I have to tell you this, and I know that I won’t see you again after I do. I know that you will be repulsed and disappointed, and, trust me, today I am just as repulsed and disappointed with myself as you would be. It’s been years, but still it remains a part of my past, something I can’t undo. Some people I know would probably keep quiet, since it’s no longer relevant in any way, but seeing how good of a person you really are, I think it’s only fair if you know. Maybe it’s stupid, but I just can’t do it any other way.
When we spoke yesterday, you were so sweet and loving. I wanted to tell you right then, but I couldn’t. And then Martha called, so we had to leave. But I would walk with you all night long like we wanted, enjoying the summer air. You said you wanted to be with me long term, to start something, but I can’t lie to you. I may not be the girl you fell in love with just a couple months ago. It all happened so fast, and now I’m faced with the possibility of us becoming something more. But I can’t hide my past from you.
I was an erotic masseuse in a high-end city parlor for almost two years. On and off, but I didn’t fully stop until about six years ago. I know you would immediately think whore, probably a drug addict, a weak person. There was no sex of any kind involved, and I wouldn’t lie to you now if there had been, but it was massages of the kind I’m sure you heard about, and an occasional dinner date. I have no stories of abuse, drugs, rape, STDs, or double lives to tell you. None of that happened. But you would be right, I was a whore. I had no money, no education, no rights, and no wealthy relatives or friends to help me out, so I used my looks to eventually secure the rest. I didn’t come to the city to do it. And I surely did not enjoy it. It was a means to an end, to a place where I was able to get a decent job or education. And it’s something I had to pay a lot for, something those born into it won’t fully understand. I am aware that all of this doesn’t make me less of a whore. I went through years of torturing myself over it before I realized that it’s over and gone, and it’s OK to laugh about it now. I’m not less of a person because of it, but I don’t think I’m enough for a love like yours. When I look into your eyes, I can’t lie, and I’d never want to. I don’t think you’ll be able to live with someone like that, given the perfection you think you’ve found in me. I’m not my past, and I don’t want to be reminded of it, but I love you too much to hide this from you. I’m sorry.