Squeezing sex workers

I was surprised to discover, when browsing through my favourite accounting journals, that the Dutch authorities are planning to tax the income of prostitutes. The public finances of the Netherlands must be in a parlous state for its government to resort to such desperate measures. Everyone knows that prostitutes are paid cash for their services, and rarely provide invoices or receipts. Very few clients will inform on them and their evidence never stands up in court. 

Well do I remember the case of Miss Belinda Swallows, the high-class London escort who rented an apartment in Mayfair and owned a Rolls-Royce. When the taxman paid her a visit and asked about the source of her income, she said: 

“Like a Franciscan monk, I subsist on the generosity of my fellow human beings. They take me out for meals, stock my wardrobe with fine clothes and shower me with valuable gifts. If the office in which you toil were a little more benevolent and a little less rapacious, it might be similarly blessed with donations from admirers and well-wishers.” 

The grey-suited minion of Her Majesty was forced to leave empty-handed, to the sullen stares of the maids, valets and nannies employed in that most affluent neighbourhood of London. His experience typifies the fruitless game of hide-and-seek that the British exchequer has been playing with prostitutes for centuries. I doubt the Dutch will be any more successful. 

Of course, there are other ways of making call girls contribute to society. I’m sure these good-hearted ladies would be willing to do some form of community service in lieu of paying taxes. Think of all the college students who need advice on birth control methods; the bored housewives eager for tips on how to spice up their dreary marriages; the impotent old men longing to feel a fresh pair of titties on their faces before the final trip to the nursing home. A nation that demands a share of its prostitutes’ earnings, instead of utilising their unique skills and experience, makes a pimp of all its citizens. 

If the coffers of the Dutch state are truly empty, they should consider something more practical than a tart tax. The Argentine government has recently imposed a creative (and wholly ethical) tax on breast implants. Rather than persecuting people who perform a necessary public service, this sensible method of revenue generation targets cosmetic surgeons and women with fake boobs, groups that might fairly be described as froth on the dipstick of society. 

We gorillas are lucky not to be lumbered with such problems. We have no need of prostitution because our females give it away free when they're in the season and repulse you with savage violence when they're not. We have no need of taxation because (a) we live within our means and (b) our IOU’s are equivalent to hard currency on the rare occasions we need to borrow supplies from baboons and other jungle primates. If you make life too complex, you shouldn’t be surprised to face complications.

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Belle de Jour

So the lovely Dr Brooke Magnanti has confessed to being the famous anonymous call girl that everyone admired and adored. She did it to finance her academic career, and who can blame her? She wouldn’t be the first intelligent woman to discover that her brain was worth much less on the open market than her vulva. It’s just as well that she could exercise both organs with a comparable degree of satisfaction. I wonder if the book she wrote about her life as a high-class hooker will now be on her students’ reading list. The best teachers always spice up their formal study material with personal anecdotes and recollections. Could she have performed any bedroom services relevant to her chosen field of neurotoxicology? I reckon she might well have if any of her clients were ageing rock stars.

A few sceptics are asking why she stopped doing it if she found it so enjoyable. She evidently still has the looks for the job, and could double her charge-rate now that she’s famous. My suspicion is that the mouth-watering Dr Magnanti, having attained the luscious age of 34, is readying herself to settle down. The biological clock is ticking and the time has come to look for that special man who will make an honest woman of her and fertilise her eggs, not necessarily in that order.

I’m going to let you into a secret: I’ve always fancied myself as a matchmaker for ex-prostitutes. Who better than a hairy cousin from the mellowest branch of the primate family to find a suitable mate for a call girl? Humans have too many ambiguous emotions about the oldest profession to offer its members dispassionate advice. We gorillas are utterly non-judgmental about it. What’s more, I actually have a couple of candidates in mind for the delectable Dr Brooke. Read on.

Candidate 1: The Guru
A bald, olive-skinned, strikingly handsome yogi, capable of reducing his pulse rate to 19 beats per minute while meditating in the lotus position. He won’t have sex more frequently than once a month, but can make it last for hours using tantric techniques. He claims his ejaculatory power resembles what happens when you open a bottle of 7UP after shaking it for five minutes. A deeply spiritual dude who could teach Brooke that less is more.

Candidate 2: The Gynaecologist
Obviously a very suitable occupation – a retired call girl needs a man who knows where everything is. His many hobbies include collecting and driving sports cars. He told me that high mileage was nothing to worry about when buying a classic model. A high-performance engine actually runs a lot better when driven hard and serviced frequently. I think he’s the kind of man who would appreciate a woman like Brooke…and keep her well-oiled.

Both of these worthy suitors have been to the Congo for safari holidays, and their details are on my computer. If Dr Magnanti says the word, I will make the necessary arrangements and organise first dates. I won’t charge an introduction fee either. All I ask in return is that she has her wedding at the safari guesthouse if she marries either of these extremely eligible gentlemen. The bridal suite will be hers unless she would rather consummate her nuptials outdoors, in the sultry African night. Sentries will be provided gratis.

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The Italian handjob

Silvio Berlusconi has made a big point of denying that he’s ever paid for sex, arguing that it would ruin the thrill of his conquests. I can well believe the call girls he invites to his parties don’t charge him. Pleasuring a sitting prime minister must be a great honour for them, as well as being the safest position at his age. I wonder if he asks them to put on an eye-mask and shout “Heigh-ho Silvio!” as they bounce up and down on his lap. As true professionals, they should do whatever it takes to flush out the toxic goo from his prostate gland.

They are also shrewd businesswomen, of course. Siphoning the prime minister of Italy must look pretty good on your résumé when you’re negotiating a fee with oil sheiks or TV evangelists. It’s a bit like John Travolta getting a free supply of Brylcreem after playing the young dandy in Grease. All the same, I hope that Mr Berlusconi gives them expensive presents as a mark of his appreciation. A gold-plated statuette of Cupid which urinates red wine is the sort of lavish gift one would expect from a man of his pedigree.

Working girls have unfortunately not been immune from the consequences of the economic downturn. Brothels around the world are cutting down on sundry expenses – some have even been reduced to serving their clients in the dark. The Pussy Club in Berlin has cut its fee to 70 euros for a hamburger and straight sex, which is a dubious tactic in my view. Cheap whores are like cheap jewellery – nobody wants to be seen buying them. They should have offered two-for-one deals and loyalty cards instead, with an eat-as-much-as-you-like buffet for the sex maniacs.

How to get the world economy booming again is a frequent topic of debate at the safari guesthouse. Not everyone supports President Obama’s plan of building new roads and bridges. An increase in the number of navvies flaunting their bare chests is a high price to pay for stimulating economic activity. A bald man who claimed to have a PhD in economics said that the correct policy was to distribute “helicopter money”. Essentially, this means emptying boxes of bank notes from a helicopter so that people on the streets below can pick them up and spend them. Monetarist theory says that this will boost business, making everyone rich again.

We all thought it was a brilliant idea at the time, but on deeper reflection the ploy seems to have a fatal flaw. What is to stop the pilot flying off to Venezuela with all the cash, where President Hugo Chavez, the demagogue and failed gorilla-impersonator, would surely offer him asylum? The trouble with economists is that they never think of these practical problems. I wish the bald-headed upstart were still here so I could massage some coconut oil into his scalp.

So what’s my solution to the slump? I’m glad you asked. What the world needs now is another gold rush like the one that prompted thousands of rednecks and desperadoes to migrate to California in 1848. Most of America’s gold is currently gathering dust in places like Fort Knox. Pulverising all this idle bullion and burying it in strategic locations around the country would cause booming mining towns to spring up like pimples on a teenager. The USA would once again be a land flowing with milk and cookies. And if they buried the gold near brothels, the sex workers would be the first to benefit from the increase in commerce. As John Maynard Keynes said, the prosperity of a nation is measured in the affluence of its whores.

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