Only Losers Pay for Women

In my second year of college, I moved into an apartment with entitled asshole vegan social justice warriors (Exhibit A: they told me I was a racist because I didn’t go to some protest.  However, when I had a black friend over, they were pissed that I didn’t tell them beforehand because they hadn’t locked their doors).  Anyway, I spent the summer playing with my band, thinking that I could easily find a job come September. 

But.  By the time school started, there were no jobs available at any of the trendy boutiques and cafés.  Looking through the classifieds, I found an ad for telephone work, no experience necessary, $10 an hour, under the table.  Considering that this was 25 years ago, that was super. 

It turned out that two disgraced cops were looking for phone sex operators for their low-rent business.  The hours were weird – 11 pm to 4 am – but I was free to do schoolwork during downtime. Kids today might be confused: Hold on.  Men paid money to have strangers talk dirty to them over the telephone?  Yes, children, in the before-time, men paid money to have strangers talk dirty to them over the telephone.  Remember, the internet was still dial-up, everyone used AOL and there wasn’t a lot of amputee porn on the internet yet.  All in all, it was a pretty good job; I was able to write my James M. Cain papers, keep myself in beer and Skittles and, with my imagination, I was a natural.

Generally, it was pretty tame: Oooh, girl, tell me how big it is.  Yes, yes, you’re very big, so impressive.  I honestly liked the challenging ones – pretend you’re every member of my family gangbanging me.  Wait!  Throw in the dog, too! 

Woof.

I believe women belong solely to themselves and they can do what they like.  While my dad was not impressed with my new job, I didn’t think it was a big deal.  I had my regulars who told me about the progress of their children and asked advice about their failing marriages, I had virgins who wanted to know about sex, I even had an older gentleman who was questioning his sexuality and requested that I be a drag queen named Diamond.  I won’t say that I was doing God’s work, exactly, but I was providing a service and I wasn’t ashamed.

I have my limits, though.  While I don’t shame hookers – their bodies, their choice – I could never be one.  I can only be polite and sane for so long, and that time is severely truncated in person.  But what I absolutely abhor about prostitution is that, for the most part, prostitution is not something that these women would have wished for themselves.  Let’s say it all together: happy women don’t do drugs, happy women don’t abort and happy women don’t rent out their bodies.

The most pathetic thing about prostitution is that there is a market for it.  If you are sexually attracted to My Little Pony and jack off alone in your room over Sweetie Belle, well, all right.  You keep your weirdness to yourself and don’t bother anyone.   I love that for you!  Then, however, we have these guys who – for whatever reason – can’t secure companionship through organic channels and must purchase it.  I couldn’t do that.  I couldn’t involve another person in my shame or blatantly advertise my failings. 

For example, I knew a really sweet guy who employed hookers.  He was a smart, generous guy who tipped well, didn’t beat the ladies and provided them with food/beverages/non-powdered drugs.  He became a little delusional, though, believing these women truly wanted to be with him and were falling in love with him.   While these women might not have hated being with him, the power structure was all wrong: he spoke well of the ladies, but he also referred to them as “my girls.”  So, as an idealistic liberal, he still had the notion of ownership over women simply because he handed over his grubby dollars.

While John X treated the women condescendingly well, he was still promoting the destruction of women.  For every John X in the world of prostitution, there are hundreds of Gary Ridgways; when we talk about marginalized populations, you can’t get more marginalized than prostitutes.  I mean, come on, how many women died before cops started taking The Green River Killer seriously?  As an interesting aside, Ol’ Gary was convicted of killing 48 women (the actual number might be closer to 71) and got life in prison.  Aileen Wuornos, who hadn’t even reached double digits, had her ticket punched quick snap.  Oh, good Lord!  You mean a woman – a sleazy whore – had the audacity to make prostitution a dangerous sport for the johns?  Unacceptable, brethren, unacceptable.

-          As another interesting aside, Ridgway actively killed for 16 years, Wuornos killed for 1 (as in singular) year.  Is it just me or is this indicative of the priorities of law enforcement?

If there wasn’t a demand for child pornography, we wouldn’t have trafficked and violated children.  Likewise, if there weren’t men turned on by the perceived ownership of women’s bodies, we wouldn’t have prostitution.  Women who prostitute themselves aren’t lazy (good customer service with spread legs has got to be difficult), they are desperate.  They have been let down.  They are women supporting father-abandoned children, drug addictions, untreated mental illness and a lack of familial/community support.

So, the next time you hand over $20 for a blowjob, be fully aware that you are the villain of your own story.