In Defense of Hookers
Let us start off with a simple statement which precludes analysis, debate or discussion: Give a man pussy on a plate, and he's gonna take it. I'm not interested in why Tiger did it, what motivates Hef, whether soccer players are ever capable of keeping their dicks in their pants, why some men pay for it and others don't. Doesn't interest me. From my bleak, subjective standpoint, I'm working from the crude assumption that man in general is not going to say no when presented with a willing, pliable female who may or may not be hotter than the official girlfriend or wife back home.
That sorted, let us move swiftly on.
The 'other' woman in these affairs fascinates me. I can't figure out if this is a consequence of media-portrayal, or my own past as a stripper, but it seems that the professional sex worker - more specifically, the hooker - seems to emerge unscathed from sex scandals with a bizarre kind of dignity intact, a perpetuation of their illusory, mysterious, night-time selves. While the right wing may condemn the morality of selling sex for financial gain, on the whole, I'd hazard a guess that we as a public get it. It's a simple transaction: I give you cash, you suck my cock, and variations upon this theme. It makes sense. We can see there is an evident exchange of goods going on here. I can't help but admit to a certain admiration for those such as Ashley Alexander Dupre, Spitzer's call girl, Belle de Jour or the sweet-natured teenager Zahia Dehar, who was making up to 30k USD a month as a prostitute in Paris.
"I love them all," proclaimed Zahia to the press, breaking the silence hanging over the news that among her clients are prominent French footballers who may face jail time for paying for sex with a girl under eighteen. Her magnanimous and wonderfully French effusiveness probably paves the way for a torrent of outraged articles from middle-aged feminists on the deluded nature of these poor females selling their bodies and their souls to earn that Birkin bag. But Zahia, Dupre and Belle rise effortlessly above ideological condemnation, because in this age of shameless self-promotion, celebrity, reality TV and the relentless quest for exposure, the position of prostitute is a simple and honest one. Compare Zahia, Dupre and Belle, none of whom actively sought media exposure, (Belle's understated outing as Brooke Magnananti was the height of grace) to the bevy of brainless, big-boobed idiots smiling inanely for the paps, feeding into their own demise and criticism, suckered into a perpetuating lie that there's no such thing as bad press. Ladies, learn from young Zahia. That's how to handle the media.
Men go to prostitutes because the transaction is cut-and-dried. The code of silence surrounding sex work means the chance that one's indiscretions are revealed by a woman blabbing to the tabloids is sorely lessened. Admitting to being a prostitute, to me, implies an honesty that Tiger's bevy of sluts didn't possess. They all knew he was married, he travelled, he was a superstar sportsman. Do we really believe that any of the women he cheated on Elin with actually believed that what they had with him amounted to a relationship based on anything more than sex and mutual using?
These types of women are the worst. They're amateurs. They understand the basic distinction between sex and love but claim not to, perhaps because they're in denial with themselves about their motives, perhaps because they're obsessed with the media representations of themselves. Let my hypothetical husband screw a prostitute any day over these rank amateurs with their lack of morals.
Amateurism is not confined to the multiple tabloid mistresses feigning affection for their married man. It's spread to everyday life. Recently a girl - Alison - I had struck up a friendship with disappeared off the radar, only to reappear, drunk, outside my boyfriend's house at 11pm, calling him ten times in a fury because he was with me. My boyfriend (of a year) and I had broken up for a couple of months at one point, and I found out that she had dated him for ten days or so during this time. I recall having a coffee with her when she grilled me about my then-ex, feigning sympathy with my heartbreak and grilling me about my relationship. Unknown to me, she was going on her 'first date' with him later that evening. He ditched her after a couple of dates, and we reunited a month later. At no point was he made aware by this girl that she had an acquaintance and friendship with me. However, seemingly oblivious to the irony of the situation, she pursued him for four months afterwards, hanging around his house like a vapid blow-up doll with stalker tendencies, running around offering to make him dinner and fetch him groceries.
Like I said, the point of this article is not to examine the man's motives, or assess man's blame, for infidelity or otherwise. It's evident that my boyfriend is a cock for dating a woman with a mouth like a combine harvester, the IQ of a pea and the morals of an alligator. In all honesty, these two broken people deserve each other. But to my way of thinking, only a disgusting person would relentlessly pursue another woman's man, ex or otherwise, fresh out of a grueling stint in rehab, with a frank disregard for anyone's feelings but her own. This woman works in a predominantly female industry. I wonder whether her job prospects would be improved should a google search provide the information that blond, British, Alison ----- of Venice Beach, CA has proven herself to be a rank amateur when it comes to the unwritten rules of sex and love, the unwritten codes concerning female solidarity.
Women who kiss-and-tell, women who have affairs with married men, women who boost their self-esteem with sex and cry love to assuage their conscience, women who use sex as revenge, women who pursue off-limits men.... Women's immorality in the 21st century seems to be perpetuated by sex scandals involving females who'd scream blue murder if you referred to them, even vaguely, in connection to the prostitute title. Perhaps because they misunderstand the basic honesty of this position and confuse their own immoral motives with a purity of purpose that simply does not exist. Love doesn't come into the equation with these reptiles. It's simply about self: selfishness, self-promotion, self-satisfaction. Female solidarity is kicked carelessly to the kerb in its pursuit.
It seems strange to me that so much female venom is directed towards women in the sex industry, as if they are the ones with designs upon your husband, desperate to get your boyfriend in the sack. Yet they are the ones who never confuse the transaction. For a price, Belle, Ashley and Zahia give men what they want, provide a fantasy that is unsustainable in the real world, and then leave them alone to carry on with their lives. The real danger to your marriage is lurking under an insidious coating of normal, bleating pathetically that they've been used when the shit hits the fan, when they've been rejected or their selfish demands have not been met. The professionals, however, are the ones who can smile to the camera, say with genuine affection, 'I love them all', and retire gracefully, to sleep easy at night, knowing that whatever they did with your man, it was better them than a rank amateur who might have pulled that house of cards called 'a relationship' down. I learned more about sex and love in a strip club than I ever did on the dating circuit, from the pages of 'Us Weekly' or from my fellow females.
Prostitutes of the world: I salute you. Should my hypothetical husband ever stray, I pray that he wanders into your professional midst, you fuck him hard, send him home STD-free, and that I never, ever know about it.
That sorted, let us move swiftly on.
The 'other' woman in these affairs fascinates me. I can't figure out if this is a consequence of media-portrayal, or my own past as a stripper, but it seems that the professional sex worker - more specifically, the hooker - seems to emerge unscathed from sex scandals with a bizarre kind of dignity intact, a perpetuation of their illusory, mysterious, night-time selves. While the right wing may condemn the morality of selling sex for financial gain, on the whole, I'd hazard a guess that we as a public get it. It's a simple transaction: I give you cash, you suck my cock, and variations upon this theme. It makes sense. We can see there is an evident exchange of goods going on here. I can't help but admit to a certain admiration for those such as Ashley Alexander Dupre, Spitzer's call girl, Belle de Jour or the sweet-natured teenager Zahia Dehar, who was making up to 30k USD a month as a prostitute in Paris.
"I love them all," proclaimed Zahia to the press, breaking the silence hanging over the news that among her clients are prominent French footballers who may face jail time for paying for sex with a girl under eighteen. Her magnanimous and wonderfully French effusiveness probably paves the way for a torrent of outraged articles from middle-aged feminists on the deluded nature of these poor females selling their bodies and their souls to earn that Birkin bag. But Zahia, Dupre and Belle rise effortlessly above ideological condemnation, because in this age of shameless self-promotion, celebrity, reality TV and the relentless quest for exposure, the position of prostitute is a simple and honest one. Compare Zahia, Dupre and Belle, none of whom actively sought media exposure, (Belle's understated outing as Brooke Magnananti was the height of grace) to the bevy of brainless, big-boobed idiots smiling inanely for the paps, feeding into their own demise and criticism, suckered into a perpetuating lie that there's no such thing as bad press. Ladies, learn from young Zahia. That's how to handle the media.
Men go to prostitutes because the transaction is cut-and-dried. The code of silence surrounding sex work means the chance that one's indiscretions are revealed by a woman blabbing to the tabloids is sorely lessened. Admitting to being a prostitute, to me, implies an honesty that Tiger's bevy of sluts didn't possess. They all knew he was married, he travelled, he was a superstar sportsman. Do we really believe that any of the women he cheated on Elin with actually believed that what they had with him amounted to a relationship based on anything more than sex and mutual using?
These types of women are the worst. They're amateurs. They understand the basic distinction between sex and love but claim not to, perhaps because they're in denial with themselves about their motives, perhaps because they're obsessed with the media representations of themselves. Let my hypothetical husband screw a prostitute any day over these rank amateurs with their lack of morals.
Amateurism is not confined to the multiple tabloid mistresses feigning affection for their married man. It's spread to everyday life. Recently a girl - Alison - I had struck up a friendship with disappeared off the radar, only to reappear, drunk, outside my boyfriend's house at 11pm, calling him ten times in a fury because he was with me. My boyfriend (of a year) and I had broken up for a couple of months at one point, and I found out that she had dated him for ten days or so during this time. I recall having a coffee with her when she grilled me about my then-ex, feigning sympathy with my heartbreak and grilling me about my relationship. Unknown to me, she was going on her 'first date' with him later that evening. He ditched her after a couple of dates, and we reunited a month later. At no point was he made aware by this girl that she had an acquaintance and friendship with me. However, seemingly oblivious to the irony of the situation, she pursued him for four months afterwards, hanging around his house like a vapid blow-up doll with stalker tendencies, running around offering to make him dinner and fetch him groceries.
Like I said, the point of this article is not to examine the man's motives, or assess man's blame, for infidelity or otherwise. It's evident that my boyfriend is a cock for dating a woman with a mouth like a combine harvester, the IQ of a pea and the morals of an alligator. In all honesty, these two broken people deserve each other. But to my way of thinking, only a disgusting person would relentlessly pursue another woman's man, ex or otherwise, fresh out of a grueling stint in rehab, with a frank disregard for anyone's feelings but her own. This woman works in a predominantly female industry. I wonder whether her job prospects would be improved should a google search provide the information that blond, British, Alison ----- of Venice Beach, CA has proven herself to be a rank amateur when it comes to the unwritten rules of sex and love, the unwritten codes concerning female solidarity.
Women who kiss-and-tell, women who have affairs with married men, women who boost their self-esteem with sex and cry love to assuage their conscience, women who use sex as revenge, women who pursue off-limits men.... Women's immorality in the 21st century seems to be perpetuated by sex scandals involving females who'd scream blue murder if you referred to them, even vaguely, in connection to the prostitute title. Perhaps because they misunderstand the basic honesty of this position and confuse their own immoral motives with a purity of purpose that simply does not exist. Love doesn't come into the equation with these reptiles. It's simply about self: selfishness, self-promotion, self-satisfaction. Female solidarity is kicked carelessly to the kerb in its pursuit.
It seems strange to me that so much female venom is directed towards women in the sex industry, as if they are the ones with designs upon your husband, desperate to get your boyfriend in the sack. Yet they are the ones who never confuse the transaction. For a price, Belle, Ashley and Zahia give men what they want, provide a fantasy that is unsustainable in the real world, and then leave them alone to carry on with their lives. The real danger to your marriage is lurking under an insidious coating of normal, bleating pathetically that they've been used when the shit hits the fan, when they've been rejected or their selfish demands have not been met. The professionals, however, are the ones who can smile to the camera, say with genuine affection, 'I love them all', and retire gracefully, to sleep easy at night, knowing that whatever they did with your man, it was better them than a rank amateur who might have pulled that house of cards called 'a relationship' down. I learned more about sex and love in a strip club than I ever did on the dating circuit, from the pages of 'Us Weekly' or from my fellow females.
Prostitutes of the world: I salute you. Should my hypothetical husband ever stray, I pray that he wanders into your professional midst, you fuck him hard, send him home STD-free, and that I never, ever know about it.
MIMI IN NY | 7:02 PM |
