Barcelona’s Dolls
Hannah, a girl in my year, wasn’t interested in waiting tables or cleaning for university money. So she did what made sense—charged rich men for blowjobs through a WhatsApp group. Whenever some CEO or politician needed to get sucked off, he’d message the group with date and place, and Hannah and the other girls would bid for it. She was making serious money, and extra if she was willing to be flexible about arrangements.
I was perpetually broke, so when Hannah’s financial situation suddenly improved, I asked how she was doing it. She offered to bring me in. Said I’d look good enough, and that clients would tip extra if you were willing to accommodate requests. I seriously considered it, but declined in the end. I’ve already ruined enough sexual situations in my life—laughing at the wrong moment, getting distracted, actually vomiting once—the kind of disaster that would destroy me professionally. Hannah would’ve needed to find someone else.
The sex dolls in Barcelona don’t have these problems.
Sergi Prieto and his wife run what they say is Europe’s first sex doll brothel just outside Barcelona. Instead of hiring women, they’ve stocked the place with rubber and silicone dolls, life-sized and waiting. Vice filmed the whole thing. I don’t understand the appeal. The fantasy seems to be sex with something that won’t say no, won’t judge, won’t get tired or ask for anything—which is exactly what makes it seem so depressing to me. But if this becomes a real business model, Hannah’s going to need to find some other way to make money.