Career hazards.
06 November 2008
Here's a sentence I never thought I'd type: Jenna Jameson's How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale remains the best sex industry memoir I've read.
That's the thought I have after I read any sexual tell-all (and there's a surprising amount of them). The latest in a long line of "eh" reads was Secret Diary of a Call Girl. It's exactly what you would expect from the title: long on the salacious details, low on literary style, published primarily because of its subject matter. And sometimes that's okay. But there just wasn't much here that seemed all that shocking or fascinating.
What this says about me and my reading habits, I don't even want to think.
There was one diary entry that made me thankful not to be a call girl:
"It used to be simple to buy faintly embarrassing items and hide them in the rest of my purchases...so there is one chemist I go to for normal things and another for everything else. Typical shopping at Chemist 1: shampoo, toothpaste, bath salts, cucumber gel mask, loofah scrubber. Today's shopping at Chemist 2: tampons, vaginal pessary (for irritation), condoms, sugarless breath mints, lubricant, individual postwaxing wipes, self-tanning liquid, razor blades, potassium citrate granules (for cystitis)." (p. 158.)
Just reading that list makes me uncomfortable. Evidently I do not have a future in call girlism.
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