(Following is adapted from my book "My Life In The Great Sexual Window")

You should understand that professional whoring isn’t real sex.

There’s something out-of-body, distant, uninvolved, about it. Men pay you good money to make them feel great. It’s a simple business transaction on each side, supply and demand. Very capitalistic. Keeps the economy moving.

And it turns out that whoring is something I’m very good at. Up to now, I’m just a world-class amateur — now I’m becoming a world-class professional.

One of the best things about whoring is that there’s no emotion involved, nothing that tangles the belly and cuts into the heart. Nothing that makes a girl yearn for that commitment, that kiss, sometimes even that one phone call which soars her to seventh heaven and occasionally way beyond. No emotion so, voilà, no meaning.

Like any other whore I’ve ever met, I have two lives. One life earns all this money to flash tits and ass, flirt outrageously, and open legs and mouth for any man who wants to put his cock in them. But whoring isn’t real life. It’s not where I live.

It’s the other life, my student life at journalism school, my personal life, that’s my real life. The life where I win and lose, behave well or badly, am happy or sad. The part of my life where there's meaning.

Like any good-looking woman (particularly big-boobed like me) I have my pick of men and can have sex, meaningful or otherwise, with as many men as I want, any time I want. So I do.

Sometimes, when I’m just paying for an evening out or there’s nothing much else to do, the sex is emotionally empty but usually fun anyway. Other times, when I’m in lust with some horny stud, the lust itself is emotional and therefore an entirely sufficient reason for the sex. Then there’s the occasional times when I think I might be in love, at least a little bit, when sex is entirely meaningful.

The occasional thinking I might be in love part, of course, is where the commitment that doesn’t come, the kiss that isn’t tried and the phone call that’s never made reminds me that being hell-on-wheels in bed sometimes just isn’t enough for a girl.

Back to whoring.

Men confuse power with money. I don’t. Men think because they can rent my body that they have power over me. But power and money aren’t the same.

In fact, when a man’s in my mouth or pussy, I have the power. And then when he cums, by wonderful coincidence, I have both the power and the money.

Mainstream media are in disaster mode.

Advertisers, which once begged for their business, have found a younger, sexier, more skilled and seductive lover — the Internet.

Without advertising (and in the aftermath of the Great Recession) conventional newspapers, magazines, television and radio newsrooms compete to fire journalists — particularly experienced, skilled, more expensive journalists — in a desperate, doomed bid to survive.

The Internet is the uncontrollable wild west provider of instant information and world’s largest functioning anarchy.

It looms over the traditional world of print and broadcast journalism like an electronic angel of death. Its aggregators, Twitters, Facebooks, MySpaces and blogs, along with its hungry, growing corps of “citizen journalists”, is likely to destroy ethical professional journalism as we know it.

There will be no ethically-trained, dedicated, professional journalists to question, to seek fairness, context and balance, to investigate, to dig into records, to check and double check, to bear witness, to bring understanding, to speak truth to power and to serve and protect the Free Marketplace of Ideas that is the essence of ethical journalism and the glory of democracy.

Unless we find a solution to all this very soon, our democracies — built over so much resistance and on so much sacrifice over so many centuries — are in grave danger of dying.


(Samantha Jones is the nom de plume of a Canadian TV journalist who's just publisher her erotic memoir "My Life In The Great Sexual Window.)

I think I’ve always been a woman. Even when I’m a little girl I see and judge the world through womens’ eyes, womens’ needs, women's understanding.

There are pictures of me at six years old with that perceptive, knowing expression you usually only see on the faces of very wise old women. The expression that says I know the secrets…I’ve found out what it’s all about…you can’t fool me…I’ve seen it…I know…I know…

One of those secrets, at least for me, is to simply ignore conventional female modesty, mostly imposed by long-dead, misogynist men in wretched deserts.

I never understand the sort of timidity that drapes so many of us in dull, shapeless clothes to hide our bodies from the lusting eyes of hungry males.

My body looks great and I see no reason why I shouldn't exploit that. I’ve got these wide, heavy breasts that men love and nipples that stick out through just about any brassiere I wear — which turns the strongest men into  humble, lusting servants.

As I see it, there’s no point in having beautiful big breasts (and yes, it is sometimes tiring carrying them around all day causing, if you must know, backaches, neck-aches etc.) if you’re going to hide them from the very people who get exceedingly interested and generous when they see them and want to fondle and lick them.

And I’m not into the sort of modesty which demands that I lower my eyes, pretend meek and demure, when stared at by hungry males — the sort of modesty that requires most women to snatch occasional, apparently accidental, glances at some horny, staring male when what she really wants to do is stare boldly back.

I stare boldly back.

It saves a whole lot of time.


(Samantha Jones is the nom de plume of a semi-famous Canadian TV journalist, author of the erotic memoir "My Life In The Great Sexual Window".)