Men who hire prostitutes don’t use language like this

Anyone bold enough to argue that these guys are getting laid regularly? (Warning: Some of these are barfworthy):

“If you shitted in my hand, I’d clap.”

“It look like you fart baby Angels”

“Dam I got 6 stacks wat u want to do”

“Sit in my face”

“Can I just put my face right in the middle tho of crack I bet her ass feel softer than soft serv ice cream”

Coherence and tastefulness don’t always go together like fudge and soft-serve, but sometimes they do.

“I will kill Jesus just to meet you one time.”

“Can I please eat it from the back? I said please”

“Girl I will eat that ass forever my right hand to the good Lord”

“I would kicc my moms in the head while she was sleep if it meant I could eat that thang”

“What must a man do or sacrifice to meet such a beautiful gorgeous young lady”

“I’d let you use my face as a couch any day of the week”

“If i ever had the chance to sleep with you id wake up an eat my cereal out of your ass”


These are just some of the shorter offers. A fellow traveler of these gentlemen by the nom de plume of longdicklegend offered, in graphic but boring detail, to “start licking your pussy walls spelling my name on them walls until you squirt in my mouth” and so forth, culminating in an extended, sensuous round of vaginal intercourse, but not until after the writing was once again written on the walls. It’s like Luther’s 95 Theses, but about lodging one’s tongue in a stranger’s vagina, as one does. There’s an entire Tumblr site devoted to these unbidden offers of affection. To take another horrendous example: “I would drag my balls through 3 miles of broken glass stained in Rosie odonnells armpit sweat just to meet you.”

Dude comes up a bit short of Melissa Etheridge. So does “I wanna put butter on your ass and eat it up like martins momma biscuits” If a man can’t come to a woman’s window, he can at least come on it. The sad truth, of course, is that these fellow are not ones who will be getting permission to come inside any time soon.

If, to borrow their more pious parlance, Jesus did return in glory, right hand to the good Lord, and these chaps finally got the opportunity to bang a hottie, they’d blow their loads in fifteen seconds. She’d tell him to come, but he’d be already there, a Johnny come not lately enough. This is a foolish occasion to try to separate cause from effect. These guys are writing weird shit to strange women because they aren’t getting laid, and they aren’t getting laid because they’re the kind who make weird-ass sexual propositions to strangers on Instagram. Cause is effect, and effect is cause.

There aren’t enough whores in this country. I don’t mean attention whores; dressing up like a streetwalker out of Grand Theft Auto and fishing for online compliments is no more a form of prostitution than putting on a sexy nurse costume is a form of nursing. I mean women who put out in exchange for amounts of money that cannot be counted by the stack. Or maybe these guys are just too chickenshit to hire a hooker. That’s probably part of it; these guys probably find it less intimidating to make offers that will never be accepted to women who will never accept them than to negotiate, and then have, real sex with real women.

These dudes are caught in a nasty positive feedback loop, and I don’t mean nasty in the sense that Robin Thicke does. They can’t have sex, so they talk about it instead. These are not fellows who should talk about sex, since they can’t go one sentence without saying something totally fucked up, but they don’t see any other option. They desperately want sexual companionship. It’s reasonable to say that they need it. They aren’t about to get any from narcissistic amateur chicks who post selfies on Instagram, but they try. They’re deep in the hole, but they figure that if they just dig a bit deeper, they’ll finally hit gold. At long last, they’ll be allowed to hit that. They won’t, of course; they’re dorks writing sexually deranged shit to strange women on Instagram; but mainstream American media and society are much more amenable to pickup artists and bar skanks than they are to hookers and their clients. Crude Instagram propositions conform more closely to the suave ideal than does asking a working girl, “how much to fuck you?” Prostitution obliterates the facade that casual sex is somehow about the mutual compatibility and excellent social adjustment of both partners. One pays the money, and one gets the honey.

One dares not live so deeply in truth. This is probably because doing so would embarrass the douchebags and skanks on the club scene. Both types use fiat currencies worthless enough to make a Paulbot sperg cry behold the dollar and proclaim, “Now, that’s sound money!” A prostitute doesn’t expect much of her clients sexually. She’s unlikely to blacklist a client just because he was pathologically undersexed into his thirties and couldn’t manage more than five pumps before Old Faithful blew sky high. Yup, that’s some kind of fucked up imagery, too, but you’ve all seen worse by now, and mainstream American culture is fucked up enough to hold it against prostitutes that they’re gracious with men who are sexually clueless and unable to last thirty seconds. They’re supposed to hold out for Fabio or something. They’re supposed to be catty bitches about a man who left them less than fully satisfied instead of figuring that he paid the fee and enjoyed himself and was well enough behaved to see again.

It’s extremely foolish to underestimate the refining effect that prostitutes can have on public sexual morals. If a man is able to get laid regularly, he won’t go around the internet saying totally crazy shit to hot women. This isn’t something that club scene shitheads want publicized. It would break rice bowls. But whose rice bowl do you want broken: Kirill’s, or the bowl used by one of Queen’s Fat-Bottom Girls of the South Sound?

Go schtup a fat whore, son, even if she isn’t located in Tacoma. Going to Spanaway for a quick lay is much better than going headlong into the pit.


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