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Ashland, Oregon, USA
Her Highness
Writing to Stay Sane


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MARCH 12, 2009 3:52PM

Desperate Measures

Rate: 11 Flag

In this time of severe economic crisis, many of us have had to scrimp and save and actually sacrifice in order to make ends meet. I’ve noticed that the cost of living seems to be rising in indirect proportion to how little money I have in the bank, though I haven’t quite figured out how this can be true. Nevertheless, there you have it. 

As I pound my head against the wall in hopes of a great idea, I recall one of my mother’s favorite axioms, Desperate times call for desperate measures. She said that almost as often as she quoted its cousin, Necessity is the mother of invention. 

I start by selling a few books to the local booktrader. When that doesn’t prove to be particularly lucrative, I move on to bigger things: dvd’s; my son’s old stuffed animals, toys, and games; clothes. Shockingly, the sale of these items doesn’t yield enough income to cover my rent, gas, and utility bills, so I turn a discriminating eye to the rest of my possessions. A rug, then two more. Two bar stools. A bike. A microwave stand. Two couches. That antique mirror I begged my mother for. Well, you get the drift. If it’s not a pot to piss in, it’s going on Craigslist.

“Creative,” I say to myself. “You’ve got to be creative.” I find that self-talk (much like back-talk) is a powerful motivational tool when I find myself tempted to indulge in self-pity. What can I sell, I ask myself, that won’t run out? That will be a continuing source of income? A service, obviously, but what kind? I tried selling my baking services (cakes, pies, even chocolate truffles) awhile back, but that didn’t fly. I tried selling my dog grooming services, but again, that met with zero financial remuneration. I rack my brain, and finally it comes to me. Of course! I can sell my body! It’s the next logical step after all, when you are selling everything you own and the supply is running dry.

For about thirty seconds I rejoice in my newfound profession. After all, I’ve never been a prude, or sexually uptight, or the least bit in cahoots with all the taboos and morays we place against sex in this culture. I mean, as long as we’re talking about consenting adults, who really cares if money changes hands? What business is it of ours? The government could be taxing it, after all! Sheesh!

I let my mind wander to the logistics… How should I charge? By the hour? The act? In fifteen minute increments? Where would we do it? Certainly not here, in my house; after all, since I sold my washer and dryer, I’d never keep up with the sheet exchange. 

And when? Is it an exclusively nighttime kind of service? I think about what I’ll say to my twelve year old son when I slip out of the house at eight in the evening. “Just popping off to do a few errands, honey, I won’t be long. Don’t wait up, now.” Maybe I could wait till after he’s gone to bed, and sneak out of the house. That way I could leave and come back and he’d be none the wiser. Maybe I should get a babysitter, then I wouldn’t need to worry about him. On second thought, perhaps I’ll just stick to daytime hours, while he’s in school. 

I wonder who would pay for the motel; would I add that to my rate, sort of a business expense? And what’s the going rate anyway, for a roll in the hay with a lady of the evening, or in my case, lady of the hours between 8:30 am and 3:30 pm and you’d better not be late. 

What should I wear? I’m probably going to need a new wardrobe. While I own a few pieces of clothing I’d call sexy, I don’t have much in the way of tawdry. 

The more I think about it, the more complicated it gets. By the time I get to “Will I need references?” which leads to “What’s my boyfriend going to think?” I’m exhausted from answering the two new questions that pose themselves each time I successfully answer the previous one. When all is said and done, I’m left with the possibility I might actually go through all that planning and preparation and self-talk, only to find out that nobody wanted my services after all. Frankly, I don’t know if my ego could handle that kind of a blow. 

So I’ve come to the conclusion that selling my body for money might not be the ideal solution to my financial woes after all. Perhaps I could think of a way to combine baked goods with dog grooming. Would Fido sit still to be shaved if he had a little liver tiramisu to keep him occupied? Now, that’s a thought….excuse me, I have to run with this before I can talk myself out of it.

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I sure hope I'm right that this is satire. But I'm with you all the way when wondering where the economy the rich suits ruined is leading me, personally.
You got it right. thanks for the feedback.
Ha ha! I know that this isn't far off from reality, but it had me laughing. Harry Homeless had some hooker prices posted yesterday. They make out damn well so I decided (for five minutes any way) that I was going to become a hooker. Of course the mind gets going on the what-ifs and then I'm back to looking at eBay to help me get through the month. Maybe when I run out of stuff, I'll reconsider hooking. Surely someone would want middle-aged me, right?
Very good, Ashland friend. Made me laugh, thanks. rated.
thanks guys, if you laughed I achieved my goal. Who couldn't use an extra laugh or two these days?
Great post. And it's got that sense of hmm, can it be? that made it so for me. And I wouldn't be surprised at a NYT article on these lines soon, with statistics! And I can say I read it on OS first!