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05/08/2005: "A History of Famous Whores"
"Home we bring our bald whoremonger
Romans lock your wives away"
- A verse from a camp song sung in praise of Julius Caesar.
"Tabitha is a hoor."
- Graffito on the sidewalk outside of my old High School
A few weeks ago a bunch of spotty wankers at Oxford took some time away
from dressing up in drag and performing disturbing "comedy" skits which all
end with an underclassman being paddled as he delivers the line "Whoops,
I've been a naughty chambermaid" to develop a new digital imaging process
which allows historians to read the works, once considered lost, of
classical authors such as Homer, Sophocles, and Euripides.
So far, they haven't found any lost works from either Homer, Sophocles, or
Euripides. They have, however, discovered a lost poem by Archilochus. Never
heard of Archilochus? Well that's probably because he was less famous for
his poems (one of which was about the joys of seducing his lover's sister)
than for once, during the heat of battle, dropping his shield and
running away.
Of course, this doesn't mean that the lost works of the greats won't be
found, and that's something worth getting excited about: although not worth
getting so excited about that you should bring it up on a first date. Just
think of all the books which went up in smoke with the Library of
Alexandria (long before book burning became a community-building exercise
among South Carolinians) that can now be pieced together from scattered
fragments and enjoyed once more. Of the over one hundred and forty
histories written by Livy, we, at present, only have thirty-five. Of the
one hundred and thirty comedies penned by Plautus, only twenty (and these
are missing sections) survive.
As for me, the one lost book above all others that I'd like to get my hands
on is Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus' A History of Famous Whores
Yes; that's right; the same Suetonius who wrote the classic Twelve
Ceasers (along with another missing book titled The Physical Defects
of Mandkind ) also penned a lost catalogue of notible mattressbacks.
Now, before we get started, I realize that some people, in paticular,
whores, find the word "whore" patently offensive. This is because the word
has morphed from it's originally meaning of "any woman who exchanges sexual
favors for monetary compensation" into a degragatory term meaning "any
woman of loose morals" . So the next time that you encounter some drunken
wife beater-waering piece of White Trash who's screaming "Git in this car,
you whore" at a weeping young woman in a Taco Bell uniform, feel
free to approach him and say,"Excuse me, Sir, but you really shouldn't call
your're girlfriend a whore: unless, of course, she does, in fact, exchange
sexual favors for monetary compensation. No, what you most likely have on
your nicitine stained hands is a 'Slut'".
Contestants on Elimadate seem to be very fond of calling each other
whores. "You've only know him for five minutes and you've already made out
with him, you whore." This is almost always followed with the classic
comeback, "I'm not a whore. You're the whore." Ladies, you're both
on Elimadate. 'Nuff said?
Conversley, the word "Pimp", once a blatent insult, has now been elivated
badge of hornor (although the staff at RATYHTL DO NOT recommend that
you address your elderly, shotgun-weilding John Bircher of a neighbor as
"you 'ho-slappin' pimp-daddy.").
Oddly, during the 19th Century the the word "Gay" meant "Postitute". By the
20th Century "Gay" had come to mean "Homosexual", and by the early 21st
Century it was a synonym for "decorated with a floral pattern" (as in
"Dude, that shirt is soooo Gay). Many Sociolinguists theorize that
by the 22nd Century "Gay" will by synonymous with "Baptist". Coincidently,
nearly all Sociolinguists are, in every sense of the word, Gay.
Technically, a Whore should be defined as "any woman who engages in
sexual activity for financial gains." As you can see, this definition
creates a huge gray area. For example, Madonna has confessed to advancing
her career by "dating" music producers. Did this constitute prostitution?
And, if so, was it any more shameful than the rap that the Material Whore
performed on her American Dream CD? And what does this mean to that
whole Madonna/Whore complex thing?
Speaking of Madonnas: Mary Magdalene was never a whore. The occupation was
erroneously assigned to Magdalene by Pope Gregory the Great (not a member
of the Hitler Youth), perhaps in an attempt to discredit the Gospels of
Mary. The Pope merely took advantage of the public's confusion between
Mary Magdalene and actual Biblical hooker Mary of Bethany: the kinky broad
who, in the Book of Luke, anointed Jesus' feet.
For our sick and twisted purposes, the word "Whore" shall be strictly
defined as "any woman who engages in sexual activity for money" (as opposed
to men who engage in heterosexual sex for money: "Gigolos" and men who
engage in homosexual sex for money: "The Tampa Bay Lightning").
Now might be a good time to reflect on what incredible engines of industry
whores have been. Think about it; every since the dawn of the Industrial
Revolution, millions of men have toiled for trillions of hours, laying
railroad tracks; erecting buildings; and engaging in fiscal
intercourse, in order to generate an almost infinite amount of
capital: nearly all of which has been exchanged for blow jobs.
Despite having been to Amsterdam… You know, I should really tell you that
cautionary tale of woe:
About fifteen years ago, the Milkmen were on a tour of Europe when we
decided stop in Amsterdam for a few hours on our way to that night's gig
in Haarlem (Trust me, kids, that extra 'a' makes a world of difference).
The other Milkmen and our tour manager, Dan, spent the afternoon at the
Anne Frank Museum while I (adopting a philosophy of either "When In Rome…"
or "Seen one attic; seen 'em all") got stoned.
Now, despite having spent a full one third of my life as a professional
musician and having been a teenager during the 1970's, I've had surprisingly
little experience with marijuana. In fact, I can probably count the number
of times that I've smoked pot on both hands and still have a few fingers
left over to flip-off "The Man" with. This lack of interest in "Devil weed"
primarily stemmed from my disappointment with the effects of the drug. I
never felt "high", "buzzed" or "mellowed out". Mostly, what I felt was
"ripped off." Then again, if ever there was a geeky White guy whom you
could sell a bag of oregano to, that geeky White guy is me.
But this was Amsterdam! Pot was legal here. How could I not indulge? (For
the record: If pissing into the canals and exposing oneself to the comatose
had also been legal, I would've taken part in those activities as well.).
So I walked a few blocks and soon found myself outside of a charming little
den of vice called The Grasshopper. I explained that to the gentleman
behind the counter that I would like to purchase a small bag of the house's
finest weed and that I would also not only require something to smoke it in,
but I would also, since I don't smoke, need to buy a lighter. Less than five
minutes later I was seated at a window-side table on the second floor of
the Grasshopper (which I had, perhaps due to the early hour, all to myself),
tightly packing a rented pipe and taking in the view.
I smoked up the first bowl and waited. Nothing. OK, there was plenty more
pot left in the bag; I packed another bowl, opened up my copy of The
Name of the Rose, and resumed smoking. Two bowls down and still no
effect. Was it my destiny to wander the Earth, like the Ancient Mariner,
with an albatross hung around my neck on which had been written "Please
sell me oregino"?
I was about to call it a day, when I group of cute American college girls
(Dear Penthouse, I never believed your letters until…) wandered up onto the
second floor, seated themselves a few feet away and began nibbling on hash
brownies. Women! And women who spoke English, at that! Well, I certainly
couldn't leave now. Bowl number three was soon packed and fired up.
About three puffs into bowl number three, the words on page 226 of The
Name of the Rose began to swim around. "That's odd," I thought "I
don't remember any of the reviews mentioning swirling words." It took a few
minutes, but eventually the gravity of my situation sank in: I was stoned.
For the first time in my life, I was stoned. Stoned and thousands of miles
away from home. Stoned in a country where I didn't speak the language.
Panic set in.
"OK, Anonymous, you can handle this. Get a grip. You've been in worse
situations: Fired upon by snipers in Yugoslavia, the time you had to jump
out of that window because that woman forgot to mention that se was
married. This is nothing. This is no worse than that time you ate those
magic mushrooms at Ken's party and had to hide under his bed while the cops
searched the place. Why does everything sound so 'crunchy'? Calm down. Calm
down; get up; go to the men's room and splash some cold water on your face.
Yes, good thinking. I'll just get up and…which one is the men's room?!? I
don't speak the language. OK, get a hold of yourself. You speak German
don't you? Yes…but these people don't speak German… or, at least they
haven't since 1945." This debate went on for nearly an hour before I
noticed the universal pictograms for men and women on the restroom doors.
Slowly (and I mean slllloooowwwllyyyy), I made my way to the bathroom, the
walls of which seemed to be covered with glowing hieroglyphics, and heaped
handfuls of freezing water onto my face. This straightened me out…for about
thirty seconds. Things started looking "vibrant" again while I was on my
way back to my table. Before I could sit down, I was approached by one of
the American girls. "Would you like to eat some brownies with us?" Sirens!
I've read The Odyssey enough times to know sirens when I see them.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
The sirens tried a different approach. "Is that The Name of the Rose
you're reading?" one called from their table which seemed to be moving
further and further away, "I hear it's really good." "The words…" I managed
to force out, "The words…sort of swim." "Yes, I've heard that he has a
very fluid style." "If you ladies will excuse me, I have to get some air
before I transform into a pair of Converse All Stars."
I stumbled down the stairs and into the crowded street. The first sight
that registered in my now hopelessly dope-damaged brain also happened to
be the worst possible sight that I could've seen. I found myself standing
out of a "Make your own music video" parlor. Two fat eight-year-olds were
enthusiastically lip-synching to an Ace off Base song why a psychedelic
background was projected behind them. Suddenly my ears rang not with
All That She Wants but with the voice of Maggie the Cat shouting
"You little no-necked MONSTERS!" I began laughing uncontrollably. Laughter
is the universal language: the very contagious universal language. Soon
about twenty other bystanders had launched into hysterics over the
performance by Ace of Beasts. Naturally, this didn't sit well with
the parents of the little no-necked monsters who, understandably, began
to bark what I assumed where harsh insults at the crowd and at me, in
particular, as the instigator.
Now people were staring at me. I wasn't just imagining people were staring at me.
No, they were really staring at me. And then the father of one of the portly
lip-synchers pointed directly at me and said a word that needed no
translation: "Doper!" Well, I wasn't about to stand around and have a bunch
of truths hurled at me. I ran (perhaps screaming) from the scene.
What I needed, I reckoned, was a quiet place where I could sit and gather
my wits. A churchyard! That's was it. I'd find an old churchyard (these old
cities are full of 'em) and sit on a bench until I was certain that none of
the tombstones sported my name. I scanned the skyline until a found a
steeple which appeared to be about ten blocks to the south.
Can you guess what else happened, unbeknownst to me, to lay ten blocks to
the south? That's right: the Red Light district.
Instead of finding myself in a quiet churchyard, I was attempting to
navigate narrow, winding streets which were lined with small "shops"; each
of which contained a large window behind which stood a scantily clad
prostitute. The cumulative effect of this "wall of whores" on my
dope-addled brain was catastrophic. To make matters worse, this was still
rather early in the day, so Red Light district was almost empty of
customers; which meant that the hookers felt the need to compete for my
attention. "Fifty gilders." "Forty gilders." "Thirty gilders: early bird
special!" One old working girl even yelled "Hey, I give you ten
gilders" which resulted in uproarious laughter from her colleagues Great,
now all of the prostitutes were laughing at me.
I did my best to explain my situation, "I don't want sex. I just want to go
home. I'm lost and I'm stoned and all of the words were swimming and those
fat kids didn't have any necks", but my pleas were only met with more
laughter.
And then I spotted a bar. "OK, go into the bar and have a beer. That will
calm you down." Unfortunately, once I got inside the bar I noticed that not
only did it feature a giant screen TV on which porn was being shown, but it
too contained a "wall of whores". A large Australian clapped me on the
shoulder, pointed to a hooker who was four feet tall and nearly as wide,
and said "Ay mate, you do that one, and I'll pay for it." Now the
entire bar was laughing at me. I ran for the exit and found myself cast
adrift in a sea of Japanese tourists: all of whom felt the need to
photographically document my confusion and terror.
Eventually I caught sight of the words "American Book Store" above a small
shop. I wandered in and told my life's story to the man behind the counter.
"Wow, that's tragic. Not uncommon, but tragic nonetheless. I'm not sure
though exactly how you expect me to help you", he said. I handed him a piece
of paper on which I'd written the address where the Milkmen's tour van was
parked. "I need to find this place", I said. "Oh, well that shouldn't be
too difficult seeing as how it's directly across the street."
When the other Milkmen and Dan returned from the Anne Frank Museum they
found me hugging the van.
I've haven't smoked weed since. This may make me the only person who was
ever "scared straight" by a visit to Amsterdam.
Anyway, despite having been to Amsterdam, I've never engaged the services
of a prostitute. I do, however, have at my fingertips hundreds of phun
phacts about prostitution. For example, did you know that humans are not
the only primates who engage in prostitution? Female bonobo apes (humans
share 98.5% of their genetic makeup with the bonobo ape, by the way) have
been to know to exchange sex for food (while male bonobo apes that is…and
possibly with Bill O'Reilly).
I've also made a concerted effort to court the friendship of prostitutes:
which brings us to another quaint story worth sharing:
When I was in my early teens I was walking down the boardwalk in Atlantic
City when I happened to notice an actor who had starred in popular 1950's
sitcom. "Hey, aren't you ___?" I asked. "Why yes; I am. But I can't
believe someone as young as you would know who I am", said the man who
held out his hand for me to shake.
A few years later I happened to tell this story to a prostitute
acquaintance who shuddered and said "God, I hope you didn't shake his
hand?" I told her that I had, indeed, shaken his hand and asked her why
that was so wrong. "Because," she said, "he used to be a client of mine.
He liked to be shit on."
I don't think that they'll be any stories like that one in Suetonius'
History, but I'm willing to bet, if it's ever found, it'll be one wild read.
This is because Suetonius was writing during The Golden Age of
Whoredom.
Unlike most vices which become more interesting once they've become
illeagal (how would you rather procure your booze: from a speakeasy or from
Pennsylvanians Orwellian State Store system? Leagalize pot and we'll all
end up wandering the streets: mumbling incoherently about floating words
and laughing at fat kids. ), prostitution has been in a steady decline
since the Dark Ages. Not in numbers of practioneers or clientel, but in the
quality of the whores themselves.
Just look at modern whores like Heidi Fleiss (why is she calling her new
store "Little Shop of Sex" and not "Little Shop of Whores"?), Son of Sam
Law exception, Sydney Biddle Barrows (AKA the Mayflower Madam) or The
Happy Hooker (As opposed to "The Cranky Crack Whore"?), Xaviera Hollander.
Do any of these women inspire you? Even the life of Mandy Rice-Davies (the
dwarf from Lord of the Rings), the hooker whose tryst with the UK's
Minister of War the year I was born resulted in what would later be known
as "the Profumo scandal" didn't result a very good movie.
Now, consider the tale of Messalina (23-48 AD). Messalina was married, at
the insistence of the Emperor Caligula, who consider the match a hilarious
joke, to Claudius (who would later become Emperor) when she was fifteen and
Claudius was fifty.
During the early years of Claudius' reign, Messalina would slip from the
palace, late at night, and take up residence in a brothel where she eagerly
plied her trade under the moniker of "Lycisca" (which roughly translates
into "the Wolf Girl").
Messalina is also remembered for engaging in an all-night sex contest with
a famous Roman whore named Scylla (Yes, like the sea monster in The
Odyssey) to see who could service the most customers. Scylla threw in
the towel (which I hope was later burned) shortly after sunup, while the
Wolf Girl, like the energizer bunny, kept on going.
Now that's what I call a whore. It's a really shame that today's
prostitutes don't have that sort of pride in or dedication to their work.
Vitum - vice
