Up Front: Same as it Ever Was
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Now now, Jolisa, I have no idea what you could possibly be talking about. Let's just say that a cravat was involved, and possibly some blue caterpillars.
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I gave a guy a handjob once and then found out he was a member of the Young Nats.
This should win the 'most perfect sordid story in one sentence' award, I think.
Or perhaps the 'most redundant sex act' award? (Not to belittle your generosity or anything, Joanna).
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Let's just say that a cravat was involved,
As you were, then. Anything with a cravat is fine by me.
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I highly doubt we'll hear anyone speak unanonymously of their experiences as a customer of prostitution. Doomed to be a one-sided story.
Not unanonymously, no, the stigma is quite massive. But they do occasionally comment or guest-post on sex-worker blogs, as do the partners of sex workers.
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I debated that guy! He was cute, back in the day. In a dangerous dirty blond sort of way. And a fairly decent first speaker, IIRC. (His team won.
Yes Jolisa, yes he was. Had leadership qualities. Wanganui collegiate IIRC, but was leader (apparently :) of other things by the time he became a friend of mine. He has charisma, in a Robin Hood kinda way. Well I thought so.
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Slept with this guy.
Were the "bats tattooed on his neck" baseball, or cricket?
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Not unanonymously, no, the stigma is quite massive.
Interesting that it seems even more stigmatized than the sex-work itself. A modern thing maybe?
The only guy I know who speaks openly of it is basically an outlaw, and more recently, inherited wealth. He has no intention of either ever working, or entering public life. It's always extremely interesting. He's lived for lengthy periods with 4 prostitutes that I know of, all of whom he met as a client.
His take on legalization in NZ was interesting. Basically he thought that there was a huge drop in service and quality, on account of the management generally having fallen into the hands of the prostitutes themselves. It was no longer so easy to find it cheap and/or dirty the way he wanted it. He couldn't see this as a bad thing for the women, just the customers. When it was run almost exclusively by a gangsta patriarchy, the focus was on 'what men wanted'. Now it's on 'what it would really be fair to expect from someone doing a job'.
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To avoid embarassing myself, I'll write one about an ex-flatmate of mine. Not, I hasten to add, the ex-flatmate of mine who occasionally posts here.
Anyway, at one point (I believe his birthday) he went out with some friends and had a Big Good Time. This was concluded in the traditional manner, viz being dragged out of the bar unable to stand up and popped into a taxi. His mates only knew the suburb he lived in so the taxi driver drove him to the middle of the suburb and turfed him out. He managed to wander incoherently around for some time, pausing only to vomit over someone's fence hard enough to lose his brand-new glasses, then found what looked like the right house. But wait! His keys didn't work! Solution: knock hard! Now, this was around 3am or so. The actual inhabitant of the house - who was up and playing Civilisation - came to the door. My flatmate staggered in, saw the couch, and sank into oblivion. The bloke though "seems harmless enough", and went back to playing Civ. Around 8am my flatmate came to - the bloke was still playing Civ - apologised and walked home.
This is the same flatmate who, quite literally, shagged a hole in the wall. No, not in that way; he and his girlfriend were Having Fun in a variety of locations in the flat, and at one point the power of his awesome love-thrusts was such that he actually propelled her buttocks through a gib wall. At the time, he just told us that he'd been drunk and had tripped and head-butted the hole: he came clean at my wedding, when he figured it was too late and we'd all see the funny side. How right he was. Awesome bloke, and one of the best flatmates I ever had.
Oh, and just to make it fair, one about me. I once regained consciousness in the middle of a fairly mammoth drinking session to discover myself in the middle of someone's front garden in the North-East Valley in Dunedin, having an indecent act performed on me as I lay in a bed of petunias next to a main street. I managed to persuade the other participant that this was not a good idea (apart from the danger of arrest, I didn't fancy them) and we managed to call it off.
If you're reading this, and that was your garden: I am very, very sorry about your petunias.
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Were the "bats tattooed on his neck" baseball, or cricket?
Heh, I was thinking after reading that article, "I thought they were swallows" but then realised that was one of his mates. :)
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This should win the 'most perfect sordid story in one sentence' award, I think.
True that, I wish we could make it word of the year somehow.
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having an indecent act performed on me as I lay in a bed of petunias
You see, I've never quite understood why that is referred to as "an indecent act". It seems rather a decent thing to do for a chap.
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Having debated with myself about who to dump in it and how deep I've decided to do the honourable thing and take you back, way back, to my very first kiss. It's a safe choice because I don't remember any pertinent names.
At the end of form one my best friend moved to Australia to live with her Mum. Every summer she returned to Nelson, with sophisticated foreign habits, to stay with her step father and for those few weeks we lived in each other's pockets.
I think it must have been the summer I was fourteen or maybe fifteen. I was staying over at my friend's house and her father, who was more kind-hearted than he was wise, supplied us with a bottle of cheap red wine and retired (quite probably in a grassy haze). We drank our wine and listened to Doors records for a while. At some stage it seemed like a good idea to sneak out and go for a swim so we went upstairs, put our togs on under our dresses and climbed down the fire-escape.
Our first stop was the local pool. We easily scaled the fence to the play area but couldn't get into the pool itself. That was OK. The night was young and, anyway, there was a trampoline to enjoy.
Once the joys of bouncing had worn off we drifted into town and up to the cathedral steps. There we met a couple of young men who were possessed of a car and willing to drive us up the Maitai to a swimming hole where my friend and I swam while the guys watched. Some excitement was caused when, in the moonlight, my white togs were near invisible and it looked like I might be skinny-dipping.
After we had dried off, my friend, who was cannier than I, disappeared into the bushes with the younger and better looking bloke while I was left in the car with his 21 year old, slightly skeevy mate. Snogging was inevitable and unavoidable. I wasn't really sure to make of it. Kissing appeared to be oddly wet and tonguey and yet, bizarrely, not completely unenjoyable.
I suppose that, at some stage, my friend came back and we found our way home but I don't really remember. all I know is that, to this day, the combined smell of leather, cigarettes and beer makes me feel a little peculiar.
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Jack, your post is pure hilarity. Yay!
I once performed an 'indecent act', as Jack puts it, on a straight man in the unisex toilets of a massive Studio-54-esque gay bar in Dallas, Texas, while annoyed (and kinda clichedly fabulous) patrons - many of them in drag - snarked loudly and banged impatiently on the semi-transparent cubicle glass doors. It was not exactly the most relaxing sexual encounter of either of our lives. But... needs must!
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Interesting that it seems even more stigmatized than the sex-work itself. A modern thing maybe?
Stigmatised differently in different places. So, in Tanya Gold land, prostitutes (always female) are poor helpless victims who are sometimes so deluded they don't realise what a terrible time they're having. They need decisions made for them by generous middle-class women who've never so much as met a prostitute.
But the men (always men) who use prostitutes are scum, and basically rapists, because it is, somehow, impossible to consent to sex in exchange for money.
There would still be, however, many people who'd be happier to have their child visit a prostitute than be one.
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There would still be, however, many people who'd be happier to have their child visit a prostitute than be one.
Just like to note here, I have flatted with prostitutes, have known some ( including one related escort, and one related prostitute) who work diligently at their job and thoroughly enjoy prostitution as a career. None have ever had difficulty in paying their rent and bills. Oddly it is the customers who are embarrassed if they are discovered to support this industry, and yet some who have no qualm.
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Or perhaps the 'most redundant sex act' award? (Not to belittle your generosity or anything, Joanna).
His father had died recently. My friend worked out my sympathy scale - dead mothers get you oral, dead brothers get the home run.
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Curious that it's seldom seen as exploitative of the customers, the way other vices usually are. At some level, it's seen as a deal in which the customer can't lose. Hard to believe, I must say.
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Sue,
can we vote this for favourite PA thread of the year
this is turned my day of frown upside down -
You slept with who?
Y'know, Emma, there was a moment at the Thistle, where you had just finished a story, and the thought bouncing around my head was "OMG! You didn't sleep with him, I always assumed you had"
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Y'know, Emma, there was a moment at the Thistle, where you had just finished a story, and the thought bouncing around my head was "OMG! You didn't sleep with him, I always assumed you had"
Um. My memories of the Thistle are a little fuzzy. But if that's the person and story I think it is, I didn't sleep with him then.
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Your honor, I was awake the entire time.
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My memories of the Thistle are a little fuzzy. But if that's the person and story I think it is, I didn't sleep with him then.
This is starting to sound a bit clinton-esque. "What do you mean by 'sexual relations'?"
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Your honor, I was awake the entire time.
Or
My honour, I was awake the entire time. :) -
Hold the presses. I have just one sordid encounter that's vaguely funny in hindsight. 20 years old, at a party, picked up this guy who was not entirely a manly man, shall we say. Went back to mine. Wasn't even slightly interested in him, the sex act was shit - to the point that he stopped, with tears in his eyes, and said "I think you've ripped my penis open". Cue horror stricken me, a walk to Auckland hospital of about 30 minutes, and a wait of another couple of hours. For a bloke who wasn't all that much into girls, who I didn't fancy, who wasn't good at sex anyway. Oh that isn't funny, that's just pathetic.
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Jackie, I'm not sure if it's funny or sad but it's a good story anyhow.
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