Hello Frank
No offense or criticism, but are some of your stories stretched just a wee bitMost are interesting and fun but I would suspect a bit of artistic license employed?
No ****!
- Thread starter frank12
- Start date
Cabarete Diaries, part 2
No ****!
Here is Chupa right after i doused her with five gallons of ice water after first, camping out inside our bathroom stall, and then reaching over the bathroom partition into the men's toilet, and asking strangers for $5 pesos while they're trying to urinate.
1.
Frank
1.
Frank
Here is Chupa right before we squared off ten paces apart from each other in the hallway. She is clutching a poop ball in her right hand (zoom into her right hand), and i'm holding our fire extinguisher in my left hand and asking her to leave right before the inevitable Good, the Bad, & the Ugly Scene breaks out:
1.
Any pictures you want to see of any of the characters i write about...simply ask. I document everything.
Frank
1.
Any pictures you want to see of any of the characters i write about...simply ask. I document everything.
Frank
Here is Chupa right before we squared off ten paces apart from each other in the hallway. She is clutching a poop ball in her right hand (zoom into her right hand), and i'm holding our fire extinguisher in my left hand and asking her to leave right before the inevitable Good, the Bad, & the Ugly Scene breaks out:
1.
Any pictures you want to see of any of the characters i write about...simply ask. I document everything.
Frank
My lunch
gre: I'll never ask again. I believe the characters and events are true, was just wondering if you embellished some for readability?Frank any guy that would have a sexual encounter with that, should be banned from the island - any Island. Just horrific. There's not enough booze in the world to make that look good!
It’s Saturday morning and I’m sitting at the bar talking to a beautiful couple from Nova Scotia. They come from a town called Amherst—near New Brunswick. It was their first time in the DR. They loved it so much that they were inquiring about moving down here to the north coast. It's amazing how the power of the ocean, sand, and sun has on people. They were telling me their life story. While I was sitting there listening to their fascinating life story, my stomach started talking to me in a foreign language. It was not a language that I understood. It was not from this earth. it was making strange sounds as if it was trying to communicate with someone from another planet. The sounds it was emitting were deep grumblings that sounded like a whale's mating call.
I excused myself and ran to the toilet. Inside the toilet, I was sitting on the toilet
trying to give birth. The feeling i had was that of someone trying to extract a 12lbs baby through a straw in my anus. My sphincter muscles were screaming. My anus was screaming in protest. It felt like my rear end was being tortured and turned inside out. I had a new gaping hole, and it was unleashing the power of a torrential flood of toxic waste that smelt like Napalm. It was highly flammable liquid that came shooting out my anus. It burnt like Napalm as it exited. It was a Molotov cocktail. It was very explosive and covered everything in a Hershey liquid chocolate sauce.
Twenty minutes later, I felt well enough to go back and sit down with the couple from Nova Scotia. They looked at me and asked me why I was sweating. I explained to them that I had just given birth in the bathroom but that I was better now. They begin telling me their life story. They had lived on Vancouver Island for 25 years before moving to Novia Scotia. I asked them which they liked better between Vancouver and Nova Scotia? They said they missed the mountains of Vancouver but loved the people and friendliness of Nova Scotia. They were going into great detail about the differences between the east coast and west coast of Canada. As they were explaining the difference to me, my stomach began making low, rumbling noises, not unlike an elephant's mating call. I excused myself and sprinted to the bathroom again.
Inside the bathroom, I barely had time to pull my shorts down before I sprayed the back of the toilet seat. Then I sprayed the wall and the ceiling fan. It was the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse stampeding out from my colon. I leaned forward and got into a 45 degree stance and asked god to please take me from this earth. My will to live was gone. After another 20 minutes of earth shattering rumblings and hit-n-go attacks and land assaults, I wanted to die. I surrendered myself. I was surprised that I had any energy left to spray another torrent of toxic waste onto our bathroom ceiling. People walked into the bathroom and heard sobbing and moaning coming from the bathroom stall. People called the wait staff for help. Someone called paramedics. Customers thought someone was inside the bathroom giving birth inside the stall. I cursed god with what little strength I had left.
Twenty minutes later I was back at the table. I was sweating profusely. My hair was mated down, but i had a strand standing sideways at 60 degrees; I looked as if I just gave birth to octuplets. I was very exhausted. The Canadian couple began telling me their life story about their children. They had two grown kids, living in Vancouver and starting their own families. I sat their listening attentively, but I was somewhere else. My butt hurt; it was stinging something fierce. It felt as if my anus was turned inside out. It felt as if my intestines were protruding from my rear end. My sphincter was sticking to our plastic lawn chair. I could smell it. It smelled like napalm. It was burning. As the Nova Scotians began telling me about their dog—an 8yr old yellow Labrador with a bad hip—I began feeling rumblings of something not from this world. There was an Alien living inside of me. I could feel it growing inside of me.
I ran back to the bathroom and began pulling my shorts down as I entered the bathroom. Someone was inside the only bathroom stall that we have inside the men’s bathroom. I had no choice but to turn around and squat down into a 45 degree stance against our urinal. It was barbaric. It was primitive, but it was the only choice I had. The first wave came in an explosion; it saturated the urinal in Hershey chocolate sauce. It was Dante’s Inferno. It was Armageddon. It was the end of the world as far I was concerned. I was now glued to the urinal. I had the occasional explosion. But they came in waves. It was bursts of fire that shot out from my colon and melted the back of the urinal, stripping it of paint.. When i wasn't experiencing Dante’s Inferno exploding from my rear, i was laying in a fetal position on our floor. I was sobbing and asking for forgiveness.
I’m a 200 pound man. but I was sobbing uncontrollably. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t cry out. I crawled over to the sink and sat motionless against the wall until I regained enough strength to stand up. I was very thirsty. I was dehydrated. I needed water. No, I needed Gatorade.
I stumbled to the bar and asked Nelcida for a Gatorade. I was sweating profusely. I drank a neon blue Gatorade down in one swallow and began coughing. My body was trying to reject anything liquid. I asked for another Gatorade. She gave me a neon red one. I drank that too. Then I stumbled over to the Nova Scotians and apologized to them. They began telling me about their grandchildren. They had a 3 year old grandson that they felt was MENSA material. They also had a 5 year old granddaughter that was going to be an astronaut. Together, they made it sound as if their grandchildren were eligible for a MacArthur Genius Grant. No doubt they were. As they were going into great detail about the brilliance of their grandchildren, I got another deep rumbling of the alien inside of me. It was an Alien mating call—not unlike what you hear from lions when they are mating in the wild. I excused myself and sprinted to the bathroom again.
This was one of the last of many trips to the bathroom. As I entered the bathroom, I was already pulling my shorts down and immediately released such a volume of gas so intense that my external anal sphincter was now sitting on the floor. I picked it back up and inserted it back inside my anal cavity. I’ve never experienced, or even heard of someone’s sphincter muscle leaving one’s body in protest. It’s unnatural. It was ungodly. And it smelt terrible. but there it was...on the floor but still attached to me. I had to recheck my colon to feel if my anal sphincter muscles were still inside to my body. They were. That was a relief.
I came back to the table, and the Nova Scotians were still talking about their grandchildren and yellow Labrador retriever. I couldn’t believe it. They were impervious to my anal pain. They were impervious to my anal suffering. They never missed a beat. They acted as if diarrhea explosions and the sh1t hitting our ceiling fans were the most natural things ever. And i guess in Nova Scotia, they are.
Frank
I excused myself and ran to the toilet. Inside the toilet, I was sitting on the toilet
trying to give birth. The feeling i had was that of someone trying to extract a 12lbs baby through a straw in my anus. My sphincter muscles were screaming. My anus was screaming in protest. It felt like my rear end was being tortured and turned inside out. I had a new gaping hole, and it was unleashing the power of a torrential flood of toxic waste that smelt like Napalm. It was highly flammable liquid that came shooting out my anus. It burnt like Napalm as it exited. It was a Molotov cocktail. It was very explosive and covered everything in a Hershey liquid chocolate sauce.
Twenty minutes later, I felt well enough to go back and sit down with the couple from Nova Scotia. They looked at me and asked me why I was sweating. I explained to them that I had just given birth in the bathroom but that I was better now. They begin telling me their life story. They had lived on Vancouver Island for 25 years before moving to Novia Scotia. I asked them which they liked better between Vancouver and Nova Scotia? They said they missed the mountains of Vancouver but loved the people and friendliness of Nova Scotia. They were going into great detail about the differences between the east coast and west coast of Canada. As they were explaining the difference to me, my stomach began making low, rumbling noises, not unlike an elephant's mating call. I excused myself and sprinted to the bathroom again.
Inside the bathroom, I barely had time to pull my shorts down before I sprayed the back of the toilet seat. Then I sprayed the wall and the ceiling fan. It was the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse stampeding out from my colon. I leaned forward and got into a 45 degree stance and asked god to please take me from this earth. My will to live was gone. After another 20 minutes of earth shattering rumblings and hit-n-go attacks and land assaults, I wanted to die. I surrendered myself. I was surprised that I had any energy left to spray another torrent of toxic waste onto our bathroom ceiling. People walked into the bathroom and heard sobbing and moaning coming from the bathroom stall. People called the wait staff for help. Someone called paramedics. Customers thought someone was inside the bathroom giving birth inside the stall. I cursed god with what little strength I had left.
Twenty minutes later I was back at the table. I was sweating profusely. My hair was mated down, but i had a strand standing sideways at 60 degrees; I looked as if I just gave birth to octuplets. I was very exhausted. The Canadian couple began telling me their life story about their children. They had two grown kids, living in Vancouver and starting their own families. I sat their listening attentively, but I was somewhere else. My butt hurt; it was stinging something fierce. It felt as if my anus was turned inside out. It felt as if my intestines were protruding from my rear end. My sphincter was sticking to our plastic lawn chair. I could smell it. It smelled like napalm. It was burning. As the Nova Scotians began telling me about their dog—an 8yr old yellow Labrador with a bad hip—I began feeling rumblings of something not from this world. There was an Alien living inside of me. I could feel it growing inside of me.
I ran back to the bathroom and began pulling my shorts down as I entered the bathroom. Someone was inside the only bathroom stall that we have inside the men’s bathroom. I had no choice but to turn around and squat down into a 45 degree stance against our urinal. It was barbaric. It was primitive, but it was the only choice I had. The first wave came in an explosion; it saturated the urinal in Hershey chocolate sauce. It was Dante’s Inferno. It was Armageddon. It was the end of the world as far I was concerned. I was now glued to the urinal. I had the occasional explosion. But they came in waves. It was bursts of fire that shot out from my colon and melted the back of the urinal, stripping it of paint.. When i wasn't experiencing Dante’s Inferno exploding from my rear, i was laying in a fetal position on our floor. I was sobbing and asking for forgiveness.
I’m a 200 pound man. but I was sobbing uncontrollably. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t cry out. I crawled over to the sink and sat motionless against the wall until I regained enough strength to stand up. I was very thirsty. I was dehydrated. I needed water. No, I needed Gatorade.
I stumbled to the bar and asked Nelcida for a Gatorade. I was sweating profusely. I drank a neon blue Gatorade down in one swallow and began coughing. My body was trying to reject anything liquid. I asked for another Gatorade. She gave me a neon red one. I drank that too. Then I stumbled over to the Nova Scotians and apologized to them. They began telling me about their grandchildren. They had a 3 year old grandson that they felt was MENSA material. They also had a 5 year old granddaughter that was going to be an astronaut. Together, they made it sound as if their grandchildren were eligible for a MacArthur Genius Grant. No doubt they were. As they were going into great detail about the brilliance of their grandchildren, I got another deep rumbling of the alien inside of me. It was an Alien mating call—not unlike what you hear from lions when they are mating in the wild. I excused myself and sprinted to the bathroom again.
This was one of the last of many trips to the bathroom. As I entered the bathroom, I was already pulling my shorts down and immediately released such a volume of gas so intense that my external anal sphincter was now sitting on the floor. I picked it back up and inserted it back inside my anal cavity. I’ve never experienced, or even heard of someone’s sphincter muscle leaving one’s body in protest. It’s unnatural. It was ungodly. And it smelt terrible. but there it was...on the floor but still attached to me. I had to recheck my colon to feel if my anal sphincter muscles were still inside to my body. They were. That was a relief.
I came back to the table, and the Nova Scotians were still talking about their grandchildren and yellow Labrador retriever. I couldn’t believe it. They were impervious to my anal pain. They were impervious to my anal suffering. They never missed a beat. They acted as if diarrhea explosions and the sh1t hitting our ceiling fans were the most natural things ever. And i guess in Nova Scotia, they are.
Frank
Yes, I have used that bathroom many times....and seen that woman with the funny voice...she used to have a child with her??
Whats her story?? (you may have already mentioned already, even though I love your writing, I really don't feel like going back through all the pages )))
Whats her story?? (you may have already mentioned already, even though I love your writing, I really don't feel like going back through all the pages )
))OMG
Too Fcuking funny
Nova Scotians are impervious to anal suffering, try spending a Winter in Canaduh & you'll know why.
Frank sounds like you had bad meat in the can. I suspect your boyfriend is cheating on you. If you are still going to have relations with him in the future, make he wears a condominium or you get on top.
Only in DR
Too Fcuking funny
Nova Scotians are impervious to anal suffering, try spending a Winter in Canaduh & you'll know why.
Frank sounds like you had bad meat in the can. I suspect your boyfriend is cheating on you. If you are still going to have relations with him in the future, make he wears a condominium or you get on top.
Only in DR
Another day in paradise. I came into work this morning and saw where one of our restaurant neighbors had tapped into the electricity grid out on the street right where everyone could see it. This is an everyday occurrence, where two nearby restaurants are not only tapping into the main grid out on the street, but also are tapping into our electrical line that goes in both directions from our generator in order to supply electricity to other nearby restaurants whenever the electricity goes down.
One of the owners of a nearby restaurant, Gino, came over the night before last and said it’s a fulltime job trying to keep another nearby restaurant from tapping into the line that runs in-between our restaurant and his. He said that every morning they have to disconnect a new line they ingeniously put up in order to steal his electricity.
Last night I sat and ate with a group of religious missionaries. They were all good people, and come from all over the world. There was a Swede, a Brit, some Canadians, and a lot of Americans. I spoke to one girl at length and was pretty smitten by her. To say that she was naive about the DR would be putting it mildly. She is staying in Sosua at a hotel down the street from Bologna's and Infinity Blue with six other missionaries that are sharing only three beds. They rent from a guy from Michigan by the name of Rick--who himself leads a very interesting night life with a Dominican half his age.
Anyway, later, when I was closing up, one of the waitresses handed me a note that one of the missionaries had written for me on two bar receipts from the bar and left for me. Here it is:
Hello Frank,
Since we didn’t get the chance to chat too much, I thought I’d pass this on to you in written form…
You seem like an interesting fellow, living an interesting life, and seeing various parts of the world.
I too have traveled and worked in about 60 countries. In the end, I’ve encountered many questions with very few answers. There is a book I read that gives such satisfying answers to the most fundamental questions in this life: is this all there is? What are we here for? Where are we going? And many others.
I mention this in case you’ve had similar questions…
These answers can be found in a fascinating book that can be found at JW.org.
What does the Bible really teach?
There are actually few questions that the JW book doesn’t address from a strictly objective standpoint
.
Hope you find it as inspiring as I did. Take care, and hope you continue to enjoy your interesting life and that you don’t wear out your four pairs of shorts.
Sincerely, SH (Toronto)
Ok, now a little background about why he or she may have written this note to me.
The missionaries were brought to the restaurant by a good friend of mine from Lake Erie, PA. He and his wife are really good friends of mine. They have a house here on the beach in Cabarete and come down here two to three times a year. He is an ex-Navy Seal that i spoke about earlier in this thread. We’ve known each other for about 5 years...since I’ve been working here on the beach. He and his wife know me well. Maybe too well. And this knowledge of me has been passed on to some of the missionaries. One of the things passed onto the missionaries about me is that I only own four pairs of shorts, no pants, six shirts, no shoes, but two pairs of Keen sandals. I own no coat, no socks, no underwear, no pants, and not one single pair of shoes or boots. Everything I own in terms of wardrobe fits into one plastic Playero supermarket bag. Everything I own fits into a backpack.
A few of the missionaries found out that I own a lot of motorcycles (too many) between here and Norway. They know that I travel a lot and have lived in and worked in a lot of countries. But none of them know my religious affiliations, hence, the introduction to all of the answers of the universe to be found in one neatly packaged religious book found at JW.org.
God bless them. They obviously took one quick glance up and down at my wardrobe and saw that I needed to be saved more than the beach dogs and prostitutes that were hanging around our table.
Another great night here in Cabarete.
Frank
One of the owners of a nearby restaurant, Gino, came over the night before last and said it’s a fulltime job trying to keep another nearby restaurant from tapping into the line that runs in-between our restaurant and his. He said that every morning they have to disconnect a new line they ingeniously put up in order to steal his electricity.
Last night I sat and ate with a group of religious missionaries. They were all good people, and come from all over the world. There was a Swede, a Brit, some Canadians, and a lot of Americans. I spoke to one girl at length and was pretty smitten by her. To say that she was naive about the DR would be putting it mildly. She is staying in Sosua at a hotel down the street from Bologna's and Infinity Blue with six other missionaries that are sharing only three beds. They rent from a guy from Michigan by the name of Rick--who himself leads a very interesting night life with a Dominican half his age.
Anyway, later, when I was closing up, one of the waitresses handed me a note that one of the missionaries had written for me on two bar receipts from the bar and left for me. Here it is:
Hello Frank,
Since we didn’t get the chance to chat too much, I thought I’d pass this on to you in written form…
You seem like an interesting fellow, living an interesting life, and seeing various parts of the world.
I too have traveled and worked in about 60 countries. In the end, I’ve encountered many questions with very few answers. There is a book I read that gives such satisfying answers to the most fundamental questions in this life: is this all there is? What are we here for? Where are we going? And many others.
I mention this in case you’ve had similar questions…
These answers can be found in a fascinating book that can be found at JW.org.
What does the Bible really teach?
There are actually few questions that the JW book doesn’t address from a strictly objective standpoint
.
Hope you find it as inspiring as I did. Take care, and hope you continue to enjoy your interesting life and that you don’t wear out your four pairs of shorts.
Sincerely, SH (Toronto)
Ok, now a little background about why he or she may have written this note to me.
The missionaries were brought to the restaurant by a good friend of mine from Lake Erie, PA. He and his wife are really good friends of mine. They have a house here on the beach in Cabarete and come down here two to three times a year. He is an ex-Navy Seal that i spoke about earlier in this thread. We’ve known each other for about 5 years...since I’ve been working here on the beach. He and his wife know me well. Maybe too well. And this knowledge of me has been passed on to some of the missionaries. One of the things passed onto the missionaries about me is that I only own four pairs of shorts, no pants, six shirts, no shoes, but two pairs of Keen sandals. I own no coat, no socks, no underwear, no pants, and not one single pair of shoes or boots. Everything I own in terms of wardrobe fits into one plastic Playero supermarket bag. Everything I own fits into a backpack.
A few of the missionaries found out that I own a lot of motorcycles (too many) between here and Norway. They know that I travel a lot and have lived in and worked in a lot of countries. But none of them know my religious affiliations, hence, the introduction to all of the answers of the universe to be found in one neatly packaged religious book found at JW.org.
God bless them. They obviously took one quick glance up and down at my wardrobe and saw that I needed to be saved more than the beach dogs and prostitutes that were hanging around our table.
Another great night here in Cabarete.
Frank
Sounds like you had some sugar free Haribo Gummy Bears...
Haribo Gummy Candy, Sugarless Gummy Bears, 5-Pound Bag Customer Reviews
Let’s talk whores. Let’s talk prostitution. But especially...let’s talk society definitions, labeling, and stigmatization of women.
Here at the bar where I work, we have the usual motley crew of prostitutes who wonder in and out throughout the night. I know them all. Many I have known for 6 years now. I know both them and their children. The staff knows them all as well. Many of our regular customers—expats who live here--know them as well.
What surprises tourists and religious conservatives the most I’ve noticed throughout the years is the friendliness and warm interaction between prostitute and our Dominican staff. It’s a genuine friendliness and cordiality that is exchanged between nearly all Dominicans and prostitutes here on this island.
Let me explain.
We get around 6 or 7—sometimes more, sometimes less—prostitutes who come and sit at the bar throughout the night. They’re looking for any direct eye-contact with any single men they see sitting by themselves. The girls sometimes remind me of the stray dogs here on the beach. Whenever they see a group of tourists sitting at a table, they immediately start to congregate around that table because they know that their chances of being fed are very high. When the food starts coming out of the kitchen, the dogs all assume their positions in respected pecking order behind the Alpha female and patiently wait for any direct eye-contact with the tourists.
Back to the prostitutes. It’s the same thing. If we get a group—two or more men sitting at the bar—any working girl walking past will immediately gravitate up to the bar and assume a position either directly across from the men or directly next to them.
They wait for any direct eye-contact. The evolution of the Homo sapiens species amazes me sometimes.
Our staff always come over and talk to the prostitutes. They talk about their children mostly, but they also ask about their mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters. They gossip about who just had a baby, who is currently pregnant, etc. They talk about their children in school, the high costs of clothing and supplies. They talk about rising food costs, the price of an egg, rice and beans, and milk; they talk about how hard it is to survive, and sometimes they will even launch into politics. It’s very informal and cordial.
There is a real extended nuclear family between prostitutes and “normal” Dominicans who work 9 to 5. There is a real companionship, real empathy, and a real grass roots mutual feeling and understanding. There is no negative judging, no looking down at someone and pointing and shaking your finger at someone because of their occupation.
Now contrast this with the western world where people ostracize and harshly judge you when you are a prostitute or even a so-called "Slut". People will be-little you and shame you. Women get stigmatized with nasty labels like “slut,” “whore”, etc. In many countries you can be incarcerated and even killed (Middle East) —but the harshest persecution seems to come from religious communities. In religious communities, there is a really harsh labeling and stigmatization that follows women around. There is a lot of judging, a lot of name calling, and the women are ostracized for life.
Meanwhile, in the Caribbean—but especially on this island—people empathize and respect women. Few people judge harshly. Few people stigmatize. Instead, there seems to be a comradery among Dominicans and prostitutes. One reason—at least among our staff-- is that the children of the prostitutes go to school with the children of our staff. They also live in the same neighborhoods, share the same transportation, know each other’s parents and brothers & sisters, and many of them have even grown up with each other.
This is what makes this island so unique, so understanding, and so special…this ability to empathize and not harshly judge or label people for their respected occupations—no matter how unorthodox they are.
Frank
Here at the bar where I work, we have the usual motley crew of prostitutes who wonder in and out throughout the night. I know them all. Many I have known for 6 years now. I know both them and their children. The staff knows them all as well. Many of our regular customers—expats who live here--know them as well.
What surprises tourists and religious conservatives the most I’ve noticed throughout the years is the friendliness and warm interaction between prostitute and our Dominican staff. It’s a genuine friendliness and cordiality that is exchanged between nearly all Dominicans and prostitutes here on this island.
Let me explain.
We get around 6 or 7—sometimes more, sometimes less—prostitutes who come and sit at the bar throughout the night. They’re looking for any direct eye-contact with any single men they see sitting by themselves. The girls sometimes remind me of the stray dogs here on the beach. Whenever they see a group of tourists sitting at a table, they immediately start to congregate around that table because they know that their chances of being fed are very high. When the food starts coming out of the kitchen, the dogs all assume their positions in respected pecking order behind the Alpha female and patiently wait for any direct eye-contact with the tourists.
Back to the prostitutes. It’s the same thing. If we get a group—two or more men sitting at the bar—any working girl walking past will immediately gravitate up to the bar and assume a position either directly across from the men or directly next to them.
They wait for any direct eye-contact. The evolution of the Homo sapiens species amazes me sometimes.
Our staff always come over and talk to the prostitutes. They talk about their children mostly, but they also ask about their mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters. They gossip about who just had a baby, who is currently pregnant, etc. They talk about their children in school, the high costs of clothing and supplies. They talk about rising food costs, the price of an egg, rice and beans, and milk; they talk about how hard it is to survive, and sometimes they will even launch into politics. It’s very informal and cordial.
There is a real extended nuclear family between prostitutes and “normal” Dominicans who work 9 to 5. There is a real companionship, real empathy, and a real grass roots mutual feeling and understanding. There is no negative judging, no looking down at someone and pointing and shaking your finger at someone because of their occupation.
Now contrast this with the western world where people ostracize and harshly judge you when you are a prostitute or even a so-called "Slut". People will be-little you and shame you. Women get stigmatized with nasty labels like “slut,” “whore”, etc. In many countries you can be incarcerated and even killed (Middle East) —but the harshest persecution seems to come from religious communities. In religious communities, there is a really harsh labeling and stigmatization that follows women around. There is a lot of judging, a lot of name calling, and the women are ostracized for life.
Meanwhile, in the Caribbean—but especially on this island—people empathize and respect women. Few people judge harshly. Few people stigmatize. Instead, there seems to be a comradery among Dominicans and prostitutes. One reason—at least among our staff-- is that the children of the prostitutes go to school with the children of our staff. They also live in the same neighborhoods, share the same transportation, know each other’s parents and brothers & sisters, and many of them have even grown up with each other.
This is what makes this island so unique, so understanding, and so special…this ability to empathize and not harshly judge or label people for their respected occupations—no matter how unorthodox they are.
Frank
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Frank I couldn't agree more. I've seen it 1st hand. The women are just trying to get by. For whatever reason, they find selling themselves a way to make $ then to do other jobs.
As an American - our problems on prostitution / sex in general go back to puritanical ideology. The new push in the US is trying to tell potential Johns that these women are sex slaves. While I'm sure this does occur, I'm thinking the vast majority of women selling themselves here are not. Most are independent women making the rounds. The better looking ones, do a circuit, traveling from town to town setting up in cheap hotels while using Backpage to sell themselves.
Not saying its right or wrong - but its not going away. Its the oldest profession for a reason.
Vaya Con Dios
Ho's Not Only in DR....
As an American - our problems on prostitution / sex in general go back to puritanical ideology. The new push in the US is trying to tell potential Johns that these women are sex slaves. While I'm sure this does occur, I'm thinking the vast majority of women selling themselves here are not. Most are independent women making the rounds. The better looking ones, do a circuit, traveling from town to town setting up in cheap hotels while using Backpage to sell themselves.
Not saying its right or wrong - but its not going away. Its the oldest profession for a reason.
Vaya Con Dios
Ho's Not Only in DR....