Wednesday, March 15, 2017
Wide open marriage
Great is my admiration for the British police officer who did not attempt to conceal his marriage to a call girl. The husbands of prostitutes have been stigmatised for far too long – they must come out of the closet and demand the same recognition as other minority groups. PC Scott Frost was told by his superiors at the Metropolitan Police that his wife’s occupation was of no concern to them, provided that he wasn’t her pimp. Pimping is illegal in the United Kingdom.
As for Mrs Frost, I’m pleased to report that she’s equally unconcerned about being outed as the wife of a policeman. Busty Sarah Jane, as she likes to be known, is as keen as ever to provide her services to fee-paying customers. This is how she describes herself on her website:
“I love sex and I love meeting new people. I’m fun, friendly and my cheeky smile and natural curvy figure will put you at ease in no time.”
To back up her claims, she discloses a bust size of 36G. I have no way of verifying this measurement, but studying the picture below should give you a ballpark indication.
Being married to a sex worker must have its peculiar challenges. Do you ask her whether she had a good day at work? Do you help her to shop for the tools of her trade? Do you allow her to work from home or insist that she rents an office? There ought to be a support group called ‘Husbands of Hookers’ to work through such issues. Maybe every town needs a social worker who can respond to their special needs.
There are pluses as well as minuses, of course. As a self-employed trader, the tart can claim a lot of tax-deductions; she ought to be flexible about vacation dates; she can work overtime whenever the family budget needs balancing. Her lucky husband gets free-of-charge what everyone else has to pay for. Men who propose to prostitutes must have this perk at the forefront of their minds. I bet they are chuckling wickedly at the prospect when they put the ring on her finger.
Sadly, there are reactionary types whose trust in the police will be diminished if policemen choose to marry sex workers. Whores have an unfortunate association with crime, even though they are far more likely to be victims than perpetrators. Admittedly, a lot of them must be fiddling their taxes, but who wouldn’t do that in their situation? The solution, as ever, is more information and positive reporting about the lives of these industrious and good-natured women.
Now that Mrs Frost is in the public eye, perhaps she should do her bit for the sisterhood by going on a speaking tour. She may not be natural public speaker, but such skills can be acquired with practice. Anyone who can plant her jahoobies in the face of a strange man should have no fear of an audience. I, for one, would pay good money to attend one of her seminars.
Labels: call girls, jahoobies, minority groups, police, prostitutes
Wednesday, March 30, 2016
Pro bono work
No words of praise are high enough for Ms Charlotte Rose, the English call girl who gave a man with a prosthetic penis his first sexual experience. The beneficiary of her magnanimous gesture was Mr Mo Abad, a 44-year-old security guard who tragically lost his appendage in a childhood accident. After years of frustration and a failed marriage, he finally received an 8-inch replacement made from skin grafts and inflatable tubes. Ms Rose generously waived her hourly fee of 160 pounds sterling for the honour of hosting its inaugural launch.
As well as providing her services gratis, she spent a few days counselling Mr Abad before getting down to business. Far from making him impatient, he greatly appreciated her advice:
"I’m a learner – I’ve got L-plates,” he explained. “I didn’t want to go in all guns blazing and make an idiot of myself.”
When the big moment arrived, the mission got off to a tentative start:
“When Charlotte saw it for the first time, she was silent and I was a bit worried,” recalled Mr Abad.
Yet these early doubts proved to be unfounded, and the mission ended with the flag firmly planted in the lunar surface:
“After it was over, I lay there with a big smile on my face,” said Mr Abad.
Now, the bionic penis is powered by compressed air. The surgeons inserted an ingenious “boner button” in Mr Abad’s nut-sack, which activates a pump that makes the organ expand to its full length. What isn’t clear is how is how it returns to its flaccid condition after use. Allowing it to deflate like a punctured tyre would be one possibility, but then it would make a noise like a hissing snake, which many women would find unnerving in a post-coital situation.
In an ideal world, one would interview Ms Rose and cajole her to spill the beans. However, a video of a recent lecture she gave shows her to be a social reformer and political activist. This is not the kind of woman who would allow herself to be interrogated without due process.
When I related this story to the manager of the safari camp, Ms Rose’s benevolence made little impression on him:
“What’s the point having a superdick if you can’t feel a thing?” he asked. “He should have charged her for the pleasure it gave her and the publicity she got. She must be the first woman in history who won fame for getting fucked by a dildo.”
“Clearly, there are men for whom the blessings of sexual congress are not limited to the sensations they feel in their todgers,” I replied. “And you should show more respect for Ms Rose, who had no way of predicting how her body would react to that pumped-up phallus. Why don’t you watch her video to get a more rounded picture of the woman?”
“Pshaw!” scoffed the manager. “I’d rather watch a hippo fart.”
“Yes, I can see why you’d find that more illuminating,” I replied.
Labels: call girls, prosthetic penis, snakes, todger
Friday, January 21, 2011
Squeezing sex workers
I was surprised to discover, when browsing through my favourite accounting journals, that the Dutch authorities are planning to tax the income of prostitutes. The public finances of the Netherlands must be in a parlous state for its government to resort to such desperate measures. Everyone knows that prostitutes are paid cash for their services, and rarely provide invoices or receipts. Very few clients will inform on them and their evidence never stands up in court.
Well do I remember the case of Miss Belinda Swallows, the high-class London escort who rented an apartment in Mayfair and owned a Rolls-Royce. When the taxman paid her a visit and asked about the source of her income, she said:
“Like a Franciscan monk, I subsist on the generosity of my fellow human beings.
They take me out for meals, stock my wardrobe with fine clothes and shower me with valuable gifts. If the office in which you toil were a little more benevolent and a little less rapacious, it might be similarly blessed with donations from admirers and well-wishers.”
The grey-suited minion of Her Majesty was forced to leave empty-handed, to the sullen stares of the maids, valets and nannies employed in that most affluent neighbourhood of London. His experience typifies the fruitless game of hide-and-seek that the British exchequer has been playing with prostitutes for centuries. I doubt the Dutch will be any more successful.
Of course, there are other ways of making call girls contribute to society. I’m sure these good-hearted ladies would be willing to do some form of community service in lieu of paying taxes. Think of all the college students who need advice on birth control methods; the bored housewives eager for tips on how to spice up their dreary marriages; the impotent old men longing to feel a fresh pair of titties on their faces before the final trip to the nursing home. A nation that demands a share of its prostitutes’ earnings, instead of utilising their unique skills and experience, makes a pimp of all its citizens.
If the coffers of the Dutch state are truly empty, they should consider something more practical than a tart tax. The Argentine government has recently imposed a creative (and wholly ethical) tax on breast implants. Rather than persecuting people who perform a necessary public service, this sensible method of revenue generation targets cosmetic surgeons and women with fake boobs, groups that might fairly be described as froth on the dipstick of society.
We gorillas are lucky not to be lumbered with such problems. We have no need of prostitution because our females give it away free when they're in the season and repulse you with savage violence when they're not. We have no need of taxation because (a) we live within our means and (b) our IOU’s are equivalent to hard currency on the rare occasions we need to borrow supplies from baboons and other jungle primates. If you make life too complex, you shouldn’t be surprised to face complications.
Labels: breast implants, call girls, taxation, The Netherlands
Monday, November 30, 2009
Belle de Jour
So the lovely Dr Brooke Magnanti has confessed to being the famous anonymous call girl that everyone admired and adored. She did it to finance her academic career, and who can blame her? She wouldn’t be the first intelligent woman to discover that her brain was worth much less on the open market than her vulva. It’s just as well that she could exercise both organs with a comparable degree of satisfaction. I wonder if the book she wrote about her life as a high-class hooker will now be on her students’ reading list. The best teachers always spice up their formal study material with personal anecdotes and recollections. Could she have performed any bedroom services relevant to her chosen field of neurotoxicology? I reckon she might well have if any of her clients were ageing rock stars.
A few sceptics are asking why she stopped doing it if she found it so enjoyable. She evidently still has the looks for the job, and could double her charge-rate now that she’s famous. My suspicion is that the mouth-watering Dr Magnanti, having attained the luscious age of 34, is readying herself to settle down. The biological clock is ticking and the time has come to look for that special man who will make an honest woman of her and fertilise her eggs, not necessarily in that order.
I’m going to let you into a secret: I’ve always fancied myself as a matchmaker for ex-prostitutes. Who better than a hairy cousin from the mellowest branch of the primate family to find a suitable mate for a call girl? Humans have too many ambiguous emotions about the oldest profession to offer its members dispassionate advice. We gorillas are utterly non-judgmental about it. What’s more, I actually have a couple of candidates in mind for the delectable Dr Brooke. Read on.
Candidate 1: The Guru
A bald, olive-skinned, strikingly handsome yogi, capable of reducing his pulse rate to 19 beats per minute while meditating in the lotus position. He won’t have sex more frequently than once a month, but can make it last for hours using tantric techniques. He claims his ejaculatory power resembles what happens when you open a bottle of 7UP after shaking it for five minutes. A deeply spiritual dude who could teach Brooke that less is more.
Candidate 2: The Gynaecologist
Obviously a very suitable occupation – a retired call girl needs a man who knows where everything is. His many hobbies include collecting and driving sports cars. He told me that high mileage was nothing to worry about when buying a classic model. A high-performance engine actually runs a lot better when driven hard and serviced frequently. I think he’s the kind of man who would appreciate a woman like Brooke…and keep her well-oiled.
Both of these worthy suitors have been to the Congo for safari holidays, and their details are on my computer. If Dr Magnanti says the word, I will make the necessary arrangements and organise first dates. I won’t charge an introduction fee either. All I ask in return is that she has her wedding at the safari guesthouse if she marries either of these extremely eligible gentlemen. The bridal suite will be hers unless she would rather consummate her nuptials outdoors, in the sultry African night. Sentries will be provided gratis.
Labels: Brooke Magnanti, call girls, matchmaking, tantric techniques
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
