Whoredom Wasn't My First Sin

Hi. My name is…

Well, does it really matter? Identity feels like a luxury I no longer recognize, so let's skip that part.

I want to talk about something I've never talked about before. It's something that's happened to me over the years, but I'm finally getting to share it with you.

I'm asking for one thing—kindness. Not sympathy, not pity. Just a little kindness in how you judge what you're about to read. Because getting here hasn't been easy.

Part 1: Interactions With The Devil

My father used to have this friend. Middle-aged and married, his stomach was like a drum, and his smiles looked deceptive. At first, his visits were normal, until they weren't. Until he started coming for me…

He'd call me outside at night to his perfect hiding place and the perfect crime scene. And then he'd test the boundaries of a child who didn't know what safety looked like. I knew it was wrong. My body knew; my mind knew. But I was a kid, and silence was the only language adults had taught me.

Part 2: The Accidental Making of a Whore

Abuse rewired my brain like faulty electricity, and I learned desire the wrong way… from predators, not partners. From boys who saw me alone in a dark corner and read that as permission.

No one noticed. No one asked. No one cared.

Part 3: A Forbidden Affair

By seventeen, I was living inside a shell of my own making. Pain felt familiar, so maybe that's why I kept ending up with men who could smell my vulnerability like perfume from a mile away.

Then there was Mr. Bayo, who was an architect by profession and an architect of my ruin by practice. He was older, powerful, experienced, and bored. He didn't seduce me… instead, he recruited me.

Part 4: Hardcore, Softcore

Then I met Tobi. He was pure, kind, and normal. A man who loved gently, he was a completely foreign breed of the male species I had ever met.

I wanted normalcy so badly it hurt.

But life laughed at me.

The day his family invited me over, I walked straight into hell. His father — the man who stole my childhood — sat smiling at me across the dinner table like we shared nothing in common.

You know, sometimes trauma doesn't knock at your door; it strolls in wearing an agbada and shining its teeth like Baba Suwe.

Part 5: Echoes of Shame

I self-destructed the relationship with Tobi by sleeping with his best friend. I didn't cheat because I was wicked; rather, I cheated because chaos was the only rhythm I'd ever learned to dance to.

Part 6: The Art of Submission

Men were easy. Easily predictable, driven by desire and ego. I knew just how to weaponize both.

Submission was my artistry. Seduction was my strategy. Survival was my KPI.

Part 7: Inflammable Passions

One night, Ada dragged me to a party on Banana Island. Rich men, expensive cars, shallow conversations, all of that stuff… It was a marketplace of desire, and I was the most valuable item on display.