A social cancer

It is said that the oldest profession in human history is prostitution.I don't know the background of this statement. Being a man , I declare that the purest thing in nature is the body of a woman. It transcends all creations and exists to glorify life. But what haunts me is that how the soul which owns that marvellous temple can trade it with a few notes. Somebody once told me, " an woman's heart is like a pacific ocean". Is it the same for a whore? I refuse to believe that a prostitute doesn't have a heart , a soul, an yearning to love and to be loved, a desire for love making (not raw sex) and the mind to admire the glorious manifestations of nature like any other woman. Then why is she deprived of such basic wants. What compels her to take such a career which is even more dreadful than suicide. If suicide is a result of a temporary mental disbalance, then prostitution is a result of what? Something even more compulsive? If the dream of every single girl is to be a mother,if the greatest joy of an woman is to feel those tender lips playing with her nipples and if the pain of love making in her vagina gives her the greatest pleasure, then why the hell does she throw them to the wind and plunges into the dark world. Is the social burden so heavy that she has no other option but enter a world of lifelong stigma and mental rape with such fiercesome brutality? Do they really enjoy making their most personal possesion a mere use and throw commodity? In our country when a rape occurs , it creates headlines. Journalistic competition is at its highest pitch to get a better coverage. Can't the media come out of the jargon of "sex worker" and go deep inside the mental landscape of another famous jargon "red light area". The findings might be heartbreaking.
When a prostitute is deep into sleep , doesn't she dream, doesn't she have nightmares? Then how does she react to her dreams and what can be a bigger nightmare than her own life? When an 18 year old girl dances away to glory in order to satisfy her customers, the venue could easily have been a bustling college auditorium. Her fate is cruel and destiny defined. Her every dancing step may be another forceful insertion piercing the bleeding soul. We take vacation to enjoy and relax. Who knows, some might take it to cry.
Questions arise, but answers?