It was an interesting prospect, investigating prostitution for the purposes of academic scholarship. A gonzo guise, at least, her thick, flush lips explaining the logistics of our “business experience.”

“It’s for an anthropological project on sexuality in Mongolia, the nuances of the sex industry here, the differences between ‘professional women’ and college girls looking for that new dress.” She was young, ambitious, a friend-of-a-friend who happened to be visiting the steppe, like myself, out of season.

“You’ll be my… bait,” she continued slyly, and of course I was hooked.

Prostitution in Mongolia is not an industrial enterprise. There are no advertised brothels or easily identifiable “hookers” as found elsewhere in Asia, but a prevalence of young, well-dressed women who perch on barstools like eager vultures, waiting for a blue passport to stumble through the neon glow. In barrooms of upscale hotels throughout the capital city of Ulaanbaatar, college girls massage the wheels of opportunity, flirting unceasingly with Japanese businessmen and husky Peace Corps volunteers. These women, as the repeated story progresses over a few more beers, will initiate conversation, instigate physical pleasures, and demand money, often to the chagrin of tourist pride. “I just thought I was hot shit,” the hunched and unshaven journalist, in sweatsuit and sneakers, confessed to me one snowy May night in Mongolia. “But then she took out a cell phone, and told me that if I didn’t fork over 15,000 togrik, she was calling the cops.” This unexceptional story encompasses a few aspects of sex-work in Mongolia. Namely, the prevalence of corruption, where police intermingle with the less-than-lawful institutions they purport to disavow, and the fact that many women, while paid for sexual service, do not consider themselves “prostitutes” but simply women who “then got paid.” A beautiful anthropologist I know interviewed dozens of young women who “met a nice man last night, and got a tip the next morning.” The lack of demarcation in dress and attitude between those women on the prowl for deep pockets as a working job, and those who wouldn’t mind going home with a wealthy foreigner, also leads many men to assume that all Mongolian women are for sale.

Our first stop was the Irish-Pub-Grand-Khan-Irish-Pub, on Orgon Choloo near Sukhbaatar Square and the Parliament House. It was a dark night in Mongolia, a night to saunter through the dusty hills outside the city, to wander the temples and pagodas amidst the cicadas’ soulful song. Instead, we were headed for the kind of place we both hated. We were penetrating the generic tourist hangout: expensive drinks, low-brow atmosphere, local house band, and the possibility of that cross-cultural liaison where beer and laughter meets sex and business.

Mongolian men were sipping Chenggis Vodka at the bar to the reverberations of Clapton’s “You Look Wonderful Tonight,” sung by a sunglass-ed and leather-clad Mongolian rock band. My partner in academic infiltration did, however, look quite wonderful, and as we meandered through the crowd, the giggles of young Mongol women almost overpowering the guffaws of Australian backpackers, I sensed danger. The Ulaanbaatar underbelly, though neither very dark nor very mysterious, still held that allure of untouched experience. As the Mongol rockers segued into “Knockin on Heaven’s Door,” I was forced to confront a sexual sphere that I was both too proud to encounter under normal circumstances, and perhaps not proud enough. While months on the road had activated a certain craving for physical contact, the purchase of a sexual commodity was both much more, and much less, than I required. My forays into the underbelly usually steered clear of this physical marketplace, but with academic credential and enticing anthropologist, I suddenly felt free to tread the Mongol moonlight. “Chenggis and tonic, please.”

We danced at the Hollywood Disco (near the US Embassy), toasted at the Narantool Hotel bar (on the road to Gandan Monastery). I listened to tales of Peace Corp exploitation while my partner held bathroom conversation with naive local girls. Another shot of Chenggis, another butchered version of “I Will Only Love You,” and the fieldwork seemed to by progressing nicely. At the Emerald Bar (6th floor of the U.B. Hotel, turn right), I was approached by a manicured and mascara-ed Mongolian, with the perfect pick-up of “Where from?” She wore mala-beads and a tiny t-shirt, and her extreme eagerness to engage in pleasantries left me skeptical and smiling.

“The Moon,” I replied, too timid to proceed in any sort of earnest way, assuming now that every women was after something more. Images of exploitation wrestled though my mind, though nothing as stark as the 12 year old girl that sells for 50 dollars in North Thailand. This was a different darkness, a lighter shade for some, amateur and ambiguous. Amidst the raised eyebrows of a striking anthropologist at the end of the bar, I was still too proud (or not proud enough) to lead this lonely liaison any further. “I’d buy you a drink,” I spoke into the tiny ear of my apparent pursuer, “but I can’t afford it.”

Socialism has collapsed, and the Empire of Khan is now largely the playhouse of con. Though not outright industry, sex for payment seems a growing tendency, as girls grasp for that new dress and tourists hunt pleasure for the price of pancakes. Poverty-stricken prostitutes existed somewhere in the city, but they were few compared to the causal collector. Sex work in Mongolia seemed innocent enough, with a growing realization that even if you’re not a “sex-worker,” a drunken fling can at least be compensated by some extra cash. With a population that’s two-thirds female, only twenty registered cases of AIDs, and a blossoming tourist influx (Americans don’t even need a visa), it seemed that the Eternal Blue Heavens, to quote Mongol folklore, is indeed the limit. The distinct circumstance that swiftly turns casual connection to economic endeavor is, however, misleading.

I would find out later, while hitchhiking through the rural steppe, that everyone who offered me a ride became a taxi somewhere along the way, demanding money after dropping my on the side of the dusty road. Here again, Mongolians seemed unable to grasp the ideology of informal contact, where if you’re going down that old road, company should be considered its own compensation.

“Bayarklaa,” she said to the bartender, thanking him before repeating it much louder over the quite timely “Long Cool Woman.” Although our academic research was perhaps of some value, the togrik spent on drinks and the experience of infiltration left me conspicuously empty. Academically aloof, we were getting drunk on the underbelly all the same, supporting a society of cheap laughs, Chenggis vodka and, if indirectly, prostitution. We twisted our way out of the Marco Polo Club (Seoul Street, near the Chojin Lama Temple), and cleansed ourselves in the misty chill of pre-dawn Mongolia. Academic alibis aside, this was a world of mischief and malevolence; though in no way comparable to Bangkok, or even Boston, an underbelly all the same. An anthropologist slid a smooth arm around my down jacket, and we stumbled along Peace Avenue, between sleeping dogs and empty candy stands, through wide streets and promenades of socialist design. I wondered how many continued this secret dance in the city of snow, how many ambiguous arrangements were misinterpreted, how many got more (or less) than they bargained for. Lured by physical fixation, men and togrik would always part ways.

One last night among Ulaanbaatar busyness, and I was off to the countryside, another century, mountains and monasteries, yaks and yurts. The sweet scent of anthropologist drifted on the cold wind, I squeezed her arm slightly, and we strolled through Mongol moonlight, academic and aloof.