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But the commercial tours account for just a fraction of the gringos renting women in Costa Rica. (Only the truly inept and incompetent need to hire a middleman anyway.) Aside from the dedicated sex tourists, there are legions of part-timers, guys who come for some other reason and take a side trip, so to speak. The problem is, how to separate the dedicated ’mongers from the dabblers? The group from Chicago that flies down to San José every summer, outed last year by the local ABC station and its hidden cameras, would presumably lean toward the dedicated-’monger camp, considering there is absolutely nothing to do in San José other than gamble, drink, and pick up prostitutes. (ABC7’s ominous tagline—“ the Shameful Obsession“—would suggest as much, too.) The so-called Michigan Boys, on the other hand, might tilt toward dabbler. They hold a legitimate annual fishing tournament, one that in 2004 drew 167 contestants—including a suburban police chief, a school-board president, and a judge—only it was based at a resort that happened to be stocked with prostitutes. “The problem with our trip,“ one of the organizers told WXYZ-TV in Detroit, which followed the Michigan Boys to Costa Rica, “is that some of the guys go there and party, and they talk too much. And then somebody hears in a bar about [it]—wife or sister-in-law hears—and it’s sad because not everybody goes there and does it.“ Yeah, that’s the problem—they talk too much. Not surprisingly, though, every other guy that WXYZ asked about the trip denied cavorting with whores. (Warren, Michigan, police chief Danny Clark actually said, “I did not know that they were hookers.“)
Or ignore the statistics and junkets. Just look around. Stand at the edge of Parque Morazan and watch the parade of white guys with young brown girls. “This place,“ says that American expat former cop, “has to be the number one destination in the Western Hemisphere for horny, middle-aged moron-loser-gringos jacked up on Viagra.“
Take these American guys in the bar overhanging the lobby at the Holiday Inn—three of them, clean-cut, midthirties. They staggered in on separate flights, which is apparent because they’re swapping reports on how crowded each plane was. This is some kind of reunion for them, and they’re sitting around, waiting for seven more friends to show up.
Rain is coming down hard outside. “I remember a lot of heavy rain last year, too,“ one of them says.
“Yeah,“ the second one says, “and I remember a lot of heavy screaming.“
They all bust up at that.
“Seriously, I had no intention of doing anything,“ the second guy goes on. “I swear to God. But when those two girls grabbed me and said, We’re drinking tonight,’ man, that was it. That was it .“
A fourth gringo shows up, then a fifth, a sixth. Same pattern every time: flight report, bitch about the rain, recap last year’s highlights, always with dramatic emphasis on the last syllable or three.
“I know this massage parlor, anything you want. An-nee-thing .“
“I had this girl, a hundred thousand colones“—200 bucks, give or take—“and I had her for the whole night. The whole night .“
It goes on like this until the last two guys show up. They’ve got American girls with them, one a wife, one a girlfriend. Now the boys are talking about…rain forests and rafting. And dinner. They’re going to the restaurant at the Hotel Del Rey, where the food’s pretty good.
One guy looks spooked.
“Nah, don’t worry,“ his buddy tells him. “They don’t bother you in the restaurant.“
“Yeah,“ another guy says. “They just stand outside and watch you. And wait.“
The academic debate over whether prostitution is a good idea is pretty simple in its extremes. On one side are the abolitionists—some feminist and religious groups and, since 2003, the U.S. government. They believe that selling sex is always wrong, inherently demeaning, a fundamental violation of basic human rights. Whether they’re philosophically correct is irrelevant to the actual world. The global sex industry, ancient and entrenched, employs/exploits/enslaves (the verb you choose is a function of your politics and the circumstances of individual prostitutes) tens of millions of women and girls, and generates hundreds of billions of dollars annually. Abolishing it, purging the planet of every escort and bar girl and streetwalker, and prosecuting or shaming every john into submission is no more feasible than eliminating agriculture or the auto industry.
On the other side are libertarians, a tiny minority of prostitutes who prefer to be called “sex workers,“ and, one would suppose, a good percentage of the men who pay for sex. They believe that consenting adults should be free to do whatever they damn well please, though probably the pragmatists among them will concede that the business should be regulated to ensure everyone’s health and safety.
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