by RAF KATIGBAK

While there are probably more than a few people out there who are giddy to see the Gucci-shaded Euro contingent that makes up the bulk of Grand Prix fans throttle off in a heavy cloud of cologne and perfume, a few businesses, like the city’s sex workers, will be sore to see them go. Although not too sore, one hopes.

Even though no official numbers have been posted, it’s no secret that during the Grand Prix weekend, the city’s escorts are so busy, as one friend so tactfully put it, “they have to sharpen their pencils at both ends.” A recent online interview with an owner of an escort service revealed that rates during the F1 weekend range from $100–$300 for a quick fix and $2,000 for an all-nighter. For a private party with two girls or guys, expect to dish out from $4,000–$10,000, depending on how many others are involved.

Of course, when I say involved, I mean involved. After all, it’s not everyone who can satisfy Ferrari fetishists who have a penchant for girls in red leather brandishing Ferrari buckle whips (no cavallino rampante are harmed during the F1 as zoophilia is a general no-no). Then there are the gay oil change parties where buff pit crews are hired to lube up “The Machine.” You get the picture.

Ultimately, after paying staff and expenses, escort services have the potential to net around $150,000 (joy jelly doesn’t grow on trees y’know) in under a week. Escorts themselves can make from $15,000–$25,000 plus tips for five days of work. Which leads me to think that, firstly, some people have way too much extra spending money, and secondly, I am in the wrong business.

But despite my sense of adventure and my resolute entrepreneurial spirit, I’m not sure I’m that cut out for the sex trade. Beyond the fact that the only reason I’d earn the nickname The Donger would be because I remind people of that guy in Sixteen Candles, for most males, hiring strippers is no big deal—whereas my first experience was not unlike arriving at airport customs with an accidental erection: a mix of excitement, embarrassment and fear.

Before you finish letting the puffy paint dry on that homemade “Perv” sweater you’re about to hand me, let me just say that hiring erotic dancers was not out of necessity, but a pledge to “provide the entertainment” at a recent bachelor party chez moi.

Not that there’s anything wrong with paying someone to take off their clothes. In fact, I often feel cheated when I arrive at my doctor’s office and he asks me to get naked—my immediate reaction is, “Wait, aren’t you the one getting paid? You first.” “Cough? I mean, we haven’t even had dinner yet, can’t we just talk for a while first, or at least spoon?”

The initial problem I ran into was phoning last minute to schedule a rendez-vous for said event. It was the night-of and my apartment was packed with 20-odd males standing around trying to cut through the awkward anticipation with idle chitchat. I picked through the recommended numbers, dialed and was greeted by a nasal female voice asking, “Hello, what kind of girl do you want?” with the formality of a pizza topping order.

It was a fair question. It was a tough question. I never thought of it before. Naturally, I wanted to be diplomatic about it, “What kind of girl do we want guys?” I yelled, cupping the receiver to my chest. A barrage of criteria for each man’s dream girl came hurling at me: “Asian!” “Not too skinny!” “No fake boobs!” “Blonde!” “Long hair!” “Short!” “Brunette!” I delivered the hybrid description, but fearing some kind of female Hervé Villechaize Frankenstein with a two-tone wig showing up I added, “Umm, could you make sure she’s cute, it’s for my friend’s, um, bachelor party.” “Sure honey, don’t worry. I’ve got the perfect girl.”

Of course what transpired next is between me, my friends, the bachelor, and the stumpy, Tattoo-like dancer that ended up ringing my doorbell. Needless to say it was one of the most awkward 30 minutes of my life. There were no girls in red leather whipping us with Ferrari buckles (at our budget, it probably would have been a Subaru hatchback buckle), no muscle-bound guys in pit crew uniforms squirting motion lotion all over us, and no cavallino rampante were harmed.

Riff-Raff@sympatico.ca

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