Strangely enough, prostitution is actually legal in many places in the U. S....but only under certain circumstances.

What are those circumstances? Simple--a camera of some sort has to be present. Sound weird? Think about it: how is pornography made? Well, somebody pays two (or more) people to have sex while some sort of visual record is made. Now, nothing prevents the director (or whoever's financing the thing) from acting in his own movie. Obviously the director can't meaningfully pay himself, so in effect he's only paying the woman for sex. Now, the production of pornography is legal in many places; thus, you're allowed to pay someone to have sex with you only if you take pictures or movies.

So in a sense, it's already legal. I don't know if anyone has pushed this issue, though ("Damnit, this whorehouse is legal! We have cameras in every room!")

Call girls through the History

Three officially recognized classes of prostitutes existed in the ancient Greece:

1) The lowest class, the dicteriades, worked in brothels called dicteria. At first the dicteria were operated by the municipal government; later they became private enterprises that paid taxes. The dicteriades were educated only in sexual technique and the price charged for their services was small. But these women were immensely popular, and their combined earnings brought substantial revenues to the state.

2) The middle class of prostitutes, the auletrides ("flute-players"), were lovely and accomplished musicians, dancers, and strippers. The most famous auletrides charged as much as 50 thousands of dollars for a night's work at an Athenian banquet, and they sometimes so aroused such frenzied passion that their audience literally showevered them with valuable rings and jeweled ornaments. It is known that Lamia, a true beauty and artist of love, was taken with the city by Demetrius of Macedon, and soon ruled Demetrius. And, through him, Athens. The Athenians built a temple in her honor, even deifying her under the name "Aphrodite Lamia".

3)The hetairae were the most important women in Greece, and the most important sex workers in the entire history of Earth. Hetairae were thoroughly educated and free to leave the confines of the home to see plays, attend banquets, or debate philosophy and politics with the most learned men. Through the ancient writtings and pictures, one can now state conceivably that hetairae have generated more amount of pleasure than any woman in the world will do until the yr. 3451.

"There is nothing new under sun." (Arnold Swarzenegger)

The notion that prostitutes do what they do out of freedom of choice is better understood when one realizes the documented fact that over 80% of prostitutes admit to walking the streets in order to feed a drug habit. There are other problems as well with this notion:

"over 90% of prostitutes are survivors of incest or sexual abuse." - http://www.feminista.com/v1n5/depasquale.html

"The average age of entry into prostitution is 13 years or 14 years. These studies are outdated, since the age of entry into prostitution is decreasing"

'Prostitution: Fact Sheet on Human Rights Violations,' 1996, Melissa Farley, Ph.D., available from melifarley@aol.com).

"The Council for Prostitution Alternatives has reported that prostituted women were raped approximately once a week"

Susan Kay Hunter, 'Prostitution is Cruelty and Abuse to Women and Children,' Michigan Journal of Gender and Law, 1994 .

"A Canadian Report on Prostitution and Pornography found that women and girls in prostitution had a mortality rate 40 times higher than the national average"

Margaret A. Baldwin, "Split at the Root: Prostitution and Feminist Discourses of Law Reform," Yale Journal of Law and Feminism, 1993

and finally:

"Prostitution: what is it? It is the use of a woman's body for sex by a man, he pays money, he does what he wants. The minute you move away from what it really is, you move away from prostitution into the world of ideas. You will feel better; you will have a better time; it is more fun; there is plenty to discuss, but you will be discussing ideas, not prostitution. Prostitution is not an idea. It is the mouth, the vagina, the rectum, penetrated usually by a penis, sometimes hands, sometimes objects, by one man and then another and then another and then another and then another. That's what it is."

by Andrea Dworkin, "Prostitution and Male Supremacy in Life and Death," 1997, New York: Free Press

This is all true....

It's a warm night. Several cars come around. Every time a pair of headlights, long reflected shimmers in the wet street, approaches, my heart speeds up. The girls stand in a little grove, smoking, joking, tugging at their skirts. They poke fun at me, the kid- but not nearly as much as they would if Mandy weren't standing beside me with her hand resting purposefully on my shoulder. I'm Mandy's girl. No one fucks with Mandy's girl.

The first three johns pick out Camille, Kisha, and Buffy, in that order. The fourth guy asks for me but Mandy won't let me go with him. She whispers in my ear, her breath softened, but not yet slurred, with cheap wine, "That guy's a fucking scumbag. Crazy motherfucker. I'm gonna let you have a gentle first time, sugar pea."

Mandy likes to mother me. I like to be mothered. Living on the streets, girls like us form strange families. We crave love and echo the dysfunctions of the families we left behind. Sometimes late at night, if she's in a good mood and I can't sleep, she sings to me. Her voice was probably very good once, long ago, but now it's gravelly with cigarettes and years of sickness. Sings soft country songs, pats my hair, rubs my back. I trust Mandy, even though I should know better than to trust anybody by now. I trust her because I remember what it was like to have a mother, if only vaguely, and those were the nicest days of my life.

Oh, we could get deep into the whole messy background of Mandy and me and the life we're living, and how it got to this point that she's selling me and I'm letting her, but it's a long story and it goes back much deeper than anything I'm prepared to get into right now, back to the day I was born.

I'm waiting for a car. I'm trying not to let her see how scared I am. Or for that matter, that I'm a little aroused about it all. She'd hate me for that. I smoke one cigarette after another and shift my weight back and forth between my feet. Cindy with the ridiculous fake nails is telling us about this guy who she saw set himself on fire.

A car pulls up. Beige and not too old, squarish and respectable looking- I don't know cars, that's all I can tell you. He rolls his window down and Mandy saunters up, bending low and leaning against the window frame. They stay like that for a moment, chatting, Mandy laughing coyly, laying it on thick- he's a regular, and she knows how to treat good customers. Mandy has an uncanny sense for this work. I have a feeling that this is the only thing she's ever been good at in her life- it's written on her face, the spidercracks that run through it, the meticulousness of her garish makeup, the way her eyes twinkle when she's pimping, the way they go out like discarded cigarettes when we're alone. It's her life. Reading creepy men. Giving them what they want. Knowing that the men who come to us are all so desperate to feel special, to have a girl all to themselves for just a minute.

I watched Mandy at the car and I wonder if this is it. I somehow know it is. My head feels strangely light and clear.

Mandy steps back to the curb and grabs my arm, pulls me up beside her at the window. I look down at the man. He looks up at me. He's middle-aged, white, fat, wears glasses. Dark hair, looks bland, almost nice.

"How much?"

"Thirty a shot, straight sex only. And be a gentleman or you'll be sorry."

He counts out three crisp tens. I stare at the money until it disappears into Mandy's bra.

The car door opens. I climb in. The seats are gray and threadbare. It smells like airfreshener. I cannot fucking believe I'm doing this.

When we're situated in the back seat, in an alley down the block, he doesn't make a move. Nothing. Nada. Silence. Sits there and stares at me. I've never done this before, and to tell you the truth, I'm not sure how to do it. My stomach is full of butterflies, it's like the first day of school. I sit there, chewing on my lower lip, wondering what I'm supposed to do. I keep thinking I'm fucking this up. One more thing to fuck up iin my life. Should I kiss him? Should I say something? How does this work? I'm eager to get this started, get this over with. Fuck. What do I do? Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He finally speaks. My savior. "How old are you, kid?"

"Eighteen." I try to keep a straight face.

He laughs. "Fuck you are. Tell me really."

"Fifteen." This is almost true. My birthday is next month. He looks me up and down, eyes my tiny ripples of breasts and hips, and I get the feeling he doesn't quite believe me. What does he think he's doing? Paying to fuck a twelve-year-old? How sick is this guy? I'm getting squeamish. What am I doing?

"Yeah, okay, what's your name?"

"Mary," I say, the first thing that comes to mind.

"Mary. Hi Mary." He doesn't quite say this to me, but to himself, softly. And then he gives me this look, like he almost pities me, and I think maybe he's really a nice guy. I want to think he's a nice guy, I want so badly to like doing this, so I can do this every night and make money and Mandy and I can be happy together.

"Okay Mary," he says, decisively, "let's do this." He lunges towards me, suddenly a hulking figure thrown up against the feeble light coming through the window, grabs me and pushes me down onto the car seat. Rough. It scares the hell out of me and I almost scream, biting my lip to keep from crying out. I can't look scared, I tell myself. I have to do this right. But still I've got this dreadful sense of how much smaller and weaker than him I am. Of what he could do to me if he wanted to. Whores get murdered. They get strangled, beaten, tortured, raped... and no one cares much when it happens. Whores are disposable.

As he unzips his pants I realize that I'm not going to like doing this. Ever. But that doesn't really matter, does it? It'll be just like it was with my father. I'll divide out the digits of pi or daydream about being a famous artist and it'll be fine. Just fine.

He hitches my skirt up around my waist and pulls my underwear to the side. Doesn't even take it off, just stretches it away from my cunt.

I'm just fine, I'm just fine. My heart is pounding. I tell myself I'm not going to cry and I don't. I'm fine.

He's heavy on top of me, his sweat dripping onto my face when he thrusts. Plop, plop, plop, plop, and then his body goes rigid and he's done. It's over so quickly. A snap. He kisses my cheek chastely and zips up.

I sit up. I can't believe it's over just like that. Just like that and I'm a whore. I smooth out my skirt, my tussled hair. My heart has not stopped beating. He pulls the car back around to our little patch of pavement. It's ready to break free of my chest. I look at his expressionless face, reflected a thin slash in the rearview mirror. I have this horrible sinking feeling, watching him and Mandy waiting up ahead on the curb, that no one really loves me. And no one ever really will. And I'm a whore now, isn't that just perfect? Unlovable, disposable, whore. "See you next time, Mary." I smile shyly at the man I just fucked and open the door.

When I step up onto the curb beside the other girls I stumble a little, dizzily. Mandy grabs my arm and pulls me up. The girls stop what they're doing, start to laugh and applaud me. They slap me on the ass, they crack jokes, they wink at me, and it's like I'm one of them now, I've passed my initiation. I'm grinning. I feel tough, I feel accepted. I almost throw up but I keep on grinning.

So what happens next? After that night it goes on and on. I keep whoring myself. I get as used to it as I'll ever be. Mandy keeps drinking and pimping me. A month later I break down. Just fall apart, have a full-blown psychotic episode, my very first. I spend several months in a mental hospital. I recuperate. I turn myself around.

I don't know how all the other prostitutes out there do it. It ate away at me. Tore me apart, and the longer I pretended it didn't the more it did. I had no self-esteem left and I was constantly reliving the nightmare of my father's abuse. Maybe there are confident, happy women out there who prostitute for a living and like it. I wasn't one of them. I doubt they're the type to be out walking the mean streets at night. Frankly, I don't know how they do it.

I never see Mandy again, or any of the other girls. They're still out there, I guess. Doing their thing. I could never go back.

A topic of non-stop argument and, apparent from other writeups here, considered to be pure evil with no positive aspects whatsoever.

Prostitution is the sale of sexual favours, usually (but not always) by a woman, usually (but not always) to a man.

This doesn't preclude the worker from living a happy, fun life. Typically in areas where prostitution is legal, those involved in the trade enjoy excellent pay, reasonable working conditions, excellent health, and occasionally a good lay.

Even in the United States, in the limited areas where prostitution is legal, little or no prostitution-related crime occurs, sexually transmitted diseases are non-existent (in Nevada, not a single case of HIV has ever been recorded), and customers usually leave with a big smile.

In legally licensed Nevada brothels, a prostitute lives on-premises, is provided a private room (one not used for servicing johns), off-hours entertainment (including internet access, satellite television, exercise equipment, etc.), and receives very good pay. She remains on-site to work for up to three weeks, then takes off however much time she wants or needs before returning to work. Whenever a worker returns to the brothel, she must be screened for HIV (and other STDs) and certified by a physician before returning to work. This is why most workers normally remain on-site for weeks, maximizing earnings and reducing the frequency of exams.

In such situations, prostitutes work as independent contractors, splitting basic fees with the house, keeping tips, and sometimes paying other costs out-of-pocket. These arrangements are commonly very lucrative for both contractor and brothel; a worker of average appearance may expect to gross $50,000 or more per year (this assumes two customers per day, paying $300 each, no tip, a three week working period of 15 days on and 6 days off, once per month, splitting fees down the middle with the house). Because the average prostitute works at least eight hours per day and could reasonably expect to have more than two customers per day, and because many look better than average (whatever that is), this estimate is extraordinarily low. Many prostitutes earn six-figure salaries. Those willing to participate in more lucrative activities, like group sex or servicing couples, base fees can skyrocket to $1,500 or higher, for a couple hours' work.

Anywhere prostitution is legal, safer sex is practiced either as required by law or by common sense. Even if a legal prostitute offers uncovered sex, it shouldn't be accepted unless you want to catch a disease or knock somebody up.

In environments where prostitution is illegal, more unfortunate situations can develop, as described at great length in other writeups here. These include indentured servitude, child prostitution, "crack whores", and so on.

Many people (both male and female) enter into prostitution because they feel they have no other options. Many others, however, enter into it because they believe they are attractive enough and skilled enough to earn ridiculous amounts of money under safe, controlled situations. Even in areas where prostitution is illegal, prostitutes of legal (i.e. age of consent) age enter into and remain in business by their own choice, and enjoy very pleasant levels of income. In such areas, the sex worker naturally keeps all the money instead of splitting it with a house or pimp.

Yes, some people are "trapped" in unpleasant situations that involve prostitution, but the rest are engaged in a profitable exchange of services for money. The world's oldest profession isn't the cause of all evil in the world.

Whores Are My Heroes: A plea for the decriminalization of prostitution.
This was originally a persuasive speech for a class
(Node your homework)

I consider myself to be a fairly open-minded and responsible woman when it comes to my sexuality, and I'll even admit that I'm a bit of a pervert, in a good way. Needless to say, one of my favorite topics to research and talk about is sex. Many of you have expressed the belief that an individual should be allowed to live and let live, and be afforded basic human rights despite their sexual preferences. You may have also heard about my role in the sex industry as a phone sex operator -- which is actually a big challenge for even me to enjoy on a regular basis because of how much attention and energy I'm required to employ as an both an actress and a seductress. Of course, in my future career as a Sex Therapist and widely acclaimed public speaker, I'll usually have the upper hand.

However, there is one category of sex workers that are not afforded the same legal freedoms and protections that I am, and they are the ones who need it the most and work the hardest - prostitutes. It is time to cut loose from the Victorian ideals that still have a