Girls Gone Idle: The Bunny Motel Investigation
Photo Credits: Violet Voxel, Sarah Tonin, "Jake," Chili
Lazy Summary
Unique business model that took us three hours to understand
Excellent location for hard-hitting investigative journalism
Perfect for those seeking the authentic experience of shouting at a sex worker
Free as in "whatever you feel like tipping"
Recommended for suspension of disbelief enthusiasts
From the Pheromonal Investigation Files of Sarah Tonin:
It was 7 AM, and we were sitting at a Starbucks, frantically making press badges from napkins. Violet was on her third espresso.
Dirk had texted three times overnight. The last one read, "Bunny Motel. Girls Gone In, none come out. Rumour is it's a front for something."
I looked across the table at Violet, who was hot-glueing a tiny camera inside a tube of lipstick with the intensity of someone who had clearly attempted this before. "How do you feel about investigative journalism? Feels adjacent to our usual beat."
"Is that the one where we ask the hard-hitting questions?" She held up the lipstick camera, admiring her handiwork. The lens was like a beauty mark.
I flinched at 'hard-hitting,' our pre-couples therapy makeup session still fresh in my mind. "Something like that." I slid my phone across to her, showing the pictures Dirk had included. They were blurry, but clearly showed women milling around a courtyard. "He thinks he's stumbled on something big."
Twenty minutes later, we were standing outside the Bunny Motel with press badges that looked like they had been designed by someone with a minor stroke. Our cover story was thinner than an aughties pro-ana Tumblr enthusiast.
Investigation Note: Finding the Bunny Motel is easy. Finding the Bunny Motel's actual motel is the hard part.
A Different Kind of Vacancy
The first thing we noticed about the Bunny Motel: what was missing. No reception desk. No lobby. No overpriced snack machine. No reasonable explanation for where it fits into the family Leporidae.
It has less to do with a motel, and more to do with a furniture showroom that had all the walls and ceilings removed, as if someone turned a local discount mattress place inside-out and forgotten you can't spell "showroom" without the last half.
"Is this..." Violet turned in a slow circle, taking in the scene. Her lipstick camera was whirring away, already recording, though I wasn't sure exactly what was being documented. "Are we sure this is a motel?"
The fourth wall was missing entirely. (Also the other three.) Privacy was an optional add-on that nobody had provided, let alone purchased. Women lounged on beds in various states of undress, some engaged in activities that would require a bespoke Twister mat (or some creative blurring.) They were frozen mid-gesture, like mannequins posed by someone with a very Ruckus-coded understanding of human sexuality.
What we were looking at--though we didn't know it yet--was Second Life's answer to bitcoin mining: an AFK sex hotel. A place where users park their avatars in provocative poses, leave them there while they go about their first lives, and collect tips from visitors who are either too polite or confused to realize they're tipping what is essentially a really attractive parking meter.
"Maybe it's outdoor hospitality?" I suggested weakly, watching one bedridden worker's hand move in a repetitive, broom-gripping motion that looked as if it had been looping for hours. "Like camping?"
"Sarah." Violet grabbed my arm, her voice dropping to what you might optimistically describe as a professional whisper. "Look at their eyes."
Investigation Note: The Bunny Motel is a veritable grid of sex furniture laid out in a yard. The scene is pockmarked with streetlights, and it would be an exaggeration to say privacy is at a premium when it's simply nonexistent. Also interesting, at least for a motel: it's BYOB (Bring Your Own Bed).
Jessica Anything Goes
The first worker we approached was draped across one of the beds in a pose that made sense of chiropractic as a discipline. Her eyes stared at nothing. Her breathing was steady--too steady, in fact. A tip jar nearby announced her as "JESSICA ANYTHING GOES!!"
"Hi!" Violet chirped. She had swapped the lipstick camera for a more rugged model, her journalistic bona fides on display. "We're with Buzz--"
"Vice," I corrected, trying to remember what our cover story even was (aside from hastily constructed.)
"BuzzVice," Violet smoothly recovered. "We're doing a piece on alternative hospitality spots. Mind if we ask you some questions?"
Nothing. Not even a glance. Jessica Anything Goes' hand continued its mechanical, persistent movement. Her expression was frozen in what aliens whose understanding of sex came from the DSM-V would consider "sultry." She appeared mildly constipated.
"Excuse me?" I tried, louder now. "We're wondering if you're here by choice?"
Still nothing.
"WE THINK YOU'RE BEING TRAFFICKED," Violet shouted directly into her ear.
Jessica Anything Goes continued her predetermined routine. Twelve-second looping hand gesture that would slowly erode the chrome off a pipe. Slight hip adjustment. Repeat. If screensavers could be sex workers, Jessica Anything Goes would give the bouncy DVD logo on the TV screen a run for its money.
We tried a few more workers with similar results. One had optimistically decided a streetlight would make a good stripper pole. Another seemed to have gotten her leg stuck in a position that required exponential jointednenss.
"What if they're drugged?" Violet seemed genuinely concerned. "What if this is some kind of... zombie brothel?"
Investigation Note: It took us an embarrassingly long time to realize we were conducting an investigation on people who weren't actually present.
Jake
That's when Jake arrived. Arrived is underselling it; the man launched himself across the courtyard to intercept us. He was tall, and wore a suit that had seen better decades. His moustache hadn't seen wax in about as long. Our jaws dropped simultaneously.
"Dirk never told me he had family in the hotel business." I whispered to Violet.
She was impassive. "Always knew he was a nepo baby."
"Can I help you ladies?" Our off-brand Dirk Absinthe introduced himself as Jake, the hotel's manager. But as soon as we showed him our press napkins, he adopted the weary expression of someone who'd had this conversation before.
"Your workers won't talk to us," I explained, gesturing at the lineup of waxen femme fatales. Mustering my courage, I shoved my microphone in his face and added, "We think they might be held against their will."
Jake looked at us for a long moment, taking in our makeshift press badges and serious investigative journalist gear. Violet's camera was obviously broken, and my microphone wouldn't stop vibrating. He sighed. "They're not being trafficked. They're AFK."
"Eh Eff Kay?" Violet asked.
"Away From Keyboard. These aren't... I mean, the people controlling these people aren't here. They're probably walking their dogs. Or at their jobs. Or Sleeping."
"So," I said slowly, "this is like..."
"A parking lot," Jake finished. "For avatars. People leave them here, others come by and... enjoy. And tip. It's passive income."
"But look how they're positioned," Violet gestured toward Jessica Anything Goes.
"Marketing," Jake explained. My microphone chose this moment to vibrate particularly enthusiastically. Jake couldn't help but notice. "See? Your equipment gets it."
I watched as a patron approached Jessica Anything Goes' bed. He hesitated, then her tip jar lit up. I witnessed things that I will never unwitness. Things that can't be published in a family publication. Or this one.
"If it helps, think of it as performance art," Jake added. "With more grunting."
Investigation Note: In our defense, nobody mentioned AFK sex work in journalism school.
Okay But Spin This Into Content
Our investigation concluded, Violet was certain we had struck content gold. We were on assignment, after all.
"You could still write about it," she suggested. "BuzzVice loves weird internet stuff. 'The Virtual Sex Workers Who Aren't Really There' -- it pretty much writes itself."
"Do we mention the part where you yelled in her ear?"
"That's the hook," she said, grinning. "Modern investigative journalism meets the metaverse. We're pioneers, Sarah."
I looked back at the Bunny Motel, where avatars continued their tireless work of existing. Their operators presumably were doing chores, at parent-teacher conferences, or otherwise finding meaning while virtually prostituting themselves.
"I guess I just don't get it," I admitted. "Why would anyone pay for this."
"Same reason people go to Madame Tussauds," Violet mused.
In response, she received my waxiest thousand-yard stare.
Conclusion
In a way, The Bunny Motel represents the perfect business: maximum profit, minimum consciousness, no customer service. Sex work meets 'set it and forget it.'
Still, we were left with questions. Would the tips even cover the cost of electricity? Do the workers pay their taxes? Is there a union for AFK sex work? Are its members allowed to be present at meetings?
We've filed this case as "Not Trafficking Because Trafficking Implies Movement." If you're interested in the intersection of late-stage capitalism and digital sexuality, The Bunny Hotel is a masterclass in passive income generation.
Booking Details
You don't need to book. The Bunny Motel is open 24/7 for avatar parking. Rates are whatever people tip you when you're AFK.
No reservations are required or possible. Consciousness discouraged. Press enquiries ignored. We remind readers to check if subjects are present prior to performing investigative journalism.
Special Thanks to "Jake" and Chili for their help with the dramatic reenactment of our stay.
SLURL if you want to visit
