artisanal film reviews | by maryann johanson
Tue Nov 18 2014, 10:32pm | 14 comments
On a door in Soho. I’ve walked by this house a hundred times and never noticed it before this week. Maybe because I wasn’t looking for a brothel. (Thanks to my pal Nikki for pointing it out.)
there must be an interesting tale that goes with that.
They could at least have the courtesy to tell us where the real one is. Geez.
Ce n’est pas une pipe….
Ce n’est pas un maison de tolérance.
I found it. Look at the last paragraph of “Background” on this wikipedia entry: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sebastian_Horsley
That was both a tragic and repellant link. Pretty much everyone listed or quoted in that article seems to be a mix of the two.
And, seriously, Mr. Horsley himself seems like a grade A-1 prime asshole: “He argued that prostitution should not be legalized, as that would take away part of its thrill.” Oh, Mr.-I’m-So-Miserable-Because-Of-My-Upbringing-And-Can’t-Deal-With-Intimacy, you want the sex workers you romantacise to remain without legal protections themselves?
I don’t suppose that they are taking a cue from author Terry Pratchett and calling it a “house of negotiable affections.”
After all, the term has its own song and everything.
René Magritte, check your e-mail, s’il vous plaît.
Hey, you’re lucky they didn’t go with this image:
Apparently the name of the article that came from describes the whole situation well too: The Brothel Creeper.
Yuck. Sorry. Had to reply something. If you and I were talking in person, you’d have seen me wince.
Oh, that’s good.
Negotiable *fake* affections…
But of course… :-)
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