quizzical pussy

It’s cute how I can’t just get a cold or the flu and then recover from it like normal people. No, that would be silly. Of course it becomes pneumonia. Pneumonia in the midst of life trauma type stuff.

That, kind and indulgent reader, is basically why there was no ConTuesday last week. This week, though? Different story. There is a ConTuesday. I may still have pneumonia; I may still be having a month full of turpentine, gristle, and mud, but guess what? January’s almost over and I’ve always had luck with Februaries.

Hey, former sex worker here.

Every time a guy talks about how he’s “so good” that even prostitutes get off with him, I laugh. I laugh long and hard on the inside (or outside, if it’s online) and shake my head.

Guys, seriously: That is what you are paying for.

I know some women can have endless orgasms, but the general consensus is that after about ten it starts to hurt. Also, the pounding, slapping, whateverthefuck thing you think you’re doing REALLY DOES NOT WORK. A body is a finely tuned instrument, and it takes repeated practice before you can tune it to accept your stimuli.

The “orgasm” comes standard with the moderately-priced intercourse package, which also includes insincere platitudes and expressions of disbelief that you’re a virgin. It’s what you’re paying for. Be honest.

Sex work is one-tenth sex, three-tenths customer service, and three-fifths human affection and contact. That’s what separates it from a fleshlight. Start being honest about what you’re buying.

And hey, maybe if we can, as a culture, accept that affection and reassurance is more important than sex, people will start treating sex workers with respect.

PS: None of us care about the size of your penis, big or small. We don’t care either way, as long as you use a condom.

If I had enough money to pay for sex, though, I’m sure it would be different with me. Right? Right?

Last night I had a threesome with my roommate and her fuckbuddy. It’s the nicest thing ever to be having sex with a guy while your friend is in the corner reading Sandman, and no one has any problems with this situation.

Yeah, until it all gets jumbled up together and somebody pictures The Corinthian while climaxing.

The best thing I ever did for myself …was get a genital piercing. When I listen to music that’s heavy on bass, I have a built-in hands-free vibrator. When I go to concerts and stand by the amp… well. I think I deserve some kind of medal for this weekend, or a spot in Guinness: most orgasms experienced while standing in three-inch heels is all mine.

I can honestly say I have never wanted to shove metal through my skin more. Things I need to know:

1. If you are a clitoris-having person. I don’t want to assume, but I want to know if your setup would apply to me.
2. What exact piercing did you get?
3. Am I really considering getting a genital piercing based on the anecdote of an anonymous stranger? (Answer: I’m not not considering it.)
4. If I do this, what song should I listen to first?

Why do more boys not make noise? The guy I fucked last night made the prettiest noises… a couple of times he just kept saying “wow.” It was the hottest thing.

Oh dear Anubis, yes. I don’t really share this often, but male voices are a particular turn-on for me. I wish there were an industry term that made it easy to look for porn clips where guys talk a lot and make sexy sounds while fucking, because I would use it in searches even more than I use “The Corinthian rule 34″.

Sometime when I bring up the fact that I actually like sucking dick, a friend will agree and say something about how it makes her feel powerful and she enjoys the feeling of giving pleasure to her man. I usually just pretend to agree with that, but honestly, I like it for itself. There’s just something unbelievably hot about the feeling of a cock in my mouth, especially the smooth, soft head. And as for power, it makes me feel like a powerLESS sex object, and I LOVE IT! Does this make me a bad feminist?

Nope.

My girlfriend spanked my vulva too hard and it left bruises. I’m trying to figure out whether the mind-blowing orgasms I had with her at the time are worth the three subsequent days of being too sore for any kind of sex whatsoever. For some reason it’s the not being able to masturbate that annoys me the most.

I’m not entirely sure it would be worth the three days of frustration, but I’d be willing to find out for myself. There is something about this confession that makes me all squirmy and speculative. Probably the vulva slapping, if I had to guess.

Confessional.

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When you work as a phone sex operator, you are often essentially being paid to pretend you believe bullshit.

Yes, of course your penis is the exact dimensions of a foot-long meatball sub.

You’re talking to me while a Victoria’s Secret model is sucking your cock? Wow, Mister. That is really something!

So let me get this straight: You have interacted with real, actual people before? In public? Unsupervised? Oh, baby, that’s so hot.

I was uniquely suited to this task because I am naturally straight-off-the-bus gullible. When I was younger I somehow didn’t grasp the concept of lying to impress people. I loved to invent stories with fictional people, and I’d lied for self-preservation before, but it had never in my life occurred to me to prop myself up with false claims, and somehow that left me blind to it when others did it.

This led me to marvel at how that nice Mormon girl I knew in eighth grade had managed to join a gang of drug dealers. It also left me wondering how Reginald Sleeth, my first boyfriend, had managed to ghostwrite so many songs for indie bands without ever getting paid for it!

I have since learned to be a bit less credulous, but it’s still embarrassingly easy to lie to me sometimes. And this serves me well when people are lying to impress me and I’m supposed to seem duly impressed.

But this one guy took the cake.

I think one customer was single-handedly keeping the struggling phone sex company I worked for afloat. He called in almost every night I worked, and the dispatch ladies told me it was far more often than that.

As far as I could tell, he really did just want to talk.

I never heard any panting, quickened breathing, or sloppy slapping sounds. He never wanted to talk through his fantasies, he never wanted to talk dirty. He just wanted to talk.

Sure, it was usually about sex. He liked it best when I was playing a naive, innocent character and he could explain things to me. He’d tell me about his countless sexual exploits, and his preferences in women, and almost shyly describe his prowess. He loved to make a woman come over and over.

And I might have believed him, too, if it weren’t for the train story.

He’d traveled extensively, he said, in the days when that was as likely to mean great trains gliding across the country as airports and flying machines. And he had found women everywhere he went. This is a potentially true thing, since women are indeed just about everywhere. I have heard that scientists recently found a woman in Antarctica.

Once he was on a train and made his way through the observation car to the very back, where he could cling to the rear railing and get some fresh air.

As he took in the scenery of the tracks unraveling behind his mount, he smelled an unknown but intoxicating ladies’ perfume, and felt someone approach behind him, close, closer, pressing lightly against his back. He felt warm breath play at his freshly barbered neck, and then a soft kiss: a flutter, really. Lips on him, and then a gloved hand covering his eyes.

He felt his meatball sub of manhood stir, as the mystery woman’s hands reached around to unbuckle his belt and undo his pants.

And then they had sex, he told me. He never saw her face.

“Wow, that must’ve been really hot for… wait, you couldn’t see her face through the whole thing?” Trying to keep my voice giggly and shrill.

“She was behind me the entire time,” he told me, wistfully.

“But you had sex? Like, penis-in-vagina intercourse?” Completely breaking character now.

“Oh, yes. It was,” my customer concluded, “the most erotic experience of my life. She was the most beautiful woman I never saw…”

Oh god. Anatomy. Mechanics. Just… impossible. Hand over mouthpiece. Cackling. Gasping for air. Deep breath. Smile. Now. Give him what he’s paying for. Give him buoyant.

“Wow. That is really, really hot. You have had such an exciting life!” Give him brainless.

(image source)

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When I think of things I’ve wanted my entire life, the word “adventure” seems to come up a lot. I think deep down I’ve always wanted to captain a pirate ship in a sea populated by mermaids and monsters.

I used to define the perfect partner as someone who wanted to have adventures with me, and who made them better just being a part of them.

Now, generally, having a small fraction of the energy a healthy person has, it’s hard for me to get too ambitious and exotic. I have to carefully ration energy for everything I do. But trying something new is pretty much always, always worth the drain.

It does not hurt if there are orgasms involved.

I spent last night making out with and tickle-fighting my gay best friend and a mutual female friend (who, like me, IDs as straight). It was my first threeway play and my first time kissing another woman, and it was awesome! Not horny or romantic, just all friendsy and fun and biting and tickling and kissing. His housemates had to have heard us shrieking.

This is exactly how I imagine mermaids behaving. Yar.

My boyfriend loves my ass. I’ve never delved much into anal play before him, but I’m enjoying it… or maybe it’s the multiple orgasms he gives me before the anal play, which certainly eliminate any chance of tensing up.

Sometimes, while he’s got me bent over, he’ll reach into the Fun Drawer for some lube and start playing while he’s fucking me.

Last night, after a session of that, he turned to me and said ”It was just there, and it looked so good….”

I of course responded with ”So, you’re saying that my ass is like Everest?”

I think I love you. Because you’re awesome.

So I am a 21-year-old, relatively good-looking, frighteningly-intelligent, incredibly boring male, to the extent that I’ve never managed to keep a girlfriend interested for more than 3 months. Nor have I managed to get laid with a girlfriend, girl at a party, etc.

(It’s not that I can’t converse for hours on end about almost any subject. I’m just quite apathetic about almost everything.)

Instead, my entire sexual history consists of 2 visits to a bordello in Berlin.

The first time was… okay. While the prostitute was really nice (and gorgeous), I had no clue what I was doing. In addition, being significantly larger than the average male, the normal-size condom was cutting off my circulation something fierce, and I just couldn’t stay hard. All in all, I exhausted myself pounding away for an hour and a half.

Yesterday, I visited again. Much better. I specifically asked for a magnum condom right off the bat–she waffled around a bit, the whole ”you’ll be fine with a normal,” at which point I mentioned that I’m 8.5”. She got one.

Also, she was REALLY horny. As in, soaking when she stripped her panties off. We started off with mutual oral, and she stopped several times because I was somehow actually getting her off! She kindly thanked me for my consideration.

We did the typical missionary, doggy, and her-on-top missionary, and during the lattermost I managed to bring her off twice more (NOTHING feels better than a woman cumming around your penis), and ended up with a lake on my stomach from her enthusiasm! Sadly, my staying power–who’s heard of a noob who doesn’t shoot off at the drop of a hat?–meant that I didn’t cum before the hour and a half was up. I played it off as ”yeah, I usually go for hours on end. No worries!”

I found that interesting. Maybe if you choose to date in future you could lead with that? On second thought, that might be more of a third date conversation…

She spontaneously put her finger in my ass, and I liked it some, despite my faint inate phobias. But it rubbed it raw. To do this again, I’m going to have to ask her to use lube or even a device or gloves. And that’s just planning out anal exploration a bit more than I think that I can openly do, and still be a straight man.

Yes, I’m completely aware of how stupid this sounds.

You don’t sound stupid. You sound scared. And with the tons of shame piled on guys if they don’t adhere to demoralizingly rigid standards, it’s not surprising.

But pretty near every man alive has a prostate. So don’t think for a second that you’re alone.

Have adventures to brag about? You know I want them.

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Here’s an awesome thing: Quizzical Pussy was recently reviewed on Jane’sGuide (scroll down a bit to see)! As a longtime fan of Jane’sGuide, I was geeked. And nervous. And geeked.

Turns out we’re one of reviewer Vamp’s personal picks (that’s the thumbs up icon) and we earned the coveted “Original & Quality” badge! I say “we” because this site wouldn’t be what it is today without reader-submitted content in the form of anonymous confessions and comments. You guys are awesome, and you make this blog so much fun for me!

Thanks to Vamp Ire for the great review!

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Hey, guys! Let’s have a ConTuesday, shall we?

I used to be a sex worker. To this day, it’s the standard to which I hold all of my other jobs (they don’t measure up). I loved my work, the customers, and the general feeling I got working only for myself.

I’m going into a field which, while it’s my absolute passion, completely crushes any possibility of me doing sex work ever again.

On the one hand, I’m happy to be out of a job where my worth is tied to physical beauty that is always (always, always) depreciating, and have a career where my value grows with my age. On the other hand, I REALLY LIKED THAT JOB!

God, I’m such a princess.

A princess’s beauty never (never, never) depreciates. Remember that. Also, I’d probably miss it too.

I’ve had sex once in the last 8 months with my wonderful, committed boyfriend. It sucks hardcore that we so rarely have sex (because I never have a damn libido anymore), but at least now I know why. I’ve recently been diagnosed with both an anxiety disorder and depression, and my shrink says the loss of my nympho-hood is primarily due to those conditions. While it still sucks not to have sex much, at least now I know why, so I feel a hell of a lot less guilty about it.

I have been on both sides of this dilemma, and I can honestly tell you that I completely fucked the whole matter up even more than it needed to be because I was too immature and petulant about it to really communicate with my partner. You guys seem like you’re navigating this situation a lot better than I ever did. Good luck finding a treatment that works for you. Hope you feel better soon, on every level.

I had an unexpectedly fantastic time at Kinkfest last night. I think finally I may have found people who will rock the friends who also have complicated sexy times together thing. It’s been way too many years since I moved away from the last ones.

I have to be honest here. I feel like this is in some sort of very thinly veiled code or something. It could be density, but I’m not entirely sure what you mean. But it seems positive. So fuck yeah high five!

I’m in a messed up place emotionally right now. Stuff is happening all around me and I don’t know how to react. I talked to my husband for about 5 minutes and he dismissed my feelings. I called my fuck buddy tonight to come over and cuddle and he turned me down. I feel a bit let down, but considering he’s the ”other man,” I don’t think I can feel too upset. So I called a male friend to come over and we sat holding hands and cuddling for a couple of hours while I talked it out. Now I don’t know what to think! If only I could wrap the three of them into one person, I’d be sooo in love with him :(

If I could wrap King Arthur, Vin Diesel, and Feyd Rautha all into one person, I would challenge that guy to an arm wrestling match.

No one would be surprised when I lost.

Go to the Sex Confessional and tell me something scandalous!

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I would seriously, shamelessly trade sex for guitar lessons. Or Photoshop/Illustrator lessons. Or a few other skills I want to pick up. I realize that friends and lovers kind of naturally teach each other about their passions and such, but I’m talking about a formal arrangement: sex for skill.

It’s a fantasy I go back to occasionally, realizing that it’s a) harmless and b) may be in violation of certain feminist principals. Sex isn’t a commodity (although in reality sometimes it is), and female sexuality isn’t some mysterious thing you have to offer tribute to engage (although I’m a big supporter of sex work, and the simple fact is that there is a demand). In practice, the arrangement would be nothing approaching fair, as I would be enjoying it just as much as anyone I willingly made this type of agreement with. We’re basically talking the most one-sided barter ever, like someone telling me, “I’ll give you this Milky Way if you pet my adorable kitten.”

Um, yeah. Where do I sign?

I find skill arousing. I like the idea of actively living the student role with a sex partner, and the trade part puts it over the top for some reason. I can’t put my finger on it; maybe I want to pretend that sex with me is so totally awesome someone would resort to bribery to procure it. It would be super, extra cool to know a shy music or design geek ended up thinking, “Holy shit. My random skill just came in more useful than I ever hoped to imagine.”

I don’t think this counts as prostitution per se, but if you want to call it that, you honestly just made it even hotter.

(image source)

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I’m going to make this really, really clear, just for the record: There’s nothing clever about violating a sex worker’s anonymity. Ever. This isn’t something that’s done for great justice; it’s not a public service, and it doesn’t accomplish anything productive.

Very simply, if I try to fuck with any sex worker’s real life, family, and/or identity, it’s my pathological attempt to punish that person, usually for the crime of representing sex or a related transgression (to me). That, or it’s a childish vendetta against someone who pissed me off in a more concrete way.

In short, there are no non-personal reasons for this phenomenon. I’ll go so far as to say that all anti-sex “crusades” are deeply personal. They’re never really for the social fabric, or for the children. They’re for one (or more) waylaid pervert’s thwarted kink and guilt-soaked lust.

One of the reasons it sucks doing sex work is because you get negative respect. You know why you can’t tell people when you get a job in orgasm assistance? Because it will very often irrevocably damage the way they see and interact with you. It will jeopardize your future career in other industries. It will inevitably break your poor mother’s heart (because if there’s one thing your mom should care about more than the gory details of your sex life, it’s what the neighbors would think about the method you’ve chosen of not being homeless). Even when you’ve got a shitty, thankless job as a fast food worker or in retail, you’re still liable to hear platitudes like “Well at least it’s honest work”. I’m pretty sure honest work is code for “not sex work” in a lot of cases.

So– because I’m clearly missing something here– why isn’t sex work honest? What’s dishonest about it? It isn’t always legal, and I’ll be the first to admit that the illegal forms of sex work especially abound with coercion, abuse, and outright slavery. But the legal, consensual kind? Even the illegal, consensual kind? The I’ll-provide-a-sexual-service-and-you-pay-me-and-we’ll-all-go-home-happy kind? Seems honest to me.

It seemed honest to me when I witnessed it working in the porn industry, it felt honest to me when I was a phone sex operator, and it seems extra super honest to me when I’m watching the obviously unfiltered, unsanitized look at legalized prostitution: HBO’s Cathouse. God, I can’t help loving that show.

Society (the one I’m entrenched in, but also pretty much all of them from where I’m sitting) has serious issues with sex. In fact, if Society were a person I would advise it to seek immediate, five-times-a-week counseling. But we don’t have to buy into all that baggage to the point where it makes us thwarted, guilty waylaid perverts, do we? Especially when there are so many wonderful, rewarding ways to stick to the straight and narrow path of perversion. It feels so good to embrace what Society “knows” is wrong, like slipping into a warm bath of anti-psychotics.

Fucking is older than Society, older than economics, older than humanity. Sex existed long before the first primate wiggled the first thumb, and then proceeded to stick it in an orifice.

Do you think it’s maybe time we relaxed about sex a little?

Because hysteria over sex workers, or gay people, or any normal, healthy aspect of human sexuality is really just an extension of freaking the fuck out about sex. There’s a tendency to deny sex workers personhood, making them either receptacles of our disgust or avatars–even deities– of sexuality. Sometimes both. But, much like Zaphod Beeblebrox, they’re just these guys, you know?

As long as we imbue their jobs with all this emotional, existential and philosophical weight, is it any wonder they want to remain anonymous? Let’s all treat sex work like the honest work it is, and then maybe sex workers will want to disclose their real names. Until then, we deserve to take all the puns and belabored alliteration they want to give us, and like it.

(image source)

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Happy Lady Porn Day!

Fun Porn Fact: My first exposure to porn was when I started working in the industry.

That’s weird, right? I grew up in the age of the internet. I should’ve been sneaking around finding all sorts of ascii boobies in my single digit years, and going up (or down) hill from there. As it was, I was nineteen and I’d never seen a single scene from even so much as a stag film.

And the story should be lurid, I realize. Or at least dramatic. Something about sliding from innocence into prurience. Fanny Hill in the 21st Century.

Yeah, not so much. My then-boyfriend Reginald Sleeth had moved out to Los Angeles to work in movies, which ended up, as these things sometimes do, more like landing in the San Fernando Valley to work in porn.

He signed on with a very fratboy-centric porn studio, doing photography, video editing, and website content. He told me and he told his mother, and we each asked conspiratorially if he was planning on telling the other, while being perfectly fine with it ourselves.

The website had an erotic fiction feature, and Reginald was responsible for providing the stories. For about two weeks. He really wasn’t much of a writer, and he decided to have them hire me to write weekly smut. It wasn’t until then that I finally had full access to the pay site and started discovering the joys of porn.

This will sound hopelessly hackneyed, but I was a fairly hackneyed teenager: The women seemed so empowered! So in charge. I was already obsessed with sex, but the concept of being seductive was miles ahead of me (still is). I was entranced with the confidence I saw in these women. I wanted to be them, but I was afraid.

“You’ve got it wrong,” Reginald told me flatly. “All our girls are either dumb as bricks or on drugs. Or pressured into it by suitcase pimps.”

Maybe he was right. A lot of mainstream porn isn’t actually about empowerment. That’s probably why so many performers left the industry as soon as they could. They got married or went home or dropped off the face of the Earth. A few found Jesus, and decided he wasn’t cool with porn.

A few months after my porn career started, I visited Reginald in L.A. for the summer, and I was invited to work alongside him at the studio.

It sat in a huge white corrugated warehouse, hidden in plain site between two other (less reputable, I was assured) houses of porn. One end of the space was a set for photoshoots and an editing booth. On the other end were the computers, couches for meetings and interviews, and in the middle was a halfpipe.

I was scared to death. I didn’t know what I was doing. I just wrote the stories. I was a technical virgin, for Hymen’s sake! I didn’t know anything about being in a porn studio.

A nice blonde producer handed me a vampire porn DVD and a Kama Sutra Weekender kit. “You can review these while you’re here and later this week we’ll try you on some photo editing. Just color correcting and stuff.” She pointed to a room with a DVD player and television.

“Ooookay. I guess I’m just going to go watch porn now…” I said the opposite of nonchalantly. So we were just going to assume that we were all mature adults comfortable with our sexuality then, huh? Oh good…

For the record, I would learn later that week that I suck at color correcting.

That summer, I saw Eastern European girls nervously ask their swear-I’m-not-their-pimp what double penetration meant. I saw Midwestern ex-cheerleaders have meltdowns before their scheduled camshows. One day, Reginald and I went to Chili’s, and our waitress was a girl I recognized from the website. She blushed and pretended not to know him. Overall, there was a decisive lack of glamor and a dearth of empowerment.

I don’t know if that’s why I’m generally not turned on by mainstream porn, but it may well have something to do with it. I tend to gravitate toward performers who seem to really love the industry, or amateurs who seem to be scratching an exhibitionist itch. Truth is, though, I’m not exactly a connoisseur.

So I’m opening it up to you, readers! What’s your favorite porn? I’m looking for joyous, sincere fucking. I’m looking for that spark of what I thought porn was back when I was so naive. Extra points for featuring genderqueer performers, kink, laughter, rough play, and ReallySexyPeople™ of different body types.

A friend of mine is specifically looking for kinky/fetish porn that’s not too dungeony or scary: more light bondage and playful D/s.

Share your links! Share your turn-ons! Love your porn!

Read more about Rabbit Write’s Lady Porn Day here.

Join the conversation on twitter: #ladypornday

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The strip club wasn’t what I imagined it would be. I was expecting tacky. I was expecting neon. I was expecting a lingering whisper of sweat and booze. But I was expecting all that to be married to effort: a little velvet, a tassel or two. Some varnish obscuring the grime.

This was a pit.

Actually, more than anything it was like a small community workshop theater. A single room, the club was black painted wood with two pine platforms (also painted black) where the brass poles stood, dull and worn. There was a little neon. And there were men in g-strings.

Between the makeshift stages, a shower was built into the back wall. Wednesday was shower night, but the shower was broken. Of course it was.

I hear that female strip clubs– that is, those where the strippers are women– are more velvety. They try harder. Male strip clubs– specifically gay male strip clubs, I’m told, don’t bother with pretense. I have no idea if this is true in general. To this day, I’ve only been to one, and it was true here.

In we walked, a gaggle of females. The club was dead. We didn’t care. It was Miriam’s birthday, and she wanted to visit this pit on shower night, dammit, shower or not.

There were two guys working that night. Two. A short, wiry guy with a pretty face and a tall, beefier guy with a, well, a face. He had a face.

We chicks danced a little with the newly out dean of a local university. Then we sat down directly adjacent to one of the platforms, ordered drinks, and watched the guys take turns working our pole. It wasn’t until about five minutes into Wiry Guy’s performance that we realized he was wearing an electronic tether over his tube socks.

Classy. Classy is the word for that.

Beefy Guy, not to be outdone but lacking the necessary state-mandated hardware, was at a loss for a moment. Then he wrapped his flaccid shaft clear around the brass pole and seemed to feel better about himself.

Did I mention class?

As the night wore on I got a bit bored. It is a great shortcoming, but I can really only watch people I’m not attracted to writhe around naked for so long before I want to pull out my Nintendo DS. In retrospect, this is probably why Beefy Guy approached me.

“You’re very pretty,” he began.

“Oh. Uh. Thanks,” said my lips. I’m not giving you money, dude, said my brain.

There was some inane small talk on his part and some noncommittal nodding on mine until he saw some bruises on my arms.

“What happened there?” Beefy Guy made his face-which-he-had-yes-indeed look concerned.

“Just some horseplay,” I answered honestly. Clifton and I were hanging out fairly often at the time, and there was a lot of wrassling.

“No one… hurt you, did they?” We were really breaking the stripper fourth wall here.

“Not at all,” I assured him. “I pity the fool.”

“Good. Because I just couldn’t stand that.” Okay, Beefy Guy… oh wait, he wasn’t done… “I could never hurt a woman,” he told me earnestly.

I nodded.

“…except that one time when my girlfriend cheated on me. But she also stole my stereo, you understand.”

“Um. I think my friends are ready to leave. Now.”

I’m very likely never going to that–or possibly any– strip club again. I don’t care if they get the shower fixed.

(image source)

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I had a dream that I started working at a brothel. Not as a janitor. I think there might have been a murder mystery somewhere in the plot, but brothel. That’s the part that stuck with me.

It was a rather low-rent, dismal establishment: one of those seedy brothels rather than, you know, the mind-blowingly classy ones you generally picture. In my dream, I wasn’t anxious about embarking on a life of harlotry, but rather the fact that this wasn’t one of the nicer cathouses in town. “If I start out here is that going to hurt my chances of getting into a better house?” I remember asking one of the girls turning me out. She assured me I could move on to bigger and better operations once I’d learned the game. I like to think we both knew she was lying, but I’ll never know for sure.

Strangely, this was all fairly realistic. The sketchiness of the brothel really is what I’d worry about, to the exclusion of loftier moral issues. If I’m getting paid to fuck, I damn well want to be a hetaera, not a pornai.

(image source)

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