Ronie Dinosaur

Title - I am No Whore I am no whore- let no question ever rise. This is honor's sacred fire, not claimed in another's name, let no question rise. Read more from here...

Ronie Dinosaur Chapter 4 - The Weight of an Empty World I. The Question of Existence In a world that refuses to quench the thirst of my heart or feed the hunger of my body, and where even inside my own thoughts Read more from here...

Sometimes a man has to look in the mirror at least once a day, maybe after taking a dump, while washing his hands. The internet “Doomer” gives up and rots. Ronie Dinosaur walks. Read more from here...

Living without you has been difficult. I keep thinking we could be friends once again. Just as the labourer’s hands grow calloused from honest toil, the cobbler’s fingers learn the secret language of leather and thread, and the student’s mind bends toward mastery through endless repetition- so the whore perfects a craft that looks like desire Read more from here...

A single man knows a widow’s heart. A whore’s broker reads another broker’s eyes. Her withered character, her torn pussy- she believes both can be patched with the same cheap tape a child slaps onto a broken kite Read more from here...

You reach what’s truly inside a heart by his desire- its heat, its honesty. You weigh the desire by the purity of its intent. You test the intent Read more from here...

He pipes his flute-or been-before the buffalo, then dares blame her for “not understanding.” Her mouth, her mood, her flesh- all chained to the owner’s wrist. All theatre. All script. But the snakes are the real directors: Read more from here...

Your pussy’s still factory-sealed, virgin. That tight little asshole has never known traffic- nothing out, nothing in. So don’t call me babu, don’t call me yaar. You’re no whore, and I’m no roadside dhaba, no cheap bar. Drop the act for cash; Read more from here...

You called me and asked me to come over the phone. You were already naked on that brothel bed, legs spread wide, begging me to slide inside you-pleading for it-when you suddenly froze mid-thrust and whispered, “Am I a whore?” You had summoned me yourself. You had offered every hole like a gift. The question was never mine to answer; it was always yours. You were the one on the clock, in your own kingdom, collecting cash, cock, liquor, food, and the sharp thrill of twisting my guilt like a blade-all in a room that smelled like home to you. I had no words. For a moment I forgot where I was. Tears rose uninvited. I pulled out, zipped up, pressed every bill I carried into your hand-ten times your rate-and left without a sound. Outside, wiping my face, I realized I didn’t even have bus fare. Then my fingers brushed two forgotten hundreds in my back pocket. That’s when the picture snapped clear: I’d been standing over a woman accusing me of reducing her to flesh, while to her I was never flesh at all-just a wallet with legs. And she was the one who waved me in. Shame hit me hard. I was ashamed for ever thinking the word “whore,” ashamed it had lived in me at all. I kept walking. You never called after me, never asked why I left. Nothing. Probably busy counting. If you weren’t a whore, the next time we met in that room you would have pressed the money back into my palm and said, “I’m not.” Read more from here...

To be a whore and to entice someone - indistinguishable when the act is only for personal gain yet appears inseparable and indispensable. You will not be able to tell if the money is talking or if she is actually sitting in your lap as if you were her daddy, and she means it. Read more from here...