The Death of Free Fuddi

Perhaps it is already too late; in which case this will be but a lament. Perhaps, on the other hand, I am raising the alarm too soon; some future chronicler of our times might record that this dispatch was just the first of many warnings which were ignored.

Yet the truth must be told: and now is as good a time to tell it as any. A revolution is brewing in the farthest provinces of Jesustan which could destroy our civilization as we know it. Few men have risen themselves from their stupor to pay heed to these dark events; even fewer have understood their full import. The revolution that stares Jesustan in the face but from which it has chosen to turn its gaze threatens to strip free men of their greatest freedom: free pussy.

Alarmist? Indelicate? Even obscene? Forgive me, my readers, but there are no words but plain ones with which my tale can be told.

One of the less pleasant things about being an itinerant traveler in this part of the world is that it occasionally involves escorting the odd Hindustani who wishes to experience the real Jesustan. Which in turn involves something even worse: meeting the natives. Which in turn involves traveling somewhere where you cannot get a decent bottle of Montrachet Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, 1978, or a sliver of Caciocavallo Podolico for love or for money, and where the men wear Old Spice. You can even end up in places, incredible as it might sound, where they have never heard of Butter Chicken and Thunderbolt.

And so it was that I was assigned the dubious task of escorting Mr. K. across a little known part of Jesustan, the vast desert wastes of Nevada, in search of the untold wealth I had claimed in my reports to my masters in Hindustan litters the pavements of this land (I had lied, but I beg your indulgence; it is much more expensive than you would imagine to fund even a modest lifestyle in strange parts where loneliness will lead even men of sterling moral character such as myself to the odd indiscretion). Deviousness alone could save me. I turned to the services of a certain young lady named Saxophone Suzy, renowned for her skills at blowing on things other than musical instruments, to divert the attentions of Mr. K.

It all went rather well, apart from a few moment of embarrassment – caused when Mr. K. whipped out what he imagined in his alcohol-fuelled frenzy to be his fire-hose like penis, banged it on the bar-counter and demanded to know whether Saxophone Suzy likee killi (it cost a good deal of money to have all the glass shards pulled out of both Mr. K.’s killi and Saxophone Suzy’s face, not to mention the discomfiture of having to explain the situation to the staff of Reno General’s good doctors). Anyway, in the emergency room, Saxophone Suzy and I had the opportunity to discuss our respective miseries. “I have an offer for you”, she said, briefly raising the hope that she might be willing to transfer the services Mr. K. was by now in no position to have rendered to him.

It turned out the deal she had in mind was lot, lot better.

You see, it turned out an auction was to be held soon which offered us both a way out of servitude. Inez’s Bar is a well-frequented facility in the charming little town of Elko, Nevada. It has been in business for over a hundred years, and is something of a local landmark. It has a full bar and stockroom, and six immaculate, charming bedrooms. The facility was renovated in 1996, and, in addition to a computerized accounting system, has a fifteen foot concrete wheelchair ramp, which means it meets the access requirement of the American Disability Act. There is, of course, the minor matter of the neighbors. You see, Inez’s isn’t only a bar. Its also home to, well, ahem, ladies of a certain kind. It’s the Inez’ Bar and Brothel, (cat house, a whorehouse, a house of pleasure, a house of ill-repute, ho-house, take your pick) licensed, bilkul No. 1 dhanda, by the State of Nevada.

Don’t get me wrong. Elko itself is a wonderful little place. Northern Nevada has an extraordinary history, and the town has more museums per capital than any other place in the United States. It hosts a cowboy poetry festival each year, and was voted ‘Number One Small Town To Raise A Family’ in 1994, evidence if more was needed that happy children must have a happy father. Anyway, it turns out Nevada is littered with establishments of this kind, several of them on sale. There’s Angel’s Ladies, in Beatty, just a short drive from the famed Death Valley which in addition to its other assets comes complete with a vegetable garden and drip-irrigation system, for women (and men) who think cucumbers are better than men. For others with vegetable inclinations, or so I assume, there’s also the Cherry Patch Whore House; for the zoophile, there’s Chicken’s Inn.

Now, it turns out there’s a pretty penny, if you’ll excuse the unfortunate turn of phrase, to be made. Which isn’t surprising, because the services at these establishments aren’t cheap: a hand-job can start at $100, rising to $500 for what’s called a half-and-half, oral and straight . Specialties such as handcuffs-and-whips are extra, but people seem willing to pay. A gentleman named the Food Dude, for example, is a regular patron of the Bunny Ranch, and arrives weighed down with confectioneries which he pays upwards $ 20,000 to have two naked women throw at him. At other places, the sex isn’t the draw at all. Bella’s Gentlemen’s Club, for example, promises predictably enough that “the atmosphere is incredible”, but, less predictably, that “couples find the atmosphere to be very stimulating”. Lest you think Bella’s is suggesting something deviant, it hastens to add, “sexual participation is optional and available for additional fees”.

Bring Mummy-Ji. Bring Munna. Show the holiday photos to the Guptas.

From the scale of wealth-creation, it looks like a lot of people might be willing to go down that road. One prominent entrepreneur, Dennis Hof – the patron of a new Home Box Office reality show HBO show during which Sunset Thomas and Air Force Amy engage in what is advertised as recreational off-duty ghicchi with a double-headed dildo – pay pays $82,000 annually in license fees and property taxes to Lyon County. And that’s less than half of what one of his employees is reported to be able to make in a single year, after expenses. Expenses: employees must split their earnings with Mr. Hof and in addition pay $19 a day to rent rooms, eat, drink, exercise, tan, and to have their kids cared for. In other words, it’s a better paid job and a more supportive working environment than you’re likely to find in any major corporation: its not for nothing, after all, that Nevada’s working girls are legally described as “independent contractors”, and taxed as such.

What's so special about all this, you might ask? Isn't this just dollar-denominated randibaazi, Heera Mandi or Kamathipura in a MasterCard economy?

No, because an independent contractor isn't just an English-medium randi. She isn't a glorified Lot Lizard, an entity readers of these despatches will have encountered some months earlier [http://jesustandiaries.blogspot.com/2004/12/heera-mandi-on-highway.html]. Saxophone Suzy offered me a simple insight the motivations of independent contractors such as herself. Suzy-di-Mummy, like most married women, had spent an entire lifetime desultorily banging a loutish low-life lala, in return for nothing other than grief and the odd thrashing, when Suzy-da-Papa felt really affectionate. Saxophone Suzy spends her life banging loutish low-life lalas, too, but charges $ 400 an hour, which I have to agree is a much better deal. She works her own hours; she takes holidays when she felt like it, and her boss makes sure, in return for his 50% commission, that there’s considerably less risk of physical assault involved in independent contracting than in the average marriage.

Frankly, I find no rational reason for anyone to oppose Saxaphone Suzy's line of reasoning: other than that getting some is, I suspect, soon going to cost a lot more than dinner, sales tax and self-loathing induced by fake professions of love. It was in this land that they discovered that famous adage, "there’s no such thing as a free lunch". Soon, I suspect, there’ll be no such thing as free fuddi either. While the wheels of capitalism do grind slowly, they also grind exceedingly small.