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A Prostitute By Any Other Name

Like I imagine most larger cities, we have a couple of “indie” weeklies (that are of course published by large media companies, but they’re allowed to say “fuck” and stuff, so, “indie”). I read them on occasion, usually when there’s some specific article or review or something that I care about. Otherwise, nah, because they of course suck.

One of the weirdest things about them–and it’s been this way for a while, I realized–are the classified ads in the back, specifically the ones that are advertising “adult entertainment.” Oh please. These are whores. And what whores they are! This is the most democratic sampling of whores I’ve ever seen, but then again, I don’t get out whoring as much as I used to.

There really is a pleasing diversity in terms of the girlflesh available for what is coyly referred to as “Outcalls” or, more rarely, “Incalls” (which I suppose must mean “I prefer to fuck on sheets that I know are clean, and plus, I’m probably armed”). There are petite girls, larger girls, Sears catalog bra model girls, ugly girls, older girls who aren’t even girls any more, girls who technically were never girls in the first place, girls of every race, girls who were professionally shot, girls who were shot in somebody’s garage, and on and on and on. Just about the only universal is that they are holding their boobs in their hands. LADIES! Don’t you know that you’re obstructing our view? Oh, right.

But not the men’s ads. Homogeneity rules the day here: nothing but Speedo-wrapped sausages with the occasional inclusion of some really ripped abs. It’s an interesting contrast. The women, mostly, seem to be saying, “Ain’t this a package, boys?” And the men seem to be saying, “THIS IS MY PACKAGE, BOYS.”

The text, when it is present aside from the de rigeur listing of measurements and phone numbers, also makes for pretty good reading. One lass is brilliant: “Call for Good Morning Wake-Up Specials.” Good gravy! She’s got morning blowjobs on special! This is the sort of thing that makes me so fucking proud of this country. Well, and several other countries, where this sort of thing is perfectly legal, but you see where I’m coming from. Other snippets are less successful, mainly because of unfortunate phrasing. “Enjoyable Moments with Premium Satisfaction.” Enjoyable . . . moments? What’s going on when I’m not enjoying myself between these moments? Does she punch me at odd intervals?

Of course, even if I weren’t in a happy relationship, there’s no way I could ever manage to get through a “session” with one of these gals.

She (at door): Hi, sweetheart. Come on in.

Me: Hi! Okay! Um! Hi! (Long pause.) Boy am I sweaty!

She: That’s all right, honey. Now, what–

Me: I GOTTA GO! I GOTTA GO! I’M SORRY! YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL! HERE’S A HUNDRED DOLLARS! I GOTTA GO! (Exits running.)

She: Thank goodness. He stank like anything.

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