Clueless

A few days ago I caught a story on the Drudge Report that caught my eye and turned my stomach, rendering me twisted. Here it is. Apparently child prostitution isn't just for poor kids anymore. The FBI's claiming a 70 percent increase in prostitutes coming from middle- and upper-class neighborhoods, and not necessarily from the houses where Mommy drinks too much and Daddy does naughty things at night. Here's the kicker:

"Potentially good sex is a small price to pay for the freedom to spend money on what I want," says 17-year-old Stacey [not her real name], who liked to hang out after school at the Mall of America, Minnesota's vast shopping megaplex, Newsweek reports. After being approached last summer by a man who told her how pretty she was, and asked if he could buy her some clothes, Stacey agreed and went home that night with a $250 outfit.

Stacey, who lives with her parents in an upscale neighborhood, began stripping for men in hotel rooms -- then went on to more intimate activities.

And the child welfare advocates don't get it. This doesn't fit their equation: poor + abuse + drugs = prostitution. Why would a girl who has everything she needs sell her body? This isn't the way it's supposed to work.


Here's where I get all scoldy. Why shouldn't Stacey take the chance at "potentially good sex" in exchange for the things she wants (not needs, wants)? I think I know, and you might, but does Stacey? Has Stacey grown up in a world where "potentially good sex" wasn't considered the highest good? Has Stacey ever seen people suffer consequences for seeking whatever they might feel like seeking? Has Stacey not been bombarded with sexual imagery since she was old enough to tell the difference. To Stacey, and to a lot more of our young people than we like to admit, sex is just something you do. It has no weight, purpose, or value except as a scratch to an itch.


I'll bet this diatribe sounds familiar to you. Annoying people in garishly colored clothes and terrifying hairstyles have been throwing out phrases like this for some time. And we toss them aside, because they're painful to look at, and we can quickly run through the advocatus diaboli routine from "Inherit the Wind." Sure, we're a lot of fornicators, but we still honor the mom and pop; we haven't murdered anybody today (althought J.Lo needs to watch her ass. I mean: damn, girl); what's the big? Birds do it; bees do it; the President of the United States flavors his stogies with fresh secretarial vaginal juice; let's just get drunk and screw and let it be.


I'm not just pointing fingers. I haven't exactly been writing letters to the editor about all the bikini models being routinely tortured by Joe Rogan on "Fear Factor" (Joe is of course, on his way to take over Man Show duties from the previous two beer monsters, together with some other dink. And American manhood is saved). Blood flows through these veins of mine, and I do like the scenery offered by soft and beautiful female flesh. I've even sat through the occasional Britney video with the mute on. I'm not made of stone, and I'm not looking forward to a Baptist Taliban taking over.


I'm really just wondering why we can't find a happy medium between the tyranny of sexual shame and the nauseating maw of sexual depravity. Because until we find that medium, we better get used to Stacey and a million girls like her. They have learned what we have taught.