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A private investigator in Australia who goes by the pseudonym John is part of a small group that gets paid to lay pipe on hookers. John, a 60-year-old divorced retiree, is someone known as a “brothel buster.” He goes into businesses suspected of running prostitution rings (mostly massage parlors), gets a handy or participates in full-blown penetration with the “massage therapists,” makes his nut, goes on his merry little way, writes a report on his experience, and calls it a day. Rough life, John.
In New South Wales, brothels have exploded onto the scene since the sex industry was decriminalized in the 1990s. Since the chicks aren’t completely forward about being ladies of the night, it’s extremely difficult for authorities to prosecute the businesses. The Hornsby Council actually spent $100,000 and lost a case against one particular parlor.
Insert: your boy John.
John says his reports can run for up to three pages. Dates, times, people, places. Who, what, when, where, how much.
“It’s a document that will be used in court, so it has to be pretty detailed and very accurate. It’s not something you can waddle off in a couple of minutes,” he says.
These aren’t documents for the court of law so much as they’re erotica nonfiction. If he started selling these memoirs, every middle-aged house mother in America would no doubt buy this book and he’d make a fortune. Not that he needs it — John is just crushing his golden years as is.
While I’d ideally like to be on a golf course every day of the week when I’m in my sixties, smashing ass on the government’s dime doesn’t sound like a bad plan B. Granted, I don’t understand the need for his role. Isn’t it just commonly accepted that all massage parlors offer up sexual favors on the hush-hush? Honestly, do you even qualify as a real massage parlor if you’re not offering up a happy ending?.
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