Hustling for Whores

I'll try and explain how my mind works in these matters. I see the "sex service" industry as pretty much simply, that of a service that provides sex in various forms.

The same way that athletes seek out massages, movie stars seek out teeth whitening, writers seek out shrinks, people pay for "pay t.v.", superannuation companies prepare for our old age, dustmen empty our rubbish, hairdressers sculpture our nails, parents pay our school fees, people get their tax, shops put out discounts, fair evaders avoid buying tickets, shoppers look for bargains, vegetarians buy organics, medical centers bulk bill, Buskers ask for coins, children demand pocket money, the unemployed get the dole, people catch Taxis, DVD's have extras, people keep pets, kids want the latest gadgets, parents want cheap holidays, television switches on and politicians take bribes.

Yes, hideously simplistic, may the Gods of castration cut me short when spouting such remedial remarks, but ... and there inevitably always will be, whether anyone likes it or not, there will be ... a but, and not the cigarette kind you can see littered about the place but one that exists a million times over in a million different styles of shell, language, or clothing or figure until this planet keels over and calls it quits, a big but whether you're M.C Hammer, whether you like it or not.

Part of life I say, and why? Well, thousands of people walked along a Melbourne Freeway the other day, senseless, silly, pointless, yet that is what they thought important to do, and so is life. So, many people sit in their funk thinking it the "bees knees" or an equivalent abstraction that demands attention, and so very well, then it should be smoothly transferred over successfully to what the rest of society is up to - the cusps of our inner universes unaided by the rabid media. Come one, unless, we are all completely narcissistic, come all, then doesn't wholly the absurdity of everything then make or at least half baked complete sense? Or whole nonsense, you be the judge or jury depending on where you sit.

As with sex work, love it or loathe it, like anything else we feel strongly about but have very little power to change radically i.e. stop, it is life. So, service rendered, delivered, and supplied I guess, if it interests me I'll take it. So goes it all, and everything else. Everyone pots their liking towards that, somehow. I once made a personal complaint to the Victorian Army, my complaint, I didn't feel war was very good. Their response was to note my complaint and of course do bugger all about it, and so it goes, forever into the faithful fatalist's hands, life.

So, here are two small but fun stories of sexual services rendered. The first was a brothel visit, where I was having a shit night and felt the need to uplift my spirits by popping into a house of fun and having some. I walked up to the back of the establishment where I knew there was a buzzer and rang it - I was extremely drunk - the woman answered and said "Yes?" I, drunkenly slurring, speaking like Orson Welles trying to promote French Champagne made in California, I dribbled "Can I come in", if you have seen the amusing video of Orson he slurs "Just do anything?", to the director. The woman on the other end of the Intercom said "You can't come in through the back, are you blind drunk?" - of course I was pretty much blind drunk but pulling up a Pew or better myself together I muttered "Oh, yes, yes, sorry I knew that, wont be a tick, I'll just pop along the side here and come around the front then should I?" Lunging towards the "front" like some Peter O'Toole without his house keys. Fuck that remind me, I don't wear "green socks" anymore, I'm doomed to suffer bad luck with every step!

I corrected myself enough to wobble down some cobble stones until I reached the front of the brothel. Upon pressing the door bell I had straightened myself up enough to appear at least proper to some degree. I was let in. Take a seat in this room, said the receptionist who gave me a quarter which was a bedroom and not a waiting room. At the time and still now I have no idea why I was left waiting in this room but I imagine it was to be left alone. I had paid for my expected duration and so was just filling in time before the introductions began. I quite enjoy the introductions at brothels, it is like Andy Kaufman being taken to the brothel in "Man on the Moon" and pretending he'd never been there before when in fact he was a regular.

The first girl walked in, a cute Asian lady who was brief but didn't spark my initial interest but the second girl, a Flapper like beauty came in and I knew immediately what was intended for that evenings early morning romp. I chose Eva, her name of course not really being Eva, and so completely safe to write about in a public space without having to make up anything.

Now trips to brothels are fun, and if you can afford it, I recommend it to anyone, male or female, to help promote the Industry as a healthy one but also broaden the undercurrent it now serves in society. Our attitudes have begun to change towards each other regrading sex, we should take the oldest profession in the world along with it and not leave it wrangling in the wings where it services the same volume of use and service without the benefit of public support instead of prejudice. The more that genuine and positive people enter these spaces the better the whole world of prostitution will become, because it is like anything, as soon as it has general acceptance, the more it will have the opportunity to publicly express its issues rather then having to rely on mail outs of the Sex Work and Law Enforcement magazine and other such privately delivered rag press releases to air its troubles and woes.

So, this girl walks in, all Flapperish which is not a recognized word, so ridiculous, because she satisfied the liveliness one hopes for in a brothel like encounter. We went upstairs, we had little time but boy did we make those seconds count. I showered and prepared my good self, she walked in, lively white flesh hovering beneath an array of dripping lingerie, such as slip and knickers. As soon as I had dried off I was wrenched from the spot and thrust on the bed, kissed until I saw stars, okay until I saw Pluto or some such smaller outer but not less important planet. We rolled about for a while and I couldn't but help thrusting certain rationals of my mind that she was rather more enthusiastic then others I had payed for. Well, it was all on for young and, well young, if I may bring my 32 years into the equation.

The activities were comprehensive despite my sozzled disposition, I think she pretty much flipped me over every position available and even perhaps annotated it. Anyhow after such a rigorous quick affair, she took an interest in me and even watched some of my films on my mobile, appreciated she had fucked a fellow sex worker, and she asked me for my number. She asked me for my number, I never it offered it her to make that as clear as Windex.

A month later I receive a text message at 1am "Hey Babe I'm working at "The Desert" until 3am, could you come and see me?", I turn my head back down on the pillow in some sort of appreciative reverie - sucker or lucker? - the next day I text her and she tells me she has moved venue, and then she asks me if she might expect a visit, why? Well, in her words "When am I going to have the pleasure of your company again?" and "I had so much fun with you", so whether this be an entrepreneur looking to seize the "pay" or someone who has "good" taste. What does it matter? I now have a friend working where when I can afford it, I can visit and have a better or more interesting dalliance then some random off the shelf adventure.