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Change Filipina to Latina and the rest of it’s interchangeable. Bendricks has its prattle about “women who enjoy exuding an aura of sexual vibrancy.“ Solo Adventures promises “stunning sensual women providing warm, friendly, and very personal intimate service.“ The Web pages of freelancers extolling the purportedly genuine sensuality of Latin women run into the thousands.
Ken Franzblau, a consultant for Equality Now (the women’s-rights organization that started the campaign to get Big Apple shut down), has been calling tour companies for almost a decade, posing as a potential client, listening to the pitches, even checking references with satisfied customers. It’s been a nine-year tape loop playing over the phone. “It’s talked about, I guess, like the guys in Ponce de León’s expedition talking about the Fountain of Youth,“ he says. “ You won’t believe it. Women throw themselves at you, as much sex as you want. You’ll feel like Tom Cruise.’ They always say you’ll feel like Tom Cruise. Except for the guys who are really old. They’ll tell you you’ll feel like John Wayne.“
The level of self-delusion is stupefying. In April, for instance, a guy who calls himself “Jacó Lover“ posted a report on his second trip in two years to the Costa Rican coast, where he got the “total GFE“—girlfriend experience—“for $100, including spending the night.“ The highlight: “She happily let me eat her very pretty pussy, and if she wasn’t having an orgasm, then she was a damned good actress.“
Golly, you think?
“There’s a part of them that’s lying to themselves and creating this fantasy and believing these girls actually like them,“ says Donna M. Hughes, a professor at the University of Rhode Island who, for sixteen years, has been studying prostitutes and the men who pay them. “They’re really just deluding themselves. And I really think that keeping the online diaries is a way of reliving the fantasy. They can edit out any sign that she didn’t enjoy this and didn’t want to be with this guy.“
Which, unless she is as rare among prostitutes as virgins, she didn’t. To believe she did is to ignore a basic truth of human nature: No one really wants to be a whore. A statistical summary of women in prostitution is a chronicle of human wreckage—economic, physical, and chemical. A 2003 survey of prostitutes in nine countries—Canada, Colombia, Germany, Mexico, South Africa, Thailand, Turkey, the United States, and Zambia—headed up by a clinical psychologist named Melissa Farley revealed women who’d suffered astonishing rates of childhood sexual abuse (from 34 percent in Turkey to 84 percent in Canada and Zambia) or physical abuse (39 percent of Thais to 73 percent of Canadians); current or past homelessness (84 percent in the United States); and current drug problems (75 percent in the United States and 95 percent in Canada). The results of a 1999 UNICEF study of child prostitutes in Costa Rica between the ages of 11 and 16—and since most prostitutes start before they turn 18, it’s relevant—were worse: 80 percent had been sexually abused before their twelfth birthday, 62 percent had been physically abused, and 60 percent smoked crack daily. And the most telling statistic from Farley’s survey? Almost every prostitute she talked to wanted out, from 68 percent in Mexico to 92 percent in, of all places, Thailand, the world’s premier sex destination.
“I tell you what,“ says Franzblau. “If these guys knew how many of these girls are thinking about sticking a knife in their back while they’re having sex with them, they’d be amazed. Forget amazed. They’d be staying home.“
But they don’t know, so they keep coming. Who cares what the tourist board says? The hotel clerks, the bartenders, the cabbies—they’re all part of the fantasy, all in on the hustle. No one looks at you funny down here if you want to get a girl for the night or just for an hour. No one calls you a loser if you pay to get laid.
There’s a tico named…well, forget his name. He used to be in the business of taking horny gringo dollars, used to manage a club, and he doesn’t want to piss off his old boss. Then again, he’s not too happy with how this is all turning out for his country. “Remember Bush, the first one, when he said the New World Order’?“ he says. “In the New World Order, we’re the playground.“
Grab a cab at the airport, and even if the driver speaks no English he’ll say, “ Chicas, sí? “ and he’ll know you understand. Tell him you want to go to a club, and he’ll drop you off at a strip joint like the one the tico used to manage, and he’ll collect a thousand colones from the club owner for delivering you. Americans, the tico says, are like “Attila, you know, the Hun,“ but they’ve got dollars. Pay the cover—ten bucks, including two drinks—and watch the show: strippers, then a live lesbian act, then $2 lap dances, then an amateur act…all in an hour and, damn, it’s only a Tuesday night. Resist the hard sell for a private dance in the back, two bucks a minute, six minutes minimum. Then quit resisting. Follow her into a bland room with a wastebasket full of tissues and Wet-Naps. “Tip enough,“ the tico says, “and they’re all hookers.“ Want to take her out of the club? One-fifty to the house, one-fifty to her.
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