Callgirl 2000

I’d never read a pulp novel. Those cheap paperbacks at the train station, the newsstand, some decrepit magazine shop—people who bought them seemed suspicious. Hairy doctors seducing nurses during hospital crises. Who wants to read that?

But then you find something so qualitatively trashy, so strange in exactly the wrong way, that you can’t help but appreciate it. Callgirl 2000 is like that. A seventies series that’s so nakedly of its moment it loops back into something fascinating. The prose is blunt. The sex is crude and everywhere—clumsy, mechanically described, weirdly awkward the more you actually read it. Guys get knocked flat by women. The text describes perspective like geometry. It’s genuinely unsexy, which somehow makes it better.

You couldn’t publish a single page of this now without someone filing a complaint. It would be radioactive. But because it’s so explicitly old—a fossil from 1975—you can just look at it. Admire it, even. This is what men wanted. This is what got printed. This is what someone paid for at the station.

Finding a complete set would be something. Probably eBay. The rarity and the sheer dated-ness makes it feel less like garbage and more like evidence of something.