Babes for sale

I wish I were a beautiful woman. I could browse a web catalog of rich old men quite eager to own me. It’s a great life. Better yet, I wish I were rich (I’m already old). I could select from lists of graphically displayed and thoroughly vetted females, each enthusiastic to be at my pleasure.

This isn’t prostitution. This is ‘match-making’ in class society. As every non-working, liberally educated wife of a high-earning male knows, you can love anybody you can live with. As every hard-working, dead-ended single female understands, a little compromise is worth it for a buck or two.

As we all recognize at odd moments, we believe whatever we tell ourselves.

I’m surprised at the new nakedness of our cultural truth: we’re a mass of struggling, working people, uncertain of tomorrow. Dwelling among us with ease and impunity are our certified superiors, living in castles set back off the street; who comb through our ranks for our brightest children and most desirable women, to pluck them away from us for ever more – with our consent.

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