61 Frames Per Second by John Constantine Today in Nerve's videogame blog: Friedrich Nietzsche, River City Ransom, angry nerds, and the horrors of time. So, you know, business as usual.
The Remote Island by Bryan Christian Veronica Mars returns (maybe), RuPaul is haunting us (definitely), and the Dexter "Pscyho Therapy" quiz (creepy.)
I worked him over orally for awhile. He
seemed to enjoy that but couldn't keep a hard-on when he was penetrating.
I tried to go back to oral, but he just couldn't turn on again.
The "I" in this non-blushing statement was
Faye Desiree, a prostitute. The "he" was a client who previously canceled
one appointment, then showed up half an hour late for a second. Although
Ms. Desiree described the client as attractive, young and fit, she also
noted that he was acting strangely, mumbling and avoiding eye contact. In
the world of late-night television, the near future would likely involve
an ice pick and copious amounts of red corn syrup.
This encounter, however, was being retold
on the discussion boards of TBD, a.k.a. The Big Dog, a website devoted to
prostitutes and the men who pay to love them. I first heard about TBD on
public radio, during a Marketplace report on the underground economy.
An "escort consultant" described the various ways in which
prostitutes market their services. Sites like TBD, she explained, had advertisements,
reviews, and discussions, all about prostitution.
Aside from the hookers-to-the-stars who occasionally
turn up in the news, prostitution often calls to mind a downtrodden lot
— abused women badly in need of therapy and creepy men who are one
ATM-card swipe away from becoming pederasts. A social-worker friend of mine
used to work with Hollywood street kids whose primary currency was "survival
sex," and my own view is that such an assessment is too kind.
Still, the notion of escort reviews was irresistible,
and off I went to the laptop. The site was there, as advertised, at bigdoggie.net,
but the escort-review feature was restricted to members only. Not wanting
to rule out a future run for public office, I wasn't inclined to join. The
discussion boards, however, required no incriminating credit card to access.
Like any other message board on the Internet,
TBD comprises notes which participants post by topic. Successive posts create
an ongoing discussion, or thread.
promotion
Much of what transpires is a simple exchange
of information: a guy trying to track down a specific prostitute, a hooker
announcing she's visiting a certain city. (One escort recently posted details
about her upcoming visit to Alabama, mentioning that she was into, among
other things, spanking. This led a fellow escort/spanking devotee
to suggest that it might make sense for the two working girls to get together and spank each other.) The longer
threads, though, were often frank, surprisingly literate discussions about
what the participants referred to as "the hobby." The first note I saw was
Faye's.
As she recounted, Faye thought music would
help her tardy, obviously disturbed client. She played a country Celtic
CD, the its
"melancholy strains" of which she thought might trigger repressed memories. Faye began stroking
her john's face and looking into his eyes, and the tears started falling.
She held him until he was all cried out. Then, Faye — who noted that
she believed in the healing power of animals — left him alone with
her cat Noah, whom he played with for a half an hour.
She concluded her post by saying, "It was
one of the most memorable sessions I've ever had." Faye also wrote that
she had recently participated in a workshop in the desert and done her own
psychological exploration. She assumed that the process had lent her a "resonance"
that announced itself to her client and gave him permission to "let go."
Among the bouquet of weirdness surrounding
that anecdote was the obvious implication that Faye considered her choice
of career to be, um, a good thing. And she was not alone. An epistolary
e-chorus cheered Faye on, pronouncing her a "gem," a "rare lady indeed"
who belonged on a "very high pedestal." One "hobbyist," as the men are called
— and they are all men — was moved to share his own struggles
with premature ejaculation. One "provider," as the women are referred to,
wrote of her efforts to help a client who had been raped as a child. Another
poster concluded, "It's angels like you who make this business so damn wonderful!!"
Such ebullience, as it turns out, is not unusual
on TBD. In another thread, a client commented: "My worst moment in the hobby
is still better than my worst regular dating moment." Another provider pronounced
the business "wonderful" for allowing her independence and for feeding her
two addictions: sex and shopping. "No other job could fulfill my needs!
I love it!" she wrote.
The Big Dog, a website devoted to
prostitutes and the men who pay to love them. I first heard about TBD on
public radio, during a Marketplace report on the underground economy.
An "escort consultant" described the various ways in which
prostitutes market their services. Sites like TBD, she explained, had advertisements,
reviews, and discussions, all about prostitution. 
its
"melancholy strains" of which she thought might trigger repressed memories. Faye began stroking
her john's face and looking into his eyes, and the tears started falling.
She held him until he was all cried out. Then, Faye — who noted that
she believed in the healing power of animals — left him alone with
her cat Noah, whom he played with for a half an hour. 
