The Most Hated Man

By Ron Dudderie

'Should all women have an internship in a brothel?' That's not the main question of Professor Doctor Pjotr van Voogt tot Burema's latest Economics paper about income disparity, but it is one that the international press latch on to.

Pjotr is the smartest man he knows. Not smart enough to understand why his wife left him, but still pretty smart. He lives in Amsterdam, in an academic bubble where he finds himself king of the hill.

His most recent scientific publication involves women, and how they use the fact that men can’t live without them to their advantage. His theories are, to put it mildly, not well-received.

Forced to go into hiding, Pjotr slowly discovers there is more to him than an angry, weedy, clumsy professor. Then he meets Angel, who is literally a truck stop whore. Her life is an absolute disaster and their first meeting does not end well. She also happens to be the only person on Earth that Pjotr can bring himself to care about. Or is she?

Ron Dudderie once again takes you on a fantastic voyage and introduces you to a host of delightful characters you will come to see as friends. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry and you’ll laugh till you cry as you follow this gripping tale to its unexpected end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ron Dudderie
• Release date: Aug 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463343623

Ron Dudderie

Ron Dudderie has been a civil engineer, a polite journalist, and a jovial teacher. Now he is a successful writer of quality erotica, or as he calls it: 'King of the dungheap'. He lives in Canterbury with his wife and two labradors. His Carstairs Series has delighted tens of thousands of readers on Literotica.com, stunned to find a fully developed, amazingly funny and exciting story there. Inspired by hundreds of emails and comments, plus incredibly high ratings, Ron wrote two more books in the space of one year. Prepare to fall in love with his creations, because once you have met Kate, Melody, Martin and their friends, you will want to live in their world.

Book preview

The Most Hated Man

by

Ron Dudderie

This is version 1.2, 21/9/2019

Originally released on 25/3/2016

Your eBook reader will be able to show a table of contents based on your display size.

Acknowledgements and disclaimer

Thanks to Jay, for being a willing test subject and diligent proofreader. Also thanks to proofreader Dave Cooper, who suggested Iron Mountain as the setting for this story. Further thanks to proofreaders Bret Huggins, Ian McCrowe and Andrew Venner. Thanks to Freedom Zeev for designing the cover and patiently translating my wishes into a coherent image. Man, we got a small army here!

I try to come up with my own jokes, but for fish-based puns I yield to (and stole from) the master, Andy Zaltzman. Don't miss a chance to see him perform.

Thanks to my wife, who by now figured out I have a new career writing and selling mucky books and who is very supportive of that without asking me if she can actually read them.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Subscribe to my newsletter (low volume) at http://tinyletter.com/ronsdirtybooks for updates and news about new books.

To my son. Good luck reading this without blushing, 18 years from now. Ha!

© 2016 Ron Dudderie as identified through [e-mail]. All rights reserved.

Chapter one – Not worth the paper

Hi, and welcome to NPR's Planet Pecunia, I'm David Adamson, with me is Zoe Hunt. Zoe, today we're going to talk about a book!

Aaaaah daaw.

Oh dear indeed. It's a new book and it's making waves in the world of economics. But not just there!

Ats nat...

Yes, it's 'The Female Currency', by a Dutch researcher of the University of Amsterdam.

And A shad sah ah am nat a fan.

You're not a fan. Noted. But before we get into it, let's talk about what money is.

Akah. What as mana?

Well, the traditional definition of money is in four parts. In fact, there's a rhyme about it and it goes like this: 'Money's a matter of functions four: a medium, a measure, a standard, a store.'

Ah lav that rham.

Yes, it's funny. And these four functions were defined by an economist called William Stanley Jevons, as early as 1875.

Akah, lats ga dahn tha last. Sah ats a mada-am af axchange. What das that mahn?

Well, what that means is that money helps us trade goods and services without having to resort to bartering. So if I want, say, a car, I don't have to bring in goods to the value of a new car. Which is hard if I work in an office and I don't have a lot of stuff, like grain or milk. Instead, I bring a bag of money and I leave with a car. And everyone is happy.

Akah. And a masjar?

It's a measure of value. Money helps us to convert totally different things to a common value. Say I am a farmer and I actually do have a ton of grain. And I want a car. How much grain is one car worth? Or how much milk? Or how many toilet rolls? That's the problem with bartering: how much is something worth, expressed in something else? Money helps us with that: it converts the value of an hour of my labour into a basket of groceries. And that makes life easier, because it is easily divisible and one dollar bill is worth as much as any other dollar bill. You don't get that with clumps of gold or diamonds.

Ahkay. Sa mana as a grat anvantjan.

It is a great invention, yes. The other two points are a bit more esoteric. It's a standard of deferred payment. In other words, it helps you to borrow capital and it defines what you have to pay back. And, very importantly, it's a store of value. It doesn't spoil. If I have a lot of milk, I can sell it while it is fresh and I can keep the money and spend it long after the milk is gone. In other words, I can save money for later. But there is one thing that Jevons didn't even define, because it's so obvious. And that is that money can be used by anyone. We may not all have the same amount of money, but we all have access to it, to buy and sell our goods or our labour.

And naw wa cam ta tha bak.

Yes, now we come to the book. This Dutch economist, his name is... I hope I'll get this right... Pjotr van Voogt tot Burema, and he tells us that there is another currency out there, to which half of the world's population has no access. In other words, there is a way to get goods and services that cannot be used by over four billion people.

Ah hate thas gah.

You hate this guy? Well, you're not alone. That's why we didn't send you to interview him, but I went to meet him in his office in Amsterdam.

Cut to package.

Hello David, welcome to The Netherlands.

Thank you for having me, Professor. Or should I say Doctor? Because you're both, right?

Ah yes, I am. I hold a Masters in economics and I teach, so I'm a professor of economics but I am also a Doctor of Sociology, here at the university of Amsterdam. And please, call me Pjotr. Would you like some tea or coffee?

I sat down with Professor Doctor... oh dear... van Voogt tot Burema, who has a lovely corner office overlooking a busy street in the heart of downtown Amsterdam. He is a gentle man in his early forties and he looks every bit like you'd expect: a wild mop top of professorial hair, an outdated jacket complete with elbow patches, some chalk dust on his sleeves, thin glasses and an office that is packed to the rafters with books and research papers. An assistant brought us coffee and then we sat down to talk about this mystery currency. So, Professor, what is this Female Currency?

Well, I hope your American listeners won't be shocked when I say it out loud, but it is sex.

We can say the word sex, Professor.

Good. Well, that is the primary currency. One in three women admit to having used sex to procure goods or services. That could be anything from a free drink to help moving house, although the classic example is a wedding ring.

Is that prostitution?

Not by most definitions. Mostly because in the case of prostitution the exact payment is known and handled beforehand and it involves people who are strangers to each other.

But don't men do this?

Men exchange other things for goods and services. They might provide physical protection or social status, father and raise a child, do repairs or maintenance, things of that nature. But that's far more varied and women can also offer these things. But men rarely if ever get to exchange sex. There are male prostitutes, but they are extremely rare and serve very specific women. Specifically, women who are so involved with their careers that they have no time to date or even to find a free encounter. Other than that, male prostitution occurs only in the gay community. Female affection is far more in demand. Conversely, any woman will tell you that sex can be arranged in a matter of minutes, provided the bar isn't set too high. Most women are offered sex, often quite against their will, several times per day or week. Which, by the way, is unpleasant and in no way acceptable behaviour by men. I'd like to stress that point. Behave, gentlemen. Behave.

Now... One in three women... how accurate is that number?

We looked at the data from several surveys. This exact question was never asked, but it can be extrapolated from other data. How many women demand a wedding ring of a certain value, for instance. How many women actually work in prostitution. How many would sleep with George Clooney, based on self-reported numbers. If we weigh all these answers, we can get a pretty fair assessment. The number is global, by the way. The Arab world takes the average down considerably, as do many other deeply religious communities. In the Western world, the number is closer to seventy percent. Two out of every three, in other words.

So one in three women are prostitutes?

No! I don't... That is absolutely not what I'm saying. Prostitution is not the same as using the female currency. It's just... using what the good Lord gave you, so to speak.

I'd like to turn to page sixty of your paper, where you come up with a remarkable theory: mandatory prostitution.

That is absolutely NOT what that section is about!

What is it about then? Because you discuss how young women should work as prostitutes for a few months, to...

I said no such thing! I am referencing one female prostitute, who said in an interview I used as source material, that it would be a good idea IN HER EYES if every woman worked as a prostitute at least once in her life. Because that would reduce or even remove the stigma of prostitution. I thought she might be onto something, so I did a sort of 'thought experiment', if you will, to see what would happen if prostitution was more commonly accepted.

The idea you propose is that, much like military service, young women would work for a few months as prostitutes.

I don't propose anything. Look, it's just a way to explain how much women would benefit. It's just... You know, I hope your listeners are mature enough to understand that this is just a thought experiment. It's as realistic as saying: 'What if the entire world ate nothing but cheese?' But suppose that it was commonplace for young women to work in a brothel for a few months. There would be a lot of benefits.

How so?

Well, for one thing there would be absolutely no debate on birth control. It would be crystal clear that birth control for women was of extreme importance. It would be free and ubiquitous. Birth control is one of the most important contributors to female health. For another, it would end the stigma of prostitution. It would improve sexual and mental health within the general population immensely if that taboo disappeared. Being a sex worker would get the same respect as being a nurse. And we all cheer and admire nurses. There would be no more illegal prostitution, simply because there would be a constant and large supply. There is no more money to be made forcing women into it if each year every girl who left school worked in a brothel for a while. Need I go on?

Uhmmm.... Yes... please... Can you?

Right. Women would also learn about sex, from having been with several men and talking amongst themselves. After all, it would teach them right away what their market value is and how to improve their... service level. Young men would also find it easier to get some experience. That would decrease sexual violence against women by a lot. You don't have to bother a young girl in a bar if you can go to an affordable brothel and find an identical one who will happily provide what you need.

Okay... But not all women will want to do that that.

Listen, I served in the army when I was twenty-one. I didn't want to, but they made me. The alternative was prison. National service, you see. My needs were deemed unimportant. I didn't want to crawl through the mud and I certainly didn't want to shower with other men, or sleep with seven others to a room. But everyone had to do it. Now I'm not saying all women should be prostitutes. They could be webcam girls, if that suited them better. They'd have to do that a bit longer, of course. But I wasn't done listing the benefits. Women would start life with a nice bit of money. Some more than others, but generally women begin adult life with fewer financial means. A spell as a prostitute would certainly fix that, even if on average the prices went down a bit from all the extra supply in this market. It would make women less dependent on men. They might opt to educate themselves for longer. But at the same time, we know that highly educated women look down on men who are on a lower rung of the social ladder. Women want to marry up. We already have a problem with a surplus of highly educated single women, and on the other side a lot of single men who do not have a lot of education. Having experience as a prostitute might put their relative value into perspective. It would make women less fussy, is what I'm saying. They would be more inclined to find a partner who is on their level or maybe one rung lower. In the end, that would help the single men at the bottom of the ladder, too. And those men often cause considerably less problems when they have the love of a good woman, if I can put it like that.

Yes... Uhm... Wow... So all women would have to...

NO WOMAN WOULD HAVE TO DO ANYTHING. It is a THOUGHT EXPERIMENT. By giving an extreme example, like 'what if we banned all cars' or something, we get extreme outcomes. But they help us to see subtler patterns. If we get rid of all the cars, we'll destroy our economy. But we'd also see a massive health increase, because people would have to walk a lot more and the air would be cleaner. That doesn't mean cars are poisonous, but it DOES tell us that taxing fuel will have SOME effect on health and the economy. That's what the thought experiment illustrates: it's quite obvious that the fact women use sex and affection as a currency works against them in many ways. It creates scarcity, and therefore it makes all of their lives more unsafe and unpleasant than it needs to be. It causes them to see each other as rivals, because they all want to attract the men who are willing to offer the most for their affection. It causes many of them to end up alone, just like someone who wants to sell a second hand TV for an unrealistic price will end up storing it in his attic until the thing is outdated and nobody wants it.

Oh, wow...

Sah at laks lahk ya rallah passed aff tha prafassar.

Yes, he was getting very annoyed with me. So I decided to move on.

Professor, when is your paper due out?

About two weeks from now. I don't know when your show airs, but...

It's a Podcast.

Oh, I see. Well, we will present the paper here at the university on the 14th of September. Or will have presented. Then the peer review process will start. Or will have started.

Any ideas for a new paper?

Oh, yes! I think high frequency trading might be an interesting topic to tackle. Lawmakers seem increasingly interested in banning it, so a neutral look at the phenomenon seems to be in order. Everything out there so far seems to have been commissioned by lawyers defending HFT firms and I can't abide academic dishonesty.

I... thank you for this interview, Professor.

On the one hand, I wish I'd never written that paper. On the other hand, I shudder to think what might have happened if I had not. It was just that: a paper. Every now and then you're supposed to come out with one. I'm a tenured university professor, I have two doctorates: it's what they pay me for. Teach classes, put out papers.

Fortunately, it's not that hard; you make your students do all the leg work. That is why so many papers come out each year, especially in my field. Most of them will be read by anywhere between thirty and a hundred people and it may get a mention in the wildly interesting publication 'Oxford Economic Papers'. When it's done, the university pays for ninety minutes in the hospitality room with wine and cheese, a few printed copies are sent off to gather dust in university libraries round the world and that, by and large, is the last thing you'll ever hear of such riveting titles as 'Demand Uncertainty and Unemployment' or 'Firm Restructuring and the Optimal Speed of Trade Reform'.

If you actually teach, you might boost your readership by making your paper (which you pad out to a book) part of the curriculum. Only assholes do this, in my experience. Essentially it's an 80-Euro tax on your pupils. I did use some of my own books in my classes, but I mailed out the PDF to the class in advance, including a list of chapters they needn't bother to print. My salary is quite enough and scholarships aren't particularly generous these days.

When my paper was complete and had been peer-reviewed by a few people who were so busy they didn't even type their full name as they signed off their emails, I expected it would all go exactly the same as before. Ninety minutes of shaking hands, signing the copies that would be sent off to the Library of Congress and the University of Amsterdam library and then I wouldn't have to worry about producing another one for at least two years. Don't worry, I'd still be up to my neck in mentorships, academic evaluations, panel work and teaching.

This year had been different. First of all, my wife had not been at my side during the presentation. We were still going through the divorce the last time I published and she had been kind enough to show up then, but by now everyone knew we had split up and we didn't bother each other for things like this. Don't kid yourself: there is no such thing as an amicable divorce. But we had reached the point where we sent each other kind words for birthdays and the holidays, inquired about former in-laws and occasionally met up to deal with something that popped up from the past; friends from long ago who hadn't yet heard the news, a funeral where we were both expected to attend, paperwork that required a joint signature. But those matters were over and dealt with by now and the last time I had seen Danielle in the flesh was two years ago. And what lot of flesh there had been...

Okay, that's not fair. She was stout, if anything. Technically obese, but that's mainly because the BMI-scale is such a poorly designed measure. Actually, I'm selling Lambert Adolphe Jacques Quetelet short here, because even he said it should never be used to indicate fatness in an individual. It was meant to provide a quick and dirty way to gauge the population as a whole. There's also no reason to square a person's height, as the formula does. And it ignores waist size, which I think you'll agree should be part of any half decent measure for obesity. Still, Danielle wasn't what you might call dainty. It's just that it was about the only thing I could think of to complain about when I was in one of those situations where men are holding a beer and talk about women.

So, Pjotr, why did you ditch your wife?

She ditched me, but I preferred not to bring that up.

Well, you know, it was getting to the point Stephen Hawking was working on a theory about the size of her ass.

I know. I'm an asshole when I've had a few. I was just hurting, and that's when you lash out. I really did love her. But I could understand why she stopped loving me, to be honest. I'm not the manliest man you'll ever meet. Not effeminate, mind you. Just... not your typical man. I can't even hang a painting on a wall. I know nothing of cars. I despise soccer. Judo had managed to hold my attention for a few years in high school, but that was about it. I had one trophy: silver in a regional tournament. I was a black belt (first dan or shodan, the lowest one) but I'll remind you it's judo, not karate. I had to ask my wife to open troublesome jars. Oh, I'd been in the army alright. But after basic they stuck me in an office and had me review the effectiveness of several cost saving measures. Quite good fun for fifteen months, actually. Never felt manlier than when I boarded the train in my uniform each morning. It never got me laid, though. I hadn't met Danielle by then, but when she saw pictures of me in uniform she asked if I was supposed to be a tree. I'd rather be mistaken for a tree than a forest, okay?

The straw that had broken the camel's back had been this: a TV show. It was called Love Academy and it was hosted by a Flemish sexologist called Goedele Liekens. It's the sort of show where you think: 'How the HELL do they get people to sign up for this?' Over the course of eight weeks, couples that have unsatisfactory marriages are put through a series of shameful exercises, to be performed in front of a camera. Men are asked to write poems (which I would have managed, probably) or to instruct an artist to draw a picture of their wives in their preferred sexy outfit. It gets worse in a hurry after that; around episode three the men are expected to give blowjobs to bananas to see 'what that is like'. Excuse me, but I live in Amsterdam. Had I ever been remotely interested to know what that is like, I think I'd have been able to find someone willing to accommodate me.

Anyway, quite out of the blue Danielle had suggested we sign up for the next season of this horrible, degrading, low brow show. Me! I'm a teacher! I teach hundreds of students a week. I'm a respected scholar. I am a man of learning. I have two academic titles. How likely is it that I will willingly sign up to take part in a TV show where I am asked to caress my wife's breasts on national television, or show her on a rubber dildo how exactly I'd like her tongue to flick against the tip of my dick?

Mind you, I wouldn't even have signed up for it if I'd been a Norwegian lighthouse keeper, but this would have been professional suicide and my life at the university would have become a living hell. I'd find a fresh banana on my desk until the day I retired, I was sure of it. So I politely declined, or maybe not so politely, and that is when she told me she'd had enough.

As an economist AND a sociologist, let me say this: do not get divorced, if you can at all avoid it. It's phenomenally destructive and life after gets a lot more expensive. The savings of a shared household alone are massive: if two singles each spend 1000 dollars (I'm keeping it simple for those amongst you who may not regularly read academic papers) on the cost of living, then those people living together would only spend 1300 dollars rather than 2000. In other words; there are massive cost benefits to sharing resources. And that's just the financial side of it. Men, on average, need five years to get back to same level of happiness (and financial security) after a separation. Women, in many cases, NEVER recover from their divorce. Zsa Zsa Gabor notwithstanding, obviously. She once said: 'I am an excellent housekeeper. Whenever I get divorced, I keep the house.' Which is funny, but hardly true for most women.

Financially speaking, both of us had recovered somewhat quicker than the average. We had to sell our house at the height of the Dutch housing crisis, taking a loss of twenty percent, so that hurt a lot. We'd gone in big, with most of our savings, because we figured our relationship would be forever. Those savings weren't all that impressive, because both of us had decided to do some travelling after we had graduated and neither of us is the backpacking, roach motel type. It's actually how we met: on a bus tour through India and Nepal. (Here's a tip: always visit Nepal last, because you will lose your faith in humanity in India. Nepal is like a breath of fresh air after India. Literally.)

Anyway, neither of us had all that much left to start over with but we both had decent and steady jobs so a new mortgage, although expensive, was feasible for both of us. Danielle was a biochemist for DSM. She actually made more than I did and got herself a house in Almere, which is a bland city built from scratch in the 60's on land reclaimed from the IJsselmeer, the inland lake we created by damming off an inland sea. As you know God created the Earth, but the Dutch created the Netherlands. That's something to be proud of. But you never hear us saying WHAT we created, because the result is the province of Flevoland and I honestly wouldn't be found dead there. Actually, I would: of boredom. I'll gladly live with a bit more noise and in a smaller (I call it: 'cosier') house if I can be in Amsterdam, where the shops never close and you don't need a car to get around. My commute is fifteen minutes by bike, for Pete's sake! How can you put a price on that?

Turns out you can, because if you live in downtown Amsterdam you're either quite rich (at least on a global scale) or you're in a rent-controlled house that the building corporation can't wait to demolish and kick you out of. The actual price is about 70,000 euro per year, to maintain the same standard of living in Amsterdam as in the northern hamlet of Drogteropslagen (population: 564. Average house price: 93,000 euro. Public amenities: 1 mail box, 3 street lamps, 1 public trash can (dog poop only). Nearest Post Office: 48 minutes by bus, of which 36 minutes are spent walking to the nearest bus stop.)

As an academic it had taken me a while to finally start earning some money, but tenure helps to get your mortgage approved. I absolutely didn't want to leave Amsterdam, so I paid the premium for that. I know it's not nearly as bad as London or Manhattan, but 350,000 euro doesn't really buy you all that much. Even so, I managed to get a cosy two floor apartment of about 80 m2 in the Jordaan district and I was quite happy with that. I can't really cook, so being able to get food from every continent (except Antarctica, but I'm expecting a 'Tastes of McMurdo' to set up shop any day now) is really a major benefit. You can also get tradesmen to come to your house really easily, which is good because I really don't know how to work anything other than a computer keyboard and a can opener. And I struggle with that, so I had an automatic opener. Marvellous invention, very much underrated.

I did everything by bike, so I bought myself a sturdy one with a crate hanging off the handle bar and that really covered virtually all my transportation needs. If I had to travel out of town, I went by train. On very rare occasions I'd get a car from Greenwheels, a public car sharing service, but I switched to their 'pay as you go' scheme a year ago, because I found I only ever made two or three trips per year.

I don't really like driving. I don't know why, but as soon as I get behind the wheel, my mind wanders to the topic of sex. Isn't that odd? If I drive more than ten kilometres I end up with a raging hard-on. That's not nice. And completely useless, in my life. The only women remotely interested in sleeping with me were female students (maybe males too, who knows) with poor grades. Obviously that was out of the question. I had tenure. No way, no how was I giving that up. Besides, there are other ways to solve that problem in Amsterdam. I hadn't actually availed myself of them, but it's comforting to know it's just a phone call or a bike ride away. (Who am I kidding; I'd never go to the red light district. Thousands of people have taken my classes and I don't know their faces, do I? Amsterdam is a village, and that includes gossip.)

And so I was one of the millions of bikers who terrorise the city every day and yes, I have inadvertently run over my share of tourists. I've even done the classic 'getting your front wheel stuck in the tram rails' bit, and fractured my wrist. That was the only time I ever had any use for my judo training; I took the fall well enough and was initially uninjured, but then an Italian tourist on a rented moped drove over my arm.

So let's get back to that paper. We had 150 copies printed and as all our University publications require an ISBN number and a copy with a hard cover it was technically a book, rather than a paper. It was my sixth publication as lead author at the time, so the novelty of appearing in print had worn off. I was just glad I'd have at least a year before I had to think of another subject for a publication. Meanwhile I would claim to be 'following the literature' and 'doing follow-ups'. Look, I'm not lazy, okay? I just wanted to enjoy my steady job and I harboured no illusions about being the next great mind that would advance The Dismal Science. I taught, and I did it rather well. That was enough, wasn't it?

The press office had sent out the routine press release a few weeks before. The reporter from Planet Pecunia requested an interview but I was glad to see him leave and who listens to Podcasts anyway? To my absolute astonishment an actual journalist showed up, just when I was signing the first copy. He was with 'De Telegraaf', which is not exactly a quality newspaper and certainly not one you'd expect to show any interest in academic matters. 'Police Tickets Guide Dog' and 'Immigrants May Cause Diabetes, Says Study', that's more their sort of thing. The chap who spoke to me was perfectly pleasant, though. Had he actually been wearing a dirty Mac, I might have paid more attention.

Congratulations on your book, Professor!

Thank you very much, Mister... ah...

Danny de Vries! I'm with De Telegraaf. Signing copies for your fans, are you?

No, not really. It's tradition to sign two copies, you see. One for the university, one for the Library of Congress. In America.

I'll admit it was pure pedantry of me to add that. He did indeed seem to think that was something special, but the fact of the matter is that they keep a copy of every book ever published, as long as it has an ISBN number. Signing the copy is actually sort of a joke, because nobody will ever retrieve it. The book isn't even on a shelf. It's in storage, somewhere.

Oh, really? Is it for the president?

I was sure he meant the American president, because The Netherlands has a Prime Minister.

Well, it becomes his property, in a way. You see, they...

And what happens to the rest of them? he said, pointing at the stack.

They have been or will be requested by economics libraries around the world, maybe some think tanks.

Again, nothing special. I could publish the Big Book of Farts and they'd order a copy, simply because my publications are listed in the right journals. Don't think I've never considered it, but it would be my last publication. Or maybe second-to-last because it takes a while for these things to get found out. I would call it 'On public methane emissions and their signatures in a free market atmosphere'.

Impressive! So what's it about then?

Why was he here, if he didn't know? But then again, asking the obvious is what journalists do. My students kept a polite distance, amused by the inane questions of this man.

It's a study about the resources that women have at their disposal in economic life. We all know that women don't get paid as much as men, for various reasons. The...

Such as?

Such as not daring to ask for more money when it's time to negotiate a raise. Or feeling that they aren't contributing as much as their male colleagues, because men tend to exaggerate their importance. But the...

I see. So what IS 'the female currency' then?

Ah. Well, you see, women do have some advantages over men. They can leverage the fact they are women, the keepers of love and physical affection, and turn that into an economic resource. Women create artificial scarcity, you see, by not...

The keepers of love and physical affection?

Yes. Women, young and attractive women in particular, can do something that only central banks can; they can create wealth. By providing men with something they want, be it just some attention or actual sex, they can...

Oh, like hookers!

What? No! Well, yes, I mean, sure, prostitution is somewhat like that because there is virtually no demand for sex from women towards men. There is some, but there is such an abundant supply of free sex on offer from men that it has no value. The average man would starve as a sex worker. The average woman does just fine. But women have learned to limit the supply of sex they provide, in order to...

Oh, I see! So they sleep with the boss and they get a pay rise? That's what your book is about, is it?

I could see the panic setting in around me. My students vehemently shook their heads at me, as if I wasn't aware of the contents of my own book. The faculty staff, which nobody would ever mistake for an impromptu gathering of bikers and body builders, backed away from this stupidity.

No. That's entirely wrong. Here, I'd like you to have this copy.

I took a book from the pile and handed it to him. The Economics department of the University of KwaZulu-Natal would just have to wait for the second edition. Which would never come. I'd simply mail Dr. Zweli Mkhize the PDF.

Read this and you'll understand what it's about.

Oh, thanks! Before I go: will you sign it?

Ah... ah... yes, sure, of course.

I opened the book and took a pen from my breast pocket.

Professor? he asked. I looked up and was caught by the flash of a camera phone. He looked at the screen.

Ah, lovely. You can see the cover. Now, the autograph?

For God's sake, who will rid me of this troublesome fool? I signed the cover sheet and handed him the book.

There you are. Once you've read it, I shall be happy to answer any questions you might have.

Really?

Yes.

Over coffee?

I'd have agreed to taking his questions in the back of a dog sled at this point, just to get him to leave.

Yes, absolutely. Any questions... come to me.

Wonderful! Well, thanks very much!

And away he was.

The next day there was an interview with me on page six of the biggest newspaper of The Netherlands, and on their website. I'll translate it for you, even though I can't actually stand to look at the clipping without seeing my life about to explode in my face, like an idiot holding an avalanche rocket in his teeth whilst lighting a cigarette.

MEN USE MONEY, BUT WOMEN USE SEX!

A new study into the way women pay their way in life by using their bodies was published by Professor Doctor Pjotr van Voogt tot Burema of the University of Amsterdam (UvA). In an exclusive interview with De Telegraaf, he tells us all about the way women exploit men by preying on their weakness; a desire for sex, love and affection.

Traditionally, women don't make as much as men, explains the Professor, who teaches hundreds of students his theories each week. That is because they don't have proper negotiating skills and don't contribute as much in the work place. However, they compensate for this by using their feminine wiles and their bodies. It's all laid out in detail in the book, which is expected to be read all over the world. In chapter 7 of the book, it is explained how between the ages of 18 and 40 the average woman will have had enough sex to earn herself a brand new Mercedes! And did you know sexual crimes against women would disappear overnight if all young women were sent to state-run brothels?

Prof. Dr. van Voogt tot Burema will be presenting his findings to the President of the United States and passing them on to several so called 'think tanks', as he believes his findings will have a profound effect on the way we look at the income of women. In fact, he signed a copy for president Obama in the presence of our reporter. (Pictured.) To win your own signed copy of 'The Female Currency' and an exclusive face to face with the author, enter our competition by answering this question: 'Do you think it's fair women can extort men with sex?'

I don't take De Telegraaf. I read a quality newspaper. And so I was blissfully ignorant of the shit-storm that was brewing as I biked to work the next day. I stopped for a chai latte on the way and handed in a slip with my weekly menu selection at the vegetarian delicatessen shop on the Rozengracht. I can't really cook, but when I go home I always stop there to pick up a styrofoam box with a delicious meal I can pop into the microwave. Once a month I drop off those boxes for recycling and pay in advance for the next month. It's amazing food and they are right next to the yoga centre, where I tend to go a few times a month to just let it all slide off me. In fact, I was planning to go tonight. Had I known who was waiting for me to show up, I'd have booked a double session with an aromatherapy treat for afters.

What the HELL did you do?! yelled the Faculty Coordinator. I'm sorry, but absolutely nothing in the Dutch education system has an equivalency in the English or American system. In fact, I'm always struggling to translate my own title. We're trying to standardise it, but it's slow going. Think of this man as the Dean and we'll make it work, somehow.

Three people were in my office, which I shared with a colleague who had been on sick leave since 2012. There was someone from the board of directors (again, that's not what they're called), a lady from the press office and the FC.

Oh. Hello. Good morning.

I wondered if someone had died. My roommate, perhaps? Would I be allowed to keep this office to myself? Or would I get a new one?

No, it isn't! Have you read the paper!? he said, holding up De Telegraaf. His fingers were smudged. They like their fonts big at De Telegraaf.

Not that one, no. I generally read the NRC on my iPad.

Did you give an unauthorised interview? bristled PR.

What? No! I gave someone a book, to PREPARE for an interview! And anyway, you sent out a press release, didn't you? Well, guess what: someone showed up!

It became a shouting match, until I actually got around to reading the article. Then I stopped shouting in a hurry, I don't mind telling you. Though not for long:

That's... There isn't a word in there that's factually correct!

Apart from your name. And your titles. And where you work, said Board of Directors-guy. And that's quite a big picture you posed for, isn't it?

I didn't pose for it! He snuck up on me! Look, this is... I didn't say any of this and he clearly hasn't read the book. But it's De Telegraaf, for Pete's sake. Tomorrow a kitten will meow the word 'please' or Jesus will appear on someone's toast and they will have forgotten all about it.

WHAT IS IN CHAPTER SEVEN? bellowed the FC.

You signed off on the book!

I sign a lot of things! What's that chapter? Women fucking for cars, what's that about?

It doesn't say that! It's a comparative table that looks at the average hourly rate for prostitutes in twenty countries and cross-indexes that to the income disparity for five typically female occupations. From that, you can extrapolate how many hours it takes the average woman in those countries to earn, say, a car. And then you know the difference in value between the...

Oh my God! What did I sign?! You're mad! It's your divorce, isn't it? You've been a grumpy old sod ever since she left you and now you've fucking gone and quantified... Oh Jesus Christ! We've PRINTED this! This has our name all over it!

The FC sat down in my chair and rubbed his left arm vigourously.

I have a class to teach in ten minutes, so if I can just get to my drawer, I can...

Do we allow that? asked the FC. Can he still teach?

Not unsupervised, answered BoD.

I'll come with him, added PR. I had never seen that lady in my life! I wouldn't hear of it, but I needed to get going and I couldn't very well stop her from following me to a building across the street, where our classrooms were. I could, however, pretend to get into the lift and then pop out just before the doors closed. In our building, the doors only stop if they hit something. I waved at her and took the stairs. Then I took a side exit and that seemed to have done the trick.

The University of Amsterdam doesn't have a central campus; it has grown over time and takes up over a dozen buildings within Amsterdam. They try to keep academic disciplines grouped together, and the Economics department is mainly clustered around the Sarphatistraat, which you may know from the tram stop if you've ever been to the Tropenmuseum (Museum of the Tropics) or Artis, which is one of the oldest zoos of mainland Europe. At other universities lecturers get their own parking space, with their name on a little sign. We laugh at that in Amsterdam; I have a reserved parking space for my bike in every building. Most of the faculty members live in Amsterdam and those that don't by and large use public transport to get around. Today I was lucky; I just needed to cross the street.

My class that day was the third lesson of an introductory class in economics we provide for all students of the UvA. Even the layabouts from such useless courses as 'Scandinavian languages and literature' had to take it, which is a bit like teaching a dog to speak Aramaic: impressive it if pulls it off, but it's not going to get much use out of it. Fortunately, they could drop out after one year, but anyone who was planning to do something serious with their lives had classes with us in their first two years. Two of my colleagues taught this one as well. It's a bit silly to have a distinguished academic such as myself teaching the basics of supply and demand to a bunch of twenty-somethings, but it's part of the job and I try to make it relevant for everybody who attends. Our pre-meds, too, need to understand how markets can signal demand better than a bunch of whiny sick people going 'Yes, I will have any treatment I can get if it's cheap and doesn't hurt too much!'. And engineers all want to be part of the next big start-up, so they're much more interested in my subject than they used to be. Some come in expecting detailed instructions on how to apply to be on the stock market. How about you invent something first, slick? What's that? You've designed a version of Facebook for taxis that take you to exclusive B&Bs? No, I'm not helping you with your IPO.

First year classes are massive, because we haven't thinned the herd yet. I was expecting to see around three hundred people; it's a class I teach in a room that is so big I wear a headset and there are two microphones set up in the aisles, so I can hear what people are asking. It's not for everyone, teaching those large groups. I have colleagues who absolutely refuse to do it, but I suppose I'm a bit of a show-off.

Today looked to be a busy day. People were filing out of the blue and white municipal trams, hundreds of bikes were parked outside the building and the security guy was outside, keeping an eye on things. He was chatting with a man in a big, square van.

Sorry mate, you can't park here. It's not me, it's the police.

We have permits to park wherever we like, argued the driver.

Well, that's fine with me. But don't complain if they tow your van.

We'll be fine, trust me. Is it always this busy?

Start of the year. But it's a madhouse today.

We don't have metal detectors and nonsense like that (yet), but we do have electronic gates. They're supposed to keep out the homeless more than anything. Usually entry is about as fast as the Paris Underground, but today there was a queue for the turnstiles. People were loitering in the corridor, so there was no room for those who wanted to enter. The security guy spotted me and waved me into his small office, so I could skip the line.

Morning! he said, with a professionally cheerful smile. He didn't add my title, because this is Holland and we really can't be bothered with that. He probably didn't know it, either.

Good morning. Busy day today, I said, squeezing past his desk.

Yeah, I think they want to be on the telly. They're filming today.

Oh, right. What for?

I dunno. There's usually camera crews at the start of the year. For next year's publicity. Can't put kids on the website with clothes that are two years out of date, can you? Or holding last year's iPhone!

I laughed and entered the service corridor that circumvented the main lobby.

You've been around the block, I can tell. Thanks for the shortcut.

Any time!

I made my way to the small prep room at the back of auditorium four, where I donned my headset and booted up the laptop that would display my slides. Then I checked my watch and entered through a door next to the stage, so I could switch on the projector on the ceiling and fix the settings of the supposedly fool-proof audiovisual system that somehow is broken half the time. You'd be amazed how completely inept my fellow professors are when it comes to such a simple matter as 'selecting the right audiovisual source'. My goodness, how many stickers can you fit on one remote? I am really not very technically minded, but at least I know how to work a television.

There was an excited murmur as I stepped onto the stage. That was new. Usually there is an air of relief that the teacher actually showed up, because for most students getting here is a trip across town and people don't like to make it in vain. Now a rowdy group of young men were applauding, and others were shushing them. I made my final adjustments and dimmed the lights somewhat. I have gotten used to the fact that I then face a sea of Apple logos. It didn't used to be like that in my day.

Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. What beautiful computers you all have. Now, who am I to object to students taking notes, but I would like to point out that there are annotated versions of the slides I am about to show you on the intranet and I would be amazed if your notes were better than those. So if you want to save your battery, why not put the machine on standby and that way you won't be tempted to check the news or update Facebook.

Normally about five people actually close the lid and the rest of them don't even look up. I would dearly like to ban these bloody things, but then again I have already graduated (twice) and they haven't, so it's their lookout. Today was a good day: dozens of laptops were closed.

Right. Thank you. Today we are going to continue our introduction to Macroeconomics. A brief refresher: Macro is large, which means we are going to be... Yes?

A young man had moved to the microphone on the right hand aisle and pressed a button. That makes a red light switch on, so I can see there's somebody there with a question. (The fact there is someone standing there is something of a clue, but quite a few of my colleagues are fairly myopic and would probably not see anyone out there. Either that or they can only bring themselves to look at their notes.)

Are you going to talk about your book?

There were cheers. It began to dawn on me why it was so busy here. All this from a small article on page six? I assumed these kids got all their news from the free papers they give out at the train station. De Telegraaf isn't actually free, though it might as well be since two thirds of it were ads. Most of these kids had not bought a newspaper in their lives, and never would.

No.

Oh, come on!

A girl got up and stood behind the other mic stand.

Are you going to explain why we are all whores, then? she asked in a disparaging tone. I turned on the auditorium lights again, because I wanted to see what was going on. It seemed as if every young man in the room was laughing and every young woman was either looking at me in disgust or hissing.

What?! Look, that piece in De Telegraaf was a load of nonsense. I know you're all young, but you're supposed to have learned that it is not a quality newspaper.

So what DOES your book say, then?

You'll note that nobody added 'Professor' when they addressed me. There are a few reasons for that. For one thing, we're quite an egalitarian society. Very few people use their titles. Mine are on my door and my business card. You can find them in the syllabus, but they're not even mentioned on the class rosters. Generally, these kids address me in the formal form (English doesn't have that, but in Dutch, as in French, there is a formal and an informal 'you') and if they REALLY want to make a good impression they will call me 'Meneer' (Mister). When we work in small groups, I'm fine with being called Pjotr, more so because my last name is a bit long. Too bad Pjotr is such a stupid name, but I was born in the seventies. I'm used to it now, but it does tell you something about my parents, namely that they were idealistic twats. Who gives a kid a Russian name?

We are not here to discuss my paper. It's a paper, not a book. And if you make it to year four, we may have a look at the underlying theories. But for now...

That's as far as I got. I was booed! And by quite a few people, I might add.

Well, I can't wait that long! said the girl, emboldened by the people around her. You have written a book that says all women are whores and we deserve an explanation!

Where does it say that? Have you even READ it?

PROVE IT! PROVE IT! shouted the boys, as if they were taking my side. To my surprise, the girl actually produced a copy of my book and turned it to a page she had earmarked with a yellow post-it note. (It's nice to see young people respecting printed books, isn't it?) Then she read a section out loud:

Chapter nine. Comparative incomes of sex workers and office workers. Introduction. The most direct way for women to earn money through providing men with sex is prostitution. As this occupation is dangerous and frowned upon, relatively few women choose this direct path. For those that feel they would rather keep their dignity or reputation intact, it would be interesting to know the cost of this dignity. Table twelve A compares the hourly income of prostitutes in seventeen nations and that of junior office workers.

She slammed the book shut and had to wait a few seconds to ride out a virtual hurricane of shouting and screaming from one side of the room and laughter and applause from the other side. I found myself pacing up and down the stage, trying to remember exactly what that table meant to convey.

"Now tell me how that does NOT say: 'Most women aren't whores because they're a bit fussy!' demanded the girl. There was laughter from the boys.

Look! Miss... What is your name?

Ellen.

Ellen. Ellen, this book does not offer value judgements. I am not saying it's good or bad to be a prostitute, or to be an office worker. Obviously, we need them both. But...

WHAT? WHY DO WE NEED WHORES?

Because there is a shortage of sex in our society, caused by women. There is an artificial scarcity that is hurting men. And that means there is a market. We need to know about this market, so we can legislate...

Are you saying there aren't ENOUGH whores?

Now people were laughing.

Well, yes. In an ideal world there are exactly as many whores... I'm sorry, prostitutes, as the demand can sustain. But there aren't, because many women prefer not to work in that trade. It's dangerous, for one thing. But why is it dangerous? Because in many countries it is illegal. It isn't in our country, but that means it is taxed. In countries where it's not legal, the government can't tax it. So that's interesting, because now we can try to work out what the legal status and the tax status mean for the average hourly rate. And you'll find that in poor or socially backward countries, such as India or The United States, prostitutes make considerably more money than they would have made in an office job, if you assume that they spend about forty hours being available to customers. Not having sex all the time, obviously. But office workers are generally only productive for about three hours a day as well. Now in our country, being promoted... I'm sorry, you must all be quiet... being promoted... to even a mid-level management... Please! I must insist!

Even though I was using my headset and my voice boomed from two speakers on both sides of the stage, I could barely make myself understood. The girls tried to get a chant going but couldn't decide on what it should be. The boys were shouting and laughing. Some of them, mostly the ones with dreadlocks and weird facial hair, were on the side of the girls and shook their fists at me. I waited for a minute, but as soon as I went on, speaking was made impossible by a renewed chorus of complaints and abuse. And then I happened to look into the light booth in the middle of the back rows; whenever we did more complex presentations, we'd get a technician from the audiovisual department. He'd sit there and work the lights and the wireless microphones. Now I saw that there was a camera on a tripod there, filming me through the glass!

That was it for me. I took off the headset. For some reason I had the presence of mind to turn off the LCD projector on the ceiling (those lamps are quite expensive I'm told) and then I moved towards the side door. By now the ladies had agreed on a slogan:

FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!

Well... If they'd actually done that when I was a student, perhaps I wouldn't have had to write this paper, now would I?

I locked the stage door behind me, as I was instructed to do by a sheet of A4 paper stuck to it on the inside. 'Lock the door at all times to prevent the equipment from being stolen,' it said, in Comic Sans MS. I find it hard to take any instruction seriously if it is given in that typeface, but today I needed very little encouragement to turn the knob and lock the door. As I turned around, I saw the PR lady leaning against the tiny desk.

That's why you needed supervision, professor van Voogt tot Burema.

I latched onto her. Proverbially, I might add.

Look, I'm sure most of those people aren't even in this class! And they don't understand my paper.

I think they understand your paper well enough. It's disgusting, if you ask me.

Now I got angry.

But I didn't ask, did I? What's the qualification for being a PR girl, isn't that a Bachelor's degree in Communication studies? Did you read even a single word of my paper?

She reacted very unprofessionally:

Good luck, professor, she said, as she left me to fend for myself. Someone tried the door handle.

Hello? Professor? Why did you run away? a female voice demanded. I hastily packed my stuff and made my way through the corridor. There I found the security guy again. He pulled a puzzled face