Bordell - Brothel

Objecting to whoredom on moral grounds is undeniably a twattish thing to do. The idea that our bodies are special or sacred in some way, and that letting people stick stuff inside them for cash somehow makes you a lesser human being is plain wrong. Sure, frown on the drugs it pays for in most cases - dealers are scumbag fucks - but not on the act itself. These uptight people aren’t tutting when they’re at the height of orgasm, so how have they got the right to say shit about anyone else‘s carnal jollies? I share the late, great George Carlin’s bemusement on the issue: “Selling is legal, fucking is legal, so why isn’t selling fucking legal?” Of course there is a big issue at the moment with press-ganged prostitutes getting screwed over by absolute bastard pimps, but it seems unfair to let that taint the entire profession. Some clothing manufacturers use sweatshop child labour to make the cheap shit for Primark, but that doesn’t mean they all do. So brothels in which consenting adults fuck for cash shouldn’t be a problem. But they clearly are. Now I’m aware this sounds like the confessions of sexually frustrated, hooker-using filth cretin, but that’s not what it is. While I’ve no issue with people who choose to do it, it’s still a somewhat grimy business. When each of these girls - pretty as they may be - are getting nailed ten times a night by a cliental of mostly misfits, degenerates and leery tossers, they become as attractive a lay as Jeremy Kyle’s condescending fuck-face. No matter how high class some of these escorts are advertised as being, they’ve received the cock of hundreds, if not thousands (but probably not hundreds of thousands) of the ugliest, tiniest and likely rapiest of other men. So I’m not so much judging a book by its cover, more by who’s grubbily fingered through it in the past. Which isn’t much better really. What about all the girls you almost-sort-of-get-to-a-point-where-you-might-get-some-way-close-to-possibly-pulling on a night out? What about all the ugly, tiny rapists they’ve had sex with for free? Well clearly these girls are far cheaper; my good looks, eloquence and dry wit often succeed in getting me nowhere, so a few pints of snakebite and black‘ll do the trick. Maybe. I might know were I ever in a situation where buying a girl a drink didn‘t seem like a horrifically cynical I-just-want-in-your-pants move. Although I am sure that if it did actually work, it’d cost a lot less than a visit to someone on the street turning tricks for crack and smack.