The house in Wallingford was a scene, with guys coming by starting at about nine in the morning until midnight on working days, and intermittently here and there on the other days, but they never saw me or knew that I lived there. Frankly the furtive existence did not suit me or the ginormous personality I carry around with me and that is my curse. My arrival in Seattle to be the houseboy and live in lover for the woman who owned the house and coordinated the whole operation, turned out out to be less fun than I had anticipated.
Two girls and I lived in the house that, like many in Seattle, is built into a hill, but there were at least ten or so others who worked out of the place. It had a finished basement with two massage rooms and, in a third larger room that was once the garage, a hot tub platform where most people park their car at night. We lived upstairs and all of the business went on down in the basement of the house that is situatuated at the intersection of two pretty mellow residential streets. The house was purchased specifically because of it’s easy access to 99, a main thoroughfare, and because it’s corner spot simplified the process of directing clients there.
My relationship with the woman ended badly and there was a lot of mutual hostility between us but she was crazy and controlling and that didn’t work so well for me. Later I learned that after I left she finally went through with her plan to completely outfit the house with white security bars and beaming spotlights that illuminated the entire place with the intensity of the sun all night long. Of course with the amount of illegitmate traffic that came and then went everyday, and enhanced security measures that made the house stand out like a sore thumb in the neighborhood, it din’t take the po po very long until they also paid a call.
Tammy, the girl who also lived in that house with us, filled me in on the details of the bust one night when I randomly encountered her at a bar downtown. She was on her way to San Francisco with her boyfriend. I was drunk when we saw one another so I cannot remember if she told me that she was still living at the house when it all went down. Tammy and I laughed as we recounted the desperation of that house, behavior we witnessed together as a result of fate’s simple twist.
This guy that I know recently lined up a pay to play situation with a woman that he found on craigslist and when the dough came up out of his pocket, the vice squad busted in and arrested him for solicitation. He had done this sort of thing before and there hadn’t been any trouble but this time, like on Dateline To Catch A Predator, the police used the internet to get their sting on. He has to pay a bunch of money and do a ton of community service hours, but he doesn’t have to register as a sex offender because, unlike on Dateline To Catch A Predator, he is was not trying to get his freak on with a minor.
Like the war on drugs, the idea that sex for pay can be abolished or even discouraged, by enforcing laws that really should be determined by an individual’s personal moral code, is absurd. Sex is money. So long as humanity endures, the sacred prostitute, like death and taxes, will continually remain. Sex is a demand that is genetically programmed into all of the animals including humans and it is a hunger that does not diminish. Money is empowering because provides opportunities for those who have it.
Continually attempting to eliminate an irrefutable constant of human existence is akin to trying to murder a shadow, it just is not going to happen. Only when the governments of the earth declare that they will no longer be collecting a portion of their citizenry’s income will paid sex become an outdated concept. If the unlikely day ever arrives that money stops being exchanged for sex, it will certainly be heralded with bold headlines in newspapers around the globe. For sure, if that day should come, the other big news will undoubtedly be that science has found the way to immortality.