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But, she says, “there are some people working in the sex industry who shouldn’t be there.” Sex workers can find themselves in “very precarious positions and not all the women can articulate themselves as I can.” Even she has had “moments in which it wasn’t clear to me how to communicate boundaries.” You need to be thick-skinned and good at negotiating with strong boundaries and high self-esteem. There isn’t much of what’s been called “willing supply”.
Back in 2002, the liberal left imagined a sex industry in which responsible managers would push out exploitative pimps. Empowered prostitutes would work in safety and the money from this hitherto black market would go into pension pots and the German treasury. Well, they got their taxes.
Paradise’s Jürgen Rudloff appeared in a documentary, “Sex – Made in Germany”, which aired on the German public broadcaster ARD last summer. In one scene he’s sitting in his spacious kitchen dressed in an open-necked white shirt and linen jacket, surrounded by his four shiny-haired, privately-educated children.
Would he be happy for either of his two daughters to work at Paradise, the interviewer asks. Rudloff turns puce. “Unthinkable, unthinkable,” he says. “The question alone is brutal. I don’t mean to offend the prostitutes but I try to raise my children so that they have professional opportunities. Most prostitutes don’t have those options. That’s why they’re doing that job.” He pauses and looks away.
“Unimaginable”, he repeats. “I don’t even want to think about it.”

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Inside, there is an anteroom where up to a dozen ‘boys (the term is universally used among them), mostly in their twenties, lounge on a sofa watching satellite television.
There are four bedrooms here, recently reduced from five to accommodate an office. A boy who calls himself Rita acts as receptionist, accountant and maitre d’ for the night.
The atmosphere is musty; the smell of polish barely conceals a whiff of something cooked a while ago. But it’s spotlessly clean, even if the flock wallpaper and cheap prints seem out of place for this salubrious west London address.
At any given time, up to 20 addresses in London offer escort and massage services for men, with men. Fifteen seem to stay the course and, of these, four are known for offering sex on the premises. There were five until last year, when the owner of ‘Rome, a few streets away from Kensington Town Hall, was jailed for credit card fraud. According to the Metropolitan Police, the last convictions for running a ‘disorderly house were brought in 1990 against two men who ran a gay sauna in Streatham (they were imprisoned for three and six months respectively).
Some of the boys here are actors between jobs, but there are also office workers who are into the gay club scene in a big way and who cannot finance this lifestyle solely out of a regular wage. Some are heterosexual and have girlfriends. There are variations in the hours that the boys are expected to work. Some of the houses allow the boys to drop in more or less when they like, although they are expected to stay at least five hours and to telephone in advance to check that they are needed. Others operate a more conventional shift system and boys are sent home if they are late for the start at noon or at 6pm. On a quiet weekend the boys will go home at midnight.
Most dislike the job. ‘It’s just temporary, I would not want to do it forever, said ‘Philip. ‘I sort of switch off when I’m here. I make noises like I’m enjoying it – I moan and all that, but it’s like I can watch myself. I’m not involved like I am when it’s just for me.’
The customers’ view is somewhat different. ‘It’s brilliant, said Murray, a debonair former actor, ‘like a well-organised and very jolly repertory company. It is a minor branch of showbusiness after all. Everyone is there to please and they just do it professionally . . . they are almost always excellent masseurs for a start.
‘I’m only there for one thing and so are they; there’s none of the hassle of a club or bar. Quite often I don’t see the type of boy I’m after here, in which case I’ve no hesitation in just leaving.
About half the customers are ‘in the closet. ‘Many prominent people know they are safe here, that they won’t be exposed, said Stephen, a regular since the Sixties.
The customer chooses his boy and pays pounds 50. Half goes to the owner of the brothel, and half – eventually – to the boy. Credit cards are accepted at most establishments. At some houses this buys an hour in which to do whatever you wish. At others pounds 50 only pays for a massage; other services must be negotiated between customer and boy. ‘I’ve never been hassled about the time, and I’ve spent up to an hour and a half with some boys, said a regular client. ‘It’s very relaxed, but of course you leave the boy a good tip for anything on top of the basic.
The usual ‘tip is at least an additional pounds 50, the exact sum dependent – at least in part – on how desperate the boy is for cash. Sex aids are laid on. One boss has what he calls his ‘batterie de cuisine in a cupboard for loan: leather thongs, masks and whips, hard-core pornography and dildos.

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