strongest of all men upon earth in his time; for he even took up the bow to face the King’s onset, Phoibus Apollo, for the sake of the sweet-stepping maiden . . . ”’ —
Iliad
9:558
You remember your first report card from high school. Your home room teacher had written under the general comments section, “Less Romeo, more study.” Your mother and father told you to listen to what she said, that it was good advice. So you began to study more, you began to do well. And your parents were proud of you and told you so and told all their friends how smart you were, how well you were doing in school.
But that first report card was the only one your father ever actually took out to show his friends.
If you talk to enough porn stars and strippers, or if you read enough interviews with them, you start to realize there is only one thing that is true about them all.
They are not all bimbos. Many are quite witty and more than a few are actually very bright.
They do not all hate their work. Some actually quite enjoy it, think it’s fun, can’t believe they can get paid for having sex.
They are not all drug addicts. In fact, since HIV, most are strongly against drug use and will refuse to work with anyone who is an addict.
They do not all have low self-esteem. Many are precisely the reverse — very proud, very sure of themselves, so self-reliant for so long, so used to establishing boundaries so often, they don’t take shit from anyone, least of all the men they sleep with.
They did not all grow up in broken homes or homes with drug or alcohol problems or homes where they were sexually abused as children. (Although one or more of these things tends to be true in over 95 percent of cases.)
No, the one thing that is true without exception about every porn star or stripper is that they grew up poor.
You are in Amsterdam and you can’t believe your virility with this girl. Resigned, long past shame, you had asked them for the youngest girl they had. It is legal to prostitute girls over the age of fifteen in Amsterdam. Some people go there for the legalized drugs. Not you.
One time, a few years ago, you had paid a hooker — a former
Playboy
centerfold — fifteen thousand dollars to go to Key West with you for a weekend. She was, without a doubt, worth every penny. She was spectacularly beautiful, the kind of girl you and your friends thought you would only ever dream of having when you were teenagers. She was highly skilled too, knew how to do everything just right. She had nice clothes, seemed well educated, was not embarrassing at dinner with your friends and their girlfriends and wives. Most of them, the other women, assumed she was your girlfriend. The men, even the men you didn’t know at all, knew better. It was your interactions that gave you away. You were too comfortable around her, too relaxed. It was obvious you didn’t care what she thought about anything you said or did, obvious you were unafraid of repercussion, unafraid of not getting what you wanted. The two of you were so goddamn friendly with each other. Like two men who have just met but immediately discover they like each other. Yes, she was perfect. And that whole weekend you came maybe, what, four or five times. Certainly by Sunday you were so uninterested you sublet her out to a friend of yours and his wife.
And yet here, in Amsterdam, with this girl, in one night you have cum three times already. This girl they sent up really is young. It’s possible she’s not even sixteen. The traces of childhood are gone — the gangliness, the spindly limbs and neck, the overlarge eyes — but just barely. Her hips have hardly swollen enough to give her a waist, her breasts will still develop a little more. But God is she sexy. She has the most beautiful eyes, the fullest lips. When you opened your door the thought that she might be too young flashed through your mind for a second, just for a second, but then you dismissed it, asked yourself what that
Iliad
9:558
You remember your first report card from high school. Your home room teacher had written under the general comments section, “Less Romeo, more study.” Your mother and father told you to listen to what she said, that it was good advice. So you began to study more, you began to do well. And your parents were proud of you and told you so and told all their friends how smart you were, how well you were doing in school.
But that first report card was the only one your father ever actually took out to show his friends.
If you talk to enough porn stars and strippers, or if you read enough interviews with them, you start to realize there is only one thing that is true about them all.
They are not all bimbos. Many are quite witty and more than a few are actually very bright.
They do not all hate their work. Some actually quite enjoy it, think it’s fun, can’t believe they can get paid for having sex.
They are not all drug addicts. In fact, since HIV, most are strongly against drug use and will refuse to work with anyone who is an addict.
They do not all have low self-esteem. Many are precisely the reverse — very proud, very sure of themselves, so self-reliant for so long, so used to establishing boundaries so often, they don’t take shit from anyone, least of all the men they sleep with.
They did not all grow up in broken homes or homes with drug or alcohol problems or homes where they were sexually abused as children. (Although one or more of these things tends to be true in over 95 percent of cases.)
No, the one thing that is true without exception about every porn star or stripper is that they grew up poor.
You are in Amsterdam and you can’t believe your virility with this girl. Resigned, long past shame, you had asked them for the youngest girl they had. It is legal to prostitute girls over the age of fifteen in Amsterdam. Some people go there for the legalized drugs. Not you.
One time, a few years ago, you had paid a hooker — a former
Playboy
centerfold — fifteen thousand dollars to go to Key West with you for a weekend. She was, without a doubt, worth every penny. She was spectacularly beautiful, the kind of girl you and your friends thought you would only ever dream of having when you were teenagers. She was highly skilled too, knew how to do everything just right. She had nice clothes, seemed well educated, was not embarrassing at dinner with your friends and their girlfriends and wives. Most of them, the other women, assumed she was your girlfriend. The men, even the men you didn’t know at all, knew better. It was your interactions that gave you away. You were too comfortable around her, too relaxed. It was obvious you didn’t care what she thought about anything you said or did, obvious you were unafraid of repercussion, unafraid of not getting what you wanted. The two of you were so goddamn friendly with each other. Like two men who have just met but immediately discover they like each other. Yes, she was perfect. And that whole weekend you came maybe, what, four or five times. Certainly by Sunday you were so uninterested you sublet her out to a friend of yours and his wife.
And yet here, in Amsterdam, with this girl, in one night you have cum three times already. This girl they sent up really is young. It’s possible she’s not even sixteen. The traces of childhood are gone — the gangliness, the spindly limbs and neck, the overlarge eyes — but just barely. Her hips have hardly swollen enough to give her a waist, her breasts will still develop a little more. But God is she sexy. She has the most beautiful eyes, the fullest lips. When you opened your door the thought that she might be too young flashed through your mind for a second, just for a second, but then you dismissed it, asked yourself what that
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