There is a particularly nasty affliction of colour-blindness running rampant back in Farangland. Whilst we denizens of the Land of Smiles can happily see life in various shades of grey, our Western cousins are hampered with vision that only seems to register black and white.
I touched on this previously – a British pal pays more in drinks and cigarettes for the attentions of a sturdy lass in the pub (and fails) than he would pay for a guaranteed result here in Thailand, which in my experience would likely be more enjoyable.
Yet he, like many, had the whole mental block about “paying for it”. That’s something for the dirty mac brigade. It’s an admission of inadequacy – even despair.
Christopher Brookmyre writes:
All those uptight assholes who took way too much pride in telling you they never paid for it in their lives – they didn’t know what they were missing. And this was because they didn’t understand the nature of the transaction. They thought paying for it was undignified, that it somehow diminished them as men. What kind of insecure loser did you have to be to believe that, when, in every other aspect of your life, paying someone else to render you services was what underlined your status? Yeah, sure, you could pump your own gas, wash your own car, shine your own shoes; you could roll dough and make your own fucking pizza. But who the fuck wants to do that when you’ve got money in your pocket? Having to do that shit yourself because you don’t have money in your pocket – that’s undignified; that diminishes you as a man. Paying for it didn’t mean you couldn’t get it any other way – it meant that you could afford the convenience option, same as any other service.
And talk about denial! “Never paid for it.” Yeah, right. Maybe not directly, asshole, but you fuckin’ paid for it, make no mistake. Sneakier than a stealth tax, and just as unavoidable, there’s a traceable dollar outlay connected to every time she unzips your fly, whether she be your wife, your mistress or a one-night stand. And this isn’t just about steak dinners and hotel rooms, either. This is about that thousand-buck suit on your back, your health-club subscription and your stylist’s fee, too. Even if you’re a rock star backstage at the Hollywood Bowl: that seventeen year-old with the doe-eyes and the awe-struck look is still playing an angle, and she ain’t leaving without a piece of you bigger than the one between her teeth. Whether it’s a noseful of your best pure, or the cheque she’ll get when she tells all, one way or another, that blow-job is coming at a cost.
Gentlemen, there is no such thing as free sex. Pants Elk wrote on this very website back in January:
More on “taking them home”: my friend did the math for a first date here in Paris, done with the style a gorgeous Parisienne expects;
Flowers: 40 euros
Cab to her apartment: 15e
Cab to theater: 15e
Show/opera tix: 200e
Cab to restaurant: 15e
Meal, wine: 150e
Cab back to her place: 15e
Kiss/cuddle/grope/fuck as situation permits: “free”
Cab back home: 15e
TOTAL EXPENDITURE: 495 euros
Cheap return flight to BKK: 500 euros
TOTAL EXPENDITURE: 537 euros
Result: guaranteed satisfaction #
You pay, I pay, he pays, we all pay. Barfines are cheaper than alimony. And I see no shame in it, either.
Good luck convincing your mates back home on that count though. It’s a curious world…