Sex Workers and the Media

I don’t know how many of you have ever bargained with a prostitute for her galant services, but let me assure you that I, for one, have done it a lot of times. And yes, on business assignments, since I’m brave enough to jump at a prime minister’s throat with a tough question, but I could never have the nerve to actually ask a certified sex worker how much she charges for a blow job. You know, for real business, not for the secret cameras…

Still, most prosties would know me by my first name by the time I did the last secret shoot, and I knew the prices well, but still tried to talk them down a bit, tried to squeeze my alleged beer buddies in for the same price and most of the times they would argue, say no, leave me hanging, but give me a good performance in front of the secret cameras. Which was all I ever wanted. And did so every time I had a story involving prostitutes.

Hello, handsome! What's your game?

But then I realised every editor in chief MUST, for at least one year in their lives, earn a living from prostitution. No, seriously, as a freelancer I often found myself in a similar set of circumstances as the ladies who squeeze a penny out of men in the most pleasant way possible (and in a lot more honest way than the average housewife does).

Take Belfast, for instance. They’re now chasing Romanians all over – the neo-Nazis I mean. And all my clients would like a piece of it, obviously, even those who aren’t necessarily my regular clients. And you have no idea how many wonderous spectacular things they dream of, what great deeds of fearless journalism they expect of me, how pleased they are to hear that I usually can do most of what they want.

But, alas, there be a catch… There is a price tag attached. Expressed in currency. Representing the monetary equivalent that I’ve decided to give to my trouble and strife, to my hours of research, to my endless phone calls trying to talk people into being interviewed or to allow me access to different places, to get a valuable piece of information on what’s happened and – more important – on what is about to happen. This is what I presume my time in not-so-friendly terrain is probably worth it, the long hours of waiting in the rain, the even longer hours of pre-editing the video footage, while most of the people in the news rooms have already gone home to rest, to spend some quality time with friends and familiy (that’s something we can never afford).

And when they hear of the price tag on all this, they take it personally. Some try to talk it down, others are utterly outraged of the idea of paying what I ask. So instead they try to “wing it” or to “spin it” with agencies, but almost always fail. They are happy to sacrifice editorial value for the sake of a couple of hundred pounds – probably the big boss will give them a nice pat on their backs for it. But that’s not the worst.

I may be expensive, but I'm worth every penny, big guy!

The worst is when the next big thing happens and they again come to me. And we go through the same thing again and again. They want, I want, they haggle, I don’t, they get upset and leave. And for some reason this situation looks very familiar to me. So much that I even start wondering: are they using secret cameras on me too?

So yes, I’d make it mandatory for editors in chief to spend a year earning a living from prostitution. Let them see how it’s like to bargain for your time and talents – if they have any. And I’ll be the first to go and, despite my natural instinct to be shy about these things, ask them for a blow job and a lesby show. And haggle.

PS: It’s 462 miles from where I live to Belfast. Dudes, I can’t possibly go and get and interview and send it over to you by the end of today unless I fly. The cheapest return ticket from Heathrow to Belfast is 188 pounds, a little less than my daily rate.

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