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A Job By Any other Name: Different Kind of Sex for Sale. 

I’m sure some of you heard of suicidegirls.   If you haven’t, the idea is that very beautiful women -- who are into certain extreme sports such as piercing or dying hair pink – post their nude pictures as well as diary entries online.  You can talk to suicidegirls on the phone, you can try to hook up with them, you can watch them live on a webcam. 

The most interesting thing is that they actually pay to be on this website so I’m assuming they make money off this thing too, but I’m not about to join just to check.    I’m sure you can purchase suicidegirl items such as a vial of blood, ripped out earring or bloody underwear.  The phone chat lines certainly ain’t free.   I’m sure you can get them to pose in this and that fashion, with this or that extreme thing stuck where it doesn’t belong.  

The suicidegirl idea is old.  Probably as old as Internet itself.  Probably older.  It’s perhaps as old as one of those oldest professions in the world, and I don’t mean accounting.  Sucicidegirls irritate me.  You know what?  Same reason the crazy ”new” trend of burlesque dancing irritates me.  The ”empowering” tit-shaking around a polished pole, and no-touch policy.  Dita Von Teese makes thousands of dollars for ”old-school” stripping and gently blowing bubbles out of her ass in a giant martini glass.  You know what?  Screw you.  Oh, I’m sorry.  I am not allowed.  You’re not a real stripper.  Not really a sex worker, right?  You’re ”empowering” yourself. 

I went to one of those burlesque events, once.  Nipples covered in shiny ”pasties”, little twists and bum shakes that I used to practice long time ago when I was about three-years old.  I’ve been to a strip club.  For twenty bucks you can really get a lot of stuff off.  But you’ll get those burlesque dancers arguing that their thing is nothing like what Double Daisy does in Solid Gold because their thing is pure and nobody gets, you know, paid for sex.  Actually.  I don’t think there’s a difference between a suicidegirl and Double Daisy.  Double Daisy too has to pay a fee to rub her ass in dozens of anonymous male faces just like a suicidegirl pays her membership to have same dozens do whatever they do but over a keyboard.  They both are naked, in the end.  For money. 

Lots of so-called feminists will argue that this type of sex work – through Internet, or on a stage protected by barbwire -- has nothing to do with real sex for sale and that it only serves to make women feel better about themselves by having those stupid, dumb, dumb men ogle them without touching.  Validating their unique beauty.   Their womanliness.    I say, you can call it whatever you want but it is essentially the same thing that Double Daisy does.  Double Daisy could perhaps invest in some brain implants and do what those empowered peelers (suicidegirls) do but whatever, a job is a job, you just have to address it by its real name, dear suicidegirls.