"It's just the same as when Rosa Parks decided to sit at the front instead of the back. She was proclaiming her rights as a disadvantaged, African-American older woman. And I'm doing the same. I'm actually standing up now, and hopefully I can be supported by the male community and be understood as a person. This actually isn't about selling my body. This is about changing social norms."
Markus, Sex Surrogate
Dear Parishioners, High Priestess Clarice Westwater here with today's parable:
Sin City's newly minted prosti-dude, "Markus", leads a melancholy and awkward existence, as is often the plight of horse-hung man-hos. Bobbi Davis, proprietor of Nevada's Shady Lady, recently introduced Markus to cougardom, billing him as Vegas' only licensed hetero male prostitute. Patrons must endure a 200 mile trek from city to brothel, located in the dust bowl Netherlands of Ney County.
Female clientele are segregated from the paunchy collection of libidinous Shriners corralled in the double-wide's French Provencal parlor. The women are ushered into a private cabin located behind the cat house, proper. Dodging the dung of free range peacocks, the trixies make their way to the rustic den of inequity to partake in the $500 hr "boyfriend experience". The shirtless gigolo, torso glistening with baby oil to enhance his six pack, explains with gravitas that a "divine plan" brought him to the Shady Lady. Their penis-for-hire does not consider himself a hooker. Markus describes himself as a "sexual surrogate" with the ability to "heal women".
George Flint, wedding chapel owner and lobbyist for the Nevada Brothel Owners Association, shows less enthusiasm for Markus' healing arts. Rival brothel owners have not warmed to the gigolo concept, fearful that the addition of men to their stable would increase risk of an AIDS outbreak, or public backlash in the conservative outback when male prostitution attracts a homosexual clientele. Nye County Sheriff Tony DeMeo cautioned, "The ramifications are going to be statewide." So to speak.
In a recent interview on my Evangelical Netcast, Messianic Minute, Markus lamented to your High Priestess that politics and bad press have left him exiled from his fellow sex workers. Gone are the weekly Cosmos with veteran she-stallion, Air Force Amy. The red carpet appearances at the annual AVN Adult Video Awards show. The manipedi gossip sessions at Nakisha's House of Nails.
Markus protested, "The games of Go-Fish between tricks are interrupted by the incessant honking of peacocks. Even the birds mock me. It was never like this before. I had the respect of the peacocks. We were in harmony."
His head nodded woefully side-to-side with remembrances of these dark days. Then, a slight smile crept across the pool boy's mug, dismissing the malaise. My moribund interview took a welcome and unexpected tangent into sordid tabloid territory, as Markus emerged from his dirge like narrative to announce, "It was during that long, solitary walk through the valley of darkness that my savior appeared to me."
Loathe when religious epiphany mucks up my preaching, I was praying for metaphor. It is far easier to justify the haute couture wardrobe and eunuch's salary demands to my accountant when I supply all epiphanies to my cybergation. When I'm upstaged by a guest in the miracle department, tithings suffer. Markus continued, glassy eyed and beaming like a Scientologist after a celestial hand job from Xenu, "The hair. So perfect! The beatific smile and piercing blue peepers. The elegance of a patrician with a commoner's touch.""We are no longer dishing about Air Force Amy, I take it?" I gently queried.
"Not at all. No," Moonie-faced Markus demurred breathlessly, "John."
"John? You're now batting for both teams?" I pressed, noisily unwrapping the enigma as bon bon.
"John Edwards," mouthed Markus in reverent, hushed tone. Still staring trance like into the void. On the cusp of stigmata, Markus cooed, "My brothel brother."
I may not be Edward R. Murrow, but when a scoop slaps me upside my gravity defying titties, I can smell the cash as Netcast bandwidth is gobbled up by the muckraking pious. Nothing separates a Christian from his cash faster than the comfort of knowing his sins are dwarfed by his neighbor's. And as sins go, alley catting around on a wife with stage four cancer is a show stopper.
"John Edwards? North Carolina senator and vice presidential candidate, John Edwards?" I challenged.
Still reliving his moment of ecclesiastical rapture, Markus prattled on like a George Romero zombie on a brain binge, "Who else! He has a stage name now, 'Long John Edwards', and traded in the Savile Row for leather chaps. It's a sort of Ozark beatnik look, but it works for him. Granted his new moniker brings into play a measure of hyperbole. 'Five Inch Edwards' is a closer approximation, but his stagecraft is such . . . a thing of wonder . . . that his charm distracts the most demanding of Janes from any shortcomings."
"Markus, are you telling me John Edwards is running the Shady Lady brothel?" My toy pug, Bitsie, awoke from her slumber on the recamier and began to track the inquiry.
"No, of course not!" corrected Markus, "That would be silly. Long John is now the number two licensed male hetero prosti . . . I mean sexual surrogate . . . in Nevada. Bobbi added a second pleasure chamber to the prosti-dude cabin. Even Air Force Amy said she has never seen a senator so euphoric and in his element. And Amy has seen her fair share of euphoric senators. Any news junky could see this career move coming. LJ's wife is pushier than a bull dyke at a debutante cotillion. Do you know that after Edward's aide announced his tell-all, Elizabeth began flaming Rielle Hunter on blogs as a gold-digger and, worse, mocked Rielle's psychic, Bob? It's horrid! Elizabeth uses the pseudonym, 'Cherubim', describing herself as an African American Wiccan. The Wiccans are not amused by the ruse. You do not want a pissed-off Wiccan messing around with your chakras. Trust me."
"You are telling me that John Edwards is your new pleasure partner? A man-whore?" As I fact checked, Bitsie sniffed the air. The pug has an acute nose for money too. The coffers overflowed with online cybergation donations as the sordid story unfolded.
"Priestess, John Edwards has always been a man-whore. These days he is simply more focused and entrepreneurial in his phallic frolics. Elizabeth and Rielle are both gunning for green. That turncoat aide tell-all isn't helping matters."
"The Andrew Young book, The Politician?" I asked.
"Yes. It wasn't all bad. The book helped promote the Rielle-Edwards sex tape. That's been a big hit at the brothel. When Long John is too tired to turn tricks, he hands the Jane a sex toy and throws in the DVD. It's like watching a director's cut. Having LJ provide the commentary and all. The women love it!"
"I can imagine. If nothing else, this turn of events should help jump start the Vegas economy. As a woman of the cloth, I do fear for Edwards' immortal coil. I'll schedule a prayer vigil."
"The Republican's beat you to that I'm afraid. The GOP is fast on the draw with the holy water. There was far more revelry than penance at that tent revival," quipped the disapproving sex surrogate. They would not have been so quick to throw stones had they seen the unadulterated joy in LJ's eyes when he saw his name up in lights on the Shady Lady marquee. It's an emotional moment witnessing a man realize the joining of profession and passion. John Edwards has found his way. I'm proud to have made my small contribution in showing him the ropes. He's a real shark at Go-Fish. Even the peacocks seem more at peace these days."
Yours In Sweet Sin, Mdm Clarice Westwater