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Per usual, I spent the wee hours of Sunday morning munching on leftover Islands fries and sympathizing with Taylor Swift on YouTube. But just as I was about to pass out on my couch, I came across an article relating to the one subject that trumps all else: Sex.
During this early-morning read, I discovered that there is such a job as a ‘sex surrogate’ ‘mdash; an instructor who charges roughly $200 per hour to teach disgruntled Americans how to please their partners.
I know what you’re wondering, and yes, the clients do get laid by their teachers. After about a year of awkwardly narrated oral sex, eager students face intercourse as a ‘final exam.’ And in the words of one of the surrogates: ‘If they pass, they graduate.’
On first thought, I’d call that legal prostitution. I mean, come on ‘mdash; most of us grow up with a set of sexual morals hammered into us that can be simplified into a ‘Just don’t do it’ slogan. Or at least that’s what our parents, teachers and Sunday School guides say.
But in this case, can’t we just write the sex surrogates off as sluts damned to burn in hell? Consider the standards that make sex OK. Does it need to be with your husband or wife? Someone you’re in love with? What about the person you think is damn fine as you down your 15th shot, despite your inability to discern the difference between a toilet and a sink? How many people can you seduce before your little black book is unacceptably thick?
And what’s the difference between putting out when someone buys you a steak rather than handing you a twenty?
Sorry, this is getting super Carrie Bradshaw. Back to sex surrogates. So they can potentially sleep with everyone and your grandmother because it’s in their job description, right? But truly, the fact that the surrogate is raking in the cash for helping anyone and everyone (perhaps there’s a family discount) in a passionless relationship becomes the deal-breaker. Because as we’ve been taught, sex is a gift that should not ask for anything in return. It shouldn’t be spoiled in an economic exchange, for the act itself is assumed to be mutual.
Why, then, isn’t it taboo when a guy buys a cocktail for a girl to get her into bed? In so many instances, suitors spend a crapload on their dates ‘mdash; even if there’s no prospect of actual romance in the end ‘mdash; just to get some. Maybe these playboys aren’t directly exchanging cash for sex (that would be too obvious, and in society’s gaze, pathetic), but they’re not far off.
It’s moments like these when we realize that we, the judgers, are not much better than those we’ve scorned. Take a moment to imagine how easy it might be to lose your footing under the charms a deliciously handsome, rich stranger ‘mdash; one who so excels at the art of seduction that you find yourself enticed into bed before even learning his last name.
Or what about your favorite reality show, ‘ The Real Whores’ ‘mdash; I mean ‘Housewives’ ‘mdash; ‘of Orange County’? In every episode, these women prance around in jewels, fake boobs and veneers bestowed upon them by their pot-bellied CEO husbands.
And I’m sure you can guess how these Barbies return the favor.
Sure, superficial exchanges occur everywhere, but it’s a little easier to reserve our judgment when the ladies in question drive Range Rovers and wear Dior ‘mdash; surely it means they’re doing something right.
I’m not saying everyone who has wriggled off her clothes after a delicious steak dinner should repent and attempt to re-grow her virginity ‘mdash; all I want is for you to consider what differentiates the Nicholas Sparks epic-romance kind of sex from
your drunken romp in an I-House closet.
It’s a matter of motives.
If sex surrogates truly want to coax Joe Six-pack from feeling less like a man every time he goes home to his wife, then I think that’s pretty noble of them. If it’s all a facade to get rich by having sex ‘mdash; genius. Though maybe the latter is a little less respectable than the former.
But is she really worse than you and your friends, who de-tag incriminating drunk photos every weekend?
Contemplate this, boys and girls, on your next walk of shame. Or on your next lonely Sunday morning, with only Taylor Swift and a fistful of fries to keep you company.