We were three year-old guys with raging hormones. We decided, however, to go it alone. So on Purim night, armed with silver clown trumpets made from paper, the three of us set out for Jaffa. While we were sitting on the bus from Rehovot, Carol the Romanian climbed onto the bus, too. Carol, who was a few years older than us and who was more seasoned in the field of prostitutes than we were, volunteered to be our mentor.
We wandered around the dimly lit alleyways and peeked into dark corners, but found no trace of the type of women we were looking for. So we gave up and went to eat falafel. At this point, a woman approached us and let us know that she was available. She smiled and gave a good blow on one of them. We returned home with our tails between our legs. But newspaper articles about women like Annette Peretz, who had been beaten to death by a client, or the movie Or by Keren Yedaya, have left enduring marks on our psyches.
Now the law that was enacted to punish consumers of prostitution has made its mark. Other women wait at the Safari for dark to descend. Then the hunters begin to approach in their Toyota minivans and their Hyundai Crossovers. Slowly they cruise by, headlights blinding the women as they search for their prey.
The hunters feel a sense of control as they strip the victims of their dignity, their humanity. And of course the men must handle the goods before deciding on which one they want to spend shekels. One seeker is an older man with a big white mane of hair and red cheeks.
He probably just picked his granddaughter up from her piano lesson and then took her home and made her an omelet for dinner. He slows down, stops for a moment, then drives on and disappears. On another street near the central bus station, just 50 meters from the local police station, a red light glows. I hop over a used syringe and come upon two women.
