Sex continued to sell in a recession-proof kinda way. A woman could turn a profit, with only a fuck-all mentality pushing her envelope. Boys and girls on the streets, of course, could reap whatever they chose to sow. They had youth behind them. They could do very well. So long as they did not allow the reaping to be turned over to any of a thousand common sneaker-pimp, grim-reapers, sizing them for pawned Fred Perry tracksuits and enticing them with Baby Phat faux leather. On top of spaghetti, all covered in cheese. In return for a personal attendant pickpocket leech motherfucker who will make a misery out of anyone, with some coke and a smile.
Sex continued to sell in the USA, despite any casualties on the streets. Despite rampant victimization. What was the attraction? Who knows. Sex continued to sell despite all opinion polls against it. Both predators and victims alike, took advantage of the resources offered by the county coffers and non-profits. Wolves in sheep clothing were abundantly known but rarely snitched on. They might try and make it worth your while. Though they had nothing of value to offer. Smart girls on the street, inevitably found it better to notarize the thighs. Become self-employed. Make her own bed. Awash in entrepreneurial spirit.
Sex continued to sell at all times, and in all conditions. Meanwhile, the grande eras of upswing stock markets easily navigated any overhang of massive U.S. debt, like Kelly Slater coming through a Fiji wave tunnel; one million salty tears a second rolling over his beautiful aquarian-californian head. Awash in passionate, competitive, entrepreneurial spirit.
Meanwhile, even the mention of legalities could not exorcise the dollar signs from the retina of the corporate maelstrom surfing the jetstream libre, por favor. Freedom on the backs of tax incentives and lobby concessions. Though many an executive took a personal interest in getting bound and whipped by a dominatrix of choice, in a dungeon of his choosing, there would be little interest in remaining bound or tethered to any law that impeded clear and present profit for his corporate entity holdings.
The corporate executive. There at the top of the food chain, on the hill overlooking the streets of skid row. Far, far below, the seemingly effortless give-and-take on the streets. The corporate exec. Even this karmic nightmare of a lifestyle, could be somehow justified and embraced. Casual, episodic subservience appeared to help balance out his power-tripping and episodic fisting of mom and pop cottage industries. Domino's to be lined up and knocked down, mercilessly, so to make ample room for his twenty to thirty-thousand square-foot monstrosities, to capture mass consumption in the crux of commercial real estate purchased up in the aftermath of heavy rotation roadshows to drum up institutional investment, internationally.
Katya Mills, 08/13
