Kourtney Kardashian, Kim Kardashian, and Kanye Kardashian. (Please don’t tell him I said that.)           L: God loves people in Laos and people who are feeling Lousy. God loves people who are Ludicrous, and God loves Ludacris. God loves Ladies, and God loves Lady Gaga.           M: God loves Ministers, Missionaries, and Meter maids; people who are Malicious, Meticulous, Mischievous, and Mysterious; people who collect Marbles and people who have lost their Marbles . . . and Miley Cyrus.           N: God loves Ninjas, Nudists, and Nose pickers,           O: Obstetricians, Orthodontists, Optometrists, Ophthalmologists, and Overweight Obituary writers,           P: Pimps, Pornographers, and Pedophiles,           Q: the Queen of England, the members of the band Queen, and Queen Latifah.           R: God loves the people of Rwanda and the Rebels who committed genocide against them.           S: God loves Strippers in Stilettos working on the Strip in Sin City;           T: it’s not unusual that God loves Tom Jones.           U: God loves people from the United States, the United Kingdom, and the United Arab Emirates; Ukrainians and Uruguayans, the Unemployed and Unemployment inspectors; blind baseball Umpires and shady Used-car salesmen. God loves Ushers, and God loves Usher.           V: God loves Vegetarians in Virginia Beach, Vegans in Vietnam, and people who eat lots of Vanilla bean ice cream in Las Vegas.           W: The great I AM loves will.i.am. He loves Waitresses who work at Waffle Houses, Weirdos who have gotten lots of Wet Willies, and Weight Watchers who hide Whatchamacallits in their Windbreakers.           X: God loves X-ray technicians.           Y: God loves You.           Z: God loves Zoologists who are preparing for the Zombie apocalypse. God . . . is for the rest of us. And we have the responsibility, the honor, of letting the world know that God is for them, and he’s inviting them into a life-changing relationship with him. So let ’em know.

Yes, it looks like this Charlie fella took the pimpin' playbook and ingeniously rewrote it for a generation of girls pissed off at their folks. As he watches Pussycat sincerely spew this fella's horseshit, Cliff tries to imagine where she came from. If in the fifties, he'd followed through with his intention to give the pimping game a whirl, he never would have gotten close to a pretty, obviously educated gal like this one. But this whole hippie shit put the whole world out of whack. Now she's offering up her snatch for a lift to Chatsworth. Girls who, before, maybe gave you a hand job at the drive-in will now fuck you and your friend. Where those French dudes supplied their girls with champagne, lipstick, pantyhose, and Max Factor, this Charlie dude supplies his with acid and free love and a philosophy that ties it all together.

MARY MAGDALENE: My name is Mary of Magdala. I was a disciple of Jesus, I was present at the crucifixion, and I was the first person He appeared to after the resurrection. SAINT MONICA: Bitch got clout! MARY MAGDALENE: I was one of the founders of the Christian faith, and I was known for my ability, in times of difficulty, to be able to turn the hearts of the Apostles towards the Good. SAINT MONICA: The good! MARY MAGDALENE: Some people think I was a whore. SAINT MONICA: Misogynistic bitches! MARY MAGDALENE: Other people think Jesus was my husband. SAINT MONICA: Femin-o-tic bitches! MARY MAGDALENE: I was not a whore. SAINT MONICA: "Pimps up, Hos Down!" MARY MAGDALENE: I was an unmarried woman in a town of ill repute. SAINT MONICA: Ill repute! MARY MAGDALENE: And also, I was not the wife of Jesus either. SAINT MONICA: Still love ya! MARY MAGDALENE: But, I am pretty sure that I was his best friend. We shared an intimacy that I cannot put into words except to say we saw into each other's hearts and were in love with what we found.....

So I cruised slowly around Hollywood looking at the hustlers and pimps, the tourists and hookers, the people from Plainfield, New Jersey, looking for stars, the prom queens from Shakopee, Minnesota, veterans already of the casting couches. They were all there on the boulevard, frightened, eager, angry, desperate, just and unjust; mingling, hurrying, hanging around, trying to get ahead, get a stake, get a chance, a kind word; looking for money, for love, for a place to sleep, trying to score some dope, some booze, something to eat; most of them alone, almost all of them lonely.

In the El Raval district in Barcelona, this phenomenon plays out every evening. El Raval is a prostitution-dense, bohemian quarter that is both home to many immigrants and a destination for certain types of tourists. Some people who live there like to think that they live in the midst of a crowd, a carnivalesque melting pot, but the boundary is razor-sharp. On the narrow street Carrer d'en Robador, African women with tired eyes and fanny packs stand selling themselves while a sour-faced pimp hiding in a doorway supervises everything. This goes on all day and all night, with only a short break between seven and ten in the morning. In the pubs, 'alternative' people party. They love prostitution and filth, despise authorities and censorship, speak adoringly of the quarter's charming character and pretend that some of it has rubbed off on them. The existence of prostitution is important to them. But people never exchange places: the African women never go into the pubs, and the pub patrons never go out and prostitute themselves. They pass each other every day, but the crowd is only an illusion - there is no common, shared experience. Everyone has an established role and no one speaks to anyone else.

If you can't participate in someone else's good fortune and show them love. How can you get offended when they don't partake in yours. Good fortunes are made to be enjoyed. Like a old wise pimp will say "Don't hate, participate.

Your life, sir, is propelled By a dream of the fear of having nightmares; your love Is the fear of your single self; your world's history The fear of a possible leap by a possible antagonist Out of a possible shadow, or a not-improbable Skeleton out of your dead-certain cupboard. But here am I, the true phenomenon Of acknowledged guilt, steaming with the block Of the pimp and the rag-and-bone man, Crime transparent. What the hell are we waiting for?

A difference is between poetry or pimps. Just a little difference by attitude of love and life.

February 2013 Continuation of Andy’s Message (part four)   The priest from Taer and Anak’s parish was as corrupt as they came. The day after I broke ties with the boys, they came to my lodging with their priest demanding monetary compensation for my intimate liaisons with them. I had no idea the Father ran a homeless shelter for runaway kids. This padre was a pimp: he dished out these runaways in return for food and protection.               That day, he labelled me a sinner and pelted me with fire and brimstone, accusing me of corrupting his innocent dependants. Then he proceeded to hound me to repent from my nefarious ways. According to this man of God, ‘the one and only way’ to cleanse my moral impurities was to confess and donate to his parish. He gave me an ultimatum to appear at his office at the soonest and told me he would not hesitate to contact the police if I transgressed. But as soon as they were out of sight, my buddies and I vanished to another island without trace. From there, we departed for Canada, knowing the threat had been nothing but fraudulent extortion. (Besides, I knew if I had gone in for confession, he would have tape-recorded my penance to blackmail me). My intuition had served me well: a year later, I came upon a TV documentary exposing the Marcos’ state and church corruption in the Philippines. One of the indicted priests was none other than the man who had accosted me the year before. Young, you probably are aware that corruption runs rampant in Third-World countries. This tale of mine is just one cautionary example of many. This disreputable experience had left its loathsome mark – one I had difficulty quelling, even though I wanted to see more of this awe-inspiring country. Maybe my apprehension will dissipate if I visit that part of the world with you, cherished memories in hand. You’re one fine specimen from that region.☺   Your loving ex, Andy XOXOXO

The first day she rocked up to school she was wearing a massive brown rosary, hanging around her neck outside her school uniform jumper with a swinging cross at the bottom. Her dad probably made her wear it. “Hey yo, pimping for Christ!” I called out, and she turned as red as the sacred heart, bless.

. Oh, my future brother-in-law called me today to find out if any of my friends from New York might be interested in making a bad decision for the night. Since when did I become a pimp to get Chance laid? I thought he was bringing that lovely flower lady.

I should have known not to trust a nigga named Sapphire. That shit even sounds like a pimp’s name. I

What’s with these fucking pimps naming themselves after rocks and jewels? A pimp named Diamond and a pimp named Sapphire… that can’t be a coincidence,” Niesha said and she was right. The

Whether Danielle wanted to tell me or not, I was gon’ find out who her pimp was and kill his ass.  

We have seen what significance, given socialism, the wealth of human needs acquires, and what significance, therefore, both a new mode of production and a new object of production obtain: a new manifestation of the forces of human nature and a new enrichment of human nature. Under private property their significance is reversed: every person speculates on creating a new need in another, so as to drive him to fresh sacrifice, to place him in a new dependence and to seduce him into a new mode of enjoyment and therefore economic ruin. Each tries to establish over the other an alien power, so as thereby to find satisfaction of his own selfish need. The increase in the quantity of objects is therefore accompanied by an extension of the realm of the alien powers to which man is subjected, and every new product represents a new potentiality of mutual swindling and mutual plundering. Man becomes ever poorer as man, his need for money becomes ever greater if he wants to master the hostile power. The power of his money declines in inverse proportion to the increase in the volume of production: that is, his neediness grows as the power of money increases. The need for money is therefore the true need produced by the economic system, and it is the only need which the latter produces. The quantity of money becomes to an ever greater degree its sole effective quality. Just as it reduces everything to its abstract form, so it reduces itself in the course of its own movement to quantitative being. Excess and intemperance come to be its true norm. Subjectively, this appears partly in the fact that the extension of products and needs becomes a contriving and ever-calculating subservience to inhuman, sophisticated, unnatural and imaginary appetites. Private property does not know how to change crude need into human need. Its idealism is fantasy, caprice and whim; and no eunuch flatters his despot more basely or uses more despicable means to stimulate his dulled capacity for pleasure in order to sneak a favour for himself than does the industrial eunuch – the producer – in order to sneak for himself a few pieces of silver, in order to charm the golden birds, out of the pockets of his dearly beloved neighbours in Christ. He puts himself at the service of the other’s most depraved fancies, plays the pimp between him and his need, excites in him morbid appetites, lies in wait for each of his weaknesses – all so that he can then demand the cash for this service of love. (Every product is a bait with which to seduce away the other’s very being, his money; every real and possible need is a weakness which will lead the fly to the glue-pot. General exploitation of communal human nature, just as every imperfection in man, is a bond with heaven – an avenue giving the priest access to his heart; every need is an opportunity to approach one’s neighbour under the guise of the utmost amiability and to say to him: Dear friend, I give you what you need, but you know the conditio sine qua non; you know the ink in which you have to sign yourself over to me; in providing for your pleasure, I fleece you.) This estrangement manifests itself in part in that the sophistication of needs and of the means (of their satisfaction) on the one side produces a bestial barbarisation, a complete, crude, abstract simplicity of need, on the other; or rather in that it merely reproduces itself in its opposite. Even the need for fresh air ceases to be a need for the worker. Man returns to a cave dwelling, which is now, however, contaminated with the pestilential breath of civilisation, and which he continues to occupy only precariously, it being for him an alien habitation which can be withdrawn from him any day – a place from which, if he does ||XV| not pay, he can be thrown out any day.

The fat hag, whore-mothering Cornelia (who loved him so well, as her offspring plummy Susina did, and that expensive house of boys and girls), had waddled off too, according to the women in the Chenti Tower, who had been looking for her. Cornelia was the pimp, maybe. Pretty Romulan and pretty Iulet playing see-saw in the Bhorgabba? Leopardo, at these suggestions, knew a fiendish delight.

Now @mark zuckerberg turned into a world's biggest pimp, because fb reels and insta reels have become the world's biggest virtual Prostitution brothel

I exchanged a love that would set me apart, heal me, and free me from dependence, for a pimp that kept me like a slave, locked in a hotel room, unable to escape. I traded freedom for vices. I traded fulfilling love for inanimate objects and idolatrous relationships that controlled and exploited me. But the whole time, He was waiting there, waiting for His prostitute beloved, ready to break me free.

Mark Zuckerberg owns the world's biggest online digital brothel, which is what Instagram has become. Once, Instagram was a sober social media platform, but then a money-driven mafia and pimp bought it, and now it's a world's biggest digital online brothel.

And so worthless! You couldn’t do a damn thing if your life depended on it.” My mother whom I loved so much, my mother whom I practically worshipped, my mother whom I still missed. Maybe it’s best my father came that day and took me away. Now I wouldn’t be such a leech in her presence. Now she couldn’t pimp me out to her “boyfriends”.

Like a pimp convincing a young girl that her parents have it out for her, and the pimp has her best interest in mind, Satan pulls on Eve’s heart strings and convinces her that if she comes to work for him, he’ll give her everything she ever wanted. The pimp doesn’t tell the girl that in order for her to get what the pimp’s offering, she has to give up everything she’s been given. The pimp doesn’t tell her that she’s trading the boundaries set by the one who loves her for a bondage to one who doesn’t. The pimp convinces her she’s better off with him, than with her parents.

Don't make your daughter feel like she got to lay with who you want her to lay with, like you're some kind of pimp.

Women. Jesus. What a gift

If you had money, you had a good time. If not, you didn’t

I loved sex from the start, and I could never get enough of it. I still can’t

People like to be heard, Carnegie said. It makes them feel good. When you make a man feel good, simply by listening, you make a friend for life. And smile; be pleasant. Carnegie even suggested that one should smile when talking on the phone, because the person at the other end can feel your smile. He said people listen to logic, but they respond to emotion

How can you fault a man for doing his best

I honestly felt I had always done my best with the women in my life. Sure, I fucked other women, but that’s just who I am: a very horny guy. Am I abnormal? Am I insatiable? I don’t know, but I don’t care. I love sex

You are the fucking king. King of the Brothels. You’re a fucking celebrity. You walk down any street in any city in this country and people run over for autographs and beg you to pose for pictures. But if you leave this, it leaves you, too. And who are you without your brothels

And I guess that’s what people mean when they talk about the triumph of hope over experience. Life kicks you to the curb sometimes, lots of times, and you should know better, but you still want to believe. And that’s what keeps us going

Dennis made four resolutions as a young teenager: He would never be poor like his parents. (He is famously wealthy.) He would be universally admired and envied. (He has 500-plus young women who call him Daddy, and men nationwide who envy his sexual opportunities.) He would never let anyone — especially a woman — tell him what he could not do. (Unlike his father, Dennis never allows anyone to tell him no.) He would have a “little honey” to love and care for him for the rest of his life

I believe that despite all the talk of love, a relationship depends on three factors: respect, trust, and accountability

Empathy is learned within our family and other connections as we grow and develop. Empathy is the essential skill missing for him. It is one he needs to develop if he wants better relationships in the future. All children are self-centered until they learn to recognize and think about others’ feelings

Dennis is high when he is having sex — preferably with very young girls who look the way he likes. His other preference is “centerfolds” and porn stars

There is so much he does not understand about himself, and no one can choose to change anything they do not understand

Was it me? Was I the problem? What was I doing wrong? Had I not loved them enough? Had I not been good enough to them? Had I held back

Survival of the fittest benefits everyone. Within a generation, only the really hot girls will be left

I have never understood Chapter 11. You’re broke, you owe people a shitload of money, you throw up your hands and say, “I can’t pay,” and six months later you’re back in business, debt-free. And fuck everyone you owe. Does that seem right? I didn’t think so

I wasn’t going to break the law to save my ass

We all have shit to deal with, but when you come to work I need you to put that shit in a box and leave it in the trunk of your car. I don’t want you taking phone calls from your wife, or from your ex, or from that guy who hit on you last night at the bar. When you’re at work, you don’t have a personal life. Deal with that shit on your own time. You are here to sell

Whatever you can conceive, you can achieve

I love being in love, and I love making love to a woman I love. I’ll make love to women I don’t love, too, because that’s the way I’m wired, but given a choice I prefer to have a regular girl on my arm, a little honey to come home to every night

Everyone likes money, and everyone likes to be acknowledged when they do good work. Even at age forty we’re still kids at heart. We like it when the teacher tells us we done good

The more I fucked, the hornier I got. Most guys bust a nut and go to sleep. When I come, I immediately start looking for the next party

I’m a guy who is more than willing to forgive, because we’re all human and we all make mistakes, but I don’t respond well to betrayal. Someone fucks me, I don’t waste my time with revenge. They simply stop existing

I don’t know if God is going to help you. I don’t know if God is going to help any of us. But if you come to me, I’ll do whatever I can

I’m just a man like any other, with maybe a sex drive that’s out of control

Every time he hired a new girl for the ranch, he had to test her out

If you can learn to keep your promises, people are going to love you for it, because the average asshole talks shit and has zero follow-through

Fuck that! If you believe in what you’re doing, you need to tell the world. You need to get out there and make noise. That’s the only way to get attention

A bright smile is far more valuable than a big pair of tits

To me, prostitution isn’t about selling yourself; you’re selling a service

It's hard to explain to Tiana that her feelings about this aren't indicative of what a great guy her 'daddy' is but rather an indictment against how awful all the adults in her life have been...If you haven't had proper love and care, then a substitute will feel like the real thing, because you've got nothing to compare it to. For Tiana, whose entire fifteen years on the earth have been filled with physical violence, neglect, and horrific abuse, this analogy doesn't really make sense. Her 'daddy' is the first person who's shown her any type of kindness, who's modeled what a 'real' family looks like- even though after dinner he takes her and the other girls out and sells them on the street.

He loves women, idolizes them. He always says “God is a woman.” But sometimes I think he wishes he could be a woman

A relationship is like a shower. When the temperature’s just right, you feel like you can stay in there forever. But when the water goes cold, it’s time to get the fuck out

Dennis is an icon. Hefner had some good pictures in his magazine, sure, but Dennis Hof sells legal pussy. He’s an American hero

There’s one more reason men love prostitutes. It’s not just variety, not just sex, not just a chance to relive their Lost Youth, and not just an adventure; it’s an education

I once heard somebody say that the love of a man for a woman can never be as great as the love of a man for his dog, and I was beginning to believe it

To get motherfucked. That’s one thing he won’t tolerate

At a brothel, on the other hand, you get a guy who comes in with only $300 to spend and the girl needs to get inside that guy’s head, make him fall in love with her, and have him mortgage his house so he will spend his last dime on her. I know that seems cruel, but that’s the reality. It’s about money

I guess some men can’t handle freedom

Dale Carnegie had taught me not to worry

Introspection can be a dangerous thing

It’s called the repetition compulsion. You keep repeating your own history, thinking that next time you’re finally going to get it right