I find it impossible to comprehend how anyone could pay for sex. I’m not keen on the commodification of the body, its coarsening of sexual expression or the exploitative working conditions. But my difficulty is less a question of deeply held principles and more a matter of my reservations about paying to be touched by strangers. I wouldn’t have my nails filed by a professional, never mind expect a stranger to perform more personal services for a fee.
Now, I’m not hostile to physical intimacy in general, and I can do hugs and cheek-kissing. If it’s freely given, freely received and, of course, free, then all well and good. It’s not so much the procurement of bodily contact that makes me wince — it’s the talking part I’m uncomfortable with.
You can buy a loaf of bread without having to pretend to be friends with the baker, but any transaction that takes a while longer involves a complex charade of chumminess that makes me shudder. Paying the bill buys delusions of amicable relations.
I’m not a great one for small talk, but I can see it has its purpose when undertaken on an equitable footing — two people at a bus stop, say, or a gaggle of drag queens dressed as nuns in the queue for Sing-A-Long-A-Sound-Of-Music. But commerce compromises casual chitchat. The woman who waxes your legs may be fascinated by your hiking trip in Dordogne — but, let’s face it, even if she isn’t, she has to pretend to be.
I once had a Saturday job in a posh London department store that involved helping wealthy ladies into hideously expensive outfits and telling them they looked stunning. I showed an interest in family weddings and weekends in the country, but, in reality, a fig was all I could give. In fact, I felt a profound anti-pathy to most of the customers (especially the woman who asked, ”What do you think? Would you wear it?” about a dress that cost more than a student Saturday shop girl could earn in six months — I still hate her). So I’m alert to the understandable duplicity of service industry workers, and the situation seems to be exacerbated in the touching trades.
When you have the builders in for a week, you talk about cracks, condensation and the cowboy practices of the last builders. If you have a private Finnish tutor, you talk about verbs and prepositions. If you have a personal fitness trainer (which, obviously, I don’t), you talk about weights and calf muscles. But if you’re having something done to yourself, the main topic of conversation is you — and, really, nothing is more banal.
Yes, I am going on holiday. No, I don’t have children. Yes, I am going out on Saturday night, but I’ve got tickets for an open-mic alternative poetry reading and I’m too embarrassed to say that out loud in the salon, so I’ll mumble something vague instead and, yes, I have been neglecting my pores.
I have ample anecdotal evidence that other people enjoy paying to be touched — it’s called ”massage”. There are those who particularly enjoy this sort of activity because it presents an opportunity for a good old chinwag. Well, that’s super. Good for you. Your massage therapist, beautician or pedicurist may well be genuinely interested. Equally, they might find you tedious or objectionable, but they’ll smile and pluck your eyebrows all the same. — Â