If two grown-up people go to a hotel, do whatever they have to do, seemingly with consent, the man pays the woman (or the other way round), they settle the hotel bill and go home, what is it to you or me, or to the police, or to the moral fibre of our society? What is it to you or me if the woman uses the money to put her younger brothers through college, or buy spectacles for her frail old mother, or she buys an iPhone 6S or goes snorkelling? Why should half the city’s police force spend sleepless nights posing as decoy customers, lurking near hotels, listening in to phone conversation when they should be rounding up rapists or tracking down terrorists? TV cameras ejaculate in ecstasy as the girl so caught, a hunted animal, is pushed into a remand home, the city pages of newspapers leave no sheet unturned, and oh, what of the moral fibre of our viewing, reading society, which absorbs all this sleaze without a crumple? The flashbulbs are of course always on the woman, her clients are merely dismissed as influential netas, top-ranking officials and big businessmen, while both selling and buying sex is a crime in our country.