Temple whores

Dear Jamie has finally got round to posting one of my favorite sections of his essay, "Peep Show":

As soon as I shut the door and slipped my first quarter into the slot, she would come right over, say a soft, smiling hello, and begin to dance for me. Eventually she would kneel down, to be at my eye level, and just look at me and hold her breasts in her hands and faintly hum. Through the glass, I could never make out what she was humming, just that it wasn’t the Jane’s Addiction or Prince song playing through the PA. I was never sure if she knew I could hear her, but the humming was just the sweetest, sexiest thing to me. And best of all, she looked at me as if she were actually seeing me, as if she inherently knew and was happy to give me what I needed: acceptance, forgiveness, release. I had found my ideal confessor.

Pretty Lady has never been quite economically desperate enough to employ herself in a strip club--nor, to be honest, is it particularly her style--but she has had, hmm, three, four, five--well, let's just say that many of her friends have done it. She has nothing but admiration and respect for these women. Like any other job, stripping can be elevated to an art form, if it proceeds from the heart.

Shame is murderous. It destroys men and women alike; it leads to more perversions, repressions, and ultimate brutalities than any other emotion. And as Jamie so eloquently points out, the twenty-first century male has been saddled with more than his share of it.

Perhaps it is time for all powerful ladies to give these gentlemen a break, and love them anyway.