In January of this year, a legal brothel in Nevada got the go ahead
from the local county government to hire its first male prostitute to
cater to women.
It occurs to me that it’s probably more fun to be an elected municipal politician in Nevada than anywhere else in the world.
I don’t know if you’ve ever attended a meeting of municipal government, but it’s duller than a bad church sermon, calculus class and watching CNN when there aren’t any big explosions happening in the world.
Combined.
Seriously.
It’s worse even than watching Stephen Harper and Preston Manning discuss Senate reform.
The last time I attended a municipal government meeting, all they talked about were potholes and sewer connections.
Not once did the clerk of the county read the following: “Be it resolved, that the County of Such-and-Such hereby approves the hiring of buff boy whores for the enjoyment of women patrons of the county’s brothels. All in favour?”
Now that must have been a fun discussion.
When I heard about the male prostitute being hired, I sought out a young feminist of my acquaintance and asked her opinion of this recent development in human affairs.
She said it was a wonderful victory for women everywhere.
Finally, equality had made its way even into the seediest corners of North American life, she declared.
I asked her if she’d ever considered patronizing such a business and she said: “Eeew. Yuck. Gross.”
And then she punched me really hard in the shoulder and demanded to know if she looked like the kind of woman who would have to pay for male companionship.
Surely all that gym time she had logged had not been in vain.
“Ow,” I replied, because all that gym time she’d logged had definitely not been in vain and, as a consequence, she packed a punch like a good welterweight.
Then I told her that no, she did not look like she would have to pay for male companionship.
But if she went around punching guys like that, eventually she might have to resort to it.
And then I ducked because, you know.
Punch me once, shame on you.
Punch me twice, shame on me.
And then I suggested that, as a feminist, surely she was aware of that it was completely unfair that she could punch me with impunity, but if I punched her back, I’d wind up in jail.
She agreed that it was unfair, but put it all into perspective by explaining, “Sucks to be you, huh?”
I got a completely different answer when I asked the opinion of another woman of my acquaintance who is less on the feminist side of the sexual politics equation and more on the June Cleaver end of the spectrum.
She said, and I quote: “Yuck. Gross. Eeew,” as opposed to “Eeew. Yuck. Gross.”
I didn’t even bother to ask the follow-up question because I wasn’t wearing a protective cup and she has a black belt in one of those Asian fighting disciplines where she can make a man’s kidneys switch places with his eardrums with one well-placed kick.
Not to mention the three brothers and the big, mean husband.
Not only should it have been a no-brainer that most women won’t pay for sex, even the most cursory look at that wonderful thing called the interweb would have let the organizers know that women don’t have to pay for it.
Ever.
Because no matter what a woman looks like, there is a male demographic out there ready and willing to buy them flowers.
A woman can be 90 years old and 900 pounds and there’s a man out there for her.
She can be 19 and 90 pounds and there’s a man for her.
She can have a mustache, muscles like Arnold Schwarzenneger in his steroidal prime, one leg and a lisp … and there’s a man out there for her.
Given there are men out there willing to date farm animals and creatures of indeterminate species on the run from carnivals and then celebrate that love by posting the pictures on the interweb … there’s not a single woman anybody knows who has to be lonely.
So after a mere three months, the brothel’s boy whore had logged only 10 customers and left the business.
Turns out men selling sexual favours to women is not economically viable.
The brothel owners and the political people in Nevada should have just asked a couple of actual women before they went to all the effort and paid attention to the answers, which, if you recall, run the gamut from: “Eeew. Yuck. Gross,” to “Yuck. Gross. Eeew.”
Or, they could have just asked a married guy like me what women will pay a man to do.
And, based on my extensive experience spanning the decades in a stable marriage, what women want men to do more than anything else in the world is vacuum a three-bedroom house.
And then clean every toilet in that home.
Women think that stuff is foreplay.
Forget flowers and chocolates. That stuff gets old the minute you start playing house together. Housework’s the key.
Besides, you vacuum a three-bedroom house or clean some toilets without being asked … neither one of you is going to need to visit a brothel.
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