the bitches of burnside
Like an axe splitting a skull in half, Burnside Street runs all the way through Portland, bisecting the city neatly into northern and southern parts. All street addresses north of Burnside start with an "N" prefix, and all addresses south of it begin with an "S". Burnside is the Equator of Portland.
According to one source, in the 1860s, "The street’s reputation for saloons and sailors made it almost impossible for respectable businesses to be located on Burnside." In some ways this debauched tradition continues, at least in the blighted blocks which hang tight to either side of the Burnside Bridge which straddles the river and separates Portland's east side from Downtown.
This area is where the Bitches of Burnside graze. Women who are to'-up-from-the-flo'-up. Sallow skin hanging from their bones, open scabs, meth-pipe burns, and shiners from the last bitch-slapping administered from their coal-black pimp daddies. They peddle their rotted flesh at all hours of the day to the desperate suburbanites who cruise Burnside looking for a sickness their wives can't give them.
I see no need to feel sorry for the johns. I'd like to feel compassion for the Bitches of Burnside, but it's hard ... really hard. Sometimes, even Superman needs to take a nap.
