Wednesday, May 03, 2017
House of Dolls
Would you believe there is a brothel in Barcelona staffed by sex robots? I had to pinch myself when I saw this article to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. (I have yet to awake from a dream after pinching myself – maybe it’s time to replace that old saw with biting your toe or something.) The Spanish company behind this venture is called Lumidolls, and they are planning to open a similar establishment in the UK, where brothels containing flesh-and-blood women are illegal. They hope to attract customers by advertising the following features:
• a wide selection of “totally realistic” girl robots, with “angelic faces” and “penetrative gazes”;
• the opportunity to enact fantasies you “would not dare to do with a woman”;
• the use of “special antibacterial soaps” to disinfect the robots after they have entertained their clients.
The key question for potential customers is in what sense these simulacra are “robots” rather than just “dolls”. To the naked eye, they look like dolls – I can’t detect any moving parts and the expressions on their faces are decidedly fixed. Maybe they emit squeaks when you squeeze them, like children’s toys, but I doubt that will satisfy punters looking for an interactive experience.
Naturally, I forwarded the article to the manager of the safari camp, hoping to be enlightened by his take on the robots/dolls, but he was more concerned about what they were charging for using them:
“82 pounds an hour!” he exclaimed. “That’s almost as much as a real woman costs!”
“But you are ignoring the advantages they have over real woman,” I replied mischievously. “They won’t laugh at men who whinny like horses and go cross-eyed when they climax.”
“Have you been talking to my wife?” he asked suspiciously. “I could tell you a few things about her.”
Even if the brothels were to lower their fees, they would not be popular with everyone. Feminists argue that men who use sex robots will get into the habit of treating women like objects. This may well be true in some cases. Other men, however, may suffer from the opposite delusion. I remember reading an article about a sad old codger who had fallen in love with his sex doll. The poor fellow was convinced she was a tender creature who loved him dearly. He might well have left her everything he had in his will – I suppose the money could have been used to repaint her skin or replace parts that had lost their elasticity. Or maybe he gave instructions for her to be buried with him. Sex doll or not, you have to be sorry for a girl who suffers that fate.
What can one say about these psychosexual dilemmas? I don’t pretend to have the answers. There are no sex dolls in the jungle, and if there were they would be torn to shreds by the baboons. All one can do is observe the foibles of humanity and record them faithfully for posterity. There is no hero but the truth, as Tolstoy said.
Labels: Barcelona, brothels, sex dolls, sex robot
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Raunchy in Rio
Justin Bieber is getting naughtier and naughtier. The randy rapscallion was seen leaving a bawdy house in Rio with two courtesans in tow. His attempt to disguise himself by putting a sheet over his head was not successful. The paparazzi identified him by the tattoo on his wrist and the boner in his pants.
How will the Beliebers react to their idol’s latest escapade? I hope they forgive him. What Justin did was much better than having sex with a groupie, who might have tricked him into impregnating her. Something about Bieber tells me he’s not quite ready for fatherhood. The hair on his body isn’t quite bushy enough.
I’m not sure why he needed two escorts, though. When I asked the manager of the safari camp, he said:
“Bieber wants people to think he’s a real stud – a Texas Ranger who rides with a spare horse that he’ll jump on when the first one tires. He doesn’t fool me. I reckon he wanted the whores to treat him like a slave boy, stripping him naked and haggling over his body while they inspected it.”
Could this be true? It sounds like a service provided by prostitutes who’ve been to drama school, to say nothing of a stint in a livestock market. Who really knows what happened? We can speculate until the cows stop farting, but it isn’t even certain that deeds of a sexual nature occurred. Maybe Bieber just wanted to have a pillow fight with the girls because he thought they’d be easy to beat. I hope they went easy on him.
If you ask me, what Justin needs is a surrogate big sister – someone who’ll be his chaperone and only let him consort with harlots of good character. I can’t think of a better person for the job than Lady Gaga. Don’t be fooled by her brazen antics, which are only for show, to keep her in the limelight while upstaging her rivals and confounding her critics. If you want to make a name for yourself in show business, you’ve got to be outrageous and keep pushing the envelope. I did many extravagant things during my circus career, but does that make me a bounder? “Mais non!” as a Frenchman would say.
In a recent BBC interview, Lady Gaga said “I don’t find myself sexy”. It's an admirably modest statement, which proves she's unusually free of narcissism for a diva of popular music. It would also be the perfect riposte to anyone who told her to go and fuck herself. For this reason alone, it deserves to be added to the Book of Famous Quotations, if such a book exists.
You can see what Gaga is really like by the way she treats her poodle Fozzi. Never has a dog profited so much from the human mothering instinct. If Bieber were delivered into her custody, we’d see a very different young man emerge. One that was fully house-trained, like Fozzi, and wouldn’t visit whorehouses in front of the world’s press.
Labels: brothels, Justin Bieber, Lady Gaga, poodle, prostitutes
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Name calling in Amsterdam
I’m writing a letter of protest to the Mayor of Amsterdam about the conduct of his deputy, Lodewijk Asscher. This insolent upstart has stated that only the biggest creeps are found on the streets between the hours of 4am and 8am. As one who habitually rose at the crack of dawn in his circus days, I often enjoyed an early-morning stroll to inhale the virginal air of a new day. These jaunty excursions were conducted in exemplary fashion: I did not peer into windows or sift through garbage or engage in other disreputable activities. This ass Asscher must withdraw his remark forthwith or be declared an enemy of the gorilla nation.
I should add that I never saw any humans who were conspicuously creepy either. The few who were out and about seemed too preoccupied with their own affairs to bother anyone. The only untoward incident I remember occurred in Ireland, when an inebriated fellow crossed my path. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me and pointed an accusatory, if unstable, finger in my direction.
“Der Antichrist!” he cried. “Der four fookin’ horsemen of the fookin’ apocalypse will be followin’ in yer wake!”
I was in no mood to humour his liquor-fuelled hallucinations.
“Stop that delirious babbling, you vulgar oaf!” I barked. “Have you any idea what a blot on the landscape you are on this beautiful morning? Find a quiet place to lie down and cover yourself with a tarpaulin.”
He stumbled away, mumbling some foolish nonsense. A drunken halfwit, to be sure, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call him a creep. I doubt he was a danger to anyone but himself.
Now the deputy mayor’s remark was in support of a proposal to close the city’s brothels between those hours. These establishments have become a major tourist attraction in Amsterdam, surpassing even the tulip fields and windmills. I actually think there is much to be said for the idea. Many prostitutes are obviously workaholics who should be forced to take a break for their own health and sanity. Even if they don’t feel like sleeping, it would do them good to consider new hobbies and pastimes. Consorting with lustful men can only go so far in broadening one’s mind.
A lot of respectable women, who find the idea of sleeping with strange men repulsive, assume that prostitutes must either be victims or incredibly greedy. I dare say many of them are, but there are also those who claim to enjoy their work. I remember getting an earful from a comely young harlot who caught my disapproving eye when she emerged from the trailer of a circus clown.
“I’m gorgeous, I love sex, so why shouldn’t I make money from it when I can?” she asked plaintively. “It’s the girls who give it away for nothing who are fools.”
“Well yes, I see you point,” I waffled sheepishly. “Yet it is also said that the best things in life are free, and that a bird in the hand is worth more than a bush, and that one man’s meat is another woman’s poison.”
“Bollocks!” she exclaimed, unconvinced by my subtle arguments.
Since then, I have been careful to avoid debates with either prostitutes or their detractors. Why should I even hold a view on the subject? The practice is beyond my power to reform and has a negligible impact on my life. Those who want to explore the issue in more depth should get in touch with my friend Miss Brooke, who seems to know all the in’s and out’s.
Labels: Amsterdam, brothels, creeps, early risers, name-calling
Friday, October 23, 2009
The Italian handjob
Silvio Berlusconi has made a big point of denying that he’s ever paid for sex, arguing that it would ruin the thrill of his conquests. I can well believe the call girls he invites to his parties don’t charge him. Pleasuring a sitting prime minister must be a great honour for them, as well as being the safest position at his age. I wonder if he asks them to put on an eye-mask and shout “Heigh-ho Silvio!” as they bounce up and down on his lap. As true professionals, they should do whatever it takes to flush out the toxic goo from his prostate gland.
They are also shrewd businesswomen, of course. Siphoning the prime minister of Italy must look pretty good on your résumé when you’re negotiating a fee with oil sheiks or TV evangelists. It’s a bit like John Travolta getting a free supply of Brylcreem after playing the young dandy in Grease. All the same, I hope that Mr Berlusconi gives them expensive presents as a mark of his appreciation. A gold-plated statuette of Cupid which urinates red wine is the sort of lavish gift one would expect from a man of his pedigree.
Working girls have unfortunately not been immune from the consequences of the economic downturn. Brothels around the world are cutting down on sundry expenses – some have even been reduced to serving their clients in the dark. The Pussy Club in Berlin has cut its fee to 70 euros for a hamburger and straight sex, which is a dubious tactic in my view. Cheap whores are like cheap jewellery – nobody wants to be seen buying them. They should have offered two-for-one deals and loyalty cards instead, with an eat-as-much-as-you-like buffet for the sex maniacs.
How to get the world economy booming again is a frequent topic of debate at the safari guesthouse. Not everyone supports President Obama’s plan of building new roads and bridges. An increase in the number of navvies flaunting their bare chests is a high price to pay for stimulating economic activity. A bald man who claimed to have a PhD in economics said that the correct policy was to distribute “helicopter money”. Essentially, this means emptying boxes of bank notes from a helicopter so that people on the streets below can pick them up and spend them. Monetarist theory says that this will boost business, making everyone rich again.
We all thought it was a brilliant idea at the time, but on deeper reflection the ploy seems to have a fatal flaw. What is to stop the pilot flying off to Venezuela with all the cash, where President Hugo Chavez, the demagogue and failed gorilla-impersonator, would surely offer him asylum? The trouble with economists is that they never think of these practical problems. I wish the bald-headed upstart were still here so I could massage some coconut oil into his scalp.
So what’s my solution to the slump? I’m glad you asked. What the world needs now is another gold rush like the one that prompted thousands of rednecks and desperadoes to migrate to California in 1848. Most of America’s gold is currently gathering dust in places like Fort Knox. Pulverising all this idle bullion and burying it in strategic locations around the country would cause booming mining towns to spring up like pimples on a teenager. The USA would once again be a land flowing with milk and cookies. And if they buried the gold near brothels, the sex workers would be the first to benefit from the increase in commerce. As John Maynard Keynes said, the prosperity of a nation is measured in the affluence of its whores.
Labels: Berlusconi, brothels, call girls, straight sex
