So, if you're following along at home, you know that I've mentioned more than once in these blogs that I tired my "hand" at prostitution. (I just realized I wrote "tired" instead of "tried." I bet it can make your hand pretty tired, though). I must clarify that I never went through with it in the traditional sense. I did however get rigged up in my sexiest outfit and made the trek to one of West Hollywood's most notorious "rent boy" bars: Numbers.
Actually, in the above photo, you're seeing Numbers in its second location. I believe it's closed for good now; but the first location was a little more "discreet." Its entrance faced away from the street. In fact, you entered the place through a back alley (no comment). I remember it had this curving staircase going down that was lined with mirrors. Very 70's, Studio 54 wannabe type vibe. This was the mid to late 90's. I was in my very late 20's; which is a little long in the tooth for a male prostitute and certainly a rather unusual age to take up the practice.
But desperate times call for desperate measures, do they not? I was jobless and nothing was on the horizon. I had major problems with inter-office politics; that is, working in office environments. Prostitution seemed like an immediate solution; you know, you've gotta feed yourself. There's no time for a job search. We can't think about things like sexually transmitted diseases. We'll use condoms. I can just close my eyes if my "john" is unattractive.
These were the things that were pinging in my mind as I descended into Numbers. Or maybe madness.
Hmmmm. I don't know how personal I should get here. Should I even be writing about this at all? How willing am I to let my hair down? Do you really need to know this about me? Maybe. Maybe my experience will help you with your decision as to whether or not you want to be a prostitute. I'm being serious. Maybe some of you reading this have been a prostitute. Maybe you currently are a prostitute. This is a no judgement zone. I have zero problem with prostitution. I just had a problem with actually being a prostitute. I'm talking about prostitution as a personal choice. A willful decision on the part of the individual. Sexual slavery and forced prostitution are not what I'm talking about. Those endeavors are evil.
So why get into this subject? Well, it's a subject that fascinates me. Fascinates a lot of us, I think. And as I'm a writer, I think it's my duty to be as truthful as possible with you.
So, before I take you into the bowels of Numbers(?); let's back up a bit and I'll tell you about the other times the occupation of Sex Worker presented itself as an option in my life.
These were the things that were pinging in my mind as I descended into Numbers. Or maybe madness.
Hmmmm. I don't know how personal I should get here. Should I even be writing about this at all? How willing am I to let my hair down? Do you really need to know this about me? Maybe. Maybe my experience will help you with your decision as to whether or not you want to be a prostitute. I'm being serious. Maybe some of you reading this have been a prostitute. Maybe you currently are a prostitute. This is a no judgement zone. I have zero problem with prostitution. I just had a problem with actually being a prostitute. I'm talking about prostitution as a personal choice. A willful decision on the part of the individual. Sexual slavery and forced prostitution are not what I'm talking about. Those endeavors are evil.
So why get into this subject? Well, it's a subject that fascinates me. Fascinates a lot of us, I think. And as I'm a writer, I think it's my duty to be as truthful as possible with you.
So, before I take you into the bowels of Numbers(?); let's back up a bit and I'll tell you about the other times the occupation of Sex Worker presented itself as an option in my life.
A long, long time ago...well, maybe not so long ago...1988. Is that considered a long time ago now? Probably. But anyways...1988 was the first time I moved out of the house I grew up in. It was my senior year of college. Why I took on that difficult undertaking during an extremely exhaustive time in my life, I have no idea. It was a mistake. But we learn from our mistakes, right? So, I moved into this one bedroom apartment in the nether-regions of Boston's South End. I shared the one bedroom with two other guys. Both friends; now roommates. One of us had the front part. I was in the middle (what was supposed to be the dining room) and my other friend (who I'll call "Peter") was in the actual bedroom.
Looking back, even though it was a mistake, I'm glad I did it. It was a sort of "living on your own, trial by fire." Except, with roommates, which was another crucible and a valuable experience. The Apt. 3G experiment went from about Spring of 1988 to Autumn of 1988 and I'm telling ya, that entire thing was a whole other blog. Maybe a whole other book.
So, Peter, who was what my mother would've referred to as "an odd duck," worked at the Park Plaza Hotel that summer. Keep that in mind. He was a bell-boy. Keep that in mind too. So, my friends and I were into the night-life. We went out a lot. I swear to God that from pretty much Fall of 1984 to Fall of 1991 all I did every night was go out and dance. And despite the copious amounts of beer; I see now that my svelte frame and almost visible abs were due to all that dancing. It was at one of these night clubs that myself and one of my roommates were approached to be "dancers." Except, these weren't your ordinary go-go boys. These guys "danced" with erections. The manager of the club had found some loop-hole in the Puritanical Boston legal system that allowed completely nude guys with hard-ons to strut around a stage to music for the purposes of entertainment. One night this manager pulled me and my friend aside and explained the process and offered us jobs as said "dancers."
"So, you want us to like, dance around the stage with stiffies?" I asked, incredulously.
"Yeah."
"But how do you stay erect?" my friend asked.
"Rubber bands." The manager replied. We both passed.
Looking back, even though it was a mistake, I'm glad I did it. It was a sort of "living on your own, trial by fire." Except, with roommates, which was another crucible and a valuable experience. The Apt. 3G experiment went from about Spring of 1988 to Autumn of 1988 and I'm telling ya, that entire thing was a whole other blog. Maybe a whole other book.
So, Peter, who was what my mother would've referred to as "an odd duck," worked at the Park Plaza Hotel that summer. Keep that in mind. He was a bell-boy. Keep that in mind too. So, my friends and I were into the night-life. We went out a lot. I swear to God that from pretty much Fall of 1984 to Fall of 1991 all I did every night was go out and dance. And despite the copious amounts of beer; I see now that my svelte frame and almost visible abs were due to all that dancing. It was at one of these night clubs that myself and one of my roommates were approached to be "dancers." Except, these weren't your ordinary go-go boys. These guys "danced" with erections. The manager of the club had found some loop-hole in the Puritanical Boston legal system that allowed completely nude guys with hard-ons to strut around a stage to music for the purposes of entertainment. One night this manager pulled me and my friend aside and explained the process and offered us jobs as said "dancers."
"So, you want us to like, dance around the stage with stiffies?" I asked, incredulously.
"Yeah."
"But how do you stay erect?" my friend asked.
"Rubber bands." The manager replied. We both passed.
Sometime that summer, Peter invited us to meet his friend "Dean." Cool, I thought. I always enjoy meeting new people and the prospects of a new friendship. So, we get to Dean's apartment, and I'm expecting to just hang out, have a cocktail, watch a movie or whatever. But after some initial chit-chat, Dean sits us all down on the couch and starts giving a sales pitch. Not just a sales pitch; more of an assumption that we were there as new hires. So, he proceeds to tell us about what being a "Dream Boy" is all about. Apparently, being a "Dream Boy" involved what he called: The Dream Boy Bag...
"So, you will meet the client at the pre-arranged spot and you will have your Dream-Boy bag with you..."
I looked over at Peter. What the hell is this? Is this actually a pitch to be a male prostitute? Peter did not return my gaze. I was confused. What was happening? Why had Peter brought us to meet this person under somewhat duplicitous circumstances? My first impression of Dean hadn't been a good one, and it was rapidly deteriorating. He was morphing into a Dickens character before my eyes.
"So, in your Dream-Boy bag you will have towels, lube, toys, condoms if the client so wants them; and a credit card imprinter in order to facilitate payment..."
You may not be old enough to remember this, but a credit card imprinter was a device that used to be used to make charges. It was a metal tablet with a plate for the credit card. A paper slip with a carbon was laid on top of the card and then a clunky slide-rule type handle was swiped over the form. They were called "knuckle-busters" or "zip-zap" machines.
I looked over at Peter. What the hell is this? Is this actually a pitch to be a male prostitute? Peter did not return my gaze. I was confused. What was happening? Why had Peter brought us to meet this person under somewhat duplicitous circumstances? My first impression of Dean hadn't been a good one, and it was rapidly deteriorating. He was morphing into a Dickens character before my eyes.
"So, in your Dream-Boy bag you will have towels, lube, toys, condoms if the client so wants them; and a credit card imprinter in order to facilitate payment..."
You may not be old enough to remember this, but a credit card imprinter was a device that used to be used to make charges. It was a metal tablet with a plate for the credit card. A paper slip with a carbon was laid on top of the card and then a clunky slide-rule type handle was swiped over the form. They were called "knuckle-busters" or "zip-zap" machines.
Needless to say, I was rather shocked and somewhat appalled that Peter had assumed I might want to be a male prostitute. I didn't tell him that. I simply politely declined Dean's offer. Maybe Dean had more sway over Peter than just sales pitches. I didn't know. I still don't know. I didn't press. I never even gave a second thought to Peter's job as a "bell-boy." I had no idea, until several decades later, when I was watching an episode of Mad Men that bell-boys were well known to be male prostitutes. The bell-boy scene starts at the 3.46 mark:
The scene is rather delightfully ambiguous; but I remember when I saw it, it suddenly made the whole Peter was a bell-boy thing make sense. A lot of puzzle pieces started falling into place.
It was Peter, too, who got me a gig as a Production Assistant on a gay porn set. The movie was Invaders from URanus. You really can't make this stuff up.
Pornography is a kind of prostitution, isn't it? It's just structured in a different way.
It was Peter, too, who got me a gig as a Production Assistant on a gay porn set. The movie was Invaders from URanus. You really can't make this stuff up.
Pornography is a kind of prostitution, isn't it? It's just structured in a different way.
Being a Production Assistant or "P.A." on a gay porn shoot included but was not limited to: purchasing enemas at Ralph's (Okay, my hair is officially down), photocopying driver's licenses (proof of age, that being 18 to be in a porno) and holding the "C" light. I never knew explicitly what the "C" stood for; but when I found myself holding it several inches from some of the performers nether regions, I was able to make an educated guess. Yes, orifices need lighting too; perhaps more so than other...fices. Oh, and in the case of Invaders from URanus, donning a silver jump suit to play an alien (shot from behind...I mean the rear...I mean from the back. Never mind. My face wasn't on camera). Actually, it was a lot of fun. The boys above the C lights were some of the sweetest, gentlest people I've ever met. I mean, if you're that comfortable with your body and sexuality to the point where you can do it in front of a camera with a bunch of people standing around; you're probably going to be pretty easy going. I recall becoming rather fascinated by one of the performers on the set. His stage name was Kyle McKenna. I remember he was super quiet to the point of introversion. He stayed off to the sides by himself. I remember during a break (we were at some fabulous Hollywood hills house with a deck), Kyle--buck naked--getting into a hammock and getting flipped by it and ending up on his ass on the boards. I was the only one who witnessed this comic moment. He looked around to see if anyone had seen; but didn't see me. I felt bad for him. He seemed lost. He was one of the most handsome men I'd ever seen. Perhaps the handsomest:
He was also incredibly submissive. In his scenes that is. To the point where he was seen as being "freaky" by the other performers, which I guess is some kind of feat. "Kyle has issues..." I recall having overheard one of the boys telling someone else. "He really should talk to someone." Prescient words, it turns out. Kyle committed suicide three years later. His real name was Russell McCoy. Like me, he was from the East. Pennsylvania I believe. I was doing some research on him and I came across an essay about him by a friend that had known him since youth. Apparently, Russ was incredibly smart. I mean like frequent chess player level (most boys in porn do not play chess). His friend was shocked when he found about Russ' porn life. It seems to me that, looking back, Russ got into porn as some kind of way to deal with issues of self-worth. Is being the "M" in S&M some attempt to have the low-self-esteem pummeled out of you; or is it getting pummeled because you have low self-esteem?
So, how is pornography a form of prostitution? Well, if prostitution in its baseline essence is selling sex for money, then it counts. The porn company is paying the performer to have sex, thus becoming the pimp, who then sells it to the john: collecting the money through purchase or rental. Basically. Now that you can find "free" porn on the web, does the paradigm hold? I don't know. I wish that I talked to Russell that day. But I didn't. We probably had a lot in common.
So, how is pornography a form of prostitution? Well, if prostitution in its baseline essence is selling sex for money, then it counts. The porn company is paying the performer to have sex, thus becoming the pimp, who then sells it to the john: collecting the money through purchase or rental. Basically. Now that you can find "free" porn on the web, does the paradigm hold? I don't know. I wish that I talked to Russell that day. But I didn't. We probably had a lot in common.
That's Nancy Allen in Dressed to Kill. She played "Liz Blake," a high-class hooker with a heart of gold and a cheeky sense of humor. I loved her in that movie. She made prostitution seem fun (which is perhaps one of the reasons that propelled me down the stairs at Numbers). You know, she glamorized it. The glamorization of prostitution is probably the second oldest profession. But, in her defense, she did point up how dangerous the profession can be. Donna Summer helped glamorize it too. I mean, doesn't the song "Bad Girls" make you want to put on hot pants and strut down Santa Monica Boulevard?
Speaking of Santa Monica Boulevard...let's go back to Numbers.
Where were we? Oh yeah, I just stepped off the staircase in my sexiest outfit to go try to be the world's oldest male prostitute. So, I scan the room. On one side, there was a bar, with barstools. Sitting on those stools were rather non-descript gentlemen, who, I could see, were actually quite a bit older than me. And looked it. Most of them seemed unconcerned with their physiques. Portly? Yes, many of them were rather portly. Or stout.
On the other side of the room was a gaggle of young men...not too much younger than me, so I didn't feel completely ridiculous. The younger men were also "sexily" dressed and better looking than the men on the barstools. I went and stood with them and engaged in an awkward attempt to mix and mingle. Occasionally, one of the younger guys would cross this invisible line and move over to the bar and start talking to one of the "johns." I was just observing, figuring out how to play this little game when one of the "boys" sidled up to me. He was clearly the best looking guy in the room. He was sweet and had a disarming smile. He sort of looked like this guy:
Where were we? Oh yeah, I just stepped off the staircase in my sexiest outfit to go try to be the world's oldest male prostitute. So, I scan the room. On one side, there was a bar, with barstools. Sitting on those stools were rather non-descript gentlemen, who, I could see, were actually quite a bit older than me. And looked it. Most of them seemed unconcerned with their physiques. Portly? Yes, many of them were rather portly. Or stout.
On the other side of the room was a gaggle of young men...not too much younger than me, so I didn't feel completely ridiculous. The younger men were also "sexily" dressed and better looking than the men on the barstools. I went and stood with them and engaged in an awkward attempt to mix and mingle. Occasionally, one of the younger guys would cross this invisible line and move over to the bar and start talking to one of the "johns." I was just observing, figuring out how to play this little game when one of the "boys" sidled up to me. He was clearly the best looking guy in the room. He was sweet and had a disarming smile. He sort of looked like this guy:
So, he and I started talking. I got the feeling that it was maybe the first time he'd been there and was also figuring out how it worked. "Look at that guy," he said, "the one on the third stool..." There was an impish note of disdain in his voice. "The man with the glasses?" "Yeah," David replied (I'll call him David) "the jerk thinks he owns the place."
The jerk in question was a gentleman somewhere in his forties. Doughy. Glasses. Looked a little like Newman from Seinfeld. There were boys on either side of him, flirting; and he--a would be raconteur--was braying loudly. "Geez," David complained, "is that what we have to work with?" I laughed. He was standing very close. I could feel his body heat. There was an attraction. "Maybe," he smiled, "you and me could have a three-way with one of them..." Was he kidding around? Maybe not. "I wish it could be just you and me..." He smiled again. I blushed. No one ever hit on me like that. Almost never. "Yeah," I sighed, "me too." He said it like there was some set rule that he and I couldn't have just walked out of there and had our own tete-a-tete. Or maybe David just saw me as the "older guy" and he was trying to hustle me. But I don't think that was it. Anyhow...
I laughed to myself and it was all over. I hauled it out of there. Said so long to David and back up those stairs.
When you go to a gay hooker bar and find yourself disappointed because you didn't leave with another aspiring hooker, there's a problem. David was the only thing in the room that I wanted any part of. I realized that there was no way on Earth I was ever going to be a male prostitute; old or otherwise. It simply wasn't in my blood. My make-up. My molecular structure. And I realized that age, as far as male prostitutes go, isn't that big a problem. There's actually a lot of niches in the gay world of erotica for older men.
Remember that male prostitute that "brought down" Ted Haggard. His name was Mike Jones (a name so bland it has to be real):
The jerk in question was a gentleman somewhere in his forties. Doughy. Glasses. Looked a little like Newman from Seinfeld. There were boys on either side of him, flirting; and he--a would be raconteur--was braying loudly. "Geez," David complained, "is that what we have to work with?" I laughed. He was standing very close. I could feel his body heat. There was an attraction. "Maybe," he smiled, "you and me could have a three-way with one of them..." Was he kidding around? Maybe not. "I wish it could be just you and me..." He smiled again. I blushed. No one ever hit on me like that. Almost never. "Yeah," I sighed, "me too." He said it like there was some set rule that he and I couldn't have just walked out of there and had our own tete-a-tete. Or maybe David just saw me as the "older guy" and he was trying to hustle me. But I don't think that was it. Anyhow...
I laughed to myself and it was all over. I hauled it out of there. Said so long to David and back up those stairs.
When you go to a gay hooker bar and find yourself disappointed because you didn't leave with another aspiring hooker, there's a problem. David was the only thing in the room that I wanted any part of. I realized that there was no way on Earth I was ever going to be a male prostitute; old or otherwise. It simply wasn't in my blood. My make-up. My molecular structure. And I realized that age, as far as male prostitutes go, isn't that big a problem. There's actually a lot of niches in the gay world of erotica for older men.
Remember that male prostitute that "brought down" Ted Haggard. His name was Mike Jones (a name so bland it has to be real):
Mike managed, with a mere five minutes of fame, to write a book and star in a play about the whole thing:
Now that's a play I'm sorry I missed!
I think Mike was 50ish when the Haggard thing went down. Mike is what you call a "Daddy." That's a gay man of a certain age, usually hunky and ruggedly handsome. They get a lot of work. I don't think there's really a corresponding niche in the straight world. I've never heard of "Mommy" prostitutes (what would that even be?). If it is a niche (and its gotta be) I'm guessing it's a niche within a niche.
When I was the P.A. on Invaders from URanus, the director, a delightful and kind man named "Thor Stephens" suggested at one point that perhaps, maybe, I might like to be on the other side of the camera. I laughed and declined. There was no way that was going to happen. That required a certain set of skills I didn't have. Firstly, you must have a certain amount of Exhibitionistic tendencies and be completely and utterly comfortable in being completely naked for long amounts of time in front of anybody. You also need a certain amount of priapism. Nope. Not for me. I'll pass. I'll just sit here and hold the C-light.
I think Mike was 50ish when the Haggard thing went down. Mike is what you call a "Daddy." That's a gay man of a certain age, usually hunky and ruggedly handsome. They get a lot of work. I don't think there's really a corresponding niche in the straight world. I've never heard of "Mommy" prostitutes (what would that even be?). If it is a niche (and its gotta be) I'm guessing it's a niche within a niche.
When I was the P.A. on Invaders from URanus, the director, a delightful and kind man named "Thor Stephens" suggested at one point that perhaps, maybe, I might like to be on the other side of the camera. I laughed and declined. There was no way that was going to happen. That required a certain set of skills I didn't have. Firstly, you must have a certain amount of Exhibitionistic tendencies and be completely and utterly comfortable in being completely naked for long amounts of time in front of anybody. You also need a certain amount of priapism. Nope. Not for me. I'll pass. I'll just sit here and hold the C-light.
Memba' this?
Or, how about this:
Yes, that's Eve "Jan Brady" Plumb playing a teen-age runaway-slash-prostitute. This TV movie proved so popular it generated a TV move sequel. Perhaps a first. The sequel was about Alexander, Dawn's male prostitute pal. You can see both on Youtube.
Now, I'm not sure exactly what the intentions of these two films were. Were they supposed to be sort of Public Service warnings? "Hey America, this is what might happen to your kids. Don't let it! And, wanna watch?" For the kids watching it made this lifestyle rather desirous. Hey, if Jan Brady can go live the wild life, so can I! So yeah, these "expose" TV movies had a decided amount of prurience. And these two in particular did little to deglamorize prostitution; underage or otherwise. "Wow, doesn't Jan look hot in that halter dress and rabbit fur coat!?"
Of course, Pretty Woman made an entire generation of girls want to be prostitutes. Boys too. Who wouldn't want to spend the week-end giving Richard Gere head at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel in a Turnbull and Asser robe for $3000 bucks? Richard G. Another actor who totally helped to glamorize prostitution:
Now, I'm not sure exactly what the intentions of these two films were. Were they supposed to be sort of Public Service warnings? "Hey America, this is what might happen to your kids. Don't let it! And, wanna watch?" For the kids watching it made this lifestyle rather desirous. Hey, if Jan Brady can go live the wild life, so can I! So yeah, these "expose" TV movies had a decided amount of prurience. And these two in particular did little to deglamorize prostitution; underage or otherwise. "Wow, doesn't Jan look hot in that halter dress and rabbit fur coat!?"
Of course, Pretty Woman made an entire generation of girls want to be prostitutes. Boys too. Who wouldn't want to spend the week-end giving Richard Gere head at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel in a Turnbull and Asser robe for $3000 bucks? Richard G. Another actor who totally helped to glamorize prostitution:
But haven't we all engaged in some form of prostitution? Engage, present tense? How many of us have "slept" with someone to get ahead at a job? To procure a couple of lines of coke? Or the drug of your choice? Isn't going out for dinner and a movie and expecting the person who asked you to pick up the tab just that? And the tab-picker-upper generally expects a little something-something after a certain amount of tabs have been picked up (I guess that's the lay-away plan!). Or how about people who marry other people with lots of money and zero "personality." There's are entire websites devoted to being someone's "sugar-baby." Apparently they're very popular with college girls. Sites like "RichMeetBeautiful." Don't tell me that's not prostitution. My husband told me about certain ladies he knew back in college who were not exactly "10s" They were mostly under 5. But in order to land the cute frat boys, they would lure them with free recreational drugs; for nookie, that is.
Let's face it: sex is a bartering tool in our society. Prostitution just puts it up front. Actually makes it honest. So, why don't we just legalize the undertaking? That way it can be more controlled. Perhaps it would keep a lot of people out of danger. I mean, The Moonlite Bunny Ranch in Arizona seems to be working out for all parties involved; particularly for the ladies, who are relatively protected. What, would officially sanctioning the profession be some kind of moral downward spiral? Please. It exists. It always has. It's not going anywhere. Take off your Pilgrim hat and get with it, America.
Let's face it: sex is a bartering tool in our society. Prostitution just puts it up front. Actually makes it honest. So, why don't we just legalize the undertaking? That way it can be more controlled. Perhaps it would keep a lot of people out of danger. I mean, The Moonlite Bunny Ranch in Arizona seems to be working out for all parties involved; particularly for the ladies, who are relatively protected. What, would officially sanctioning the profession be some kind of moral downward spiral? Please. It exists. It always has. It's not going anywhere. Take off your Pilgrim hat and get with it, America.
I mean America loves hookers. Whores. Prostitutes. Streetwalkers ad infinitum. We can't get enough of them!
Unfortunately, America is a rather hypocritical place. We love hookers; but if we find out someone was a hooker in their past, we tend to excoriate them.
I mean, what if I'd come through (so to speak) at Numbers? What if I had become the worlds oldest male prostitute? What if I'd retired from it and you found out about it?
Would it change the way you think about me?
Would you think less of me?
What would you think?
I mean, what if I'd come through (so to speak) at Numbers? What if I had become the worlds oldest male prostitute? What if I'd retired from it and you found out about it?
Would it change the way you think about me?
Would you think less of me?
What would you think?
Photo by Phillip-Lorca di Corcia
So, there's a theory, popularized by The DaVinci Code, I believe, that posits that Mary Magdalene, history's most famous hooker, was actually Christ's wife. Or at least his live-in-lady-love. But the Catholic church couldn't have a sexually active Christ; so they attempted to besmirch her by branding her a whore who was little more than a groupie. Only men would think that up. Stupid men. Like, having Christ hang around with a prostitute doesn't beg the question as to whether or not she was performing her talents for him? That he would hang with a hooker is even more Christian. Did they not realize that? Men are such dicks.
But Jesus being friends with a hooker? Isn't that rather radical? It's totally cool. And kinda hot.
So, there's a theory, popularized by The DaVinci Code, I believe, that posits that Mary Magdalene, history's most famous hooker, was actually Christ's wife. Or at least his live-in-lady-love. But the Catholic church couldn't have a sexually active Christ; so they attempted to besmirch her by branding her a whore who was little more than a groupie. Only men would think that up. Stupid men. Like, having Christ hang around with a prostitute doesn't beg the question as to whether or not she was performing her talents for him? That he would hang with a hooker is even more Christian. Did they not realize that? Men are such dicks.
But Jesus being friends with a hooker? Isn't that rather radical? It's totally cool. And kinda hot.
